writing_shadows

Dolly sat in the dark.

Not surprising of itself really. She was in the Southwark Necropolis after all, a labyrinth of sewers, underground and access tunnels; with the occasional obscure passageway that wasn’t on any modern map. Far away from the lights of the train tunnels; and without any light source it was always dark.

Dolly had a flash light with her, and a miner’s head lamp plus spare batteries. She had an oil lamp, fuel and matches. She even had half a dozen candles (and a flash bomb; but that was not designed to help someone see in the dark) secreted about her person, but still she sat in the dark; listening to the drip of water and the scratching of the rats as they traveled past her on their own private journeys.

Jack Hawkins was dead.

She’d read the message a day before. She’d even almost replied, a trite message of commiseration before she’d stopped herself from hitting send. She shouldn’t have to lie to anyone about how she felt about this. Especially not the Bon Anges. Father Gabriel had assured her she had valid cause and didn’t have to do anything to help him if he’d got himself into trouble. Besides vengeance for Jack had already been enacted; Holloway had torn off Freeman’s head. An execution on the behest of the Prince of Amsterdam. But did this count as vengeance for her sire?

Was this a case of “one down and one to go?”

She had no idea. So she sat in the dark in the tiny little cul de sac she’d stumbled upon when she’d been exploring the tunnels a year ago. Somewhere above her was Southwark Cathedral. Behind her was a hidden door into the crypt; disguised in the old brickwork and something Dolly had found when she noticed a slight draft that had made her candle flicker.

In front of her she’d chipped away the mortar from around the bricks and created a shelf, hidden behind the bricks when she replaced them. She’d left the bricks in place but she didn’t need light to know what was squirreled away.

An old Rotary wristwatch in a box, solid gold with a diamond crusted bezel. It was no doubt valuable but Dolly didn’t care about that. If anyone had looked at the back they may have been puzzled at the engraving; unless they happened to speak Polish. A wedding gift from a woman whose taste ran to gaudy bling and whose love was as fake as the knock-off Rolexes the owner had once sold.

A broken handcuff; slightly twisted out of shape. She’d not managed to find anything else with his imprint. The haven they had shared had been a mess of fingerprint dust and crime tape; blood spattered across the walls.

A scrap of latex with a cross; and a lock of blonde curly hair; the end matted with blood. The pair to Dolly reeked of adoration and hatred; of envy and desire. Dolly often wondered what the police had made of the haven; filled as it was with sex toys and other paraphernalia. It was hardly the lurking place of terrorists; a brothel maybe; or a sex trafficking ring but not Al Queda or the IRA.

Along the front of the shelf were four unlit votive candles that Dolly had taken from the cathedral during evensong. She’d left a donation in the box that was watched over by the stern face of Isabella Gilmore; and sat in the back listening to the harmonies of the choir as they sang. Hidden from sight she’d slipped out before the congregation had started to file out, heading out into the London crowds and back into the underground.

Ed’s last message had been full of rage and hate; the pain easy enough even for her to read. Demanding Jack’s ashes be returned to him before any pagan rites were done. Dolly hadn’t thought anything of it until she’d read that the ashes people actually had were those of Freeman; that it was an act of vengeance.

Dolly didn’t have Charlie’s ashes or his mask. She’d asked Jack to get them. She’d asked Simanti; who’d been so polite to her that evening. Neither of them had helped her; for all of Jack’s assurances of wanting to rebuild bridges. No one seemed to care that she’d asked for them; politely and without threats. Their attitude instead had been confusion that Dolly could want Charlie’s remains at all. He was a monster, a diablerist best left buried in the past.

She wondered what would happen if she’d demanded Jack’s ashes in revenge for her sire. Shouted the same names that Eliza had; called him a piece of shit; claimed that she had right of retribution. Ed would probably have an absolute fit; but when it came down to it what would she do with them? The worst thing she could think of was to inter them in the grounds of Sidney Sussex College, alongside the head of Oliver Cromwell. Or maybe the cenotaph in Southwark Cathedral; the empty tomb left for the first bishop who was interred elsewhere. Jack would appreciate the humour she felt; and perhaps his spirit would enjoy the evensong. Maybe if she pried the casket open she’d find a vampire sleeping away the ages; or a row of neat urns containing ashes of other departed Kindred.

She was sure that at the very least she should feel something akin to satisfaction. Jack was dead. The vampire who had murdered her sire was dust in the wind. She should be happy it was at an end. She should feel …

Something...

Anything…

Surely she should?

Maybe not the empty yearning she had felt when she’d been told Charlie had been killed; that could be explained by the blood bond. When she’d killed her father she’d felt relief; which had been at least logical. She should be feeling something surely? Not just an empty hole where the feelings should be. She’d read online about the stages of grief; and this didn’t seem to fit any stage…

So she sat in the dark; trying to work out what she did feel about Jack’s death. With the rats scurrying around her feet; and evensong being sung above her.