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First, she had Clay haul out three folding chairs. Then she set up bottled water and cookies on a box of books, insisting I at least have the water to avoid dehydration.
She finally settled into the empty chair. "I managed to dredge up a Jack the Ripper story with a portal angle, though it doesn't mention the From Hell letter."
The story seemed to be an embellishment on the one about a half-demon making a deal with his father. In this version, the killer had been only partway through fulfilling his obligation to his demon father when he'd been caught by a band of sorcerers, who'd imprisoned him in a dimensional portal.
"The legend goes that the sorcerers then lost the portal device, and it's out there somewhere, waiting to be accidentally triggered, whereupon the monster will, once again, be unleashed on the world, rendered insane by his long imprisonment, driven only by the need to fulfill his unholy obligation." Anita grinned, eyes twinkling. "Rather sounds like a campfire story, doesn't it? Something for our children to spook their supernatural friends with."
"It does. I suppose there could be a nugget of truth buried in there..."
"Well, it's not the part about sorcerers playing world saviors, I'm sure." She shook her head. "Uncharitable of me, but I suspect they would have been negotiating to share the demon's boon instead."
We discussed the story for a few minutes, then Anita asked about our progress, and I brought her up to date. When I told her about Hull, her eyes widened.
"He came through the portal?"
"Well, he says so. But he isn't a zombie, so I doubt--"
"Oh, but that doesn't prove anything. Only those who were sacrificed come out as zombies. If they were alive when they went in, they'll be alive when they come out."
"Like in the story," I said. "If Jack the Ripper was imprisoned in a dimensional portal--"
Clay snorted. "That guy is not Jack the Ripper."
"And how do you know--?"
"It is just a story," Anita said. "At most, as you said, it may contain distorted elements of truth, as most folklore does. But still, if this man came from Victorian London--"
"He claims," Clay said.
"But if he did, I would love to speak to him. The historical wealth of information, combined with his circumstances...Why, it would be supernatural folklore in the making."
My cell phone rang.
"Zoe," I said. "Hopefully she found Tolliver."
She had. "He's at Trinity Church. Are you still over on Yonge? I can swing by and meet up with you."
I told her where we were. A moment of silence. Then, "Hmm, that's a bit farther out of my way than I thought. How about I just meet you there?"
According to the plaque outside, the Church of the Holy Trinity was built in 1847, on what had then been the outskirts of Toronto. Looking around, it was hard to imagine this had ever been on the outskirts of anything. The small church stood incongruously cheek-to-jowl with the sprawling Eaton Centre shopping center--an urban shopping mall in the heart of downtown. As if having a house of spiritual worship standing beside a monument to material worship wasn't ironic enough, the church also served as a walk-in center for the homeless.
As we waited for Zoe, I read the homeless memorial list posted outside. The list of names was dotted with Jane and John Does, those who couldn't even be properly immortalized on their own memorial.
Clay glanced over my shoulder as Zoe approached. She tensed, her face going rigid.
"What?" he said.
"Go ahead. Say it."
"Say what?"
"Ask how many of those--" She waved at the list. "--were mine."
Clay gave me a "huh?" look, but said only, "I was going to say something. Like 'hello.' Or 'about time you showed up.' "
Zoe nodded, obviously relieved. A few of the names on those lists undoubtedly had been her victims. A vampire doesn't kill every time she feeds, but she does need to drain lifeblood once a year to retain her immortality. Most pick someone like the men and women on this list. Choosing a victim from the streets lessens the ripple effect, affecting fewer lives than, say, killing a suburban mother of four, and drawing less public attention. Still, however much has gone wrong with a life, it is still a life. I suppose vampires realize that, at least some of them.
As we headed for the front doors, Clay said, "So what's up with Anita Barrington?"
