by Kelley York
Carlton turns his appraising gaze to me. I’m not the best at reading people anyway, and his face is as locked up tight as that damned box. “Reckon there’s many reasons, son. The one who wrote them died rather tragically. Could be his spirit following them around.”
Except the spirit we saw was most certainly a woman, and we know for a fact her ghost was attached to the skull, not those books. I wonder if this man has no idea what all the chest contains, or if he knows and refuses to share the knowledge. Either way, it’s suspicious.
He drags his tongue across his teeth. Some of the good humour has left his voice. “Any further questions?”
Benji’s voice is just as disarming as his smile. “No, sir. Thank you for satisfying our curiosity.”
Carlton seems to relax. He tips his hat, turns, and leaves the room. As soon as we’re alone again, I latch the door, not feeling safe until there’s a locked barrier between us and him. When I turn around and slump back, Benji has relocated to the window to peer outside, perhaps waiting to see Carlton and his associates leave the building. Even from across the room, I can see the worried lines of his face.
“Benji?”
“I don’t feel right about this,” he murmurs.
I sigh. No, I don’t either, if I’m going to be honest. “Do you think he was telling the truth? Do you suppose he has no idea about the skull?”
Benji shakes his head. “I’m not certain, but he was not telling us the full truth, either.”
“How do you know?”
“Just…a feeling. I don’t know. Something felt off. Even the books themselves… We were told they were stolen from their rightful owner. If the person who penned them is dead, who would the rightful owner be? Next of kin? He didn’t seem terribly torn up by receiving the haunted possessions of someone related to him.”
As I move to the window and look outside, I can spot Carlton and his associates making their way to a nearby carriage. One holds the door for Carlton, and after he’s settled inside, both silently get into the driver’s bench and pull out into the road. The sound of hoofbeats hangs in the air long after they’ve vanished from sight.
No. This does not feel right at all.
Benji retrieves Esher’s notebook from beneath the mattress. We sit hip-to-hip on the edge of the bed, looking over the notes I took. Toward the end, my handwriting became something frightful as my fingers had begun to cramp up and our time ran short.
“Don’t suppose you know anyone who speaks German?” Benji asks.
I chuckle. “Not off the top of my head, but I’m sure we can find someone. If not here, then back home.”
His mouth downturns. “That’s a very long ways off, it feels.” He stops on the page containing Crane’s name, placing a finger beneath it. “Although, Crane himself might have answers. If his name is in that book, then he may be interested in seeing this.”
“Oh, right. Ought we just to wander around San Francisco looking for him and see if he’s feeling partial to us after the whole kidnapping thing?”
“No need to be testy.” He cracks a grin. “And no. I suspect he’ll be cross that we delivered our cargo.”
I shrug. “Then all there is to do is bring this information home again. See if Aunt Eleanor can’t make some sense of it.”
Benji dips his head, studying the page before him. The way he chews at his bottom lip tells me this is bothering him still, and I hate to admit it’s likely to eat at me too.
“Your mind is racing, I can tell,” I say. “Talk to me.”
He hesitates. “The ghost. The woman. I know what it felt like in those few moments she was here—the loss, the anger, the sorrow… Preston, for just a few seconds, I felt what it was like to be her. She deserves to be put to rest.”
Damn it all; I should have just kept the contents and given them an empty box. I’d be willing to bet money that Mr. Carlton does not know how to open it. It won’t stop him from cracking through the wood if he wants in desperately enough, of course, but it would have bought us time.
In frustrated silence we pick through the notes, but nothing else jumps out at us as being relevant. It’s gibberish on the page until we find a translator, and even then, it could very well be nothing. I must admit, I’m almost curious enough to want to track down Crane after all.
We crawl into bed. What ought to be a night of relief that we’ve succeeded in our work and can return home has a shadow cast over it in the form of that woman. At half past midnight, I look across the room and see Benji still wide awake, his eyes locked upon me.
“I can’t sleep,” he says. He doesn’t need to say why.
With a sigh, I rub my hands over my face. “Neither can I.”
“I know it’s difficult to explain, but I don’t think those things belong with that man. The woman wanted to go to the ocean. Even if we cannot have the notebooks…”
I study the various patterns in the wood of the ceiling. Look hard enough and you start to see faces. I make out one shape that looks like a wolf. After a spell of silence has passed, I say softly into the darkened room, “Just the skull, then. That’s what we need to retrieve.”
A sigh from the other side of the bed. “What, we just show up at his home and ask for it back?”
“Yes. Maybe. Christ, I don’t know.” This entire job has been one big bloody headache. How much easier would it be to call it quits now and go home? We did what we were paid to do. James and Esher’s reputation will remain untarnished. Surely even they would say that it isn’t possible to put every spirit to rest. We can’t fix everything, I remind myself again and again. Why do I feel as though we’ve done the wrong thing?
CHAPTER 14 – BENJAMIN
I dream of the water. Not of any ocean here, but the River Thames back home near the docks of London. Preston stands beside me, my head resting against his shoulder as we watch oranges and reds bleed through the clouds and fog as the sun sets. We would watch the stars come out, and neither of us would say a thing because we didn’t need to.
I’m even dimly aware of it as it’s occurring—Ah, this dream again; I like this one.
Somewhere in the distance, across the water, a haunting sound reaches my ears.
“Do you hear that?” I ask Preston.
Dream-Preston opens his eyes. “Hear what?”
“That sound.” A pause. “Like wolves.”
“I don’t think we have wolves in London, Benji.”
“But we aren’t really in London,” I press. The sound is louder now. Piercing. I wince, bringing my hands to my ears. Preston’s mouth is moving but I cannot hear him over the howling.
I wake with a gasp upon my lips. When I open my eyes, there’s a gun two inches away from me and Sid’s scowling face behind it.
“Oh,” I manage hoarsely, the wolves still a distant echo in my ears. “Good morning.”
“Get up,” she says, tone clipped. I comply because I would rather not be shot so early in the day.
Preston is upright beside me, staring up at Hugo’s hulking form at the foot of the bed with a pistol aimed in Preston’s direction. Sid seems far less likely to shoot me than Hugo is to shoot Preston and I’d rather we not give him a reason to get trigger-happy. Seeing as Preston is not the best at keeping his mouth closed, a feeling of dread is already making itself known in the pit of my stomach.
“Where’s the damned box?” Sid asks.
Preston and I exchange looks.
“Gone,” Preston says. “Delivered to our client.”
Hugo’s sneer turns into a snarl. He steps forward, jamming the barrel of the gun against Preston’s forehead. “Guess there ain’t no reason to keep you two alive anymore, then.”
Preston grits his teeth, unflinching, but in those fractions of a second I see the tension slithering up his spine into his shoulders and the fear flashing behind his eyes.
“We opened the box!” I blurt.
Hugo stills. He and Sid turn, their full attention now on me. Preston looks about ready to launc
h himself off the bed to try to wrestle that gun from Hugo’s hand; I pray he does not try.
Sid purses her lips, considering this new information. “What’s in it, then?”
I lift my chin, defiant. “You’ll never find out if you kill us. You need our help if you want it back.”
Her mouth twitches, a glimmer of annoyance registering across her face. “You’re gonna help us, huh? Why would you do that?”
“Because we need you, too.” I hold up a hand and slowly slide out of bed. As I inch over to the other side of the room, Preston frowns, questioning, but wisely remaining silent and permitting me to do the talking. I crouch to the rucksacks on the floor, retrieving the papers where I scribbled my copies from the notebooks. I leave Esher’s notebook where it is; I don’t want to risk them taking it. “We copied down just a bit of what was inside of the box. It isn’t much, but I believe Mr. Crane would be particularly interested in its contents.”
Hugo starts, “I don’t give two shits about what Crane—”
Sid brings a hand up so abruptly it startles him into silence. She steps forward, gun lowering, and she snatches the papers from my outstretched hand to skim over them. Judging from the frown on her face, I suspect she does not speak any more German than we do.
Finally, her dark eyes lift to fixate on us. “Books, then? That’s what’s in the box?”
“Notebooks,” I agree. “And a human skull.”
That seems to catch their attention. Sid looks back to Hugo, whose face has gone a peculiar shade of pale. He’s finally lowered his gun, at least.
“A skull?” she repeats. “Whose?”
I remain silent. When she pivots her attention to Preston, he follows my lead and presses his lips together, sealed tight. We shouldn’t reveal more than we must in order to get her cooperation. I’ve given them just enough information to make her curious.
When it becomes apparent to her that we aren’t going to speak further, she sighs, turns, and adjusts her Stetson. “Get dressed. We’ll let Crane decide this one.”
Wonderful. Though I’m unsure if I mean that sincerely or sardonically. Crane is clearly the leader of this group, but it also means he can choose to kill us as quickly as he can help us. I glance at Preston as he slides from bed and whispers, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
I do not. Not in the slightest. But if it gets us out of this room alive, then it’s a step in the right direction.
So long as it isn’t leading us into something far worse, that is.
We aren’t left alone for any length of time. Hugo and Sid stand there while Preston and I dress and gather our things. I suppose we ought to be grateful they don’t make us leave our belongings behind for the hotel owner to confiscate.
At the door, Sid holsters her pistol inside her coat. Hugo tucks his into the waistband of his trousers, then turns to me, gripping my face between his calloused fingers. For half a second I’m reminded of Father, looming over me and snarling obscenities in my face, and I almost give into the urge to kick this buffoon in the shin.
His attention is on Preston, however. “Fair warnin’. You try to run and I’ll snap this runt’s neck. Clear?”
There’s a fire behind Preston’s heated stare. “Crystal.”
I scowl. Now is probably not the time to be annoyed that anyone present thinks Preston is the one who could escape while I stayed helplessly behind. But if they want to forget that I’m the one who previously slipped out of their grasp—and rescued Preston—then fine. Their underestimation will help us in the end.
We’re marched out of the hotel and onto the street where a carriage is waiting. Louisa sits atop the driver’s seat, not so much as giving us a second glance. I steal a look down the street. There are a few casual morning strollers wandering through, but it’s early yet, the sun has barely risen, and I suppose we are not in an area where many will be out walking at such an hour.
Still… Should I shout for help? Should I make a run for it? I think Hugo would leap at the chance to hurt either of us. Besides that, I rather do want to speak with Crane about the contents of that box. The skull, most of all.
Silence it is, then. For now.
Hugo shoves at us impatiently until we slip into the carriage. He and Sid crowd in together across from us and I fit myself against Preston’s side, both for his comfort as well as my own. I clutch my bag to my chest. I’ve given over my half of the notes; I’ll not let them discover and take Preston’s half—or Esher’s writings—without a fight.
They seem unconcerned that we’re able to see out the windows, and thus have some vague idea of where we’re going. At least, I can spot the docks as we pass, the moored ships and sailors milling about, preparing for their day in the fog. It’s so thick in this area it’s almost smothering. It’s a miracle our driver can even see where she’s headed.
I take the opportunity of sitting in silence for the duration of the ride to watch Hugo and Sid, studying their body language. Although the bench they’re seated on could squeeze a third person between them, they sit as far apart as possible. Sid’s posture is relaxed, while Hugo’s shoulders are rigid and tense and he rarely takes his eyes away from the passing scenery.
Can some part of Hugo sense the ghost that clings to her, even if he cannot see it? It hovers near her even now, not always a discernible figure but ever-present. Sid’s shadow seems darker; where it casts on the coach around her, there are vacant corpse eyes staring back out.
But, no, I don’t think that’s why he keeps his distance. He simply doesn’t like her. Then again, he does not seem to like much of anyone. Perhaps it’s the authority he despises, and although Crane is their leader, Sid appears to carry some sort of rank among them, as well. I could use that, potentially. Hugo is quick to anger. I learned from my harassers at Whisperwood that angry men are much easier to outsmart.
We arrive at a small, unassuming building just a block inland. It appears to be some sort of unused office or storefront, with a For Sale sign hanging on the front door. Most of the windows are boarded up. Someplace our captors think they’ll not be disturbed.
Louisa climbs down and opens the door for us, and we file out and into the building. The sun has finally started to come up enough to chase some of the fog away, but everything is so boarded up that the sunlight does little to cut through the dusty darkness.
This appears to be where they’ve set up camp for themselves. There are bags near one wall, along with some provisions. In the centre of the room stands a table where Crane and Philip are seated, hunched over, engaged in a game of cards by candlelight. The latter quickly looks up, game forgotten, but Crane scrunches his nose and lays down his hand.
“Three Aces. Told you, I’m good at this.”
“No, you’re not. You cheat,” Sid says, venturing further into the room until the candlelight spills onto her heart-shaped face.
Crane straightens and tips his head to peer at her, hands spread wide. “I’m an angel.” Before she can argue that, his attention drifts to us. “Dare I ask why they’re here?”
“They delivered the chest,” Hugo announces, shoving the heels of his hands into our backs so hard that Preston and I both stagger forward a step. Preston’s jaw clenches. I grab hold of his arm to steady his temper.
Crane lets out a long sigh, tossing the remainder of his cards to the table as he stands. “Well, that’s bloody fantastic. Suppose we’ve got to go get it now, don’t we?”
“And then what?” Preston growls. “Deliver it back to your master? Do you even know what’s in it?”
Crane pockets his hands and crosses the room to stand before us. The flickering light catches the side of his face, his curls, the collar of his shirt, yet not a bit of it reflects in his eyes. “Please don’t make me shoot you again. But yes, that’s what we’re here to do, and no, I don’t know what’s in it and I honestly don’t care.”
I force my voice to cooperate. “You should. Your name was mentioned. Quite a lot, I might add.”
That’s a bit of a stretch. I only saw his name once, but I don’t need to be honest, I just need him to believe me. His gaze swivels slowly to me.
“Is that right?”
“Nathaniel J. Crane. That’s you, isn’t it? Your likeness was drawn in the pages of one of the notebooks we found.”
“Shut your mouth, boy. Nobody here gives a shit about some notebooks,” Hugo protests hotly.
Sid moves up alongside Crane. “Maybe not, but I’m awfully curious about that skull.”
Crane’s eyes don’t leave me. “What skull?”
“I thought you would have the answer to that,” I say. “But the spirit of the woman it belonged to wants it laid to rest. I suspect whoever is in possession of that box will get no peace until that happens.”
Hugo’s hand clamps the back of my neck, fingers digging in until I wince and reflexively try to squirm away. “I said shut your mouth!”
Preston moves like lightning, slamming the full weight of his body into Hugo’s to knock him away from me. The force of impact sends Hugo staggering back and Preston uses that momentum to heave him against the door, an arm shoved against his throat and a snarl upon his mouth.
“And I thought I warned you about putting your fucking hands on him.”
I brace myself for things to escalate into an all-out brawl and I start forward, intending to try to drag Preston away. A gloved hand comes to rest upon my shoulder and Crane says, in a voice not particularly loud yet commanding the attention of everyone in the room, “That’s enough.”
Hugo and Preston still, glowering at one another. Preston takes a slow step back, close enough that I can reach for his arm to draw him to my side. Crane moves around me, placing himself between us and Hugo. “Sit down.”
“We should be killing them,” Hugo seethes. “Not entertaining whatever stupid-ass idea they got brewing.”
Crane takes another step forward, until the pair of them are almost nose to nose. “I’m sorry, did I stutter? I said sit down.”