by Jerico Lenk
I conceded to a smile, a limp little perk of the mouth. “It’s in the confidence of only Cain and yourself.”
“I won’t pry. Though I’m curious as to how one even stumbles upon such an orientation.” Clement folded his arms, carefully, his shoulder still not quite right as rain. He threw his sparking hazel eyes off elsewhere. “I have worries.”
Worries.
“What for?” I sent him a hard look from the corner of my eye, dreading what he might mean.
He frowned. “I shall never know when I mistreat you.”
“Clement, you don’t mistreat me,” I blurted, shocked he’d ever think such.
“I mean, when to address you as Miss, or … ?”
“Oh.” I shook my head vigorously. “Cain said the same thing. And just as I told him, simply don’t. It doesn’t matter in the end, really. And if you offend me, don’t fret, I’ll alert you right away.”
“Clearly,” he mumbled, and cast me a gentle smirk without turning his head.
I returned the glance from where I leaned next to him against the wall, hands behind my back, and just hoped desperately he’d see how much I needed his confidence. I didn’t know if the conversation was complete; it was clear Clement didn’t, either. But it was enough to just hold each other’s eyes a moment, knowing the words were there somewhere, waiting.
Through the open gallery doors, the gala buzzed and swirled, while we just lingered there against the wall like ghosts, unbothered and for the most part unnoticed now.
Clement gestured with two fingers, clearing his throat. “Your hair’s come undone.”
I reached up to fix it with a sigh and a faint smile. “It never wants to hold to wax, it just doesn’t.”
“Mine doesn’t, either.”
“Can we go back in now … ?”
Clement pushed away from the wall, eagerly. “Yes, of course,” he said, as if he’d been waiting for me to ask. He snatched up his wine and drained the glass, grumbling as we strode back into the gallery, “Did they bring out the cognac yet?”
The music faded down as we came through the doors, the roar of the crowd and tinkling pizzicato of crystal-ware attenuating as a hush settled low over the quaint old room. Commissioner Westwood, with a few other higher officers, had taken to the risers near the windows.
“Everyone, good evening,” Westwood greeted. “What a gathering tonight!”
Chesley handed forth a little page of notes. Westwood took a moment, eyes passing over it. Finally, he read off the year’s announcements beginning with thanks to patron donations. News of research and archival discoveries. Summaries sent from Cross ambassadors on the Continent.
A woman in the crowd near us chuckled softly into her drink and whispered loftily to her companion, “Ambassadors.”
A scientific partnership, a newly patented Franklin meter with an attached flash bulb that signaled for changes in ambient current, a list of spectral cases closed throughout the year. Respectful reminders of those who had passed—two unfamiliar men, then Hyacinth, and Dorland.
“Finally … ” Westwood turned the page over for another side covered in writing. “Promotions and acclaims.”
There was a collective shift in attention throughout the crowd, which had gotten rather bored and restless with the longwinded announcements.
Applause rippled through the room and the musicians in the corner played something courtly and majestic as Officer Bartlett was awarded recognition for tireless research and organisation, two other men were promoted, one of whom into Dorland’s old position …
“Oh,” Westwood said suddenly, abandoning the page and looking up and around the room as though he’d forgotten so many eyes were upon him. He reached into his breast pocket, withdrawing a second small paper. “Yes, to announce officially, the late Henry Dorland has been declared responsible for the abduction and attempted murder of one of our inspectors, and suspect in the deaths of at least five other individuals.”
Instantly the crowd was alive with whispers and sounds of dismay.
Chesley gave Westwood a nudge, raising his brows. Westwood smoothed out the new paper. “Dorland’s studies have been removed from open archives and his expulsion from our ranks recorded. I’ve also an official statement here from the Yard, declaring the innocence of our three men found at the scene of Dorland’s accident, recognising the aid of the Black Cross, and announcing immediate police investigation into their own offices and other places in search of any obstructions of justice. And with that, we really must recognise this year’s most courageous inspectors.”
He gestured in the direction of Cain, Clement, and I.
Heads turned; the crowd shifted for a better view of us, standing at the back of the gallery, where I awkwardly juggled our drinks and Clement leaned forward for Cain to light the Woodbine cigarette hanging off his lip.
“Oh, good Lord,” Cain said under a sigh, waving out the match and offering the curious audience his very best and most shameless smile.
Westwood squinted across the gallery at us. As if we three hadn’t attracted enough attention already the last few months.
Clement puffed once on his cigarette before plucking it from his mouth, glancing around as though he hadn’t an inkling why everyone stared. “Carry on!” he cried, taking his drink back to lift in cheers as the offended whispers commenced.
Westwood’s stiff smile sagged a bit in exasperation. “Lord Kingsley and young Mr. Winchester discovered Henry Dorland’s reprehensible actions,” he went on. “They compiled a small spectral case file regarding them, which is currently in the hands of Commissioner Bradford and his detectives. Oh—yes, and Mr. Winchester is our newest member this year. Welcome, Mr. Winchester. We are so thankful Dorland did not kill you.”
Someone in the crowd chuckled along with Westwood and his poorly-timed humor. It wasn’t me. Someone else sneezed rather violently, with an embarrassed echo of, “Well, pardon me … ”
Chesley waved at us impatiently. “Would you two please—you’re being formally recognised—will you come up here, now?”
Clement. What about Clement? I shot him a look, stricken and mildly incensed he should be excluded from the praise. He caught my glance and smiled, shrugging.
He’d known all along about the honours and his absence from them.
Cain dragged me forth, smiling around graciously at the tentatively applauding crowd as it moved aside for us. Everyone seemed just as unsure as we in how to feel about the whole thing.
Was I to be proud of all that had happened? Of paying heed to some other soul’s memory, of digging up bones and setting them afire, of being incapacitated and transported to Dorland’s house and tied to a chair, moments from death or something worse, only to accept salvation in the form of a daemon tearing the man apart from the inside out.
Because it had, and we had watched. We had just watched …
Westwood’s hand closed on mine with surprising care. As we shook together before the crowd, I looked up at him, brow knotted. He smiled with a distant glint in his eyes that seemed at once sad yet very pleased.
“Thank you,” he said, where only I could hear.
I swallowed, throat tight. “No,” I replied, flustered and feeling every bit the social wreck again, “thank you, sir.”
The musicians abandoned the stately songs for more whimsical tunes as the writers of magazines and papers sought Cain and I out asking question after question about the cameo ring and Officer Dorland, and with what detail could we recount his fall from the window …
“Why, I can’t imagine what dreadful trouble was in store for London without you!” cried Miss Jessica, tugging on her uncle’s arm to pause as they passed us by.
“Yes,” Clement agreed playfully. “I hold the spectral department together, don’t you think?”
Miss Jessica’s smile became coyer. “Well, I was speaking to Inspector Winchester, but … ”
Her uncle touched her elbow in polite parting and moved off to chat with a few ge
ntlemen not far away. With a flutter of lashes, Miss Jessica slid her gaze to Cain.
“I’m sure you must be relieved,” she said. “Finally, a statement from the Yard. You’ll sleep easily now, shan’t you, as that clears up every rumour.”
Cain’s gaze sharpened as he eyed Miss Jessica. “Rumour?”
She nodded slowly, with a faint smile and a pinch to her brow. “Yes,” she said, brushing a soft curl aside from her cheek. It was maddening, how soft and pretty she could be while simultaneously so unbelievably cruel. “You haven’t heard? Kingsley, it’s even replaced talk of October’s horror—you remember, that governess Miss Pearcey, pushing the perambulator full of bloody dismemberments through Hampstead and Finchley?”
“Yes?”
“Well.” Looking very sorry for Cain and his family, Miss Jessica leaned closer and lowered her voice respectfully as she said, “All holiday, the talk has been how you killed Officer Dorland, and only a day after Miss Pearcey herself was hanged, too. How quickly talk shifts! On from one sensation to the next. Terrible, isn’t it?”
Suddenly seeming very small and very lost, a hollow look eclipsed Cain’s face as he stared at her as though he did not see her. “Thank you for the well wishes, Miss Jessica,” he finally said in a frail way, then turned and weaved along through the crowd towards an empty balcony.
Clement scoffed, throwing his third empty wine glass down on a passing waiter’s tray. He flashed Miss Jessica a scathing glance, then elbowed off after Cain.
Miss Jessica appeared confused. With a thoughtful hum, she offered me an apologetic smile.
“Mr. Winchester,” she said politely, and I loathed it. “I hope you plan to stay on with us, despite the … strenuous time you’ve experienced.”
I wanted to be insolent with her. But I couldn’t. It was just too much effort at present. “Of course,” I said. “This is my home, Miss Jessica. If you’ll pardon the sentimentality.”
As her smile faltered, I bobbed my head and left her side, winding my way across the floor to the balcony to which Cain and Clement had flown.
Cain stood gripping the stone balustrade and shaking his head; Clement loomed at his shoulder, struggling to defuse him in low, tense whispers.
I admit, I hesitated a moment. Looking out at them, a brief note of horror strummed through me. Just one heartbeat, maybe two. The party swirled on, colors, lights, sounds, as I peered at the two of them and worried I had made the wrong decision back on that dreary, dreadful night on Waterloo. I should never have accompanied them to that Bethnal Green churchyard. I shouldn’t have come with the calling card. Witch. Daemon. Murderer. The attic room. All our secrets, every single one of us—
“Men,” I called quietly, peeking around the French doors of the balcony.
They looked up as if they hadn’t anticipated an interruption. Cain, in his rich pinstriped suit with the black velvet waistcoat and family crest winking from the buttons. Clement all tousled and finger-combed hair. Upon seeing me, Cain wilted into a smile, his eyes sad but soft. One dark blue, the other milky like a pearl. And Clement blushed, embarrassed by the show of sympathy. He looked me up and down once more as though, for a bit, he’d occasionally have to remind himself I was still the same me he’d known from the start. I could be patient with that adjustment, I decided.
Biting the inside of my lip, I was unsure of how to communicate what I wished. I just felt that simple, sweet closeness to them again, the one in which I needed no words, let alone did I have them. If I was afraid of anything, it was not the two of them. It was just a nervousness for what would come after tonight. Back at my father’s, day in and day out had been predictable. Here, every morning brought something new and unknown, but … there were no others with whom I preferred to face that than these two. No others with whom I trusted my darkest secrets. The attic room of No. 9 Mansfield Street. My mother. Myself.
I cleared my throat. “To a prosperous New Year,” was all I could come up with, lifting my drink.
Clement chuckled, cracking his knuckles into his palm and fumbling for a cigarette to join in my toast. Cain’s smile lingered as he found composure again, eyes clearing.
Something had changed between the three of us.
“A grand New Year,” Cain agreed, gesturing that I join them out in the icy dark.
As I came up, he hooked his arm in mine; Clement propped an arm around the both of us, tousling my hair, and then Cain’s.
“What has next year for you?” he asked. “Kingsley?”
“Work.” Cain sighed. “Too much work.”
Yes, something had changed between us quite drastically—or it had been there all along and the veil simply fell away from it, leaving me to stare it down stripped of formalities and defences.
We were all very much alike in ways I was still learning.
“I would like to go to Paris,” I chimed in. “I have family there I’d like to see.”
Zelda, and Daphne. And I longed to learn all I had yet to learn, continue with my beloved motley team. Access the locked files with Cain. Know the secrets that hid behind Clement’s smirks.
I’d spoken the truth to Miss Jessica, after all. I’d found the Black Cross. Or it found me.
Witch’s blood.
Perhaps my father had been right, in unknown ways, not entirely selfish in his fears of the Cross. But, ultimately, whatever was to come, this was where I belonged. This was my place in the world.
No … this wasn’t my place.
There was something in Cain, Clement, and I that belonged together. They were my people, as Clement had said before. We would move on from all that had happened, and we would move on together.
“What about you, Clement?” Cain pressed.
Clement sighed a little cloud of tobacco smoke, then passed the cigarette down the line for us to share. “Why, next year will give me whatever I tell it to,” he said with a grin. “Say, Kingsley, is your hair darker than Will’s?”
Cain uttered a thoughtful little cluck of the tongue to the back of his teeth, evaluating my hair. “Why?”
“It’s almost midnight—you know what they say, a man with dark hair passes through the door first, or bad luck for us all.”
“Clement, you’re bad luck for us all no matter who passes through which door and when.”
“Kingsley, you flatter me!”
“Oh, good Lord … ”
I pursed my mouth as I blew a stream of silky smoke, then handed Clement the cigarette again. And I was so tired of crying, but tears stung at my eyes for how natural it felt to just look at the two of them, and smile.
END
Acknowledgements
Thank you, Georgia – first for putting up with me and second for living in the world of the Black Cross with me. Nikki – for taking a chance on this manuscript. My mother – without you, this story would not exist.
And thank you to my better half, who never complains about how much time I spend bringing the worlds in my head into the world we all share.
Jerico Lenk
Undergraduate studying Creative Writing, Classics, Russian and Western European History. Lover of cable knit sweaters on rainy days and the history of the occult. Unabashed nerd and fanfic author on the side. Out for queer representation and great sex hair.
Lenk writes poetry, YA/NA, and spec fiction. On loan from Seattle, he currently lives in Tampa, finishing his degrees at the University of South Florida.
http://jericolenk.com
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Acknowledgements
About the Author
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