The Wrath of Wolves

by Kelley York

  Miss Bennett had told me once: You have a gift, if you would learn to harness it. Was this what she meant? At the time, all I had wanted was for her to close whatever door existed in my head to make me normal. The idea of anything else had been too frightening. She had only given me a gentle, sympathetic smile and apologised, saying that it was not something she could do.

  Preston opens his mouth to speak, but another voice intervenes. Small, quiet: “Someone out there?”

  The wardrobe!

  We pick ourselves up, shaky on our feet. Preston steps to the armoire and opens the door.

  He promptly lets out a loud squawk as he’s met with a broom to his face. “Hey—!”

  The maid steps out from the closet, followed by a short, portly woman who looks just as shaken as I feel. Recognition dawns on the maid’s face as she stares at Preston, and her expression darkens.

  “It’s you! You filthy, sonnuva—”

  I step back. Maybe Preston deserves to get swatted in the face a few times. I wouldn’t object if she turned that broom on me, either; we did abandon her here.

  After she’s got in a few good smacks and Preston has skittered back, swearing loudly in protest, I step forward to ask, “Are you all right?”

  Both the maid and the cook turn their attention to me.

  “Fine,” the maid says, still brandishing her weapon. “No thanks to all of you.”

  The cook wavers. “Was it you who killed Mr. Carlton?” she asks, eyes darting nervously to the body on the floor like she expects it to get back up again.

  The answer to that is complicated. No, yes, not really but some of the blame is ours? I’m not certain.

  “We didn’t kill him,” Preston insists, rubbing at his face and glowering at the broom. “Those people were our captors too. We escaped and came back here to make sure you were safe.”

  The two women cast furtive glances about the room. I don’t think they can see the ghosts like we can, but it’s apparent by their wide eyes and the cook’s trembling that they can feel the wrongness of it all.

  “Let us see you both outside,” I say.

  They don’t argue this; in fact, they appear more than happy to scurry out into the hall, putting whatever distance they can between us and Carlton’s corpse. I retrieve the crucifix from where it landed on the floor, and then we escort the women to the front door. They step into the sunlight, blinking and squinting, no doubt confused by the sudden onslaught of brightness where the house was still swathed in darkness.

  The maid turns back to us. “Wait, you’re going back in there? What are you two going to do?”

  “We’re going to see if we can’t fix the house.” I pause, unsure how else to word that. “So that what happened with Mr. Carlton doesn’t happen again. Will you wait for us out here, just for a bit?”

  The pair glance at each other. Although the cook looks ready to turn and run the first chance she gets, the younger girl shrugs. “For a bit.”

  Preston and I head back inside. It’s possible they could leave, run off to a neighbour’s down the road. But even if they chose to, it would take them time, and likely we’ll be well and gone before any law enforcement can arrive.

  Preston lingers close to me. “What do we do now?”

  I look up at him. “None of these spirits belong here. If I was able to dismiss one of them, do you think I can do the same with the rest?”

  He cracks a slight grin that I think is meant to be encouraging. “Don’t see why not. If you think it’s safe.”

  I don’t know how safe it is, but that honestly isn’t the foremost thought in my mind. The spirit inside of Carlton had been so pained, so tortured, that I cannot stand the thought of simply leaving them all here like this. Besides, who else will they hurt when others come into the house? It’s only a matter of time. And yet, the house is so full of the dead right now that I don’t even begin to know where to start, either.

  Preston takes my hand and squeezes, watching me. Waiting.

  After a spell, I bolster my courage and venture further into the room. The shadows roil around us, restless, anxious. I look up at the woman on the ceiling, crucifix clutched tight, and I tell her this is not where she belongs and it’s time for her to go. I repeat it three, four times, and each time she recoils and hisses, but then she melds with the darkness and her eyes close, and I think I see a sense of…even if not peace, perhaps reluctant resignation pass over her features before she vanishes from view.

  I move to the next.

  I could not possibly address every spirit individually, but I look in the eyes of any who will—or can—look into mine and I tell them this isn’t where they belong. That they’ve moved past this realm, or this world, or whatever separates the living from the dead, and they’ll find no happiness here amongst us.

  Each and every ghost slips away like a sigh, some easier than others. The angry man near the stairs charges us when we address him, all rage and bared, blackened teeth and fiery red eyes, but I clutch the crucifix tight and repeat the words louder while Preston begins to pray aloud, and the creature is finally reduced to nothing more than a whimper as he shrinks into the dark.

  By the time we advance upstairs, my chest is pinched tight and my vision has begun to blur. I press on, unwilling to leave this job half finished. Just a little further. Surely, the worst of it is behind us now. I will fix whatever it is Nathaniel Crane and I broke. It’s the only way I can make amends.

  The room where Carlton died feels the heaviest. Despite the broad windows behind his desk, everything is bathed in black, the air a murky, dusty grime so thick that it feels as though one needs to swim through it. Here, the creatures are darker and I wonder if they’re drawn by the stench of death, the blood on the floor. A pair of red eyes that remind me of Nicholas Mordaunt flash from the shadows. I wrap my fingers round the cross until the metal feels like a part of my skin. I speak loud and clear, unwavering. Even when the room has begun to brighten, I’m not so sure if I’ve truly cleansed it or if I’ve simply sent some of them away and others scurrying into hiding…for now. But without Miss Bennett, without Esher and Spencer’s guidance, this is all I know to do.

  We save the bedroom for last. The corpse is still on the floor. What a relief. Standing over him is the visage of Ellie, her chin tipped down, murky eyes watching him. She’s given us a fright more than once now, yet I feel nothing but sympathy for her. I release Preston’s hand and step around the body to stand before her, though she doesn’t so much as lift her head to regard me.

  “Was he truly your husband?” I try to read the lines of her face. Is she sad? Is she relieved? What sort of relationship did the two of them have? The way he spoke of her was not the way I would have thought a loving husband would speak of his wife. What had Crane meant, when he said Carlton left her behind? I recall how I felt when she grabbed me in the alley way, the sensation of trying to escape…

  Every time we get more answers, more questions reveal themselves.

  “Should you send her away, too?” Preston asks. I hesitate and look over at him. Without even answering, he gives a faint smile. “Hm. This isn’t where she wanted to go, is it?”

  “She wants to be near the sea. Ellie, please, we want to help you, but you’re going to have to help us.” A pause. “And you’ll need to show us how to open the box again.”

  This time, Ellie’s dead eyes slowly roll up to look at me. She does not speak, but she turns and walks out of the room, all disjointed, stiff movements. By the time we step out after her, she is nowhere to be found.

  The house feels…perhaps not as it was, but better by leaps and bounds. I feel half a ghost myself as we return downstairs. My limbs are heavy and the room spins a bit, but I stave it off as best as I can.

  Outside, the cook has taken a seat on the front steps and the maid is pacing the walkway before her. She stops, head snapping up, while the cook twists around to look at us.

  “The house ought to be safe now,” Preston announces. “Don’
t suppose you’d give us an hour or two before summoning the police?”

  The maid scowls. “You murdered my employer and you want me to help cover for you while you make a run for it?”

  “I told you, we didn’t kill him. We chose to come back to help,” Preston insists.

  She sighs. “Fine. An hour, is all. Poor man deserves to be treated with dignity. Not that I’ve got any idea what to tell the police when they get here. No one’s going to believe a dead man chased us through the house.”

  I offer her a smile. “You’re smart. I’m sure you’ll think of something. But before we go… How long have you worked for Mr. Carlton, Miss…?”

  “Mildred.” She sniffs and gestures to the cook. “This is Tabby. We both been working here for about two years now.”

  “Miss Mildred,” I nod. “Then, did you ever perchance meet Carlton’s wife, Ellie?”

  For the first time since I’ve laid eyes on her, Mildred’s expression twitches into something other than annoyance. Her mouth downturns and her eyes soften. “Course we knew her. She was a nice lady. Very quiet.”

  “And their marriage, was it happy?”

  “Scarcely woulda called it a marriage myself,” Mildred says. “Ellie lived up north a ways, in a little town on the coast. Mr. Carlton rode through, took a shine to her, and after he’d put a child in her belly, she didn’t have much choice but to come live with him. That’s all I really know.”

  Preston frowns. “They have a child?”

  “Had. A little girl. She passed about six months after she was born,” Tabby says regretfully. “Mrs. Carlton was beside herself. Never was the same after that.”

  No, I imagine she wouldn’t be. How horrible. “After that, what happened?”

  Mildred shrugs. “The pair of them packed up for a trip out your way. You know, England.” She gestures vaguely at us. “Not sure where or why, other than Mr. Carlton said he knew of a man who might be able to ‘help.’ That was all he said on it. When he returned, he returned alone.”

  That was what Crane had meant, then. Carlton left her behind, somewhere in England, for reasons unknown to us. I want to inquire more, yet my mind has begun to slow to a crawl and the fatigue is rapidly catching up with me. I want to sit down. I close my eyes, willing the dizziness away. Preston’s hand comes to rest against my elbow, steadying me. His voice, addressing the women, comes across tinny and far away.

  “You mentioned somewhere up north. Any idea where?”

  “Punta de los Reyes, she called it,” Tabby says. “‘Bout a day or two straight up the coast, I believe.”

  Up the coast. Near the ocean. Yes. We finally have a destination to aim for.

  Preston gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “Thank you for your help. We’ll be on our way. You two will be all right on your own?”

  “Well enough,” Mildred says, though there’s a sour note to her tone. “Though suppose we’re both technically unemployed now, thanks to those acquaintances of yours. Go on, off with you, so Mr. Carlton doesn’t have to lie up there any longer than necessary.”

  We bid them farewell and start off across the property, skipping the driveway in favour of crossing the fields instead. Every step is an exercise in willpower for me now. If I can just make it to the carriage, I might lie down for a spell and sort myself out.

  Halfway there, the vertigo becomes too great. One moment I’m walking and the next my feet are tangling with each other, and the ground is swiftly rising to meet my face.

  CHAPTER 19 – PRESTON

  Benji’s words began to sound off the moment we exit the house. Slightly slurred, halting, as though he can’t quite get them to fit together properly. He pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, and I see the exhaustion stretch across his face.

  The way his steps slow as we walk across the property clues me into the fact that he may not make it far. So when he stumbles and falls, I’m prepared, catching him in my arms and easing him to the ground.

  “Benji?”

  “I’m all right.” He presses his hands flat across his eyes. All the colour has fled his face and his fingers tremble. “I’m sorry, I’m just…a bit tired, is all.”

  “Can’t imagine why.” I try to keep my tone light, belying my concern. “We’ve got a bit. Let’s rest here a moment until you feel like walking again.”

  “Thank you.”

  I settle upon the grass with Benji’s head in my lap. His eyes remain shut and I keep quiet, wanting to grant him some silence to settle himself. I think to offer to carry him, but he’d no doubt wave me off, possibly even force himself to walk again before he’s ready. Patience, right? I ought to learn a bit more of that.

  After a few moments tick by, once Benji has opened his eyes again and the pallor has left his face, I look down at him and say, “I’m sorry.”

  He blinks once. “For what?”

  “For lying about Carlton. It wasn’t fair of me, but honestly, I’m not sure I can promise I wouldn’t do it again. There’s little I wouldn’t do to keep you safe, Benji.”

  A small smile tugs at his mouth. “I know.” He reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together. There’s a pause at the end of his words, a breath, as though he wants to add onto it, to say something, but his gaze diverts and whatever it is remains unspoken.

  We remain like that for another fifteen minutes, until the worst of Benji’s vertigo has subsided and he can get to his feet. By the time we reach the carriage, he seems to be feeling a little more like himself, albeit still tired. I convince him to stay inside the carriage to lie down and rest while I drive us to the nearby town of San Mateo. Significantly smaller than San Francisco, but no less dizzying to navigate.

  There, we locate a general store to ask for advice on how to get to Punta de Los Reyes. The clerk procures a map, pointing to a spot directly north of San Francisco, a sprawling peninsula with a tiny town labelled Point Reyes Station.

  “Not much up there but a few dairy farms,” he says with a shrug. “You’ll wanna head up through San Francisco and take the ferry across the bay.”

  Benji grimaces, a sentiment which I share. I stare down at the map. While it’s true backtracking through San Francisco would be the most effective route timewise, it would also succeed in placing us far too close to Nathaniel Crane and his people. The city is large, but he seems to have a talent for finding us.

  I point to where the bay extends down to San Mateo itself. “Can we cross the bay here instead? Then head north?”

  The clerk arches his eyebrows and scratches his head. “Sure, you could. Makin’ the trip a lot longer than it needs to be, though. Maybe head across, then north to Berkeley, but then you’d be taking another boat across there.”

  Benji and I exchange looks. We thank the clerk, grab a few supplies, and head for the docks. The detour is going to add a good two days to our trip—and that’s assuming any ferries capable of taking our horse and carriage across are available in a timely manner.

  As it stands, the only ferry left for the day has room for a horse, but no carriage.

  “We don’t technically need it,” Benji says to me. “We can leave it now. We’ll move faster without it, anyway.”

  True, though it also means we’re out a place to sleep if we find ourselves stuck overnight outside. And given the cold and the rain here, that isn’t an ideal situation. I sigh. “When’s the next ferry with room for a carriage?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon, looks like. If they got space.”

  Too long, I think. Every hour we stay here is an hour that could put Crane closer to finding us, if he’s smart enough to check back at Carlton’s place then search the nearby town. “Two tickets, then, please. And transportation for the horse.”

  Tickets obtained, we unhook the horse from the carriage and lead her to the waiting ship. By some small miracle, we find a dock worker willing to trade the cab for a small fee and a saddle for Rogue; it’s a great bargain for him, and some extra money in our pockets.

  Benji cauti
ons me against eating before we board the boat and it’s a good thing, too. The boat isn’t as small as some of the passenger-only ferries we see on the water, but it’s significantly smaller than the steamship we took from England, which means the choppy waters of the bay toss it about like a toy in a tub, and I spend the duration slouched over the railing with Benji rubbing my back in sympathetic circles.

  At least the trip isn’t terribly long. We fetch Rogue and set about finding lodgings in Ocean View, a subset of Berkeley, for the night.

  The small town of Ocean View is filled with saloons and shops and businesses overlooking the bay. A newsboy on the corner shouts about the coming transcontinental railroad line being constructed to link Oakland to Berkeley, and peddlers galore try to stop us as we lead Rogue down the street in search for a hotel that might also be able to house our companion.

  We find an inn just off the waterfront. More expensive than I’d like, but given our last several nights, I think we could use a little pampering. The money we received for the carriage more than covers it. We have Rogue housed in their stables, stuff ourselves at their restaurant, and by the time the sun is going down, we drag ourselves up to our room and all but fall into our respective beds without so much as bothering to undress.

  As I lie there in the darkness, I become aware of how badly my entire body aches. A combination of exhaustion, lack of proper sleep, stress, and physical exertion, I suppose. All that heaving on the boat likely didn’t help matters. Here I always thought myself to be in peak physical health; this trip might be proving me wrong. If I’m this worn out, I can’t even imagine how Benji is feeling. He’s never been the physical sort.

  I look through the darkness at him across the room, nostalgia from our days at Whisperwood settling in as I study his sleeping face. He looks terribly unkempt, his hair a tousled mess, clothes dirty and rumpled, one arm hanging gracelessly off the side of the bed and his lips parted. He’s beautiful. Just watching him makes me smile.