“Whatever you say,” Damon said, smiling. “Maybe it’s just that middle age suits you. It was always how you acted,” he teased as we headed toward the glittering Thames. It was funny how familiar I had gotten with every city in which I had lived. Was it simply because cities, like humans, no longer surprised me? Of course there were different customs and residents and accents, but every city had its dark history, its hidden secrets.
“I wonder whether Samuel has killed anyone today,” Damon said, nodding at an elderly man carrying a sack of newspapers on his back.
“Hasn’t he already killed enough?” I asked dully as Damon compelled the man into giving him a paper. “I’m not sure I want to know.”
“I do,” Damon said, folding the newspaper under one arm. “Samuel thinks he’s so clever, but we know all of his moves now. And that’s encouraging. My guess is that we’ll kill him and his brat of a brother before the week’s out. And then, brother, the city is ours. Or”—Damon scratched his head, as though he were deep in thought—“the city will be mine. And maybe, if you don’t annoy me, I’ll let you live here, too.”
We’d reached Fleet Street, just a few miles down from our tunnel, and the streets were bustling with late- afternoon foot traffic. Now was not the time to talk about Samuel.
“It’s not that easy, Damon,” I said, but I knew my words would fall on deaf ears. All I wanted was whiskey and a chance to forget what I’d seen that morning, even if only for a few hours.
“Haven’t you learned by now?” Damon asked, glancing sharply at me. “Nothing’s easy.” He quickly turned a corner into an alley, then ducked through a low entranceway. The bar inside was narrow and dark and smelled of sawdust and spilled ale. I relaxed. No one would find us here.
“Nothing like having a drink and discussing old times,” Damon said as he made his way to the back of the bar. There sat two sunken club chairs, secluded from the other patrons. “It’s like we’re back at the Mystic Falls Tavern— all that’s missing is a sultry vampire and some Confederate soldiers.”
“I don’t think anything could be like old times, brother,” I said, reflexively looking behind me to see if we’d been followed. But no one seemed concerned with anything but their drinks. Most of the patrons were sitting alone at tables, some writing in ledger pads, others staring off into the distance. The pub was clearly one where people liked to go when they wanted to be alone.
“Whatever you say,” Damon said, sinking into a cracked leather chair and propping his feet up on a low-slung table. He pulled out the paper and flipped immediately to the society pages. “So if nothing’s like old times, then maybe it’s your turn to get me a drink.”
Of course Damon always found a way to twist my words to his benefit.
The barman was elderly and had a close-cut white beard. He was wearing a filthy apron splattered with drink stains. I wished we could switch lives. I’d gladly spend the rest of eternity serving drinks to men whose biggest sin was downing too many pints of beer, not pints of blood.
“Two whiskeys. Charge to Sir Stefan Pine,” I said, waiting for the sensation when my mind melded with his.
But this time, something was wrong. It felt like the compulsion was hanging in the air between us, suspended and unclaimed. And that’s when I realized the barman was paying no attention to me. Instead, he was looking over my shoulder, at Damon, still reclining in the leather club chair. His ankle was crossed over his knee, his hair was flopping over his eyes, and his tie was undone.
“Two whiskeys?” I prodded nervously. Damon was flipping through a newspaper, oblivious to my presence. But the barman didn’t turn, and I realized with horror that he wasn’t the only one focused on Damon. Two men had left off playing cards in the corner and directed their stares at my brother. They were glancing at a spot above the barman’s head, then back to Damon. I followed their gaze and saw what had arrested their attention. A broadsheet from the newspaper was affixed to the wall, just beside a shelf of dusty liquor bottles.
JACK THE RIPPER! NO ONE IS SAFE!
What was underneath the words caused my chest to seize in fear: a drawing of Damon. This time, the likeness between the image and Damon was undeniable.
“Damon!” I hissed under my breath. “Run. They’ve recognized you.” I wouldn’t risk looking at him, lest suspicion fall on me, too. I focused on the pitted surface of the bar, as though I was patiently waiting for my whiskeys.
I heard a commotion behind me and whirled around. Damon had shot up and was racing out of the bar at vampire speed, his tie falling to the floor as he ran. I watched him dash past me. I knew it was a risk to be associated with Damon, but I had to follow, to do what I could to protect him in the maze of London streets. I bolted after him.
“Jack the Ripper!”
“Call the police!”
I heard the cacophony of voices behind us, each desperate yell spurring me to run harder and faster, blindly following Damon through the rain-soaked streets. The wide cobblestone thoroughfare of Fleet Street was crammed with carriages going in both directions. Following Damon’s lead, we took our chances dodging through the chaotic London traffic. Our footsteps thwacked against wet ground and blood rushed in my ears. I forgot about my hunger—all I cared about was Damon and me making it back to the tunnel.
“Go, go, go!” I urged, although I couldn’t tell whether I was speaking to Damon or myself.
“Stop them!”