Dougan whirled to see the towering Sister Margaret restraining a struggling Farah as Father MacLean huffed into the kitchens, two stout friars close behind him.
“Nay,” Dougan rasped, momentarily frozen in abject horror.
“Dougan, run!” his Fairy cried. Father MacLean approached Sister Margaret and sneered, reaching a thin, gnarled bloodstained hand to help subdue Farah’s thrashing.
“Doona bloody touch her!” Dougan commanded. “She is mine.” He pulled the knife he’d pilfered from the cook board, and thrust it in warning toward both of his adversaries. “Unless ye’d like to be stuck twice in a night.” He took a threatening step forward and Father MacLean pulled his thin lips back from sharp, uneven teeth. His bald pate shone in the light from a torch one of the friars carried.
“This one’s worth too much to let go.” Quick as a hawk, MacLean wrapped long, bony fingers around Farah’s delicate neck. “Ye should have picked another princess to prey upon.”
Princess? “I’m not the predator here, ye are!” Dougan accused, unable to tear his eyes away from his Fairy’s terrified gaze as she squirmed, and struggled to breathe. “Give her over. Or I’ll cut ye both.”
Farah gave a strangled sob as MacLean cut off her breath completely.
Dougan snapped. He barreled forward, kicked out, and drove his boot directly into Father MacLean’s weak knee. The man went down with a tortured cry, and before Dougan knew what he was doing, he drove the knife into the priest’s chest.
There were feminine screams, too deep to be his Fairy’s, though he was sure he heard her crying, too. Suddenly, all the beatings, the starvation, and a surge of retribution on his Fairy’s behalf thundered through him. Dougan pulled the knife out just in time to slash at the advancing friar, who leaped just out of his reach. He was so focused on the one in front of him, he didn’t see the other swing the fire poker at his head until it was too late.
The last thing he heard was the sound of his Fairy, his wife, screaming his name. His last thought was he had failed her. He had lost her forever.
CHAPTER TWO
London, 1872
Seventeen Years Later
For nigh on ten years, it had been the custom of Mrs. Farah L. Mackenzie to walk the mile to work. She’d leave her small but fashionable flat above one of the many coffeehouses on Fetter Lane, and stroll down Fleet Street until it turned into the Strand, London’s infamous avant-garde theater and arts thoroughfare. With Temple Bar, and The Adelphi Theatre on her left, and Covent Garden and Trafalgar Square to her right, every morning was bound to be a particular feast for her senses.
She’d often take morning coffee with her landlord and owner of the Bookend Coffeehouse, Mr. Pierre de Gaule, who would regale her with stories of famous poets, novelists, artists, performers, and philosophers who would frequent his establishment during the evening hours.
That particular morning, the conversation had been about the strange Parisian author Jules Verne, and the argument they’d had over their recently deceased mutual acquaintance, Alexandre Dumas.
Farah had been especially interested, as she was a great admirer of Mr. Dumas’s work and was ashamed to admit she hadn’t gotten around to reading Mr. Verne, but felt she should add him to her ever-growing book list.
“Don’t bother,” de Gaule spat in his thick French accent that, despite his expatriate status, had never diminished in the near decade Farah had known him. “He is another pretentious Deist novelist who considers himself a philosopher.”
Leaving Mr. de Gaule with a smile, her month’s rent, and a kiss on his considerable jowls, Farah had taken a croissant for her breakfast and nibbled on it as she made her way down the crowded Strand.
The only buildings on her route that didn’t exhibit a colorful array of patrons were the handful of pleasure houses that, like many of their employees, only appeared deceptively tempting at night when the lighting was more favorable.
Farah found her morning stroll disappointingly dull, despite the dazzling bustle of London’s most famous market street. That is, until she avoided Charing Cross by cutting down Northumberland Street to arrive at Number Four Whitehall Place through the rear entrance, notorious to all of English society as the “back hall” of the London Metropolitan Police Headquarters, otherwise known as Scotland Yard.
The mob surrounding the building was a great deal larger and angrier than usual, spilling out onto the main thoroughfare.
Farah approached the fringes of the crowd with caution, wondering if Parliament had passed another amendment to the Marriage Act. For that was the last time she could remember such an uproar at Scotland Yard, as it shared a building with the licensing commissioner.
Spotting Sergeant Charles Crompton atop the dappled gelding at the west corner of the growing mob, Farah made her way toward him.
“Sergeant Crompton!” she called, placing a hand on Hugo’s bridle. “Sergeant Crompton. May I ask you to assist me inside?”
Crompton, a burly man of maybe forty, scowled down at her from behind a bristled mustache that hung below the extra chins created by the strap of his uniform helmet. “You i’nt supposed to come frew the back hall on days wot like this, Missus Mackenzie,” he called from atop his restless steed. “The chief inspector’ll ’ave me badge. Not to mention me ’ead.”
“What is all this?” Farah asked.
His answer was lost in a sudden roar rippling through the press of bodies, and Farah whipped around in time to see the shadow of a man cross the headquarters entrance toward the basement stairs. She couldn’t make out any particular features, but caught the impression of dark hair, shocking height, and a long, cocksure stride.