Margo didn’t want to hear any more. Rose-colored balloons of hope broke with every word, but Kit Carson showed no inclination to stop. “Let’s even suppose you didn’t get nailed by the law. That by some miracle you actually found the slums where that getup might look more appropriate. Do you even know what they were called Never mind where they were? If you stumbled into them by sheer chance, you’d still be in trouble. Because some whore would carve you up for encroaching on her territory or some tough would decide to make you his meal ticket-after trying out the wares for himself first. Unless, of course, you were really lucky and the Ripper decided you were a likely looking target.”
Margo went cold all over. Jack the Ripper? She couldn’t help glancing at her dress, any more than she could hide an involuntary shudder. Carson, to give him his due, didn’t crack a smile. He just nailed home the point like a vampire hunter pounding in the stake.
”The Ripper liked his victims helpless. Most psychopaths do. Step through the Britannia Gate without training or a guide; and you’ll end up looking more helpless than any other walker on the street. Believe me, it won’t be long before Red Jack starts having a bloody good time gutting you like a market fish.”
”STOP!” Margo had covered her ears.
He stopped.
Margo was breathing as hard as she did after a sparring session in the dojo. Kit Carson, curse him, might have been sipping tea at a garden social for all the emotion he betrayed. I won’t give up! I can’t! Margo literally had nowhere else to go. And she was running out of time. Her six months were nearly one sixth gone already.