by Dima Zales
He nodded. "He couldn't tell me anything useful. He thought a wild dog or a bear had killed him. He said it came out of nowhere, from the shadows. When I explained what happened he decided to stay in the Waiting Area until the demon is returned to the Otherworld."
We remained silent until the carriage stopped outside George's house and he got out. Finally I was alone with Jacob. But after the terrible news, I didn't want to argue with him anymore. I just wanted to hold him and be held by him.
On the other hand I couldn't allow the opportunity to speak pass me by. I might not get another one.
"You failed to finish your story last night," I said.
"I know." He shifted his long legs, cramped in the tight space of the cabin, but still managed to keep them well away from mine. He must not want to risk getting too close. "I owe you an explanation after … everything." He shifted his legs again, putting them back where they were to begin with, under the seat we shared, crossed at the ankles.
"You got to the point where Frederick fell and hit his head," I prompted. "What happened next? Did you check to see if he was thoroughly dead?"
"He wasn't dead at all. He got up and ran away."
"Got up! Not dead! Jacob, that's—."
He held up a hand. "Wait, let me finish. I know what you're going to say—that I didn't kill him."
"Well of course!"
"He was unconscious for only a few seconds during which time I tried to waken him. I was in the middle of feeling for a pulse when he opened his eyes. He took one look at me, screamed, then got up and ran off. He seemed disoriented and I went after him to ensure he didn't fall again but he climbed into a carriage that I hadn't noticed waiting further down the street, and sped off before I could catch up.
"For days I worried if he was all right. I also tried to think who he might have been, but I had no luck. Anyway, about a week after that incident, I was walking home again and was attacked once more. This time it was by someone wearing a hooded cloak. Whoever it was caught me off guard, delivering a blow that made me lose my senses. I woke up some time later with a blanket or cloak over my head. I struggled to free myself but my wrists were tied." He lifted both hands to his face and stared at them. "I was hit again as I struggled and it was then that I realized I was inside a carriage and it was traveling fast. I continued to struggle of course and by this time I was asking my companion, or companions, what they wanted. The only answers I received were more blows and again I became unconscious."
"Oh, lord." I sidled up to him and touched his cheek. How could anyone hurt my Jacob?
He took my hand and pulled it gently away and placed it on his thigh. Tears stung my nose and eyes and burned the back of my throat. He did not want my sympathy, or my love.
"The carriage stopped and I was dragged out. We were in the country, I know that much. I could smell earth and grass."
"Did it have a farm smell?" I screwed up my nose. I'd only been to one farm in my life, when Mama had taken me to see where milk came from as a child. I'd got dung on my boots and straw in my hair and the aroma had stayed with me ever since. I knew after that experience I was a London girl through and through.
He smiled, despite the horrible tale he was telling. "No. Just a pleasant country odor. I could hear an owl but nothing else. It was very quiet. I was dragged further away again and I remember rolling into a ditch."
"And left there to die," I whispered.
"I suppose so. I was in and out of consciousness by this stage. I remember being extremely cold, all the way through, as if my very bones had frozen. I'd lost my coat and hat and the blanket had also disappeared."
I shivered and hugged myself. "How long before you died, do you think?"
He shrugged. "It could have been minutes or days, I really don’t know."
I looked out the window but there was no sign of George, which was good because I hadn't finished questioning Jacob and I wanted to continue to do it alone. I'd discovered years ago that discussing a ghost's death with them could be quite an intimate affair. I suspected Jacob wouldn't want George to know all the harrowing details. I felt privileged that he was confiding in me.
"Did the killer remain with you until you died?"
"No." He blinked rapidly and rubbed a finger across his bottom lip. There was something he wasn't telling me.
"Did your killer say something before he departed?"
He hesitated then his gaze leveled with mine. "Yes. He cursed me for killing his son."
My heart thudded once against my ribs. "Frederick."
Jacob nodded. "He must have died from his injury. The injury I gave him. Only not straight away but some time later."
I felt like I'd been punched in the chest. Breathing suddenly became difficult. I didn't understand. There was something wrong, something missing in this puzzle and I couldn't put my finger on it. Perhaps Jacob was still withholding information.
"What exactly did he say?" I asked. "Tell me the curse. We can do some research on it and perhaps find out more about your killer that way."
"I won't tell you the precise wording of the curse since I don't know if it can be activated by words alone." I agreed with an urgent nod. George had just emerged from the front door of his house and was speaking to the driver. "My attacker said if I wanted to live, I must prove I deserve to by sacrificing something important to me." His voice shook slightly. "He likened it to the loss of his only child, the most important thing to him. My loss had to match his."
"But prove how? You were dying in a ditch for goodness sake!" I clutched Jacob's hand. George would be joining us at any moment. There wasn't much time. "What did he think you'd do, get up and walk away to perform this sacrifice he wanted? And if you didn't, was he threatening to … ?" I couldn't finish the sentence. It was just too horrible to think about Jacob's murder. Besides, George was opening the door and climbing into the carriage.
He lifted the coat he carried over his arm to reveal a rectangular wooden box about the size of a large book. He placed it on the seat beside him and called out, "Drive on!"
The carriage jerked forward and the horses' hooves clip-clopped a merry tune on the road. I looked to Jacob. If he wanted to speak, he could and it would be like having a private conversation with me. But he did not. He turned away and looked out the window.
His words haunted me the entire journey to Clerkenwell: if I want to live, I must prove I deserve to by sacrificing something important to me.
So why hadn't the murderer given Jacob the chance to make the sacrifice before ending his life?
13
I was still thinking about the curse placed on Jacob when we arrived at the Clerkenwell school. It hadn't taken long by carriage but there was only so much silence three people in close confines can endure before time starts to stretch painfully. George had tried to instigate a conversation with me but I wasn't in the right mood for chatter so he spent the remainder of the journey loading the pistol. Before we climbed out of the carriage, he placed his coat strategically over his arm and hand to hide the weapon.
The school's maid showed us into the drawing room where we waited for Blunt. The giant figure of the schoolmaster soon filled the doorway. "Ah, Mr. Culvert, Miss Chambers, you've returned." His wary gaze flicked around the room. "But where is your sister, Miss Chambers? I'd hoped you had come to organize the séance." He bent down to my level and that's when I noticed the puffy, sagging skin beneath his reddened eyes. "The ghost still haunts me," he whispered.
I raised an eyebrow at Jacob. He gave me a smug smile. "We're not here about the ghost," I said to Blunt. "Mr. Culvert and I have some very serious questions to ask you."
"Yes," said George. He squared up to the much larger man and I wanted to cheer his bravery but then I remembered he held a loaded pistol. A weapon can make a person twice as courageous but sometimes twice as stupid too. I wasn't sure which camp George fell into. "Do you recall on our last visit we mentioned a book on demonology had been stolen from my library?"
"We think you used the information within it to summon a shape-shifting demon from the Otherworld."
Oh dear, George had about as much tact as Jacob. Perhaps it was a male thing. His accusation certainly had an effect on Blunt. The schoolmaster bristled and his beard took on a life of its own as he spluttered an objection.
"How dare you accuse me of such a thing! Get out. Get out of my school." He stabbed a finger at the open door.
"Not until we have answers," George said.
Blunt stepped closer to him so that they were chest to chest, or would have been if the height difference weren't so pronounced. George only came up to the other man's armpit. He swallowed and a bead of sweat popped out on his pale brow.
Blunt chuckled, a nasty sound that gurgled up from his throat. "Stupid boy. What did you possibly hope to achieve by coming here?"
"The truth," George said without blinking.
Jacob sidled over to them. "You'd better say something before he gets himself clubbed by one of Blunt's paws. Use your charm," he added when I gave him a questioning look.
We were in trouble if we were relying on my charm. "Er, Mr. Blunt," I began, "we've just come from Leviticus Price's house and he claimed you were asking some rather specific questions about demonology."
"Did he?" He turned eyes the color of a stagnant pond on me and I recoiled at the viciousness in them. He wasn't trying to hide it now. "And what makes you think you can believe him, Miss Chambers? Did a ghost just happen to whisper it into your ear?"
"Yes. Just like he's now telling me you are the one who summoned the demon." Blunt clearly believed in spirits, demons and the Otherworld so why not use that belief to frighten him?
"What?" he bellowed, his bravado rapidly fading behind his facial hair.
"Spirits know everything, Mr. Blunt. They know what you had for breakfast today, what you do in your office when the door's closed and what you do at night in the girl's dormitory."
The big man rocked back on his heels and his face turned the same sickly color as his eyes.
"So tell us, where is the demon now?"
He stared at me, shaking his head over and over, all the while backing away but not towards the door. Jacob stalked him, taking a step forward for every one Blunt took back. His presence felt strong to me, real, and I wondered if either Blunt or George could feel it too.
"Tell us," I said.
Blunt, still shaking his head, said, "No. No, I … I won't. You can't hurt me. Your ghost can't hurt me."
It was my turn to shake my head. "What makes you think that?"
"Spirits travel right through solid things." He was blustering, his eyes wide, his hand gestures wild. It was almost as if he was trying to convince himself. "They don't have any form. They can't grasp objects." He spun round and lunged for the fire tools. He grabbed the iron poker and brandished it like a sword.
George whipped the coat off his arm to reveal the pistol. He pointed it at Blunt. His hand shook. "Put it down."
"You wouldn't," Blunt said, more self-assured than he had been when discussing ghosts.
"He's right," Jacob said to me. "George won't use it." There was no accusation in his tone. Neither he nor I would blame George if he couldn't fire the weapon.
But George, surprising us both, stretched his arm out. "I will use it. To save her." He nodded at me.
Jacob's gaze slid to mine. He grunted and crossed his arms then turned his attention back to the others just as Blunt lunged at George.
George jumped back and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. He cocked the pistol again but Blunt was on him, bringing the heavy iron poker down onto George's head.
George ducked and put an arm up in defense. The poker kept coming. A scream tore from my throat and I closed my eyes, a reaction I later chided myself for.
But instead of the crack of bone, the only sound was a grunt and it came from Blunt. I opened my eyes. Jacob had both hands on the poker, inches from George's head. He and Blunt battled each other for control, the older man’s startled expression mingling with an angry one.
With a roar and a burst of strength, Jacob pushed up hard, causing Blunt to lose his balance and stumble. Using the momentum, Jacob thrust his opponent against the wall beside the fireplace. The force must have loosened his grip because Jacob was able to snatch the poker out of his hand. He swung it at Blunt's stomach. The impact made a sickening thud.
Blunt let out a whoosh of breath and bent over double, his face bright red. Jacob pressed the poker under Blunt's chin, sending his head snapping back. It hit the wall and his eyes rolled up into his head.
"Ask him about the demon again," Jacob said. He aimed the poker at Blunt's chest.
"Where's the demon being kept?" I asked, trying to keep my voice level. I did not want the men to see how squeamish the fighting made me. My insides might be wobbling like jelly but I would do everything in my power to ensure that's where the jelly stayed.
Blunt grinned a warped, nasty grin. "Get. Out. Of. My. School."
"Please, let's not have any more violence," I said. "I don't want my ghost to hurt you, Mr. Blunt. As you can see, he can wield weapons as easily as any of us. So please just tell us where the demon is and we'll let you go unharmed."
"It won't hurt me." He seemed to believe it too.
"Why do you say that?" It was George. He stood to one side, well away from Blunt and Jacob, the gun still in his hand but pointed harmlessly at the floor.
"Because I must be the only link you have to the demon or you wouldn't be here at all. And I think you want to find it before tonight." His beard and moustache lifted at one corner and the fleshy lips between them twisted into a sneer. "Am I right?"
Jacob, his face distorted with rage, shoved Blunt hard into the wall then pressed the length of the poker against the bigger man's throat. Blunt scrabbled at Jacob's hands, grasping nothing but cool, empty air since he couldn't see Jacob. His eyes widened with fear and perhaps the realization that he'd been wrong—Jacob might kill him. His cheeks and nose became a changing palette of colors—red to mauve to purple—and the veins on his forehead formed thick, bluish ridges. He tried to talk but only squeaks came out.
"He's going to kill him!" George took one step forward but hesitated. "Should we let him?"
"No!" I said. "Jacob, no! Stop this. Let him go."
"He deserves it," Jacob growled. His eyes frightened me. They were cold and dark, two voids of swirling anger.
Blunt jerked about trying to free himself, but it didn't dislodge Jacob. He held the poker against Blunt's throat as if his own life depended on it.
Oh God, I had to do something. "You can't do this, Jacob. Think about it. Think about what you're doing!" If only I could get through to the rational side of him, the side not blinded by fury. "Do you want another death on your conscience?"
George turned to me, his spectacles halfway down his nose. "Another death?"
I ignored him. My plea seemed to be working. With a roar of frustration, Jacob eased back. The schoolmaster slid down the wall like a splotch of mud and sat on the floor. He was still very pink and he held his throat with both hands as if he was holding it together. He heaved in great lungfuls of air and glanced feverishly around the room.
The maid entered carrying a tray of tea things. She gasped when she saw Blunt's state and the tray tilted dangerously to one side. "Mr. Blunt! Everything all right, sir?"
"He, uh, had a coughing fit," I said, trying to catch George's eye but to no avail. He held the gun in plain sight, seemingly unaware of the uproar he would cause if the maid saw it. I grabbed his spare jacket and threw it at him.
He placed it over his hand and the gun. "He's not going to talk now" he muttered, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the door.
With my heart rampaging like an advancing army of soldiers, we left. I glanced over my shoulder to see if Jacob would stay or go. Fortunately he was right behind us, his gaze fixed on George's h
and holding mine. I thought he'd still be angry, wanting to fight, but he looked worried. No, not worried. Haunted. The irony of the word wasn't lost on me.
We reached the carriage and George opened the door for me. I checked for Jacob but he stayed back near the school's porch. "Are you coming?" I asked.
He shook his head.
I wanted him with me, holding my hand, telling me everything would be all right. I wanted him away from Blunt. I wasn't entirely sure he could be trusted not to return and … "Please, Jacob, come home with me."
He stalked across the space between us and slammed his hand against the side of the carriage, right near my head. George looked around as if he couldn't detect where the sound had come from.
I swallowed my squeal of fright and blinked at Jacob.
He stood close to me, his palm flat on the carriage, his forearm skimming the brim of my hat. He leaned down until our faces were level. "I told you last night," he said in that quiet, malevolent voice of his. "I'm dangerous. You should stay away from me."
And then he was gone and all that was left was the pounding of my heart and the background noise of George's voice as he spoke words that I couldn't quite hear.
"I can't," I whispered to the emptiness. "I can't stay away."
All I wanted to do when I got home was climb into bed and reflect on everything Jacob had told me that day. Unfortunately Celia bombarded me with questions over a dinner of roast pork in the dining room instead.
"Well? How did it go today?" she asked, popping a single pea into her mouth. Why did she always have to eat them one at a time? She couldn't be trying to impress anyone with her delicate eating habits since I was the only one there.
"Leviticus Price wasn't much help," I said. "He couldn't recall when he spoke to Blunt precisely."
"Oh. Yes of course."
I eyed my sister, a pile of peas balanced precariously on my fork near my mouth. "That is what you meant, isn't it?"
"Well … partly."
I frowned as I chewed my peas. Celia was being coy about something and she was not usually a coy person. Except on one subject. "Ah. You mean did I have a nice outing with George Culvert?"