Grey Dawn

by Clea Simon

  Trista gave her a half nod. ‘Maybe. Or maybe he just didn’t want to put a nice coat down where it would get sherry spilled on it.’

  ‘Emily said she fought.’ To Dulcie it all seemed quite reasonable. ‘She might have scratched him. Drawn blood.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s true.’ Trista smiled, and Dulcie realized that her friend had been holding herself back. ‘I thought you were going to say he’d been bitten by a wolf.’

  Dulcie opened her mouth – and shut it. That possibility had occurred to her, back at the party. ‘Trista, if you’d seen Thorpe, last night. Out in the moonlight.’

  ‘Look, I know Thorpe is a beast sometimes. Really.’ Trista paused and took her friend’s hand. ‘I understand he’s been giving you a hard time. And I know how much pressure you’re under. Believe me, I know.’ She stared at Dulcie until her friend nodded in agreement. That much was true: Dulcie remembered how crazy Trista had gotten as she had finished her dissertation. ‘But you shouldn’t – I mean, you’ve got to be careful what you say. You’re not used to drinking, you know.’

  ‘I’m not drunk, Trista.’ She wasn’t now, anyway. Though, truth be told, she did recall feeling a little dizzy and out of it. ‘I’m just tired. And, well, I can explain. It all makes sense. The moon and all.’

  ‘But it’s not even a full moon.’ Trista pointed and Dulcie looked. Sure enough, a slight flattening showed on the upper right of the lunar orb.

  ‘Yesterday, however—’

  ‘Nope.’ Trista shook her head. ‘Yesterday it was even further from full. I know it’s been bright. I swear, it’s like someone’s been shining a flashlight in my window. I heard something on the news about it being particularly close to earth.’ She looked up. ‘But it’s not full, not tonight. Though if this is any indication, it’s going to be a doozy.’

  ‘Wait, it’s going to be?’ Dulcie was looking at her friend, not up at the sky.

  ‘Uh huh,’ Trista nodded. ‘The full moon is tomorrow.’

  FIFTEEN

  The combination of the sherry and everything else should have left Dulcie exhausted, but she felt strangely wired by the time she’d climbed the stairs. Strangely wired – and not only awake, but driven. A quick text message to Chris – Trista walked me home. All locked up! –and she was at her desk, that curious manuscript open before her.

  ‘I know it doesn’t make sense, Esmé, but there’s something here,’ she said as the young cat jumped up to peer at her laptop. ‘Something in this book that ties everything together.’

  As if in response, the little tuxedo cat began to wash furiously, attacking her inside hind leg as if it were possessed.

  ‘You don’t have a flea,’ Dulcie looked up. ‘Do you?’ The cat ignored her, moving on to the pink spaces between her toes, and Dulcie returned to work.

  ‘For dangers abound on this Road, as the bilious Moon rides to her turbulent zenith, and I would be your Friend.’ Deep in the shadows, the Stranger sat, regarding her with hidden eyes. Silent, since his initial salutation, he watched steadily, as the storm beyond raged and those fiendish things, the Beasts of the Night cried their blood-curdling cries.’

  ‘Meh.’ A paw appeared, dabbing at the cursor on the screen.

  ‘No, Esmé.’ A little carelessly, Dulcie brushed the paw away. It reappeared, as Esmé batted at the cursor. Not, Dulcie told herself, at the word ‘Friend.’ She read on.

  ‘Beasts of the Night cried their blood-curdling cries …’This was better: Dulcie needed to focus on the text, not on some vague hope that this character was some kind of precursor of her own spiritual friend. ‘Cried their blood-curdling cries?’The awkwardness of it hit her. Surely the author meant to revise that. The paw reappeared.

  ‘Ravenous as wraiths, they sounded, calling for their prey in voices meant to freeze the very Blood. Only the Stranger …’

  ‘Meh!’ More insistent, this time.

  ‘What?’ A small fang appeared over the edge of the laptop as Esmé began to gnaw on the computer. ‘No! Esmé, stop!’

  Dulcie slammed the computer closed and found herself face to face with her cat. ‘I know I’ve been busy, Esmé. But at least I’m working at home. I’m trying.’ The wide green eyes stared up at her. ‘You know, you can talk to me, Esmé. If you want to.’ The cat tilted her head, as if to get a better view of her person. The look could have been an appraisal, leaving Dulcie feeling that in some way she had been found wanting, when it hit her: Esmé hadn’t been fed.

  ‘Of course.’ Dulcie got up and headed for the kitchen. Esmé bounded ahead. ‘Sorry, kitty. Everything that’s happened has taken over my mind. In fact …’ As Dulcie reached for the cat food, she realized how hungry she was, as well. That soup had been hours before, and the effects of the sherry were just about worn off. The apartment larder wasn’t as well stocked with people food as it was with Fancy Feast, however, and Dulcie contemplated going out. Not yet eleven, Mary Chung’s might be closed, but Hi Fi Pizza would still be open.

  Dulcie was going for her sweater when the realization of what she was about to do stopped her. Another woman had been attacked tonight. Granted, both the attacks had been in Harvard Square, a full mile from where she was now. But she’d told Chris she’d be careful. Besides, as good as pizza – extra cheese, pepperoni, mushrooms – sounded, Dulcie really wanted to read more of the manuscript. It was funny how it seemed to expand. She was reading a section now that she had only the dimmest memory of transcribing. It was almost as if …

  ‘Mr Grey? Are you sending me stories now?’ The vague thought that she had pushed aside while reading came back to her now. ‘Did you somehow appear to the author?’ It made no sense; she knew that. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder. But as she looked around the empty kitchen, the only sound was Esmé lapping at her dish. That was enough to remind Dulcie of her own empty belly, and soon she was digging into a monster-size bowl of Cheerios.

  Of course, her phone rang. ‘Mwah?’ she managed, removing the spoon from her mouth.

  ‘Dulcie! Are you okay?’ It was Chris, sounding a little panicked. Rather than scare him further, Dulcie worked at swallowing the wet mouthful. ‘Dulcie?’

  ‘Sorry, Chris,’ she said at last. ‘I’m here. I’m fine. You just caught me with my mouth full.’

  ‘Oh, thank god.’ He sounded so relieved that Dulcie grew curious.

  ‘Didn’t you get my text?’

  ‘I got something, but it was garbled,’ her boyfriend sounded more like himself. ‘All I could make out was something about “locked up.” I was trying to tell myself that this was good. That whoever went after that woman had been locked up. But all I could think of was you, out there …’

  He sounded like he could go on, but Dulcie interrupted. ‘I’m fine, but Chris, there was another attack. Another student – right by the department office!’

  ‘I knew it.’

  Dulcie kept talking. ‘It was Mina’s room-mate – she’s the girl who was attacked last night. Tonight it was Emily, whom I know, sort of. She’s in one of my sections. But we found her. There was a kitten in the alley—’

  ‘Wait, hang on, Dulcie. From the beginning?’

  Chris didn’t really mean that, Dulcie knew. It would take hours to go back over the entire evening and what she’d heard – or deduced – about the visiting professor, Thorpe, and the moon. Besides, she realized, in retrospect, she was a little embarrassed. She had accused the possible next head of the department of a horrible crime without much proof. And then she had blurted out her worst fears. Granted, to her friends, but …

  ‘Dulcie?’ She could make out muffled voices; he was calling from the computer lab. She should make it quick.

  ‘Sorry, I was trying to figure out where to start.’ With that, she decided that the best place was right near the end, as they were leaving the party. She told Chris about hearing something – to him, she could confide that she’d thought she’d heard a roar, and then a voice that sounded like Mr Grey – and then finding the little or
ange tabby. And then that feeling that something was wrong, was still very wrong – and finding Emily. ‘So Lloyd and Raleigh walked her home,’ she concluded. ‘And Trista walked me home.’

  ‘Wait, you didn’t call the police?’

  ‘I wanted to, Chris. I really did – but she, Emily, wouldn’t let us.’ Dulcie thought back to the younger woman’s resistance. ‘Do you think that’s weird?’

  ‘I do, but …’ He paused. ‘You know, it makes sense.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Esmé had finished her own dinner by then and jumped up on the kitchen table. Dulcie pushed her away as she bent to sniff at the cereal bowl. ‘No, that’s mine,’ she mouthed. The cat turned away, with an insulted air.

  ‘Well, the cops said it was probably a domestic, right? I bet she knew him.’

  ‘But she said …’ Dulcie stopped. What Chris had said fit – up to a point. ‘Why wouldn’t she turn this guy in?’

  ‘Maybe she’s afraid.’ Dulcie wondered about that as she absently stroked the cat. ‘Maybe she feels culpable in some way. Ow!’ Esmé had turned and given her a sharp nip. ‘Sorry, that was just Esmé. I don’t think I can do anything right by her tonight.’ Unless, she wondered, the little cat was trying to tell her something. ‘What do you mean, “culpable”?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Chris was sounding tired, and Dulcie realized he was less interested in the details of the attack than in her own welfare. ‘Maybe she was involved with him, too. Or, hey, with her room-mate. Stranger things have happened.’

  Either way, it was important – and it echoed what Trista had said, too. ‘Well, there’s nothing like that holding me up,’ she decided. ‘I’m going to talk to Rogovoy first thing tomorrow. I’ve got to make sure he knows what’s going on.’

  Silence on the other end of the line. ‘Chris?’

  Chris’s sigh was audible. ‘Dulcie, do you have to? I mean, I think you did the right thing – urging this girl to come forward. You were right. She should have. But, well, she didn’t. And now it really is sounding like it was something personal. Not some stray madman on the streets of Cambridge. I know you want to be a responsible member of the community. But maybe, Dulce, leave this one alone?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Dulcie took another bite of cereal. It was soggy now.

  ‘Dulcie?’ Behind him, the voices had grown louder. Chris must really be worried if he ignored his students for this long.

  ‘I won’t get in the middle of it.’ She gave him that. ‘I won’t go to the police.’ Dulcie meant that as a clarification, not an addition. She had plans.

  She also had a question of her own. ‘Chris, when I told you that another woman had been attacked, you said you knew it. What did you mean?’

  ‘I didn’t – I don’t remember.’ He was stammering. ‘Hey, I should go. I’ve got students.’

  ‘Chris Sorensen.’ Dulcie used her best teacher voice. ‘You’re hiding something, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dulcie. I didn’t mean to.’ A pause, and Dulcie knew he was considering how much to tell her.

  ‘Chris?’

  ‘It was Mr Grey, Dulcie.’ He was speaking softly, his voice muffled as if he had his hand over the phone. ‘At least, I’m pretty sure it was. I heard, well, I thought I heard a cry or a howl, or something, and then I heard his voice. “Innocence is no protection,” he said. “This goes back too far.’’’

  SIXTEEN

  ‘Innocence is no protection.’ Dulcie mulled that one over. It could, she thought, apply to the kitten. No matter what Raleigh – or Lloyd or Trista – believed, she was determined that the little marmalade tabby was not going to fall into the wrong hands. Maybe Thorpe was blameless – she had a hard time thinking of him as innocent – but she wasn’t going to take any chances. And as for the rest of it? That bit about ‘going back too far’? Well, that would fit if the crime was personal – a ‘domestic,’ as Rogovoy had put it. Or it could have another meaning as well.

  Sitting at the table, Dulcie stroked the closed lid of her laptop. This story, with its mysterious stranger, was drawing her in. Could it be connected, in some way. Could the stranger …?

  She laughed at her own fancy. ‘Esmé, I really shouldn’t drink sherry,’ she called. The cat had disappeared, however, leaving Dulcie to finish her cereal alone. She really should go to bed, she knew. But while she was eating …

  Only the Stranger sat unmoved by the fiendish Cries. Only he retained a preternatural calm. Outside, the horses frothed and tossed their manes, eyes wide and frantic in the night, while the Coachman – that dark figure whose Visage lay concealed – whipped and cursed his Fury into the night.

  ‘You have far to go.’ The Voice, as soft as Velvet, reached her ear, as if by one Whisper’d by her side. ‘You bear a burden of Debt to others besides yourself, to those who will follow after. And there are some who would delay you, one in particular who would take from you that which you most treasure.’

  That which you most treasure? Dulcie looked up from the keyboard. A woman, pursued in a storm, who is given a lift by a mysterious stranger? This story was taking some strange turns. The first bit of the manuscript, which she had found only a few months ago among some loose papers in the Mildon rare book collection, had dealt with a murder. Someone – a young nobleman – had been found lying dead in a library.

  Dulcie shivered, remembering that scene. One too close to it had really happened, in her own undergraduate house library not that long ago. She shook off the memory – what mattered now was the book.

  In that first fragment, the heroine – who either had red or dark hair depending on the author’s whim – had found a body. It was quite possible, Dulcie had to acknowledge, that she had killed the man described so well, whom the reader first sees lying, still and cold, on the library rug. What Dulcie hadn’t known was why.

  Now, in this latest bunch of pages, she was getting to a motive. Someone had been pursuing this woman – someone or something. After all, fiendish howls in the night, mysterious pursuers, and even more mysterious rescuers didn’t sound like what a present-day detective would call a ‘domestic.’ And that, Dulcie thought with satisfaction, was one of the reasons she loved books like this. Gothic novels, and the women who wrote them, weren’t bound by the dull reality of deadlines and family squabbles.

  They probably weren’t bound by fatigue either, Dulcie admitted when, about an hour later, she found herself face down on the warm keyboard. She’d woken to the soft touch of a paw, patting gently at her mouth.

  ‘Was I snoring, Esmé?’ Dulcie blinked up into the wide green eyes. ‘Or did you think something might crawl out of my mouth?’

  The little cat didn’t answer, although the off-center star on her face gave her a look that Dulcie could only interpret as concern.

  ‘Not to worry, kitty. Off to bed.’ Dulcie closed the computer and pulled herself up. Tomorrow, she’d go back to the Mildon. There were more pages that she’d recently identified. Deciphering them was laborious work, and Thorpe was pushing her to work on her writing. This book, however, was too thrilling to put down.

  Maybe, she thought as she brushed her teeth, she could work up an article over the winter break. ‘Beyond Umbria,’ she tried on the title. ‘An Anonymous Author’s Next Great Work.’

  If only she could put a name to the author, she thought to herself as she slid between the sheets. She felt so close to her, as if she knew her. And yet the woman whose work had come to mean so much was still a stranger. A nameless stranger in the night.

  SEVENTEEN

  They were traveling fast. Too fast for the Road, the Night, or the safety of the Horses, spent as they were and mad with Fear. Too fast for Comfort, for sure, as with every bump and jolt, she gripped the seat. Hers had been no choice – Flight was the only option lest she Surrender again to him. Again – and this time, more than her Safety was at stake. Still, she wished for Peace, for a moment of blessed stillness.

  ‘Here, this will warm you …’ She looked up, having forgotte
n, for the moment, that she did not ride alone. Indeed, the Stranger – he who had hailed the Coachman and pulled over as she ran, stumbling, down that rocky path – now regarded her with cool eyes. Cool, but with compassion, she sensed, as she reached to accept the flask he offered, held out to her in one gloved hand. Dare she Drink?

  ‘It will do you good,’ came the response, though she did not believe she had spoken her Question aloud. Perhaps, in her fatigue, her thoughts were leaking into the night, much as the wind eked its way into the carriage. ‘Drink,’ said the Stranger. ‘Then, perhaps, you can sleep.’ The draught indeed was strong and sweet, with a hint of spice, and warmed her well. Mayhap she could sleep now, she mused, her very Eyes growing heavy. Maybe she would be safe. Her lids closed, her mind drifting. The last thoughts she had were of those other Eyes, the Stranger’s eyes, cool and green in the deep Shadow of the coach. Watching, and yet so calm.

  Dulcie woke with a start, the taste of last night’s sherry – or something stronger – warm on her tongue. Chris was snoring gently beside her, and Dulcie grabbed the clock, minutes before it was set to go off. No point waking him. After that dream, she wasn’t going back to sleep.

  Esmé came into the bathroom as Dulcie was brushing her teeth and rubbed against her bare legs.

  ‘What is it, kitty?’ Dulcie asked as soon as she could. ‘Are you having strange dreams, too?’

  The cat didn’t respond, at least not verbally, and Dulcie thought about the green eyes in her dream. Clearly, her unconscious had connected the helpful stranger in the book with Mr Grey, but was it all in her mind? Her late, great cat had been reaching out to her last night; she was sure of that. Did he mean to warn her of more than the kitten? Did his message have something to do with Emily Trainor? She had to find out.