The Lost: Book Two of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 25

There were ghosts in the old Millennium Mills.

Pale, ravaged faces looked out at me from the darkness, their wide eyes like deep wells filled with agony and woe. These ghosts did not reach for me. Instead, they clung to each to each other, huddled in pairs, fingers digging into flesh and not wanting to let go. Many sat alone, staring into space or looking warily about, jumping at every sound as if they expected their worst nightmare to come crashing in.

But for these ghosts, their worst nightmare had already happened. Brandon hadn't lied about the Second Cleansing but he had been deluded about how many vampires had been slaughtered. I wasn't the only one left, but those that had survived, barely looked alive at all. They were like ghouls; ghostly revenants damaged irreparably by the Varúlfur's attempt to flush them from their hiding places. This was the day they had feared for most of their lives, the day they had been told about time after time, the day they had hoped would never come again. Only it had, and what was left behind was terrifying to behold.

The lower basement where they had taken refuge felt like a mausoleum. The stench of blood pervaded the air and in places I could see great smears of it painting the floor, where vampires had died and their bodies dragged to adjoining rooms. Everything smelt of rot and decay and death, and yet for some that wasn't the worst odour.

As I walked past the survivors, I saw some of them sniffing the air, detecting an unpleasant stench invading their senses and some shrank back, as if they could climb into the very walls to escape it, while others glared at me as if I were the enemy.

"You stink of them," Garrick said softly, walking beside me. "No offence."

"None taken," I whispered back. "I don't suppose there's anywhere to wash?"

"The water supply was disconnected years ago. This place is a shell." Garrick sniffed. "But I can get you some clothes to change into." He shot a derisive look at my torn and filthy dress and I wrapped my arms around myself self-consciously, wishing that I could just rip it from my body and burn it to ash, together with my memories of the past few days.

As we walked through the basement, Lucius stayed closed to my side, gripping one of my arms with his little glove-covered hand and for once, I welcomed his touch, feeling strangely comforted by his presence. Whenever I glanced down at him, he just smiled right back up at me, despite the unrelenting horror that surrounded us on all sides. Harper remained behind me like my ever-present dark shadow, not close enough to touch but close enough for me to feel his warm breath on my back.

Wandering over to a corner, Garrick crouched down to speak to a young woman who lay there. A deep graze scarred her cheekbone and as Garrick spoke to her in hushed tones, he reached out and touched a hand to her face. She nodded in response, reaching back to a large duffle bag upon which she had been leaning and pulled out some clothing and shoes. Walking back over to me, he thrust the bundle into my arms and I noticed how his eyes didn't meet mine with such confidence as they usually did.

"Here, these should do for now, they might not be quite your size but it's better than what you're wearing now."

I glanced down at what he had gifted me, a pair of skinny jeans, a black shirt and scuffed ballet pumps. Looking over at the girl, I mouthed thank you to her and she stared blankly back at me as if I wasn't even there, before lying back down with her back against the wall.

Leading me to a side room at the far end of the basement, Garrick and Lucius waited by the door so I could get dressed. Harper followed me inside and for a brief moment, I felt a touch of modesty that I hadn't felt around him for a long time. He leaned against the wall, just inside the doorway, his legs crossed at the ankles and his thumbs hooked into his jean pockets. His eyes never left me, and as I turned my back on him and slipped the dress from my shoulders, I knew that if I turned to face him again, he would still be watching me, taking note of every bruise, every scar and everything underneath the surface that I was desperately trying to hide. Harper Cain, despite all his arrogant swagger and unbridled rage, always saw in me what others didn't and I always felt exposed under the scrutiny of his stern gaze. And right then, I think I felt it more than I ever had.