The Double Life of Incorporate Things (Magic Most Foul)

by Hieber, Leanna

  The hallway wasn’t like that of a house; it was more like an alley, bricks and archways to either side of me, the shadows deep and shifting, the second life of a city once the sun descends. The myriad sounds of a thriving metropolis filtered through to my ear but as if from far away or as though I were hearing them through glass.

  And then a horse nearly ran me down. I only heard the galloping at the last minute.

  There was a flash of light, a seizure of fear, so many things collided in that moment as I felt a hand shove me against the hard brick wall at my back and a stern voice saying my name. My mother. Saying my name. Pushing me out of the way, just like she did to save my life at age four… Would I always need her to rescue me? Waking, dreaming, always rescuing me.

  There were tears in my eyes, for the idea that Helen Stewart was strong enough in life and in death to continuously come to my aid, as her spirit had been forceful enough to do even outside my dream realm, made me feel as though she were not dead at all, really, just in a different place than my corporeal reality. But still, in her way, she was very much alive. We knew so little, really, of divine mystery and the Undiscovered Country. Those two worlds were closer in distance, perhaps, in dreams. But my mother’s whisper crossing the boundaries of life and death to be with me was the stuff of happiness, not nightmare.

  But then I heard screaming.

  My nightmares liked to remind me what they were, lest I ever be lulled into something pleasant.

  As the riderless, unbridled, unsaddled horse ran free, tearing ahead, clattering down cobblestones, and its white form faded into the darkness ahead, I found myself walking inexorably forward, toward a building from whence the noise and commotion were coming.

  A lantern swung in the wind of the horse’s wake outside a wide-paneled glass window. Within, I saw a figure struggling, wild haired and wide-eyed as if his body were battling with itself, his black-clad form writhing against the wooden bar of what I assumed was a tavern. There were ledges where gentlemen stood with glasses around the perimeter of the bar, and tables of people, all of them looking on in horror.

  Two young women, also in elegant mourning-wear, stood at the entrance to the tavern, looking on and screaming. I recognized them from the swaying, enchanted crowd thronging the orchestra pit of Nathaniel Veil’s shows; they were members of his Association. I scanned the crowd; all were staring at the struggling gentleman, now a second one beside him in similar throes, a fine-looking man of business, not a youth of the Association. The patrons of the tavern were looking around wildly, as if anyone around them could be suspect. Across the room, leaning against a wall, was a somber-looking fellow, the only one who didn’t seem surprised. He was in a long beige coat, the pale color standing out against all the dark din. He stood with a doctor’s bag. Stevens.

  This was another instance of “The Cure” going horribly wrong.

  And then the man turned to look at me. With dark, reflective eyes, shining like an animal’s in the night. He smiled a sharp-toothed smile, and his visage flickered as if it were in a flip-book where static images simulate movement if turned in quick succession. In this dizzy shift, I no longer saw a man’s face but the gargoyle-like, horrid, twisted features of the demon’s pure form, the ungodly picture my mind had attached to the raw, dark energy that had twice physically attacked me. In terms of the demonic possession we had encountered in our ordeals thus far, the senses were not always to be trusted. The man, or creature, reached out a hand, staring at me through the glass, his still and static form so eerie in comparison to all the tumult around him...

  A pressure around my throat, all too familiar, had me gasping and choking and bolting up straight into the blinding moonlight as white as the horse that nearly ran me down.

  Puzzling over these things as I woke, I jotted down everything I could remember in the beautiful leather-bound diary that had been a gift from Mrs. Northe. I must have slept in past breakfast. Considering I was known to be a fitful sleeper, Father generally didn’t wake me and simply let me sleep my fill. We’d not stood on much ceremony over meals through the years; my inability to speak had always made that time somewhat strained, and now, what was there to talk about but the pall cast over us until the evils of the Society were put to rest?

  Still, Father and I had gained so much ground in love and trust, and I was determined not to lose it. I was also determined to carve out my niche at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, having been “apprenticed” to the Acquisitions department—which really wasn’t an appointment so much as an appeasement of my stubborn spirit, which wanted something to do. Still, even though I’d not been given any real responsibility, I would show up as if I had.

  But I arrived to find my father kept in a private meeting where it was obvious that a young woman’s presence was not welcome. So I then wandered the museum itself, which had always been, since its recent opening, one of my very favorite places, very nearly as sacred to me as the park in which it was ensconced. I was determined not to let the horror that had happened within the building’s basement rooms in the dead of night mar the whole of that beautiful institution. I strolled the halls, lost in the beautiful art, drinking in every corner, crevice, and open space of the grandeur of this building founded by all kinds of wealthy New Yorkers dying for this city to rival the great European metropolises. I steered clear of the basement vault rooms where memories lurked like spiders hanging from webs in dark spaces.

  Once Father was free, he searched out my restless spirit until he found me in the exquisite company of the sculpture wing. Bidding us take tea in one of the meeting rooms, he excitedly shared the latest plans for funding and expansions at the museum and mentioned a horde of upcoming galas he would need to facilitate and attend. I nodded eagerly at the mention of his various events.

  Father busy at the Metropolitan meant fewer eyes upon me and all that I may be called upon to do that he’d hardly approve of. He was sure to add that Mrs. Northe would see to my chaperoning, which he said with some trepidation. He probably realized at this point that the woman he was painstakingly courting—though he and I both faced the daunting class and wealth differential between our respective prospects—was as much an enabler as anything.

  Still, as long as we went through all the motions of propriety, in this there was some consolation for a man who had always struggled to know what to do with the headstrong girl so much like his late wife. A man who found himself again in the thrall of someone as imperious as Mrs. Northe. My father the mouse, my mother the hawk, Evelyn Northe the eagle... Perhaps the species could get along, like in the visions of God’s kingdom...

  “Evelyn has invited us for dinner this evening,” Father added. “She might be out when we arrive, but she’s instructed us to make ourselves comfortable in our various spheres.”

  My father did enjoy a fine cigar, and there were no shortage of those in the late Peter Northe’s study, which was kept lively by the comings and goings through her home. I’d have no problem entertaining myself in her massive library, wondering if I could pick the locks on some of her glass cabinets of the rarer and potentially scandalous kinds of books a good girl was not supposed to read, like advanced physics and mechanical engineering and maybe the odd book on the occult. I would, of course, hope Jonathon would be there. He had yet to report on his scouting of the addresses. I had a great deal to share with him in turn. I would have to do my very best to make sure there was no awkwardness, to assure him that I wanted us to move forward as a team, a couple, betrothed...

  I smiled and took Father’s proffered arm, hoping warmth could offset the dark circles beneath my eyes from a sleep full of harrowing dreams. My quiet demeanor and pleasant expression seemed to placate him. I would do what I could to maintain that facade for the man who only wanted my happiness. Truly, I knew that was his foremost concern, hoping for a less paranormally augmented life for his daughter than had been granted by fate. He didn’t ask about any news, evidence, or anything about Jonathon at all. I was sure he’
d pressure the proposal still, but perhaps he was giving us a bit of breathing room, and for that I was grateful.

  No one seemed to be home at the Northe residence but a new maid I didn’t recognize—perhaps with all the entourages of various guests in her home, she’d hired more staff. The Irish woman, Sally, (who was surprised that I asked to address her by name) said she’d likely be home soon so I could wait for her in the parlor, as there were always “people that Mistress would be expecting,” and I was one of them.

  And so I did. At first I just sat, taking in all the fine things of the room, the brocades, the flocked wallpaper, and richly paneled wood, the fine curtains with tassel and trim, the marble fireplace with a mantel topped with stained-glass lamps and two dancing bronze sculptures, the fine curio full of delicate china and figurines, a lacquered harpsichord in the corner I wondered if she knew how to play, and of course, a lavish writing suite.

  There was a letter laying out upon on her desk. I stood. I knew I shouldn’t spy or pry. But knowing you shouldn’t and actually stopping yourself from reading what’s lying out in the open… But the first sentence caught my eye:

  My dear niece Maggie,

  It’s up to you whether the devils will have you or not…

  And then I was absorbed in all that Mrs. Northe hadn’t wanted to tell me, but what she’d clearly left out for me to see…

  Chapter Seven

  My curiosity about the letter overtook my propriety. Mrs. Northe knew me. Quite well. If that was lying out in plain sight, I was meant to see it. At least, that’s how I justified sitting down to read it.

  My dear niece Maggie,

  It’s up to you whether the devils will have you or not… Karen tells me that you seem detached from the reality that you are in, in that you are not taking responsibility for your actions but are blaming them on others. Me, for one. Natalie, another, Mr. Bentrop and that book still more...

  Here is where I have failed you. I didn’t know about that book until it was too late. But some part of you had to know it wasn’t a good book, Maggie, didn’t you? You’ve insisted on trying to get information out of me. Why wouldn’t you have brought that book to me? Mr. Bentrop turned you against me? Over the course of a couple of dinner parties? He is not a nice man, Maggie, nor are his associates. They are trying to pave roadways for the type of terrible energy that nearly killed you, the kind you willingly brought into your own home, resurrected in an altar in your closet.

  I beg you to see that I dissuaded you from the wrong types of paths; I encouraged you to sit with our simple, quiet séances. But they were not flashy enough for you. It was not exciting enough, it seemed, to merely set a soul to rest. Power was more entrancing for you, and parlor tricks to charm a crowd. There are plenty of charlatan spiritualists out there who can train you in the ways of the trick table to create knocks as if a spirit were corresponding. That isn’t my brand, it isn’t my way, and I’ll not encourage mere theatrics. I’ve told you this countless times. But I want you to see these convictions of mine in print, on paper, here in this vulnerable hour, I want you to understand the difference between the type of evil you courted and the type of peace and light in which I strive to live. And, yes, of course, there is a harrowing gray area between.

  I know that you are jealous of what Natalie and I shared. I am fond of Natalie, and I always will be. She was called by God to do something very specific. She had to be the one to rescue Lord Denbury’s soul. You must accept that as fact and move on from it.

  And now you, dear Maggie, are called to turn your life around.

  In doing so, I daresay you might be far more powerful than you could ever have imagined. For you stared down the Devil, after inviting him in and now you have the chance to repent and say no. It is brave to recognize you made a mistake and to devote your life to a different path. There are two paths. Two walks in this life, and in the life of a soul beyond its body. This is the point at which you must choose.

  You must take Karen’s words deeply to heart. She and Amelia were the two brightest spots of my youth, and when all of us were beset with dark energies, we pulled each other through into the light. I have to believe Amelia is there as a guardian angel, willing you into that same better day; she was always powerful in spirit.

  Please don’t ever think you haven’t been important to me. Your soul was crying out for attention, and I was fixated upon Natalie’s particular dilemma. For that I apologize. But I did trust that you were strong enough to not be overcome by darker whims. Prove that to me now in showing me you know the difference between the darkness you courted and the light that your family and friends offer you. Don’t worry about the retribution of your family, you leave that to me, I’ll make them come around.

  I hope you might be moved to write back. Natalie has asked after you; she wants you to be healthy and happy as much as I do. If she can forgive you, seeing as she almost died due to your lack of understanding, you are further along your path toward a greater power. Embrace it.

  Your aunt,

  Evelyn

  I set down the letter and sat slowly upon the nearest settee, my heart very full. I prayed very hard for Maggie. For Mrs. Northe. For myself. I sat in silence until Mrs. Northe swept in, all grace, graciousness and grandeur.

  Dinner was quiet and lovely. Lavinia had dinner sent to her room as she was tasked with correspondences to all of her Association, trying to make sure no further lambs were lost in the dark wood of chemical temptations offered by wolves. But my dream haunted me and I wondered if I should warn her. But what could she do? She was already trying to assess the damage done, and she was perhaps psychologically still at a critical juncture. Jonathon was again out. With no explanation as to where. The thought that he may be avoiding me made my stomach twist in a terror as gripping as my nightmares.

  Home once the sun set, I returned immediately to my room. Diary in hand, I sat at my window, looking out at what I could of the city, the avenue beyond. It was all right that I was restless. So was New York. The city had always, in its own way, understood me. Then I looked down and examined the words I had written.

  White Horse.

  Tavern.

  Chaos.

  Stevens.

  Bits of conversation came back to me as I stared at the first two lines of my notes. The new White Horse Tavern. I’d heard my father’s friends at the Metropolitan talking about its recent opening. That would be the site of the next attack. And if I knew my dreams, the result would be within days of the dream. I had no time to lose; I had to investigate. Tonight.

  Chapter Eight

  I’d done this before: dressing in men’s clothing in order to investigate a scene.

  Last time I’d ended up in a part opium den, part brothel in the Five Points, on the trail of a murderer, trying to protect innocent victims. It was certainly one of the braver things I’d done.

  This time, simply donning men’s clothes so as not to be questioned or accosted while I examined a mere tavern near Greenwich Village after dark seemed like far less dangerous quarry. Still, upending my gender and pretending to be something I was not has its anxieties.

  I stared at myself in the mirror, dressed in one of Father’s plain brown cast-off suits that I’d had secretly tailored down to fit me during my first foray into subterfuge, back in the days when saving Lord Denbury’s soul was a methodical process.

  Looking at the youthful creature in the mirror, my auburn locks tucked and pinned up beneath a newsboy’s cap, I felt far less certain about the exact right course of action. Though my instincts were strong, I now had experienced more trials and errors by which to second-guess myself.

  The fact that I’d survived against all odds with the help of God, mentorship, love, and some benevolent spirits didn’t make me feel much better about tempting fate once again. At what point would God deem me foolish and stop watching out for me when I was obviously putting myself in situations where I might need divine intervention?

  The danger of crying wo
lf seemed a distinct possibility here, and yet I didn’t know any other way to confront the clues granted to me in my dreams but this. If I did nothing, I was a coward without a gift. This was a way of taking my knowledge into action without dragging anyone else along with it, in case my dream world was entirely wrong. I didn’t want to make anyone else liable for my mind’s unpredictable eye. Along with any sort of power, a great responsibility comes hand in hand. That was surely a certainty for the ages.

  I stared at myself in the mirror in the same way I’d done when I’d first donned men’s wardrobe for the sake of espionage; surprised at the young boy before me, I knew that I was me, and yet here I was certainly not as society would have me. It was a nice blending wardrobe, nothing too fine, nothing too shabby, brilliantly and forgettable in the middle-class range.

  I snuck out of the house by ten, blessed by early and heavy sleepers on Father’s and Bessie’s count. I was far more the night owl. Watching men’s gaits to try to embody their strides, I went out to Lexington Avenue to hail a cab. My allowance for penny candies, ribbons, and newspapers had been increasingly co-opted for spy-craft. I corralled a downtown-bound hansom cab, and the small compartment clopped and bounced down cobblestone blocks until the streets went at odd angles, and old New York streets took over, donning family names and early histories, banishing the numbered grid to the uptown streets it had served since the beginning of the century.

  The White Horse was as you’d expect of any tavern: loud, raucous, filled with liquor and men. I sidled up to the wooden bar and ordered a drink in a low voice, whatever I’d heard the man a few steps ahead of me order. I knew nothing of liquor or beer; I’d sip the glass and not drink it as I scouted for my target, not wanting any substance to make me any less sharp. It didn’t take terribly long to find the man in question.