Lillian Holmes and the Leaping Man

by Ciar Cullen

  “Addie chooses her battles wisely, Thomas. Don’t fret so. Now show me some of your latest contraptions. I’d like to see how you’re getting on with that small spyglass I fancy…”

  “Time for sleep, Miss Holmes! Dr. Schneider said sleep is essential to your health. And the Lord knows it’s essential to this old body.”

  “Dr. Schneider would have me sleep my life away.” And how nice that sounds right now.

  “You must be careful, Lillian. Addie frets constantly about you. Take care, my dear. A little ride now and then…well, that can stay between us. Be temperate, girl. At least, be outwardly temperate. Did you take your pistol?”

  “Of course.”

  Thomas nodded and let out a deep breath, and Lillian cursed herself. The butler looked quite exhausted. She’d taken advantage of the wide berth he’d allowed her all these years.

  “Thomas,” she whispered to stop him in his tracks.

  He turned. “Yes, Miss?”

  “I thank you much for all you do for me. I mean, that you allow me to…to be me. That you trust me.” If I needed a father, I would want him to be you.

  A fleeting smile disappeared so quickly Lillian thought she imagined it. Then Thomas nodded and mumbled something as he opened the rear door to the house.

  When alone in her room, Lillian stepped out of her clothes, washed her face, and retrieved the bottle of Mrs. Winslow’s remedy from its hiding place. She pushed down Dr. Schneider’s severe scolding about her habit and took a deep swig from the bottle. She’d argued that mothers gave teething babies a dose of the liquid, so it could not be strong. He’d cursed in German and added, “You can quiet an infant into the grave, Lillian. You can quiet your own cries the same way.”

  Next week, I will give it up next week. Only on this anniversary. To sleep.

  Her nerves calmed, she fell asleep quickly—only to awaken in a sweat an hour later. She tossed and turned in the stifling heat and finally discarded her clinging nightclothes to a heap on the bed and approached the window for some relief.

  It was not relief she found. Through the fine mist that diffused the lights on the empty street below Lillian peered. There beneath her, at first unaware of her detection, a man had dropped from a neighboring balcony two stories above. When he hit the ground with the grace of a feline, he turned and glanced up as if he’d felt her stare.

  A chill ran through Lillian’s bones at that glance, at the sight of a man who should have broken limbs and bruises if he survived the fall at all. Still, he was most certainly a man, and a cheeky one at that. Lillian brought her arms across her chest at his intense gaze. Knowing she should shift, that she should hide her nudity from a stranger, she tried to inch back but still keep sight of him. Her feet would barely move.

  In the darkness, before he slipped into the black shadows, he smiled and tipped his cap, chuckling as he disappeared.

  Lillian assumed her neighbor had taken a lover, as gossipers reported such was the widow’s unseemly habit, and put the incident aside as a rather uninteresting example of human frailty. She took the time, however, to flatten a new page in her Journal of Observations, and to make an accurate notation of the event. She noted the man’s tall stature, his lean look, the angularity of his features, the deepness of his eyes and the paleness of his skin—or had that been a function of the streetlight and shadows? And yes, she added as an afterthought, his face was splendid. Perfect, in fact.

  The image of the Leaping Man burned in her brain until she fell into a fitful nightmare of her departed mother reaching out to her and whispering silent endearments. Yes, the Melancholies always came on August 28th .

  ***

  The hue and cry in the morning proved Lillian’s first hypothesis about the Leaping Man wrong, and she reprimanded herself for the error. This had nothing to do with the appetites of the widow Mrs. Gilvarg. Paul Stephenson, the youngest of a family of five that had moved into the house two doors down, was dead of an apparent suicide, all the blood having seeped from a series of gashes to his neck. He’d dropped the knife on the floor near his bed.

  “Surely the detectives see the similarity to the murder of Mayor Blackstone!” she cried at breakfast. “This young man did not take his own life!”

  Thomas shook his head, and without looking up from his cup of tea he grumbled, “Leave it be, Lillian.”

  She must go to the authorities at once.

  I saw him. He smiled at me. Her stomach churned, and blood turned to ice in her veins. A craving for a soothing bit of tonic made her hands shake.

  “Addie, Thomas, please listen to me. I saw the murderer. He wore a dark fisherman’s cap. Tall, very tall, and broad shouldered. He jumped from a two-story balcony and landed like a cat, sure-footed and calm, however improbable that seems. I saw him.”

  “Oh, Lil.” Addie looked up from her needlework and sighed. “You promised you would at least try. Shall I call the Doctor?”

  “I would take an oath on Uncle’s…” You have no uncle. How could you be so stupid? Now they will never believe you.

  “This is most upsetting to us all, Lil. Retire to your room and rest. I’ll be up with a fresh pot of tea, how will that be?”

  Addie shared a quick look with her brother, and Lillian knew all was lost. If the two people who loved her most didn’t believe her, the authorities would surely not. They would send for Dr. Schneider that very day.

  Well, then, it will be my case, my secret. Uncle would keep the clues to himself until he could fully solve them, and once all was clear, he’d report his dramatic findings to Scotland Yard. Lillian would do the same, and she looked forward to the spectacle she would create, the headlines and accolades.

  Oh, what a letter she would write, she swore as she closed her door and reached for her bottle of Mrs. Winslow’s.

  CHAPTER TWO

  An irrepressible fugitive returns.

  George rose from bed, having slept soundly through the day, sated with the blood of a healthy young man, his favorite meal. He stuffed his bloodied cap and jacket into the fireplace, rolled up the newsprint strewn about the floor, lit a match and threw it in after them, congratulating himself for remembering to secure a room at the Altamont Hotel with a fireplace. They often came in handy, even in the stifling heat of late summer.

  While the place wasn’t particularly up to his standards and he preferred the clientele of the Rennard, his room offered an unobstructed view of the elegant homes on Eutaw Street. So irritating, this confinement. As far as everyone knew, including his brother Phillip, he was across the seas, whiling away fifty years or so. But in less than a year, his enemies, and they were now numerous, had forced his retreat back to Baltimore.

  How had Marie de Bourbon done it? In the decade he and his brother were in America, she’d managed a total coup of the French and British Houses: two hundred vampyre, at least, under her control, including his own mother. Those who fought her were perished or scattered across the continent. Madam Lucifer had once again earned her name. And now, rumors among the House in New York hinted she had set her sights on America.

  Of course, the sighting in New Orleans of a woman fitting her description was likely nothing. The voodoo priestesses of that city had invented all manner of creature, including the phantom Loogarou. Vampire-wolves, indeed. He snorted. It was a city of hysteria.

  George wished Marie would go to New Orleans. She’d have some competition there, as well as some capable human adversaries from Africa and the Caribbean. How could he amass comrades in this pitiful city? Besides a few fledglings he’d only recently kicked from the nest, there was only one with any power at all, only one other of his kind he could count on: his brother. No, it would take decades to build a House of any size at all. Trustworthy children, with fealty to him and his favorites alone, built strong by the maker’s bond, and enriched by many “grandchildren” and “great-grandchildren.” Neither George nor Phillip had ever had a taste for the politics of vampire regimes, choosing instead to live more solitary l
ives in less attractive cities. Like this one.

  But now, without such a following, those who had lived such solitary lives were at extreme risk, as Houses grew in numbers and powers, spreading quickly through America and God knew where else. And George, perhaps, was at the greatest risk of all, having brushed up against a Queen with a voracious appetite and taste for power and revenge.

  “Won’t Phillip be surprised,” George whispered to the hissing fireplace.

  And, Won’t he hate you for breaking your agreement? Won’t he try to kill you to protect his lovely new bride? His brother would die in any such attempt to destroy his maker, but he would likely sacrifice himself nonetheless. Phillip tended toward heroics. They were as night and day. For as sure as the sun would set in a few moments, George knew that Phillip had allowed his sweet little Kitty Twamley to remain human, flesh and untainted blood, while he feasted alone on the criminal element of Baltimore.

  So noble, so naïve, George thought as he pulled on his pipe. When the pretty lass started to age, when her flesh sagged and wrinkled, Phillip would regret his decision. How many mortal women had they buried through the centuries? How many had they left to rot where they lay? How many had they brought into the fold? They should have kept a journal, he mused.

  George watched the last finger of light shorten its reach on the carpet and recede into twilight; then he pulled the heavy curtain back a fraction to ensure darkness had indeed fallen and it was safe to draw wider so he could spy on his neighbors. While Phillip seemed to take after their mother and was unaffected by daylight, George, like most of their kind, grew weak with extended exposure to the sun.

  Three days, and no sign of Phillip or Kitty. He’d seen familiar figures enough: the tiresome Langhan sisters on some social jaunt each evening. The fruit vendor—hadn’t he done in his brother? Or was that the butcher? The city’s slow-witted policemen didn’t have time or inclination to solve the murders of the lower classes, and George snickered. They were still licking their wounds after allowing the mayor’s murder. Or, as most still believed, suicide.

  Where is he? It wouldn’t do for his enemy or one of her lieutenants to find him before he had a chance to elicit allegiance from Phillip.

  Had the pair married already and honeymooned abroad? Subtle inquiries suggested Phillip still resided in the mansion he and George shared before Kitty stumbled into their lives. Perhaps his brother was avoiding him, having tasted a year free of the bond of his maker. Or, emotional chap that he was, perhaps he’d actually missed George. George would have to ascertain which, quickly, to know how to play best on Phillip’s intense romanticism.

  George’s attention was drawn to a tall, slender, raven-haired woman who emerged from a house a few doors down the street. Her carriage was striking, her figure curvaceous enough to bring his lust to life. How old was she? He imagined her twenties, given her simple but stylish dress. Her face shielded a bit by her wide hat, she fretted with her gloves and bag and stopped for a moment.

  Why so nervous, lovely lady? Did she step out to meet a lover?

  A pack of little ruffians, none older than twelve or so, materialized as if from thin air and circled her, giggling and pulling at her hand.

  “She’ll be robbed, stupid girl!” He laughed at the simple tricks of the rapscallions. He’d separated enough women from their jewels and purses as a youth, using his charm and captivating mortal good looks.

  But no, she laughed with them and scooped the youngest up into her arms. One held an oversized hound by a rope, although the dog seemed to be leading the boy.

  George shrugged and turned away. Another insipid girl in an uninteresting century, in a most uninteresting city. But as she turned to speak to the children, he caught a glimpse of her face and froze. The woman from last night! Hadn’t she looked quite different with the moonlight shining on her long silky hair, her arms barely concealing her breasts, her gently rounded hips visible above that window ledge? What had she thought, seeing him jump two stories to the street? She must have believed she was dreaming. Had he not been in a euphoric state from the blood of the young chap he’d devoured, he’d likely have taken her too.

  George smiled, making a mental note of a potentially enjoyable meal. Didn’t she know the streets were not safe at night?

  He brushed his hands over his face, thinking for a moment of the days when a beautiful woman was a different kind of meal, quenched a different thirst. He would murder, but he wasn’t a rapist, and he didn’t have time or interest in courting such a lady of society. God, but this era was tiresome, with table legs wrapped in cloth against impropriety. Peeling the layers of clothing off a woman like that would take weeks, possibly months… No, he’d have to settle with the whores of Fell’s Point.

  He jumped at the knock on his door, and as he approached it, he sensed that his brother had found him first. And he felt Phillip’s anger.

  “It’s all right, Georgy, let me in,” his brother called.

  George drew his power up in a breath and opened the door, then nonchalantly turned his back on his sibling and retrieved his pipe. He stared out the window, waiting for Phillip to speak first, but the room remained silent. Finally he turned, finding the eyes of the first person he’d made immortal. His only ally, willing or not.

  “I despise you for making me hide out in this dreadful place. Where have you been?”

  “You said you’d stay away until Kitty’s natural life came to an end. You promised, George. Of course, I am once again the fool for believing you.”

  “Yes, I love you too. Now, where have you been?”

  “What does it matter?”

  George tilted his head and sent the force of his will into Phillip’s chest. Yes, the connection remained.

  “New Orleans, damn you to hell.”

  “Too much competition in that city.”

  “We were there so Kitty could paint a portrait. A handsome commission, too. I care not about the New Orleans House. A more pompous, egotistical society I never encountered. You would fit in nicely.”

  “And does our long-lost cousin still run that House? Do we still find favor among his brood? I recall he made you a handsome offer some decades ago?”

  “Looking for a post are you, George? You want to be Jean’s errand-boy? I find that quite amusing.”

  “I simply like to keep up on the latest comings and goings.”

  “I felt you as soon as I returned.” His brother shook his head morosely and sat. “I thought our bond fully broken when you left for London.”

  “You thought you’d be completely free of me—at least for many years.” George had expected his brother’s disappointment, but not that it would hurt his pride. “The maker bond is as strong as ever, isn’t it? I feel it to be so.”

  “And now you will strengthen it, and I’ll be at your mercy again. Sadly enough, part of me welcomes it. I’m so used to fighting you at every turn, trying to undo the havoc you wreak; I’ve barely known what to do with myself with all my free time.”

  “Sarcasm is not your strong point.”

  “At least now I’ll have you to blame for all of my own mistakes as well.” Phillip loosened his cravat and leaned back into the cushions.

  “Like Kitty?” George held his hand up to ward off the coming attack. “Ah, old habits die hard. Kitty is not a mistake in your eyes. But I know the temptation to take her blood must be overwhelming at times. How does she fare?”

  “She is well, as if you care. But you are not here for her, so tell me what brings you back. We had a bargain.”

  “I don’t mind Kitty that much. Although she might be in the way now.”

  “You are in the way. She is to be my wife.”

  George paced in front of the fireplace, now only embers. “Madam Lucifer is at it again. Marie de Bourbon is unalive, well, and on a new crusade against me.”

  Phillip laughed. “Oh, bloody hell, George. Is that all? My ex-wife threatened you? Did you call her portly again?”

  “It’s
not funny. She has a long memory.”

  “Yes, well, it’s a little hard to forget that your brother-in-law turned your husband into a vampire. She was somewhat fond of me. At least, I think she was. Didn’t like either of us much after you drained her, too.”

  “I was a bit relentless in those first weeks.”

  “You were quite insane, as I’ve not seen since in any House. You killed for sport, it seemed.”

  George spun away from Phillip and rubbed at his chin. Don’t lose your temper just yet. Let him get a few digs in. “I concur. It was not my finest moment. In any case, I released Marie’s bond centuries ago in a moment of weakness. I should have killed her when I had the chance.”

  “So kill her now, what do I care? She’s loathsome and would certainly take me down with you, along with my Kitty. You’d be doing us all a favor. What can I do about any of this? If she’s too strong for you, then she’s far too strong for me.”

  George spun on his heel to face his brother. Don’t scare him away. “She’s amassed an enormous following, Phillip. If I stepped foot in France or England, her Houses would be on me in an instant. It was dreadful in London. You’ve been away too long. It’s a veritable war. Her, Mother—”

  “Mother? You saw her?”

  That was a low blow, George admitted, but it was the one card he had up his sleeve. Phillip always softened at the mention of her. Their mother had wanted little to do with George since in a moment of weakness he’d become his brother’s maker. Still, she had little room to talk, didn’t she? George himself had been her first meal.

  “She can take care of herself. But she won’t help me, and we both know why. So Madam Lucifer continues her hunt unimpeded. I have no allies. Evidently I do not inspire devotion. I cannot imagine why.”

  He sniffed out a laugh, but Phillip remained stone-faced. “Why hide here? Go to some exotic outpost, to the Orient or the western frontier of America! Why involve me in your mess?”