Razors & Ruin (Rare Horrors #1)

Chapter 8

8

Nellie

I t’s been years since I’ve seen it done, but I remember it being relatively simple, if a little messy. All I have to do is get her on the hook.

Marianne had bled out by the time I’d finished with the measuring tape and chair. I found her cooling and quiet on the floor, where she tumbled after the last tension in her muscles gave out. Helpfully, her head cracked more with the impact, which gives me a start for the next bit.

With her feet tightly bound, it’s not too difficult to drag her through to the storeroom; being covered in blood helps her slide right along. It’s cooler here, and this is where Harry used to hang the meat when he could afford to buy entire carcasses.

The chain and pulley are still in place, so I hook her up and haul her aloft, tying it to the weigh stone. The trapdoor leading to the bakehouse is open, and I flip it closed with my foot, wincing at the loud slam as it echoes below.

I scurry back to the front door and flip the sign to ‘closed.’ Should lock it, but Mr. T will be along soon, and I’d rather not break off from what I’m doing to let him in. I must concentrate.

Helpfully, Marianne’s pretty brains are leaking already, sagging from the fissure of her cleaved skull and dripping clear fluid on the stone floor. I grab a bowl and put it underneath, tutting and unhooking a tenderizing mallet from the tool rack on the wall.

“Can’t let that go, dearie,” I say aloud as I swing. “We’ll need every bit, and you’ve precious little to waste.”

The fragile bone cracks like an egg, and one side of her brain plops unceremoniously into the basin, swimming in the blood-tinged fluid. I poke around in the cavity until I find a thick sinew, but even a firm twist doesn’t dislodge it, so I take some secateurs to it, grunting as I lie on my back. It’s a fiddly job, and I’m relieved when the gristly string comes away.

What will Sweeney say? What will he do ? I’m sure he wasn’t expecting this, but neither was I. Such acts he can inspire!

I can imagine him now, staring at the scene before him, uncertain of me. Maybe even angry. I don’t know whether someone will come looking for the girl; perhaps he will turn on his heels and snitch to the police, keen to avoid a stain on his parole.

And yet, no. I can’t see it. Sweeney returned to London with an agenda and needs to trust me. My choice to kill some chintzy floozie shows him what I’m made of, and with that knowledge, how can he pass me up?

He can’t, and he won’t. And it’s that, more than the batting eyes and poisonous words, that got Marianne’s stupid head caved in. I didn’t even fucking hesitate, and I’m proud.

It took months to break Harry down once I realized his gout would take my patience and all our savings unless I showed him some mercy. This time, it wasn’t charity, just good Old Testament malice, and it felt like…s omething . A takeback.

Some uppity cunt, fallen on hard times, and she thought she could sit in my shop, drink my gin, and disparage me to my face?

You’d give him the skin on your back , she said. And who knows, maybe she was right. But at least I can choose , which is more than can be said for her.

The thought drives a feral chuckle from my throat.

I’m placing my prize on the table when I hear the storeroom door creak. Sweeney leans against the frame, his eyebrow arched, and my heart leaps.

“Look what I did, Mr. T.” I point at the wreckage that was once Marianne. “She got cheeky with me, so I had to put her in her place.”

My voice takes on a shrill edge, but I can’t help it. “You made me do it. Fucking flirting with her. She followed me here and said she would have me arrested.”

“Is that so?” Sweeney’s tone is as still and calm as a millpond, without a shred of tension. “What a bitch. That doesn’t mean we don’t have a problem, though. What do you propose to do with her?”

His smirk bewitches me. I thought he was getting Marianne all hot and quick back at Spitalfields, but this is how he really does it. He sees me with blood and brains on my hands, and he wants me. His eyes scan my body, his hands twitch, and I know it.

Sweeney and Nellie, Nellie and Sweeney. As the sun rises in the East, as sure as politicians are corrupt and love is a blind whore—it’s him and me.

I sit on the floor and give Marianne a push, sending her spinning. “Well, my Harry was a butcher and a hunter. He always said an animal has enough brains to tan its own hide, and he showed me a few times how to skin a deer or a pig.”

“We usually took the hides to the tannery to be worked, but I sort of know how to do it. Harry was the kind who liked to be able to do a job for himself, even if he could hire the help.”

“A man after my own heart,” Sweeney says. His voice is silky, like a lover’s, and I stare at him, astonished. “What a clever girl you are, treacle. Resourceful in a way that surprises me. What then?”

I blink, confused. “What? Oh! We use her hide to fix your new chair, of course.”

The air in the room, which was dank and cold, grows heated. For a few beats, neither of us speak. Then Sweeney is on his knees at my side, pulling me into his lap, his cock hardening as he grinds against me.

“Let’s give the poor bitch a show, shall we?” he snarls.