“I have a very simple plan. We keep our heads down, stay inside the cabin, and wait for the ferry to come on Monday, so we can get out of here in one piece. The Interceptors can solve their own case.”
“How can you say that? You know we have to find the selkies and— and find her—their—killer. We promised we would.”
“You promised we would. I don’t have to be a part of this.”
“So you are going to leave me high and dry. Thanks, Adam. That’s lovely of you.”
Adam froze as a sooty breeze whipped down the chimney, flapping the lapels of his jacket. The leaded glass window rattled in its frame behind him while the oil seascape over the hearth clattered against the stone until it came down with a sickening crunch. At the sight of Immanuel’s darkening gaze, Adam took a step back. The air seemed to suck out of the room, leaving them in a pocket of petrichor and soot. On either side of them, the chairs shook against the floorboards in time with the air rushing past Adam to collect around Immanuel’s thin form.
“Just because you have nothing to lose, doesn’t mean I do. Do you know what happens if I don’t figure out who did this?”
Adam raised his hands in surrender as the electric globes on either end of the living room danced in their sockets.
“No more Judith. No more Peregrine. No more Interceptors. No more magic. No more help.”
“Immanuel, I—”
“No, listen to me. Yes, I told Judith and the Interceptors that I would figure out whether the selkies were still on the island and who killed the selkie, but I promised the her I would find some way to do her justice. And I will. This isn’t about doing some duty or solving a case. This is life or death for me, Adam. This is life or death for a lot of people.”
Adam watched in horror as the wind stoked the flame in the hearth until it licked at the mantle, flaring with each seethed word.
“It certainly was for two people so far. How many more will die if we don’t do something? Do you want to be responsible for that? Because I don’t. I have enough on my conscience. And I don’t know about you, but I want to be more than a curator or an accountant. I want to do something that matters,” Immanuel cried, his voice breaking in time with the crack of glass behind him.
As the last word left his lips, the wind died, and the pressure that had built in the cramped sitting room fell away in an instant. Immanuel took a staggering step forward, the room turning on its side as the light faltered. His head pounded in his temples and eyes until he feared a vessel would burst to alleviate the mounting pressure. As he ran a trembling hand over his brows, Adam wrapped his arm around Immanuel’s ribs. He held his lover firm as he took one hesitant step at a time toward the sofa. Gently lowering him onto the cushions, Adam released his arm and retreated into the kitchen once more. Immanuel rested his face against the back of the chair and shut his eyes. Even through his lids, he could feel the room tilt, but more worrying was the familiar metallic taste filling his mouth and the itch of moisture in his nose. His heart quickened and his chest tightened as he sat up in time to have Adam shove a handkerchief under his nose with one hand and hand him a cup of tea with the other.
“This is what I mean about controlling yourself,” Adam said, his voice edged with concern boarding on fear. “Look what’s happened. You gave yourself a bloody nose and you’re shaking. That can’t be good for you. You can’t tell me that’s a normal reaction to magic.”
“Am I ever normal?” Immanuel murmured beneath the bloodstained handkerchief.
“No, but this certainly can’t be good for you. Now, have something to eat before you pass out.”
Taking a thin biscuit from the proffered tin, Immanuel choked it down, hoping it would soak up the coppery brine gathering at the back of his throat. Sitting next to him, Adam studied his face and body for any sign of illness or pain, lingering on his eyes before flitting over his chest and finally coming to rest on his quavering hands. Immanuel looked away, knowing dark circles were forming under his eyes faster than he could hope to replenish his strength. He flinched as Adam laid a gentle hand on his arm.
“I agree with you, by the way.”
“What?” Immanuel turned to find Adam watching the bloodstain grow beneath his nose. “That I’m not normal? Because I’m well aware.”
He rolled his eyes. “No, about helping people, doing something more than what’s expected. I agree. It’s just difficult.” Adam released a bitter laugh. “I wish we could have adventures as long as those adventures didn’t mean having to risk our skins to have them.”
“That isn’t how life works.”
“I know, but I would like to see the case through, as long as we don’t put ourselves in unnecessary dangers. As long as you don’t put yourself in harm’s way.”
“Trust me, I have had enough bruises and cuts to last a life time,” Immanuel said, setting the biscuits aside.
Adam cupped his hand around the back of Immanuel’s head and tipped it forward until he stared at his feet. “Keep your head like this, and pinch your nose. It’ll help slow the bleeding.”
“How do you know this will work?” he asked, closing his eyes in hopes he could ignore the tickle of blood.
“We used to do it with George. Don’t let go until I say so.”
George. Adam so rarely spoke about his older brother that with his name came a hallowed chill. Immanuel had never met George as he had died months before he and Adam met, but he had noticed an unspoken tension surrounding him, especially where Hadley was involved. Neither twin wanted to speak of him, yet when they did, Hadley spoke of an ill-fortuned saint, a genius who died before his time. The mere mention of him sent Adam into his stiff, haughty bearing, as if he had to defend himself from his brother even beyond the grave. Immanuel couldn’t understand it. His uncle had died years ago, but he hadn’t pushed his memory away like that, even when his specter haunted his dreams. There was something Adam kept to himself, something perhaps he even hid from Hadley, but Immanuel was too afraid to ask if he could share that burden.
He swallowed down a wad of bloody snot, wishing he could rinse it away with a mouthful of tea. At least the flow appeared to be weakening. His stomach growled, and he wondered if it would be possible to hold his nose shut and eat at the same time. Opening one eye to find the remaining biscuits, he instead watched Adam pick up the fallen canvas and set it on its hook over the fireplace. Had he done that when they were fighting? He could vaguely recall the sensation of energy trailing from his skin, setting every hair on end, but he hadn’t willed it or consciously commanded it. His head pulsed at the phantom sensation. At home, it had never happened to that extent. He had inadvertently revived a bee and took the wilt out of several vases of flowers, but it had never drained the life out of him like this. It felt as if someone had sucked the air from his lungs with a kiss, unaware of the strain until they pulled away.
“I think this lack of control is because of you,” Immanuel peeped, his stomach churning at the sight of the blood soaked handkerchief dangling from his free hand. When Adam turned to him, his face darkened with skepticism, Immanuel continued, “It isn’t on purpose, I think it’s the handfasting. If my magic is feeding off both of our tempers, instead of just mine, that could be what’s causing such an overreaction.”
“That’s possible, but I’m not nearly as—”
“I’ve caught you bothering at your wrist at least a dozen times since I woke up. You hide your worry better than I do, but that doesn’t mean inside you aren’t fearful. We both need to try to stay calm as best we can if we don’t want to destroy the house.”
Adam released a short laugh and slumped onto the chair beside him. “Thank god you aren’t aligned with fire.”
“Don’t worry, I can still do plenty of damage without fire.” Coughing, he asked, “Adam, can I please let go of my nose now?”
Glancing at his watch, Adam nodded, and Immanuel slowly released his nose. He sat back and took a hesitant sniff. While he could still smell and taste b
lood, it didn’t appear to be flowing anymore. Licking the corner of the handkerchief, he carefully rubbed away the dried flecks affixed to his skin.
Taking the cloth from Immanuel’s hand to clean a spot he missed, Adam said, “We have selkies, a dead man, and more magic than we can handle. What do we do?”
Immanuel sighed. He had been turning that question over since they found Jacobs’ body, but most of the answers were impossible here. There was no coroner for an inquest, no one to call to help, no Emmeline to summon the deceased for a chat. His stomach knotted at the thought, but he pushed it away. Failure wasn’t an idea he could afford to entertain.
“I’m thinking. Did you find anything of use in Mr. Jacobs’ pockets?”
“Not really. Most of it was drenched in… something, and the ink had run badly. They were mostly notes, probably from one of his cases. Without a context, I have no idea what it all means, if anything. Do you want to take a look at them?”
Immanuel opened his mouth to speak when his eyes fell upon the nearly invisible door obscured by the coatrack. They had walked past it how many times that day, yet they hadn’t tried to open it.
“Did you find a key in his pockets?”
“No, just his badge, his watch, and some coins. The gun, too, but that was in the bottom of the boat.”
“You didn’t see anything else there, did you?”
“No, but that means the key to his room may be somewhere in here.”
“Or a seagull could have stolen it.”
“Let’s hope he left it here for safekeeping. Whatever he was investigating was important enough for him to lock it away; he couldn’t chance losing it. Do you think that whatever case brought him to the island, also led to his murder?”
“Possibly, it was definitely the same person who killed the selkie. I know you can’t see the visions, but it was the same figure. Do you think you can pick the lock?”
Adam frowned and cocked an incredulous henna brow. “Do I look like a common criminal to you?”
“I thought I’d ask. I could picture Hadley doing it.”
“So could I,” he grumbled. “But where do you think he would hide it?”
Running his eyes over the bulky table and the outdated buffet and china cabinet behind it, Immanuel sighed. “It could be anywhere down here. Somewhere close.”
At the hearth, Adam felt around the bricks and wooden lintel for any sign of a hidden lever or loose stone while, behind him, Immanuel felt around the cushions of the armchair and sofa. While the house wasn’t very large, there suddenly seemed to be an infinite number of places to hide something as small as a key. Each drawer was pulled away, its contents shuffled before being replaced until every knickknack had been upturned only to reveal piles of dust and the refuse of vermin. Before long, the parlor and dining room looked as if they had been ransacked from their repeated searches. As Adam disappeared into the kitchen to rifle through the pantry and cupboards, Immanuel surveyed the parlor with a keen eye.
Placing his hand on the locked door, he drew in a calming breath and let his finger trace the curve of the woodgrain. A little voice in the back of his mind called to him, Make a sigil, but he knew he was in no shape to do so. The taste of blood still lingered on his tongue, and with each movement, his body ached in protest. He had already done too much too soon. On top of that, he had never attempted to use a sigil to unlock anything. There was no guarantee that the expenditure of energy would result in anything but injury and aggravation.
Kneeling before the door, he put his eye to the keyhole. Through the narrow opening, he could make out light filtering across the bare wooden floor, rippling through the antique glass as if the room had been submerged beneath the sea. Contorting his neck, Immanuel could see what he thought might be a wooden desk or table. With his blurry eye and the odd angle, it was impossible to tell. If all else failed, they could break the window from the outside and shimmy in through the narrow opening. Immanuel wrung his hands and grimaced at the thought of having to endure cuts from the shards, as Adam would never fit. He was overdue for a bad infection, and he didn’t want to tempt fate so far from Harley Street.
“Nothing,” Adam called, patting a spot of what appeared to be flour from his jacket. “We could try to break down the door.”
Immanuel straightened, giving Adam a doubtful look. The door appeared to be carved from solid—albeit ancient—wood, and neither Adam nor Immanuel were nearly as sturdy. Immanuel’s hands itched. He was so tempted to use magic, just one more time, but when he looked up, he found Adam watching him with a deep frown.
“No. I know what you’re thinking but no. I’d rather smash the front window and deal with a bill for the glass than have you hurt yourself.”
Sighing, Immanuel pushed past his companion and sunk onto the lopsided couch cushions. He stared ahead, ignoring Adam as he gathered his coat and gloves from the stand. How could he be so weak? His damaged eye blurred with each blink. It all made him feel so powerless. Somehow he had expected that the further he got into magic, the stronger he would feel, yet a temper tantrum had left him drained. More than drained, though he would never admit it to Adam. It had begun to suck the life from him, one bloody drop at a time. Jumping at the pop of a log cracking in the hearth, Immanuel raised his gaze to the painting he had knocked off the wall.
The oil painting portrayed a fishing vessel hung suspended atop a wave, seconds from smashing into the rocks and jetties in the foreground. Why anyone on an island would want a constant reminder of the dangers they were in if they tried to leave, he couldn’t imagine. Despite Adam carefully righting it, it already listed to one side, as if— Rising from his seat, Immanuel pulled the painting from its hooks and set it down on the sofa.
“Were you expecting a safe there?” Adam asked, dropping his shoes in favor of watching Immanuel.
“No, but something else seems to be behind it.”
Feeling along the back of the frame, Immanuel traced the edge of the canvas with his fingertips. The paper lined back slid beneath his fingers, and as he reached the left side of the frame, he felt a bump. It was barely perceivable but it was unmistakable. He tilted the frame back until the light shown across the back of the canvas. Something rippled beneath the thick paper where the canvas met the wooden frame. Gripping the edge of the paper, he watched one of the tacks wiggle as he pulled. He carefully untacked the paper to reveal a long, narrow iron key dressed with curls of metal and a spattering of rust shoved between them. A high laugh escaped his lips
“Is that—?”
“It is,” Immanuel said as darted toward the door.
His hand trembled as he tried to slip the black key into the lock. The key chattered against the metal until finally with a snick, its teeth engaged and the door clicked open. Pushing it aside, the air seeped from Immanuel’s lungs.
Chapter Thirteen
Lost Lives
“What the devil?” Adam whispered, stepping past Immanuel into the darkened room.
The sun ducked behind the clouds as rain pattered against the glass, but even through the deep gloom, there was no mistaking row upon row of women’s faces tacked to the wall. Half a dozen colored strings had been strung between them, crisscrossing to form a tangled web. Immanuel turned away from the wall, unable to face their stares. Turning to a camp desk behind him, Immanuel examined the layers of papers and journals littering its surface. His hand hovered over the pages. He feared that at any moment Mr. Jacobs would come barging in, demanding to know why they had broken into his room, but with the sudden weight of cold dread, he remembered the man slumped across the rowboat, facedown, his features blackening with decay.
Jacobs would never return, yet his room remained as a testament to his final thoughts, a final problem he would never solve. How many days had his words and belongings waited for him? Immanuel and Adam stood elbow-to-elbow, afraid to take another step for fear of disturbing the quiet that settled like dust over Will Jacobs’ room. Taking a hesitant step toward the desk,
Immanuel carefully pushed the pages with the tip of his finger to reveal tide charts, captain’s ledgers, and local histories beneath them. In the far corner near the mullioned window, the chaise’s back had been draped with a rumpled blanket while a suitcase sat tucked beneath it.
“There are so many of them,” Adam said, shaking his head.
Stepping back without taking his eyes off the chaise, Immanuel flipped on the lights, bathing the wall of paper in soft yellow light. Ninety-six women stared back at them from the plaster. The majority were crudely made sketches or merely names with ages and dates. A handful of drawings had been delineated by an artful hand and even fewer were photographs, their backings curling with the humidity. There was something about them, some unifying feature apart from sex that Immanuel could sense more than identify. He squinted at each face. Perhaps it was something about the roundness of the eyes or the fullness of the cheeks in respect to the nose. Then again, they could have been rendered by the same artist, which may have caused the pattern. Between some of them, strings had been pinned and tethered together with dyed yarn while the heads of the tacks pinning them to the wall had been brushed with paint. Immanuel’s bichrome eyes followed the trail of red string from woman to woman but couldn’t discern its meaning.
He swallowed hard. “Do— do you think we have a Ripper here or someone like Lord Rose?”
“I should hope not.” The tightness in Adam’s voice betrayed his calm demeanor. “I cannot imagine someone could get away with a hundred murders on an island this small. You would have no one left.”
“What do you think we should do? Should we,” Immanuel paused, eyeing the battered suitcase stuffed under Jacobs’ makeshift bed, “go through his things?”
Selkie Cove (The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Book 5) Page 14