The Lost: Book Two of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 5

I wanted to scratch at my skin until it was raw.

Even now that I was hiding in the shadows, thrust into the darkest corner of my room, I could still feel their eyes upon me. Garrick's, Edward's and all the others too. And worst of all, Gina's dead eyes, finally peaceful and free of pain yet glazed and fixed upon me as if she could still see whatever it was that Lucius had shown her.

I refused to believe that I had done anything. It wasn't possible. And yet the ghosts whispered on and on, spreading their lies, saying yes, yes, over and over again and I couldn't escape from them or the stares that made my skin burn with a maddening itch even though I was alone. I wrapped my arms around my knees and closed my eyes for a moment, concentrating on trying to breathe without that panicked wheeze that was making my throat hurt.

"Do you want to get out of here?"

I looked up to find Harper standing by the doorway, his shirt still drenched in Gina's blood. His face bore a strange expression, one most un-Harper-like, almost wary and pensive.

"Where the hell did you get to?" I scowled. "Never known you to run from a little death before." It was easy to turn the panic into anger and I was angry with him; furious that he should get to walk away from Gina's suffering rather than face the pain head-on like the rest of us had.

He run a hand through his lank hair and sniffed dismissively. "Fine," he bit back. "You want to stay in this mad house, be my guest."

Jumping up, I followed him out into the corridor. "Wait," I called out. "It's barely two hours until dawn. You're going out now?"

He turned and glanced back, his emerald eyes lingering on my face. "Never known you to be scared of taking a few risks," he sniped, raising an eyebrow. "Besides, I need to get away. I'm thinking of holing up somewhere for the day. I can't sleep in this place."

That clinched it for me. "I'm coming with you."

He replied with a small smug grin. "Thought you might."

******

A thick layer of frost had carpeted almost every exposed surface in a way that made even the filthy and rubbish-strewn backstreets of Whitechapel look like a Dickensian picture postcard. Rooftops and drainpipes glittered opalescent in the fading moonlight. A silvery sheen covered the gutters and laid out a shimmering pathway for us to follow as we walked quickly away from the asylum. Everything looked brighter and the shadows seemed somewhat diminished as the light reflected off the sparkling ice, but it did nothing to lift the mood that seemed to cloud over both Harper and myself.

We walked side by side as if both in pitch black and I fought the urge to reach for his hand, fearful that his would be snatched away and I would have to walk alone in the dark. After a while, he surprised me by reaching for mine, if only to tug me down a narrow through-alley but when we reached the road beyond it, he did not let go and we carried on like this, neither of us talking or even looking at each other.

Finally, we reached a junction and on the corner was an old derelict pub, long deserted and boarded up, barricaded by a tall make-shift fence intended to keep undesirables out. A large sign with the name of a local construction company was fixed loosely to one of the fence panels but there seemed to be no signs that any work was due to take place anytime soon. The fence was already well-covered with faded graffiti and flyers advertising events long since past.

Tugging on a loose board, Harper pulled it open enough to fit through and gestured for me to go first and soon I was on the other side, staring at a skip piled high with frost-laden rubble and debris cleared out from the empty premises.