Against a Brightening Sky

by Jaime Lee Moyer

  Dora took the stairs slowly, but her color was returning and she held her head up. I took Jordan down the hall to her workroom.

  Alina and Sam were already seated on the settee, heads bent over an old photo album. She appeared totally entranced, leafing through the pages and pointing to pictures of a skinny young boy I assumed must be Sam and laughing. Sam spoke in her ear and she glanced our way and smiled.

  “Good morning, Delia.” Alina stood, clutching the photo album to her chest and smiling. I couldn’t help but reflect how different the bitter, resigned young woman in my dreams was from the happy one standing before me. She held out her hand to Jordan. “You must be Lieutenant Lynch. Sam’s told me about you.”

  Jordan didn’t stare, but he looked at Alina oddly, almost as if he thought he should know her or had seen her before. Given what I knew about her identity, that wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. The newspapers ran photographs of royalty more often than film stars.

  “Pleased to meet you, miss.” He didn’t linger over shaking her hand, letting go and stepping back as soon as was polite. “Sam’s told me a bit about you too. He left out how pretty you are.”

  Alina blushed and glanced over her shoulder at Sam. He grinned but didn’t say anything.

  A reflection on the side of a crystal bowl next to the settee rippled, and the three princess ghosts brightened into view. Given how deep Dora’s protections ran, I was surprised, but only for a second or two. Rules didn’t apply to these ghosts or their behavior. I should have expected them to follow me.

  Dora breezed into the room, brighter and more chipper than when she’d gone upstairs. “I see all the introductions have been made. Alina, would you be a darling and visit with Sam in the sitting room? Delia and I have a great deal of work to do, and most of my books are here.”

  Sam stood and took Alina’s hand. “The cook is making tea for all of us. She’ll bring some in as soon as you ring.”

  Dora smiled and went to a small bookcase nestled in a corner. “Thank you. Be sure to say good-bye before you leave.”

  Jordan had followed me to a tall glass-fronted case flanking the window. Three intent faces watched me from the curved glass front, but I did my best to ignore them. The oldest of Dora’s books resided in this cabinet, some with leather covers so ancient that they threatened to crumble to dust if handled too roughly.

  Opening the doors brought the smell of ancient oceans, pine forests, and the salty smell of heated desert sand. Each volume carried its own scent, a marker placed by the man or woman who wrote it. Spices, long vanished meadow flowers, herbs and perfumes: each one was unique.

  Not all the aromas were pleasant. That too was a reflection of the contents; dark histories from desperate times, or a survivor recounting how evil almost swept the world away. I’d avoided reading those books when I first started working with Dora, but there was no avoiding the shadowed corners for long. Best to know and be prepared.

  Jordan crinkled his nose as I piled my arms full of books, but didn’t comment on the smell. “Can I help you carry those, Delia?”

  “That big one on the bottom shelf.” I pointed with my chin. “If you bring that one, you’ll save me a trip.”

  A large oval table filled the center of the workroom floor. I added the books I’d selected to the ones Dora had already set on the table and took my seat. Jordan hesitated, standing away from the table, eyeing the stack of books.

  Dora patted the chair next to her and smiled. “Sit down, Jordan. There’s no reason to be uncomfortable while we bore you.”

  “I’m afraid if I get too comfortable, I’ll start asking questions. You won’t get any work done if I start down that path.” He took the chair anyway, laying his cane across the one next to it. Jordan touched the spine of one book gingerly. “Can I help in any way?”

  Dora’s expression softened and her smile brightened. “If you like. Many of the old books are written in such a way that makes them difficult to understand, a type of cipher or code, if you will. I’m not sure how much you’ll understand, but I can give you key words to look for. If you find them, you can hand the book off to one of us.”

  “I’d like to try.” He took a book off the stack. The smell of sun-warmed pine needles wafted up and vanished. “My grandmother was born a slave and she never got the chance to learn to read. She made sure my father learned once they moved north, and sent me off to school as soon as I was old enough. I think it broke her heart that my daddy wasn’t interested in learning anything that didn’t come out of his Bible.”

  The distant past wasn’t always as far off as it seemed. That was often difficult to remember. I cleared my throat. “We’re looking for anything that has to do with illusions. How they’re cast, what kind of charms are used, and most important, how to break an illusion. Dora and I have more than enough evidence that this killer is a master at those spells. We’re looking for ways to combat that ability.”

  “I’m sure Gabe told you the story of what happened at the parade.” Dora fetched a pack of cigarettes and an ashtray from a side table and settled into her chair again. “A large number of the union men reported seeing monsters and angels reaching for them from the smoke. Many of the men who came from Ireland were adamant they saw banshees. The man we’re looking for cast those illusions. That takes a great deal of skill.”

  “Damnation.” Jordan sat back, mouth pulled tight and arms crossed. “What other tricks can this man pull?”

  “We don’t know for sure. You saw for yourself what he did at the church. Making you all think you smelled a rotting corpse was another type of illusion.” I pulled my hands into my lap, keeping myself from picking at the fringe on the runner down the center of the table. “He may be able to change his face to look like someone else. I’m fairly confident he can draw shadows around himself to keep from being seen when he chooses.”

  Jordan had been attentive, listening closely, but now his expression changed to angry disbelief. He’d recognized something, or thought he did.

  Dora watched him keenly, her cigarette forgotten. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Jordan.”

  “I’m thinking I almost had this man in Chicago and that’s how he fooled me. He changed his face.” He gripped the edge of the table, anger sparking in his eyes. “Two men from my squad heard screams from one of the tenement houses. They burst in to find a woman dead and a man climbing down the fire escape. Clyde Dalton gave chase, and his partner called the station for more men. This was the third murder in a month in the Russian neighborhood. We’d already increased patrols, and it took only a few minutes until more than a dozen officers were searching that block. I was with them.”

  I exchanged looks with Dora. “How did he get away?”

  “We’d been searching the area for hours. I had three other men with me, all of us with our guns drawn.” Jordan’s eyes took on a faraway look, remembering. “We saw Dalton strolling down an alley, bold as brass and in no hurry at all. One of my men called to him, but he kept on going out the other end. We found Dalton’s body a few minutes later. He was already cold. The four of us spent a long time convincing ourselves we’d seen someone else in that alley.”

  Dora snubbed out her cigarette. “Finding a way to either see through this man’s illusions or stop him from casting them in the first place may be the best means of catching him. We know that Dee can see through his illusions. I’d guess I can as well, but I haven’t had occasion to test that idea just yet. Regardless, the sooner we find a solution to this, the better for all involved.”

  Jordan gestured toward the stack on the table. “And you really think we can find the answer in these books.”

  “We won’t know until we try.” Dora drummed her long red nails on the tabletop and frowned. “A bit of luck wouldn’t hurt either. And I’m perfectly willing to manufacture my own luck if matters come down to that.”

  I knew Isadora Bobet better than anyone aside from Randy. She was never reckless, but she didn’t flinch from taki
ng chances when necessary. “You’re thinking of setting a trap and luring him in.”

  She smiled, a fond parent praising a child’s cleverness. “Only as a last resort, Dee. I don’t think it will get to that.”

  Jordan nodded. “Dora’s right. He’ll come after one of you or Sam’s girl first. The trick is to be ready when he does.”

  “Precisely.” Dora chose a book from the pile and opened it to the first page. The scent of lavender filled the air. “And once he’s inside, he won’t find it easy to leave again.”

  * * *

  Noon was fast approaching before Sam and Alina wandered into Dora’s workroom. The two of them were hand in hand, and Alina carried Sam’s photo album in the crook of one arm.

  “It’s time for me to get back to the station, Jordan.” Sam squeezed Alina’s hand before stepping over to the table. He picked up a book and squinted at the print along the spine. “You can stay here if you like. I can always swing by later to take you to Mrs. Allen’s.”

  Jordan closed the book he’d been searching through, brushing his hand across the cover before setting it aside. “I promised Gabe I’d go out to the union hall with him. And these ladies are too nice to say so, but I’m just slowing them down. I’ll be more useful out on the street.”

  Dora stuck another slip of paper in the book she was reading, marking a place she wanted to come back to. She peered at him sternly and arched an eyebrow. “I disagree, Lieutenant Lynch. You’ve been an enormous help.”

  “She’s right, Jordan, and you might as well own up to that.” I twisted in my chair to look up at him as he put on his jacket and found his hat. “I have some influence with Captain Ryan. Perhaps I can persuade him to share you.”

  “I appreciate the compliment, but I know where I’m needed most.” Jordan tipped his hat. “Let’s get out of here, Sam, before they charm me into staying.”

  Sam lingered long enough to say good-bye to Alina. Dora had convinced them that standing in the open front door, saying prolonged good-byes, was unwise. Alina stood in the workroom doorway to watch until Sam reached the front door. Each parting between them was difficult, fraught with the threat that hung over her and not knowing if they’d ever see one another again. That was a feeling I was all too familiar with, in both the past and the present.

  Alina turned around, blinking too fast and flushed, Sam’s photo album hugged to her chest. She was always at loose ends without Sam, but the truth was that she had little to occupy her time. “Do you need anything from me, Dora? I could fetch more tea if you like.”

  “Thank you, dear heart, but we have plenty of tea.” Dora smiled fondly, her voice full of affection. “If you’re hungry, the cook will gladly fix you something.”

  Isadora was always tender with Alina, gentle in a way I’d not seen from her with anyone except Stella. I often wondered if she thought of Alina as the daughter she’d never had, or if she felt responsible for easing the way for a friend’s child. Either way, it was a side of Dora I’d rarely seen.

  Alina stared at the pile of books on the worktable, as if noticing them for the first time. She moved closer to stand next to Dora’s chair. “I’ve seen books like these before. They’re very old, aren’t they?”

  Dora’s smile stayed firmly in place, but all her attention shifted to Alina. She leaned forward ever so slightly, her posture wary. “Yes, very old, and very rare. There aren’t many like them left in the world. Do you remember where it was you saw them?”

  The three princesses popped into view, their images floating on the tea in my cup. I ignored the ghosts as best I could, but I couldn’t ignore the watcher filling my head. Whether the dragon meant to help Alina remember or keep her memories locked away, I couldn’t say. But I’d never understood this creature’s motives.

  “I remember a room full of sunlight. One entire wall was full of windows, and all the drapes were pulled back. It was wintertime, but the room wasn’t cold. I wanted to play in the snow.” She reached out a hand and brushed fingers across the creased blue leather of the top book, jerking her hand back abruptly. “The books were strewn across a white marble tabletop. A man was reading from one much like this. That’s all I remember.”

  Dora and the watcher sighed at precisely the same instant. I knew Isadora was disappointed Alina’s memories were still fragmented images and nothing more.

  As the dragon’s eyes closed, I wouldn’t wager against her being relieved.

  Alina drew herself up straight and squared her shoulders, attempting to hide just how unsettled these moments left her. “I’ll go to my room and leave you and Delia to your work. Maybe I can finish reading the book Sam left yesterday before he comes back for supper.”

  Dora stood and gave Alina a quick hug before stepping back and peering at her anxiously. “I don’t want you to feel that you must go away. You’re welcome to stay if you like.”

  “I know I could stay, but I want to finish the book. Then I can talk to Sam about it.” She opened the photo album, leafing through the book until she came to a picture of a barefoot Sam dressed in overalls. The photo appeared to have been taken by a traveling photographer. Sam was posed stiffly in front of a small farmhouse with a couple that must be his parents, a pair of lop-eared dogs on either side of him. He couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven, but he was almost as tall as the man I assumed to be his father.

  Alina pointed at the photo. “The boy in the book, Tom, must have looked just like this. Sam promised he’d explain anything about the story that I didn’t understand.”

  Dora’s eyes sparkled with amusement and she laughed. “He has you reading Tom Sawyer? Yes, go finish the book. Listening to him explain over supper should be quite entertaining.”

  Alina hurried away and Dora took her seat again, all traces of gaiety gone. She lit a cigarette, her expression pensive and brooding.

  “Out with it, Dora.” I leaned forward, hands folded on the table. “What’s wrong?”

  She made a helpless sort of gesture, something very out of character for Isadora Bobet. “I worry about her. She starts to remember, to put together pieces and odd bits, and something shuts them off. What bothers me most is that I’m not sure if this is coming from her enemies or from this so-called guardian of hers. Regardless of where it’s coming from, I worry about the damage it’s causing.”

  I sat back again, staring at my cold tea and the three princess ghosts. “I’d think not remembering her life would be more damaging.”

  “Normally I’d agree, but I see what this is doing to her. And I can’t help but think that part of this is my fault.” Dora took a long drag on her cigarette, blowing clouds of blue smoke toward the ceiling. “Before I began pushing her to remember, Alina didn’t know what she’d lost. Now every instant of the past she remembers makes her hungry for more. That’s taking a toll, and I can’t help feeling guilty. I started her down this path.”

  “But what happens when she does remember? None of us can protect her from the pain once she discovers her family is dead.”

  “She already knows, Dee.” Dora scowled, her mood grim. “Alina may not remember the details of how they died or why they were killed, but she knows her family is gone. I can see it in her face.”

  We left it there and went back to searching ancient texts for ways to stop this necromancer. Both of us knew we were running out of time. Neither of us could predict what would happen when the clock ran out.

  Late that afternoon, we’d exhausted the resources to hand. Dora had set aside two slim volumes to study further, copies of personal narratives dating from the 1700s, and had started back through the first one. She left off staring at the crabbed handwriting filling a page and frowned. “These records cover more than five hundred years. Somehow it doesn’t seem right that we can find only two small references to necromancers. I need a drink. Can I get you anything, Dee?”

  “A glass of sherry would be nice.” I’d put the saucer on top of my teacup and turned my back to the glass on the bookcase.
Each time I’d glanced up, three young ghostly faces had greeted me, hopeful that I’d found the solution at last. I found it both distracting and very sad. “I’ve had quite enough tea for the time being.”

  Dora went to the black lacquer cabinet in the corner, pouring whiskey for herself and an inch of sherry for me. She set my glass in front of me and went back to her chair. “Let me know what you think of the sherry, it’s not what I normally buy. My usual liquor merchant has closed up shop and gone into another business. He didn’t want to be caught short when the temperance law takes effect in January. I had to make do with what the new man had.”

  “It might be a little sweeter, but it’s very good.” I set the glass aside, resolved to make it last. The occasional glass of sherry with Dora was a treat, one I’d miss when all the shops stopped selling liquor. “Is there anything we can use in those references?”

  “As a weapon?” Dora cradled her whiskey glass in both hands. “I’m afraid not. Both of them speak of how a necromancer accumulates power and what uses they can put that power to. Most of what’s recorded are things we already knew about illusion and making ghosts for his own purposes. Displays and manipulations such as the one he put on at the parade take a great deal of hoarded power. I imagine all the energy he’d accumulated from the killings in New York and Chicago were held in reserve for when he found Alina.”

  “So we were wrong about that. He does kill for power.” I took another sip of sherry, thinking. “Changing his face to resemble someone else must tax his reserves as well. Does the book say anything about that?”

  “Nothing clear cut, but what I found matches Jordan’s story.” She leafed through the pages, coming back to a marked page. “There was a report from Finland late in the 1600s of a necromancer who evaded capture by wearing the faces of his victims. Church authorities searched for more than a year before finding him. That echoes Jordan’s experience neatly. It’s implied that for this kind of illusion to work, the person being mimicked must be dead. We can’t take all the details of these accounts as being absolute truth, especially when they’ve been handed down from the seventeenth-century Church.”