Drake closes his ears to his lover's pleas, grabbing his coat and billy club and fleeing away down the stairs. His shirt and hands are coated in Jackson's blood and he is out for more - he will not rest until those vile men are brought to justice.
The night is cold but he does not feel it, anger hot in his veins, and he heads to where they patrol, fancy themselves protectors. He imagines his fist smashing against Lusk's grinning face and it drives away the images of Homer lying bloody and broken on their bed.
He doesn't have to look far to find them, gathering in a crowd between the pubs and whorehouses.
"And then we left him for dead!"
Without pausing for breath, Drake throws off his coat and charges, club raised. He smashes it down on one man's arm, earning his howl, before moving on to the next.
"It's the bent copper!"
"He's come to protect his moll."
The laughter is nasty and it fuels his ire, until his world is a blur of broken teeth and bloody noses. But he hadn't counted on reinforcements and when fresh arms lend themselves to the fight, Drake is dragged under in a sea of limbs attempting to throttle him.
Forced to his knees, his head is yanked back to look up at Lusk's crowing face. "You disgust me. What you do...it's a hanging offence. And so you'll swing for it."
Shouts of glee rise up from the assembled crowd and Drake is hauled along the streets, clawing and biting and fighting until his last breath. They knock him about with his own billy club until he can barely see straight, his still-healing ribs threatening to cave in from the blows.
Drake finds the cobbles of Leman Street beneath his feet and he almost cries with laughter at their arrogance. But the victory dies in his throat as a thick noose falls around his neck, the rope coiled around the sign for The Bear, and he knows that any rescue will be too late.
no subject
The night is cold but he does not feel it, anger hot in his veins, and he heads to where they patrol, fancy themselves protectors. He imagines his fist smashing against Lusk's grinning face and it drives away the images of Homer lying bloody and broken on their bed.
He doesn't have to look far to find them, gathering in a crowd between the pubs and whorehouses.
"And then we left him for dead!"
Without pausing for breath, Drake throws off his coat and charges, club raised. He smashes it down on one man's arm, earning his howl, before moving on to the next.
"It's the bent copper!"
"He's come to protect his moll."
The laughter is nasty and it fuels his ire, until his world is a blur of broken teeth and bloody noses. But he hadn't counted on reinforcements and when fresh arms lend themselves to the fight, Drake is dragged under in a sea of limbs attempting to throttle him.
Forced to his knees, his head is yanked back to look up at Lusk's crowing face. "You disgust me. What you do...it's a hanging offence. And so you'll swing for it."
Shouts of glee rise up from the assembled crowd and Drake is hauled along the streets, clawing and biting and fighting until his last breath. They knock him about with his own billy club until he can barely see straight, his still-healing ribs threatening to cave in from the blows.
Drake finds the cobbles of Leman Street beneath his feet and he almost cries with laughter at their arrogance. But the victory dies in his throat as a thick noose falls around his neck, the rope coiled around the sign for The Bear, and he knows that any rescue will be too late.