SUNDERLAND FELL, SPASMING, hands flopping, fighting his own attempts to grasp the blade that had sunk cleanly through his neck and severed his windpipe. Gasping for air, mouth flapping, he mercifully twisted onto one side and hid himself from our sight as the horrible wet gurgling sounds went on, but only for a short while.
Humbug stood before us. Cloak, veil, skeletal hands. Yet—unarmed. Now was the time to flee. I could smell the sickly odor of chloroform she’d used to render Sunderland’s men inert when she’d come at them from behind. Yet I had heard her voice. Knew exactly who was under those veils and still thought it impossible, though the sudden resurrection and second death of George Sunderland should have prepared me for anything.
A ghostly chill settled on my neck as the voice o
