The Asylum by L. J. Smith

but I had to follow, to do what I could to protect him in the maze of London streets. I bolted after him.
    â€œJack the Ripper! ”
    â€œCall the police! ”
    I heard the cacophony of voices behind us, each desperate yell spurring me to run harder and faster, blindly following Damon through the rain-soaked streets. The wide cobblestone thoroughfare of Fleet Street was crammed with carriages going in both directions. Following Damon’s lead, we took our chances dodging through the chaotic London traffic. Our footsteps thwacked against wet ground and blood rushed in my ears. I forgot about my hunger—all I cared about was Damon and me making it back to the tunnel.
    â€œGo, go, go!” I urged, although I couldn’t tell whether I was speaking to Damon or myself.
    â€œStop them! ”
    â€œPolice! ” There was now a crowd on our tail, and coachmen were jumping down from their carriages to join the fray. Behind us, I heard a lone shot, followed by glass shattering. And then, a figure leapt in front of me.
    I found myself face-to-face with a wild-eyed drunk. He was dressed in rags, and his breath smelled stale and rancid.
    â€œGot him!” he yelled, clamping his hand around my arm. I reflexively jerked my arm back, slamming the man’s body against the glass window of a storefront. The impact broke the glass behind him, and when the scent of blood filled the air, I knew he’d been cut.
    â€œThat’s not the Ripper!” another man yelled, running up to me. I stayed still, hoping Damon was far enough away. More and more men were approaching, brandishing knives and broken bottles.
    â€œHe was with him in the tavern!” I heard a voice shout from the back of the crowd, but it was far too late. In the commotion, I broke free, using my vampire speed to catch up to Damon, and the mob of fifty that was hot on Damon’s trail. In the far distance, I heard the ringing of police bells.
    I didn’t dare look behind me. It was as if my brother and I were back in the pasture at Veritas, racing against each other to get to the stables. Only now, we weren’t running for personal bragging rights. We were running for our lives.
    We pushed ourselves, giving an extra burst of speed until the noise of the mob faded behind us. Finally, we reached the tunnel and jumped down. The air smelled dank, and drops of water oozed from the walls like blood from a wound. Still, I was relieved to be there.
    Damon and I stared at each other, panting hard.
    â€œWell, at least I worked up an appetite,” Damon said dully. He rose to his feet, and I could tell he was trying to hide the fact that he was still winded, sweat running down his face. “I’m going to find some food. Don’t wait for me.”
    â€œFine,” I said, still catching my breath.
    A few minutes later, I heard a moan as Damon undoubtedly sunk his teeth into a nameless tunnel dweller. I felt my own stomach growl in protest as I turned my face to the wall and listened for the scrabble of a rat to at least quell my hunger. But there was nothing.

9
    T he next morning, I awoke early. Or perhaps I hadn’t fallen asleep. All I could think of was Cora, alone in the cold, unfriendly Asylum. But whenever I closed my eyes to conjure her face in my mind—her proud eyes and the spray of freckles on her nose—all I could imagine was Katherine.
    In my vision, Katherine was smiling at me, her hair plaited in a long braid tossed over one bare shoulder.
    â€œCan’t you smile, Stefan?” she asked, shaking her head at my morose condition.
    I tossed and turned. I wanted to forget about Katherine. But it was impossible when I was with Damon. Faint light was coming through the opening to the tunnel. Without waking Damon, I scrambled up the ladder and into the early morning. It was wet and cold and the fog made the Thames difficult to see even from a few paces away.
    I hurried to the Magdalene Asylum, hands jammed