by Erin Hayes
In the brief span where I hope that my father cares about me, I’m disappointed as he doesn’t move to help. His mouth presses into a fine line.
“Papa, please,” I nearly sob. “Please help.”
Luckily, I don’t need his help, because there’s a commotion upstairs, and Margaret appears in her nightgown, holding a lamp to light the upper story of the house.
“What happened?” she calls from the top of the stairs, taking the steps two at a time to get to the ground floor.
“Vampire attack,” I tell her just as she reaches us. “We got there just in time, but I believe that he may not have much longer.”
Papa frowns in answer.
“Oh, my Lord,” Mrs. Hudson cries, as she joins us, wearing her own nightgown. The older woman puts a hand to Jared’s forehead, and takes in his state. “This man has one foot in life and the other in death.”
“And I intend to keep him in life,” I tell her. I look to Margaret, just as I hear the door open behind me, to announce that Lizzie has come into the house. “We’re the best hope he has of surviving this.”
My younger sister nods. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, of course.” She points up the stairs. “Take him upstairs to the guest room, and I’ll prepare my instruments. Papa,” she adds, calling to our father, gesturing for him to follow her into the workshop.
Our father gives me one last glance before silently going down to the basement after Margaret.
I don’t have a moment to waste. “Help me,” I command to Mrs. Hudson and Lizzie.
With the three of us, we’re able to get Jared up the narrow stairs and into the guest room. Mrs. Hudson wordlessly opens the drapes to the four-poster bed, while Lizzie throws back the covers, and I gingerly lay Jared among the pillows. I try not to notice that his skin matches the same color as the white sheets.
“I’m here,” Margaret announces as she sweeps into the room, carrying her leather medical bag. She sits on the edge of the bed and unclasps the top of the bag to gain access to her supplies.
I step away, my nerves taking hold of me. I put a hand over my mouth and watch as Margaret peels away the bandages that Lizzie and I hastily applied earlier.
Margaret sucks in a deep breath. “This is bad,” she murmurs to herself. She produces a needle and thread from the bag.
“Is there anything you can do?” I ask.
“I’ll try,” she says as she threads the needle. “I can’t promise that this will save him. Or, if it does save him, that he will be able to even speak.”
“Do what you can, please.”
I gulp some air as Margaret’s nimble fingers hold the ruined flesh of Jared’s throat together and she starts to stitch the skin together, treating his neck as one would treat the finest of silk. Her hand, the one that holds the needle and thread, is trembling. “Did you at least kill the vampire that did this to him?”
“No,” I say, and I feel as though I will combust from the shame. “No, I didn’t.”
Margaret visibly gulps before she continues stitching his neck together, her hands steady again. “Next time,” she says, giving me a tight-lipped smile.
Next time, maybe.
But next time, there may be other victims. Others injured or killed.
I ball my hands into fists. “I’ll be right back,” I whisper before I duck out of the guest room, needing some air.
Lizzie is there. “You haven’t told Margaret yet.” It’s not a question.
“No.” I look down at my hands and see all the dried blood. I must look a fright. “Not yet. I need to get cleaned up. To clear my head.”
“You have to tell Margaret before he wakes up,” Lizzie presses.
I stand there for a moment, debating what to do or say. I know she’s right. I know that I must tell her.
But not right now. For now, I just can’t.
I swallow back the lump in my throat and go to my bedroom and strip out of my clothes, drawing a bath for myself. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, at my naked body. There are scars that mar my flesh, from the fresh scar on my shoulder to the various nicks and cuts that have healed over time. I remember the scar that spread over Catherine, how it consumed and swallowed her body until it nearly killed her.
And it would have killed her if not for the vampire that tore her apart.
The vampire that was on some sort of serum.
My hands go to my abdomen, where my empty womb is. Such a waste of energy and heartache. It was all for nothing.
I close my eyes and sigh deeply.
I’ll wash this night away and proceed. I must.
For all our sakes.
19
Jared
I’m swimming in pain as my eyes open. It feels as though my neck is on fire, or like it’s not there. Just pain and agony and everything hurts.
My breathing is labored and wet, and with every inhale, I grimace.
“Hush,” a voice tells me. I feel a cold compress on my head. “Just relax. You’ve been gravely injured.”
The voice is familiar, yet it’s not.
Dare I hope that it’s her?
“C—Catherine?” My voice comes out as a rasp, and I barely recognize it as mine. Like my throat has been torn out and replaced with a pale imitation of one. Damn, it hurts to talk.
The dabbing on my forehead stops suddenly, and the silence that follows is so thick, that I’m sure I got it wrong.
“Catherine?” the woman asks in confusion.
I force my eyes open, despite the pain. I’m in an unfamiliar four-poster bed in an equally unfamiliar room. It doesn’t look like any hotel that I’ve ever stayed at, and it’s certainly finer than the lodgings on the ship.
I don’t have the faintest idea where I am.
The drapes around the bed are tied back, and as I turn my head to look at my companion, I squint in pain.
She’s not Catherine.
The compress over my forehead is frozen in mid-air, as the young woman looks shaken to her core. There is a resemblance to Catherine, only her face is heart-shaped, the lines softer, more feminine. She’s younger, with her lighter hair pinned back at the nape of her neck, and her eyes are blue, not the hazel color that I remember from my night with Catherine.
The woman—girl, really, since she is so young—swallows audibly.
“You knew Catherine?” she asks, her voice wavering.
Stupidly, I try to nod, but find that’s impossible. “I did. I do. Wait.” I shift, realizing that the girl said knew. Like Catherine is dead. “What happened to Catherine?”
The girl’s eyes flash with a sort of raw pain, and her bottom lip trembles. She composes herself, and then gives a nod. “One moment.” She sets the compress aside and gets up. “Let me find Hazel.”
Hazel? Who is Hazel?
I try to move my head to look around. To see if Rob is here. Yet, I can’t move. I’m in too much pain.
She leaves me alone in the room, and I lay back on the bed, unable to find the strength to follow her, to ask what the hell is going on.
Maybe this Hazel knows what happened to Catherine and can answer my question without further confusion. Can tell me where Rob is.
I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath. The last thing I remember, I’d been trying to pickpocket two women who were walking down the road. To get some money for Rob—where is, Rob, is he all right?—so that he could get off the streets.
And when I drew near, one of the women attacked me. She had fangs. Like a monster.
My fingers somehow find the strength to fly to my throat, where thick bandages are wrapped around my throat. Some areas of the bandages are stiff, like I’ve bled through them.
No wonder it feels like I’ve had a steam engine rammed down my gullet. I swallow painfully and sigh.
The door to the room opens again, and the girl is there with—
“Catherine,” I manage, wondering what the hell a prostitute is doing in such a well-appointed place as this. Hadn’t she said that she fell
on hard times and that is she is a lady of the night?
She pauses in the doorway, her eyes on me, and she’s so pale, she looks like she’s about to be sick. Her hand is at her own neckline, properly buttoned up to be the image of British modesty.
What the hell is she doing here?
The girl looks at her, a bewildered expression on her face. “He knew Catherine,” I hear her say. “How does he know Catherine? He sounds American.”
Catherine doesn’t say anything. She simply keeps looking at me.
“Catherine?” I ask, in that hoarse voice that doesn’t sound like me. Hurts so much. “Catherine, what’s going on?”
She presses her lips together, and her gaze darts to the younger woman. “Margaret,” she says softly, “can you leave us alone for a moment?”
The girl—Margaret—narrows her eyes. “What did you do?”
Catherine whirls on her. “Please, Margaret,” she says through clenched teeth.
Margaret holds her stare for a long moment before nodding. “Certainly,” she says, her voice tight.
She slams the door behind her when she leaves, letting us know that she isn’t pleased with this turn of events. Catherine stiffens at the loud noise but doesn’t move. Doesn’t come any closer.
Meanwhile, I have no idea what the hell is happening. And if my throat would just feel better, maybe I could string together my thoughts, but as it is, I can’t.
“Catherine—” I start, but she shakes her head and pinches the bridge of her nose.
“My name isn’t Catherine,” she says softly, although there is an edge of steel to her voice. She looks at me again, and there’s something like regret that passes over her face. “My name is Hazel. Hazel Harker. And you’re in my family’s home.”
I try to say more, but it’s as if whatever strength my body has left me, and darkness swallows me whole again.
And, this time, it feels as though I won’t wake up.
20
Hazel
Jared passes out, and I’m ashamed at the immense sense of relief I feel that he’s finally stopped talking.
This is a conversation that I’m not ready to have yet. And based on Margaret’s anger as she strode out of the room, I’d hate to guess at the possibilities that she’s considering.
First things first, though.
I cross the room over to him, put my hand on his forehead and check to make sure that there is a rise and fall to his chest. He’s still alive. And perhaps it is a mercy to him that he’s unconscious. It will give his body time to rest and heal.
“You’re a strong man to have been awake,” I murmur to him. Feck, he’s a strong man to even still be alive.
I sigh and glance at the door, dreading facing Margaret more than any vampire I’ve ever faced. I’d wanted to ease her into this, not have it come out this way.
I sigh and rub at the spot between my eyebrows, which is sore from the tension I’m holding there. I’m getting a headache. And I think it’s only about to get worse.
I get up and slip out the door, where Margaret is standing in the hallway with her arms crossed, looking absolutely furious. Lizzie sits in a chair, massaging her temples. I don’t think they’ve spoken to each other while I’ve been in here.
The air is so thick with anger that I could pierce it with a knife.
I let out another breath and quietly shut the door behind me, although I think a steam-powered train wouldn’t be enough to rouse Jared from his slumber.
Margaret glares at me. “Who is that, Hazel,” she hisses, making sure I can hear the emphasis on my name, “and why does he think you’re our dead sister?”
I wet my lips. “His name is Jared Etheridge and he’s a sailor from America.” Although I thought his ship was supposed to leave a week or so ago. He’s supposed to be far away from here.
That answer doesn’t assuage Margaret. She merely gives me a derisive snort and shakes her head. “You’re an awful liar, Hazel.”
I hesitate. “I met him a fortnight ago.”
“How?” She narrows her eyes. “Why? And don’t tell me this was during a hunt. No one has ever looked at Catherine or you or Lizzie that way after a hunt. And I would say that he’s in love with you, except he thinks you’re Catherine.”
“I take offense to that remark,” Lizzie offers. “Others have looked at me with genuine lust after a hunt.”
Margaret gives her a scathing look, and our cousin shrinks under her scrutiny.
Margaret has always had an intuition that rivals the most genius of scholars. She can pick up on my discomfort. She can dissect me from the inside out. And she knows that there’s more to this than just a simple hunt.
She knows I would have given Jared my name if I weren’t ashamed of my association with him.
“I wanted to ease you into this,” I say softly. “Before he awoke. But he did wake up.”
“You weren’t expecting him to be so virile,” Lizzie snorts in an unladylike manner. “Or perhaps you were.”
Margaret whips her head back to Lizzie and understanding dawns on her face before she looks back at me. “What does she mean?”
I straighten my back. “I’d do anything to protect you, Margaret,” I say, clenching my teeth. “Just remember that.”
I try to pass her, but she grabs my arm. I look back at her and realize that I’m looking down at her. Even though Margaret is grown and engaged to be married, I’m still her big sister. I still look out for her.
And because of that, I will do whatever it takes. Even endure her anger.
“You won’t survive as the Harker,” I tell Margaret, and hurt flashes in her eyes. I decide to go a vulgar route so as to keep her from her consternation of me. “I was trying to make sure that you’re not next in line. And if that means taking a strange man to my bed so that one could give me a daughter, then so be it. In a moment of panic, I gave him Catherine’s name, because I was ashamed.” I shove her hand off my arm, and in her shock, she doesn’t protest. “And I see that I was right in how that decision would be received.”
Margaret has gone ashen. “You’re with child?”
I smile bitterly. “No. It was all for naught,” I say. I stare at her for a moment longer, debating on telling her that her betrothed’s dead wife is still alive. I inhale deeply.
No. Not until I’m certain that he doesn’t know that Adelia is alive. And to do that, I’m going to have to visit him and have him answer a few questions. And if I don’t like his answers, then that’s another matter entirely.
Margaret narrows her eyes. “What are you thinking, Hazel?” As I said, she’s too smart for her own good.
“Take care of Jared,” I tell her tightly. I turn and stride down the hallway. I pause outside our room, contemplating going inside, but then I change my mind and head downstairs to the workshop.
I storm around the workshop, strapping knives, revolvers, and swords to my person, arming myself to the teeth. My eyes sting from tears, but I refuse to let them fall.
The door to the workshop opens, and I’m no longer alone.
“That went well,” Lizzie says mildly.
I merely scoff.
“Well, what did you expect, Hazel?” She throws up her hands in defeat. “You knew that this would be a scandal for the whole family. Margaret is the most proper out of you lot, so I’d say that her response was tame compared to what I had expected.”
“She looked at me like I was shit on her boot,” I say.
“Again, it was tame compared to what I had expected.”
I grimace and wipe at my eyes. “If only I’d had time to speak with Margaret before Jared woke up. I could have told her in a manner that she would have understood.”
“Well, you didn’t.” Lizzie’s voice is gentler now. “So this is something that you will have to move forward with.”
“I didn’t mean for this to happen this way,” I say with a sigh. “I just…”
“I understand.” Lizzie pulls me into an embrace. “And
Margaret will understand, too. At some point,” she adds cheekily, and I laugh despite myself.
“Do you think she’ll tell Papa and Mrs. Hudson?” I ask. For a panicked moment, I can just imagine Mrs. Hudson throwing Jared out. When all this is my fault to begin with.
Lizzie shakes her head. “At least not until she gets the full story. For now, I suggest letting her tend to Jared.”
I nod as I grab another sword.
“What are you up to now?” Lizzie asks.
“I,” I say at length as I grab a few of the new inventions that Margaret made, “am going to pay my brother-in-law-to-be a visit.” I smirk. “I need to see if his intentions toward Margaret are pure.”
Lizzie snickers. “Then hand me a sword, because I’m going with you.”
21
Hazel
Nighttime is usually not considered a proper time for a social visit. Yet, I’m not here for a social visit or even a pleasant one, so I bang on the door knocker, loud enough to wake the dead. My anger fuels my strength, and I don’t hold back.
If Mister Holmes is asleep, he’ll be rudely awakened from my pounding.
“If he doesn’t answer,” Lizzie says, “he’s hiding something.”
“If he doesn’t answer,” I tell her, “his housekeeper should at least answer the door.”
My cousin smirks. “You’ll probably give her a fright.”
Mister Holmes’s house is situated a couple miles from Baker Street, and is a nicer, bigger manor. As he has had more success with his inventions than Papa or Margaret, he’s been able to sell and manufacture them for sale. The upper crust of London society loves his little automatons.
And they pay very well for their curiosities.
The door finally opens, and a shrewd, unhappy woman in her nightgown glares up at me. “Miss Harker,” she says, scandalized. “What on earth? What are you doing here at this hour?”
I push past her and into the dark house. There are a few lamps on in here, but not enough to illuminate the interior. I’m painfully aware of how vulnerable I am here. There are too many shadows, too many hiding places for me to be at ease.