The Wolf with the Iron Jaw (Elysium #1)

Chapter Twenty-Three

 "Make it quick," Jewkes snapped.

Trinket drew in a sharp breath. Images flashed through her mind, memories of all the torture and abuse the Lipstick Woman had heaped upon her in Elysium.

The ice baths.

The drugs.

The chains.

The Jar.

Booker must have realized what was happening, as he kept a firm hold on her hand still tucked into the crook of his arm. His touch reassured her, and she forced herself to concentrate on the corpse in front of her. She was dead. There was no way she could hurt her now. Or ever again.

It was so strange to see her lying on that table, rigid and devoid of any life. Was it not only a week ago that she had towered over her? She'd always held such an air of authority, able to command fear and obedience with a single glare. Now here she was, so small and powerless in death, her beady eyes wide with terror, the same sort of terror she had delighted in inflicting upon the poor inmates in Elysium. The same terror she had inflicted on her . . .

"Trinket?" Booker said softly, pulling her from her thoughts.

She gave her head a light shake. Right. They were here for a reason. She needed to do her job. Even though she hated looking at the wicked woman, she had to inspect her for clues.

Gashes. There were gashes all over her body, like the ones on Mrs. Wotton. However, these were somehow different. Mrs. Wotton's wounds had been clean and precise. These were jagged and random. Her eyes didn't appear to be bleeding, and her lips weren't swollen. And there were no bruises around her neck or any rope burns on her wrists.

Trinket glanced up at Booker who was still examining the body, his forehead creased in concentration. A stolen look at Jewkes found him leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, sporting a disapproving frown as he watched Booker carefully.

Friend indeed. Booker had a funny idea about who his friends were.

Booker straightened his back, and she only then realized how far over the corpse he had stooped in his examination. "Well, Jewkes, I thank you for your kind assistance this night," he said, pasting on a mocking smile.

Jewkes rolled his eyes and pushed himself away from the wall without a word. As he led them out of the mortuary, Trinket couldn't help but take one last look at the corpse. Even from here she could see those crumbs. She swallowed hard. That horrible woman couldn't hurt her anymore. She couldn't hurt anyone anymore.

The Lipstick Woman was dead.

Like someone else we know . . .

As they left the dark station and headed into the still night, Jewkes stood in the doorway and lifted his lip in a snarl. "I hope this is the last time I hear from you, Larkin."

"Oh, my dear Jewkes, you know you'll never be rid of me," Booker said with a tip of his hat.

Jewkes scoffed and slammed the door closed.

The humor fell from Booker's face as he turned Trinket back towards the street and away from the station. "She was the one looking for you," he said.

"Yes."

"I'm sure it was rather shocking to see her."

She let out a long breath. "Yes, it was."

A shock and a relief. As much as she hated to admit it, part of her had rejoiced at seeing that sloppy woman lying dead in a giant icebox. After all she had done to her—to so many others—why did she deserve anything better than death?