Page 23 of From Hell

“No one was there. I told you, it was all in my head.” There’s absolute conviction in my voice, enough to make Nola back down.

Nola fixes her gaze on me, her single iris searching my eyes, and then she lets out a weary sigh. “You have to be cautious. If one of us falls, we all go down.”

It’s not entirely true. If things go south, if I get caught, I’d never utter a word to the police about Sage, Nola, or our clandestine meetings, not even under the threat of death.

Nola has this notion that our destinies are mysteriously intertwined. Perhaps they are, but it’s a concept that’s a little too mystical for my taste. I never planned to become a killer. I’ve just reached a point where I’d do anything to dull the pain, even if it means doling out revenge like a bitter pill. I’ll choose the feeling of wrongness over the hollowness and numbness any day.

Maybe it was pain that brought us together, and perhaps what binds us is a shared disturbance beyond measure, but I’d never betray them. I don’t know how I coped before I met Nola and Sage. I was a wreck back then. They are the ones who keep me going. Without them and our pledge, I’d be adrift, drowning once more.

The loss of my friend was heartbreaking, and my near-death experience ripped a piece of my soul away. Finding others who’ve endured similar horrors, those who crave peace and will do whatever it takes to seize it, breathed life back into me.

Just.

I’m still a walking, talking ghost. We all are, but together, these girls have convinced me we’re invincible. Our closets are full of more skeletons than clothes, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. And as for getting caught, it’s not in my plans.

My monster may believe he’s won, lurking in the shadows, watching, waiting.

But soon, very soon, I’ll be the one hunting him.

10

JAXON

Ibreak into her house. It isn’t hard.

She used her own car, which led me straight to where she lived—Crescent Drive near the Abbey, only a short drive. How easily she gave her position away. How the hell has she survived all this time? That will change. Starting with the locks of her house that wouldn’t deter some random fucker strolling in off the street, let alone me.

I poke in her cupboards and probe through elegant, delicate things scattered throughout her small but perfectly formed house. Her delicious scent is everywhere.

If I didn’t know who she was before, I do now—her name is on the communication in her letter tray and her transformation from the girl I knew to my vixen is on the photos adorning the walls.

Now I know who my sweet psycho is...I can’t wait.

What a coincidence I’ve found her again, that we already know each other. I should stay away. There was a reason I left—to protect her. I only came back because I didn’t expect her to come back to Whitechapel. But now we’re both here, I can’t leave her alone. What drives her to kill intrigues the fuck out of me. I need to know how she became like this. Was she always this way and I just didn’t see it before? Was it the Ripper? Did he create her, turn her into something dark and twisted, tainted…like me?

I can hardly contain myself as I take it all in.

Bed neat and made. I run a gloved hand over the sheets, excitement spilling through me. Clothes hanging in neat lines, light colors, florals, greens, and blues, disrupted occasionally by black or leather, stir anticipation in my gut. I’m strangely amused that she likes spicy food but doesn’t cook much, going by the half-empty cartons in the fridge, and that her bathroom is a temple for bathing with luxury soaps and bath soaks.

But the pièce de résistance is the killing wall in her rather messy and cluttered office, tacked with photos and news articles of all the men she’s stalking.

It takes my breath away.

Enough that I want to taste her straight away. But I must be patient. I prefer my little fox running when I chase her.

I rifle through her clothes until I find the ones she was wearing that night. Why she’s kept them, I’ve no fucking clue, but she’ll learn. Until then, I’ll take care of it for her. I dump her lacy black dress in a bin liner. In the pocket is the knife she used on Henry, wrapped in a napkin from the bar. Annoyance snaps in my chest. Sloppy. I place the knife in the dishwasher and set it to the highest setting, add bleach to the detergent dispenser, and switch it on. I may be a monster, but I’m a tidy one.

And I like my prey to see me coming.

I want my sweet psycho breathless, preferably screaming when I devour her for the first time.

The sound of her returning has me heading toward the back door all too soon. It’s tempting to stay and wait for her, watch her from the darkened shadows, but I have work. And I want to make this last.

I know she won’t tell anyone about Henry, so there’s no rush to tie her up as a loose end just yet. I want to see what happens when my little fox finds more hens. Was Henry a one-off? Or is she working her way through a shit list all on her own, as her stalker wall suggests? And why? What made her back into the corner and bare her teeth like that? Was it the Ripper? Did he remake her?

Can I make her do it again?

Questions. Questions.