“What the bloody hell are you rambling about?” Hux asks, exasperated.
“The massacre in the eighteen-hundreds at the governor’s home,” I state as I begin ticking them off on my fingers. My blood boils at the memory. I had allowed Hux one month of free rein, only to reawaken to see myself standing in a bloodbath. Body parts littered the ground, staining the tiles red with blood. Male. Female. Young. Old. No one escaped my brother’s brutality.
And maybe I’m just as bad, for I immediately contacted my father, and together, we set fire to the Victorian mansion. All traces of Hux’s illicit activities were covered up, never to be talked about again.
“Or the time that you hanged all of those men in London,” I continue. Sure, those men had been vile, disgusting creatures intent on raping and murdering women, but that still didn’t give Hux the right to play judge, jury, and executioner. Once more, he left me alone to deal with the aftermath.
“You don’t have the right to judge me,” Hux huffs. “Not that I did any of those things. You’re the one who was given the nickname of Jack the Ripper.”
His words send me staggering back a step as horror consumes me.
“What are you talking about?” I gasp, and though I can’t see him, I have the distinct impression he’s rolling his eyes.
Abruptly, the room around me begins to change and distort, the darkness transforming into distinct shapes. A bed. Canopy. Distressed wooden desk. A window overlooking the Thames.
I’m in a memory.
Hux’s memory.
Before I can even contemplate the ramifications of this new discovery, I’m propelled forward until I can’t differentiate where he ends and I begin.
I STARE at the ink blobs dotting the yellow parchment, the words glaring back at me and hardening my heart.
Brother,Jack’s familiar messy scrawl states, You have one month.
My scowl deepens as I crumple the paper into a ball and toss it across the room. It hits the bed, sliding unceremoniously onto the ground.
Jack thinks he’s doing me a favor by setting me free, but he’s only prolonging my torture. The darkness…the darkness, I’m used to. It’s the light that scares me, the sheer brilliance of it all. I can hide in the darkness, but the light illuminates everything I wish to remain hidden.
Every time Jack pulls me to the forefront of our shared mind, I’m forced to relearn an entirely new world. Doesn’t he understand that a monster like me deserves to be contained to the shadows?
I finally allow myself to survey my surroundings, noting the minuscule details, such as the canopy over the bed and chaise lounge adjacent to it.
And the body lying haphazardly on the ground, coated in blood. Her hair is orange and stringy, lying in clumps around a pretty face, and her dress is ripped down the seams, baring her breasts. A single slash wound stretches across her throat.
“What did you do, Jack?” I whisper in horror, knowing he won’t be able to hear me. What did this woman do to deserve such a brutal end?
But if there’s one thing that has remained consistent over time, it’s that murder—especially the cold-blooded type—has consequences.
With a sigh, I make quick work of wrapping the body in an ornately detailed rug. Then, I tentatively venture down the grand staircase, staring at the pebbled road and numerous horse-drawn carriages.
Satisfied there are no wandering eyes, I head directly towards a carriage I can only assume belongs to Jack.
“How the bloody hell do I work this thing?” I ask scathingly, circling the majestic horse. I haven’t the faintest idea how to connect a carriage to it.
Releasing another heavy sigh, I plop the body over my shoulder and walk aimlessly down a side street.
I’m desperate to ask my cohabitor—there’s really no other word for the man who shares my body—why he murdered the woman. But alas, the world may never know. I’m not one to shy away from death, but this murder seems senseless. Jack has never been one to murder someone in cold blood, but maybe I don’t know my brother as well as I thought.
After only an hour of trekking through heavily dense forests, I come to a stop in front of a cerulean, sparkling lake. Whistling beneath my breath, I waste no time in dumping the body into the water, watching the waves lap at it until it’s completely submerged.
A sharp intake of breath has me glancing over my shoulder at the man staring at me in wide-eyed horror.
“Oh bloody hell,” I gripe again as I lunge forward, easily snapping his neck. I watch him fall to the ground with a thud before I pick him up and place his body in the lake as well.
Thirty years later, when Jack allows me control of the body again, I discover that the “lake” had been the river Thames and the city was London. I also discover that countless bodies—all murdered the same way as the one in Jack’s home—were found throughout London, some with their internal organs removed.
I never asked Jack about the girl, and he never brought it up.
But the media quickly coined him…us…Jack the Ripper.
I’M WRENCHED out of the memory with a gasp, once more completely engulfed in darkness. I stumble forward desperately until my hand connects with Hux’s shoulder.
“What the hell was that?” I breathe.
“What was what?”
“You didn’t see that?” I’m beginning to believe I’m losing my mind. Ironic, considering I’m currently trapped in it.
“See what?” Now, Hux sounds annoyed, as if I’m purposefully being dense.
“What were you thinking about just then?” I demand, and something in my tone causes his own to sharpen.
“The late eighteen-hundreds, when you allowed me out to play for a month. Why?”
I swallow heavily, wringing my hands together as I attempt to articulate the thoughts running rampant through my head.
