The pale skin glowed with an eerily waxy sheen as Malachi grinned and nodded slowly, and Connor knew. He put it there, inside my head. Connor lifted his chin and met the probing regard head on. Pain pounded in his temples, and then darted around the back of his skull as the slide show of his own body lying in the morgue, smeared in blood, marched across his retina.
As the images melted away, Connor eased his tight shoulders. “Okay,” he whispered, “Midnight.”
“First sign of madness, you know?” said Reginald as he slipped onto the wooden bench seat next to Connor.
“What?” said Connor, losing his focus on Malachi for merely a second, but when his keen gaze combed the shadows again, as Connor knew he would be, he was gone.
“Talking to yourself... it’s the first sign of madness.”
“I thought you were in the front row?” Connor looked at his best friend, Reginald Cranham, with new eyes, tilting his head as the vein in Reggie’s forehead throbbed with a mesmerizing rhythm. Connor inhaled deeply, and the scent of red-berries fermenting in sugar wafted into his brain and played havoc with his concentration.
“Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all for today, and if you have any questions, I’ll be in my office for the next hour.” Sir John’s clipped words ricocheted off the walls in the domed space as he gathered his notes.
A smattering of applause accompanied his departure, followed by a moment of breathless silence.
The spell was broken by a sudden surge of movement punctuated by the clattering of tens of dozens of notebooks and pencils being hastily gathered, and soles of shoes hurriedly scraping over the wooden decking of the amphitheater platforms.
Connor got to his feet and glued his intent gaze on a spot between Reggie’s shoulder blades as he followed him out through the doorway and back out into the corridor.
As the jostling students, impatient to escape, wove their scurrying bodies between the two friends, Connor whistled gently and stepped out of the tide. Setting his shoulder against the wall, he waited while Reggie swam against the flow, and finally stood beside him.
Idly watching the frowning, earnest young men moving purposefully past, Connor felt Reginald’s speculative gaze boring into him, and he took a casual step backwards, seeking out the shadows that clustered in the corners.
“Well, I was down the front, Cornelius Sanderson,” teased Reginald. “And where, pray, were you hiding? Sir John’s disapproval was burning a hole into your empty seat.”
Even though Connor’s features wore a mask of shadow, his derisive snort made Reginald grin in response.
“May I call you Cornelius?”
“Not if you expect me to answer,” said Connor darkly.
Reggie laughed gently as their ritual unfolded. “I consider myself reprimanded, Connor it is.”
Connor heard the muffled thud which signified that Sir John had left the teaching wing by the rear door, probably seething with disappointment, and he switched gear.
“How is your Uncle Edgar?” Connor asked nonchalantly, his avid gaze still tracking the enthralling flow of human bodies as they trickled along the hallway and disappeared around the corner.
“He’s well.” A raised eyebrow accompanied Reggie’s answer.
“And his psychiatric research?”
“His theories on electro-shock therapy will be published in the Lancet in January.” Reggie’s chest puffed out with pride. “His trip to America was worth every hour of seasickness, so he said.” Reggie chuckled lightly. “Sadly, he saw little of the dining room during his six days onboard the Lusitania. Its domed engraved ceiling was not conducive to his sea legs at all. He could not tell which way was up, I believe, were his exact words.”
“I hear the White Star Line is launching sister ocean liners that will dwarf Cunard’s fleet. Perhaps he will find the Olympic, or Titanic, kinder to his constitution,” said Connor distractedly.
“And I hear they will sail from Southampton. Much more civilized than trekking hundreds of miles north to Liverpool.”
“Just so.” Connor smiled tightly. “Is he attending the family’s dinner tonight? I’d like to pick his brains on his findings.”
Connor no longer believed he was insane. But Malachi’s presence hinted at a far worse explanation, and maybe a lobotomy, or the blissful oblivion derived from electrodes set upon his head, would still be something he would welcome. I’d just as well be prepared.
“He is, yes.”
“And Lavinia?” said Connor, laying a smoke screen that he knew would distract Reggie.
Reginald smiled widely this time. “If I didn’t know you better, Connor, I’d suspect you had designs on my sister. Unfortunately, I do... and unrequited love is a painful place, so, be kind to her, hmmm?”
“It’s an adolescent crush, nothing more. She’ll be horribly embarrassed a few years down the line.”
Reggie’s face was serious. “Lavinia is no longer an adolescent.” He shook his head ruefully. “I don’t blame you, Connor, you barely notice she exists. You are much too busy making your mark as Sir John’s houseman to consider courting. Needless to say, that matters little to a young woman and her tender heart.”
For a moment, the thought of a tender heart enchanted him and set his taste buds tingling.
Swallowing resolutely, he said, “I’m sure you exaggerate, Reggie.”
These past five years, he always thought of Lavinia as a child, but doing the math, he now realized that the fourteen year old girl was now a woman, and he had certainly overlooked that fact. The chasm of an almost six year difference in their ages seemed suddenly to have shrunk.
Reggie landed his hand on Connor’s shoulder blade in a resounding slap. “You’re probably right. There are many better catches than you out there.”
Connor remembered to stagger obligingly under a blow that twelve hours ago would have sent him reeling, and grinned. “There are a dozen or so at dinner tonight? And eligible men to dance attendance on her, I’m sure she won’t even notice me.”
Reggie grunted dubiously and said, “What time shall I have the carriage waiting?”
“We’ll set off at six, if that suits?”
Reggie glanced at his watch. “I’d better get moving, then. And you had better go and make your apologies to Sir John.”
“I think I may be better waiting until tomorrow.” Connor eased away from the wall and matched his pace to Reggie’s with painful care. He sighed heavily as the electrical storm of activity in Reggie’s preoccupied brain and the sudden acceleration of his heart rate filled Connor’s mouth with saliva and dragged aching thirst through him.
The meeting with Malachi at midnight loomed as a far more pressing concern than Sir John’s annoyance.
Chapter 5
Night had fallen, and Connor sat in the darkest corner of the interior of Reggie’s Clarence carriage, waiting outside the hospital for him to show his face.
The carriage had room for four passengers, and he would surrender his forward facing place to Reggie when he arrived. The rear facing seats would put the glazed panels of the carriage and its mounted brass coach lamps at his back. Connor calculated that, sitting in that position, once they were moving, and until they headed out onto the country lanes, only Reggie would be bathed in the glare of the passing street lamps. His own features would be cast in shadow.
Every line of Connor’s body spoke of relaxation, and if the footman, William, wondered at Doctor Sanderson’s unusually silent demeanor, he made no comment.
“Why not take a seat, William?” Connor suggested as the young footman standing out on the sidewalk shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I’m certain Lord Cranham will not object.”
Smiling widely, William touched a hand to the peak of his cap and nodded before climbing nimbly up onto the pillion seat in front, and settling himself beside Harker, the coachman.
The young man was easy to please. After all, it was a fine autumn evening, even if the air was a trifle cri
sp, and waiting in attendance, ready to open the carriage door, was the easy part for William. Soon he would be running alongside the horses warning Harker of potholes in the road.
They had been waiting for the best part of half an hour, and Connor’s usual wit melted away to serious contemplation. He had deception on his mind. Dining at Reggie’s family seat of Cranham Hall, which was outside of London, nestled in the Kent countryside, was usually a pleasure. However, acting naturally at a dinner party of sixteen, many of whom knew him well, was suddenly a field littered with landmines.
Faking a spasm of coughing, Connor lay the foundations of his plan, paving the way for his unexpectedly early departure from tonight’s family gathering.
William’s concerned face appeared in the upper section of the window as the young man hung precariously from his seat.
With his face contorting convincingly, Connor breathed through tightened vocal chords, “I’m fine, William. Just a little stuffy in here.”
William disappeared, and Connor smiled. Step one.
Connor’s fingertips played over smooth leather that now felt like splintered glass, and he was enthralled by the cacophony of sound which accompanied a couple walking along the side street, still some two hundred yards away, and yet he felt their presence as though they had laid a hand on his shoulder.
He could almost taste the pheromone cloud that wafted on the breeze. He heard the whisper of skin brushing over skin as their hands clung together, and the shortness of breath that starved their hearts of oxygen and caused them to thunder inside their chests. He stared out of the window at the spot at which he knew they would appear, and catching a mere glimpse of their rapt expressions as they moved past the carriage confirmed what he already knew. They are in love.
As the percussive beat of their footsteps faded from his acute hearing, he curiously pressed his fingertips to his own wrist and was not surprised to find that rather than racing, his own pulse was impossibly sluggish. About 15 beats a minute.
He had a grasp on a handful of puzzle pieces but, as yet, apart from the certainty that he was forever changed, he had no clue how many more surprises his rioting senses had in store. He felt as though he was hanging on by his fingernails, until he met with the compelling and terrifying Malachi. Connor heaved a sigh, and knew instinctively that it would not matter if he did not take in another breath, ever. I will be there in the morgue at midnight.
As Connor rested back against the olive-green leather seat, and willed Reginald to put in an appearance, a motorcar rumbled its way along the street, metal and rubber grinding together as the bumps in the road threw the car chassis into disarray. The carriage lurched violently as the two chestnut geldings shuffled nervously sideways, their hooves clattering on the stones in the pitted surface.
Harker whistled a familiar calming descant as he murmured, “Whoa, boys, it’s just one of them newfangled motorized vehicles.”
Inside the carriage, Connor grinned. Harker was convinced that the horse and carriage was the only mode of transport befitting a gentleman. With the highways of London becoming a melting pot of trolley omnibuses, bicycles, and, the fastest growing trend, the motorcar, Connor was fairly sure that Harker was doomed to disappointment.
Putting step two of his plan into action, Connor twisted the brass T-bar handle, swung the half-glazed carriage door open and stepped out. “William, when Master Cranham arrives, beg him to wait in the carriage. I am taking a stroll around the block, I need some air.”
William frowned as he peered down from his high perch on the carriage pillion seat. “Are you sure you are feeling alright, sir?”
Connor stared off into the mid-distance, the brim of his hat casting his carefully composed features in deliberate shadow. “It would be bad manners to cry off from dinner now, William. I am sure I will feel much improved after a walk to blow away the cobwebs.”
Tapping the rim of his hat with his gloved finger, Connor set off at a purposeful pace until he turned the corner and disappeared from view. A few yards further along the sidewalk, he stopped walking and sank back into shadow, leaning against the wall and embodying the eerie stillness of an indolent statue.
He listened to the jingling of the horses’ bridles, and the snorting of breath from their velvet nostrils as they whinnied softly. He picked out the swishing sound of Harker running well-worn leather reins through his suede clad palms, and listened for Reggie’s footsteps to ring out through the night air.
He did not have to wait long, before the ten feet tall wooden front doors to the hospital swung open and released a waft of antiseptic which sharpened his senses like a dose of smelling salts. As they bounced closed again with a satisfying thump, Reggie descended the flight of stone stairs, coming to rest at the bottom.
“Good evening, Master Reginald. Master Sanderson begged you wait in the carriage. He has taken a turn around the block.” With the lowered whisper of a servant who enjoys gossip more than fearing its impropriety, William added, “Just between you and me, sir, I think the master is feeling a bit under the weather.”
As Reggie drew in a concerned breath, Connor appeared beside him, startling William into a flush of ruddy embarrassment.
Darting a look of pretended indignation at the young footman, Connor opened the carriage door and ushered Reggie inside, saying lightly, “About time, Reginald. I was about to give up on you.”
Connor bore Reggie’s scrutiny, tilting his chin and allowing the moonlight to bleach his features.
“You do look very pale, are you sure you are feeling up to dining with the family?”
Settling a ramrod straight back squarely against the leather seat, Connor squeezed the handle of his walking cane until the metal creaked in his cold palm. “I could not disappoint your parents. I’m certain it will pass.”
“If you’re sure,” said Reggie as he smartly tapped his own cane twice on the glass partition.
Harker clucked his tongue, the horses jerked into movement, and they headed out of the city.
The carriage careened steadily along the country lanes, and, under Harker’s sure guidance, the horses remained poised at a fast trot which could not be allowed to erupt into a canter without overturning them into a roadside ditch. The miles were covered quickly. The companionable silence inside the carriage was broken only by the hypnotic rhythm of horses’ hooves pounding on the carpet of damp autumn leaves covering the road.
Out of the corner of his eye, Connor caught the flash of charcoal-gray high in the night sky; where the graceful sweeping wings of an owl rode the evening thermal currents. Its orange eyes were beacons in the dark to Connor, who instinctively followed the line of sight, heard the rabbit rustling in the undergrowth and tuned into the fast beating heart inside the fragile chest. He frowned as the sound filled his mouth with a citrus-sharp flood of saliva and he anticipated the inevitable.
The owl dropped from the sky like a feather-clad stone, and as the rabbit died in the grip of needle sharp talons, the smell of blood hit Connor like a tidal wave of insatiable thirst.
He swallowed carefully as hunger dragged a blade through his stomach, and the pulse in Reggie’s neck became a pumping tide of thick nectar. He could almost hear the blood cells jostling as they raced each other through the arteries.
Every sinew in his body tightened at the electric current zinging along his nerve endings, and his teeth were on edge when the memory of biting into flesh flashed into his head. No, not a memory. A craving. A desire that took his mind into dark places saturated with the copper-tainted taste of blood. Holding his muscles locked tight and clenching his fists, Connor battled for control, knowing that if he lost it he would plunge into a living hell.
The carriage lurched abruptly, and Reggie cursed as his shoulder collided heavily with the tooled-leather paneling at his side. “Steady on, Harker,” hollered Reggie as pain shot down to his fingers.
Connor pretended that his own rock-steady body was struggling for balance, and, like a dropped pebble distu
rbing a tranquil pool, his macabre fascination was broken.
“Sorry, sir, hole in the road,” yelled Harker above the jangling of the bridles and the beating of hooves.
As the carriage left the road, the vibration as the wheels crunched over the gravel driveway traveled up Connor’s spine and sang like a tuning fork note inside his ears. He gratefully grabbed at the distraction with both hands, filing away the sensations, akin to a coma victim rediscovering the world for the first time.
“Five minutes, sir,” yelled Harker as he steadied the horses and the rolling gait of the carriage became a gentle sway.
Twisting around in his seat and searching for his first glimpse of the house, Connor wondered if he was still capable of feeling the joy that usually went with it.
The dark silhouette of the dwelling loomed large, punctuated by a cheerful patchwork of amber squares where lamplight spilled out through the hand-blown glass window panes. Billowing clouds hung over the angular rooftop, staining the navy sky with a shroud of charcoal gray, and bright specks of ash danced above the many chimney stacks like swarming fireflies.
Connor speculated on how many of the fifty-one coal fires inside the Hall had been lit to warm the guests. He was about to make a joke of it when he clamped his jaw shut with a snap, knowing instinctively that Reggie could not see the dazzling display. Yet another inhuman preternatural change.
Reggie heard the clatter of Connor’s clenched teeth and darted a glance across the carriage.
“Are you sure you’re feeling up to this, Connor? Harker can take you back.”
It was tempting, but then, he had no idea when he would cross paths with Reggie’s Uncle Edgar, again. “I’m feeling much better, I assure you. So, your father has invited ‘beaus’ he hopes will meet with Lady Lavinia’s approval,” said Connor, changing tack swiftly, with a skeptical smile.
Easily redirected, Reggie frowned as he said soberly, “Oh, he is aware she has a mind of her own, but marriage is expected and her dowry is considerable. She is lucky father puts such stock in her happiness. Though, he fears her heart is already bruised.”
Death of Connor Sanderson: Prequel to Fire & Ice Series (Fire & Ice - Prequel) Page 4