by Dima Zales
Despite the fact he'd died over a year before I was born.
I knew he couldn't possibly be my real father but I had long ago accepted he was the closest I'd get to one. Mama had refused to discuss the matter of my paternity despite my repeated questions. Not even Celia cared to talk about it, but I wasn't entirely sure she knew who my father was anyway. She had only been sixteen when I was born, and it was unlikely Mama had confided in her. It must have been terribly scandalous at the time, and explained why we never spoke to any of our relations and had few friends.
Although I accepted I may never know, a part of me still burned to learn the truth. I'd even tried to summon Mama's ghost once after her death to ask, but she'd not appeared.
"Mr. Beaufort," I said, shaking off the melancholy that usually descended upon me when thinking of my father.
"Call me Jacob," he said. "I think we can dispense with formalities considering the circumstances, not to mention my attire."
"Of course." I tried to smile politely but I fear it looked as awkward as I felt. His attire was not something to be dismissed casually. It was what he happened to be wearing when he died. Mr. Wiggam must have died wearing his formal dinner suit but it seemed Mr. Beaufort—Jacob—had been somewhat more casually dressed. It's the reason why I'll never sleep naked.
"What's he saying?" Celia asked, linking her hands on her lap.
"That we're to call him Jacob," I said.
"I see. Jacob, do you think you could hold something so I know where you are? The daguerreotype of our father will do."
I rolled my eyes. There she goes again—our father indeed.
"That's better," she said when Jacob obliged by picking up the wooden frame. "Now, please sit." He sat in the armchair which matched the sofa, right down to the faded upholstery. "Who do you wish us to contact?"
"Contact?" Jacob said.
"She means which of your loved ones do you want to communicate with," I said. "We can establish a meeting and you can tell them anything you wish, or ask a question. It'll give you peace," I said when he looked at me askance. "And help you cross over. Into the Otherworld." Good lord, he must be a fresh one. But he didn’t look in the least frightened or wary as most newly deceased do.
"For a small fee," Celia added. "To be paid by your loved one of course."
"You have the wrong idea," he said, putting up his free hand. It was broad and long-fingered with scrapes and bruises on the knuckles, which struck me as odd. They looked fresh. He must have got them just before he died. So what was a handsome man with an aristocratic accent doing brawling with his bare knuckles? "I'm not here to contact anyone."
Bella entered at that moment carrying a tray of tea things. I had to lean to one side to see past her rather prominent rear as she bent over to set the tray on the table. I forked my brows at Jacob to prompt him—asking him outright might seem a little odd to Bella, particularly if Celia, the only other person in the room as far as the maid was concerned, failed to answer.
"I'm here because I've been assigned to you," he said.
"What?" I slapped a hand over my mouth.
Bella straightened and followed my line of sight straight to the framed daguerreotype of Celia's father hovering—as she would have seen it—above the armchair. She screamed and collapsed onto the rug in a dead faint.
Celia sighed. "Oh dear. She was such a good maid too."
2
"I don't think your maid will last long," Jacob said as the drawing room door closed on Celia guiding a trembling Bella down the hall.
I waited until the door was completely shut and Bella's terrified mutterings had faded before I spoke. "I hope she's already prepared supper." It sounded uncaring but I'd been in this situation before and it was very trying. As our only maid, Bella worked long, hard hours. I appreciated that enough to know I didn't want to take on her chores. "Good maids are difficult to find, particularly ones not afraid of the supernatural." Or ones we could afford.
"Have you tried the North London School for Domestic Service in Clerkenwell?" He returned the picture frame to the mantelpiece and remained standing. "They train suitable orphans in all aspects of domestic service and help them find employment by the age of sixteen or so. We’ve hired many of our servants from there."
"We?"
"Ghosts." I must have had an odd look on my face because he snorted softly which I think was meant to be a laugh. "Joke," he said without even a twitch of his lips. "I meant my family. The one I had before I died."
"Oh." I swallowed. So he came from a family wealthy enough to afford servants, plural. I wanted to ask more about his life but it didn't seem like the right time. It also wasn't the right time to ask about his death, although I'm not sure there ever is an appropriate time to enquire about that. It feels a little like prying into one's private affairs.
Besides, a far more pressing question was why was he standing in my drawing room looking every bit the gentleman of the house as he rested his elbow on the mantelpiece. Perhaps it was the casual attire that made him look like he belonged precisely there as if this really was his home. Or perhaps it was the strength of his presence. I think I would have known where he was at all times even with my eyes closed. A remarkable feat for a spirit. "What did you mean by assigned to me? Assigned by whom and for what purpose?"
"Assigned by the Administrators—."
"The Administrators?"
"The officers who control the Waiting Area and the gateway to the Otherworld's sections. They ensure each spirit crosses to their correctly assigned section, as well as keeping the Waiting Area orderly." It all sounded terribly efficient, more so than our own government's departments, notorious for their crippling rules and mountains of paperwork. "Haven't you ever asked the ghosts you've summoned about their experiences there?"
"Of course," I said, reaching for the teapot on the table beside me. "All the time." I poured tea into a cup. "Why wouldn't I?"
"You haven't, have you?"
I stared into the teacup and sighed. "Not really. I'm not sure I want to find out too much. I mean, I know about the Waiting Area and how ghosts need to release all negative emotions associated with this world in order to cross over but … I don't want to know anything more."
"You mean before your time."
I nodded. Hopefully I had many years to wait.
I glanced at Jacob over the rim of my cup and caught him watching me with a steely intensity that made my skin tingle. I blushed and sipped then risked another look. This time his attention seemed to be diverted by the tea service. I would have offered him a cup but there was no point since he didn't require sustenance. Perhaps I should have offered out of politeness anyway. I wasn't entirely sure of the etiquette for when ghosts came calling.
He really was undeniably handsome though. The more I looked at him, the more I liked his features. None were remarkable on their own—except for the vivid blue of his eyes—but together they made his face extraordinary. What a shame he was dead. Even more so because he'd come from a wealthy family—Celia would be particularly disappointed by the waste. The number of eligible gentlemen we knew could be counted on a butcher's hand—five less a few missing digits and fingertips. Perhaps it wasn't a complete loss however. Jacob might have a living relative or friend he wanted us to contact while he was here. Preferably one of Celia's age or a little older.
"So these Administrators," I said, "why have they sent you here? Is it something to do with Barnaby Wiggam? Because if it is, I should explain that it was his own choice not to return to the Waiting Area. We tried to convince him—."
"It's nothing to do with Wiggam." He drew his attention from the tea tray and gave it all to me. There was heat in his gaze, an undeniable flare of desire that tugged at me, drew me into those blue eyes and held me there. I couldn't look away but I could blush and I did, although hopefully the darkish shade of my skin hid the worst of it. I hated being the center of attention, which made being a legitimate spirit medium a rather difficult occupation
at times. As our reputation grew so did the stares and the whispers. But I'd never been the center of this sort of attention. No man had ever looked at me like that.
"Whether Wiggam's ghost wants to stay and haunt his wife or return to the Waiting Area is entirely up to him," he finally said, breaking the spell. "The Administrators allow spirits to make up their own minds. No, Emily, what you've done is something much more serious."
"Oh." My stomach dropped. I lowered the teacup to my lap and wished the sofa would swallow me up. "You're talking about that … that horrid shadow, aren't you?"
He nodded. "That shadow is a shape-shifting demon."
"What!" The cup rattled and I put my hand over it to still it. I stared at him and he simply stared back, waiting for me to ask the questions. I had many questions but all I said was, "I'm sorry" in a whisper.
He didn't say "You should be" or "You're a stupid girl" but simply "I know" in that rumbling voice that seemed to come from the depths of his chest.
"What is it? What does a shape-shifting demon do?"
"When it first emerges into this world it holds no shape. Its first instinct is survival, safety, until it can gather its strength. Once it has, it takes on the form of someone or something else almost perfectly." He paused and his lips formed a grim line. "And then it needs to satisfy its hunger."
From the way he couldn't meet my gaze, I suspected that hunger wouldn't be satisfied by buying fish from the markets. It would eat whatever it could kill. Rats, dogs. People.
I cleared my throat. "It was summoned quite by accident. I didn't mean to do it." Celia had better thank me later for taking the blame. It was entirely her fault that we'd released a demon with that new amulet. Not that I would tell Jacob. She was the only family member I had left and although we didn't always see eye to eye, we were all the other had and I wouldn't toss her into the lion's den, so to speak, even if the lion appeared relatively tame. I needed to find out more about Jacob and what the Administrators would extract for her folly first. I was better equipped than Celia to cope with the supernatural.
"Tell me how it happened," he said, sitting beside me on the sofa, not at the other end but close so that I could touch him if I moved a little to the right. I felt very alert and aware of him, but I could not meet that gaze. "I want to know exactly what was said, how it was said, and what object was used to summon it."
I stood, reluctantly, and fetched the amulet from Celia's bag. When I sat down again, I made sure I was sitting exactly where I had before, not an inch further away. I wanted to sit closer but I didn't dare even though Celia would never know because she couldn't see him.
"A peddler gave it to my sister."
"Gave it? She didn't buy it?"
"Apparently not."
He ran his thumb over the amulet's points.
"The woman said to repeat an incantation three times if we ever needed to solve something."
His hand stilled. "What was it?"
"We couldn't understand the words."
"But you repeated it nevertheless?"
I chewed the inside of my lower lip and shrugged one shoulder.
"Bloody hell, Emily, do you know what you've done?" He stood and paced across the rug to the hearth and back. He completed the short distance in two strides. "Shape-shifting demons are dangerous. They roam at night, searching for food. And I'm not referring to the pies and boiled potatoes variety. I mean living flesh and blood."
I gulped down the bile rising up my throat. "Oh God," I whispered. I pressed a hand to my stomach to settle it, but to no avail. It continued roiling beneath my corset. What had we done?
He suddenly stopped pacing and blinked at me. "Sorry," he said softly, "I shouldn't have gone into detail." He crouched in front of me and went to touch my hands, still holding my stomach, but drew back before making contact. "Are you all right? You've gone pale."
"That's quite a feat considering my skin tone," I said, attempting to smile. I reached out to press his arm in reassurance but he stood suddenly. All the softness in his eyes vanished and I bristled in response to the coldness in them. Obviously physical contact was not something he wanted.
I wondered when he'd last touched a live person. Unless he'd stumbled across someone else who could see spirits—and therefore touch him—it would have been before he died.
"If that incantation is what released the demon," I said, "then it's not a very fool proof system your Administrators have to keep them in check." I couldn't help the sarcasm dripping off the words like rain drops off leaves. His sudden changes of mood had me confused and bothered which in turn threw up my own defenses. I couldn't tell if he was friend or foe yet.
"I think we've already demonstrated that," he said.
I shot him a withering look. "They ought to have better mechanisms for controlling their demons."
"It's not just a matter of repeating the incantation. It must be done when the portals between this world and the Waiting Area are opened as they are during your séances." He held up the amulet. "And while touching a cursed object."
"Cursed? Someone has cursed that?"
He nodded.
"It really shouldn't have been given away then."
"Very observant of you."
Another withering look would have been excessive but I gave him one anyway.
He shot me a small smile in return which I found most disconcerting. But then the smile vanished and he was all seriousness again. "The amulet acts as a talisman," he said, "linking the wearer to the demon."
He dangled the amulet from its leather strap and dropped it into my palm. "We need to find the person who gave it to your sister. When does the peddler return?"
"Not until Thursday."
He rubbed his hand over his chin. "Damnation." He glanced at me and bowed his head. "Sorry for my language, it was inappropriate." Despite the bow, he didn't seem sorry at all. There wasn't a hint of regret on his face, just that smile again, as if he was amused at shocking me. Not that I was shocked. I'd heard worse at the markets.
"But you must understand," he went on, "that we need to locate this peddler as soon as possible."
"We need to?"
"You are the one who released the demon so it's only fair you bear some of the responsibility for returning it."
I bristled and bit the inside of my lip to stop myself telling him what had really happened. Celia had better appreciate my covering for her.
My sister took that moment to enter the drawing room and promptly sat on the sofa and poured herself a cup of tea. She seemed completely oblivious to the tension in the room, even though it was so dense I felt like I couldn't breathe.
"Is the ghost gone?" she asked me.
"No."
"Well Bella is. Packed her bags and almost ran out the door. I couldn't get a sensible word out of her." She lifted her teacup to her lips then lowered it without taking a sip. "I'd no idea she was such a flighty girl. The next one should have a sturdier constitution. Have you still got a copy of the last advertisement we used, Em? No need to write it all out again."
"Jacob suggested we try a school in Clerkenwell. The children learn the art of domestic service there."
Celia scoffed into her teacup. "Hardly an art, my dear, if Bella's efforts at cooking were anything to go by. Very well, I shall go in the morning." She nodded at the framed daguerreotype of her father now back on the mantelpiece. "I see you've put the portrait of Father down." Her voice rose a little, the way it always did when she spoke directly to a spirit. As if it was hard of hearing. Not that she spoke to them very often. She usually left that part of the séance to me. It's why I was the one who received the strange looks from the guests. That way Celia managed to avoid the worst of the Freak label. "Do you mind very much picking it up again so I can see where you are?" she asked him.
Jacob crossed his arms over his chest. "Rather demanding, isn't she?"
I took two steps toward him, bringing me within arm's distance. "You may be ethereal but you are still
a guest in our home, Mr. Beaufort, and I would suggest you behave as a gentleman would and do as my sister requests." His eyes grew wider with every word. I squared up to him, and although I was much shorter than he, I felt like I had the upper hand in the exchange. "Or have you forgotten how a gentleman should behave?"
He couldn't have stiffened any more if someone had dripped ice cold water down his spine.
"It is only polite after all to allow Celia to know your general location," I went on, "since you have the advantage of being able to see her."
He lowered his arms to his sides and nodded once. "Point taken." He edged around the furniture to the mantelpiece and picked up the other portrait this time, the one of Mama. "Lucky I'm a ghost or those barbs would have really hurt," he said to the daguerreotype.
My irritation flowed out of me at his absurd sense of humor. I controlled my smile as best I could however. It would have undermined my argument.
"I see you two have become further acquainted with each other during my absence," Celia said, eyeing me carefully. She forked one brow and I shook my head. I was in no danger from Jacob. He needed me to find the amulet peddler. And the demon. "Have you discovered what he means by being assigned to you?" she went on.
I explained about the demon we released, emphasizing the we and winking at her as I did so. Now that I had let Jacob think I'd been as guilty as Celia, I didn't want him to know I had deliberately misled him. It felt dishonorable somehow.
Apparently Celia didn't agree with me. "No," she said and placed her teacup and saucer carefully on the table. "I cannot let you take the blame, Em. I was the one who bought the amulet and it was I who invoked the demon. It was nothing to do with Emily," she said to Jacob.
He lowered the picture frame and regarded me levelly. "Very noble of you," he muttered. "And now I suppose I owe you an apology."