Clearly, the driver was confident he could col ect a generous fare from this wel -dressed man.
“Here, sir! Happy to take you wherever you want!” the cab driver cal ed across the square. Samuel nodded once, then hopped into the cab.
“Let’s go,” I hissed to Cora, grabbing her arm and breaking into a run. Together we sprinted behind the coach as it clopped its way through the stal s surrounding the seedy market, heading deeper into Whitechapel. I was ten feet away, then five, and was about to catch up when I realized Cora was no longer on my arm.
I turned around and saw her doubled over, her hands on her knees, in front of the Lamb and Sickle public house.
She had attracted the attention of a few patrons lurking in the doorway, who’d stopped their round of singing to gape at her.
“I’m sorry. I just can’t run anymore,” Cora panted, her face red and slicked with sweat. “You go on ahead.”
“No need to run, girl,” one man said as he lecherously stumbled toward her. “You can relax in my arms.” I turned to him and bared my fangs menacingly. He let go of Cora and backed away, his face white with fright.
“Al right, no need to get nasty. Just having a bit of fun,” he said slowly, holding up his hands and walking away.
“Go on! I’l meet you later. I know the barman here. He’l take care of me. I’l be fine,” Cora urged with the same fierceness I’d seen last night.
“Are you sure?” I didn’t want to leave Cora, but I couldn’t lose Samuel. I glanced around. The Ten Bel s was nearby.
Cora did know the area, and she had a stake hidden in the folds of her skirt. I knew as wel as she did that a stake would also do a perfectly fine job incapacitating a human threat. Stil …
“Yes!” Cora hissed. “I’l meet you back at the tunnel.” I nodded and surged ahead at vampire speed, but the busy street beyond the market was crowded with coaches, and I no longer knew which one held Samuel.
I was about to cut my losses and head back to the pub to col ect Cora when I spotted a figure stealing down a dark al ey. I narrowed my eyes. The form was moving far more quickly than any human. Samuel. And worse, he was carrying a girl in his arms. The girl was clawing at Samuel’s shoulder, forcing him to stop and adjust his hold every few feet. I couldn’t believe she was stil conscious. Many of Samuel’s victims fainted from fright, or were kil ed immediately. But now, he seemed to be taking care not to jostle the girl, holding her as careful y as a wolf would bring its prey back to the pack.
My heart clenched and I broke into a run when I realized he was headed for the warehouses near the Thames. I hadn’t been there since the terrible night when Samuel had turned Violet into a vampire. Why was he taking a human girl there now? He had Damon; he didn’t need to frame him for any more Jack the Ripper murders. He had a steady supply of blood from the girls in the Asylum. So what could he possibly want with this girl?
I fol owed the streak of Samuel’s shadow along the brick buildings that led to the pier, but soon lost his trail. Farther down the pier, I could hear the sound of bottles breaking, but I knew that wasn’t Samuel. The piers were lawless after dark, fil ed with lost souls—syphilitic soldiers, pickpockets, and gamblers desperate to make money by any means necessary—people who couldn’t even scrape together the few coins required to live in a lodging house.
I cocked my head, trying to catch the scent of blood or the sounds of terrified, uneven breathing when I sensed someone close by. I turned. It was a toothless drunk, his breath sour with the stench of whiskey. A knife shone in his hand.
“New boy,” he leered, pul ing back the knife as though ready to plunge it into my abdomen.
I lunged toward him, pushing him onto his back. His knife clattered on the dock next to him. I set my boot down on his chest and leaned in close.
“Don’t,” I hissed, as I felt my fangs growing from behind my gums. This was blood for the taking. I could drink, and be ready to face Samuel as a true vampire.
I was about to take a delicious, forbidden sip when I heard a sound. I whirled around. But it wasn’t the girl, or Samuel. It was only two more drunks, leaning against each other for support.
I roughly kicked the man. “Get up and run away,” I snarled.
He sprang to his feet and raced down the pier. I shoved the knife in my boot and angrily kicked a spray of rocks into the Thames. They landed with uneven splashes.
And then I heard it: a sound so faint I thought it was my imagination. One whimper, then another, from a warehouse several hundred yards away from where I stood. I rushed toward the building and found Samuel crouched against the wal , half obscured behind several discarded canvas ship sails. I pressed my back against the weathered wooden slats of the warehouse, priming my Power and readying myself to pounce, when I realized that the girl wasn’t the one letting out the strangled sobs.
It was Samuel.
His mouth hung open in an expression of agony. His victim, meanwhile, was propped on her elbows, gazing intently into his face. Her lips were moving, but no sound was coming out of them. The girl was no older than eighteen or nineteen, with wild brown hair matted around her head. Whatever incantation she was using had momentarily incapacitated her assaulter, but before I could react, Samuel regained the upper hand and lunged, his teeth bared and glittering in the moonlight, using his brute force to throw her against the brick wal of the warehouse.
Her head hit the wal with a sickening thud and she slumped to the ground in a heap.
Smiling, he pul ed a long silver dagger from a pocket in his waistcoat, and I realized that he wasn’t going to drink her blood. He was going to mutilate her the same way he’d defiled Jack the Ripper’s other victims. He was going to slice open her chest.