Broken (30 page)

“He’s right, though, about tonight. You need to rest, not run off again in a few minutes.”

“Notice how he tossed out that ‘suggestion,’ then bolted, leaving you to handle the fallout?” I shrugged off my shirt, which, despite a morning shower and liberal applications of deodorant, smelled faintly of body odor. “Can you hand me that one over there?”

“We haven’t even discussed it yet, and you’re already changing to go out. You need to rest, Elena.”

“And I will. Right after that portal is closed. If Hull is working with Shanahan, then this meeting might be—”

“The end of it? How many times have we said that in the last few days? Just steal the letter, and it’s done. Just kill the second zombie, and it’s done. Just follow the zombie back to Shanahan, and we’re done.” He wrapped his hand around my other forearm and faced me. “Forget the meeting. I’m pretty certain Hull has no intention of showing up. Even if he does, he found us today, so he can find us again. Right now, it’s
this
I’m worried about. You and the baby. You need—”

He jerked his left hand back, and blinked.

“What is it?”

“Your stomach. It—”

“Oh, please. Jeremy said I’m fine, so don’t go trying to convince me something’s wrong.”

His mouth set. “You think I’d do that? I was going to say I felt—” He stopped, anger falling away in a quick grin. “There. Give me your…”

He took my hand and put it on the side of my stomach.

“I don’t feel—” Something jabbed my hand. “Oh, my God. A kick! That’s a kick.”

“Or a punch,” Clay said, still grinning. “If it’s our baby, it’s probably a punch. Trying to fight his or her way out already.” He steered me across the room. “Here, look in the mirror. You can see it.”

After a minute of watching, a lump poked from the lower right of my belly, then disappeared.

“Can you feel it?” Clay said.

I nodded and realized that Jeremy was right. I
had
been feeling the baby moving for weeks now, though never this obvious. Even this didn’t feel so much like a kick as a stomach gurgle. I don’t know what I expected—I guess when someone says “kick,” I think of something hard enough to hurt.

A knock at the door. Clay leaned over to open it.

“I didn’t hear shouting,” Jeremy said as he walked in. “Have you come to an agreement already?”

“The baby’s kicking,” Clay said. “You can feel it.”

“And see it,” I said, grinning like an idiot.

And so, for a few minutes, all thoughts of our meeting with Hull were forgotten in the simple excitement of a baby’s kicks. When he or she stopped bopping around and settled, though, the question still needed answering. By then, Clay wasn’t in the mood to argue, and even Jeremy had to agree that I looked much better, having gotten my second wind.

We decided to walk. It was a bit of a hike, but if this was a trap, the zombies might start tracking us from the hotel. The sooner we smelled them, the sooner we could catch them.

Not a single whiff of rot came my way, though, and when we arrived at the park, Hull was already there. Antonio and Nick stayed out of sight, watching and patrolling the perimeter.

Hull was under a tree, scanning the growing dark. He started when he heard footsteps, and once again, he seemed relieved when he saw it was us.

“Expecting someone else?” Clay said as we approached.

A weak smile. “Fearing, I would say. Though I suppose I’m only a minor threat. For now, they’re much more interested in—” He met my gaze, then looked away, as if naming the target would be rude.

“We know who they’re after,” I said. “The question is why?”

“A question we’re hoping you can answer,” Jeremy added.

Hull looked over at the new voice. “Oh, you’re not—I thought it was—” A nod to Clay and me. “—your friend from earlier.”

“He has other business to attend to,” I said.

Hull cast another look around the park, as if he knew darned well what the “other business” might be.

“You said you had information for us,” Jeremy said. “A firsthand account, I believe, was the phrase you used.”

“Yes, of course.” He hesitated. “I’m not sure where to start…”

“Try the beginning,” Clay said.

Hull nodded. “Before all this, back when I was…” The sentence trailed off.

“Alive?” I said.

Dismay flashed across his face. “Oh, no. I’m still alive. That is, I think I am. I didn’t die. I’m certain of that.”

“Let’s move to that bench.” Jeremy nodded at me. “She should get off her feet.”

“Yes, of course,” Hull said. “I should have insisted. My apologies.”

As we moved to the bench, Hull relaxed.

“Now,” Jeremy said. “As you were saying…”

Hull nodded. “Yes, right. Well, I was employed as a bookkeeper, as I had been for many years. At the time, though, I only had one client.” He gave a small laugh. “That doesn’t sound very good, does it? As if I couldn’t find enough work, but this particular gentleman gave me more than enough, and the remuneration was excellent, so I’d temporarily given over my other clients’ accounts to my business partner. This man—my client, not my partner—had recently arrived from Ireland, with sizable holdings to transfer and invest, and therefore required my undivided attention. His name was Edwin Shanahan.”

He looked at our faces, waiting for a reaction. When no one obliged, he continued. “Yes, well, I suppose you guessed that this device originated with the Shanahan family, where it has apparently remained. As I was saying, Mr. Shanahan was my only client and, being a widower, without a wife to complain about such things, he conducted most of his business from his home. I was there much of the time, my presence forgotten, as employees often are. I quickly learned that some of Mr. Shanahan’s business was…”

He flushed. “It wasn’t my place to judge. My father always said a bookkeeper’s responsibility was to protect his client’s assets, not to question the source of those assets. Yet with Mr. Shanahan, it wasn’t just the source of his money. Some of his associates were less than savory characters. One in particular. He called himself a surgeon, but he and Mr. Shanahan would laugh when he said it. When this business in Whitechapel started—”

Hull swallowed. “I…heard things, between Mr. Shanahan and his friend. I tried to tell myself I was wrong. Then one night this friend brought over a woman. A…paid companion, but not the sort you’d expect a man like Mr. Shanahan or his friend to consort with. I was supposed to be working late in the offices in the south wing, but I was curious, so I crept over to the main quarters. Nothing seemed particularly amiss. They were laughing and talking in the dining room.

“I was about to leave when I heard a scream. A dreadful scream. I stood there, frozen in my nook. Before long, Mr. Shanahan and his friend came out. They were talking about needing to ‘procure’ one more. As Mr. Shanahan escorted his friend to the door, I snuck down and peered into the dining room, expecting to see the poor woman dead on the floor. She wasn’t there.

“The table had been moved aside, and there were strange patterns on the floor, drawn in some fine powder, like salt or sand. And there were other things…Objects of…devil worship. That reminded me of something I’d overheard before this Whitechapel business began. They’d been talking about his friend’s father, of asking him for a boon and, when they spoke of him, they called him a demon. At the time, I thought they were simply being disrespectful to the old man. But after seeing that room, I had cause to wonder.

“A couple of weeks later, Mr. Shanahan seemed very agitated. He gave the staff the night off, and encouraged everyone to leave early. I pretended to leave, then returned. After dark, Mr. Shanahan’s friend arrived. Again they retreated to the dining room. I could hear bits of conversation, primarily Mr. Shanahan reassuring his friend that ‘it’ was ready, and he’d be safe there. At the right time, he would release the servants who would prepare things for his friend’s return, then they would carry out the final phases of their plan.

“Next, I heard Mr. Shanahan speaking in a strange tongue. I summoned my courage and cracked open the door. I peeked in just as Mr. Shanahan’s friend disappeared. One moment he was there. He took a step…and vanished. I was so startled I stumbled back. Mr. Shanahan heard me. I tried to flee, but he worked some sorcery on me. He dragged me into the dining room and flung me on that same spot where his friend had vanished. The last thing I remember was him saying, ‘We can use a third servant.’ Then all went black. When I awoke, I was stepping onto a street in another time…your time.”

We looked at one another.

“So,” Clay said, “what do you want from us?”

Hull stared at him. He’d just relayed the fantastical tale of his brush with demons, sorcerers, black magic, notorious serial killers and over a hundred years of suspended animation. Why weren’t we speechless with horror and amazement?

“You told us earlier you wanted something from us,” Clay said. “What is it?”

Jeremy shook his head at Clay, telling him to be patient.

“So you believe you were pushed through that portal while you were still alive, which explains why you aren’t a zombie,” Jeremy said.

“A zom—? Oh, yes, I see. I suppose that’s what they are.” Hull shuddered. “No, I’m quite certain I’m not one of those. Neither is he, though, and he is our main concern.”

“
He
being Jack the Ripper,” I said.

“Jack the—? Yes, he did call himself that once, didn’t he? Is that the name they kept for him? Suitably macabre, I suppose.”

“And you believe this friend of Edwin Shanahan, the real Jack, came out of that portal with you?”

“No, he didn’t.” Hull swung to his feet, trembling with agitation. “That’s what they’re trying to do. The rite, the one they need the letter for.”

“How do you know that?” Jeremy asked.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? I know they want that letter. When I was hiding from them yesterday, I overheard the man say something to the woman about getting it back.”

“To free this killer? They said that?”

Hull’s brows knitted as he looked at Jeremy. “No, but that must be the reason, mustn’t it? That’s their purpose, to act as his servants. This killer can’t have come through yet or they would be serving him, not Mr. Shanahan’s grandson.”

“Great-grandson, presumably,” Jeremy murmured.

Hull nodded. “I suppose it
has
been that long, hasn’t it?” He went silent, eyes downcast.

“If he isn’t through yet, then we really need to close that portal,” I said. “As quickly as possible. So how do we do that?”

Hull looked at me as if I’d just asked him how to turn off the moon. “I—I have no idea. I thought you knew how to close it. That’s why you’re still here, isn’t it? Trying to close it and set things right?”

Clay made a noise deep in his throat. “In other words, you’re just here to warn us that yet another catastrophe might strike if we don’t fix this damned thing.”

“Perhaps I can do more than that. If I could lure in a zombie, would that help?”

“You still haven’t told us what you want in return,” Clay said.

“I was hoping for your assistance.”

“With what?”

Hull spread his hands and gave a tight laugh. “Anything. To me, just days ago, I was a bookkeeper in London, under the reign of Queen Victoria. Now I’m here, and I’m not even sure where here is. What little money I have on me is useless. Since I’ve arrived here, I’ve had to…” He flinched. “Steal to eat, to clothe myself—”

Jeremy took some bills from his wallet. “This will be enough to find a place to stay tonight and buy food. We’ll meet with you again tomorrow, in case we have further questions.”

“Did anyone else get the impression he was hoping we’d take him with us?” I asked as we left the park.

Clay snorted.

“It would be the humane thing to do,” Jeremy said. “If his story is true. But if it isn’t…”

I nodded. “If he’s working with Shanahan, he’d like nothing more than to go back to the hotel with us.”

“You think he’s full of shit, then?” Clay asked.

Jeremy shook his head. “I have no idea.”

“We could skip the wrap-up,” Clay said as he held open our hotel room door. “Let Jeremy bring the others up to date, while we get an early night.”

“No, I want to—” I stopped, seeing the bed across the room, so inviting, and feeling lead seep into my bones at the thought of heading out again. “Yes, I
want
to be there, but…sure, let’s call it a night. They don’t need—”

Clay had moved to the middle of the room, and was slowly turning, scanning the room, nostrils flaring. “Someone’s been here.” He strode to the work desk. “I left this drawer open when I grabbed my key card.”

He dropped to a crouch and inhaled. A pause and a frown, then another sniff, his head dipping almost to the carpet.

I walked over. “Maybe the maid service popped in—”

“Someone’s been here. I can’t smell anyone, but my papers—” He gestured at a stack of notes he’d brought on the trip. “Someone’s flipped through them, and straightened them up.”

I pulled open the dresser drawer I’d been using for my clothes. They were still haphazardly stuffed in, but the piles were separated, neater, as if someone had rifled through, and made some effort to cover his tracks.