Spectris: Veritas Book Two

by Quinn Coleridge

  My startled mind cannot finish this thought, not with the image forming within it of a presence floating high above us. Pro di immortales! Sir Death is watching the action from the rafters of the big top. What the hell is wrong with Him? I’ve never known one of His kind to act this way. Distressed by the hovering Reaper, the muscle near my right eye twitches, and I push at it with my knuckle.

  Sir Death is killing me. I’m going to die by association with His strangeness.

  As the carnival music ends, someone steps forward. I subdue my hearing once more when a booming voice rings out, asking for the audience to put themselves into the performer’s shoes as they wait in the wings off stage. It is Mr. Desmond, co-owner of the circus.

  “Imagine the fear if you dare, ladies and gentlemen! A hair’s breadth from oblivion! A second away from missing the trapeze bar, from being torn apart by the jaws of a lion!”

  A portion of the audience shouts out encouragement, while others boo and call for the acts to begin. Either way, Desmond is enjoying himself. Happy emotions practically ooze out of him, all floral and sticky sweet. I imagine he is the creative, the-show-is-all type, but what about his partner Bloom? Is he the brains of the organization or does that position belong entirely to James Scarlett?

  Desmond continues bellowing at the crowd. “Let us move beyond this circus tent, to the death rites of ancient Egypt, of Africa, and Siam!” He pauses for effect and the audience roars until he speaks again. “Tonight, dear friends, we have a rare treat for you. A professor in the art of death. His studies will make your blood run cold!”

  My own blood freezes when Sir Death floats down from the ceiling to sit next to me. He crosses His legs and hunches forward, hanging on each word.

  “Welcome Phineas Hammersmith, doctor of thanatology!” cries Desmond.

  The audience claps and Dr. Hammersmith comes forward, as impassioned by his subject as Desmond. He expounds upon mummification and the way a human brain is extracted through the nose with an iron hook. A female behind me faints, and she is carried from the tent. This only enthralls the crowd.

  Except for Kelly. He takes Alice out for another ice at the first mention of brains and iron hooks.

  For a professor of death, Hammersmith has a larger-than-life, vital quality about him. He is a vigorous adventurer who travels all over the world, examining cultures and peoples in exotic locales. Whether facing man-eating pygmies in the Amazon or the heights of Mount Kilimanjaro, the doctor shouts, “Excelsior!” And the audience yells the same call to action back at him.

  Hammersmith hooks us all as he describes the burial traditions of the kings of Nigeria. A part of me wishes I were friends with the fascinating professor, his travelling companion on the next expedition. Everyone in the room seems to be hanging on his words and laughing when the jokes are told, gasping at his sheer audacity in challenging a cobra to dance. Even Death nods His head, smiling from ear to ear. Seeing Him so enthusiastic makes me wish I didn’t have supernatural sight. Complete blindness has genuine appeal at present.

  The professor winds down with cremation chants from Siam, and the audience, in turn, is primed for the show to come. Let the trapeze fly! Bring out the lions and the albino python! They clap so hard I think my head will burst. But Hammersmith finishes by advertising his classes on death culture, beginning at twilight tomorrow in the ballroom at Langtree’s Music Hall.

  Sir Death is clapping with the rest, whistling and stomping his feet as the doctor makes his exit. Now that was a lark, Visionary! I must attend those classes. Thanatology is a fascinating field.

  But Sir, what of Willa Holloway and the rest?

  He glances in my direction and scowls, as though I am a spoilsport. That’s your concern, Lady V. I’m taking a holiday.

  I straighten up with a jerk. You’re taking a what?

  The Reaper grins like the devil. A holiday. A rest-up, a vacation. Why not? The gods give us no reward and take everything. I think it’s time I thought of myself for once.

  After saying this, He disappears and the air grows balmy and humid again. I don’t have a sense of Sir Death in any corner of my psyche. I call out telepathically and connect with Tom. He doesn’t feel Him either.

  What are we to do now, Tom?

  It’s up to you, Hettie—oh, pardon me, Miss Grayson. You’re the one in charge.

  Then he laughs from his seat farther down the aisle and my hands curl around an invisible neck, imagining for one moment that it belongs to Tom.

  I hate the new him.

  I also hate Sir Death.

  And I’m beginning to have hard feelings against Willa Holloway because she has appeared at last in my psyche—bloody eyes weeping red tears—turning an already bad night into the tenth circle of Hell.

  Kelly and Alice save me from Dante’s Inferno, or at least the Stonehenge version of it. They return shortly after Hammersmith leaves, smelling of strawberries and lemon drops and everything sweet and decent. Just having them near makes it easier to cope with Willa’s shrieking. In time, the ghost cries herself out and fades into the psychic ether. I was a bit hasty when I fostered hard feelings against her. I can’t blame the woman for being upset when her afterlife is a shambles. Without Death, Willa and the other ghosts have lost their escort to the other side. If the killer was arrested within the hour, they’re stuck here until the Reaper returns. I’d cry blood too if I were Willa.

  Nevertheless, I don’t wish to summon another Death, not when it could get the one I usually work with into trouble. What are the consequences for Him if I do? Will He be punished for leaving His post? Will the Furies of His realm come after Him? In my reluctant way, I’m fond of Sir—not that I’d admit such a thing out loud. I won’t chance the Reaper getting penalized because I panicked over a few hastily spoken words. We’ll discuss the situation rationally once He’s had time to calm down after Hammersmith’s rousing presentation.

  As the circus goes on, Alice climbs onto her father’s knee. Kelly occasionally puts his arm around my shoulder and whispers in my ear, describing the performances. I enjoy the sense of spectacle, the hurly-burly music and thrilling atmosphere. The stories narrated throughout each act transport me, and I marvel at the freedom the trapeze artists must feel as they fly through the air. At the skill it takes for a bareback rider to stand on her horse, balancing on one foot and flipping while atop the galloping animal. Kelly brings it all to life with his descriptions.

  The snake charmer finally enters the tent. It is Mr. Bloom, Desmond and Scarlett’s other partner in crime. Bloom claims he has lost his python and that each of us is in terrible danger. Alice squeaks in fright, and the rest of the audience shifts about, most likely searching for the snake among their feet. I hear a faint hissing under the wooden bleachers on the north side of the tent. I turn my face in that direction as the snake charmer begins to croon. My mind grows a bit fuzzy, and I feel almost intoxicated by the man’s words. Fear exists within me as well, competing with the inner haze.

  What is happening? Why am I drawn to Bloom?

  “Come to me,” he says. “You’re safe now, my darling. Come rest in my arms.”

  The world tilts for a moment, and I find myself standing on my feet, swaying toward the seductive voice. “Yes,” I rasp.

  Shouting in my mind, I command my body to stop, but my limbs continue moving.

  “Did you say something, Hester?” Kelly asks from far away.

  I cannot answer Kelly. Bloom’s chanting has pierced my resistance, and I feel my will melt to nothing. Now I long to follow the voice wherever it leads. I would go to the ends of the earth if he commanded. A hand takes hold of my arm, and I hear Kelly speaking over the magic.

  “Are you all right? Where are you going?”

  For a moment, a surge of anger flares through me, and I want to strike out at Kelly. I instinctively reach toward my thigh, where I strap on the throwing knives, but the leather sheath isn’t there, damn it. The knives are still at home in my nightstand. I can nearly f
eel the sharp edge of the blade against my skin, and the sensation startles me into logical thought.

  Knives. Hurting Kelly.

  Horrified by my intentions, I awaken from the stupor, as though a bucket of cold water has cascaded over my body. Did I really wish to do such a thing? My stomach rolls at the idea. Still not myself, I shiver and wonder about the power that overwhelmed me. Definitely dark magic. Who is this Mr. Bloom?

  Kelly takes my arm, and we return to our seats. “You look better now, not so disoriented,” he says. “What happened? Shall I fetch you a drink?”

  I don’t need refreshment. I want to run from the tent and flee Bloom’s maddening voice. In equal measure, I yearn to remain and bask in the dark power. Kelly half turns his body toward Alice, assuring her that the python has been caught, and we were never in any real danger. “It was all just a part of the act, sweetheart.”

  Mr. Bloom plays a high, reedy-sounding flute and stops occasionally to give instructions to the snake. The audience seems spellbound by the dancing reptile, just as I am by the mesmerizing voice of her master. It still calls to me like a lover, but I am more prepared now. Steeling myself against the urge, I’m saddened that I can’t give into it.

  Bloom concludes his act and wishes the audience a good night. They clap and hoot as he carries his python from the tent. It is as though the sun has left my world. The desire to follow him is unnatural and contrived, leaving a dark essence behind. And so much fear in my heart.

  No one has ever controlled me to such a degree. During my darkest moments, I have had the strength of spirit to fight, to resist evil. Why couldn’t I do so with Bloom?

  With the snake charmer gone, another presence manifests itself, and I squeeze my hands together to keep them from quaking. Smelling of metaphysical blood, of hatred for me, the Furies watch from a corner of the circus tent.

  Look smart, Hester. Don’t let them know you’re terrified.

  I smile and give a little wave. The Furies ignore my gesture. Their white robes are glowing and perfect and not a hair is out of place on their dark heads. How long have they been there? Did they see Bloom hypnotize me? Will the gatherer add another strike to my name?

  The Three Sisters watch with disgust as oblivious people mill around them. The immortals nod at me and disappear seconds later with a flash of light. Damn and damn and damn again. They are so smug. It’s easy to imagine them in court testifying to the jury. See here, how she follows his commands? Hester Grayson is susceptible to evil influences. She’s unfit and cannot be trusted as a Visionary.

  Kelly murmurs a few words to Alice and takes my arm. He leads us from the tent toward the livery where his buggy is waiting. I rub my aching head as we walk and berate myself for being such an easy target for the snake charmer. The make-believe tall boy in my mind springs open and the drawer containing my worries over the Furies pops out. Anxiety washes through me. You’re a failure, Hester. A bloody failure. Why must you always do the wrong thing? Have the Furies a valid argument against you? Are they correct?

  It takes a great deal of effort to slam the drawer shut and close the tall boy. My perfectionistic parents have worn off on me, I suppose. No one is really perfect, are they? Not even magic people. Not even a Fury.

  I remind myself of this over and over again as Kelly drives us home. The rig bounces gently along the cobbled streets, and Alice yawns and soon falls asleep. Tom sits beside her, quiet and distant in the back of the buggy. Did he see the Furies, too? No. I believe I’m safe there. He doesn’t have spiritual sight.

  As the blocks pass by, I wish that my aunt Mary Arden were here. The woman is part-Beelzebub, part forest-dwelling, absinthe-swilling, fortune-telling peasant. She reeks of unwashed body and brimstone, not to mention ulterior motives. Yet I need help, and there is no one else in Stonehenge to ask about matters of magic.

  I suppose I could take my questions to Sir Death. He’s seen everything on earth and in heaven. No doubt, the immortal will return soon, and I’ll seek His wisdom then.

  Damp air touches my face with velvet fingers. The increased humidity of the night hints at upcoming rain. Hopefully the storm will clear the dust and grime from Stonehenge, for a day or two at least. I inhale the scent of sage and dry pine needles as Kelly slows the horses to a stop.

  “Home again,” he murmurs.

  I smile at him. Domus dulce domus.

  While Alice snores on the back bench, the doctor helps me down from the buggy. Tom climbs out next and walks toward the boarding house. I hear the front door open and close, and then his footsteps eating up the floorboards in the hall.

  Kelly hands me my cane and walks with me to the gate. “Thank you for coming, Hester. I know it wasn’t what you had planned.”

  Close as we’re standing, I know he’ll hear me, so I push gently against my throat and speak. “Thank you for asking, Noah. It was a day I shall never forget.”

  “I like it when you say my name. You should do it more often.”

  The smile on my face must look silly. “I’ll try, but I’ve grown accustomed to using Kelly. Might be a hard habit to break.”

  Thunder rumbles in the foothills, and the horses grow nervous. Kelly returns to the buggy and whispers soft words to the animals, assuring the equines all is well. “I should like to see you inside, but I can’t leave Alice here in the buggy alone. And neither can I give you a proper good night kiss. Once begun, it would go on too long, I’m afraid, and I need to get her home.”

  Without trying, Kelly brings out my mischievous side. “How about an improper one . . . Noah?”

  He laughs softly, and my nerves begin to tingle. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve hoped to hear those words. Walk over, and we’ll see what can be arranged.”

  As I stroll toward him, I wonder if the Furies are watching from somewhere nearby. This thought dampens my ardor a bit, and I give myself a mental slap. How paranoid I have become! I cannot live this way, second guessing every action I take.

  “Hester?” Kelly whispers, no laughter in his voice now. “Are you expecting someone? There’s a red glow over there by the trees. Smells like a pipe.”

  Actually, I do detect the woodsy tobacco. Who could it be? No one at the boarding house smokes, except for Willard on the very rare occasion. I shake my head, worried Sergeant Drown has returned to arrest Isaac. “I’m not expecting anyone.”

  Kelly pulls me behind him. “Can I help you?” he calls to the visitor. “Are you lost?”

  A twig snaps and someone leaves the shadows for the sidewalk. The man coughs a few times, as though his pipe is disagreeable. “Not at all, this is exactly where I mean to be.”

  I swallow back a scream—or probably just a raspy gurgle—recognizing the voice right away. The last time I heard it was in the circus tent not long ago, when He told me He wanted a vacation. This time Kelly hears and sees the Reaper as well.

  “Let me introduce myself,” Sir Death says, stepping forward. “I’m Exitus Night.”

  12

  Pallida Mors.

  Pale Death—Horace

  “You say you’re Hester’s cousin, Mr. Night?” Kelly asks. “I’ve never heard her mention any extended family.”

  The Reaper is a poor liar and begins to unravel. “Oh, yes, we’re everywhere. Especially in, in . . .”

  “Lima,” I interrupt softly, trying to rescue my so-called cousin with the first city that springs to mind.

  Per deos immortales. Where did Lima come from, for pity’s sake?

  “The one in Ohio or Peru?” Kelly sounds incredulous.

  Death jumps back into the fray to save me. “Ohio, of course. But I’ve heard so much about the Rocky Mountains. So, I thought to myself, why not? Go, Exitus . . . go and, and . . . visit your favorite cousin.”

  How disturbing to hear the Reaper’s voice but no longer see His image in my mind. He is supposedly mortal now and beyond my spiritual sight. Still, there is no question Death is visible to Kelly. My cousin reaches over and pats my arm, feeling war
m and solid and absolutely normal. He even smells of bay rum cologne. This contradicts His signature scent of freshly turned earth, quicklime, and cold marble. How in the world did He become human?

  The doctor asks a few more questions: when did Mr. Night arrive, how long is he staying, what is the weather like in Lima, etcetera. Death answers every one and then compliments the doctor on his horses. The animals shy from His touch, and it takes Kelly at least five minutes to calm them down. Luckily, Alice sleeps through the whole thing.

  “Sorry about that,” Sir Death says. “I don’t know much about horses really, but they do look impressive.”

  Kelly is rather cool now. “They’re a fine team, but usually not so skittish.” He turns in my direction. “You must be delighted to have your cousin visit, Hester.”

  Again, Kelly’s game of cat and mouse! He knows something’s amiss here, and I’d better get the Reaper inside before too much is revealed.

  “Delighted is the word,” I reply, reaching for Death’s arm. He allows me to pull Him toward the house.

  “I hope to see more of you, Mr. Night,” Kelly calls after us. “I’d be happy to show you around Stonehenge.”

  He probably wanted to get me alone, to ask so many questions about Exitus Night that I would break under the onslaught and spill the facts. I have foiled Kelly’s plans by putting distance between us. And he can’t leave Alice to follow me inside. A temporary solution but satisfying nevertheless!

  Death sounds pleased by the doctor’s invitation. “I accept, Doctor. Please call me Exitus. I greatly admire your work as coroner—so intuitive, so precise.”

  I jerk the Reaper up the stairs rather ungraciously and almost push Him through the front door.

  “How did you know I’m the coroner?” Kelly asks from beyond the picket fence. “I don’t remember mentioning it.”