7
All in, brother,” Damon advised, clapping his hand on my shoulder.
I was back in Mystic Falls, deep in the woods, where we always went in our youth when we were up to no good. We’d tie our horses to a tree and stay up all night, drinking slugs of whiskey, playing cards, and talking about girls. There was a heavy mist over the pine needle-covered ground and a sharp chill in the air. It was fall, and I was fifteen, eager to be a man in any situation.
Surrounding me were the Giffin brothers, Matthew Hartnett, Nathan Layman, and Damon. A few years older, Damon had been skipping out on our gatherings in the woods lately in favor of nights at the Tavern.
“He ain’t allowed to have a coach! Stefan’s gotta play for himself, or else I ain’t interested,” Ethan Giffin called, swigging from his flask. With his curly red hair and round face, Ethan reminded me of an overfed toddler.
“I’m not coaching, I’m just giving some brotherly advice. Do you have a problem with that?” Damon challenged.
“Fine,” Ethan said, sitting back on the log. His brother, Calvin, glared at us angrily.
“Besides, Stefan doesn’t need my advice. He’s smarter than me,” Damon said, glancing at his own cards. A few crumpled bills were thrown in a pile, along with a belt buckle, a cigarette lighter, and Clementine Haverford’s handkerchief. (“Straight from her bosom!” Ethan Giffin had assured us with a cackle.) The winner would take it all—or lose everything.
“All in,” I said, throwing a five-dollar bill on the pile. It was my own small fortune.
One by one, everyone displayed their cards. My heart pounded more and more with each reveal. My hand was better than the two jacks that Calvin presented, and better than Nathan’s three queens. Finally, I showed my own hand—a straight flush of hearts.
I scooped up my prizes, beaming at Damon in victory.
“Rise and shine!” I was startled awake by the voice. Disoriented, I blinked up at Damon, his outburst from the night before apparently forgotten. Seeing him now, just after he’d appeared in my dream, was surprising. He was so similar in appearance to the brother of my youth and yet such a profoundly different person. Back then, it had been easy. We knew our strengths complemented each other’s, and we were generous with our mutual admiration. He was confident and daring, while I was smart and cautious. Now, we viewed each other with suspicion.
The shadow of a beard covered the lower half of his face. I’d never seen Damon with a beard before, but it suited the air of menace he projected.
I had to look twice when Cora appeared. True to her word, she’d taken the preparations for today seriously. She was wearing the tattered, stained dress she’d worn two days prior. Her hair was mussed so it stuck up in odd angles around her face, and she’d rubbed dirt on her cheeks and forehead. She looked the part of a fallen woman. Which was exactly the point.
“All in,” I murmured.
“All in?” Damon glanced at me curiously, but I didn’t explain and he didn’t press. I didn’t want him to ruin what was still an untarnished memory.
Once we got aboveground, we turned in the opposite direction of Lansdowne House. According to Cora, the Magdalene Asylum was just on the edge of Whitechapel, the site of Samuel’s Ripper murders. Would anyone recognize Damon? He was wearing his cloak with the hood pulled far over his forehead. Combined with the beard, he looked nothing like the dashing, debonair suspect the newspapers had described. I allowed my shoulders to relax.
Finally, we reached a decrepit brick building at the far end of an alleyway. It was enclosed by an iron fence, and the solid black doors of the entrance looked ominous. It didn’t seem the type of place to save women. Rather, it looked like a sort of prison: a place where wayward women could be locked away and forgotten. I glanced at Cora, worried, but she stared resolutely ahead.
“At least you’ll have a roof over your head. More than we have, at any rate,” Damon said, breaking the silence.
I shot an annoyed glance at Damon, but Cora broke out into nervous giggles. “It is awful, isn’t it?” she said. “And yet, if I had to choose between here, Whitechapel, or the tunnel, I suppose I’d choose here. At least I know they’ll offer meals that aren’t rat’s blood or Alfred’s horrible Ten Bells fish special. Don’t be too jealous, lads.” She flashed a smile, but I could tell she was uneasy.
I was, too. “I’ll come visit every day. We both will,” I said as I steeled my courage and rapped sharply on the door. The three of us stood in anticipation as it slowly creaked open.
An enormously tall man wearing a priest’s robe opened the door and stared down at us. A crucifix hung from his neck, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. I averted my eyes. While it was a myth that crucifixes could be used to torment our kind, they never failed to remind me how unholy and evil my past had been.
“Yes, my children?” he asked stiffly. “What brings you to the Magdalene Asylum?”
Damon stepped forward. “I’m Damon de… Croix,” he said, catching himself just before he introduced himself as Damon DeSangue. “And this is my brother, Stefan. Like everyone in London, we’re shocked by the rash of murders in our city and wish to help keep potential victims off the streets. We found this young girl at the Ten Bells Tavern and offered her our help by guiding her here.”
“Quite good,” the man said, his gaze flicking to Cora, standing on the step below us. She’d crossed her arms over her chest and was rocking back and forth on her heels. I couldn’t tell if she was acting or if the stress had simply become too much for her to handle. Whatever the reason, it was effective.