Chapter 31
TROY
Two Years Ago.
The Secret Passageway,
Corner of Fleet Street and Bell Yard
The girl who has been asking about me in London’s most degenerate places pauses at the entrance to The Old Bank of England Pub, softly illuminated by streetlights, shrouded by thick and heavy rainfall.
She reaches into her bag and takes out an umbrella.
Her blonde hair, a wig, obviously, even stuffed under a cap, and cherry-red lips stand her out around here.
That designer black mac might as well be a mark painted on her back, screaming to every lowlife in this shithole, that here stands a rich, easy target.
Lucky for her, I’m the monster stalking her tonight.
The moment she steps from the pub’s camera view into the dark, I’m on her.
My hand finds her delicate throat, closing tight as I drag her into the alleyway.
I shove her against the exposed brick. Now she’s in my domain, where the walls are scrawled in graffiti behind her head, and the stench of piss mingles with her lavender perfume.
Even the rainwater that runs down the drainpipe next to us drowns out any noise she tries to make.
Not that anyone would come running. Even the pigs prefer to stay away.
So why the fuck is she here? Does she know this is my Hell that she’s wandered into?
“Who are you?” My voice is distorted behind the demon mask, the one I reserve for hunting, making it low and grating. “And why are you asking for Sweeney Todd?”
Her doe-eyes widen, brown, I note, even in this shit lighting. I cock my head, waiting, knowing how frightening the demon mask can look in amber streetlights, all sharp angles and hollow eyes. Beneath my thumb, her pulse hammers against her throat like a trapped bird’s wings.
But she doesn’t answer.
She’s terrified.
I apply pressure. Not enough to damage that pretty throat, but enough that she realizes how fragile her life is and that it’s in my hands.
“Please,” she mouths, trying to speak, clawing at my hand around her neck.
I pull back a touch. “Tell me who the fuck you are before I rip it out of you.”
“Nell.” She gasps it out. “I’m Nell.”
“Nell who?”
She shakes her head, a spark of defiance flaring in those innocent eyes, despite the fear. “No. Not until you tell me who you are.”
But as she reaches into her coat pocket, before she manages to swipe at me, I seize her hand, twisting the glint of metal away from her. Her little blade goes tumbling off into the dark, landing in a puddle. Brave or bloody stupid.
Her audacity almost makes me smile behind my mask.
“You know who I am.”
What little color she had drains away, leaving her pale as a corpse. “You’re him…” Her voice drops to barely a whisper. “Sweeney Todd.”
“Why have you been asking about me, little Nell?”
She shuts her eyes, her lashes fluttering against her damp cheeks. When she opens them again, her hazel orbs are filled with determination.
“I want…” She drags in a shaking breath that makes her whole body tremble against the wall. “I want to hire you…” She takes another breath, composing herself. “…to kill someone.”
Interesting. I cock my head. “Who?”
“Richard Lovett.”
The rain gushes down the alley behind us, and somewhere in the distance, church bells toll the hour. But all I can hear is the pounding of my heart, and all I can see is the terror in her eyes that makes me want to chase her down and do very bad things to her.
“Why do you want him dead?”
“Because he’s a murderer.”
Richard Lovett, the man who killed my family, is already on my shitlist, but she can’t know that.
Or can she?
Nell, or whoever she really is beneath that cheap wig and expensive coat, has just become the most interesting little bird to fly into my cage.
The question is, do I let her out of it?