on his hand at her in warning.
Her fright of it had long since faded. If he managed to strap her down, he’d kill her anyway. She kicked out and Higgins staggered back into a tray of rusted implements. He looked up at her with a murderous gleam in her eye and Esme rolled, trying to yank at the strap on her left wrist.
The hook sank into the steel table an inch from her nose and Esme screamed and jerked back. Higgins loomed over her and grabbed her right wrist, strapping it down with brutal efficiency.
“I’d kill you for that,” he said, then suddenly laughed. “But we’re goin’ to do that anyways. And I always says, waste not, want not.”
Yanking at her skirts, he caught one of her ankles and stretched it out. Esme squirmed. The leather straps around her wrists had no give in them. Her heart thundered. No. Please no… Not like this.
Gutters ran along the edges of the table to a hole at the end where a tube siphoned whatever liquid splashed through into an enormous glass vial that stood in the corner, almost her height. The bottom of it was nestled into a gleaming copper machine.
Esme yanked again, her eyes streaming with tears. Rip. Where was Rip? She was so frightened she could hardly breathe, but she knew he’d come for her. As soon as he realised she was missing…
What if he’d fallen asleep? Or thought she wanted to sleep in her own bed? Esme yanked again and the buckle that she’d loosened on her left wrist slipped a fraction of an inch.
She stilled, watching as Higgins turned to the tray of implements. A little hunchback watched from the corner, eyes gleaming avidly at her. Esme didn’t dare move. The ugly little creature hadn’t spoken so far, but if it saw that the strap had loosened fractionally, it might raise the alarm.
There’d only be one chance at this.
Higgins picked up a glass hypodermic syringe with a long hollow needle. She’d seen the like before. Tom’s mother had frequently injected herself with morphia or opium-tinctures to ease her gout.
The Slashers had corrupted the syringe however, using it to draw blood instead of injecting. A rubber tube stretched from the end of it, toward the collecting device in the corner. “Modo, crank the filtration-device,” Higgins commanded.
The hunchback darted for the machine and set his enormous hands on the crank. He started turning it, his face straining with the effort. It sped up and then the boiler-pack sputtered. Higgins flicked open an air vent and the boiler coughed to life as oxygen hit the small coal-fire inside. The whole thing vibrated as the hunchback stopped turning the crank.
The noise was horrendous. Esme tried to slide her wrist out of the leather loop as the pair of them watched the device, but it caught on the fleshy part of her hand. Not quite loose enough.
Come on. She yanked again, getting nowhere. No matter where she looked her gaze kept lingering on the tray with its vicious array of implements; the syringes hooked to the filtration device, sharp razors for slashing at the veins and an enormous cleaver. She knew what that was for. Getting rid of any bodies the Slashers didn’t want to draw unwelcome attention back to them.
“Nearly ready,” Higgins muttered, raking his hook over the gleaming glass canister with a steely shriek. He glanced at her. “A pity we’re in such an ‘urry, sweet. I’d love to stay and linger a while.” His smile left her in no doubt what he referred to. “To twist that knife just a little deeper for ‘im. Still, guess when ‘e finds you – or bits o’ you – it’ll ‘urt ‘im just as much.” Higgins stepped closer, a dreamy smile of his lips. “Been thinkin’ I might send ‘im a package a month. A little jar full of formaldehyde and maybe a tongue. Or an ear.”
“That’s if Rip hasn’t found you yet.” She glared back, forcing herself not to even think about the images his words conjured. If she gave into the terror turning her chest into a vice she’d start screaming and never stop. “That’s why you’re in such a hurry isn’t it? Because you’re afraid he’ll find you.”
Higgins’s eyes narrowed. “Won’t find me, pet. Buried the trail good an’ proper.” He touched her lips with the end of the hook. “Killed a lot o’ me men, ‘e did. Didn’t take me seriously. Didn’t consider me a threat.” His words grew