The Double Life of Incorporate Things (Magic Most Foul)

by Hieber, Leanna

  The Double Life of

  Incorporate Things

  The finale of Magic Most Foul

  by

  Leanna Renee Hieber

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Inscription

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  The End

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2013 by Leanna Renee Hieber

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews, without written permission from the author.

  Cover and interior design by Stephen H. Segal

  Cover photo by Nik Merkulov/Fotolia

  Published by Deus Ex Victoriana

  For more information and contact details:

  leannareneehieber.com

  twitter.com/leannarenee

  facebook.com/lrhieber

  Inscription

  “There are some qualities—some incorporate things,

  That have a double life, which thus is made

  A type of that entity which springs

  From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.”

  —Edgar Allan Poe

  Chapter One

  October, 1880

  The New York Herald:

  MADISON MADNESS—”MOURNING” HOOLIGANS

  WAGE RAMPAGE ON CITY

  Saturday night, a horde of black-clad youths, men and women in an altered state, recklessly endangered themselves and others in a sprawling public fit following a “wake” at the home of the British Emissary’s daughter Lavinia Kent. The Kents have lived in New York City for nearly six years. While her family was out of town, it seems Miss Kent threw a soiree that Poe in all his ridiculous dark abandon would have envied for one of his tall tales. Even Miss Kent’s poor chaperone was persuaded to partake in “The Cure”: a chemical concoction promised to obliterate melancholy and despair.

  Miss Kent chairs the group known as “Her Majesty’s Association for Melancholy Bastards,” a group affiliated with British actor Nathaniel Veil. When asked why they were all dressed in funereal attire, one girl known only as Raven—presumably in honor of Mr. Poe—said she’d come not only to partake of The Cure but for a wake. (Though no one had died.) They were, it was said, in “mourning for their life.”

  Those who took the substance, which could be inhaled as a powder or mixed into a fluid and consumed, were then purportedly changed mentally and physically. An hour after imbibing the concoction, the party charged up Madison Avenue, howling and tossing aside anything or anyone in their paths. Witnesses described superhuman strength, mesmerism, and suggestion. Those who encountered the mob said the youths held onlookers in thrall, even as they were roughhoused and bullied.

  After a while, horrified onlookers said the crowd simply collapsed, silk frocks and coattails ruined, mourning veils shredded. Strewn on lawns and street corners, the youth had to be roused by various officers of the peace. Most, once roused, fainted dead away again or began weeping. “We’re not animals,” Raven insisted. “We don’t lose our heads like this. Nathaniel will be so angry with us.” Miss Kent herself declined to comment.

  Whether Nathaniel Veil had any hand in this mess is unclear save for the association with his Association. The fact that this could be a mere publicity stunt has escaped no one. Veil recently returned to England to continue his run of ACROSS THE VEIL, a show on Gothic themes, musings on life, death, and dramatic explorations of the paranormal. (A show, this newspaper might add, that did not receive a favorable review within these pages.) After this little interlude he may want to be wary of his welcome back as he is slated to return for another run at the Astor by the end of next month.

  Participants in the incident were charged with disrupting the peace and public drunkenness. A search for the provider of said “cure” is being launched by police, albeit with skepticism. Is there really a drug at work here or was this an excuse to lash out? Surely it’s merely sheer, overdramatic hooliganism at its morbidly dressed worst.

  I set the paper down slowly enough to see the thin edges shake as the full, personal impact of the newspaper article hit me.

  “Natalie, what is it?” Jonathon asked, staring at me with those eviscerating blue eyes of his. I opened my mouth but no sound came out. Damn my unpredictable, inconstant voice.

  For the past many months now, I’d been pummeled by one strange event after another, pulled into the center of a paranormal whirlpool. At least in this case, we had an inkling, some sense of the next onslaught. Still, a foreshadow was hardly a comfort. We couldn’t have guessed the scope.

  Now it wasn’t just myself or Jonathon Whitby, Lord Denbury, in danger, with the occasional collateral victim. Now it was a crowd. I knew the Association. I adored them. They weren’t hooligans or criminals, they were gentle souls, artistic and individual. Overdramatic, yes, but a threat? Hardly. This maligning was the work of The Master’s Society, turning lambs into lions in ungodly experiments, leaving them for fodder in sensational, indelicate journalism. It could only get worse. Exponentially worse.

  “It’s begun,” I finally managed to reply quietly, sliding the paper across the lacquered console table behind the sofa toward Jonathon’s reach. “Another phase. They’ve gone after the Association. And the papers will vilify those poor dears, every last one of them. Jonathon, the demons won’t give up...”

  I rose nervously, going to the lace-covered window of Mrs. Evelyn Northe’s fine parlor so I might watch New York City’s richest and finest parade about Fifth Avenue, Central Park their magnificent backdrop, while Jonathon read the article that had so upset me.

  Once he finished he looked up, tossing the paper onto a nearby writing desk. “Indeed. The demons seem hell-bent on making everyone else as miserable as they must be. Well then, let’s find that laboratory where that damnable concoction was brewed.” His upper-class British accent made his words crisp and biting, his tone laced with a bitter undercurrent; he was a man ready to go to war. “Shall we?”

  I turned to him as a trolley car rumbled downtown, the rattle of the long cab matching my nerves. Jonathon was across the room, sitting tall and composed in a blue armchair upholstered in a fabric as expensive as his black suit. The blue of the chair magnified the shocking ice blue of his eyes. Waves of onyx locks framed his handsome face and completed the elegant symphony of blue and black. I wondered if there would ever come a time when he wouldn’t take my breath away when I turned to look at him. Or if I’d ever stop being terrified of losing him.

  “Jonathon, no, we can’t go,” I finally replied. “You’ve been compromised. You can’t play the demon. Re
member the note?”

  “Ah yes.” He smiled, a bit too confidently. “This note?”

  He dipped a hand to an interior pocket and pulled out two items, a folded paper and an envelope. He opened the first folded paper, showcasing one line of neat black script that had chilled me to the bone. Even from across the room the words hissed:

  “They’re coming for you.”

  The phrase had become a recent feature in my nightmares. “Yes, that note,” I said through clenched teeth.

  He smiled again. “But I received this in yesterday’s mail. A new development. Have a look.”

  He slid the small, neat envelope across the console as I’d done with the newspaper. We had to sit across the room from one another, being unmarried. It was the moral thing to do. The fact that no chaperone was present was a testament to the fact that any who knew us had given up on the idea that Lord Denbury and I could ever have a normal courtship. Still, we tried to be proper.

  The envelope was addressed to Lord Denbury in the same neat, flourished script as the warning note had been, the paper of a finer weave than had ever passed over my gloved fingertips. There was a small black seal on the back, with a crest that looked important. But I suppose all crests look like they carry weight. If our family had a crest, I’d no idea; I was descended of middle-class academics.

  I opened the note Jonathon had already unsealed and read:

  My dear Lord Denbury,

  Your situation has made itself known to me. First, let me say I am very glad to learn you’re not dead. Secondly, I’m glad you’re no longer a demon. Thirdly, I’m terribly sorry about all your wretched luck.

  I followed the course of your portrait with some interest and have been in contact with a friend, a solicitor who I understand assisted you. Mr. Knowles informs me you made contact with the “Majesty,” one of three heads of a group known as the Master’s Society. Ears we have employed inside that very office in Earl’s Court you visited tell us a lackey could be en route to look in on you. I doubt kindly, so don’t prepare tea. Take care.

  But know you are not alone.

  I was assigned to New York City five years ago, employed in most secret investigation, by orders from the highest and most precious in the land. I wish to meet with you. To do so, please hire a southbound carriage at the intersection of 75th and Lexington this coming Friday at 1:25 in the afternoon. Instruct the carriage to turn right at 74th, continue south down Madison, right on 72nd, and then westward; we shall meet at the park entrance. Don’t worry, I’ll find you. Keep your faith and your head, you’ll need them both.

  Your friend,

  Sir G. Brinkman,

  Secret Investigator

  Employed by Her Majesty, and Empress, Queen Victoria

  PS Please burn after reading

  I looked up at him, frowning. Secret investigator? “You’ve spies? Here? Spying on us? Why?”

  “British spies span the world, my dear. We’ve an Empire, remember.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Last time I checked, this country fought a revolution and threw you out.”

  “All the more reason for spies.” Jonathon grinned. He glanced around to see if we might be seen, jumped to his feet, and rushed to lock one strong arm about my waist. “We must keep a watchful eye on our wayward cousins here in our former colony.” He pressed his forehead to mine. “Who knows what they might get up to? We have to make sure they’re on their...best behavior...” He trailed a hand down my body.

  I giggled as I gasped. His ability to set me afire remained overwhelming. Leaning in to him I murmured with my lips so very near his. “Are we really the ones who need watching? I’d beware all those entitled lords thinking they can just come over here and have their way with any American girl...”

  Jonathon blinked. He slid his hands down my waist and clapped about my bustle. “Can’t we?” He grinned as I laughed, diving in to kiss my neck. It was true. He could have his way with me if I wasn’t careful. But before that happened... There was a little business of engagement. One could not play loosely with virtue. Not a woman with any pride or decency. Not a lady. “Ah, but you’re not just any American girl,” he murmured, his breath hot upon the hollow of my throat. “You were the inimitable girl heaven sent to save me. The only girl to see my plight. The only one brave enough risk your life for mine.” He pulled back to gaze into my eyes, his playful seduction transformed into deathly earnest. “And I’ll not lose sight for one moment of the fact I’ll never be able to repay the debt.”

  I kissed him softly on the lips, wanting to indulge more, but painfully aware that at any moment meant Father or Mrs. Northe could come around the hall and in through the open pocket doors. “You mustn’t live in debt to me,” I murmured.

  “Then I’ll live a life in love with you,” he replied.

  There he went again, with words to make me weak in the knees. Such words meant I threw myself at him for another kiss, this one longer. We heard a step on the stair. He broke away with a moan and stepped back a few paces. We looked, but no one approached the pocket doors of the parlor so he didn’t cross the room entirely.

  “I must meet Brinkman. Straightaway. Just as he’s said,” Jonathon said brightly, fishing in another pocket for a box of matches. He’d been enjoying Mr. Northe’s den of fine cigars a bit too often, it would seem, to have matches so easily on hand.

  I raised an eyebrow. “You seem rather cheerful about it.”

  “Help, Natalie, my love. We finally have help.”

  “We’ve always had Mrs. Northe.”

  “And bless her for all that she’s done. But remember, we’ve not always had her. She ran off to Chicago in the hour of our need—”

  “And in doing so saved your friend, and who knows what else she got up to out there, she was up to something—”

  “Natalie, we’ll need all the help we can get. And if it’s from Her Majesty herself? Well then, color me a bit patriotic and proud!” Jonathon cried, and if I wasn’t mistaken, he almost puffed out his chest a bit. He struck a match and suddenly the note from Brinkman was in flames per the agent’s request.

  “How will you know Brinkman, Jonathon? An elaborate path to the park hardly helps you identify him. How do you know he’s not one of theirs?”

  Jonathon tapped between his eyes. “If nothing else, the curse gave me second sight. It has proven true that I see auras of brimstone, like hellfire, upon sight of a Society operative. But around Knowles there is a faint pale light. Mrs. Northe too. And you? Simply angelic. I’ll get one look at Brinkman, and friend or foe will be immediately evident.”

  “Just... take your pistol.” I folded my arms. “And I’m going with you. I hope you memorized those instructions because I don’t remember the details of what you just burned.”

  Jonathon sighed. “I copied them down, Natalie. Will it do me any good to say that I don’t want you to come with me or be placed in any possible danger—”

  “Teams work together and that’s final.”

  “I supposed as much—”

  “But what do I tell Father?” I asked earnestly. The ongoing question that would plague us until we could make our relationship more permanent was what to tell my father. The truth? Or a pleasant lie that would harm no one and keep him from worrying? But considering we were unable to shield Father from the horrors that had befallen me on Denbury’s account, I didn’t know what he’d accept or reject. Before I could wonder further, Jonathon answered.

  “That it’s a lovely day for a walk,” Jonathon said with even brighter cheer, this time forced, moving to stand a further pace apart from me and looking toward the open pocket doors.

  “Indeed,” my father said, startling me with his entrance behind me. “It’s a lovely day for you, Natalie, to show your lord here your precious Central Park!”

  I had wanted to celebrate our recent victory over the demon by spending days luxuriating in my beloved park, sharing my favorite place on earth with the incredible man who had fought with me, through h
ell and back, to be by my side. But fear of “they’re coming for you” had us keeping more indoors, with Mrs. Northe’s private guards on the watch. We hadn’t told my father about that note. We were scared he’d forbid me from seeing Jonathon again, as he’d done just before I nearly died. My throat still bore the faint traces of the demons’ bruises.

  “Don’t you think so, Lord Denbury?” my father said, his eyes bright. “A beautiful day in the park to set things on the proper course?”

  “Yes, Mr. Stewart,” Jonathon said. I could have sworn a nervous shudder rippled through him.

  I had grown intimately accustomed to body language during my many years suffering from Selective Mutism due to the trauma of my mother’s death. Years of silence meant I could read physical cues like a book, and I read Jonathon uncannily well. And while I had only perused a part of that particular library and I wanted to pore over every page, something about his nervousness had butterflies launching into flight within me too. Something about my father’s phrase and tone kindled a little spark of hope...

  Jonathon fidgeted with his coat sleeves. He never fidgeted. I bit my lip.

  Father at long last broke the tense silence. “Evelyn has excused herself I know not where,” he said mournfully. “I was hoping to promenade with her, alas, I must leave it to the young.” He wagged his finger. “Though I shan’t be too far behind...”

  “Ah. Yes.” Jonathon said, patted his breast pocket, moved crisply into the entrance hall, checked his reflection in the tall wardrobe mirror, and turned to me with his most winning smile. “Miss Stewart?” He held out his arm.

  “My lord.” I smiled, my heart hammering, and we set off, Jonathon suddenly acting as though he’d seen a ghost...

  Chapter Two

  There is nothing so beautiful in all the world as Central Park in autumn. I’ve been known to make bold and declarative statements that I will later temper if I’m in less dramatic of a mood. But this is a statement I can put my full weight behind no matter my state of mind.