Page 74 of If Looks Could Kill

Pearl falls limp against Jack’s rib cage. He scoops her up in his arms.

His failing heart is alive tonight, thumping in his chest. The heat is on him. The wolf hunts once again. The lion stalks his prey.

What to do first? He is giddy, not quite thinking straight. When she wasn’t asleep in her bed, he nearly panicked. He waited so long for her return that he nearly gave up. Now he is stunned by his good fortune. He dumps the girl onto her cot and heads to his room for his things.

Returning to her room, he finds her struggling to breathe. She is face-down in her pillow. He turns her head to one side. Not yet, little Pearl. Your time is soon, but it isn’t yet.

He hasn’t ever known his victim’s names beforehand.

He makes two trips: one to set up his surgery in the cellar and another to bring down the specimen.

A knocking at the rear kitchen door nearly makes him drop his things, but he ignores it and continues his work.

His hosts are blithely unaware. He left them a bottle of wine—one of Pearl’s errands—which he had doctored with his powders, just as he did for the French maid aboard the ship.

They will sleep the sleep of the dead until lunchtime, if he’s not mistaken.

His brew is warm. His knives are sharp. He has worried open the gap between the houses somewhat. All is ready. His blissful dreamer sleeps on a sheet he’s spread on the basement floor.

He takes a deep breath, and cuts.