by Ciar Cullen
The cold hit his chest but gradually abated. “What is it?”
“Elder blood.” Vasil shrugged. “Mine. Not the most potent, but it will easily do. Use it wisely.”
“Won’t it make her stronger? Elder blood makes one invincible!”
“As we said, some legends are true, some are not. Some are…less black and white.”
Chauncey nodded, anxious now for Vasil to leave him alone. “Where will I find her?”
Vasil waved his hand again, and Chauncey looked away lest he annoy the ancient further.
“We will likely not meet again, my handsome friend.” Then Vasil kissed him on each cheek and disappeared. The void he left cut through Chauncey like the worst grief ever felt. Why wasn’t he relieved instead?
Chauncey rose and tucked the vial under his coat. It reminded him that he hadn’t been dreaming.
CHAPTER FIVE
A Scotsman arrives in town.
Arthur looked at his pocket watch for the third time and let out a sigh, bringing on a cough that made his chest rumble. The voyage had not been restful, and he didn’t feel himself. His lectures in New York were well attended, but except for a very few spectators he knew they wanted to hear about his stories and not about his serious studies. America had not caught up to the notion that he’d put aside fancy for the fantastical.
Perhaps this leg of his journey would differ. Hopefully the Learned Order attracted more serious investigators into spiritism. At the moment, he wasn’t terribly impressed with the city or his host. While Americans didn’t seem to be able to keep their trains to a schedule, he wasn’t so late that Donnelly should have given up.
He bought a paper on the platform and took the stairway to the general reception area, a sorry place imitating a much grander relative in New York. It smelled, however, like every rail station he’d visited—of coal, soot, hot metal, and the faint aromas of burnt coffee and stale tobacco. Taking a seat on a centrally located bench lest someone try to pick his pocket, he scanned the crowd for his contact, taking in the slightly different mix of people Baltimore seemed to offer. Some familiar characters: the shoeblack, the newsie, a shabby man with a telltale bulbous nose brought on by overindulgence, a few confused-looking immigrants, some Italian, some Irish… Those were the same at nearly every station.
Standing among them, as still and erect as a statue, a beautiful young woman stared at the station’s great clock, which was as big as an elephant, and compared it to her own small pocket watch. Arthur fixed on her, wondering why she intrigued him so much aside from her lovely face. Her deep green dress, matching feathered hat, and raven hair brought out a very pale complexion, but as much as he tried he couldn’t characterize her further except for being from wealth.
At another time in his life he might have constructed a great mystery around her person, to have it unravel before his readers with painstaking care. She reminded him of no one he’d ever known, although he’d penned such exemplary figures into his stories. He thought briefly of his wife, once nearly as lovely as this mysterious female. She’d languished for years with tuberculosis and a premature dementia, both illnesses that seemed unwilling to take her, unwilling to let her go. Drink had nursed him through the first awful months after Louisa stopped recognizing him, but good friends had convinced him to put that down and face the bleak truth. Yet from the misery of grieving her before she was dead Arthur dearly needed this break.
The young lady looked worried and glanced at the clock again. She scanned the crowd as well and tapped her gloves on her palm as the conductor held up the placard that announced the imminent departure of a train to Chicago and points west.
“There you are!” she cried at the sight of an elderly pair shuffling toward her, a porter following quickly with a trunk in tow. Arthur folded his paper and stood, feigning interest in the placard so he could get a bit closer. The woman didn’t notice him.
“You must hurry! What took so long? Oh, never mind. Here, Addie, let me take that.”
The elderly woman and man exchanged a quick embrace with her. Parents? No, too old. Some other relation perhaps.
“I told Thomas we should have left sooner, as one never knows—”
“Don’t worry about that now, Addie! Go on, I will follow behind.”
Addie and the porter moved toward the tunnel to the platform, and Arthur moved another few steps to listen.
“Hurry, Thomas, please do catch up to Addie!”
But the elderly man would not be brushed off easily. He was bent and used a cane, but Arthur could picture a time when the tall lean man stood proud. A veteran of the War Between the States, he surmised. He’d seen many in New York, most of them drifters and homeless, and so many with cut-off limbs. A crueler war he’d never heard of. Arthur silently asked the young woman to treat this crippled friend or relative with respect and tenderness.
“Now, Lillian, tell me that you will be careful while we’re in Chicago. That young man is looking after you, isn’t he?”
“Of course, Thomas. Trust me! With the Jackal gone from this world, I am in no danger.”
Thomas scowled. “Aye, your young man killed him. We know, and we are grateful.”
The young woman named Lillian grimaced. “I suspected you knew the entire sequence of events. Yes, George rescued me—and would let no further harm come to me, so you needn’t worry about a thing!”
“You don’t look yourself, Lil.” The woman named Addie seemed concerned but forced herself to shake the feeling off. “Well, Constable Moran is around all the time now, isn’t he? He’ll also help if you need it. We miss you, dear.”
The young woman’s face softened, and she stood on tiptoes to place a sweet kiss on the man’s cheek that made Arthur sigh in approval. “Take care of that leg,” she said, “and take care of Addie. Enjoy your stay with your cousin! Now, hurry! And do write to me!”
The conductor waved the placard and gave the final call. The young woman’s shoulders dropped, from tension falling away or sadness weighing her down, Arthur couldn’t tell, as the conductor helped the older man with his bag.
Just another ordinary scene, Arthur decided: a woman seeing off relations on a journey of no consequence. Except that they had discussed the murder of someone called the Jackal. Most extraordinary! Why he’d felt the need to spy…
Well, old habits died hard, certainly. But you are only a simple doctor, he thought, with not even the bravery of John Watson, much less his great friend. This matter was for American police. Still, Arthur gave himself high marks for curiosity, although his wife’s urgings to live only vicariously through his fiction had grated on their marriage. He barely knew how much of his current character was formed of natural cowardice and how much Luisa’s constant nagging to stay close to home.
Arthur broke from his ruminations when the young woman turned and caught his stare. She froze. Her assessment grew curious, and he feared that he’d been caught eavesdropping. Was this Lillian dangerous? A murderess herself? His blood ran cold.
But you are in a public place, and she is a slender female. Arthur looked over his shoulder to ensure the police officer patrolling the station was still present.
The young woman tilted her head, raised a quizzical brow, and turned toward the grand entrance. It was if she might have recognized him, but that would be ever so unlikely. Whatever small fame he’d garnered in America, he knew only three people in Baltimore, and none of them well.
Oh, and he’d corresponded with that woman whose letters were certainly not typical of the dozens of inquiries he received monthly. He made a mental note to inquire about her before leaving town, but he truly doubted she shared company with his companions, a group of stern scholars, eccentric psychics, and fellow writers. What was her first name? Miss Holmes, he recalled, but he should have brought her letter with him, which also would have contained her address.
A pity he’d left it at home.
CHAPTER SIX
A troubling pest returns.
&nbs
p; Lillian hid behind an ornamental column of the Union Station building, watching for the emergence of the Staring Man. How could she have been so stupid, letting Thomas speak openly of a murder in such a setting?
Once sure she hadn’t been followed, she waited for the stranger to appear. The October sun should be less strong, she grumbled to herself. While she didn’t mind the daytime as much as George, it did have some effect on her, turning her mood a bit dourer, draining her energy. But so essential was it to get her former governess and butler out of Baltimore, she’d arranged for a grand trip for the brother and sister. They would stay in Chicago with their cousin for several weeks and then see some of the Western wonders that intrigued Thomas so much. A shame, the great White City was long gone from Chicago. Even Lillian would have liked to see its spectacular offerings.
Lillian leaned in an unladylike fashion against the building, not caring much what anyone thought, exhausted by so many threads that needed mending, required her attention. She couldn’t put everyone in Baltimore on a train. What of Aileen and the boys? What would Phillip do about Kitty? And she thought of Bess with a pang of hurt that was never far away. Bess had perhaps come upon the truth of Lillian’s existence but had evidently not shared her knowledge with anyone else. That proof of her love frustrated Lillian even more.
“I would have my Watson back,” she whispered. But, no. Bess was now out of harm’s way. She wouldn’t suffer Annaluisa’s fate.
Lil shuddered and pulled herself out of her dreary thoughts as the Staring Man exited the building, joined by a porter and a companion about his age and social standing, chatting amiably with him.
“No, that was The Murders in the Rue Morgue! Ah, had he lived, so I might pay the homage due to him. I would see his grave before leaving Baltimore,” the Staring Man said.
His companion sighed in agreement. “Well, his second cousin twice removed, I think it is, bears the same name and is in our group. I’m unsure whether it is a boon or curse to bear that name, but it did him no harm, as he was graduated from Princeton and has done quite well for himself, as you will see.”
“Indeed? Is he a poet?”
“A lawyer.”
“He’s more reputable and much less interesting than his cousin, I would imagine.”
“He is my dearest friend; you must give him a chance,” the other man chided lightly.
So, Lil thought, a quite learned gent, for rarely did one hear praise of Edgar Allan Poe these days. And he was a Scottish gentleman with a pleasant expressive voice. Perhaps a man of forty or so years …
She suppressed a squeal of delight.
“I was terribly sorry to hear about Louisa’s state,” the Scotsman’s American companion said. The Scotsman simply inclined his head. The two were standing in line for a hansom, and the next driver urged his horse to move up and accept passengers, so Lillian could hear no more of their conversation as they embarked. But she hurried to the following driver and motioned him down.
The man’s horse fretted at her nearness and whinnied and tapped at the cobbles. Lillian hated that animals sensed her true nature and now reacted negatively to her. Even Mr. Lincoln gave her a wider berth these days.
“Now, Sophie, quiet with you!” The driver pulled a bit of apple from his pocket and offered it to the horse, who wouldn’t be calmed. Lillian stepped back a yard and motioned for the driver to join her.
“Where to, miss?”
“I will pay you double your fare—no, quadruple your fare—if you would follow that carriage in front of us and then report to me the final destination of the taller of the two passengers. An extra reward for your total secrecy.”
The driver grinned and tipped his hat. “Not the first time, not the last, miss. But you must hurry before he turns down Howard. Traffic is fierce this time of day! How do I find you?”
Lillian reached into her satchel and tore a corner off of an envelope she thought to mail to Bess. It is a sign, she thought. Leave Bess be. “Here is the address. If I am not about, my maid will take the information. Here is one note for you, another upon the completion of the task.”
The driver’s grin turned to awe, and Lillian realized how truly naïve he must think her. No matter, Mr. Conan Doyle meant the world to her. She intended to learn why he stared at her, and if he’d heard her discussion. Why, how wonderful and terrible to meet her hero in such a fashion! She couldn’t wait to tell George. Of course, she would leave out the part where he stared at her, lest George scold her about needing to be more circumspect. Or worse.
She decided to walk home, lighter of spirit for having seen her hero in person, regardless of his opinion of her. Lost in thoughts of George, Mr. Doyle, and a gnawing hunger to feed within a few hours, she walked up Charles Street, the sun casting long shadows as it began descending behind the towering five-story buildings of the city.
“I am here for you, waiting.”
Lil froze and swung around in a circle, scanning for the speaker. Everyone went on normally; no one was close. The clip-clop and clang of the tinker driving next to her made the most pronounced noise.
“Don’t forget me. Come back tonight and ride. I’ll show you the way!”
She stopped, feeling a vertigo that hadn’t plagued her since George helped cure her addiction. God help me, not again!
The voices grew louder, and she covered her ears—with no result.
“Forget about George, forget about everything but riding, riding fast. Come see the dark treasures I have waiting for you!”
“No! Stop it! Be gone!”
A man turned to see what was amiss and started to approach her, but she held out her hand in warning. God help me, God help me. The city spoke to her again, words only she heard. How could it be? It had been the morphine before. How could she hear such things now, so pure her blood, so immortal her body? The Jackal and Dr. Schneider were long dead; no one poisoned her mind or her blood; there was no one to lock her in an asylum again. Was that where she truly belonged? This she couldn’t share with George. Her hands shook as they hadn’t in weeks.
She stumbled toward home, and a woman practically collided with her, a mere silhouette in the blinding setting sunlight. A lilac eau de toilette had been applied so profusely that it created a sickly sweet curtain around the woman, who, rather than offering an apology, chuckled.
Lillian’s head ached so that she didn’t turn to see who had been so rude.
“You can’t ignore me forever, my dear!”
But had the woman spoken, or was it the city again?
CHAPTER SEVEN
A honeymoon is over before it starts.
“I thought you’d be happier.” George tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. Lillian had been through enough in the last months to last an average mortal a lifetime. Still, why didn’t she seem remotely pleased about the plan Phillip and he had constructed over three hours of debate?
She would stay with him in Baltimore and be free to search for her child. Kitty, albeit a very angry woman, would be spirited away by Phillip to New York, where Phillip would recruit Sullivan and any of the New York House he could convince to help fight Marie. On the way back he would rustle up some of the “ruffians” of Philadelphia if he could, hoping to appeal to their mercenary instincts. Whether any of it would work George had grave doubts, but he was certainly willing to try, as the alternatives were running, perhaps forever, or dying a gruesome death at Marie’s hand.
“I’m not feeling well, George. Just a bit of a headache.” Lillian rustled through her satchel, banging her pistol on her desk.
“I’ve not seen you so careless, Lil. That isn’t loaded, is it?”
She didn’t answer but continued to fumble through her bag.
“What are you looking for?” he asked. But he knew and his heart sank. What desperation she must be feeling to search for a pill so openly. “How did it go with the Adencourts? Off safely? We must discuss your household, for surely Marie will target those living in—”
“I said I’m not feeling well! Cannot I have a moment’s peace?”
George sat, stunned. In the few months he’d known her, Lillian had not once spoken so sharply. She’d already gone through the initial anger and shock that came with the change, and he’d found intense relief that she hadn’t come to loathe her maker—at least, not yet. At least, he had thought that the case. His heart ached at the possibility his unexpected fortune—no, his unexpected salvation—might be at an end. Perhaps she didn’t love him.
But, such a change in the space of a day? Why, just last night they’d shared a bed, shared secret thoughts and desires, expressed love and devotion. No, this was an aberration.
“Come on, let’s dine. Down to the docks for your favorite menu—”
“I’ll eat a rat or a cat, as that’s all I seem to manage on my own!” She looked up at him, eyes rimmed in red and hair falling from its chignon.
“Lil?”
“May I not have this night alone? I have been so worried of late about Marie and about your safety, about finding my child…I must recoup my strength a bit. I must have some quiet. Do you understand?”
She might as well have taken a knife and plunged it into his chest. Why didn’t she want to share her troubles with him? He was her maker. And her lover.
“Of course.” He would not argue, so George stood and gathered up his coat and hat, wondering how such simple acts could feel so unfamiliar and awkward. He felt frozen in time, as if each motion were captured by an artist. Was it the end? If so, he would remember this moment forever. She had loved him despite his evil, loved him for his peculiarities. He had loved her for hers.
She turned toward her desk and he resisted going to her and planting a kiss on her head before leaving.
“I will see you tomorrow, George.”
“Lil?”
She didn’t turn. He craved to stroke her raven hair, to thread his fingers through it and nibble on her neck, to hold her so she could never get away.
“Marie is in town,” he reminded her, just to be cautious. “You understand how tenuous things are, do you not?”