by Vered Ehsani
Lord Arthur Hardinge, Her Majesty’s Commissioner of the East Africa Protectorate and its first Governor, cleared his throat and leaned his elbows on his knees. He was a trim fellow, not particularly big in stature but with a gently dignified air about him that was devoid of the usual pettiness and snobbery I’d come to associate with landed gentry. His fair hair was receding gracefully, but his mustache made up for it, a full and healthy specimen atop firm lips that seldom smiled yet were never harsh.
“It comes as a surprise for us, too,” he told those present.
Sitting on my other side, Lilly sniffed as she clutched Grace in her lap. The baby was attempting to chew off the tassels of a pillow. Tiberius, her husband and one of my two half-brothers, leaned against the stone mantle of the fireplace, his dark brown eyes fixed on the flames, his thick, black lashes brushing against light brown skin. Pushing aside a lock of dark brown hair from his forehead, he pushed his hands into his pockets.
Crossing my arms, I asked, “Where will you go?”
“Delhi,” Lord Hardinge said without enthusiasm. After a pause in which wood crackled into the silence, he continued, “There’s another matter we need to discuss. On my part, it’s rather vexing.”
We all turned to face him as he stood and paced to the fireplace. Only Tiberius’ countenance lacked any curiosity. Being a partner in Lord Hardinge’s business, he must know about this announcement. Noticing my stare, Tiberius strolled to the window and lifted a curtain to peer outside. Yet I knew him well enough to see the tension in his shoulders, even under the black dinner jacket he always wore.
“The Crown does not own this estate,” Lord Hardinge said, interrupting my worried thoughts. “It rented the property, and now the landlord wishes to sell it. As such, once my family and I depart, the landlord plans to sell the house, the cottages and all else connected to the property.” Thrusting his hands in his pockets, he nodded at each one of us. “In a few weeks, you will all be required to leave and find a new home.”
Cilla gasped while Lilly dug her nails into my arm. I caught Tiberius’ eye as he turned away from the view.
“Will you be going as well?” I asked, my throat tightening at the notion I might be separated from part of my family. Losing the cottage would be inconvenient; losing my brother, my cousin and my niece was unthinkable.
“Of course we won’t,” Lilly said, her voice rising an octave as she tugged the tassel out of Grace’s mouth. “We’ll stay right here, won’t we, Tiberius?”
Grace hissed, her fangs descending, and she stretched her chubby arms toward the pillow. Swallowing hard, Tiberius stared vacantly at his wife.
“Tiberius,” I whispered.
“I’m not sure,” Tiberius answered, studying the design of the Persian carpet. “We have to discuss it.”
Cilla wailed while Lilly stared at her husband, her mouth open, her eyes wide. An awkward silence descended in which no one seemed able to meet anyone else’s gaze.
After some moments, Simon cleared his throat and scratched at a sideburn. Glancing around to ensure he had our attention, he asked, “Then why don’t we consider purchasing the property? We have to live somewhere. It might as well be here.”
Clamping my lips together to stop their quivering, I nodded at him but my uneasiness deepened. Even if the landlord was reasonable in his expectations, we didn’t have the funds to purchase the entire estate or even a small corner of it.
“Actually, that is an option,” Lord Hardinge said. “The government has no interest in purchasing it as it wants to have all its residential properties in close proximity to town. This one happens to be the farthest from the offices of the Crown and the other homes. I could inquire with the landowner on your behalf.”
“Thank you,” I said even as I wondered how we could possibly afford the estate. “We would be most grateful for any assistance you could offer in this regard. You’ve done so much for us already, and here we impose on you again.”
Lord Hardinge waved a hand dismissively while Lady Hardinge tutted, “Nonsense, my dear. It’s our pleasure.”
“Beatrice, look after Grace,” Lilly ordered and thrust the squirming baby onto my lap. Tossing the pillow to one side, she strode over to Tiberius, her features grim and determined. Whispering something to him, she led the way out of the library, Tiberius following in her wake.
“Someone’s in trouble,” Simon murmured, smirking at Tiberius’ slouched shoulders.
“Yes, and that would be me,” I said as Grace grabbed at my braid. “Her nappy requires changing and… Oh, bother, it’s leaking.”
Chapter Eleven
NONE OF US were in the mood for a celebration, but Lady Sybil insisted on hosting an engagement party for Cilla.
“How can we marry her off without anyone knowing she’s actually engaged?” she said, her shrill voice overcoming Cilla’s objections and the general air of apathy that had taken over the entire household. “This might be the backwater of the world, but I will not allow tradition to be disregarded when it comes to my great-niece. We are having this party, even if I have to order Parson to chase the wildlife out of the garden myself.”
Clicking her tongue against the back of her teeth, she lifted her chin, her nostrils flaring. “And that’s the end of that discussion.”
None of us had energy to argue. I was still reeling from the news that not only would I need to find a new home but my brother might be sailing away. My mind returned to the evening we heard of our imminent loss; when Lilly had returned to collect Grace, her blue eyes were dim and red-rimmed. She refused to answer my questions, only saying, “We shall see.”
“I can’t believe with all that’s going on, we need to attend an engagement party,” I complained a few days later during evening tea. “Is that woman so oblivious?”
“By that woman, I assume you refer to Lady Sybil?” Simon asked, his tone mild as he flipped through a week-old newspaper.
“Indeed, who else?” I said, ignoring his smirk and staring at the clock on the mantle. In a few minutes, we would depart for the Hardinge house for a party no one wanted to attend.
Rather than dwell on the inconvenient timing, I stared into the fire, enjoying the cozy feel of our sitting room and wondering where we would find anything as sweet. Placing a hand over my stomach, I tried to imagine what sort of home we could provide Emma.
Glancing at Simon, I restrained the urge to ask if Lord Hardinge had said anything yet about the property’s owner. Instead, I found myself admiring his strong features, his solid build, his unflinching gaze as he met mine.
Reaching over, he grasped my hand and lifted it to his lips. “Everything will work out,” he promised. “This is just a collection of stone and mortar. You are my home, not this place.”
Swallowing hard, I nodded and dared not speak.
“Now, let’s go have some fun,” he added, his gray eyes lighting with humor. “And all at the good lady’s expense.”
It turned out the good Lady Sybil spared no expense and had invited everyone who was anyone. This resulted in nearly every English colonialist attending the engagement party, all dressed in their finest.
Someone of nominal talent was plunking away on a piano that had been dragged onto the back veranda. Colorful streamers crisscrossed overhead. Tall torches lined the veranda, their flames spluttering as moths flew into them. The murmuring of multiple conversations interweaved with the music and the night sounds of the African savannah. Of the newly betrothed couple, there was no sign.
As we drifted arm in arm among the guests, nodding and smiling, I noticed eyes shifting to follow us. How many, I wondered, were gossiping about Simon’s return? Was it, as Lady Sybil feared, a social disaster of immense proportions? Or was Nairobi isolated enough from the perverse London culture so as to allow people to forgive, forget and sign new business contracts?
“Mr. Timmons, congratulations on the upcoming nuptials of your niece,” a plump, portly, vibrantly dressed Indian woman crowed as she step
ped in our path.
“Most kind, Mrs. Patel,” Simon replied, nodding with just the right balance of condescension and appreciation.
I admired his ability to integrate so convincingly in such a crowd. For my part, I frowned at Mrs. Patel. She and her husband ran the General Store which was not much more than a glorified fabric shop with a few bags of rice and beans thrown into the mix. While Mr. Patel avoided social interaction whenever possible, Mrs. Patel thrived on it. Covered in enough colorful fabric to set up a shop right there, she was at the center of whatever gossip might be had. Given that her husband was on very close terms with the stationmaster and the postmaster, she knew the comings and goings of every person and parcel. I could imagine her eagerness to glean more information regarding Simon’s absence and then share it with the other busybodies.
“Oh, look, dear, it’s Aunt Sybil,” I gushed, drawing Simon away before Mrs. Patel could extract anything more than a vague smile.
Beside me, Simon sighed and squeezed my hand before plucking a glass of juice from a passing waiter’s tray. “Dearest, could you at least pretend to enjoy yourself? Your eyes are starting to glow yellow.”
Averting my gaze, I scowled. “Well, I didn’t really want to attend this… dead man!”
Simon coughed up his juice while Mrs. Patel stared sharply at me, her dark eyes narrowing. “I mean headman,” I said, smiling at her and tugging Simon after me. “The headman of the tribe of…”
Mrs. Patel lost interest. No one was particularly interested in what the members of a local tribe were doing. She turned her attention to another victim while I pushed through the crowd, my gaze fixed on the recently deceased Mr. Bilco.
“Now what is he doing here?” I muttered as Mr. Bilco maneuvered to the edge of the veranda. “It’s one thing for a dead man to work in a government office. It’s quite another to show up at a party.”
Behind me, Simon’s energy enveloped the crowd. Squinting my eyes, I could see the tentacles brushing past ignorant humans. If they only knew what those tentacles were capable of doing, there would be mass panic. Then again, most normal humans don’t have the imagination required to truly believe in the existence of an identity thief with the power of draining his victims of their energy or copying their physical form over his own.
“You are correct, Mrs. Timmons. There is indeed a dead man here,” Simon whispered. His voice hitched in amazement as one of his energy tentacles grazed against Mr. Bilco just before the zombie disappeared around the corner of the house. “Who would invite a zombie to a party?”
“I intend to find out,” I said. “I can think of no good reason for his attendance.”
Before I could do so, a man stepped in front of me, blocking my path.
“Miss Knight… Er, Mrs. Knight or rather Timmons,” Dr. Cricket blurted, his eyes blinking rapidly, his breathing strained.
“A pleasure for one of us,” I said under my breath before smiling with only enough interest as good manners required. “Dr. Cricket, I—”
“Oh, and Mr. Timmons,” Dr. Cricket said.
“I’ve lost him,” Simon murmured into my ear.
“Then we have no hope of catching him,” I said.
Dr. Cricket glanced between us, his pale blue eyes twitching. The inventor was a tall man, thin to the point of bony. His straight hair and thin mustache were pale strawberry in color, as was his skin which was the inevitable result of too much time outdoors while living so near the equator. He had exchanged his blindingly white and neatly pressed lab coat for a white dinner jacket.
“Have you heard the news?” Dr. Cricket asked, his gaze fixed on me.
“That Miss White is getting married?” I asked.
“Oh,” he said, his eyelids blinking more rapidly. “Well, that too, I suppose. But I was referring to a most startling development in the field of automatons.”
“Of course,” I said.
“Please excuse me,” Simon said, swirling his drink as he graced the inventor with a vacant smile. “I believe I’m being summoned by a, um, a headman.”
“Coward,” I said to him.
“I’m sure you can manage,” he replied before disappearing into the crowd.
Turning to Dr. Cricket, I pretended to give him my full attention. The man was a fanatic when it came to the building of automatons. Unbeknownst to him, his first successful automaton had been possessed by the evil spirit of his deceased wife which caused us some grief.
“You were saying?” I prompted him, hoping Simon would return and extradite me from a conversation that was certain to be tiresome.
Flapping his hands before him, Dr. Cricket said, “You remember Liam?”
At the mention of the formerly possessed automaton, I forced a smile and said, “How could I forget?”
“Yes, he was most memorable,” Dr. Cricket said and sighed, blissfully ignorant of his dead wife’s role in Liam’s abilities or the havoc she caused. “As you know, I’ve never been able to repeat my original success. But now, I’ve been provided funding to improve on Liam’s design and build several more automatons.”
Pausing, he rubbed his hands together, the sound of dry skin against dry skin grating on my nerves. Taking a deep breath and laying one hand over his heart, he added, “Out of respect for the original Life Imitating Automaton Machine, I don’t think I’ll call these new ones Liam. What do you think of that?”
“Splendid,” I said as another undesirable guest caught my attention.
“You will come to my laboratory and see the alterations I’ve made?” Dr. Cricket asked, his entire form quivering with anticipation.
“Of course,” I said even before I processed to what I was agreeing. “Excuse me.”
My mind devoid of intelligible thought, I could only marvel that my legs moved of their own accord. Snippets of my nightmare flitted through my mind as I meandered through the chattering crowd. Even as a part of my brain—the part responsible for survival—screamed at me to hasten into the house and hide, another part bayed for revenge. The wolf energy in my prosthetic hand pulsed within the riot of conflicting emotions.
Blind and deaf to the festivities and happy conversations, I stalked toward a man I had hoped never to see again. Even with his back to me, he overwhelmed me with the force of his energy and the memories of our history.
When I was a few steps away, I cleared my throat and prepared to face my would-be murderer.
Chapter Twelve
“YOU ARE NOT welcome here,” I growled.
As if sensing my presence, Prof. Runal turned and stared. His yellow werewolf eyes glittered in the firelight of the torches. Everything about Prof. Runal was big: his voice, his build, his beard that covered his large jowls. Even his nose was bigger than normal.
“All the better to smell you with, my dear,” he used to joke. Being a werewolf, it wasn’t really a joke and more of a threat.
“Well, I was invited, my dear Bee… I mean, Mrs. Timmons,” he said, bowing at the waist. “Indeed I was. Do you wish to see my invitation?”
He reached into the inside pocket of his dinner jacket but I shook my head. Of course he would be here. The Director of the Society for Paranormals had done an admirable job ingratiating himself with the upper class of Nairobi. Why wouldn’t Lady Sybil invite him?
Before I could muster the wit to respond, Lilly swept toward me in a billow of blue skirt. A wiggling baby was trying to climb over one shoulder.
“Oh, Beatrice, Lady Sybil is insisting I remove Grace to the nursery at once,” she gushed, shaking her head, her dark curls bouncing around her pinched features. “And while that’s all well and good, she’s far too excited to remain in good form.”
“Who, the baby or Lady Sybil?” I asked.
Huffing at my obstinance, Lilly rolled her eyes. “Grace, of course. Lady Sybil is always in form, just not a very good one. And what if Grace decides to… Oh, Prof. Runal. I didn’t notice you.”
How that was even possible given Prof. Runal’s height and gir
th bewildered me. I could only be grateful Lilly had caught herself before suggesting her baby was anything but normal.
“And what would the sweet baby decide to do?” Prof. Runal rumbled, leaning toward Grace who had twisted around in Lilly’s arms to stare at him.
“Nothing,” I stated just as Lilly said, “Throw a tantrum.”
“Either way,” I hastened to add, “perhaps Lady Sybil has the right of it, Lilly. This isn’t a suitable place for a baby.” I pursed my lips together and stared fixedly at Lilly, willing her to read my mind or at least my anxiety. Prof. Runal’s proximity to baby Grace was highly undesirable. If he ever learned how powerful that child was…
Glancing between Prof. Runal and me, Lilly’s confusion at my odd praise of anything Lady Sybil said or did shifted into alarm. Forcing a smile, she said, “You are so wise, cousin. A late evening party is no place for a baby.”
“May I see the wee tot before she goes?” Prof. Runal asked, smiling widely as he stepped closer to Lilly, his gaze intently fixed on Grace.
Grace opened her mouth, exposing her gums, and hissed. Four little pointed nubs, two on top and two on the bottom, began to poke out. Her fangs were about to descend.
Sliding in front of Lilly, I blurted out, “Oh, I think the baby is far too tired of attention. Isn’t that right, Lilly?” Before Prof. Runal could react, I twirled around to face Lilly, slapped my hands on her shoulders and pivoted her toward the house. “Really, it’s time for Grace to change… into her sleeping clothes.”
“Gracious,” Lilly whispered, glancing over her shoulder at me, her face paler than usual, a strained expression in her eyes. “Change… Of course. Goodnight.”
I watched her clutch Grace tightly, one hand pushing the baby’s face into her bosom until she reached the sanctuary of the house. Releasing the breath I’d been holding, I spun around in order to glare at Prof. Runal. His attention was on the doors through which Lilly had disappeared.