Gaslamp Gothic Box Set

by Kat Ross

  His chest heaved as he stared at us.

  “Not here, I take it,” John said.

  Moran seemed beyond words. He shook his head.

  I took a closer look at the items strewn about the room. “Have a look at that,” I said, pointing to a smashed box in the corner. Withered, forked roots had tumbled out, along with what looked like animal incisors and a deformed, leathery thing that might have been a mummified foot. Moran crawled over and poked it with his knife. “Mother of Christ,” he muttered.

  “What’s this?” John said.

  He had gone to investigate the closet. Now he held up a round metal vessel, the sides and bottom blackened by fire. We all stared at it for a moment.

  “It’s a fucking cauldron,” Moran said wonderingly.

  John sniffed it and made a face, hastily setting the cauldron on the floor. “I think we can safely say she practiced witchcraft in this room. And she would have needed the charter for the summoning spell.”

  “She broke in and took it once before, when she first invoked the curse,” I said to Moran. “Then she must have returned it in case you looked. But that’s what got me pointed in the right direction. Do you remember those scratches around the doorknob of the music room I asked you about? They’re not from the dogs.” I couldn’t keep the note of triumph from my voice. “They’re from a woman’s hairpin! I thought it might be Emma, but I wouldn’t have known if it weren’t for a monograph Myrtle wrote on the nascent forensic science of tool marks—”

  “Put a lid on it, Pell,” Moran snarled.

  “Er . . . sorry.”

  John walked over, glass crunching beneath his shoes, and offered a hand. To my surprise, Moran took it. He dusted himself off and we went back downstairs, thoroughly searching the other rooms on the way. There was no one home and no sign of the Pythagoras Society charter.

  Once again, we assembled in the drawing room. John poured three fresh whiskies.

  I was starting to feel like we were all in a bad play with too many acts.

  Outside, darkness was falling quickly. The wind gained strength, moaning under the eaves and hurling the autumn leaves about. Moran looked utterly disconsolate, sitting with his head cradled in his hands.

  “You need protection,” John said firmly. “It’s time to admit we’re outmatched. Don’t worry, the Night Squad will keep it quiet. They’re not like the regular police. And I know the agents from the S.P.R. who are working the case. Discretion is their middle name.”

  “And what exactly can they do?” Moran muttered. “Lock me in a nice padded cell at Bellevue?”

  “They can launch a manhunt for Emma, for one thing,” John replied. “She can’t have gone far.”

  Moran gave him dubious look. “There’s two and a half million people in this city, Weston. All she has to do is hide out until I’m dead.” He turned his face away. “Which won’t be long.”

  “Maybe you should go stay at the Fifth Avenue Hotel for now,” I suggested. “Check on your mother—”

  “And have her witness whatever fate awaits me? It would destroy her. No, I’ll take my chances here. Running won’t make a damned bit of difference. I won’t hide like some whipped cur!” He tossed the whiskey back and poured another but didn’t drink it, just sat with his head in his hands.

  I signaled to John and we stepped into the back hall, just through the doorway, where we could keep an eye on Moran. It occurred to me that we stood in the exact same spot where Klara Schmidt had watched him shoot his father.

  “One of us needs to run over to the Nineteenth Ward,” I said. “It’s the closest precinct. The officers there can telegraph Mulberry Street and summon the Night Squad.”

  John sighed. “By one of us, I can tell you mean me. I’m not crazy about the idea of leaving you here, Harry.”

  “His doppelgänger poses no threat to anyone else. You’re faster. And I don’t know any patrolmen at the Nineteenth. They’d write me off as a hysterical female.” I rubbed my arms. The skin-crawling sensation was all too familiar. Chance was starting to twist in unforeseeable ways, an elaborate mousetrap waiting for Moran to nibble at the cheese.

  “Every minute counts now,” I said in a low voice. “If we can’t burn that charter, at least we can bring the full weight of the Night Squad to bear. You were right, we should have done it before.”

  We both looked at Moran. He had risen from the couch and his eyes flicked around the room, examining each object in turn. I knew what he was thinking. Which will it be?

  “Where’s the precinct house?” John asked in a resigned tone.

  “Fifty-Ninth between Second and Third.”

  He nodded. “Sit tight. I’ll be back soon.” John paused at the front door. “If you see it, get out of the house. Both of you.”

  I gave his hand a quick squeeze and returned to the drawing room.

  “Any ideas at all where Emma might have gone?” I asked.

  Moran shook his head. We sat without speaking. It was the most oppressive, dismal interlude I have ever spent. I kept glancing at the clock, calculating how long it would take John to bring help. Forty minutes at least and that’s only if they took him seriously.

  My gaze moved across the family portraits. Now that I knew the truth, they had a more sinister aspect. The old grandfather seemed to be glaring down in disgust. Tamsin’s blue eyes shimmered with nameless despair. Even the yappy dog in her lap looked forlorn.

  I gulped some whiskey, shuddering as it worked its way down.

  Every faint creak of that old house seemed a herald of doom.

  I felt a small lump in my pocket and found the rosary. I cleared my throat. “I have something for you. From Klara Schmidt.”

  Moran’s eyes flicked to mine. “What is it?”

  I opened my palm and showed him the gold crucifix. “I can’t say I liked her much, but I do believe she felt sorry at the end. She asked me to give you this.”

  “I want nothing from that woman,” he muttered. “Nothing.”

  “I’ll just keep it then—”

  He reached out and snatched it from my hand. To my astonishment, Moran pressed the rosary to his lips and quickly hung it around his own neck.

  “I didn’t think you were religious,” I said.

  He gave a silent laugh that was more a gust of air. “I was raised Irish Catholic, Pell. Those nuns still scare me.” He tucked the rosary inside his shirt next to his heart. “And I might be a vainglorious bastard, but I’m not fool enough to spit in the Lord’s face. Not that I have any right to expect Him to help me now.”

  Moran lapsed into a dark reverie. There was an awful resignation in his posture, as if the fight had finally gone out of him. I’m not sure what he might have done if he’d been alone. Ended it like Cash O’Sullivan, perhaps.

  I took another gulp of whiskey.

  My nerves were strung so tight I jumped clear out of my seat when a sudden scratching came at the door.

  Moran’s head snapped around. We stared at the knob.

  Silence. Then the scratching came again, like nails on wood, followed by chuffing breath against the crack.

  The whiskey lent me courage. I strode to the fireplace and seized the poker, then crossed to the door.

  “Pell, don’t—” Moran cried.

  I threw it open. The brindle dog bounded into the room, nearly bowling me over. It went straight to Moran and licked his face.

  “Blue!” he exclaimed, rubbing its ears. “Where did you come from, boy?”

  The appearance of the dog cheered Moran considerably. He wrestled it off the sofa and it rubbed its big head against his knee. I peered into the hall and saw the black hound flopped down on the second landing of the stairs, red tongue lolling as it regarded me with a canine grin.

  “I’d swear they weren’t here before,” I said with a frown. “John and I checked all the rooms upstairs.” I covered my mouth with a hand. “Oh!”

  We shared a silent look. Moran rose to his feet and moved stealthily into th
e hall. We stood together at the bottom of the staircase looking up. Blue hurtled past and vanished into the second floor corridor. The faint notes of Chopin’s Piano Sonata No. 2 in B-flat minor drifted down.

  “She’s playing the funeral march,” Moran said in a disbelieving tone.

  He raced up the stairs. My breath caught as he tripped over a loose square of carpeting just below the last riser, but he recovered and launched himself down the hall toward the source of the taunting music.

  “Wait! What if it’s not Emma?” I yelled. “What if it’s . . . . Oh, damn.”

  Moran was already gone. I lifted my skirts and dashed up the stairs just as the playing abruptly ceased, the final dire note hanging in the air. I moved cautiously down the hall. The door to the music room stood open and I saw Emma leaning against the piano, dark eyes flashing. She pointed a pistol at Moran’s head.

  “Go away, Miss Pell,” she said tightly. She gripped the gun with arms outstretched and I could see her aim wavering a little.

  Moran stood stock still, radiating murderous rage.

  “Where’s the charter?” I took a small step inside the room. “We found Hannah Ferber. She said it’s not too late.”

  “It is for him!”

  “Please, Miss Bayard—”

  She cocked her head, her gaze riveted on Moran. “It’s coming for you, James. There’s no escape this time. No early release for good behavior.” She drew a shuddering breath. “You’re so clever, aren’t you? You’ve managed to survive longer than the others, and I’m glad! Longer to suffer, longer to imagine your final moments. They say if you live long enough, you’ll get to actually meet it before you die. Take its cold hand, let it whisper in your ear.” Emma’s face twitched, but the hand holding the gun steadied.

  “Klara’s stories gave me such nightmares for years,” she muttered. “Terrible, terrible nightmares. The doppelgänger was the worst, but there were others. Have you ever heard of Der Struwwelpeter?” She gave a mirthless laugh. “Ten morality tales of wicked children and their ghastly fates. No?”

  Her voice assumed a thick German accent. “Shall we have The Very Sad Tale with the Matches, in which stupid Paulinchen sets herself on fire and burns to death? Or the Story of the Thumb-Sucker, in which dirty little Conrad runs afoul of a roving tailor who cuts his thumbs off with giant scissors?”

  I cleared my throat. “I will concede that Miss Schmidt was a rather horrid nursemaid, but—”

  “Shut up!” Emma glared at me. “You’ve no idea, do you? Not a clue, either of you. My parents were barely cold in their graves when I was packed off to live here. Tamsin was too busy drinking herself into a stupor to deal with a grieving child so she gave me over to Klara. She spared you the attentions of that monstrous old creature, James, but she didn’t give a damn about me!”

  Emma’s finger tightened a fraction on the trigger. “Declan was the only one who showed me affection. The only one who cared about me. And you took him away, James. You took him away!” The last words rose to an inhuman shriek. Even Moran flinched slightly.

  Her eyes glazed over. “The boy had to be punished for what he did. Punished quite severely. Declan told me so. He would never rest until it was done, and done proper, mind you.”

  The boy. I remembered what Klara said, that his father never used his Christian name.

  A look of cunning came over Emma’s pretty face. “So I thought to myself, maybe that old monster can help me. Maybe she knows a way.”

  “And she sent you to Hannah Ferber,” I said quietly.

  “Hannah.” The name was uttered with disdain. “I expected her to be more impressive. But she took the money in the end and the spell worked, so I can’t complain.” Her rosebud lips compressed into a line. “I felt sorry for Danny and the others. I did. But it couldn’t be helped. Declan said so and he was right. It couldn’t be helped.”

  A slow, cruel grin spread across her features. “I waited so patiently for his turn to come around. I watched as the truth dawned and he saw his own death every time he looked in the mirror. What could be more terrifying than the evil that lurks within all of us? To meet one’s dark half face to face? The endless night of the soul made manifest . . . .”

  She went in this vein for a few tedious minutes. The monologue was a mélange of self-pity, questionable psychology, and half-baked religious notions that under other circumstances might have been humorous. Yet all the while she spoke, I could feel the tension building in the room, like the change in air pressure before a storm, and I knew Moran felt it, too.

  “Enough!” he roared at last, causing Emma to jump.

  I expected the gun to go off, but that’s not what happened.

  Her olive complexion flushed dark pink. “Don’t you dare—”

  “Where is it, ye mad bitch?” His fists clenched and I heard the hint of an Irish brogue again. Moran didn’t seem to notice, but considering that he was born in New York City and raised with a silver spoon, it was decidedly eerie.

  Emma gave a little frown. “Where’s what?”

  Moran’s last thread of sanity snapped. He hurled himself at his aunt. I saw her finger tighten on the trigger and then she stumbled forward as the brindle dog Blue slammed into her from behind. Emma fell to hands and knees and Moran was on her like a tiger, seizing her by the scruff of the neck and shaking her. John’s warning sprang to mind.

  He’s going to snap her slender neck.

  “Go ahead and kill me, James!” she choked out. “You know you want to!”

  He gave her another hard shake. “Where’s the charter, Emma?”

  “I know all about you!” she sobbed. “You’re nothing but a common criminal! You wear his face, but you’re not half the man—”

  “Me? What about you? Murdering innocents who never did you a single wrong. And the curse won’t stop with me. It’ll go on until all seven of us are dead.” She writhed in his grasp and Moran threw her to the floor, then pinned her arms with his knees and grabbed the gun from where it had fallen. “The devil take you, Emma Bayard, I wager there’s a special place in Hell waiting for you. I’m sure my father’s already there!”

  She glared up at him. “It was worth it!” she screeched. “I’d do it again. I’m only sorry Tamsin isn’t here to see you die!”

  Moran thumbed back the hammer and I rushed over and knelt down beside him.

  “You’ll hang this time,” I whispered, my throat dry. “At the very least it will be life in prison. You’ll never get out. Never. It’s what she wants. Look at me. Don’t do this.”

  He pressed the barrel against Emma’s forehead and she went still.

  “James, James, listen to me.” I had him by the sleeve and I could feel the strength of his arm. Every muscle was rigid with tension.

  “Go, Pell,” he snarled. “Leave now.”

  “Don’t do this. I’m begging you.”

  “Let go of me,” Moran said slowly, “or I swear on my mother’s life I’ll shoot you both.”

  He met my gaze and there was nothing in his eyes but hatred.

  I knew then that they were lost, he and Emma both. It was as if all the light in the world had gone out. Evil would triumph this night and I wasn’t even sure if it was supernatural or human.

  I released his arm and stepped away.

  “Coward,” Emma hissed. “You don’t have the guts.”

  Moran’s mouth set hard. It was the same thing Declan had said. His last words, in fact.

  I could have sworn the windows were latched tight, but a sudden howling gust sent one of the shutters slamming against the stone façade. It sounded like Klara Schmidt clapping her hands together.

  Bang!

  I saw his brains splatter the wall!

  Emma started laughing, a mirthless cackle that hardly sounded human.

  How I wanted to turn my back and run from that horrid house! Yet something gave me strength. It wasn’t the whiskey this time. It was my sister. I heard her dry, mordant voice as if she were standing next
to me.

  There’s no one else, Harrison.

  I drew a deep breath and marched back over to Moran, suddenly furious.

  “If you want to blame someone,” I shouted, “blame your father for seducing an innocent young girl and destroying her!”

  His eyes darkened and I thought he would shoot me on the spot. The muzzle of the gun pressed harder against Emma’s forehead. She stopped laughing and tears trickled from the corners of her eyes.

  “You’re better than him,” I said in a quieter tone. “You’re better than this.” I hardly dared to breathe as I reached out and laid my hand on his. How cold it felt. He didn’t resist as I eased the barrel away from Emma’s face.

  Moran blinked rapidly, his face frightened and confused, as if waking from a nightmare. He jammed the gun in his waistband and stood, his whole body trembling. Then he staggered to the piano bench and sat down heavily.

  For a long minute, the only sounds were the wind and Emma’s weeping. I knelt down next to her.

  “Please, Miss Bayard,” I said softly. “It’s over now. You must have the charter hidden somewhere. Won’t you tell me where it is?”

  “No,” she spat. “It won’t make a difference anyway. The other is coming, he’s coming, and you can’t stop him—”

  Bang!

  The loose shutter beat a staccato rhythm against the side of the house. Moran turned to stare at it, apprehension in his eyes.

  “Stay away from the window,” I told him, rising to my feet.

  He gave a hollow laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere near it, Pell.”

  Emma’s hitching sobs faded. She sat up against the sofa and hugged her knees to her chest. Her expression was difficult to read, but I didn’t much like it.

  I cautiously walked to the window and pulled open the drapes. It was a wild, blustery night. Half the trees in Central Park would be stripped of their leaves by morning. I started to raise the window sash when a bird plummeted out of the sky and struck the glass. It happened so fast I wasn’t even sure what kind it was, though I had the impression of a poor sparrow.

  I cried out in surprise and stepped back, straight into an end table holding a vase of tulips. The table rocked on spindly legs. The vase began to slide. I reached for it, fingertips brushing crimson petals as the vase tipped over the edge and struck the parquet wood floor. By some miracle it didn’t break, though the porcelain looked paper thin and the vase was clearly a valuable antique.