"This way!" Gin called out as she raced down the road.
Booker and Trinket chased after the street urchin as she led them through the city center. Adrenaline pounded through Trinket's veins, and she could tell from the look on Booker's face that he was ready to burst with excitement as well.
There was a crowd up ahead, and the three of them slowed as they neared it. People swarmed around the flower shop, staring up in horror at Mr. Wotton's body still hanging from the lamp post.
"How did I not see that?" Gin said, gawking at the corpse as it swayed in the wind.
"The police will be here shortly, I suspect," Trinket said.
"Yes," Booker agreed. "So they'll be too preoccupied to notice three individuals engaging in potentially shady activities."
He flashed an impish grin. Trinket wanted to disapprove, but Gin returned his grin with one of her own. "Come on, we'll turn around and take Clark Lane so we don't attract attention," the urchin said.
They wove in and out of streets and alleyways, and between the blinding snow and her shortness of breath, Trinket found herself becoming incredibly disoriented. Nevertheless, she held on tight to Booker's arm, trusting that Gin knew where she was going.
At last, they stopped in front of the Tinker's shop. It was dark inside; even the windows of the apartment above the shop were pitch black. However, lying only feet away from the front door was a body. The snow had begun to accumulate on top of it, and though it wasn't enough to hide it completely, it did help the corpse blend in with its surroundings.
"I was checking for lost change on the street when I stumbled across it," Gin said as she stared at the body. "Came running right for you soon as I realized what it was."
Booker crouched down and scanned the body carefully while Trinket checked the surrounding area, looking for footprints or some sign of how the victim had been killed. But there was no blood, no struggle, just like with the last body. There were footprints, but they led in all different directions, and she assumed they were from innocent passersby.
"Trinket, look at this," Booker breathed as he nudged the corpse's arm with his walking stick.
She approached and knelt down beside him. It was another woman, this one older than the first, perhaps in her late thirties. She was emaciated and stiff, her skin the pale color of death that Trinket was becoming very familiar with. Unlike the previous body, though, this one was only half-dressed. Her upper half was laid bare, covered only by the layer of snow that was piling up on her chest. While Trinket should have been appalled at seeing a woman's breasts hanging free, her attention was seized by the corpse's arms. They seemed to have something attached to them. Something thin and flabby, like leather or skin.
"What is that?" she asked, afraid to raise her voice above a whisper.
"I have no idea, but it certainly doesn't belong on a human," Booker said. "Much like—"
"Bird talons," Trinket finished.
"I did good, right?" Gin said, the self-satisfaction clear on her face.
Booker smiled warmly at her as he rose to his feet. "As always, your work is superb."
"What do we do now?" asked Trinket, still staring at the body.
Standing with his chin in his hand, he gazed at the body for a moment. Then, without warning or explanation, he whipped off his wool coat and draped it over the woman's exposed body. Trinket raised her eyebrows, surprised at his sudden sense of decency. However, when he hauled the corpse onto her stiff, useless feet, it was clear he was up to something risky.
"Booker, what are you doing?" she hissed as she grabbed the other side of the dead woman.
"I need to examine the body more closely."
"So you're just taking her? Won't the police be a little unhappy about that?"
He removed his hat and placed it on the corpse's head. "They don't know it exists, so how will they miss it? Come on, let's get back to the laboratory before the crowd loses interest in Wotton and spills out our way."
Though she didn't think this was a good idea, she grabbed hold of the woman's arm and helped walk her down the street. Gin followed behind, ready to catch the woman if they happened to lose their grip on her. They moved along at a slow shuffle, but the streets were empty, likely due to both the storm and Wotton's murdered body. And even if they did happen upon someone, they had covered the body up enough that it might seem as though they were helping an injured person to Booker's home for treatment.
They had just passed Lark Street when something hit the ground in front of them. Stopping short, Trinket noticed a flash of metal in the snow. Booker bent down to grab it and pulled up a nasty-looking knife. The edge of the blade had been hacked so that it almost looked like it had teeth. He and Trinket exchanged glances before a low laugh came from the shadows.
"Out for an evening stroll with your little strumpet?"
The voice was oily and vicious, as if the words it spoke were a threat that delighted and thrilled the speaker.
Four figures appeared before them, but only one stepped into the light. Scales smiled up at them from beneath his top hat, and the sight of it sent terror through her body.
"Indeed," Booker said, pushing the corpse towards her and forcing her behind him. She tried to get a grip on the woman, but to no avail. Luckily, Gin took the arm he had released and eased some of the weight onto her own shoulder.
Scales moved to step towards them, but Booker closed the space between them before he could come closer.
Scales narrowed his eyes at him. "Strange to bring a child along on your romps."
"I'm not a child," Gin snapped.
Booker shot her a look and quickly returned his attention to Scales. "My business is of no concern to you."
Scales' mouth twitched as he stared over Booker's shoulder, his eyes focused on Gin and Trinket. "I'll be the one to decide that."
"What do you want, Scales? Another card game? Are you so desperate for money that you need me to feign losing in order to keep you and your little men fed and warm? Charity usually isn't my thing, but I'd hate to see you starve."
Scales flinched at his words. He turned back to Booker, his face twisted into a pained and almost haunted scowl. "Stuff it, Larkin. I have no trouble winning on my own."
"Really? Because if I do recall, it was I who finally captured the Wolf, was it not? Even after all those fake attacks you orchestrated—very clever, I might add. Though not clever enough to fool me."
Clenching his fists, Scales took another step forward. "You don't seem to know who you're talking to, Larkin."
Leaning in, Booker gave a mocking smile. "Oh, I know exactly who I'm talking to. The man who, despite doing all the dirty work and heavy lifting, is only the second-in-command of the Dead Mice."
Grabbing Booker's lapels, Scales pulled him closer until their faces were nearly touching. His nostrils flared as he grit his teeth. "You are treading on dangerous ground," he hissed.
Booker raised his eyebrows, his expression calm and collected. "And you are losing your cool. In front of your cronies, no less."
Scales' grip on him loosened as his eyes darted to the three men behind him. He seemed to suddenly remember that they were with him, watching him carefully. Releasing Booker, he took a step back and dusted off his coat.
"Did you see what happened to Wotton?" he asked casually.
Booker straightened his shirt. "Indeed, I did. Poor fellow. Though I suppose that's what happens when you don't pay your debts."
"It's also what happens when you don't know your place."
The two men's gazes met, and they stared for a long while. The wintry weather was balmy in comparison to the icy glare being shared between them. At last, Scales broke their intense eye contact. Tipping his head, he nodded to Trinket and Gin before giving a mocking bow to Booker.
"Best watch your step, Larkin. I'll be keeping an eye on you." He turned to leave with his men but glanced over his shoulder, flashing Booker a venomous smirk. "Or two."
Booker watched them leave, making sure they were completely out of sight before returning to Trinket and Gin. Grabbing hold of Gin's side of the dead woman, he hooked his arm around the corpse's stiff limb and once again proceeded to shuffle down the street.
"Booker, what were you thinking?" Trinket said as she concentrated on her steps.
"She's right, Booker," Gin said from behind. "You shouldn't bait him like that."
"He started it," Booker mumbled.
"You saw what he did to Wotton. And to all those supposed victims of the Wolf," Trinket said. "I don't care how valuable you think you are to this city, it will not stop Scales from ending you."
Booker gave a short laugh, and it came out like a puff of smoke. "Please, I have a long history of survival. He'd be hard-pressed to find a way to kill me."
Gin groaned. "Booker, why do you have to be so stubborn?"
"You're one to talk, Gin."
"Even I know not to mess with the Mice. And you did, too. Before. Ever since that stupid Wolf showed up, you've gotten extra reckless."
Trinket found it difficult to imagine a time when Booker wasn't taking such terrifying risks.
"My word, why are the women in my life constantly nagging me?" he said. "Listen, I know what I'm doing. Scales is trying to push his way into my business, and I will not allow it."
"You're ridiculous," Gin muttered.
"Can we please pick up the pace?" Trinket wheezed. "My arm is going numb."
Bypassing the flower shop, they eventually made it back to the house. Thankfully, there were no eyeballs or any other body parts hanging from the doorknob, so they clumsily made their way through the front door and dragged the corpse into the parlour where they gently leaned her against the settee. Of course, having lost her flexibility in death, she laid more like a plank of wood than a person.
They stared at the dead woman for a long moment, trying to catch their breath.
"Well," Gin said, nudging Trinket, "aren't you going to offer your guest a cup of tea?"
Booker chuckled, and Trinket wrinkled her nose at them both. She turned back to the settee. "It really can't be sanitary for her to be here. I mean, this is where patients and guests sit."
"Fine, then help me bring it downstairs," Booker said as he reached for the corpse's arm.
Groaning inwardly, she obeyed and grabbed the cold, dead body once more. Gin helped them to stand the woman upright before they dragged her back into the hallway. As Trinket fumbled for the laboratory key, Gin took hold of her side of the body.
"How are we going to get a dead body down the stairs without killing ourselves?" Trinket mumbled as she took back the corpse's arm from Gin.
"Well, then we'll just have three dead bodies," Booker said, with a grin, though his muscles strained as he tried to steady himself before taking the first step.
"Be careful, please," Gin said from the doorway as they disappeared down the stairs.
It took a good while, but at last, they reached the final step. "The operating table," Booker grunted, nodding to the table in the center of the room.
They managed to haul the corpse onto it, the leather straps flapping uselessly to the sides. Booker leaned against the table, breathing heavily while Trinket rested against the nearest wall. She watched as he gazed hungrily at the dead woman before him. Not in a lustful, disturbing manner, but rather with passion and curiosity. And despite her distaste for stealing corpses and poking and prodding them, even in the name of science, she couldn't help but feel excitement building in her veins.
"This skin," he said, pointing at the loose flaps which were attached to both arms of the corpse. "It seems so familiar. Like I've seen it somewhere before."
"Birth defect?"
He scoffed. "I doubt it. But a thorough inspection will rule that out. She's stiff as a board. I wonder how long she's been dead."
"And there's no apparent sign of a knife or bullet wound. Poison, maybe?"
"An autopsy might help to figure that out."
Autopsy? The idea of cutting a body open and digging around inside of it made Trinket sick to her stomach. But she was his assistant, and she had agreed to help him in his endeavors. As unethical as they may seem.
"Shall I see Gin out before we begin butchering the woman?" she asked.
Booker looked up, his eyes unfocused, as if he had forgotten the urchin was still upstairs. "Right. Gin. Ah, yes, let's go see to her first. I should thank her for bringing me to the body."
Leaving the dead woman behind, they made their way back up the stairs. Gin was sitting in the armchair in the parlour, fiddling with something in her hands. When they entered, she looked up and cocked an eyebrow.
"You realize you have body parts lying around here?" she asked as she held up one of the eyeballs.
Trinket gave a weak smile. "I meant to clean that up before we went corpse hunting."
"This from some experiment?" Gin asked Booker.
He approached her and pulled out a handkerchief, scooping the eyeball out of her hand and examining it with a distant expression. Why did he bother to use a handkerchief when he was often wrist-deep in blood during his surgeries? Was he less inclined to handle it because he knew the man to whom it had once belonged?
"No," he said quietly. He stared at it for a moment longer before shaking his head and tucking the body part back into the sack. "It's something of a warning. Nothing to worry about."
Gin eyed him suspiciously but then heaved a sigh and got to her feet. "Well, it's been an exciting night, but I think I'd best hit the hay."
"It's quite cold tonight. Are you sure you wouldn't rather spend the night here?" Trinket asked.
Gin gave a crooked smile. "I'm not soft, Trinket. I've survived worse nights than this."
"And here you were calling me stubborn," Booker said with a teasing grin. He pulled a handful of coins out of his pocket and placed them in her hand. "For your trouble. Thank you, Gin."
"Nice doing business with you," she said, stuffing the coins in her pocket.
With a wink and salute, she slipped outside and headed into the snowy night. Trinket locked the door and turned to Booker.
"So," he said, his lips twitching into a grin. "Shall we get started?"