“Mr Dickens.” The voice put Miss Nightingale’s teeth on edge. It was a rasping voice that squealed in her ear like an old, rusty hinge.
The godforsaken man never knew when enough was enough. They had all the information they needed. Miss Walters had all but confirmed their suspicions that the missing men were frequent visitors to the Lotus Blossom, if not in word, then in her reaction to Mr Dickens’ questions. But he always had to push it just that little too far.
From the direction of the voice, deep within the chemical haze of the saloon, something stirred. A dark shape hunched and twisted, a grotesque silhouette advancing towards them in erratic, jerky shifts.
“Mr Dickens, I believe it’s time that we left,” she whispered urgently in his ear, her hand tugging at the sleeve of his coat.
The insufferable man paid her no mind, brushing her off with a casual, dismissive flick of his wrist, while carrying on his foolhardy bravado with Miss Walters.
She could only watch, transfixed as the horror lurched closer. Blue haze and bitter opium smoke swirled around it before it shuffled into the glow of the red silk lanterns.
Miss Nightingale’s breath hitched in her throat, the air suddenly becoming thick with the suffocating scent of dust and decay. The thing – for she could think of no better word to describe such a monstrosity—was hideous. A thin pink gown hung from its shoulders, flapping open at the front. A gown which would have been considered scandalous on a woman, but on this creature, was simply grotesque. Thin, patchy black fur covered its bent, skeletal body, exposing mottled, leathery skin beneath. Its elbows and knees protruded at impossible, multi-jointed angles, defying every law of anatomy. Behind it, two thin, hairless tails flicked dangerously like a couple of lengths of old docker’s rope.
Its face looked at her, a face that made Miss Nightingale think of a particularly wretched alley cat—distorted, scarred, and cruel. Green eyes with vertically slitted pupils raked over her before locking onto Mr Dickens with terrifying intensity. Torn and 0tattered, two triangular ears protruded from the top of its head, twitching with predatory alertness. A low snarl pulled at its lips to reveal a mouth crowded full of needle-like, yellowing teeth.
“My name is Miao. And yes, I do know of you, Mr Dickens. Indeed, I had been told that you might pay us a visit tonight.” Its voice scraped like a bone saw against the inside of Miss Nightingale’s skull. It took all her effort not to screw her eyes shut as the creature continued. “Perhaps we could retire someplace and allow ourselves to become better acquainted?”
Miss Nightingale began tugging frantically at his sleeve, her knuckles turning white against the fine cloth. What was he doing? Three Members of Parliament had vanished without a trace after crossing the threshold of this cursed place, yet he just stood there, staring into those sickly green eyes.
“Mr Dickens, I really think it’s time to–”
But before she could finish, a massive arm crushed against her chest, wrapping roughly around her middle. The sudden blow knocked the breath from her lungs. Pinning her arms against her sides, the brute hoisted her into the air as if she were nothing more than a bundle of rags.
A high, ragged scream tore from her throat as her boots kicked wildly back at her captor. She felt her heel connect squarely, just below his kneecap—a targeted strike that she knew ought to have ruptured the patellar tendon and brought down even the most hardened East End thug.
The man holding her didn’t even flinch.
“Now, now, settle yourself down, little bird.” A deep, roughly accented voice rumbled in her ear. “Didn’t no one ever tell you that it’s polite to give a gentleman a bit of privacy when he’s with a pretty lady?”
“Mr Dickens, Charles!” Miss Nightingale’s voice cracked into a shrill, desperate cry—the last of her clinical reserve shattering.
“Hey none of that now, do ya ‘ear me?” the brute growled, his grip tightening on her. “We ain’t gonna ‘urt you… Not just yet, anyways.”
Desperately she fought for breath as her feet dragged across the smooth, cold jade flooring. The deep, musky odour of the man hung in her nostrils, but under that she could still catch the sharp, clean bite of camphor from the handkerchief. She had to focus on that; she had to concentrate.
Breathe, she commanded herself, but even as her mind screamed for order, her traitorous body quivered and shook. Eyes drifting close, she began a countdown, forcing one deep, slow breath after another. Gradually the violent tremors subsided, the deafening pounding in her ears began to fade.
She could not fight her way out of the trap Mr Dickens had blundered into with brute strength; panic just would not do. No, she had to have her wits about her. Her mind had to be clear and ready.
“Walters said to stick her in one of the rooms on the side, Mr Sikes.” A new, husky voice called out from the shadows behind her.
“If you say so, Mr Crackit.” The thug holding her growled.
Glancing back towards Mr Dickens, she watched as he disappeared slowly and unsteadily on his feet into the blue, misty haze. His hand was wrapped in the furry, clawed grip of the creature called Miao. Powerless, she could only watch in horror as he walked willingly into whatever darkness awaited.
The cold, hard jade beneath her feet gave way to thick, plush red and gold carpet as they pushed through a heavy, ruby velvet curtain into a narrow passageway. Jade candle lanterns cast flickering shadows across the red and green panelled walls. The air grew thick and heavy; the tang of opium was stronger here.
“Where are you taking me? This is quite improper!” Miss Nightingale demanded.
“Just some place where you can’t be causing no more trouble.” The deep, gruff voice of the man holding her said. “Mr Crackit, ‘ere says you’ve been twigging into things where you ain’t wanted.”
“Indeed,” the second voice whispered, “as Mr Sikes says, we can’t have people nosing around, can we?”
“What are you going to do to me?” She asked while her eyes surveyed the surrounding scene.
“Don’t worry, miss, you’ll be perfectly safe. We just need to make sure you’re out of harm’s way until this nasty business is over.” Mr Crackit’s voice rasped somewhere over her left shoulder.
“I still thinks we should rip out her tongue to stop her blowing the whole gaff,” said Mr Sikes. “I’ll fry it up. It’d make a tasty treat for Bullseye.”
“Now, now, Mr Sikes. We’ve been over this; tearing out the tongues of young ladies and feeding them to your dog isn’t really the done thing in civilised society.”