by Erin Lindsey
“Can you help me?”
“Perhaps, but your situation is more complicated than a typical case. Your fate is now tied to Rose’s. The damage to your spirit cannot be repaired until you are intact, and that means removing the fragment.”
“Then remove it.”
“Yes, we’re working on that,” Thomas said curtly. “In the meantime—what else can you tell me about your circumstances? Surname, time of death, residence, and so on?”
“Meyer. We used to live on Seventy-Fifth Street, but they’ve moved on now, and I don’t know where. That’s why I can’t find my children.”
Behind me, Mr. Wang was taking notes, scratching out the details in spidery Chinese characters.
“Very well,” Thomas said, “we’ll check with the police. Now, I know it’s very difficult for you to measure the passage of time, but can you estimate how long ago you died?”
Matilda Meyer considered that. “More than a year. Less than five, I think. Beyond that…” She shook her head; the medium mimicked the gesture. “But most of that time was spent in the drawing room.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s how I think of the dark place, where the broken ones gather.”
“The outer realm, you mean.” Thomas hummed thoughtfully. “An apt description. I presume you’ve attempted to forge deeper into the otherworld?”
“I can’t cross the bridge. None of us can.”
“No—not until the damage is repaired and you become an ordinary ghost. Then you will be able to cross into the next domain, the place of the dead.”
“Is that Heaven?”
“Alas, no. It is merely another drawing room. It is a very long way to the heart of the otherworld, with a great many bridges to cross.”
The shade regarded him with terrible sadness. “Then where is Heaven?”
“I wish I could tell you. I cannot say what lies at the center of the otherworld. No living man can, nor even the dead. The fae, perhaps, but they have been gone for a great many centuries.”
Fae? I hadn’t heard that word since I was a child listening to Da’s bedtime stories. I longed to ask some questions of my own, but I sensed it would be a mistake. Besides, it seemed that every time Thomas Wiltshire answered one question, it raised five new ones.
“You say most of your time has been spent in the drawing room,” he went on. “What drew you out into the mortal realm? Some sort of spell, I presume?”
“I couldn’t say what it was. I saw a ribbon of light and I followed it. Many of us did. It showed us the way out.”
“But you weren’t pulled by some force, or pushed?”
“We just walked out through a small crack in the door. At first I was too afraid to go, but so many of the others were leaving…” Mr. Smith’s voice grew unsteady, a crease appearing between his brows. The medium didn’t like what he was hearing.
Neither did Mr. Wang. He made a low noise in his throat, tugging fretfully at his mustache.
“This crack in the door,” Thomas said, “where does it lead?”
“The bottom of the East River.”
I’m not sure how I knew. Maybe it was the memory of Peter Arbridge, or maybe the fragment of the dead woman buried inside me whispered to me somehow. But I knew. “Hell Gate,” I murmured, and Matilda Meyer looked at me.
“Yes, Hell Gate. We walked out of the dark place and straight into the water.”
“Are you certain?” Thomas’s tone was crisp with tension. “We need the precise location.”
“I’m certain. I’ve been there before, just after I died. It’s where my body was dumped. We all came from that place, in one way or another, those of us who saw the ribbon of light.”
“Mrs. Meyer.” Thomas closed his eyes and knitted his fingers, almost as if in prayer. “I cannot emphasize enough how vital this is. When you say you all came from that place, what exactly do you mean? Is that where you died?”
“No. How can I describe it? It’s the place where our spirits left our bodies. When I died, I tried to let go straightaway. All I wanted was to close my eyes and get to Heaven, but I couldn’t. It was as if I were snagged on something and couldn’t get free. It took me a long time to leave my body behind.”
“Yes.” Thomas’s eyes were still closed, his expression so grim that it chilled my blood. “Something still bound you to the mortal realm, and you had to tear yourself free to travel to the otherworld. That is the moment you fractured your spirit and became a shade. From what you’re saying, it sounds as though the other spirits who have been drawn to the breach also became shades in or around Hell Gate.”
“If you say so. I understand so little of what is happening to me.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Outside, only a few dozen. But there are many more crowded inside the doorway, and the crowd gets bigger each day. More and more of us are being drawn there by the ribbon of light. There are … Dear God.” Mr. Smith’s eyes flew open, the blood draining from his rosy cheeks. “Wiltshire, this can’t be right. If this is true—”
“Please, Smith, for God’s sake! How many?”
With a visible effort, the medium composed himself. “Thousands,” he said, his words the spirit’s once again. “Too many to squeeze through all at once, but they’re trying.”
“You have no idea what’s holding the door open, or where the ribbon of light came from?”
“No, but I followed it to Jacob Crowe.”
In the ensuing silence, Thomas Wiltshire nodded slowly. “I see,” he said. “I see now.”
I didn’t see, not at all, but the ashen faces around me told me to be afraid.
“I thought Jacob Crowe could help me,” Mrs. Meyer said. “I thought he had summoned me for a reason. But when he saw me, he was so frightened…” The spirit sagged, grief creasing her features once again. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“You didn’t hurt him? Even by mistake?” When she shook her head, Thomas asked, “Can you tell us who killed him?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know. I tried to speak with him two nights in a row, and both times he sent me away, with one of those.” She leveled an accusing finger at Thomas’s walking stick. “The third night, I arrived to find him dead in his study. That was when his brother saw me. He banished me to the river, too. Please don’t send me back there, sir. The bottom of the river is a gloomy place, and it takes so long to make my way out…”
“I will do what I can to help you, Mrs. Meyer, but you must be patient. There is a crisis looming over this city, and I must do my best to attend to it. In the meantime, if it’s not too much to ask, please remain close to Mr. Smith, in case I need to contact you.”
“Shouldn’t I stay close to you?”
“I’m afraid I’ll need you to steer well clear of Miss Gallagher for the foreseeable future, and that means steering clear of me. In any case, I shan’t be able to hear you without Mr. Smith’s help.”
“I see.” The spirit looked downcast, but she said, “If that is what you think best.”
“In that case, I believe we’re through here, unless Miss Gallagher or Mr. Wang…?” Mr. Wang shook his head, and I did the same. It was clear to me that Matilda Meyer was in no position to help me, which meant we had nothing to say to each other. “Very well. Thank you, Mrs. Meyer. Until next time.”
Bowing her head, the spirit vanished.
A brief silence followed in her wake. Then Mr. Wang said, “We have trouble.”
“Trouble!” The medium gave a brittle laugh. “You have a gift for understatement, my friend. This is nothing short of a catastrophe! Not only do we have a compromised portal on our hands, someone or something is actively drawing shades out through the breach with this … ribbon of light. Who would do such a thing? And for God’s sake, why?”
“Sounds like magic,” Mei said.
“Yes, but what kind?” Rising with the aid of his stick, Thomas took a meditative turn about the room. “I’ve never come across anything lik
e it before. Wang? No, I thought not. But at least now we know where it came from. Jacob Crowe was obviously meddling with forces beyond his capacity to control. I knew him, and I don’t believe he would deliberately put the entire city at risk.” Mr. Wang interrupted with a question, and Thomas nodded. “I’ve an idea about that, too. Do you recall the ciphered pages I showed you last night?”
Mr. Wang frowned, and his reply sounded skeptical.
“You’re right, those spells aren’t anywhere near on the order of power required for something like this. But the pages I translated made reference to a series of appendices containing instructions for more potent magic. Perhaps Jacob Crowe had access to the full set of manuscripts.”
“That sounds like a good deal of speculation to me,” Mr. Smith declared, unhelpfully.
Thomas ignored him. “I need that witch, Wang, and fast. And remember—it can’t be just any alchemist. We need a virtuoso. Will you give it your full attention?”
Mr. Wang nodded, and Mei added, “I can send word out to the mystic community as well. Maybe someone has heard of these manuscripts.”
“Thank you, Miss Wang, but please be careful. Whoever is behind this has already murdered two men, not to mention holding me captive for nearly a week. Speak only to those you know you can trust. I’ll do the same, starting with Burrows and a handful of others at the Madison Club. And I’ll need the use of your telegraph again, Wang. Chicago must be informed.”
“Chicago.” Mr. Smith snorted. “What can the Pinkertons do about any of this?”
Thomas regarded him coolly. “The special branch of the Pinkerton Detective Agency has thwarted two presidential assassinations, secured the skystones, and averted a second war with Mexico. I’d say we’ve earned the benefit of the doubt.”
By this point I’d recovered enough of my wits to start asking questions. “I’m not sure I understand. You’re saying that someone created a doorway to the otherworld at the bottom of the East River?”
“The doorway already existed,” Thomas said. “There are many such places in the world, but virtually all of them are sealed and have been for centuries—so long, in fact, that most of their locations have long since passed from record. I had no idea there was one in New York.” Shaking his head wonderingly, he added, “I thought the name Hell Gate referred to the perils of the strait as a shipping lane, but apparently it was once quite literal. Probably a translation from the original Lenape name for it.”
“So it’s been here all along, but no one realized it because it was sealed. Except now it isn’t, because Jacob Crowe accidentally broke it open with magic.”
“No.” Mr. Wang shook his head. “Too much magic.”
“I’m inclined to agree,” Thomas said. “To my knowledge, only great natural calamities—earthquakes, volcanoes, and so on—have succeeded in rupturing portals. I’ve never heard of magic doing so.”
“But aren’t they sealed with magic?”
“Nothing quite so impressive, I’m afraid.”
“Rocks,” supplied Mr. Wang.
I blinked. “What do you mean, rocks?”
Holding his hands a couple of feet apart, Mr. Wang said, “Big rocks.”
“Just a minute. You’re telling me that the gates separating the dead from the living are sealed with—”
“Monoliths, to be precise,” Thomas said. “Or islands. In one case, an exceedingly large pyramid. Moved there by magic, yes—but not sealed with magic, strictly speaking.”
“Islands,” I said, something tweaking in my memory. “Islands like Flood Rock?”
“Ahh,” Thomas closed his eyes briefly. “The explosion last October. You’re perfectly brilliant, Rose. That must be it.”
“Flood Rock?” Mr. Smith echoed. “Forgive me, I’m not from the area—I’ve never heard of such a place.”
“It was a small island in the middle of the strait,” Thomas explained.
“Was.” Mr. Smith arched an eyebrow. “How does an island cease to exist?”
“The army blew it up,” I said. “Last October, to clear the way for ships.”
“Flood Rock was the seal,” Thomas murmured, as if to himself, “and when they blasted it to clear the strait…”
“So we have the army to thank for our woes.” Mr. Smith gave another humorless laugh. “How typical.”
“The army and three hundred thousand pounds of explosives.” Sighing, Thomas added, “Not that it matters. What matters is that the portal has been breached, and it lies in an incredibly dangerous location. The surrounding islands—Randall’s, Ward’s, Hart—fortresses of human misery all, full of potter’s fields, asylums, hospitals, prisons…”
“The mother lode of broken souls,” Mr. Smith said, shuddering.
Thousands of them, Matilda Meyer had said, the spirits of people who’d died in the most horrible ways imaginable, all of them following the ribbon of light. The thought was too terrifying to contemplate, so I took a page from Clara’s book and focused on the practical. “How do we stop it?”
“We?” The miniature meringue peaks of Mr. Smith’s eyebrows climbed in astonishment. “My dear girl, you have a fragment of a dead woman embedded in your body. You ought to go home and be with your family.”
“Thank you for your concern, Mr. Smith, but if I have to wait for help from Chicago, I might as well keep busy while I do it. And if I’m going to die, I’d rather not spend my last days contemplating my own doom, especially when I could be helping make sure the same fate doesn’t befall my friends and family.”
Mr. Wang grunted approvingly. “Tā shì zhànshì.”
Thomas’s pale eyes settled on mine, and there was something in them I couldn’t name. “Shì.”
“My father praises your courage,” Mei said.
“I wish I could say it’s courage. The truth is, I just don’t want to think about it.”
“I don’t blame you, my girl,” Mr. Smith said. “I don’t want to think about any of this. A breached portal, shades running riot all over the city … It’s positively apocalyptic.”
“Then perhaps you ought to spend your time in prayer,” Thomas said, fetching his hat from Mr. Wang’s table. “As for the rest of us, we have work to do.”
CHAPTER 23
OUT OF THE FRYING PAN—INTO THE DRAGON FIRE
Thomas was suddenly in a great hurry to be away, and I wasn’t sorry for it. I’d meant what I said about not wanting to think too much. I knew that if I let myself dwell on what I’d heard over the past hour, let alone the past twenty-four, I would come quite undone. Better to focus on how I could help make things right. So we lingered just long enough for Thomas to send his telegram and Mr. Wang to supply me with a small pouch of tea leaves in case of emergency, and then we were on our way.
“Where to now?” I asked, handling Mr. Wang’s broken front door gingerly.
“Home, I think. I’d like to take another look at those pages the Irishmen had me translate, in case there’s a clue I missed. I could use a second pair of eyes, but if you need to check in on your mother, I quite understand.”
Mam. I’d promised to pass by, but I didn’t think I could face her right now. I was frightened enough without looking my mother in the eye and telling her I was dying. And there was no way of keeping it from her, not if I went over there; she’d take one look at me and know something was wrong. “I’d rather not,” I said, glancing away.
I think Thomas understood, because he didn’t press the issue. “Half seven,” he said, consulting his watch. “Time yet to make some progress.”
We arrived at Number 726 to find the house in near darkness, the lamps turned low for the evening. “Straight to the study, then?” Thomas asked as he helped me out of my coat.
“I ought to check in with Clara. I left her pretty abruptly this morning. Shall I bring up some tea?”
“That would be splendid,” he said before heading up the stairs.
The kitchen was quiet when I got there, the mouth-watering aroma of another wasted
dinner lingering in the air. Clara had already gone up for the evening, and as I stood there debating whether to disturb her, I heard a noise in the hallway. I stuck my head out to look but no one was there. The sound seemed to be coming from the little office under the stairs, the private warren where Mrs. Sellers kept her ledgers, as well as the expensive wines, under lock and key. The door was ajar, and I could hear a rustling of papers and the soft groan of drawers being opened and closed.
I had no desire to cross paths with the housekeeper, so I turned to go. But then I heard the thump of something heavy hitting the floor.
I paused. “Mrs. Sellers?”
Silence.
Clara’s umbrella sat propped against the wall just behind me. Taking it up, I crept toward the door of the little office.
“Mrs. Sellers?”
Still no answer. Standing back a pace, I pushed the door open with the umbrella and peered inside. I couldn’t see anyone, so I took another step—and got a face full of door as someone slammed it into me, sending me stumbling back against the wall. A man’s form reared up out of the shadows. Strong hands seized me by the scruff of the neck, forcing me up against the wall and twisting the umbrella from my grasp.
I’m not sure what my attacker intended to do but I didn’t give him the chance. I drove the heel of my boot into his shin and shoved myself off the wall with all my strength, breaking his grip and fleeing for the kitchen. He grabbed at me, tearing my dress; I made it as far as the stairs before he was on me again, and this time he took a fistful of hair and clamped a hand over my mouth, muffling my scream.
“Quiet, bitch. Hold still or I’ll—”
Whang.
A hard blow sent him staggering. I nearly went down with him, but at the last moment I managed to grab the handrail. The man wasn’t so lucky; he hit the floor hard, giving his skull a second thump. Whirling, I found Clara standing over him with a cast-iron skillet, her arm cocked back threateningly. “Don’t you move,” she told the intruder, “or so help me Lord, I will flatten your head like a pancake.”