Playing Dead: Book One of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 33

It was the blackest of nights. One of those nights when it seemed as if the gates of Hell had opened in London, extinguishing the stars so that the demons could do their evil work under cover of complete darkness.

It was drawing close to Fireworks Night and the air was filled with the faint smell of bonfires and yet here in Whitechapel no amount of wood burning could ever dampen the stench of decay and death that pervaded the fabric of the ground and buildings. I was starting to get used to it, however, and no longer wrinkled up my nose in distaste whenever I ventured out. I wondered if I now smelt the same. I often thought back to when I had just been turned and had detected the smell of death on Harper and instinctively knew he had probably always smelt like that, only the old Megan would never have realised it. And now, here I was, with the stench of Whitechapel engrained in my very bones and instead of repulsing me, it gave me a small sense of comfort to be connected to the dark history of this place.

Standing not far from old vampire hospital, on the cusp of Brick Lane, I sniffed the air and grinned. Spices from the Bengali curry houses mixed with the warm scent from Jewish bagel shops, fruit and vegetables from the market combined with the strong stench of fish oil and shrimp paste and ginger drifted on the breeze from the Vietnamese Pho Mile of Old Street. And underneath it all, I inhaled the sweet smell of fresh blood, mixed with the tangy coppery sense of old blood, both of which were more likely to make my mouth water than the food smells generated by the human world in which I had once existed.

It had been two weeks since Harper had left and two weeks since I had agreed to Garrick's plan. As each day had come and gone, my sense of control over my hunger had grown. That's not to say I wasn't still intoxicated by the thought of feeding and when the urge overtook me, I was still in thrall at the sound of my victims heart as it swung from the fierce beat of tribalistic drums to the slow, deep bass of the death march. And I was still punch-drunk at the taste of the blood as it flowed over my tongue and lined my throat with its delectable sweetness. But the pains no longer crippled me as they once had. They hadn't gone, but it was as if my body welcomed the torture and had learned to feed from it, helping me to hunt with skill and precision, always driving me forward, always assisting me to reach my target until the deed was done. I fed more than the others, but Garrick said that it would soon even out and that the deluge of my thirst would soon dissipate, although I wasn't sure I wanted it to. I relished those times and as I ripped out the throats of my victims, I thought of Clara and wondered how it would be to taste Varúlfur blood on my lips and see her broken body lying at my feet.

Garrick's crew seemed to have accepted me without question. I never once felt out of place amongst the vampire mercenaries, with their scars and tattoos, despite the fact they were a million miles away from the fancy arm-and-a-leg restaurants and the immaculately shiny fashion floor of Selfridges that I had once known. In fact, I felt safe with them; protected, not in the trophy wife way in which Brandon had protected me, but I just knew that they had my back and whenever I hunted, I felt their presence nearby and their growing admiration as each target was quickly killed and disposed of, as if I had been doing it for years and not just a matter of weeks.

Garrick himself, seemed quite enamoured of my new skills and had even accompanied me on two hunts, eyeing me appreciatively as he watched me do the Devil's work down by the oozing waters of the Thames, where the river waited to suck down anything that dropped into the darkness, grabbing desperately at the air with a thousand hungry little mouths. On the last hunt, he had gripped me round the waist, his cold laughter filling the empty void where I had last heard the beating of my victims heart and he had spun me around, pushing me up against a wall where he buried his head into my neck and nuzzled at the old wound which was now healed quite well, yet still elicited a faint smell of my blood. I had hung onto the lapels of his coat momentarily, taking pleasure from the touch of his warm breath on my throat, before pushing him away, grinning at him and wagging my finger. He had smiled back, a wicked arrogant smile that sparked a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Soon," he insisted and walked away to where Blaine and Kale stood waiting for us.