Page 13 of Beecham’s Infirmary for the Affluent Afflicted (My Darling Malady #1)

IN WHICH HOPE IS A FILTHY WORD, LONDON IS LEFT BEHIND, AND THE HUNGER IS NO LONGER MINE ALONE TO HOLD

W e 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 a town 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.

I raise my hands indulgently. “Gentlemen.” My voice is so smooth, it shocks me.

“I don’t know if anyone’s informed you, but within these very doors, a certain Aloysius Ermengarde Beecham the Third has been performing crimes against God, science, and man.

He’s also broken at least three sections of the Hippocratic Oath. ”

They remain rooted in place, exchanging wary glances.

“You might find some survivors inside, or not. But you should look, just to be sure. Diligence and all.”

And, with that, I saunter south on Gill Street, much too high on my freedom from that claustrophobic infirmary—and possibly still laudanum—to care what passersby are whispering about my torn, bloodied attire.

It’s not long before the autumn afternoon is filled with bellowing screams and more gunshots. I should be fleeing the scene, or burning down the building, or maybe even mourning, but the only thing I run to is the one I want to save.

All I can think of is her. Seamstress and part-time shop runner at Lewis Annie stumbles back, nearly tripping over the travel trunk and staring into the open apartment.

Amah braces herself in the doorway. Blood darkens the collar of her white blouse while one of her hands clutches her side. Her glazed eyes find her granddaughter’s, then mine. Then, they lower, perhaps not wanting to see what I’ve become.

“She needs help.” Annie looks like she’s ready to fall to her knees. “I didn’t mean to—I got so angry when she said she’d sent you off. I lost control. I don’t know what came over me.”

She then turns to vomit in the street.

Annie somehow understands what’s happened to me, yet doesn’t recognize the striking resemblance in her own violence.

“Oh, I think I do.”

Her eyes flash at my response, just as I turn and catch Amah just as she collapses against the doorframe. She’s still conscious, the wounds at her neckline and ribs, shallow from what I can tell. She must be shaken.

“I asked you to stay.” Annie wipes her mouth on her sleeve. “I was trying to protect you!”

“So you knew nothing of this?” My gaze pins her, dragging from her face to her throat. My fangs have started to throb, and all I can think of is tasting her. It’s almost as if she can sense it too, because I feel her fighting her instincts. “You didn’t know what you were protecting me from?”

“I thought you were wanted for some sort of crime. An unpaid bill, or an unfinished operation.”

“So you were fine with me potentially getting my kneecaps shattered, but growing fangs and a deep craving for your blood is where you draw the line?” I want to lunge.

To pin her against the wall in my betrayal and hunger.

The only thing keeping me anchored is the shivering old woman clinging to my waist.

Annie’s silence speaks volumes.

“Your grandmother believed it was a good idea either way.”

“You don’t understand what Beecham promised her,” Annie snaps.

“What it meant to someone like her. Legal standing, protection for the shop. I didn’t care what he’d approached her for—I agreed to help.

To send an incoming inspector his way, until you came into my shop.

And I tried to get you to leave. To leave me alone.

” Tears of hatred form at the corners of her eyes.

“Amah didn’t mean any harm. She didn’t mean it. She didn’t mean to hurt you.”

She says it as if to convince herself.

I look pointedly down at the travel trunk behind her. “Then why were you running?”

Just then, Amah grunts against me and straightens. She blinks up at me from under my arm, her lashes as long as her granddaughter’s. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Yes,” I snarl. “ Me .”

Amah sighs and pulls a sachet from her pocket, and tilts her head back before emptying it into her mouth. Then, she straightens, and dusts herself off. “I sent you because I knew you’d be the end of that place.”

Annie’s lips part, but no sound comes.

Suddenly, the street behind us erupts in a chorus of shouts, the shrill bark of a constable’s whistle and heavy hoofbeats. He went this way! Onward!

They’re close, much too close for my liking. Their search will inevitably lead them here. I won’t have them swarm Limehouse, especially these shops and homes .

They’re close enough that Annie and Amah can hear them, too.

Annie watches my face shift as I deliberate, and as I do—a harbor bell rings in the distance. She sees what’s coming a heartbeat too late.

“Don’t you dare,” she hisses, backing away.

But I lunge and catch her around the waist, scooping her up effortlessly and tossing her over my shoulder. She thrashes, cussing, boots kicking the air, her nails raking across my cheek.

Calmly, I bend and grab the trunk handle. She’s just as beautiful when she’s furious.

“You can’t do this!” Annie shouts. “Where are you taking me?”

There is no easy answer. All I know is that she, and her Amah, will never be without my protection. Not with Beecham still out there. Not with things like me out there.

“To the docks. We’ve got a ship to catch.” I glance down and hold out my free arm. “Can you walk, Amah?”

The old woman smiles up at me. “For now.”