The Devil & Lillian Holmes

by Ciar Cullen

  No. Terrible men had done something to pry a child away from Lillian Holmes. He believed that. A good man would try to help. Dr. John Watson was a good man, whereas his creator was not. But was there any way to assist without ending up dead in the process? He didn’t truly owe anything to Lillian Holmes, and yet, he felt that he’d inadvertently had some hand in a part of her misery. Where the blazes was Johnnie Moran, and what did he know of all this?

  A trolley clanged somewhere. A cab for hire turned the corner and Arthur ran to catch up. He called out, and the driver finally stopped.

  “It’s Mr. Doyle again, ain’t that right, sir?” It was the driver who had ushered him back and forth to the police station, and the man grinned and tipped his hat.

  “Aye,” Arthur said. “I wonder if you know a certain officer of the law that frequents Light Street? He’s of average height and thin build, fair-haired.”

  “That’s every other copper in the city, sir.”

  “Irish.”

  The man rolled his eyes.

  “His name is John Moran, very serious fellow.”

  “You’d mean poor Johnnie, one who just lost his girl?”

  “That is the very man! Where can I find him this time of evening?”

  “Hard to say, sir. If he’s on duty, he’d be far down toward the harbor. Used to spend his time up the street with his lady. Now?” The driver shrugged. “Don’t know where he lives.”

  “Then we’ll try the harbor!” Arthur decided. “As fast as you can go, and a bit faster if you please. If we don’t find him right away, we’ll be coming all the way back and past here to Congressman Coyle’s mansion. It’s near the lake.” God help me, he thought, though. Don’t let it come to that. I cannot do this alone.

  “Know where it is, sir!”

  The driver seemed legitimately happy that he might have a fare for the entire evening, while Doyle sat back in the coach, trying to take in everything he’d seen and heard in the last few days. If only Mencken were around; perhaps he’d learned something about the murders as well. Right now there were signs that Arthur’s associates in the Learned Order were up to very foul crimes, indeed. Could he have a hand in bringing them to justice? Could he, for once, be an actor in his own story?

  His stomach churned at the thought of this Madam Lucifer of theirs. If she existed, he reminded himself; he vacillated back and forth in his belief every second. He coughed into his handkerchief as the cab bounced over uneven cobbles and trolley tracks at a speed that was likely dangerous and surely illegal. But most of the traffic of the day had subsided, and more swiftly than Arthur thought possible the cab pulled up to a sidewalk.

  The driver yelled down to a man pulling his wares back into his shop for the night, “Seen Constable Moran today?”

  “Just walked by. Should be near Patrick’s Pub by now if he’s going his usual route.”

  They took off again, and Arthur leaned his head out to scout for Johnnie.

  He spotted him peering into the window of closed shop, presumably to assure himself all was quiet.

  “Officer Moran!”

  Johnnie turned and walked up to the cab. “Mr. Doyle! Are you well? Is something wrong?”

  “Aye, indeed something is wrong. Might I convince you to join me?”

  “I cannot do it, sir. I am on duty.” The policeman spread his hands wide in apology.

  “I think I know who killed your lady friend, Johnnie,” Arthur announced, hating himself for being so blunt. “At least, it’s very likely that it will be sorted out soon. Ach, this is not something I want to yell out for all of the city to hear.”

  The constable’s expression of mixed fury and anguish clutched at Arthur’s tight chest. Had he ever felt that way about Louisa? Was Louisa still alive, or was a telegram winding its way to him now? A flush of guilt swept through him. He shouldn’t have left her side. These good people, whether devils or no, seemed fiercely loyal to one another.

  Moran jumped into the cab and shook Arthur’s hand. “Tell me everything, Mr. Doyle.”

  He gave the driver directions and then said, “I don’t know where to start, Johnnie. Did you ever notice anything odd about Miss Holmes or the Orleans brothers? Did Aileen ever mention anything of a…let’s say superhuman trait among any of them?”

  Johnnie furrowed his brow and rubbed at his chin. “George Orleans? Him, sir. He’s not right, is he? I haven’t been able to figure it out, but he gives me the chills and I try to steer clear of him. I feel awful that my brother is near him so often, but Miss Holmes has given them so much more than I could. It’s a blessing right now. I’ve not been good company since Aileen’s death, you see. I’ve tried, but I have trouble keeping my sadness from them. I’ve failed them in every way, and Aileen’s little brothers…” The constable caught himself and stared, wide-eyed. “What’s this, Mr. Doyle? Are you telling me that they killed my Aileen?”

  “No, calm down,” said Arthur. “Quite the contrary. They claim to be on the hunt for person who did kill her, though. The same woman who killed my friend Annaluisa Pelosi.”

  “Woman?” Johnnie repeated. “What kind of woman might that be? They both looked to be torn to shreds by wolves and drained of blood! But that does not matter. I will kill her tonight!”

  “From what I hear, she is difficult to kill. The Orleans brothers have been fighting her for a long time, they say.” Arthur polished his spectacles on his handkerchief and kept his gaze away from Johnnie’s, realizing he was about to cross a line into madness. He’d been on the receiving end of many incredulous looks during his spiritism lectures, but this was another level completely. “She’s a vampire who eats vampires.”

  “Come again?”

  “She is a vampire,” Arthur repeated.

  “Like in the stories Miss Holmes reads? She drinks blood? I beg your pardon, but that is really daft. A vampire, Mr. Doyle?” The policeman looked torn between laughter and anger.

  “Indeed. And the worst kind of vampire. I saw some evidence of the creatures’ existence. Unless it was sleight of hand, and I think not.” Arthur sighed and looked up at Johnnie. “Your sixth sense is accurate, George Orleans is different. He is a vampire. So is his brother. And, hard enough to believe, so is Miss Holmes.”

  “Is this a joke, Mr. Doyle? I’m not in the mood for pranks and—”

  “No, of course not. I value our friendship, my good man. I know you are sorely grieving, and I would not jest about something this serious. You saw both…victims. You must have realized something truly unusual transpired. You said as much when you described the murder at the Rennard the first day I met you.”

  Johnnie nodded reluctantly. “Just hard to take in, you know?”

  The two rode in silence for a few minutes, not looking at one another, but as they approached Loch Raven Arthur wondered what the pair of them could do against such creatures. Had he acted in haste? He was fairly certain that Donnelly and Coyle, and certainly Poe and that talkative Langhan woman were very normal, if complicit in terrible crimes. But what about Holt and Frederick?

  “Your pistol is loaded, is it not?”

  “Of course,” Johnnie said.

  “I am not sure what we will find here. You must be careful, for even the Orleans brothers are terribly frightened of this woman. My primary goal is to rescue a boy who may be captive here.”

  “A boy?” said Johnnie.

  “Yes, Lillian Holmes’s son.”

  “What? Lillian has a son? I don’t understand! Is he a vampire as well?”

  “I think not. Please do not hurt him.”

  “Miss Holmes’s son?” Johnnie repeated, looking more and more confused. “Are you certain about all of this?”

  “Not at all.”

  The young man shook his head, clearly having doubts. “This seems a job for the entire police department, Arthur. If what you say is true—”

  “Johnnie, I’ve met your Worthington. Do you think he’d believe a word of this?”

  “No,” Johnnie
said, “but I’m not sure I do, either.”

  “Well, I must try to do something. I stayed in this dreary city for a reason, and I believe that somehow God may have orchestrated it to be just so. If you don’t want to join me, I understand. Not everyone can take such information as I just gave you on faith. Likely not everyone should.”

  The young policeman took a moment to think. Finally he said, “If there is a chance of meeting the monster who killed Aileen, I will not leave.”

  “You are twice the man I am.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Lillian learns her Truth.

  George prayed that this secret of Lillian’s would go to the grave with him. As Marie chatted on about her horrific accomplishments, hints of her insanity surfaced. She claimed a hand in every political overthrow, every catastrophic scourge on mankind that had occurred in the last three centuries. And if she were this delusional, couldn’t it be that she wasn’t Lil’s mother, he wondered. How to know for sure? And did it matter, for if Lil never learned of her parentage, would it still affect her?

  He thought he heard a noise in the house above and wondered if it was Sullivan. There was no way to be sure, though. No way to be certain if the other vampire had found Lillian’s boy and escaped.

  As Marie chatted on, she edged closer to George, insisting they sit together on a couch that smelled as old as it looked. The more he saw of the room, the more it seemed to have rotted along with its mistress. Phillip had often joked how fastidious George was about order and cleanliness, but these cloying smells, unsightly décor and air of death would turn any stomach.

  “Do discard the silver you’re carrying, George. It won’t work on me, but the tang of the metal is annoying, distracting.”

  “I’ll keep it just the same. You never know who might turn up.” He smiled, searching frantically for some alternate path to her destruction.

  Marie cackled, her fetid breath making George inch away.

  “What will it take for you to let the boy go, Marie?” he asked. “Am I enough of a bargain?”

  “Let him go? Why not?” She shrugged. “I have no further interest in my dear, dear grandson. Let her have him. He’s dull and untalented. What a supreme waste of my time. I’d make a meal of him, but it seems somehow a trifle distasteful.”

  “A trifle distasteful. To eat your grandchild? Yes, that would be.”

  She stood and waved a dismissive hand. “They are evidently both dull, Lillian and her son. She carries about like an…ordinary lady of society.”

  “That hardly describes her.”

  Marie ignored that. “Why should she want him, in any case? The product of Pemberton’s rape… I should think she would not want to have anything to do with him.”

  George grimaced. “I used to think there could be no worse fate than Lillian’s, to not know if anyone ever cared for a single moment about her, about her existence. Now I understand how wrong I was. It could be worse: She could hear your callous words. She has been in such pain, she would do anything to not have a child of hers feel that anguish. Turn over the boy to her in exchange for whatever you would do to me.”

  Marie’s eyes bored holes through his chest. She hated him so much.

  “You are really very attached to your newborn.”

  George knew he could not pull off a lie. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I have no idea. It is like breathing. I cannot help it. I should not have to explain such a thing to her mother—you should feel it as well. And it doesn’t matter now.” But it really is a good question, George.

  Marie nodded, looking amused. “So, the worst I could do to you would be to kill her. I was considering it, you know, but you had the temerity to visit me first. And it seems a bit unmotherly, don’t you think? I never thought you the type to go into battle for love.”

  “You knew me for a very short time a very long time ago. I am not that boy.”

  “No, but you look the same.” She sighed and cast a lurid glance at him that made his stomach turn again. That he had made love to this abomination, that he had turned her into this abomination… This end was small price to pay for unleashing her on the world. And yet, there was Phillip. He had killed, many times. But he had helped, and loved, and was loyal and brave. And the others? Too many to number. What had become of them? Were they like Marie or like Phillip?

  “The boy for me,” he offered again. “But not just my death. I will do your bidding willingly. Kill me, torture me, whatever suits you.”

  “Sullivan, my love!” Her call carried the force of her will; George felt the pull and nearly succumbed to it himself. Of course, Sullivan was her child, his grandchild. She’d felt him, probably from the moment he’d set foot in the city. Now would be a moment of truth.

  Sullivan moved from behind a heavy drape and cast a quick glance at George, who ground his teeth together to stop from speaking. Where was Jacques? Had Chauncey even searched him out? Had the vampire been here all along? Was he friend or foe?

  “Isn’t this a lovely reunion? Three generations, together finally.”

  Sullivan remained stone-faced. George saw hatred in his eyes—hatred for Marie, thankfully.

  The giant’s silence drew a hard smack from his maker. It drew blood where her nails scratched him, and she licked drops off his cheek. His hands shook, and he shoved them in his coat pockets. George prayed that Marie would anger Chauncey more, make his rage boil into a firestorm. But why? What could they do against her even enraged?

  “Do you feel foolish, now, George? I still hold the bond on your secret ally. He’s no help. It’s done.”

  And it seemed to be. Then, worse, the faintest hint of a familiar fragrance broke through the stench of the suite.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  An unnatural death.

  Phillip pulled Lillian’s arm and coaxed her away from the top of the cellar stairs, into the hallway and to the foyer. “It cannot be true,” she whispered to herself as he did. That they had arrived in time for her to hear as much as she had…

  Phillip wrapped a protective arm around her but bolted to the doorway as a cab approached outside. That approach was noisy and reckless. “God Almighty. It’s Doyle and Moran. What the blazes are they doing here?”

  Lillian grabbed his arm, thrilled to see the pair approaching the congressman’s castle though she was not certain what two mortals might do. Pushing aside all thoughts aside except finding her son and freeing George, she ran out onto the porch to greet the newcomers as their cab drove away.

  “Miss—”

  “Don’t speak, Johnnie. Listen, both of you. I believe, I hope, that my son is in this house. We have heard no one about, so I hope also that he is unguarded. Find him. His name is Jacques. Take him as far away from here as you can.” She grabbed Mr. Doyle’s hand and pressed her lips to it. “Thank you so much for coming, sir! I’m begging you. I know I have no reason to ask you for anything, but I cannot help it. Please, sir!”

  “But Miss Holmes!” Johnnie wanted answers, but there was no time.

  “No, Moran, come with me,” Doyle ordered in a tone that would make anyone attend. The others all looked in amazement at a man who seemed to have never raised his voice in his lifetime. Then the moment passed. The pair rushed off, and Lillian cursed as they burst through the front door into the house.

  “I should have warned them to be quiet!”

  Phillip took her hand. “Go with them. You should be looking for the boy. I can try…” He cursed and shrugged, then, and Lillian’s hopes faded further into the dark night. Phillip had no idea what to do.

  “No,” she decided. “I have a great deal of unfinished business with Madam Lucifer. I would have my George back.”

  “You did understand what she said, Lillian? You know who she is?”

  “I’m not deaf, Phillip! Please, I cannot think about it. If I do, I will not be able to act.”

  “Listen to me, Lillian. I mean it!” Phillip forced her to face him and held he
r by the shoulders. “My mother turned George. She was not herself but a newborn in a frenzy. She has not been able to face either of us since, despite our many attempts to reach out to her. George turned me, and you know how that act has haunted him day and night for three centuries. My father was a murderer—he killed his brother to capture a throne. Our subjects eventually murdered him for killing a beloved regent.”

  “What?” Lillian snapped. “What does this matter at the moment? We must do something!”

  “You are too smart to not take my meaning. Crimes against your family members, against your mother—be she the Devil or an angel—will haunt you forever.”

  “I am not sure I believe anything that devil claims, but I assure you, I would not hesitate for a moment to end her reign of terror on me and mine.”

  “You may not hesitate now, but you cannot know what you will feel in months, in years… Let me take care of her, if I can.”

  Lillian pushed Phillip away. “You are quite right. How could I imagine? What a family have I had! You heard her. I was a waste of her time, a total waste, as was my son. I was a mistake.” She shook her head. “That is not my mother. I have no mother! I never did, and I never will. That creature let me be raped by one of her servants. Then she stole my child. I have no father! He was hanged, an insane murderer. What would you have me do, Phillip? Leave my George to rot here? This city, this world has not seen the likes of that monster called Madame Lucifer, and you would have me walk away?”

  “Quiet!”

  “I…I will not be quiet. I will never be quiet again.” Lillian loaded her pistol. “Tell me if my silver bullets will kill her. Tell me how to do this. I shall do it with or without your help.”

  Phillip took in a deep breath and pushed the gun away. “No, they will not stop her. And I know of nothing short of a miracle that will.”

  Lillian shook her head and pushed past him. She reentered the house and made her way down the hallway to the stairs leading to the cellar.