Corroded
The St. Croix Chronicles - 3
by
Karina Cooper
For my flower twin—whose beauty, intellect, and spirit will set the world on fire. You are my inspiration.
With thanks to Amanda Morris. Your generous donation to Books Fighting Cancer fueled the wayward dreams of an eager young miss determined to become the next collector to set London on its ear.
A fortnight after my husband was murdered, I exhibited a severe allergy to sobriety.
Nightmares plagued first my sleep, then haunted me through every waking hour. In order to maintain what sanity I had left, I chewed the opium that was so much easier to attain now that I had taken my shelter below London’s foggy drift.
Laudanum alone could not accomplish what the resin of Turk’s bliss would.
It became a rote as unthinking as breathing. A bit of tar before I sought my rest. Another bit more upon waking, to ease the ache of the night’s passing. I swallowed it when the anxieties of the fortnight’s events wrapped around my chest, tighter than any corset I’d ever worn, and squeezed the living breath from me.
I licked the bitter medicine for courage and I choked it down to forget.
Revenge tasted best when laced with the cinnamon-sharp draught of laudanum, but such liquid was more difficult to carry and hold than the wax-wrapped bit of opium I had taken to keeping in my pocket. And certainly the ruby solution I’d grown to require could not compare to the long, narrow tube I now held in my hands, its fragrant smoke drifting through my nostrils and into my hazy, addled mind.
While I imbibed, freely and without thought for consequence, I could not bring myself to grieve.
I was on a charge. Or, rather, I should have been.
My name is Cherry St. Croix, and I am a collector. I hunt men for bounties—for coin delivered upon successful conveyance of vagrants, degenerates and those too far in debt to allow to roam free. Were I anywhere else but in a Limehouse opium den buried beneath the choking fog of London low, I would be Lady Compton, grieving widow to the late Cornelius Kerrigan Compton, Earl Compton, and certainly I would not be a collector of any stripe.
A countess could not set so much as a dainty slipper beneath the foggy drift without every periodical from here to the remote Orkneys shouting the scandal.
Of course, I had served as a collector for longer than I’d ever been a countess—five of my twenty years compared to five hours a bride; and the former a secret affectation, beside.
A fortnight as a widow, and I had not yet relinquished my collector’s role. Here, in this shabbily furnished parlor with the stained brown walls and shoddy, threadbare settees and chairs, I could simply be a street boy, with my soot-blackened hair hidden beneath a floppy cap, and my clothing deliberately large to disguise the specially designed collecting corset I wore beneath.
If any of the lolling, idle patrons of this dimly lit Chinese den considered me more than a slightly rotund youth, there was no word, no glance, no questions. Only the brief brush of work-rimed, callused fingers against mine as the pipe passed into my hands and out again, and the sweet, almost lyrical orchestra of voices raised in absent conversation.
The idle gossip of Jack the Ripper, that mad murderer stalking Whitechapel’s doxies and dollymops, could not chill the warmth of the pipe. The crimes the fiend perpetrated in the depths of smoke-blackened night turned all of London on its ear, and to date, even Scotland Yard’s finest had failed to suss out the criminal’s identity—for all that, these things did not sour the atmosphere of this dingy place. Truth be told, an evening spent imbibing Chinese opium often made the grimmest news seem tolerable, and even welcome.
For many that do not partake of the smoke often, the promised bliss of opium comes first through the senses. The things seen by the eyes become something dreamed instead, a skirling waltz for the mind and a feast for the soul. If I were to give credence to a faith which could not be proven, that what the bliss engenders in one is a religious occurrence the likes of which no clergy would approve.
By the glassy sheen to the dreamy gazes about me, most were long gone from the grim shackles of these dank environs. The voices they heard came like melodious chimes, a vibrant delight taken in each syllable, each breath. Laughter sparkled, sighs shimmered. Feelings altered.
Things that might otherwise seem unbearable softened. Eased away.
I envied them, these occasional partakers. Enjoyment though I felt, it was not as it once was for me. Such is the risk. Those who take the medicinal regularly must always take the more to feel the same as that first lovely delight.
For that reason, I was not controlled by bliss as they were around me. The sweet orchestra of their world became a muted whisper in mine. While ’tis true that I felt no anxiety—no fear stemming from my dangerous plans, no sorrow upon my thoughts—I also could not sink back into the sweet cushion of lassitude as these partakers had.
I slept with its help and dreamed while it eased my burdens; long had I valued its assistance. My reliance upon laudanum was at one time a strength. The day my father’s alchemical tincture of opium nearly took my life, my near lifelong use allowed my intellect to overcome the medicinal’s effects. I fought back where he expected placid surrender.
The unfortunate result of continued use was such that while I could soften the blunt edges of this new life of mine, I could not escape it.
I could have railed against the injustice, but to what purpose? To soothe the sting, I simply took the more. I resolved to allow the details of this room to blur ever so gently, until the smoke became a gentle breeze and the candles warming the tar in copper plates turned to merry dancers wrapped in golden hue.
It was so easy to lose one’s self in the slow, deliberate disconnect of time and understanding. An hour’s passing could be as a moment, yet a moment could stretch for eternity. I watched the dancing flame, blinking with deliberate effort to watch the copper glints of my own lashes in the fringes of my own sight, and I contemplated my coming actions thoroughly.
Without looking at him, I considered the man seated at my left. The bearded cove had been my surly and unknowing companion for the past two hours—a man whose broad shoulders and bulging gut beneath patched shirtsleeves and leather suspenders professed him to be hardy stock. He was also was my quarry.
No small game.
As a member of the Brick Street Bakers—one of many gangs who claimed the streets of London low like boundaries of war—Bartholomew Coventry was dangerous alone and unstoppable when among his allies. Any attempt to collect him for the Menagerie, to whom he owed his debts, would most certainly draw the attention of the Bakers, were we on Baker territory.
Then again, the Bakers had no love for any members foolish enough to attract the all-seeing eye of the criminal organization what ran the Midnight Menagerie. That Coventry allowed his debts to go unpaid, earning the Karakash Veil’s ire through collectors such as myself, would be a black mark on the man’s service—if
As I, myself, had been given cause to learn, the mysterious heads of the Karakash Veil—so named after a river in China said to overflow with boulders of jade—were not the forgiving sort.
The Veil centered its seat of power in Limehouse—so named for the lime kilns that gave it its distinctly acrid stench—whilst the Bakers’ usual run turned toward the more easterly Poplar and Blackwall. While Limehouse’s
