Jaclyn the Ripper by Karl Alexander Page B

She seethed with rage at whatever force in the cosmos was responsible for her becoming a woman.
Wells—that brilliant little fool—must have done something indecent before his machine got away from him. Yet he has to be here somewhere in this world of concrete and motor cars, stupid clothes and dirty-brown skies, and I will find him and make him wish that the most he knew about the vagaries of time was how to set his pocket watch.
    Then it suddenly occurred to her that maybe she was wrong. Maybe Wells wasn’t here at all. When she had arrived in 2010, she had panicked because of her toxic glow, yet still had the wherewithal to replace the declinometer and prevent the time machine from going back to infinity. Now—in her mind’s eye—she saw that the dark, pillowlike thing underneath it had been a purse.
God knows Jack saw enough of them on the cobblestones of Whitechapel, and I’m quite certain that H. G. Wells wouldn’t be caught dead carrying a purse.
    Which means the girl must be here.
    Bemused, the woman chuckled.
Perhaps the girl grew tired of his clever diatribes and his philandering ways and took his machine to get away. That would explain the declinometer, loose on the floor. And given the special key stuck in the dash, no doubt Wells will be coming here, too—not just for the girl, but to rescue his beloved machine. What to do, what to do.
    Start with the girl. Amy Catherine Robbins.
    The woman’s logic whisked away her anger, and she became aware of music floating from small speakers, a soft, sweet female voice lending a pleasant, relaxed atmosphere to the place. It filled her with a sense of well-being. She smiled unconsciously and nodded along with the music, then noticed her reflection in the window behind her chair. Once again, she was surprised by her image, yet this time didn’t mind her lovely face.
I’m really quite beautiful, and if that gives people in 2010 the wrong impression, that’s actually quite marvelous. It will make deception and betrayal mere child’s play.
Then she saw her breasts, her voluptuous curves and below. She gripped the chair and looked away, loathing her body, for it made her like her sister, like whores everywhere.
    â€œShe’s great, isn’t she?”
    Startled, the woman turned. It was the man at the nearby table, leaning over his newspaper, his hand twitching nervously, a brittle grin on his puffy face. He had yellow-brown eyes and a scraggly red beard and he wore his cap backward, concealing his thinning, frizzy hair. The rest of him seemed ordinary, what with a roll of flesh over his belt and trousers.
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œNorah.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œNorah Jones. You were smiling, so I figured you liked her stuff.”
    â€œActually, I prefer Grieg,” said the woman, unaccustomed to her own voice and its musical lilt. “Edvard Grieg.”
    Red beard responded with a blank look.
    â€œWagner, perhaps?” she said blithely. “Have you heard of him?”
    â€œOh, I get it. You’re into opera?”
    â€œCertain operas, yes,” she replied, thinking of
Medea
. She started toget up, already bored with the conversation and wanting to get away from this wine grape of a man.
    â€œHey, wait a sec,” he said. “So . . . what are you up to?”
    She paused, not sure what he meant.
    â€œI mean, like right now.” He grinned stupidly, revealing straight teeth that were unnaturally white.
    She appraised red beard and the insinuations in his eyes, wondering where it would lead with him and what he could do for her. True, he wasn’t a woman, a whore, but he was part of that sexual dynamic, and that might be enough. Besides, she needed to practice for her eventual encounter with Wells, and if nothing else, this red beard probably had a shower at his flat.
    â€œYour cap’s on backwards,” she said