And then… everything goes black.
Pain bloomsin my right shoulder.
“Shoot it in thehead, you buffoon!”
I’m halfway in the arms of the coal-shoveller, half sprawled on the floor, as if I’d fainted on him.
I make to speak, to snarl as another blast echoes throughout the room, but the sound is lost on my newly bloodied mouth; I lick my lips—it’s my own blood, oozing from my bottom lip. My missing teeth are not onlythere, but lengthened into two pairs like Alma’s had been. But these ones are different. Deeply rooted within me.
I stagger to my feet in shock as the woman, boy, and newly awoken man cower in the corner. My left shoulder sears in agony this time, blood splattering their faces?—
But I don’t spin to glance at who’s shooting me, or has such poor aim, he should probably give the rifle to the kid to finish the job. I don’t think about the fact that my head’s one lucky shot away from being blown to smithereens.
All I can think of is what to do next.
I slam the coal-shoveller against the padded wall and sink my teeth into his throat. Deep into it. His blood is ecstacy, an instant drug to my own parched veins, singing with power. It sprays everywhere, covering me, but I swallow what I can.
The moment I feel my racing heart stop—or slow, whatever it’s doing I dislike it—I’m centered. Home. Whatever has been clawing its way out of me is here now, urging me forth. What once was weakness is now adrenaline pumping through me.
I spin and punch the armored rifleman in the face, dodging his last shot. It doesn’t fare too well for him; I think his skull is smashed in on the side, but there’s no time to look. My gaze snaps upon the family in the corner, arms up, to show them I’m safe. Or, at least the safest thing in the sanatorium. Either way, they peel themselves off the wall; I’m at least relieved they seem more frightened by the now-dead fellow with the gun. It appears one of the man’s knees havebeen bashed in, likely in an attempt to protect his wife and child. I scoop him up on my shoulder.
I shake the rifle free of the corpse at my feet and hand the strap to the woman, but she’s frail. Bled out, and left to die on the cusp of a curse—or magic, or laudanum poisoning, or whatever it is that has brought me back to life. I wonder if they understand they’re stuck in some sort of limbo, at least halfway to what I am.
I barely understand it myself.
She takes the weapon onto her shoulder and nearly collapses from its weight.
There are more footsteps echoing from above; we must be under the city. Under Beecham’s.
Instinct grabs hold of me, most vile and absurd. Without thinking, I bring my palm to my mouth and slice it on my teeth. Then, I shove it in their faces, first the woman, then the boy, smearing and ensuring it’s entered their mouths. I don’t know what I’ve just done, or the life I’ve damned them to. All I know is, it’s the best way to give them the fighting chance that was promised upon entering the infirmary.
Instead of gagging, they lap at it, their faces still wrenched in disgust—but they ingest my blood anyway, scooping it off their cheeks and onto their tongues, almost as if they cannot help themselves.
I do it to the man on my shoulder last, then bolt for the open cell door. “Hurry,” I shout, beckoning for the woman and child to follow. “Hurry!”
I push forward into the lamplight and smash a guard and a nurse into the wall before finding the staircase they’d descended around the corner.
With the family on my tail, I ascend.
CHAPTER 7
IN WHICH HOPE IS A FILTHY WORD, LONDON IS LEFT BEHIND, AND THE HUNGER IS NO LONGER MINE ALONE TO HOLD
We climb a short ladder and emerge through a hatch that leads into a dark, seemingly abandoned storage room. It opens into one of the corridors forking off from the wide hallway we’d started in. To my ravenous disappointment, Aloysius Beecham is nowhere to be found. Neither is Alma, even as I bellow her name at a volume that rattles the floorboards.
No answer. No patients screaming for help, no more freakishly strong nurses coming to attack us. I inhale deeply, scenting the place. Empty. Not another soul, save for the still-warm bodies downstairs in that dungeon I’m convinced is unsanctioned by the city.
Sunlight is the last thing on my mind, but we pass through a ray of deep gold streaming through one of the two boarded windows at the front of the receiving room. I set the man against the wall, checking his pulse. It’s low, but that won’t matter soon.
I give the woman and child my name—I even tell them I’m a visiting private investigator from France. They’re in obvious shock, and could do for some blood, which, with atown this large, they’ll have no trouble finding. With a parting glance, I bid my strange friends adieu, and turn for the door.
You’ve heard the tales.Read the stories.
I understand them well enough to know that I’m either a cursed fool, or fucked in the mind… and what I don’t know, I’ll soon learn. I pass my hand through the ray of sunlight again. Nothing happens, but this registers belatedly, because I’ve run my tongue over my teeth.
My fangs are no more. In their place, smooth canines and incisors. Surely not the same ones Beecham had extracted?
There’s no time to ponder the sunlight sensitivity or the way my new teeth feel in my mouth, because there are boots pounding outside and a rising swell of angry voices. Hastily, I untuck my shirt and wipe at least my mouth clean—and throw the door open to a full swarm of constables, some on horses, some with pistols, each wearing that particularly irking look of righteousness and feigned concern.
