Ripper

To Amelia Caroline, my sassy, strong, beautiful girl.

Woodbury, Minnesota

Copyright Information

Ripper
© 2012 by
Amy Carol Reeves.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Flux, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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First e-book edition ©2012

E-book ISBN: 9780738732701

Book design by Bob Gaul

Cover art © Dominick Finelle/The July Group

Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

Interior map illustration © Chris Down

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Acknowledgments

First and foremost, I would like to thank my incredible agent, Jessica Sinsheimer. If ever I'm trying to survive a sinking ship, I definitely want Jessica with me. And I owe so much gratitude to everyone at Flux: to my editor, Brian Farrey-Latz, for extensive help editing, to Sandy Sullivan for helping me tease through the final edits, and to my publicist, Courtney Colton.

I am greatly indebted to my writing mentors throughout the years. Specifically, I would like to thank my creative writing professor, Dr. Del Doughty, for telling me ten years ago that I should be a writer. I would also like to thank my sage dissertation director and friend, Dr. Paula Feldman, for urging me on as a writer. And I simply cannot repay Dr. Dianne Johnson for encouraging me as I began writing books for young adults.

I'd like to thank friend, fellow Anglophile, and writer Jamieson Ridenhour for reading part of an early draft and for giving advice. Jamie is awesome for knowing everything about London, vampires, werewolves, Aleister Crowley, and Ripper lore. A well of gratitude to my friend and fellow lover of Brontë novel hunks, Nicole Fisk; she sent me insightful and careful critiques for the rough draft of the novel and kept me sane and amused during this whole process.

And this book simply would not exist if it weren't for Team Reeves. My husband, Shawn Reeves, read draft after draft after draft of
Ripper
and provided honest and detailed feedback. Finally, I can't forget to thank my children, Atticus and Amelia, whose paper airplanes, sticky fingers, and fake vampire teeth kept me from taking myself too seriously.

PART I

“I was weary of an existence all passive.”

—Jane Eyre

One

London—August 1888

D
amn
.”

If the pickpocket had taken anything other than
that,
I could have let it go. But not Mother's brooch. I had to keep that.

Grandmother, in front of me and already stepping into the coach, heard the curse and clucked her tongue. Richard, her long-time servant, held the carriage door open for me. His eyes widened in exasperation.

“Sorry, I'm so sorry,” I gasped to him and to Grandmother before running after the soot-streaked boy. This pickpocket was a slick one. Even as he ran from me, I saw him snatch a pocket watch from an unwary gentleman. I would not have noticed the thievery if it had not been for my years in Ireland where I had learned to pay attention to any and every feather-brush from passersby. The brooch had been an easy catch, exposed as I clutched Grandmother's stack of new purchases—all the shiny boxes with hats and beaded gloves.

“Arabella! Arabella!”

Grandmother's voice rang out from the open window of her carriage. I would get a tongue-lashing from her later:
“Seventeen-years-old, Arabella! And running through the streets!”

While I ran, I thought of the many times I had disappointed Grandmother since coming to live with her two months before. I thought of all the behaviors that she deemed necessary, of all the etiquette that she deemed proper. I had tried to comply, but most of her rules seemed nonsensical and as enticing as rotten fruit.

Focus, Abbie.

Running against the crush of late afternoon Knightsbridge shoppers, I was having difficulty keeping up with the boy. My heart pounded in my chest. He dashed across the Sloane Street intersection, and a carriage narrowly missed colliding with him.

“Stop,
please
stop!”

The boy continued, unhindered by my shouts, even quickening his pace. I ran faster, catching up with him a bit as we approached the corner of Hyde Park. I nearly overtook him there. But then I collided with a cluster of schoolchildren, and I lost sight of him.

Dizzied, I stopped and scanned the scene around me. Like a bloom, evening's pink flush spread rapidly across the sky. Children and dogs ran within the park boundaries. Shop owners closed their doors. The cacophony of city shouts and street noises seemed to ring out louder just as church bells everywhere chimed the five o'clock hour. When I was about to give up, I saw the boy again, running fast past the Wellington Arch and straight into Green Park.

He continued east.

“Stop!”

Shouting was futile, and I paused, telling myself that this chase was foolhardy and useless.

But I knew I would keep going, even against my better judgment. The brooch was a material connection to Mother, one of the few items of hers that I had left.

I had to get it back.

T
he chase continued, and I dashed after him into the park.

The path was damp from a recent rain shower, and as we neared Buckingham Palace, the boy fell. I almost caught him, but he was up and running again just as I was about to grab his jacket collar.

As we ran along the Strand, I stumbled twice—splashing mud upon my skirt. We ran down several more streets and rather than tiring, I began to feel renewed energy. I bolted after him, nearly catching him once again as we passed St. Paul's Cathedral, but then, I almost lost him among the cheesemongers' stands within the Leadenhall Street Market.

With every passing block, we penetrated deeper into the East End.

I smelled the odor of the slaughterhouses. Crowds of barefoot children dashed in and out of workhouse alleys. Women, their mothers perhaps, positioned themselves under streetlamps for their nightly occupations.

At the base of a set of concrete steps, the boy suddenly stopped and turned around to face me. A large, worn brick building loomed behind him. A shiny, newly engraved sign that had been bolted neatly into the bricks caught my eye:
Whitechapel Hospital for Women. Est. 1883.

I stopped, only a few yards away from the child.

“I have money for you,” I said quickly, worried that he might take off. “Four crowns. You can have them. That brooch is worth nothing. I only want it back because it belonged to my mother. She's dead now.”

The child cocked his head, very serious about our exchange. He studied me from under his cap, and then I saw his gaze focus greedily on the coins on my palm. He wanted and needed the money. Now that I stood closer to him, I saw clearly his dirty, broken fingernails, that his cheekbones were too prominent for a boy in good health. I wondered what else he needed.

“Are you hungry?”

No reply. He was resolved to remain mute.

The sky darkened, and I knew I had to return home. It was a long way to Grandmother's house in Kensington, and I worried that she might contact the police if she had not already.

“Here,” I said, taking one cautious step closer to the boy. “Drop the brooch, and I'll toss the coins to you in this purse.”

I dropped the coins inside the purse and tightened the drawstring.

“Deal?”

He remained silent, but I saw agreement in his eyes; he dropped the brooch when I tossed the purse to him. As I stepped forward and stooped to pick the brooch up, I expected him to bolt down the street. Instead, he stood still, facing me.

Suddenly, I felt sucked into another place.

The boy, the brick building, the street, everything before me melted away. It was as if I had been sucked into a black cloud. Then some of the darkness dissipated, swirled away a bit as I envisioned burning candles. Torches. Dusky-robed figures chanting something in a foreign tongue. I could see no faces, but I saw a chalice in the hands of one of the figures.

Then I found myself once again in the street facing the boy.

What had just happened?

The boy stood where he was, but a glassy, sharp look had taken over his eyes.

“Goodbye, dollygirl,” he said before running away.

My heart pounded; I reeled and then steadied myself. The vision, the flash of change that had come over the boy, shook my core.

Shouts from a nearby pub and a mangy pack of dogs running past reminded me that I had to return home, but I felt frightened and physically exhausted from the chase.

A very large wagon stacked with wooden boxes rode past me—west. I hopped onto the back end, my limbs still trembling violently from my experience.