by Jen Printy
I bend my head in thanks.
With my duffel and knapsack, and Leah’s six boxes, two matching cherry-colored suitcases, and three totes—why a wisp of a girl needs so much luggage, I’ll never understand—stacked by the stairs, Artagan offers to show us around before we settle in.
Every room is as extravagantly decorated as the last, with intricate woodwork and lavish furnishings throughout. The dining room is the most Victorian. A long claw-foot table takes center stage, skirted by mahogany Queen Anne armchairs. Overhead hangs a gilt-bronze crystal chandelier, sending speckles of light dancing to and fro across the mustard-colored walls. I feel my posture straighten by the second. Slouched shoulders were frowned upon in the nineteenth century, especially by my mother.
“And through that passageway”—Artagan points toward the back of the dining room to a darkened doorway—“there’s a handful of bedrooms, the domestics’ quarters back in the day. At the very end of the hall, I’ve set up my office, but we can save that for later. Come, I’ll show you upstairs.”
The upper floors are just as formal. Leah’s room is furnished much like mine—a four-poster bed covered with a quilted coverlet, a fireplace with an intricate mantel, and a winged settee sitting beside it—with one exception. At the far end, by the northern window, stand an easel and a table filled with art supplies.
“So you don’t forget who you are,” Artagan says.
Leah looks at me, eyebrows raised.
“Don’t blame me.” I toss my hands up in surrender. “I didn’t say a word.”
“You can have the rest of the day to settle in,” he says with a quick bob of his head. “Oh, and by the way, if you see a flaxen-bearded Viking wandering the halls, it’s only Otmar. He’ll be staying with us.”
I keep my expression steady. “Otmar?”
“Yes. Kemisi, too. I trust them. Well, as much as I trust anyone,” he says. “Besides, having them here provides us with extra sets of eyes and ears, just in case.”
His words halt my thoughts. A cold prickle blooms at the base of my neck, and I push it away. My forehead furrows. “Because of Domitilla? And our involvement in Vita’s death?”
“Revenge would be in no one’s best interest. Death has made that clear. Unlike her sister, Domitilla is a self-preservationist. However, they do say not to put all your eggs in one basket, which is why Otmar and Kemisi will stay here. Only as a precaution, nothing more,” he adds.
“Let them know we appreciate their help,” Leah says.
Artagan bows then walks toward the door. “Meet me in my office tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
“Tomorrow? But it’s Thanksgiving,” she says.
He stops. “Is it?”
Leah nods.
“Well, I’m sorry, lassie, but our time is seldom our own. Make sure you bring your jacket. We’ll be going on a field trip of sorts.” With that, he slips out of the room, closing the door behind him.
My heart sinks. I wonder if “field trip” is code for much bigger things, like another gathering. With the question of me tagging along still not answered, my heart descends farther into the pit of my stomach. I peer at Leah, who has conveniently directed her focus to her new art supplies.
I suck in a deep breath. “Sorry about your holiday. You said nothing about it. Was your mum expecting you?”
“Us. Mom was expecting us.” Leah lifts a paintbrush and sweeps her finger back and forth along its bristles. “I didn’t tell you because I hadn’t decided if I wanted to go yet. She’s not thrilled with me for quitting school, and well… I’m tired of lying to her. I knew if I told you, you’d try to talk me into it. But I guess none of that matters now.”
I want to come up with a declaration so brilliant it will sweep all her misgivings away. Falling short, I settle for kissing the top of her head.
“I’ll text her. Tell her I have to work. At least that’s not a lie.” She laughs, but the tone falls flat.
“About that. I was wondering if you’ve decided if I, er—” I suck in a quick breath of air. “May I accompany you and Artagan on your jaunt?”
“Jaunt?” Leah snorts.
“I know you’re afraid I’ll see you in a different light, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m no altar boy, despite what you think.” Again, the confession of Hake’s premature death slips to the tip of my tongue, sending a flurry of regrets through me.
Leah stares. She must see something in my eyes because her brow wrinkles.
I glance at the floor, preparing for the questions sure to follow. But none come.
Accompanied by a long exhalation, she answers, “You can come.”
I step closer and kiss her forehead on the small space between her eyebrows. “Thank you,” I whisper.
After we finish unpacking, we spend the rest of the afternoon in my room in much-needed normalcy—me sprawled out on the bed, reading my tattered copy of Gaskell’s North and South for the umpteenth time, and Leah sitting cross-legged, back pressed against my side, laptop open.
“Is it Francis?”
I look up. “Is who Francis?”
“Your middle name,” Leah says. “From your reaction, I’m betting the name’s embarrassing, and because nowadays, Francis is more of a girl’s name. I mean, it can’t be Fred or Frank. Nothing’s embarrassing there.” She gives me a sideward glance. Her face twists into a pouting expression she saves for those moments when she’s annoyed or concentrating.
With a sigh, I turn my eyes back to my book.
“I will figure this out, you know.”
“I have no doubt.”
“Then why don’t you just tell me?” she says, exasperated.
“Where would be the fun in that?” I grin.
“Francisco?”
I snort a laugh. “Olé.”
Gradually, our conversation dwindles until we’re only talking now and again as Leah slips deeper and deeper into her research.
The next morning, coats in hand, Leah and I hurry through the dining room to a cramped doorway tucked at the back corner. A lack of windows leaves the hall shadowed. Although the rest of the house smells of sage from smudging, in the hallway, any trace of the sickly-sweet scent has vanished. Odd. I’d have expected Artagan to lock up his office tighter than Fort Knox.
I knock on the door at the end of the corridor and earn a quick “Come in.”
Artagan hunches over a desk—a massive rolltop, each cubbyhole bulging with files and parchments—poring over a book. He doesn’t look up as we enter. Instead, he puts his finger in the air, indicating he needs a moment. My attention roves the well-stocked bookshelves surrounding us, making the room seem more library than office. Calf-bound tomes sit alongside paperbacks and ancient scrolls, all crammed in well past the bursting point. The titles with metallic gilt etched on the spines are in French, Latin, Spanish, and languages I don’t recognize. From the names I can read, they all have a common theme—folklore.
“Do you like my little collection?” Artagan says, walking around the desk toward us, a tumbler of Scotch held precariously in his hand.
“Impressive,” I say.
He smiles. “There are no less than fifteen more boxes in storage. Some might say I have a problem.”
I shrug. Artagan raises his glass and downs the liquor in one gulp. “We are on a schedule, but first things first.” Abandoning the empty tumbler on a nearby side table, he returns to his desk and begins rummaging through its drawers. When his hand reemerges, a small antique pocket watch dangles from a dainty gold chain between his fingers. “A present. I hope it will help you remember the reason you do what you do,” he says as he takes Leah’s hand and sets the necklace in her palm.
A soft expression settles on Leah’s lips, and she runs her fingers over the flowers etched on the front lid. “Daisies.”
“Your favorite.”
Her eyes move from the timepiece to meet Artagan’s gaze. “How did you know?”
“Call it an educated guess.” He says nothing more.
“Well, it’s a beautiful pocket watch. Thank you.”
“Ah, but sometimes things aren’t what they appear. Open it.” The inside reveals that the watch is a locket with a picture of Grady and Leah’s mother on one side and a picture of me on the other. “Your family,” Artagan says, “and the reason you carry on.”
Moisture pools in Leah’s eyes as she studies the photos. With a jerk of her head, her eyes snap up, her forehead crinkling. “Where did you get this?”
“I pinched them out of your dorm a while back,” Artagan says. “Don’t fret. Those are just copies. I didn’t cut up the originals.”
“You went through my things?”
His voice dips into sarcasm. “Yes, your underwear drawer was thrilling. No worries, I saw nothing that wasn’t out on display for all the world to see.”
“That’s not the point. You can’t just march into someone’s room—”
“My apologies,” Artagan says, but in a way that suggests he’d do it again. “Now, press on the pin there, the one that appears to be the winding stem.”
Leah mutters under her breath but does as she’s asked. As her finger pushes down on the tiny pin, the back of the locket springs open, exposing a secret compartment. Inside, nestled in a pillow of navy velvet, is a small green pill I recognize at once to be hemlock.
I concentrate on my poker face, steering my focus away from the pill.
“It’s a mixture of hemlock and salt,” Artagan says. “The only thing that can kill us.”
Comprehension streaks across Leah’s face before she conceals her emotions behind a set of pursed lips.
“A few of us immortals carry the concoction on our person for protection. Despite Death’s wish that we could be a big happy family, we’re an untrusting bunch, sometimes for good reason—Vita, for example, and now perhaps her twin. For me, it’s also a backup plan, in case I push Death too far. The chances you’ll ever need it for that reason are slim to none. Look at me, over six hundred years old and still kicking in spite of my antics. It’s best we keep it our secret. The other council members needn’t know,” he says. “Although I’m sure they’ll suspect.”
With a quick nod, she slips the chain over her head. The locket falls to her heart.
“Now, on to the reason for our meeting.” Artagan clears his throat. “Death asked for a report on your progress. He took an interest in your mind-control abilities. Therefore, this afternoon, per his request, we will show off just how well you’re doing.”
Leah’s mouth falls open, and she shuffles back a step or two, her hand cupping her locket. “So all the visions I’ve been having… he expects me to gather all those people at once? I’m not ready!”
“Yes, you are. I know it’s a large job, but you will only need to focus on one person—the train operator.”
Leah crosses her arms as if to form a barrier between herself and Artagan. “Great,” she says, her voice loaded with sarcasm. “But what about shadow walking?”
“What about it?” Artagan asks, scrunching his brow.
“I’ve done it twice, once with Death and once with you, and both times I was just tagging along… and… and I’m not ready.” Her voice grows urgent, the words piling up, one on top of another. “Besides, if he’s only interested in seeing my mind-control abilities, why can’t I do whatever I have to from here?”
I entwine our fingers, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.
Artagan raises his hand to cut off my protest.
“Distance comes with disadvantages, at least in the beginning. So until you develop your skills, the closer you are to your target, the better. We can’t risk any mistakes, not today. As for the shadow walking, we’ve talked about it. There are no tricks involved. All you have to do before stepping into the darkness is concentrate on the soul in your charge. Remember? After that, your instinct, for lack of a better word, will guide you. Like a compass that always points north, our compulsion always points us to the soul we must gather.”
“And what about the way back? You said getting back is more difficult,” Leah presses.
“I said it takes practice. And I’ll be right by your side in case we end up in the drink.” He chuckles. “Traveling to any place you wish is tricky. The sons and daughters of Death come by the skill naturally. We adoptees have to cultivate it. However, that level of shadow travel takes decades to master. It requires the ability to distinguish between the unique souls of a place and then focusing on their tenor.”
I squint. “Soul of a place? Tenor?”
“How to explain?” Artagan sinks into a chair. He steeples his hands and presses his fingers to his mouth, thinking, and then his expression brightens. “It’s similar to a good Scotch.” He speaks with reverence, the way my father spoke of his Creator. “Much like Scotch absorbs some of its flavor from the barrel it’s stored in, a place absorbs the impression of all the people who have lived there. In the words of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ‘All houses wherein men have lived and died are haunted.’ I assume you’ve heard this house’s history.”
Leah and I both nod.
“Tragedy imprints itself on even the inanimate.” Artagan lets out a bitter chuckle. “People call places like this haunted, but that’s not the case. A building with such a past as this house has an amplified tenor so strong that even mortals can pick up on it.”
“So Jack is right.” Leah’s posture slumps. “The place isn’t haunted. It’s just seen a lot of action.”
“Sorry to disappoint. For us, these places become beacons in the void. Although you might not travel without restrictions for the foreseeable future, soon enough, you’ll hop from tainted location to tainted location like a stone skipping across a pond.” Artagan pauses, leaning back into his chair. “After tonight, I’ll block access to the main house, but you can still gain entry through the shadows of the grounds or the carriage house. I’ve smudged most of the rooms already, and once we’ve finished with this gathering, I’ll smudge my office. But enough chitchat. We need to get down to business. So let’s see if you’ve been paying attention. Who’s on the agenda tonight?”
A grimace flickers across Leah’s face. “There are so many,” she mutters.
“I know that’s how it appears. But there’s only one you must control. The others’ fates lie in the decisions of that one. Now concentrate. Who stands out from the clutter of souls in your mind?”
Leah’s gaze falls to the floor while she thinks. After a moment, she says, “The train engineer.”
“Any scenarios?”
Leah presses her lips tight together as if she’s fighting thoughts in her head. “What if I’m wrong? What if this doesn’t work?” She places her hand on her locket.
“No more stalling. It’s become a habit. You’re not wrong, and you know it. Trust yourself. Trust your gut,” Artagan encourages.
After a moment, Leah’s expression surrenders. “Her name is Lori Stapleton. She’s an alcoholic. Been sober for years, but the temptation is still there. Her fiancé broke up with her yesterday. She bought a bottle of vodka this morning but then changed her mind and went to work, hoping it would take her mind off him and the alcohol. She has it with her, though. I made sure of it. It’s hidden under the seat.”
“And after that first nip, she won’t be able to stop. Very good. Exactly what I would do. You’ll need to remind her how much she misses her man. Tempt her into that first drink. Best to do that now, to give her time to become impaired.”
Leah breathes deep and shivers a bit, her attention drifting to the floor. “Does vodka taste anything like wine? I had that once at a wedding.”
A look of outrage springs to Artagan’s features. “No! It certainly is not! Like wine? Wha
t’s the world coming to?” He shakes his head. “Unfortunately, it’s an oversight we’ll have to remedy another time. You’re stalling again.”
Physically uncomfortable, Leah takes a calming breath and closes her eyes. Minutes drag before Leah opens her eyes again.
“Done?” Artagan asks.
“I think so,” she says, not looking at him.
Artagan gestures to my leather jacket folded in my lap, his gaze glued on Leah. “I take it you’ve relented, and Jack will join us tonight?”
Drawing her mouth into a straight line, Leah bites at her lower lip and then nods.
Artagan turns. “Remember my rules?” he asks me.
“Keep my mouth shut, and no meddling,” I recite, sounding very much like a schoolchild.
He nods once, seeming satisfied. “Let’s go. And Jack, stay close, and follow us.” Lacking any hesitation, he strides into the shadow on the far wall.
Leah follows. Beckoning to me over her left shoulder, she disappears.
I press my palms against the wall and run my hands over its solid surface. The mahogany paneling seems to disintegrate under my touch, and my hands sink into the shadow as if pushing through water. “Curious.” I pull my hands away, and the wall solidifies. I wonder why I never did this before. It would have come in handy on quite a few occasions. I’m betting the answer is as simple as I didn’t know I could. Besides, Artagan mentioned shadow walking involved faith. The spiritual gift has never been my strong suit. I recall Sally’s words on the subject. ‘Powerful stuff. Just a tad can move mountains.’ Or walls, it would seem. I smirk, staring at the solid surface.
Artagan’s voice floods into my mind. Any day, Jack. They say seeing is believing.
I take a deep breath and step into the mist of the shadow. The darkness is sudden and complete, folding me in its penetrating chill, where I assume Leah and Artagan are waiting.