Jack Serra and his troupe, holding up their part of the plan.
I swallowed, trying to regain my confidence. “You forfeited your right to be a father to her when you joined the King’s Club. You knew what they were planning, whether you’ve since renounced them or not. Now, tell me why you’ve come or get off my land.”
A murmur ran through his men, and Radcliffe eyed me closely. “I’ve already told you, Miss Moreau. I came for my daughter. You made her doubt her own family, put her life at risk, and have her imprisoned here. I’ve come to take her home.”
My confidence vanished. Had I truly been so wrong, all along? Across the courtyard I tried to meet Montgomery’s eyes, but he was hidden in the shadows. I was alone. And uncertain. A drowned cat standing in the rain.
“All this is about Lucy?” I stammered. “Twenty armed men?”
Radcliffe raised an eyebrow. “Why did you think I would come, if not for her?”
I swallowed. “We killed Isambard Lessing and Dr. Hastings and Inspector Newcastle. They were friends of yours.”
A silence ran through the courtyard as a strange look flickered over Radcliffe’s face. To my shock, he let out a deep laugh. “Revenge? You think that’s why I’ve spent so much time to discover your location? Miss Moreau, you are prone to dramatics. I knew Newcastle a few weeks, nothing more. Lessing was a thief. Dr. Hastings a cad. Why would I care about the deaths of worthless men?”
My heart pounded harder. I’d been so wrong.
From the far end of the courtyard, I saw a flicker of movement. Balthazar, stepping slightly out of the shadows. He tapped his nose twice slowly. I stared at him, until I remembered our conversation from earlier. Balthazar’s keen nose could smell if a man was lying by the odor of his sweat. One tap for truth. Two taps for a lie.
Radcliffe was lying.
Fury swelled in me, along with determination. He wasn’t going to make a fool of me, not again. “You’ve missed your calling,” I said. “You should have been an actor, not a banker. I can’t imagine that a truly dedicated father would show up at the house that gave his daughter shelter with twenty heavily armed mercenaries and threaten her best friend. I was there for Lucy when you weren’t. She was terrified of you when she learned what you were involved with. She hates you. Now tell me why you’ve really come, or we can end this in bloodshed right now.”
For a moment, his face betrayed nothing. Those fair blue eyes seemed as icy as the rest of him. Then, slowly, he signaled his men to lower their arms.
“I wasn’t lying, not entirely. I do want Lucy back. She belongs with her family, in London’s high society, not an outcast up here in the wastelands. But yes, there is another reason I have come. It is a business arrangement that I want, and you see, I won’t take no for an answer. They are here to see to that.” He signaled to his men.
“What do you want?” I demanded.
“The only thing of value in that house, besides my daughter. Victor Frankenstein’s journals. Don’t look so shocked—I’ve known about them for years. Your father was the one who told me about them, in fact. He and Professor von Stein used to be friends. We were all students at the time. He borrowed from Frankenstein’s ideas to create his own science. You were his inspiration, Miss Moreau, but Victor Frankenstein’s research was the source of his skill.” He held out a hand, looking like his patience was growing thin. “Now, hand over the journals and release Lucy back to me, and my men won’t slaughter everyone in this house.”
I stood straighter. “Lucy isn’t going anywhere, and whatever my father told you about Victor Frankenstein’s science, he lied. There are no journals. They were long ago destroyed.”
He scratched his chin. “Miss Moreau, I’ve come too far to be lied to now. I have been laying plans to get my hands on those journals for the past ten years. I’m very aware that they exist. In fact, they are the reason I joined the King’s Club and pushed for them to seek out your father’s research. I knew eventually it would lead to the greatest research of all, the research your father based his own work on—Perpetual Anatomy.”
His confidence made my own waver. He wasn’t delighting in this, wasn’t relishing my fear. He simply wanted something and would stop at nothing. That terrified me most of all.
“Didn’t you ever wonder who within the King’s Club was devising these complicated plans? It certainly wasn’t Hastings, or that ambitious Inspector Newcastle. It was me whispering in their ears. I planned on hiring mercenaries to murder them as soon as we had our hands on your father’s research, but I didn’t have to. You did my dirty work for me.”
Images flashed in my head of that night in the King’s Club’s smoking room: clawed-out eyes, dead bodies dripping blood. My throat was so dry I could scarcely breathe. “Why is this so important to you? You aren’t a scientist.”
He gave a mirthless laugh. “Must you really ask an aging man why he seeks immortality? Though my interests are not purely personal. A vast number of people could benefit from a second chance at life. I believe your father’s carcass is still buried on that island of his, come to think of it. We made a pact, you know. If one of us were to die, the other would obtain Frankenstein’s science and reverse the situation. I’m quite certain that the great Henri Moreau and I could make a fortune off this research. A fortune I shall use to give Lucy every advantage, as she is entitled to. Now tell me which of us is more interested in her happiness.”
My hands shook like they belonged to some other body. I tried to reassure myself that his threats were hollow. Father’s body would be too decomposed to reanimate, and yet the fear of it, unreasonable as it was, left me so terrified I could hardly find my voice.
“Turn them over and I’ll leave peacefully,” he said. “Don’t, and my men will kill every living thing on the property and tear through the manor until we find the journals ourselves. You’re ruthless, Miss Moreau, and so am I. Don’t test me.”
The tension crackled in the air. From the stone gates behind Radcliffe’s men, Balthazar and Montgomery peeked out with their rifles at the ready. Overhead, the servants would be poised to fire. I knew McKenna would be damned before she let the likes of Radcliffe seize the manor that gave them all sanctuary.
It would be a bloodbath—but sometimes blood was the price to pay.
I took a deep breath to give the order to fire. Just before I spoke, movement at the southern tower caught my gaze. A figure was climbing down the electric wire Jack Serra’s men had lowered. Edward. I’d never seen him move so fast, even when he’d been the Beast.
I dared a glance back at Radcliffe; he hadn’t noticed. A terrible moment of indecision overcame me. Did I let Edward risk it? Or did I give the order to fire?
The windmill spun faster and faster.
A low hum began, and the hair on the back of my neck started to rise. I jerked my head toward the tower window, where I could just make out Jack with his hand on the electrical switch. I couldn’t have stopped him now, even if I’d wanted to.
He flipped the switch, and sparks rained down the southern tower.
I screamed. The horses went wild, pawing at the gravel as their riders fought to regain control. Among all the chaos, Edward threw himself to his knees into the deepest end of the courtyard, and plunged the live wire deep into the water.
With a terrible crackle and burst of smoke, the electricity spread.
I threw my hands over my ears; men cried out, horses screamed. Not even the rain could clear the air of the smell of burned flesh. When I dared to open my eyes, half of Radcliffe’s men were dead, the other half disoriented and dying.
Montgomery and Balthazar still hid in the lee of the stone gate, on pillars that kept them dry and safe.
Edward, however, lay facedown in the water.
He wasn’t moving.
“EDWARD!”
I started toward his body, but jerked back as a bullet hit the gravel inches from my foot. It came from Radcliffe. Atop his horse, on the highest ground near the front steps, he
hadn’t been electrocuted. Through the rain, he aimed his pistol at me again with unwavering determination. I fumbled for the pistol I’d strapped to my leg, but my skirts were soaked and heavy, and I collapsed back onto the wet gravel. He spurred his horse closer.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Montgomery running from his hidden post, rifle aimed at Radcliffe, but I knew he wouldn’t make it in time. I stared into the barrel of Radcliffe’s gun and saw my future there. Blackness. Death. There’d be no one to bring me back.
A volley of gunshots rang out overhead as the servants took aim. With a grunt of pain, Radcliffe clutched his thigh where a bullet had gone clean through. McKenna grinned down at me from the window before reloading. Beside her, Lily and Moira and Carlyle were all raining down bullets on Radcliffe’s few remaining men.
I stumbled to my feet, scrambling over the slick gravel onto the stone steps, and took shelter from the gunfire behind a statue of a lion. My pulse raced as bullets flew around me. One clipped the stairs by my foot. Another chipped the lion’s ear. The wooden entrance to the manor was only a few feet away, but I couldn’t make it. I’d be exposed for too long.
Carefully, I peeked over the lion statue. As best I could tell, only four of Radcliffe’s men had been on high enough ground to survive the electrocution. They’d taken shelter behind the bodies of their comrades’ dead horses. Montgomery and Balthazar both crouched by the gate, taking careful aim, narrowly avoiding being shot themselves.
I crawled to the other side of the statue to look for Edward’s body. I prayed that he’d awoken and managed to crawl away, yet my heart sunk. He still lay facedown in the puddle. Blood trailed in the water from where an errant bullet must have hit him. I bit my lip, willing him to move.
“Get up,” I urged. “Prove that you can’t be killed that easily.”
But he didn’t. One of Radcliffe’s officers caught sight of me and started racing up the steps, knife in one hand.
“Blast.” I tore at my skirt to get my pistol out. Finally my fingers found the cold, sturdy handle, and I pulled it free of its holster. I aimed, but panic made my hands tremble, and I missed the man by a few feet. I scrambled to reload but the gun slipped from my wet fingers and tumbled down the stairs.
I lunged after it. I was exposed, an easy target, but I had to get that pistol. The officer had his knife at the ready. Another few feet and he’d be on me.
A blur came from the rain, a flash of white shirt and brown wide-brimmed hat that tackled the officer to the ground.
Montgomery.
I grabbed my pistol and aimed it at the pair scrapping in the gravel, but I didn’t dare shoot for fear of hitting Montgomery by accident. Across the courtyard, Radcliffe’s head whirled at my call. A pistol gleamed in his hand as he aimed at the pair, not caring if he accidentally shot his own man.
He fired.
I cried out at the sound. Montgomery jerked upright, tossing the wet hair out of his eyes. For a terrible instant I thought he’d been shot and my heart missed a beat. But then the other man slumped to the ground, blood pouring out of a shot in his back. I let out a ragged cry.
Montgomery hadn’t been shot.
My relief was short-lived. Radcliffe took advantage of the chaos to grab the back of Montgomery’s shirt and press the pistol against his temple.
“Give the order for your men to cease fire, Miss Moreau.” He jerked his chin toward the upper windows. “Or I’ll shoot him in the head right now.”
“Stop!” I called without hesitation. “McKenna, Carlyle, hold your fire!”
One more errant bullet went off, and then there was silence. Smoke cleared as gunpowder settled, the night air thick with the smell of blood and sulfur and the moans of a few dying men.
“You two,” Radcliffe said, nodding to a few of his mercenaries. “Keep your pistols trained on this man. If he moves, shoot him.”
Blood pooled from a nick on Montgomery’s arm. His blue eyes met mine.
I couldn’t let it end like this.
Radcliffe wiped away a line of blood running down his nose, breathing hard. “Tell your staff to throw their weapons down here and come outside.”
I clenched my jaw. I might as well be ordering McKenna and the others to commit suicide. “Go to hell,” I spat.
“Wait!” McKenna leaned out the upstairs window. “We’ll do as you say. I’m sorry, Mistress, but it’s our duty to protect you as much as this home.” She threw down her rifle and I winced. With Edward immobile, she and the others had been our greatest asset. Moira and Lily threw theirs down as well, followed by Carlyle’s heavy old Weston. The pistols clattered uselessly to the ground, where one of Radcliffe’s heavyset mercenaries picked them up.
“You can kill all of us and scour the house,” I seethed. “You’ll never find where Elizabeth hid those journals.”
Radcliffe didn’t seem troubled by my threat. The front door groaned open and the servants filed out, defenseless. They lined up under the eave of the door.
Radcliffe’s jaw clenched as he looked among them. “Tell Lucy to come out as well. I want to see that she hasn’t been harmed.”
My stomach twisted. My own father had never shown such concern over me, not even when my life had been in danger. He’d only studied my fear like another one of his twisted experiments.
“She isn’t in the house. She’s hiding out because she doesn’t want to see you. You might as well leave because you’ll never get her or the journals.”
“Leave?” His cold countenance was falling, and there was rage beneath it. “Perhaps, after you are dead.”
“I’m the only one who’s memorized the information. Shoot me, and the knowledge will be lost forever.”
Something about my words caught his attention. A strange look gleamed in his pale blue eyes. “You’ve memorized the science, have you? Suppose I were to kill your lover, then. Journals or not, you would have to use Frankenstein’s science to bring him back. All I’d have to do was watch over your shoulder. It’s your choice how we get there, Miss Moreau, but I assure you we’ll reach the same conclusion.”
I balled my fist, furious. “It’s Mrs. James now. Not Moreau.”
Radcliffe cocked his gun. “A difference I care nothing about.”
Time slowed, my vision becoming a series of flashes as panic took hold of my body. I couldn’t let it end like this, and yet I was helpless. There was the pistol in Radcliffe’s hand. His finger on the trigger. Montgomery’s eyes sinking closed, waiting for the bullet that would take his life.
Out of the fog lurched a figure. It seemed like a ghost at first, a shadow. I saw a flash of tweed cloak, pale white skin, as the figure threw itself in front of Montgomery’s kneeling body.
“Wait!” the figure cried. Only then did I recognize the voice.
Lucy.
The sound of a bullet ripped through the night. It was too late. Radcliffe had already pulled the trigger.
I stumbled back, stunned. Montgomery’s eyes flew open at the gunshot. Lucy rolled over, her hood falling back. Dark brown hair not so different from my own spilled out. My throat closed tight.
“Lucy!” I collapsed beside her.
“Papa,” she choked as a line of blood appeared at the edge of her mouth. I pressed a hand against my mouth, sealing in a scream, but it didn’t help. My desperate wail rang out over the moors as I scrambled close to her, touching her face, her hair, her cloak.
“Lucy. God, no!”
But her eyes weren’t on me. They were fixed on Radcliffe. His pistol clattered to the ground as he stumbled back. His icy façade was gone now, and there was only horror at what he’d done.
“Lucy? No . . .”
“Papa.” She had to force words out as more blood trickled from her mouth, “I didn’t think you would shoot me.”
My eyes trailed down her body in horror. Her cloak and dress was already soaked through. The bullet must have hit an artery. Blood was everywhere.
“I didn’t know,” Radcliffe pleaded. H
e wasn’t the cold leader of the King’s Club now; he was merely a father watching his daughter die. “I didn’t see you. Lucy . . .”
Her eyes rolled back in her head. I felt frozen. Another part of me took over, taking in the scene with the objective eyes of a scientist. The line of blood at her mouth. The paleness of her skin. The way her chest had stopped rising and falling.
It was too late.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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THIRTY-EIGHT
I PRESSED MY HANDS against the bullet wound as if that could somehow keep the life inside her. Montgomery tore free from the startled officers and knelt next to me, feeling her pulse. His movements were skilled, yet there was a dazed look to his eyes.
“She’s gone,” he said, as if struggling to believe it himself.
I sank back on my heels. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. My entire body had gone numb, as if it was my blood dripping out into the mud. Gone? The girl I’d grown up with, the only friend who’d stood by me after the scandal, the daughter who’d abandoned her wealthy life for what was right?
“You did this!” Radcliffe hauled me to my feet. Montgomery stood, too, but Radcliffe’s remaining men aimed their rifles at our heads. “It was supposed to be you, Mr. James. Lucy shouldn’t ever have been brought into this!”
“You brought her into this!” I screamed, twisting out of his hand. “She fled with us to escape you!”
He blinked. For a few terrible seconds, none of us spoke. I threw a look to where Edward’s body still lay in the puddle. Was he truly gone, like her? Had we lost them both? Had we lost everything?
“Leave,” I spat at Radcliffe. “Take your men and go. What do a few journals matter when your daughter just died by your own hands?”
He looked at me as if I were some nightmarish specter. He dragged a hand over his mouth, murmuring something to himself, refusing to believe it. “Died?” he said aloud, testing the word. “No.”
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