Dead Girls Don't Sing

by Casey Wyatt

  I floated for a while on a gentle river, its waters warm as blood. Sweetness flowed down my throat, saltiness tanged my tongue. Pleasure rippled through every cell in my body. If this was dying, it wasn’t half bad.

  Hold the phone.

  If I were dying, would I know it? And would I be so turned on by the hand gliding up my thigh?

  Don’t judge me.

  The few times I’d had sex with Jonathan were stellar. It wasn’t easy to toss him out of my bed.

  But, at the end of the day, my inner mule won out, and I made a token attempt to push him away. My lethargic limbs refused and dropped like limp noodles.

  I didn’t want to cheat on Ian. But one could argue that because of the time travel, I was cheating on Jonathan with Ian.

  Good grief. The idea made my head spin even more than the blood loss.

  A shrill train whistle shattered my dreamlike state, ejecting me into the here and now.

  Someone was slurping and moaning worse than a lovesick puppy. Ew!

  I wanted to shout, “Get a room.” Until I realized . . .

  Oh, no.

  Fearing the worst, I cracked an eyelid. Pale skin, luminescent as marble filled my vision. I groaned again. He’d done it. Gone too far. I went to speak but only low sound came out.

  A typical alpha male, Jonathan took my vocalization as a sign of passion and slipped his hand further up my skirt, his other palm bracing my head.

  And, yeah, those gross slurps. That was me draining his neck for all it was worth.

  I detached with the force of a bandage being ripped from a wound. The motion propelled me backward. My behind hit the floor with a hard thump.

  “What the hell? You drained me on purpose! You knew I would savage you like . . . like . . . like a beast!”

  Scrambling upright, I grabbed the crystal goblet and threw it at his head. “Stop trying to control me!”

  So much for my remorse. I should have known better than to feel compassion for him. He’d gone up my skirt first chance he got. The bastard.

  “You left me no choice. Your defiance has grown out of hand. We don’t live in a pretty world. Our lifestyle is brutal.” Jonathan healed his torn neck with a single thought as part of his “I’m old and powerful” demonstration. “I can tolerate many things, my wife. Disloyalty isn’t one of them. You’re lucky I haven’t compelled you to obey me.”

  I pulled myself upright with as much dignity as I could muster.

  “I have never betrayed you. Your behavior was brutish and barbaric. I swear to you that I will never drink from your neck again, husband!” I spat a gob of blood.

  Then like a tug against my body, time’s will exerted itself on events, making my vow a reality. If Old Me had handled the situation differently it was gone now.

  I had to be really careful. It appeared that small personal events could be affected.

  “Don’t swear oaths you can’t keep, Charity.” He rebuttoned his shirt with precise control.

  “Then don’t force me to drink from you.” My fingers trembled with rage as I smoothed down my skirts and patted my prim hairdo. “I am your wife in name only. We both know it. Why pretend otherwise? What do you really want with me? I deserve answers.”

  If he was surprised by my questions, his face didn’t show it. “I could take you to India.”

  I hadn’t considered that option. He calmly slipped on his jacket and used a handkerchief to blot his stained lips.

  “I don’t have time for this,” he continued. “Why does everything with you have to be done the hard way? Wait. Don’t answer.” With a heavy sigh, the kind I would hear a lot in the coming century, he ran his fingers through his hair and then said, “Fine. I will grant you one truth before you leave. Of my choosing.”

  Jay knocked on the door, then poked his head inside the carriage. His eyes widened when he saw the state of me. If he wanted to say anything he rightly kept it to himself.

  “Conductor says five minutes, Master.” Then he disappeared.

  I took a moment to compose myself. “I’d appreciate it, Sire.”

  As a sign of obedience and understanding of my precarious situation, I angled my chin upright exposing my neck.

  “Now that I have your attention again, I have a confession,” he said.

  Resisting the urge to grin triumphantly, I kept my expression neutral.

  “I have been withholding your correspondence. I believe enough time has passed that it’s safe for you to read the letters. However, the original arrangement stands. You must not contact them.”

  It took every ounce of resolve not to launch across the room. He hadn’t told me anything new, but he didn’t know that. I provided the appropriate angry response, which wasn’t too hard because I was mad, just not for the reason he believed.

  “That’s brilliant! I can’t believe you’d hide letters from me. They could have brought me comfort. Made me feel less . . . alone.” Tears of the noncrocodile variety sprouted at the truth of my statement.

  Jonathan offered me a clean handkerchief, expression somber. “I understand.”

  I wonder how sympathetic he’d feel when he returned home to discover that I’d taken the letters and the telegram.

  “We can discuss it when you return home.” I accepted the hanky, ready to depart. Outside, the conductor was pacing the platform. “Safe journey, Jonathan.”

  “I look forward to our discussion.” He drew my knuckles to his lips and kissed them.

  My resolve wavered. This was the last time I’d see him alive. I wanted to hug him and tell him to watch his back. The train’s whistle blew again. Time waited for no one.

  “Off you go then.” He ushered me to the open door. “No worries, my pet. I’ll return soon. Things will change for the better, you’ll see.”

  The moment was gone. The conductor was there to assist me out the door.

  As soon as I cleared the train car, the conductor raised and dropped his arm, signaling to the engineer in the rear locomotive waiting to push the cars to the main line. A loud release of steam hissed as the brakes were released. Bell ringing, the locomotive moved forward.

  I took one last lingering look at the railcars. Jonathan stood at the window, watching, something he never did. He’d never been sentimental. Or if he had, it had been knocked out of him ages ago. Maybe he sensed something. I don’t know.

  Long after the train chugged away I could still hear his words.

  Things will change for the better.

  None of those changes would happen if I didn’t complete my mission and have Old Me returned home before he returned. The letters would be easy enough to hide again but my total absence, not so much. Heaven help me if he returned early.

  No. Best not to let my imagination get carried away. He’d be gone at least two months, which left me with several weeks for the actual mission. I needed at least a few days to return to France, factoring the weather. If I couldn’t cross the Channel, then I’d need to go overland and that would take longer.

  Full-stop on the imagination running amok.

  Things would work out. They had to. Besides, I could move in time if needed. Once I figured it out.

  With renewed purpose and a burst of vampire speed, I located the awaiting carriage and climbed inside. We arrived in time to catch the steamship.

  Chapter Nine

  Daddy Dearest

  Thankfully, it was a relatively short trip across the Channel’s choppy waters.

  The humans around me succumbed to the ship rocking to and fro and heaved their stomach contents overboard. They were too distracted to notice that the heavy seas didn’t bother me.

  When we arrived I disembarked, relieved to be on English soil.

  Rain pattered down in a steady clip. Judging by the size of the puddles, I’d say the roads were in shit condition.

  Once on the dock, a porter rushed to my side with an umbrella, leading me inside a covered terminal. I instructed him to find my luggage and inquire as to the times of
the trains.

  “Apologies, mum. The trains have all been delayed because of . . .” He stared at his shoes.

  “Well don’t stop, what’s the problem?” I had places to be, things to do.

  “There’s a labor strike,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll fetch your things.”

  Great. Just fucking great.

  “I can hire a coach, can’t I?” I called after him.

  The station agent piped in. “Not until this storm clears. The roads north will be impassable. Might as well hunker in for the evening.”

  The man smiled and rocked on his heels. Why was he so damn jovial?

  Jane Austen wasn’t kidding when she said there was nothing to discuss in polite company except the roads and the weather. Or whoever said it. I’m not a scholar, so don’t quote me.

  When the porter returned he wasn’t alone. Another man had joined him as they wheeled the luggage away on a trolley. The agent stepped up to speak with them “so a lady like myself wouldn’t have to.”

  That’s a quote. Honestly, there wasn’t much I missed about the front end of the twentieth century. Definitely not the genteel chauvinism or the bloody awful roads.

  “It’s as I feared, the coaches are lent or gone for the night. Might I suggest a suite at the Court Hotel? The owner offers a fair price and not a lot of questions are asked.” He all but wagged his eyebrows at me.

  I repressed an eye roll. Save me from dirty-minded men. I’m sure they believed I was cuckolding my husband and traveling incognito. Only half that statement was true.

  Needs must, as they say.

  The Court Hotel appeared respectable enough, its exterior as drab as the other seaside-facing buildings. Gentlemen mingled in the lobby, some attended by valets. So far so good. The establishment seemed to cater to the business set and others with money but not titles. I shouldn’t run into anyone who might know my family. Perfect.

  The hotel’s manager headed me off in the lobby, primed to greet me.

  “My lady, it’s an honor to house you for the evening. My name is Reed, should you require anything. Anything at all, I am at your disposal.” Tall and lanky, arms and legs thin as willow branches, his name suited him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Reed. Does the room have a bath?”

  “Yes, milady.”

  “Excellent.” Rain had soaked down every layer and under my corset. The chafing was maddening.

  “Will you be requiring any assistance with your wardrobe?” he asked as he led me up a flight of stairs and down a carpeted hallway.

  There were only three rooms. One door on each side of the hallway and one lone door at the end where he stopped, key in hand. He opened the door with a flourish, letting me enter first.

  “I can manage on my own.” Thanks to front-fastening corsets.

  I tipped him generously. My luggage was in my room. I had packed lightly, but I still needed to maintain appearances so I had a steamer trunk crammed with simple dresses and other accoutrements. For anyone who thinks living during the era of Downtown is glamorous, it’s not. It’s a royal pain.

  As soon as they left, I locked the door and started peeling off damp layers. It took me longer than I would have liked because tiny buttons only go so fast. Naked, I entered the bathroom and filled the tub. Clean towels and a bar of soap were provided. Really, what more could a girl ask for?

  I slipped into the water’s cool depths and closed my eyes. Big mistake.

  A vision rammed into my skull with the force of a bull elephant.

  London was under attack. Creatures the size of modern sky scrapers moved in the dark, firelit sky. Rubble and bent steel blocked the streets.

  Hopeless screams.

  The rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire.

  Silence.

  The world was on fire. Civilization conquered.

  My mind snapped into the present like a rubber band. Fear beat against my chest with relentless urgency.

  I’d seen those giant robot things at Olympus Mons. For once, maybe it wasn’t a real vision of the future. Perhaps it was the effect of jumping into my own past and I’d had a bad dream.

  Sure. And I have a bridge to sell. Real cheap.

  I pulled the drain plug, releasing the water down the drain with burbling glugs. There was nothing I could do about the distant future, unsettling as it was. Family first, then I could focus on the end of the world.

  Exiting the bathroom, I dug through my trunk, located my favorite robe and put it on. I towel dried my hair. The results were not impressive.

  What wouldn’t I give for a hair dryer?

  The rain had stopped. Maybe some fresh air would hurry the process.

  I flung open the sash. Humid air filled the room. I settled on the fainting couch. A boisterous laugh grabbed my attention. The longer I listened, the more I recognized it.

  The man’s voice was one I knew well.

  It wasn’t coming from the Inn, but from the building next door. I had one foot out the door when I remembered I was in my robe. That wouldn’t do. Even though it was a gigantic pain, I dressed in the appropriate evening attire for a lady of my station.

  More than idle curiosity propelled me to the main desk. Intercepting Mr. Reed, I asked, “What type of establishment is that?”

  “My apologies about the noise, milady. I can go over and ask them to quiet down.” The furious red blush creeping up his neck made me think I wasn’t the first person to notice.

  “No need. Please do explain.” Even though I guessed the answer.

  He lowered his voice. “It’s a gambling den. The local authorities refuse to shut it down.”

  He left the rest unsaid. I could fill in the blanks—money changed hands to buy silence.

  “Thank you.” I headed toward the exit, doing some mental math.

  The man I suspected could still be alive. Once I’d married Jonathan, I stopped caring about his whereabouts.

  Laughter rose again, followed by boisterous shouts. I walked to the next block and headed toward the back alley to the real entrance. I banged on the innocuous steel door. A peephole opened, a man’s eyeball darted. Before he could slam it shut, I caught his gaze and compelled him.

  The door swung open, releasing cigar smoke, sweat, and cheap perfume. The door’s guardian, a burly man with shoulders wide enough to touch each side of the jamb, lifted his brows in surprise. I imagined society ladies didn’t often appear at the door.

  He wore a sharp pinstriped suit, his dark hair slicked back with oily pomade. The thick cartilage in his ears had been cauliflowered. The crooked ridges of his nose must have been reset numerous times. A boxer or brawler, he’d taken one too many shots to the head.

  “Move aside,” I commanded, maintaining my hold on his will. I was improving with practice. Or the man was a simpleton, his mind easy to bend. “Better yet, personally escort me to the Earl’s table.”

  Without a word, the man turned, following my command.

  My father, the Earl of Pembridge, was about to receive the shock of his lifetime.

  I entered the murky den like I owned the place, the ox of a bouncer shielding me from view.

  “Go. I’ll summon you if I need you.” I circled the room, a shark sizing up her prey.

  Seeing my father for the first time since my wedding day wasn’t as hard as I thought. I didn’t feel a rush of nerves or a twinge of anger. Shocking, I know.

  Instead I felt pity for him.

  The years hadn’t been kind. Hard living, drinking, and smoking too much, had taken its toll. He didn’t seem as old as expected either. Well worn, yes, but aged significantly, no.

  At first my presence went unnoticed. I wasn’t the only woman in the room. The usual female suspects were aplenty.

  High-priced mistresses, the long-term kind and the ones available for one night. Drinks were served by young women dressed in low-cut bodices, their smiles and flattering words uttered to entice the men into more sin.

  Really no different than the gambling dens my f
ather had frequented most of his adult life.

  A society daughter shouldn’t know what the inside of a gambling den looked like, but I did. There were more times than I cared to recall when I had had to fetch my father from them.

  Being the oldest, I took the task on, not out of a sense of duty, but out of curiosity. And because it incensed Mother. She forbade me from going, and I’d done it anyway. Father would always tell her to let me be.

  “No good will come of her,” my mother would say. “She’s ruined in the eyes of God.”

  Have I mentioned my mother became a missionary? Her zeal landed us in India. During one of my father’s atonement periods—they never lasted more than a few months—he agreed to join her. She tried to convert people to Christianity. He worshipped at the temple of vice and sin, gambling me away to a vampire.

  Jonathan wasn’t innocent either. He’d gone out of his way to ruin my father’s business ventures, causing him to be dependent on Jonathan’s generosity. To be fair, Jonathan did bail the family out with enough money to last into the twenty-second century. In return, I lost my freedom and humanity.

  And Father lost any chance of ever knowing his grandchild.

  Thank you, Father.

  See? There’s the anger.

  It rose inside, a fire burning. Seems it wasn’t missing. It had taken a backseat to other more important events in my life. Events that I needed to keep at the forefront of my thoughts.

  Smoke-scented fog swirled around the room, the miasma thick enough to make me wonder why the mortals hadn’t succumbed to cancer on contact. As I completed my circuit of the room, passing various gaming tables and card games, I noticed a glossy sameness to the men’s eyes.

  Sniffing deeper, I detected the ever-so-subtle taste of, for lack of a better word, undead magic. Not magic of the wizarding school variety but more like trickery, similar to vampire compulsion. Whatever it was, it wasn’t vampire in origin.

  More obnoxious bursts of laughter erupted. Again from the poker game my father was playing. Snagging a drink and lifting a fan that I “borrowed” from one of the ladies for hire, I drifted my way toward the table.