Savage Wings: Book Three of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 22

The  Tyburn Convent was an unremarkable-looking building, slightly inset between the properties either side and with a very strange little abode adjoining on the left that – according to Fenton – was London's smallest house, built to stop grave-robbers from scuttling down the alley to plunder St George's cemetery of all the riches amongst the corpses and coffins.

I wasn't sure what I had expected. A beam of light from the Heavens maybe, alighting the roof of the convent like some celestial stadium floodlight. Or maybe I had expected to stand in front of it and feel a sense of peace, as if the building emitted a kind of heavenly calm encapsulating all those who passed by, offering them brief sanctuary from the chaos of the city before they went on their way.

I certainly didn't feel calm or peaceful as I stood in front of the stone steps. I felt anxious and jittery out here in the open, practically a stone's throw away from Oxford Street where I used to shop with Brandon. The air seemed weighty and oppressive as if the blackened clouds were much lower overhead than usual, crushing everything beneath them, yet as much as I tried to convince myself this spiritual claustrophobia was just due to the fact we were risking our lives to be here, I knew it was far more than that.

The demon's words still haunted me and no matter how hard I tried to brush it all off as lies, I couldn't help but imagine Garrick trapped somewhere, tortured beyond the most horrible imaginings. The anger and hurt had raged through me ever since, all knotted together by this sense of utter failure – because wherever he was, I couldn't help him. Instead, I was here, standing in front of a convent of all places, seeking out clues to help me solve this damn mystery that was confounding me more and more with each rising of the moon. A huge part of me couldn't help but wonder why I was putting my energies into searching for someone who clearly didn't want to be found and who clearly didn't give a toss about me, instead of seeking out the one person who needed me the most.

A frustrated sigh escaped my lips.

"He's a Garrick," Harper said softly, instinctively reading my mood and tickling the palm of my hand with his fingertips as he stood beside me. "Bartholomew's blood runs in his veins and wherever he is, he will be putting up one hell of a fight, just as he always did in life."

I'd told Harper everything, of course. Not that I'd had much choice when he'd found me curled up on the floor in the classroom, with tears streaming down my face and Lucius standing not far away, a single glove discarded at his feet. I'd hated seeing the hurt tattoo Harper's features, hated seeing that flicker of pain dull his eyes for a moment, but there seemed little point in keeping it from him.

"Do you really believe that?" I asked. The hope in my voice was desperate, verging on pathetic even.

Harper gripped my hand tighter. "I have to. Because I can't accept any alternative. I won't accept it." He shot me a brief grin which offered little in the way of comfort because I knew he was struggling with this, just as much as I was. I squeezed his hand back and interlocked my fingers with his.

Fenton approached from along Bayswater Road, shaking his head and muttering to himself. He was scowling as he reached my side, his lips pursed together thinly, accentuating the sharp contours of his cheekbones. "It's hard enough to find somewhere to park in this bloody city," he grumbled. "Then they have to charge you an arm and a leg for it as well."

"We could get bikes?" I shrugged.

Fenton grinned, a spark of exhilaration in his eyes. "Funnily enough, I've always fancied a Harley."

"I'd ride a Harley," Harper retorted. "You'd ride a 50cc hairdryer."

"Why do you get to ride the Harley?"