The Lost: Book Two of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 4

I smelt the blood immediately. Vampire blood and a lot of it too.

It floated through the corridors of the asylum, carried on the cold night air as it flowed through the open door and was accompanied by the sound of pained cries and loud voices.

I jumped up from the corner of the study, where I had sat with my knees pulled in tight to my chest, watching Lucius with wild-eyes and a terror that draped itself around my shoulders and back like the coldest of angel wings. I’d felt almost in stasis since I had thrown myself away from the little boy and crushed my body against the bookcase. As seemed to be Lucius’ way, he had simply shrugged as if my reaction were completely normal and gone back to reading the next book in the pile. Only this time, he hummed a tune, almost under his breath, his voice soft and sweet breaking through despite the furious crackle of the fire that roared in the hearth behind him.

Running from the room, I followed the scent and noise to find Harper rushing down the passageway carrying a female vampire in his arms and she was screaming, clawing at his shirt in clear agony as blood drenched her stomach and saturated the fabric of her jeans at the thighs. Garrick and the others, including Edward, Benjamin’s old friend, trailed after Harper and quickly I caught the putrid stench of Varúlfur blood marking their clothes and skin.

Entering a side room, Harper put the woman down on the floor and quickly ripped open her shirt, revealing an expanse of what was no doubt once smooth black skin, now ravaged by the claws of some beast, the skin all raw and puckered with deep open welts. She instinctively pulled her legs up, trying to deal with the pain that must have raged throughout her body and her hands knotted into claws of their own and hovered above the wound as if she wanted to clutch at it to soothe the pain, but knowing that she would only find ripped flesh and gaping bloodied holes. Garrick, his face pale and mouth set in a grim line, wrenched open a cupboard and pulled out an old greying towel. Kneeling by the woman’s side, he pressed it against her stomach, trying to stem the blood flow but soon that dry grey fabric was soaked red.

“Another,” he groaned through gritted teeth, small beads of sweat scarring his forehead. Paige threw him another and he did the same again, cursing as the blood continued to seep through and even forming small pools on the floor beside her as it trickled down her waist. She was sobbing now, tears staining her cheeks as she writhed on the cold floor, smearing blood into the stone beneath her.

After a while, Harper stood up, his face stricken as he backed away from the injured woman, his fists clenching and unclenching by his side. Eventually he reached the doorway and his back hit the frame hard, before he disappeared out into the darkened corridor.

“Harper?” I cried and Edward quickly caught hold of my wrist as I tried to follow him.

“Let him be, girl,” said the old bearded vampire gruffly, his dark brown eyes framed by the wrinkles around the edges that he had clearly worn back in his human life. “There is no entertainment in watching Death stalk these rooms and we have seen plenty in our time to know it always plays out the same.”

I stared wildly at the woman. “There has to be something we can do?” I gasped.

“What can we do against such foul afflictions? The hand of the Varúlfur strikes hard and deep in the gut," he shook his head solemnly. "Nay, there is no hope for this one."

I uttered a strangled cry and rushed to Garrick's side, clutching hold of his arm. "There is always hope. Isn't that what you said?"

Garrick turned his dark eyes upon me and I saw the sorrow and pain etched deeply on his face. I dug my fingers into his flesh and grabbed the back of his neck, pulling my face close to his.