What Darkness Brings by C. S. Harris EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Author: C. S. Harris
- Language: English
- Genre: Historical Mystery, Thriller & Suspense Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
London Sunday, 20 September 1812
The man was so old his face sagged in crinkly, sallow folds and Jenny
could see pink scalp through the thin white hair plastered by sweat to his
head.
“The irony is delicious; don’t you agree?” he said as he slid a big,
multifaceted piece of blue glass down between the swells of her breasts.
The glass felt smooth and cool against her bare skin, but his fingers were as
bone thin and cold as a corpse’s.
She forced herself to lie still even though she wanted desperately to
squirm away. She might be only seventeen, but Jenny Davie had been in
this business for almost five years. She knew how to keep a smile plastered
on her face when inside her guts roiled with revulsion and an exasperated
urge to say, Can’t we just get this over with?
“Think about it.” He blinked, and she noticed he had no lashes fringing
his small, sunken eyes, and that his teeth were so long and yellow they
made her think of the ratty mule that pulled the dustman’s cart. He said,
“Once, this diamond graced the crowns of kings and nestled in the silken
bosom of a queen. And now here it lies . . . on the somewhat grubby breasts
of a cheap London whore.”
“Go on wit’ you,” she scoffed, squinting down at the pretty glass. “Jist
because I’m a whore don’t mean I’m stupid. That ain’t no diamond. It’s
blue. And it’s bigger than a bloody peach pit.”
“Much bigger than a peach pit,” agreed the old man as the glass caught
the flickering light from a nearby brace of candles and glowed as if with an
inner fire. His dark eyes gleamed, and Jenny found herself wondering what
he needed a whore for since he seemed more excited by his big chunk of
blue glass than he was by her. “They say that once, this stone formed the
third eye of a heathen—”
He broke off, his head coming up as a loud pounding sounded at the
distant front door.
Before she could stop herself, Jenny jerked. She was lying on her back on
a dusty, scratchy horsehair sofa in the cavernous, decrepit parlor of the old
man’s house. Most men took their whores in the back rooms of
coffeehouses or in one of the city’s numerous accommodation houses. But
not this man. He always had his whores brought here, to his cobweb-draped
old mansion in St. Botolph-Aldgate. And he didn’t take them upstairs
either, but did his business here, on the couch—which suited Jenny just
fine, since she never liked being too far from a way out of trouble.
He muttered something under his breath she didn’t understand, although
from the way he said it she figured it was some kind of curse. Then he said,
“He wasn’t supposed to be here this early.”
He reared up, straightening his clothes. He’d had her strip down to her
stockings and shift, which he’d untied so that it gaped open nearly to her
waist. But he hadn’t taken off any of his own clothes, not even his fusty,
old-fashioned coat or shoes.
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