“They would be terribly inconvenient in London,” said Cordelia.
“Not as inconvenient as Lord Byron Mandrake,” said James. “Is he fictional Cordelia’s true love? Because I don’t think I like him.”
“Oh, not at all. Cordelia has many suitors. She meets them, they woo her, they kiss, and then they usually die a horrible death to make way for the next suitor.”
“Jolly hard on them,” said James sympathetically. “Why so much death?”
Cordelia set the book aside. “Probably because Lucie doesn’t know what happens after the kissing bit.”
“Quite a lot,” said James absently, and suddenly the room seemed slightly too warm. James must have been thinking the same thing, because he kicked the rug off and turned his body so that he was facing her. Though the Mask had gone, she still couldn’t quite read his expression. His gaze traveled over her, from her eyes to her lips, to her throat and down, like a hand tracing the curves and hollows of her body. “Daisy,” he said. “Have you ever been in love?”
Cordelia sat up. “I have had—feelings for someone,” she allowed, finally.
“Who?” he demanded, rather abruptly.
Cordelia smiled at him with all the unconcern she could muster. “If you want the answer,” she said, “you’ll have to win a chess game.”
Her heart pounded. The air between them felt charged, like the air during a lightning storm. As though anything could happen.
Suddenly James winced and put his hand to his head, as though in pain.
Cordelia caught her breath. “Is something wrong?”
The strangest look passed over James’s face—half surprise and half almost confusion, as though he were trying to remember something he’d forgotten.
“Nothing,” he said slowly. “It’s nothing, and you’re tired. We’d better get to bed.”
LONDON: SHOE LANE
Morning came, spilling blood and flame across the sky like the fruits of a great massacre.
The killer chuckled a little at his fanciful thoughts. London in winter was surely worthy of poetry. The temperature had fallen, last night’s snow giving way to a freezing mist that drifted through the icy gray streets. His strength had grown, leaving him feeling impervious to the elements, and he moved with a new confidence, daring to walk among the mundane businessmen on their way to work, rather than crossing the street to avoid them. He passed merchants and deliverymen and the occasional drunkard frozen in the lee of a building. None of them held any interest for him.
He was stronger—stronger by far than any of these mortals—but not yet strong enough. Not for what he intended to do.
The killer could afford to be choosier now, and he passed over several possibilities before spotting the dark-haired girl tottering home in a party dress, her long hair mussed, ice crystals sparkling among the strands.
Others saw her too. But he did not want what other men wanted from her. Even from a distance he could sense her strength.
The girl turned a corner onto High Holborn, a broad boulevard lined with law offices. He kept his distance, blending in with the clerks and shopkeepers hurrying past. When she turned down a narrow, quiet lane, he drew closer once again.
She didn’t notice him. She didn’t know that she was breathing her last breaths.
He was ready when she passed into the shadow of a church. He fell on her like a wolf.
To his surprise, she tried to fend him off. No, she did more than try—she fought ferociously, spinning and kicking and punching as he stabbed clumsily with his blade, the angle all wrong, barely nicking her. Droplets of blood fell to the snow-covered street, but it was not enough to kill.
He drew back his hand to slash wide, but she ducked under the blade and kicked at his shin, unbalancing him. She ran before he could react, heading for the dark mouth of an alley.
The killer, knife still in hand, plunged after his prey.
10 THE DAMNED EARTH
“Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,
“But waft the angel on her flight with a P?an of old days!
“Let no bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
“Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damnéd Earth.
“To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven—
“From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven—
“From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven.”
—Edgar Allan Poe, “Lenore”
“James!”