I gave the sleeping cat a small pat and tiptoed back to my room, where I pulled on Elizabeth’s borrowed coat. It would be another sleepless night for me. But as I slid open the window and climbed outside, I thought about how at least I wasn’t alone anymore. Edward would be waiting for me in that attic workshop, with Sharkey and the roses and a warm little fire going—and together we’d fix my father’s wrongs.
FIFTEEN
EVERY NIGHT THAT WEEK, Edward and I worked on developing a serum amid the twisted rosebushes and howling wind outside my workshop, and every night we progressed a little more. On the fifth night, the compound held for nearly twenty seconds before splitting apart. On the sixth, it held long enough for me to prepare an injection, but separated only moments before I slid the needle into his skin. Without the missing ingredient, there was little we could do. I felt helpless, and frustrated, and mired in guilt. The Beast had stopped killing others—but he was still killing Edward from the inside.
On our seventh night together, eyes bleary with lack of sleep as I climbed out of the professor’s window, I hurried through the streets with a new type of burner that would produce more even heat distribution. I raced up the lodging house stairs and threw open the door, the weight of the burner heavy in my satchel. Sharkey trotted over, tail thumping in his usual greeting, and I pushed my hood back and knelt to pick him up. He squirmed as he tried to lick my face, and I laughed and buried my face in his fur.
“Edward, I’ve a new piece of equipment,” I said. Being here eased the tension from my bones in a wonderful way. “Edward, did you hear me?”
When there was no answer, I set Sharkey down. The attic was a small chamber, with only the worktable and bed as furniture, and the alcove tucked away behind the woodstove, which was so dark that I only ever used it for storing grafting supplies. Now, though, I noticed one of Edward’s thick iron chains running from the woodstove into the deep of the alcove. My breath caught.
Was the Beast there, chained in the shadows?
I’d only seen the Beast once, when Edward transformed on the island just moments before the fire started. I remembered his gleaming animal eyes, and how his whole body had seemed larger and hairier. The joints of his feet and hands had twisted his digits together so he appeared to have only three fingers and three toes. Six-inch razor claws had emerged between his knuckles.
I remembered his voice, too, so shockingly human.
We belong together, he had said.
“Edward?” I called. Sharkey darted into the alcove and I shrieked, bracing myself for a snarl as the Beast ripped him apart, but no sounds came except the thumping of Sharkey’s tail.
I pulled on the chain, which rattled toward me—not attached to anything but air, which was a small relief. But where was he? He’d promised not to leave.
Behind me, the workshop door suddenly swung open hard enough to slam against the inside wall. I gasped and whirled, the chain falling from my hands with a terrible clatter that made Sharkey huddle behind my skirt.
“Edward!” I said.
He stood in the doorway, gold-flecked eyes heavy with surprise that I was there. His shirt was torn at the collar and sleeves, and soaked with blood down to his elbows. His shoes were split at the seams, with jagged holes pushed through the top.
Holes for claws.
My hand went to my mouth, as Edward quickly shut the door and then rushed over, trying to calm me. “It’s all right. I’ve control of myself now. It’s me.”
But as he came forward, all I could see was the blood on his shirt and arms that still smelled so fresh and ironlike. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’d planned everything to keep him contained. I stepped back with a strangled sound, bumping into the worktable hard enough to knock over one of the vials, which overturned and filled the room with the spicy smell of hibiscus extract.
“Don’t come any closer!” I cried.
“I won’t hurt you, I promise.”
“You’ve killed someone.”
He paused, eyes going to the stains on his own clothes. He could hardly deny it—the evidence was soaked into the seams of his stolen shirt. “Not me,” he entreated. “The Beast.”
“The padlock . . . the chains . . . my god, Edward, how did this happen? We took precautions!”
“He came too fast; I didn’t have time to lock the chains. The transformations are getting harder to control.” He dragged a bloodstained hand through his hair, looking like that desperate castaway I’d met so many months ago. “You always knew this about me, Juliet. This is my curse—this is why we’re here, what we’re trying to stop.” He took another step toward me, but I jerked away again. “You never come here before ten o’clock,” he said. “I hadn’t wanted you to ever see this—”
“Who did you kill this time?” I demanded.
His chest fell again in a deep exhale, and I saw how exhausted he was, how his muscles twitched and jumped, but I couldn’t bring myself to feel sorry for him. He collapsed onto the bed, staining the sheets crimson, bracing his head in his hands like he was on the verge of fracturing. “You know I can’t remember what he does. There are only hazy memories . . . following a doctor, but he let him live. And then I remember dark alleyways and the smell of blood. Whitechapel, most likely, which means another ruffian who would have died soon enough anyway, frozen to death drunk in some alleyway.”
“And that makes it right?”
His eyes flashed with indignation. “Of course not!”
His outburst made Sharkey whine and hide behind my skirts again. A doctor, he had said. Could the Beast have been following Dr. Hastings? Hastings had certainly wronged me . . . so why hadn’t the Beast killed him yet?