Razors & Ruin (Rare Horrors #1)

Chapter 25

25

Nellie

T he envelope on the floor pulls us both up short. Right there on the doormat, almost glowing in the lamplight. The paper looks expensive, and Sweeney frowns as he picks it up.

"Silk thread in this," he says. "No stamp, so someone hand-delivered it." He holds it up so I can see. "Addressed to Mr. Todd."

I say nothing as he sits at the counter, turning up the gas in the lantern so he can see better. He takes a razor from his inside pocket, splitting the envelope in one swipe, and I take the stool opposite, studying his face as he reads.

His features go on quite the journey. Benign interest gives way to a frown of confusion, his skillet-dark eyes scanning ever more rapidly from right to left.

His brow furrows deeper until his forehead is crisscrossed with canyons, and his lip curls into a venomous sneer. Whatever he is reading disagrees with him.

"Mr T?—"

He tosses the letter over the counter, and I catch it before it flutters.

Mr. Todd,

I endeavor in this epistle to appeal to your sense of decency regarding a matter long since settled, to whit the circumstances of your daughter. You may regard me as a benevolent force, but a force nonetheless, and it would be in your interests to cease your line of inquiry. No good can come of it.

Johanna entered the care of Porter's Workhouse following your transportation to the colonies. She was unregistered, being an infant of no means, and not expected to survive in any case, but in actual fact, she died in a fire that ravaged the nursery block. She would have been just less than a year old at the time.

I tell you this now to illustrate the futility of seeking her out; she is long since deceased, and there is nothing more to be said about it.

Furthermore, I beseech you to keep your place and be thankful for it. Some people other than me have their suspicions, if not outright proof, of your previous identity. London has a more extended memory than you think and ways of making you pay more than once for your transgressions.

In case my point is unclear, I shall be frank—forget Johanna and any other child lost to illegal trade. The poor are a product like any other, and she was lucky not to be caught up in the churn. Dead in flames is better than alive in agony.

A friend.

"Jesus," I say under my breath. "Who sent this?"

"Does it matter?"

Sweeney's voice is a strained snarl of fury. "The Beadle, Wetherby, whoever—has figured out why I've been asking questions. Someone knows I'm Currer Brook, that I killed Gerald Cope, that I'm the father of a baby who never had a chance."

He believes it right off the bat. It's fascinating.

I wonder whether there's a relief at not having to keep looking for his child, at not being compelled to discover the truth because it's been handed to him on a piece of creamy paper, inked in cruel jags of cursive.

"They will all die for this."

I glance up to see Sweeney at the window. He rhythmically taps the razor on the glass: one, two, three.

"My child lies in ashes. No, it's worse; she's nowhere. Unmourned, unmarked. No grave or even a sapling to acknowledge her innocent life."

He wheels to face me, brandishing the razor. "The fire at Porter's. You'd have been what, nineteen or so? Do you remember it?"

I nod. "I do. It was terrible. The place went up like kindling. People always said it was mighty convenient that so many kids passed away, really took the strain off the treadmill."

"So it's true."

He grins. It's not what I expected, and I remain rooted to the spot as he approaches me, unsure what to do.

If he kills me now, I'll deserve it, but this terrible news brings us real possibilities. And besides, something changed between us this evening.

He needs me, I know it, and he knows I know it.

"Now, dear," I begin as he cups my jaw, pressing me to the counter. "I know you're het up and already cross with me, but you need to bear in mind?—"

"Treacle, it's alright."

His voice is deep and hypnotic, and I'm reminded of his magnetism toward the feckless Beatrix. "You came to save me tonight, didn't you? From myself, from impulses you knew could destroy me. Who knows what could have happened if you hadn't intervened. I might be dead or arrested."

He runs his thumb over my lip, and I sigh with relief. My man appreciates what I did for him and what I will continue to do. If I don't protect what we have, who will?

"Oh, Mr. T." I nuzzle his neck. "You do love me, don't you?"

"Of course I love you. You're the only woman for me, Nellie, and you'd better get used to the idea because what comes next has nothing but forward momentum."

My breath hitches even as I press myself against his hard body. What is he talking about?

"I've lost the last of me, pet," he whispers. "Whatever was still human, or wanted to be, is gone. I'm not as sorry as I should be. To know I have no way to return, no decency to salvage—it's freedom . Freedom to be the savage you want."

I'm panting now. Holy shit . My dreams are about to come true, and I'm fucking terrified.

Sweeney wedges his razor's straight edge against the bone of my clavicle and slashes down, cutting the dress and me. My breasts spill free, blood trickling over them, and I gasp at the heat. The cut is thin and shallow, but still it bleeds.

He hurts me so casually, yet carefully, and that's what I'm addicted to; the fine line. The attentiveness, the precision of his cruelty that only I can calibrate. I can no more resist him than I could catch a thunderbolt or run to the moon.

"So, is it over?" I ask.

Sweeney bows his head and licks me from sternum to chin, drawing my blood into my mouth. The hot metallic tang scalds me as he digs his tongue into my mouth, tasting my need for him.

"It's beginning ," he growls. "I will tear this city to pieces, from eyeballs to arsehole. Every face that offends me, I will rip from its skull; every voice that chides me will find its throat shredded. And you, my beauty, will have all the wares your heart desires, the respectable business you deserve, and me, devoted to your every whim and folly."

My head is pounding, my heart rushing in my ears. These are words from the fevered places in my mind I dare not go, fantasies too outlandish to entertain.

Yet I know he's fuelled as much by vengeance as ever. He's skittering around aimlessly with a directionless yet potent rage.

I will help him find his way.

"You know what I want to hear." I push him away. "Do it properly. If not now, then never, you hear me?"

To my astonishment, Sweeney drops on one knee.

"Nellie Lovett, my treacle, my pet, the light and dark of my worthless life," he says. "I intend to embark on a committed spree of murder, and to this end, I need an equally committed partner in crime. A woman of practicality and wit, superlative cunning, and with a pussy that is feral for me and me alone. Know you of such a wonderful slut?"

I burst into girlish peels of laughter. "Try harder!"

"Would you do me the honor," he grins as I put my hand in his, "of marrying me?"

I hurl myself onto him, and he collapses onto his back, chuckling as I peck him with kisses. "Mr T! Yes! A thousand times, yes!"

I straddle him, and he crosses his hands behind his head, smiling indulgently as I babble. "It has to be soon, and I want a nice gown; with money coming in, that'll be alright, won't it? Flowers, too, and a coach. Chapel do, nothing fancy?—"

Without warning, he grabs me and draws me up his body, his head disappearing beneath my skirt. I yelp as I feel his stubble grazing my pussy lips, his chin grinding on my clit. His voice is muffled, but his words are clear enough.

"Shut the fuck up and let me eat you."