“Graves?”
Immanuel shook his head while the rest of his body stayed rooted in place. The moment Adam put a steadying hand on his shoulder, the clang of cathedral bells erupted in his ears and lightning raced across his vision. Clamping his hands to his ears, Immanuel staggered back. In that brief second of contact, he was certain he had seen lines and forms cutting across the ground in a twisted grid while the circle of stones had lit up with symbols as complex as those he traced in ink at the museum. Slowly returning to his senses, Immanuel blinked and felt the rough edges of the grass pressing into the heels of his palms. Adam was saying something, something he couldn’t hear with the ringing in his ears, but as he reached to touch his back, Immanuel held his hand up to stop him.
“Magic,” he murmured breathlessly as he rose to his knees. “It’s concentrated here.”
Swallowing against the taste of blood in his throat, he slowly stood. He ran his hand over his arm where Adam had touched him. The spot stung like a wound and the bottoms of his feet itched within his shoes as if the energy had passed through them like a bolt. Immanuel looked up to find Adam regarding him as much in concern as in confusion.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Adam said softly, his hand flexing beside him as he resisted the urge to touch Immanuel. “What did I do?”
Immanuel took a step closer until their sleeves brushed. “I don’t know. I could sense there was something here before you touched me, but when you did, it was as if everything grew very loud.”
“An amplifier.”
He nodded. “And a big one at that. I’m afraid to get any closer at this point. Would you be willing to go to the stones and tell me what you see?”
“Of course.”
Adam flashed a debonair smile at his panting companion and slowly turned toward the knoll in hopes that Immanuel wouldn’t see the hint of fear in his eyes. As he took a step into the grass, he worried he, too, would be struck by whatever invisible force sent Immanuel crumpling, but luckily, he passed without incident. For once, he was pleased that he wasn’t extra-normal, as Immanuel called it. He would hate to soil his knees with grass stains so early in the trip.
Drawing closer to the circle of stones, silence fell over him like a curtain. He stood less than a hundred feet from Immanuel, yet the faerie circle felt miles away, as if time and light had depressed around the clearing. The stones towered over his head, spinning away from the center. From the edge, he could barely make out another ring of smaller rocks, hidden amongst the long grasses. Adam was about to take a step into the inner ring when a figure appeared at the opposite end of the path.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she cried.
Greta Larkin leered at each man in turn as she strode toward them with a teenaged girl who looked remarkably like her on her arm. A step behind them came a man whose features spoke of charcoal and steel. His stony gaze regarded Adam suspiciously before turning to Immanuel with something softer. He met Immanuel’s mismatched, scarred eye at the same time that Adam noticed how he leaned on his walking stick more than the average gentleman. The silver handle had been bent crooked while the length of the cane had been crafted of sturdy wood that had become scuffed and scratched with age. Adam chanced a glance at the man’s legs but was met with a reproachful scowl from Miss Larkin.
Stepping back onto the path, Adam put on his most effervescent smile. “Miss Larkin, I thought that was you. You look well after yesterday’s excitement.”
Her hard expression faltered but remained as a strain at the corners of her eyes.
“I’m so sorry if we were trespassing, Miss Larkin. We just wanted to see the monolith. I thought perhaps it might be prehistoric, like Stonehenge,” Immanuel added, his gaze darting nervously toward Adam.
“You are right about it being ancient, sir.” The man’s voice remained flat even as his eyes glinted with interest. “The standing stones are believed to have been created by—”
“The menhirs are sacred to us, and you really shouldn’t traipse through,” Greta snapped.
“We are very sorry. We meant no harm.”
She nodded slowly, looking between Adam and Immanuel and the circle of stones. “I can see that. Just don’t do it again, Mr.—?”
“Winter, and this is my— my associate, Mr. Fenice.”
Adam gave a slight bow and extended his hand to Miss Larkin and then to her daughter and her male companion.
Her mouth quirked into an uncomfortable grin. “I never did properly thank you both for helping me yesterday after I lost my sea legs. It’s good to see you alert now, Mr. Winter. It would have been a waste to dive in for another and not save yourself.”
Swallowing against the knot in his throat, Immanuel nodded. “And are you and the child all right?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied, a true smile brightening her features as she rested a hand on her protruding belly, “swimming away.”
“What business do you have on the island?” the gentleman asked.
Greta shot him a reproachful look and released a huff. “Please pardon his abrupt nature. He doesn’t mean to be rude. This is my nephew, Mr. Byron Durnure.”
“Like the poet,” Byron added, “and the knight.”
Adam opened his mouth to speak, unsure how to respond. Her nephew looked old enough to be her brother, and there was something about him that vaguely reminded him of Lord Sorrell, a man with a demeanor at odds with a mind burdened by a library’s worth of information.
“We are here to study seals. We work for the London Natural History Museum. I’m a curator and Mr. Fenice is a—” Immanuel paused, wishing they had worked out a story before they arrived.
“A humble journalist. Mr. Winter and I have been friends for some time, and when I heard he was headed out here, well, I jumped at the chance to join him. Perhaps, I could speak with you at another time about the history of the island or who created those generators by the lighthouse.”
“Uncle Byron did that,” the girl replied proudly.
Her mother shot her a look and tightened her grip on the girl’s arm, but if she noticed, she didn’t show it.
“That’s quite an impressive device. Now, why did he do that?” Adam asked, giving her his full attention and charm.
Immanuel watched how his smile held her wholly, as if she were the only one on earth. The ability to make one feel as if they were the be-all and end-all of Adam’s attention was a power Immanuel greatly admired, especially as it seemed to work regardless of sex, age, or station.
She gave him a conspiratorial grin and continued, “Well, they wanted to stop using our lighthouse because it was too hard to run electricity from the coast. That would make the island dangerous and we might have to leave if ships avoided it, but Uncle Byron said we didn’t have to get electricity from Scarborough. We could take it straight from the water.”
As Greta’s mouth tightened in silent exasperation, a bashful grin crept across Byron’s features. He shifted his hand on his cane and swept an invisible strand of charcoal hair from his forehead.
He kept his eyes on the ground and said, “Thank you, Clara. Magnets are the key. All you need is—”
“Byron, don’t bore them with all your science.”
“Actually, I’m a scientist myself. I would be very interested to know how they work,” Immanuel replied, hoping to stop shame from overtaking Byron’s muted pride.
“You are? I have never met a real scientist before, I mean not in person, just my friends I write to. I have a studio I work in. You should come there. I go every day from five until one. How long will you be on the island?”
“About a week. Where is your—”
“Byron, we need to go,” Greta said sharply. “We need to get home and start dinner. Thank you, Mr. Fenice and Mr. Winter, for your assistance yesterday and I’m sorry Byron bothered you. Good-bye.”
Before Greta could usher Byron and Clara out of sight, Clara called over her shoulder, “If you’re looking for the seals, they live o
ff the coast on an island by the guest cottage.”
“Do any of you know where Mr. Jacobs is? We haven’t seen him in some time,” Immanuel asked, hoping his question wouldn’t betray his story.
“Ask the lighthouse keeper. He rented him a room at the old inn,” Greta replied curtly.
With a few reproachful glares and harsh words muttered under her breath, the three disappeared the way they came. Adam and Immanuel looked at each other, the unspoken phrases flowing between them only to be drowned out by a shiver passing through Immanuel’s thin form. He hugged his arms against the cold and bit his lip.
“Shall we go to the cottage for a warm-up and then to the lighthouse?”
Adam nodded, knowing that even in the seclusion of the forest, he couldn’t risk putting his arms around him to still the shivers. Instead, he let his hand fall.
Chapter Eleven
Dead Men’s Tales
Adam and Immanuel hadn’t intended to cut through the village proper on their way home, but even if they hadn’t, they wouldn’t have missed much. It had taken them walking half a mile past it before they realized they had gone through the village in its entirety. The houses that made up the settlement had been tacked onto the hillside along lopsided streets that followed the topography of the land rather than any sense or plan. Much like their own, they were a remnant of a forgotten era, only they seemed more careworn. Their roofs had missing slate shingles and the glass in the windows had been cracked or were missing all together, covered over with bits of paper or wood. Several of the houses reminded Adam of a rotting pumpkin, holding their shape but at any moment could collapse in on themselves. He had spent his entire life in London with fewer holidays than he would care to admit. For all he knew, that could have been the norm for a place so out of the way. Near the docks, the houses grew taller and closer to create a wall of shops. The only difference between them were the faded signs swinging from rusted or broken chains near the door. All appeared to be long empty.
A chill passed through him at the thought of the island dying, the generators and lighthouse its last fleeting gasp of life. In the distance, Adam could make out the bobbing sails of fishing boats, but from that far out, he couldn’t tell if they were piloted by men or ghosts. He had heard of towns in the States that stood still as death, long abandoned when the well of wealth ran dry, but he had never imagined it in Britain. At the edge of town, he tried to imagine what the island had looked like in its prime, but all he could see were the embers of slate and stone.
As they followed the circular path that Adam hoped led back to the inn, he watched Immanuel stare off through the trees to where the glacial water trembled and rolled against the sky. His cheeks were red with the cold and his arms tightly wrapped around his middle, but he hadn’t complained. Narrowing his eyes, a smile lit his features.
“Adam, Adam, look!” he cried, grabbing his lover’s arm and pointing toward a flat, black rock jutting from the water.
Squinting, Adam realized the rocky outcropping was littered with at least forty plump grey seals sunning themselves. Adam couldn’t help but grin at the gleeful glint in his companion’s eyes. No matter how many times he saw Immanuel unabashedly delighted, it never failed to charm him. Sometimes it seemed as if Immanuel was seeing everything for the first time.
“I thought you didn’t like seals.”
“I…” The smile fell from Immanuel’s cheeks only to reappear as a pup waddled across the jetty before sliding into the water. “I hate being the ‘expert,’ but I don’t dislike them. They are quite adorable creatures for the most part. Do you think they’re real seals or selkies?”
“Devil if I know. Maybe you can go down and ask them yourself. How do you intend to find out where the selkies are?”
Turning his back on the pinnipeds lounging on the rocks, Immanuel walked with his head bowed. A shadow fell across his features as he paced the edge of the cliff. “I don’t know. Do you think I could simply ask someone about the legends?”
“Well, Mr. Durnure and Miss Larkin’s daughter seemed eager to talk. If they know anything about the selkies, they may tell you. Miss Larkin, on the other hand, seems like a hard nut to crack.”
“I wouldn’t ask her unless I had to. Maybe the lighthouse keeper would know.”
“Do you think he would let us go to the top of the lighthouse? You could probably see the whole island from there.”
“I don’t see why not. If we can reach it, that is. You saw how badly the island flooded before, but—”
The words dried in Adam’s throat as Immanuel’s eyes fix on something at the end of the bend and he started toward the edge of the cliff as if in a trance. Before Adam could reach his side, a gasp escaped his lips, and he clamped his hands over his mouth, staggering back into Adam’s chest. He clenched his eyes shut for a moment before turning to Adam.
“Don’t. Adam, don’t move,” he cried, his voice quavering as he raised his hands as if to catch Adam should he try to push past him.
His eyes glinted with moisture, but what scared Adam most was how the blue of his eye disappeared behind blown pupils. It was the look he had in the grips of night terrors.
“Immanuel, what is going on?”
He chewed on his lip, his eyes far away for a second before meeting Adam’s steady gaze. His voice came in little more than a whisper as he said, “There’s a dead man in the water.”
“What?” He shook his head. He couldn’t possibly have heard right, but with Immanuel’s wild gaze and protective stance, he couldn’t be sure if the man had been conjured by his mind. “Are you certain he’s dead? Could it be a dead seal?”
“I— I don’t think so. There’s— there’s a lot of blood and his head— it doesn’t look right.”
At the strain in his lover’s voice, Adam knew to tread carefully. It was the precursor to seizing lungs, tense muscles, and his bichrome eyes staring blindly, lost in a vision of pain.
Slowing his pulse with a long breath, Adam held Immanuel’s gaze as he replied calmly, “Let’s go down and check. We could be wrong, and if the man is gravely hurt, we are wasting time when he needs help.”
Immanuel stayed with his arms out, but he bit his lip as he turned the idea over in his mind. “I don’t want you to see, Adam. I don’t want to see…”
Glancing over Immanuel’s shoulder, Adam averted his gaze upon seeing the figure slumped in the boat. No matter what he had said to Immanuel, he was certain of what he had seen. Adam gently rested his hands on Immanuel’s shoulders, hoping to keep his eyes on him.
“I will go down to the beach. You’re in no shape to deal with this. Let me—”
“No,” Immanuel said, the word startling Adam with its finality. “I can’t let you go alone. You’ve never dealt with dead bodies before.”
He wanted to remind him of his older brother’s passing or the dead opera singer in the Hawthornes’ basement laboratory, but before he could say a word, Immanuel was walking toward the fork in the path that led to the beach below. Adam chased after him. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, they were in step. Sand shifted beneath their feet as they followed the rough-hewn stairs carved into the rock’s face. At places the steps tilted at jarring angles, and whenever Adam took his mind off their descent to hazard a look at the man sprawled facedown in a boat near the water’s edge, his foot would slip from the end of the tread and bring him back to the task at hand with a rushing heart. He pictured himself slipping between the uneven rails and tumbling down the cliff. If he smacked his head on one of the recycled beams serving as makeshift treads, he would surely end up with a concussion or far worse.
At the bottom, Adam released a relieved breath and stretched out the tension in his neck from the dangerous descent, but when he turned to speak to Immanuel, he found him sprinting down the beach, kicking up sand with each long stride. Adam bolted after him, his shoes slipping, nearly sending him to his knees. He grimaced as his loafers crunched across a crab he saw a moment too late. They
would never be the same after this trip. Ambling closer, Adam could make out a battered rowboat wobbling with the lap of the waves, unable to dislodge itself from a pile of petrified tree branches and detritus near the shore. Seagulls stood on the lip of the boat, scattering with a shriek as Immanuel neared. It wasn’t until Immanuel stopped running that Adam knew his eyes hadn’t betrayed him.
A man slumped in the boat with his legs splayed, one arm reaching for an invisible foe while the other clutched loosely at his chest. Adam stepped closer until he could make out what had been the man’s face. It was pressed into the boards of the boat, bloated and blackened beyond any hope of recognition. Water sloshed at the bottom, polluted with blood and the feculence that had leeched from the corpse. Vomit lurched in Adam’s throat at the searing stench of putrefaction, but he swallowed it down and blinked away the burning in his nose. Pushing his nail into his wrist, he released a tense breath and turned to find Immanuel with his eyes closed and his hand clamped over his mouth.
For a moment, Adam feared his lover would vomit or cry until he swallowed and said softly, “We need to find a policeman or—”
“Or who, Immanuel? There’s no one here.”
Immanuel replied without opening his eyes, his voice hoarse, “I know. I know. But what are we going to do? We don’t even know who he is.” Glancing at the man’s body, Immanuel released a ragged breath. “Adam, I think he was murdered too. Look.”
Following the line of Immanuel’s trembling hand, Adam could make out a hole in the fabric of the man’s woolen jacket. His skin had been dented and torn by the beaks of seabirds, but this wound looked far deeper. It could have been a bullet hole or a stab wound, but it was impossible to tell with his jacket obscuring its size and Adam was in no hurry to remove it to check.
“How long do you think he’s been dead?”
Selkie Cove (The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Book 5) Page 12