The room seemed to shrink in dimension, becoming smaller and smaller. The table seemed to lurch forward; some magnetic force was pulling it and pitching the seated occupants off of their chairs to the floor, and the candle was tipped over, catching flame to the wood table, trapping the séance goers underneath of it.
The crystal ball rolled wildly off of the table, caught luckily at the last moment by an astute Gypsy handler. Vicious fingers clamped down on Arabel’s throat, clenching tighter and tighter, Arabel was soon fighting for air. Everyone seemed to be moving in slow motion, as if through mud, as if through heavy solid substances.
Screaming, shouting, someone shaking her.
The energy above Francesca’s head was funnelled like a grey tornado, swirling viciously and Arabel watched as the man gained strength and shape and the choking sensation increased. The other séance goers were frantically beating at the flames of the burgundy draperies as they engorged themselves with fire and still others were trying to open the doors of the room to escape, but the doors were steadfast and would not budge.
Madame de Lorimar lay on the thick rug near Francesca, and Arabel was unsure if either of them were breathing. Arabel tried to make her way over, with Eli clasping her hand tightly, but they could not make it through the invisible layer of magic the grey swirling energy had placed around the medium. The tornado above Francesca’s head was increasing, the screams in the room were deafening and the heat from the hungry fire fed eagerly upon the ancient window dressings.
Mr. Hill, the proprietor, banged on the door frantically, calling out “Fire! Fire!” to anyone who might be on the other side to open the door as it was still jammed from within the room. Arabel was finding it harder and harder to breathe; the air was getting choked with smoke and the fingers on her throat were pulsing and pressing mercilessly.
Eli could see Arabel struggling and he summoned all of his strength to send a psychic blast to the energy trapping her windpipe. He pictured Arabel breathing freely with no impediments and he placed a seal of Gypsy protection around her. Then he glanced at Francesca and Madame de Lorimar. Eli realized they had to obliterate the funnel of dark energy before the grey eyed man could form in this dimension. Eli was relieved when Arabel pressed on his hand, and he could see the immediate danger for her had passed.
Arabel felt a white cooling mist surround her. She looked to see her parents floating in the room, dressed as they always were dressed, loving her as they always loved her, and protecting her from beyond the grave as she was lucky enough to have them do. Arabel saw them for only a flash, a flash that happened so quickly that she wondered if she had imagined their presence completely.
Then she was thrust back to the games-room, where fire raged and the stubborn doors trapped them inside the burning room. Arabel moved toward the window with Eli. The flames licked at them but they persisted. On the other side of the fire, lay the window and the balcony, offering a chance to escape; if only they could manoeuvre past the angry flames and somehow distract the grey energy from Francesca and Madame de Lorimar long enough to free them from the dark magic imprisoning them.
Before they could make it through the burning curtains, the large wooden double doors burst open. The Gypsy servants of Madame de Lorimar stood there, clutching various instruments of magic and a host of inn occupants and employees stood with them. Buckets of water were thrown into the room immediately and the séance goers rushed out into the waiting coolness of the hallway. The grey swirling energy seemed to buckle in on itself, and then it retreated, vanishing completely within seconds.
Arabel stood, stunned, for a moment, clutching Eli’s hand in the hallway as some concerned woman pressed a glass of water into her free hand and patted her cheek. The stink of the burnt and soggy room made Arabel’s eyes tear and she turned away from the doorway, moving further down the hall. Eli followed Arabel, sipping generously of the cool drink he’d been given. A doctor tended to the injured and Francesca was carried off by a muscular Gypsy and two others helped Madame de Lorimar down the stairs and away from the disastrous scene.
“Are you able to walk?” Eli asked Arabel.
“Yes, I’d like to go to my room,” Arabel replied, turning, and he followed as she threaded her way through the crowded hallway and down the bustling stairwell.
As they moved further away from the games-room, Arabel began to feel more like herself. She glanced at Eli. His face was quite dirty, and his jacket was streaked with wet soot. To Arabel, he’d never looked more handsome. A surge of love for him overcame her, shocking her to her core.
Love? What did she know of such feelings? What did one do with such feelings? How could they come upon one so quickly, with so little warning? Could they be trusted?
Arabel’s room seemed so quiet and still after all of the turmoil and disaster. The cool blue and green tones of the room were soothing, and Arabel and Eli were both glad to be alone and away from the harsh evil of the dark spirit. Eli dipped a cloth in the pitcher of water on Arabel’s dresser. He quickly and efficiently cleaned his face and hands. He changed the water in the basin and then picked it up along with a new cloth.
Arabel was sitting at the window seat and Eli moved to her. He sat beside her and tenderly wiped the cloth over her face and neck, removing the dark streaks of soot and grime. Eli traced the cloth over Arabel’s skin, gently, eager to discover the planes of her face.
He moved away momentarily to clean and wring out the cloth before returning to the window seat and taking hold of Arabel’s hands. Eli massaged the cloth over them, paying special attention to her long, strong fingers, underneath of her delicate nails, and the soft pad of her hand. Eli cleaned one hand, and then the other, moving up over her dainty wrists, to run the length of her pale arms, cleaning, massaging, memorizing.
Arabel sighed, her eyes closed. Was there anything so lovely as this? she wondered. She wanted to find out. She opened her eyes to meet Eli’s beautiful brown eyes staring back at her with unguarded tenderness. Arabel’s lips parted involuntarily and Eli moved to her, pressing his soft lips to hers in their first kiss.
A kiss which went on for some time, as Arabel felt the desire and the anticipation she’d longed to feel surrounding her, submerging her in sensual delight. Eli’s lips were soft yet firm, demanding yet yielding. He nibbled gently on her bottom lip; teasing her, their tongues danced in the ancient exploration of lovers. Arabel sighed, lost in the pleasure of the moment, wanting only to spin it out until neither of them could move away from the intensity.
Eli’s hands moved up Arabel’s back, kneading at the sore muscles; his lips traveled her neck, down to the hollow of her throat. Eli pressed his lips over Arabel’s heart. He could feel the increased tempo of its beat as he moved his lips over it, and it filled him with a physical ache and a romantic desire he’d never felt the intensity of before. Eli pulled Arabel to him, desire heating, the need for further closeness a surge of energy he didn’t want to fight.
Arabel clutched Eli, her hands roaming his back, his arms, his neck, his chest; she wanted to see him, to know him, to discover love with him. She felt no fear, only desire, and she wanted to be with him fully, to love him fully as a woman loves a man. Behind her eyes, deep colours of passionate red, orange and bright pink danced, joining in the elaborately sensual web of mystery. It didn’t feel as though they had just met; it felt as though they had known each other forever.
Eli could feel Arabel’s intention; he knew she would give herself to him this night. Arabel felt as he did, she also allowed the recognition between them, she also felt the ancient connection; it was renewed, and now it was renewing them.
Eli felt staggered by his feelings for her, humbled by the blaze of desire within his body and hungry to love her in all manners of the word.
“I‘m in love with you, Arabel Spade,” Eli said softly, smiling, tracing Arabel’s lips with a lazy finger. His eyes filled with a faintly incredulous reflection of wonder as he spoke his heart to her. “I know it’s s
udden, but it’s true. I love you.”
Arabel’s pulse skidded through her veins, erratic, jumpy, and every nerve sat on edge, but in a fantastic way that made her feel bold and strong and wanton in the most delicious sense.
“You are my heart,” she answered, leaning in and kissing him fervently for another long, delectable moment.
Eli reached out and tucked a strand of Arabel’s hair behind her ear. He found he could not speak. She had enchanted him so completely that he could no longer articulate how breathtaking he found her beauty, how much he treasured her, and how earnest he was in his adoration of her. But somehow, he knew she knew already, had always known, and would always be aware.
Eli’s eyes were so dark with passion that to Arabel they seemed almost black in the candlelight. She could feel the strength of the connection between them, but a part of him held back. As in his dream, Eli knew he would not complete the act of physical intimacy with Arabel this evening. The kiss and the declaration of love stood on their own as monumental realizations, and he needed nothing more now than the warmth of her smile.
The Bog of St. Martin
Arabel awoke to the sound of shouting and an insistent knocking upon the door of a room down the hall from hers. She stretched out lazily, wrapping herself in the memory of Eli’s kiss, determined to ignore the intrusion and stay dreamily within the world of sublime, tactile sensation for as long as possible this morning. Unfortunately, she noted somewhat sulkily, the shouting outside in the hall was getting louder, not quieter. It was not reaching completion; it was instead becoming decidedly worse. Arabel sat up to listen more closely.
“They’ve found a body!” a man seemed to be yelling.
Arabel jumped out of bed and quickly dressed. She unbolted her door and made her way into the hall. The air was cool; it was very early morning and most others were asleep, although the frightened man outside in the hallway was extremely loud and Arabel wondered that anyone could continue to slumber throughout his insistent yelling.
“Sir!” Arabel called to him now as she moved down the length of the hallway clutching her black cape more firmly around her throat for warmth. “Sir!” she repeated as the old man in an even older cap and boots knocked again upon the door of the room down the hall.
“They’ve found a body!” the man cried, turning to Arabel, his face pinched tight with worry.
“Whose body? Where did they find it?”
“Indra! It’s Indra, I just know it!” the man exclaimed as large tears welled within his eyes.
“Indra?” Arabel repeated blankly, the name sounding familiar, but not yet placed. As Arabel searched for a clue of remembrance of a man named Indra, an actual image of Indra from the old man’s brain permeated her consciousness, and she started involuntarily in fresh horror.
In Arabel’s mind, a fearful image formed. It revealed to her the features of the grey eyed man, the man with the brown hair and a slight bump upon his nose. The man whose cold features and evil energy had haunted Arabel since even before the defiled body of Alice-May Marpole had been found draped wickedly across the base of The Great Torch on the night of Lost Souls in Crow’s Nest Pass.
The old man moved to Arabel quickly, closing the space between them and grabbing her arm with a claw-like grasp, desperate to be heard.
“They found him face down in St. Martin’s Bog! I’ve been trying to wake Sully here.” At this the old man pointed to the room whose door he’d been so insistently knocking upon. “But he won’t wake, or maybe he’s already down at the stables. I don’t know, miss, I just don’t know.”
The man sank to his knees in dull shock and Arabel sat with him to comfort him on the hallway floor.
Mr. Hill, the proprietor, rushed up to them. “Mr. Akings,” he said, motioning to the old man in the cap urgently, “if you will accompany me please!”
The old man sprang up instantly to his feet and Arabel followed him down the hall and outside to the stables where Mr. Hill briskly led them. Arabel wondered briefly where Eli’s room was and if he was awake yet. Arabel smiled to herself, delighted with any thought of Eli. Despite the currently tragic situation occurring in The Corvids, Eli was now the brightest spot in Arabel’s life, and all thoughts of him warmed her.
Mr. Akings was led to a mount and helped to alight by a solemn young stable boy. Arabel reunited happily with Ira as the crow swooped down to land upon her shoulder the second she appeared out of doors. Arabel ran her finger affectionately down Ira’s shiny black tail feathers. The crow cooed and chortled at her in adoring response and perched solidly upon her shoulder, its beady eyes scanning everywhere and everyone. Ira’s sharp claws dug into Arabel’s shoulder slightly through her thick black cape, but she didn’t mind.
A rotund man in a greasy bib and overalls appeared, his eyes quickly sourced out Mr. Akings.
“Sully!” Mr. Akings cried out upon seeing the man. Sully lurched forward and practically pulled Mr. Akings off of the horse he’d just barely managed to get onto, in a loud and clumsy embrace.
“Poor Indra!” sobbed Sully, wiping at his large, florid face with a decrepit looking red hanky. He reluctantly released his tight grip on Mr. Akings, who straightened up again in the saddle.
“Sully will need a horse too, Mr. Hill,” Mr. Akings requested, quietly tearing up again.
The proprietor marched away to seek out a stable boy to put in the behest and Arabel was left alone with the strangely odd grieving duo.
“Who is Indra?” Arabel inquired of Mr. Akings, not wishing to intrude, but needing to know, and already involved in this strange situation by his own inclusion.
“Indra Northrup! Our dear, dear friend! He works for me. He’s one of my finest traveling salesman! We come through here quite often. But he’s been missing, and now they’ve found him! Dead! Dead! Just like his lady love, Alice-May Marpole, dead!” The old man sniffed miserably as tears flowed down his face freely, setting off a further surge of emotion from the man known as Sully as well.
“I’m sure it will be him!” Sully sobbed.
Arabel wondered what the connection between the two men was but immediately nothing came to her. Sully did not look like a traveling salesman, he was a tad too grubby, and Arabel hadn’t seen them amongst the group of salesmen in the lobby last night. Perhaps Sully and Mr. Akings shared a more personal bond? Arabel decided they were most likely intimate companions of some sort.
Arabel remembered the talk of Indra Northrup, the traveling salesman who had bought the pretty black dress for poor, doomed Alice-May Marpole. Had Indra been caught fleeing with Alice-May by her jealous husband and killed in the ensuing rage by the jilted man after all? If indeed this mysterious husband no one could find was even responsible for the deaths, and it wasn’t some random killer whose existence and identity no one had any inkling as to yet.
Arabel felt the chalky taste inside of her mouth. She could feel the prevalent sorrow lending itself to imminent, hypnotic danger. It was the same chalky taste and sense of danger she’d felt since this began, and the negative entity had always been identified by the grey eyed man, Indra Northrup. But how could Indra still be haunting her if he was now laying face-down-dead in St. Martin’s Bog?
“Has the body been identified for certain as Indra Northrup?” Arabel questioned Mr. Hill quietly.
The small man shook his head. “There is fulsome speculation it is he, but we require Mr. Akings to identify the body beyond a shadow of a doubt; then we will know for certain.”
“But you have ascertained, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it was murder?” Arabel persisted.
Mr. Hill met her eyes with a sharply worried expression. “There seems to be no doubt, miss.”
A horse was brought for Sully and the two men left the inn with a stable hand leading them to the site of the body. Mr. Hill stood with Arabel, watching them go, his face contorted with anxiety momentarily, then resolutely wiped away with practiced care.
Arabel turned to him. “Can you tell me, please,
in which room is Eli Frankel staying?”
The proprietor promised he would look it up and they returned to the lobby. Once Arabel had the information she needed, she went up to the third floor and knocked upon Eli’s door. She waited for a few seconds, but there was no response. She knocked again, and then turned and made her way down to the dining room, thinking Eli must already be up as well.
The words from the séance last night echoed in Arabel’s brain:
“He used his body to betray me and now he who loved me lies in water, face down, never to breathe again.”
Who had Alice-May meant? Who had used whose body to betray her? Her lover, Indra Northrup, now lying drowned in St. Martin’s Bog? He was the one reputed to have really loved Alice-May, but how could Indra be the grey eyed man and also be using someone else’s body to betray his lover? It didn’t follow any logic, rationale, or intuition either. It was both an insistently annoying puzzle and a very real threat to the safety of Arabel’s future. Her thoughts circled round and around in an endlessly fragmented loop, clarity eluding her.
Arabel perused the dining room. Eli was seated by a window, looking out over the autumn gardens. Eli instantly felt Arabel’s eyes light upon him and he turned to smile at her. He stood, and she made her way toward him. Eli kissed her cheek lightly in greeting and Arabel happily sat beside him. She felt the warmth rising between them and her heart fluttered a delighted rhythm, despite her attempts to remain graciously grown up and sophisticated in love.
The dining room was busy now and Arabel determined to have breakfast as soon as possible and then make their way to the site of the body. She quickly informed Eli of all that had just happened and his eyes narrowed in speculation. This news had not reached the general population of the dining room yet so he’d heard nothing prior.
“Indra Northrup is the grey eyed man? He was Alice-May’s lover, that much we know, but what association did he have with you? Why was he trying to kill you?”
Autumn Page 9