by C. J. Archer
I bucked and growled in frustration, but I couldn't dislodge him. If he were a real attacker, I'd be in a lot of trouble. It was a stark reminder that I needed to improve.
"You win this round," I muttered.
He didn't release me. The shutters came down over his eyes, leaving only a slit through which he watched me. His face drew close to mine as he leaned forward to lock my hands in his own big one. Heat flared beneath my skin and pulsed through my veins, throbbing in time to my rapidly beating heart. His free hand cupped my cheek. His face lowered until his mouth was near mine. His spicy scent filled me, rendering me stupid. I could think of nothing but this powerful man, and the way I ached for his kiss.
"Sir, when—? Oh." Seth stood in the doorway, his mouth flopped open.
Lincoln sprang to his feet in a blur of movement. "What do you want?" he snapped.
Seth backed out the door. "I'm, er, sorry to interrupt, sir."
"We're training." Lincoln held out his hand to me and I took it. His touch was clinical and he let me go as soon as I was steady on my feet. "Charlie is yet to defeat some of us."
I searched his face for signs that he was as affected as me by what had almost happened, but there were none. His mouth was set in an uncompromising line, his eyes were black voids. With my heart still in my throat, I walked as steadily as my shaking legs would allow to the table and clutched the edge through the dust cover. With my back to the men, I gasped in air in the hopes my nerves would feel a little less frayed. It didn't work.
"I was going to ask when you wanted me to relieve Gus," Seth said.
"I'll go after dinner," Lincoln said.
"For how long?"
"All night."
"Is that wise, sir? Shouldn't you rest?"
"I'll rest tomorrow. Charlie, training is complete." His footsteps receded from the ballroom and I closed my eyes. So he was going to fight against his feelings and ignore what had almost happened. I didn't know why I expected anything else.
"Are you all right, Charlie?" Seth asked from close behind me.
I nodded.
I thought he'd walked off, but then he sat on the edge of the table beside me. "Will you allow me to give you some advice?"
"If you must."
"Forget him. He's too volatile, too wild."
What an odd thing to say. "He's not an animal."
"Isn't he?" He sighed. "If you'll permit me to speak freely?"
"Of course."
"You crave a family, a place, a home."
"Lichfield is now my home, and you are all my family." My throat clogged with tears that I couldn't swallow past. Why did I want to cry? I hated crying, especially over a man. There were sadder things that deserved tears. Things that had happened to me in the past that had failed to unravel me like this.
"I know," he said softly. "That's why you shouldn't do anything to jeopardize what you have here. He'll throw you out if he feels your presence is making him weaker."
I spun round. "How am I making him weaker?"
"If he develops feelings for you, it makes him vulnerable. Fitzroy hates vulnerability in himself, and if you make him weak…" He shrugged. "He would force you to leave."
I blinked back tears and shook my head. "He wouldn't," I whispered. "He's not that cruel."
"Isn't he? Anyway, like I said, that's if he develops feelings for you. I'm not entirely certain he's capable of feeling anything."
"You're wrong about him, Seth."
"Am I? I've known him longer than you."
"That doesn't mean you know him better."
"Women," he muttered as he pushed off. "Moths have more sense. They know to stay away from flames like him."
I watched him go, my heart a dead weight in my chest. How many moths were circling Lincoln's flame? I wished I didn't care so much. It would make life far easier if I could do as Seth wanted and shrug off my feelings. Lincoln certainly seemed capable of shrugging off his desire for me.
***
"Charlie, wake up." Lincoln's deep voice nestled into my dreams. I wanted to hold it close, sink into its silky depths. His vigorous shaking of my foot was far more disruptive, however.
I sat up and he let my foot go. I rubbed my eyes. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Come with me."
I blinked at him. He was fully dressed and not looking the least sleepy. He must have come straight from Jimmy and Pete's place. "Where to?"
"Whitechapel."
"Why?"
"You wanted to help," he said turning away. "Now is your opportunity. Dress in boys' clothes and your cloak."
I scrambled out of bed as he shut the door behind himself and waited in the corridor. I pulled on the boys' clothing I'd worn the day I'd arrived at Lichfield, and a black hooded cloak, gloves and boots. My hair would have to stay loose. I doubted he'd allow me the time to pin it back.
Without word, he strode ahead of me through the darkness. Neither of us needed a light to move around the house at night, but I was slower at descending the stairs than him. It would be just my luck to miss a step and tumble down. He waited for me at the base of the staircase then strode off again, through the kitchen and other service rooms and out the back door. I had to take two steps to his one to keep up.
A horse tethered to a bollard blew foggy air from its nostrils. The light of the glowing moon glinted off the metal stirrup as Lincoln held it for me. I hesitated, but not for more than a heartbeat. If he'd made the decision to invite me to help on a whim, I didn't want him thinking too much about it and risk having him change his mind. I might never get the opportunity again.
I hoisted myself into the saddle and tried to correct my balance. Seth had given me some riding lessons but I wasn't very good; I much preferred to have both feet on solid ground. It felt somewhat more natural and comfortable with trousers on, as I sat astride like a man instead of sidesaddle. I was beginning to think I could get used to riding if I always sat astride—until Lincoln mounted and disrupted my composure.
He sat in front of me and directed me to hold on. I circled my arms around his waist and rested my cheek to his back. Even through the layers of clothing I could feel his warmth and the ridged muscles of his stomach. Every part of him felt taught, but I got no chance to ponder that when the horse moved. It didn't walk or trot, but flew down the drive to the gates. At least it felt like flying, the beast was going that fast. I held on, not only with my hands and arms, but with my thighs and feet too.
"Charlie." Lincoln's hand closed over mine at his stomach. "Relax your fingers. I need to breathe."
"I will relax them when you hold the reins in both hands again."
He let me go and I loosened my grip a little.
"Are your eyes open?"
"Of course." I opened them and was glad that it was too dark to see much. The few working streetlights provided enough light for me to realize we were going exceedingly fast. I resisted the urge to close them again and instead began to count to pass the time and take my mind off the fact I was riding at an alarming speed.
It still seemed like an age before we slowed. We'd reached Whitechapel. I knew the area well, having spent more months in the miserable precinct than I would have liked. Where not a soul was out on the cool, damp night in Highgate, there were signs of life in Whitechapel, from the homeless, huddled on front porches, to the whores offering themselves to us as we passed. Their threadbare clothing looked too thin for the bitter autumn night. I wished I'd brought some coins with me to hand out.
Lincoln ignored them all. We rode through the shadows, down narrow lanes that stank of human wretchedness until we finally came to a stop behind a row of buildings. Lincoln dismounted and opened a gate then led the horse through to a small courtyard. It was empty except for a small cart, a pail and some empty crates. He closed the gate again and held the horse steady while I dismounted without assistance.
"Is this where Jimmy and Pete live?" I asked.
"They live around the corner. This is a butcher's shop. They stole another bo
dy earlier this evening, deposited it here and then left."
Bile rose to my throat. "They're selling human meat for people to eat?" Oh God, how horrid.
"I don't think so, but I don't know for certain."
"So you wish me to use my necromancy and find out from one of the body's spirits what it is they plan to do?"
"I doubt the spirits will know. They have probably crossed over and wouldn't have witnessed anything. It's unlikely they even know their bodies have been disturbed."
"Then how can a spirit help? What do you need me for?"
"To raise one so he can frighten them into telling us."
"Oh. That's a good idea. It might work. But you don't think your interrogation techniques are enough to scare them into giving you answers?"
"It wasn't when I questioned them at The Red Lion. They're being paid very well, or being offered another incentive to keep the secret. Either I kill one of them to frighten the other into loosening his tongue, or we frighten them in some other way."
"I think you've made the right choice."
"We shall see."
"Do you think I can manage it? Raising a dead man when his soul has already crossed over, I mean. I've never done it before." I knew from reading Lincoln's books that a necromancer must summon a soul that has crossed over to the afterlife by name then instruct him or her to re-enter a dead body, not necessarily their own. I knew from experience that a soul that has not yet crossed doesn't need to be summoned by name. Simple instructions suffice in that case.
"You can manage it," he assured me.
"But I don't know any names."
"Gordon Moreland Thackery was inscribed on the headstone of the latest victim."
"Oh. Well done." I pulled my cloak tighter around my neck to keep out the chill. "Take me to the body."
"I picked the lock earlier," Lincoln said as he pushed open the door to the butcher's shop. It was as dark as his eyes inside and he didn't light a candle.
"I can't see."
His hand slipped into mine and he led me down a short corridor. The door clicked closed behind me. Our footsteps echoed on the floorboards and my breath sounded loud in the dense silence. He stepped on a creaking board and stopped. He let go of my hand and a sudden surge of fear bubbled inside me. I huddled in closer to him and was relieved when he struck a match and lit a candle that had been placed on a small recessed ledge at the top of a flight of stairs.
He returned the box of matches to his inside coat pocket then, of all the odd things, he fussed with my hood, ensuring it was pulled low over my forehead and around my ears. He was clinical, his gaze not meeting mine.
"Keep warm," he said, lowering his hand.
"Is the body down there?" I whispered.
He nodded. "Charlie?"
"Yes?"
"Prepare yourself."
We went down the steep narrow staircase and Lincoln slid back the bolt on the door at the base and pushed it open. A blast of cool air hit my face and I shivered. He stepped into the room first, blocking my view, but I entered close behind, not wanting to be left alone in the dark corridor.
He raised the candle high and I gasped. Behind the carcasses hanging from hooks suspended from the cool room ceiling was not one human body, but four. And they all stood upright, staring back at me with empty, dead eyes.
CHAPTER 5
"Are you sure they're dead?" I whispered.
"They are. I checked earlier." Lincoln angled himself between the pig carcasses and gripped the arm of one of the human bodies. He swiveled it around to show me the large hook gouged into the back of the cadaver's neck above the jacket collar. The toes of its burial shoes scraped the packed earth floor, and the rest of the clothing hung loosely from the emaciated figure.
My stomach rolled and I pressed a hand over my nose and mouth, although there was no smell in the cool room. "That's vile." They were being treated the same way as the pigs, as if they would be carved up for meat and served to a customer in the shop. At least some dignity had been preserved by keeping the bodies clothed.
"How long do you think they've been in here?" I asked.
"Two months, perhaps. I'd say that's the first one they took, most likely from Highgate the day you spied them." He pointed to the body of a short man on the end. In life, he would have been perhaps thirty or so, but now his flesh was gray and sagging, and much of his hair had fallen out. "The blocks of ice can only preserve them for so long."
I noticed the wooden crates containing ice set around the small room for the first time. They were stored beneath the marble shelves and behind the feet of the bodies themselves. I pulled my cloak tighter.
"Do Jimmy or Pete work here?" I asked.
"I don't know yet, but tonight was the first time since we began watching them that they visited. They must be associated with this place somehow."
"I wonder what the butcher wants with them." I ventured closer, avoiding looking at the pig carcasses and instead focusing on the last human on the right. His skin wasn't as decayed as the others and he still had most of his hair. He looked only a little older than me. He seemed to be the most recent addition to the cool room, so he must be Gordon Thackery.
"Are you ready?" Lincoln asked.
"No, but I doubt I ever will be." I stood a few feet from Thackery and blew out several breaths. Lincoln set the candle down on a shelf nearby and slid a knife from his sleeve. I wasn't sure why, since I could control the soul after I'd raised it.
"Gordon Moreland Thackery, can you hear me?" My voice echoed around the small room, although I'd kept it low and quiet. "The spirit of Gordon Thackery, I need you to join me here in the world of the living again." When nothing happened, I added, "I summon you."
A white mist coalesced out of the air above the body. It drifted back and forth then formed the shape of Gordon Thackery, right down to the bent nose. "Who're you, and what do you want?"
My pulse quickened. Despite knowing I controlled spirits, raising the dead still alarmed me. "My name is Charlie," I said. "I wish you no ill."
"Then let me return."
"I can't. I need your help. Someone has removed your body from its resting place." I nodded at the dead figure in front of me.
The mist swirled around the body, shimmering in the candlelight. Its ghostly hand reached for the cheek, but didn't touch. "What is this?" He shot toward me, stopping so close to my face that I had to lean back or be covered in spirit mist. "Have you done this?" He raged. "Him?"
Lincoln moved up beside me, his arm touching mine. He couldn't see or hear the spirit, and it must be difficult to follow a one-sided conversation, but he didn't ask me to repeat Gordon Thackery's words. His solid presence was reassuring.
I tried to keep my voice steady, my gaze direct. The spirit was confused and angry at being wrenched from his afterlife. I couldn't blame him for that. Of course, it was also possible that he hadn't been a good man in life.
He can't harm you, Charlie.
"Not us," I told him. "These bodies were dug out of their graves by two men, possibly acting on another's instructions. We don't know why, and despite our best efforts, they won't tell us."
"Have you tried beating the answers out of them?" Gordon asked with a sneer.
I couldn't help smiling. "Yes, but they still kept their secrets. We decided to scare the answers out of them instead."
"How? They can't see me, only you can. Are you a medium?"
"Not precisely. I'm a necromancer."
He frowned. "That word is unfamiliar."
"I summon the dead from the other side and direct them into a body to bring it back to life…in a way."
"Blimey." He looked impressed and horrified in equal measure. It was an improvement over his anger. "A little thing like you can do that? Can he?"
"Not him."
He nodded, thoughtful. "That makes you a very powerful woman."
"So will you help us to stop the men doing this?"
"Do I have a choice?"
I
thought about lying, but decided there was no point. "No. We need you to do this for us, and I can make you. I'm sorry, but I assure you that I will release you afterward."
The mist swept away and circled his body again. Ghostly fingers rubbed his chin. "What if you die before you can release me, Charlie? What happens to my spirit then?"
"I…I don't know." I glanced at Lincoln. If his books didn't specify then it was unlikely he would know. It was a question to ask my real mother—if she was still alive.
"Then you'd better not die," Gordon said.
"I don't plan to."
He studied his body, taking particular interest in the hook in the back of the neck. "Will I feel pain?"
"The dead feel nothing. You'll have a little trouble with controlling your movements at first, but it won't hurt."
"Good." Misty fingers passed through what would have been his hair, as if it were a long held habit from life. "I have a troubled history with pain. I don't like it, you see. A bad state of affairs for a soldier." He laughed without humor. "My weakness did this to me."
"Killed you?" I asked, startled. "I don't understand."
"Opium. Black tar. The soothing bliss of oblivion from the pain caused by my injuries. I got shot in the leg in Burma and couldn't cope with the pain upon my return to London. Opium offered the only relief."
"But you became addicted," I finished. "And your addiction killed you."
"I'd say so. I don't recall much. Out of my mind, you see. Opium does that to a fellow."
Lincoln touched my arm gently. "Ready?" he asked.
I nodded. To the spirit, I said, "The sooner we start, the sooner we can finish. Float into your body."
He looked uncertain, but tried it anyway. Once the entire mist had disappeared, the body jerked on its hook like a recently caught fish. He stretched his fingers and lifted his head. The skin on his face was so pale it almost glowed in the wan light, and the blank eyes made the cavities seem more sunken. Even as I acknowledged each sign of death, the rest of the body came slowly to life, one limb at a time. Gordon's spirit seemed to be testing out each finger, every muscle, seeing if his parts still worked. It was both fascinating and gruesome. I couldn't turn away.