The Lost: Book Two of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 34

A/N: We’re moving into the home straight now, Chapelites with only another two chapters to go before we reach the grand finale! This one’s a bit of a filler admittedly, but rest assured it sows a few seeds for you to think about.

 

If you haven’t already, please do join the Facebook group created for fans of The Whitechapel Chronicles, you can meet other Chapelites, discuss the books and characters and get to see sneaky snippets and teasers. There will also be a chance to be part of next year’s street team! Hope to see you all there:

 

https://www.facebook.com/groups/TheChapeliteAsylum/

 

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I was hungry.

My stomach grumbled irritably and my veins moaned in ravenous anticipation. I felt strangely at odds with the sensation, particularly after my visits to Purgatory, but I knew I couldn't put it off any longer, especially not if I wanted to remain standing instead of on the floor collapsed in a heap racked with starvation. It seemed even angels could not exist on the beauty of angelic powers alone.

I'd arranged to meet Harper outside just after sundown and had left Lucius curled up in the corner, a book safely nestled in his lap and he'd nodded and smiled when I told him I wouldn't be long, before his attention quickly turned back to the book, caught up in whatever fantasy land he had plunged himself into this time.

Walking through the rooms underneath Fenton's garage where the sick, injured and battle-weary had spent the last few days and night recharging, I felt the air was alive with an undercurrent of tension that seemed to spark and crackle all around.

The preparations for war were well underway and those that could fight had been knee-deep in battle plans. I had to admit, however, I was surprised that Garrick and Harper had been able to revive our people at all.

This was not like the time before Gravestock, when Harper and Garrick had battled against a long-engrained terror in the darkened sweaty underground club, The Box, their plans meeting with anger and consternation. Some of the people here had been at Gravestock after all. They had been a part of that battle, that tentative step into a world where they dared to believe hope existed. They had tasted freedom and power only to then see the Varúlfur rise up again and pull the rug out from underneath them in one vicious sweep of the city. Yet after three days and nights since we had left the Mills and arrived here at the Greenwich base, I'd watched Garrick move amongst them, pulling them back from the brink with that charm only he could exude, a touch here, a smile there, a comforting word.

And where Garrick brought the light, Harper brought the fire, igniting the strength that lay dormant within them, empowering them with words that I would never have once believed could flow so easily from his lips. They drank it all in, their faces transforming from broken visages of despair to radiating a dogged determination, a resolve to never give up, to stand once again and fight, no matter what the cost. Listening to Harper preach his fiery dogma, I realised just how much he was a perfect mix of his two fathers, of Abraham Cain and Benjamin Garrick, of light and dark, of sermon and cunning.

I marvelled at how well Harper and Garrick worked together, these two blood-brothers who had once been at violently opposed to each other for so long, and whilst I knew they would always have their differences, I couldn't help but get a little kick of pleasure in realising how without them, we would never have revived our army within such a short space of time.