by Selena Kitt
His hand moved toward her face, and she cringed. He caressed her cheek, much like he had the knife just moments ago. Brushing the hair away from her forehead, he leaned over to drop a chaste kiss there, followed by one on each cheek and, finally, one on the tip of her nose whispering, “You’re mine,” after each touch of his lips.
The smile bloomed on his face once more.
Okay, that smile was starting to piss her off.
John Wilkes Booth is torn between the love of a Northern spy and his destiny,
which is to murder Abraham Lincoln and avenge the South.
A Necessary End
© March 2007 by Diana Rubino
Shakespearian actor John Wilkes Booth is famous, charming, and so sexy, brokenhearted women have attempted suicide over him. But the image he shows his adoring public is nothing like the real Booth. A tragic, troubled man, he leads a secret life, far from the theater’s applause and lights. By day, he’s a Confederate spy and courier, taking dangerous missions so that his beloved South can fight the North in the war that has torn the nation in two. An even darker secret plagues him-he believes he’s the reincarnation of Brutus, the man who slew the tyrant Caesar, and Booth’s destiny in this life is to murder the tyrant who’s ravaged the South—Abraham Lincoln. In obeying the spirit of Brutus, Booth devises a plot to assassinate the tyrant.
But, as many tragic heroes have surrendered their hearts to a beautiful woman, Booth falls in love with Alice Grey, an actress from the North who’s been hired to spy on Booth and thwart his murderous plans. Both he and Alice become torn between their loyalties to their countries and their growing love for each other. As Booth struggles to ward off Brutus’s controlling spirit, he realizes he can’t escape his fate. He’s destined to live and die the life that’s given him.
Will Alice’s love for Booth win out over her duty to protect the President from assassination? A surprise twist at the end seals Booth’s fate, which we know from the history books, but did it really end that way? The open question remains: did Booth die in the burning barn that night, or did he escape and return to his beloved?
Enjoy the following excerpt:
I don’t believe in ghosts, Wilkes assured himself as he listened to the high keening of the medium. He shivered as a draft wafted over him. Smoky incense intensified the gloom. He wasn’t at this séance to seek omens or cryptic guidance from beyond the grave. He was attending this charade to learn of Abraham Lincoln’s future.
He still ached with grief over his boyhood friend’s death. A part of his soul was gone forever. John Beall was everything the South stood for. Rage over the betrayal seized his heart and boiled his blood. How could Lincoln do this to another human being? How could the president look him in the eye and promise he’d let John live, then murder him?
Clenching his fists, Wilkes fought to subdue his emotions. No phantom held the answers he sought this bone-chilling night, just the bird-like matron entranced before him. Nettie Colburn Maynard. The medium was Mrs. Lincoln’s spiritualist, famed for her evenings at the White House “bringing back” their dead boys, Eddie and Willie. He had to admit she put on a good show. One thing he appreciated was fine acting. But he was wary. The parlor felt haunted as shadows crept up the walls. The hairs at the back of his neck were already on end, and a chill slithered through his body. Although his hands were icy, his palms sweated, making them even colder. The room was as silent and musty as a tomb. The dank staleness assaulted him. He coughed, his throat aching for a trickle of brandy.
Mrs. Maynard’s eyes were shut tight. His own gaze darted about, unable to settle. Candles flickered jagged shadows around the room. Wallpaper patterns swirled to impenetrable fog. And the curtains—did they flutter, even though the windows were closed?
“A spirit is present, Mr. Booth.” Her voice, almost a whisper, barely reached his ears. She exhaled feathery tendrils of steam in the eerie half-light. “It watches over you, seeks to guide you.” Her shoulders shook with violent tremors. “He was powerful in life, but more powerful in death, released of mortal frailty.”
Wilkes felt the dread of approaching harm, but sat too spellbound to get up and quit the whole thing. He guessed it was raw fear that kept him frozen in his seat. His voice, trained in delivery of lines, was suddenly struck silent. He had to admit she was gifted, the perfect witch for Macbeth. The funereal black dress draped her gaunt figure like a shroud. Shadowed by the pale flames, Mrs. Maynard played her role to perfection. Once again, he convinced himself it was all an act. But if it was real and some being from beyond really did hover over him...
Just then he realized his jaw was tightly clenched. He struggled to slacken it.
Her fingers gently closed around his. “He lived many centuries ago, Mr. Booth, and knew you by another name. He revisits you now, drawn close by your pain and grief.” She shuddered again. Her grip crushed his hand, her knuckles white as bleached bone. “I feel his essence very forcefully, right there...” Her hands turned to ice. “Behind you...”
He nearly ripped a tendon snapping his neck around, but saw neither phantom nor flesh, just movement at the edge of his vision flickering up the wall. Threads of fear tickled at his nerves. Nothing was as it seemed. Turning to face her again, he felt foolish for succumbing to her trickery. An embarrassed blush heated his cheeks as the room temperature plummeted. He breathed deeply to calm his pounding heart.
“He will thrust you towards your true destiny, young man.”
Those words triggered a childhood memory that now returned in full color. In his mind, he pictured the old gypsy he’d met at a carnival when he wandered into her wagon at age twelve. “Ah, you’ve a bad hand. The lines all cris-cras!” Her raspy voice trembled with doom. “It’s full of sorrow. Full of trouble, everywhere I look. You’ll die young, and leave many to mourn you, many to love you too. You’re born under an unlucky star. You’ll make a bad end. You’ll have a fast life—short, but grand. I’ve never seen a worse hand. But a guiding spirit is watching you. He will thrust you towards your true destiny, young man.”
Now Mrs. Maynard had spoken the same exact words. A spirit would guide him towards his destiny—to die for his country. His life’s mission was to avenge John Beall’s murder and repay Lincoln for that heartless act.
A clock’s muffled chime sliced through the silence. Numbness spread over his hands. A deathly chill crept over his skin. His actor’s brain clutched for the reality he knew best, turning fright to nervous amusement. He scanned the room with professional eyes, but saw no obvious stagecraft. How the devil did she do it?
Ever the leading man, now struggling for control, he summoned his loftiest tone. “There is nothing behind me, Mrs. Maynard. I don’t see the slightest glimmer of a ghost.”
He felt the cold air vibrate as if in answer. A torrent of hideous sounds assailed his ears: a viper’s gravelly hiss, the mewls of drowning kittens, the death rattle of a plague victim. Dread flooded him. Once more he gulped the dank air. He wrenched his fingers from hers and clapped his hands over his ears, but the noise seemed to burst from inside his head as well as out. The cacophony subsided to an unworldly voice—part beast, part man. The first utterings were low groans, snarls and a strange whimpering. Is this really a long-silent entity calling from beyond the grave?
“I watch you always,” he heard amidst an almost human growl. He glanced at Nettie, astonished to see that the discordant voice came from her lips.
“Your love of country is most honorable, and will be your legacy to history.” The voice was clearer now, though it still sounded parched from the dust of centuries of disuse. It was a vibrant, powerful man’s voice whose tones were more than a match for his own talents.
“This payment is yours now, as it was once before. It is my token. My bane on tyranny,” the voice cajoled. “I offer you my part in your noble deed to come. Take it. Use it well, my brother.”
A metallic clang broke the spell. Every muscle was painfully taut. His body felt ready to flee in al
l directions at once. Suddenly aware he’d stopped breathing, he exhaled a cloud of icy mist. He’d had enough. It was time the curtain came down on this production.
“Mrs. Maynard?” His tone was uncharacteristically timid.
She sat silently, deeply entranced, motionless. Stretching across the table between them, he grasped her bony shoulders and shook her. “Stop this.” His voice regained full volume. “Right now.”
She swayed to and fro before finally opening her eyes. Unfocused pupils gazed dreamlike then settled sharply on him. A small gasp accompanied her awakening. The room itself appeared to wake with her. His breath was no longer visible. The air warmed, but its blanket of oppression lingered. As the flood of color and awareness brightened her features, he silently admitted grudging appreciation of her art.
“I heard a strange noise. It came across the table, right at me.” His gaze fell as he realized how childlike he sounded. He was stupefied to see a dull gray coin on the table. It appeared to pulsate in the shifting shadows. As he picked it up and examined it, his fingers tingled. The coin was ice cold, sucking every vestige of warmth from his fingertips. He forgot his embarrassment.
“May I, Mr. Booth?”
He handed it to her. “It looks primitive, worn around the edges. It’s not even round. There’s a woman and some kind of bird. I see lettering, too, but I can’t make it out in this light.”
She tilted a candle beside it, the wax dripping onto her scarred table. She turned it over and studied the other side. “A man with a long neck and a Roman nose, wearing a strange hat. And what’s this? CAESAR. It must have been minted to commemorate the Roman Empire.”
He stared hard at the ceiling. Her nonchalance at money dropping out of thin air further stoked his suspicions. It had to be a trick; there must be a trap door up there.
“Let me see that again.” He plucked it from her skeletal fingers. “Coins don’t just drop out of the ether. Where did this come from, Mrs. Maynard?”
“I’m afraid you will have to tell me that. It seems you’ve had quite a foray into the spirit world. I can always tell. I’m quite spent. The spirits drain me to exhaustion in the most productive sessions. Did I say anything of interest while I was entranced?” Her eyes glittered with expectation.
He stared her down. “You don’t remember?” He ran his finger over the coin’s surface. The features were worn with the ravages of time, yet still discernible. The word CAESAR was as sharp as if struck yesterday.
“After giving my body over to spirit, I do not remember what is said, Mr. Booth. My essence leaves this earthly plane and I have no knowledge of what transpires here. The spirits use my body as they will. They speak, not I. When I return, I have no recollection of their time here. Lastly, I feel a flush come and go in my face, and a prickly sensation passing through my limbs.”
Shivering, she hugged herself. He half expected her bones to rattle. “What did the spirits say when they possessed me?”
He bit into the coin. Its unyielding solidity was real, all right. “There was only one,” Wilkes replied. “He’s watching me, and this is his payment for some future deed he wants to help me with. To meet my destiny.” He decided not to tell her how the exact words of his ominous gypsy prediction rattled him.
“Then, if you’re sensible, you’ll leave the coin with me. It is very unwise to accept it. It might even be dangerous.”
So she didn’t want him to take the coin. Well, he’d teach her to play pantomime to an accomplished actor. She was about to relinquish her little prop, like it or not.
“Sensibility seldom prevails in the Booth family, Mrs. Maynard. And, it would be rude to refuse a gift from the otherworld.”
She blanched as her eyes grew dark and troubled. Her pale lips trembled. “I implore you, Mr. Booth.” Her voice trilled. “Do not keep this coin. It betokens payment to you from the spirit world. Contracts with the other side cannot be made lightly. Nor can they be broken. To accept this coin is to invite the spirit into your life until you fulfill the part he expects from you. Once invited, the spirit cannot be made to leave.” She took a few paces towards the window, glanced out, and turned to him, pleading. “You must not take this coin.” Her hoarse voice cracked. “I cannot protect you if you do.”
So the coin was valuable. She’d made that obvious. Well, he wouldn’t be denied his fun. She’d already had hers, trying to scare the wits out of him. He would keep it a while, find out more about it, have it valued, then return it. Maybe. As long as he kept the coin, she would grant him further sessions in hopes of its return. He judged it would take several visits to get to charm his way into her confidence. Then he’d learn what he needed to know.
Displaying an enigmatic and well-practiced King Richard III slice of a smile, he remained silent for effect. Let the tension build, let her discomfort grow, just as his had a few minutes ago. Silence, not action, spoke loudest of all.
“May we have another private sitting tomorrow night, after my performance, Mrs. Maynard? I’m Richard the Third at Grover’s.”
His change of subject clearly flustered her. She fumbled behind her and raised the lamp’s wick. The last dark shapes and shadows fled the brightening room. She regained her composure with a shaky smile and cleared her props from the table. “Come by again at midnight tomorrow. The atmosphere is most conducive to spiritual contact then.”
So she couldn’t let the coin out of her sight for twenty-four hours. If he played this right, it could be worth the vital information he sought.
“We’ll have another séance like this?” He almost hoped there was another way.
“I’d like to contact the entity through spirit-rapping next time.”
This woman certainly had a way of spooking him. He needed a good puff to settle his nerves. “And what is spirit-rapping?” He stood and patted himself down for a cigar before remembering he’d smoked his last one earlier.
“I fully expected it to happen at this sitting. Spirits usually communicate by a series of raps on the table, or above us. That’s how I first came to realize I possessed my gift. When I was ten years old, I saw my dead grandfather. His lips moved but I couldn’t hear him. Then I discovered he could rap out responses to questions. I don’t need to be entranced for that.” Her eyes took on a faraway look and her lips formed a genuine little girl’s smile. “It scared my parents to death. Oh, not literally. Rather, it confounded them. They had a daughter who was...” she wiggled her fingers in the air, “odd. To be honest, it scared me too, at first.”
Barely able to keep a straight face after hearing this fable, he replied, “I can see why it would frighten some people. How do the Lincolns feel about it all?” They exited her parlor, pausing as she lit lamps along the way.
“Mrs. Lincoln is a strong believer in the afterlife. It gives her great comfort when her sons part the veil and speak to her through me.”
“And the president?” he pried casually, lifting his coat and hat from the tree in the entry hall. He had to start somewhere, get her used to his curiosity about Lincoln.
“He’s neither a believer nor religious. He’s more the grounded sort. He attends our sessions when pressed by Mrs. Lincoln, and then only to humor her.”
Wilkes slid into his coat. “How often do you visit the White House?”
She unlatched the front door and held it open. “At least once a week. Mrs. Lincoln gets very distraught when she doesn’t hear from her boys.”
“Does Mrs. Lincoln still throw her famous fits and temper tantrums?”
She lowered her lids. “Yes, I’m afraid so,” she replied sadly. “She’s never been the same since Willie died.”
He understood the grief Mrs. Lincoln was suffering. His own mother had lost three babies. He could still hear her heart-wrenching sobs late at night when the rest of them were tucked in bed, pillows over their ears to muffle the cries. “Well, then, Mrs. Maynard, I shall look forward to some spirit-rapping tomorrow.” He grabbed the gold end of his riding crop and twirled
it.
“Mr. Booth. About that coin...”
“The coin?” Jauntily he cut her off. “Ah, yes, I got my money’s worth there.” He flipped the ancient disc and it landed solidly in his palm. “And then some, I must say.” He touched the brim of his hat. “I bid you good evening, my lady.” Taking a swift bow, he closed his fingers around the coin. Was it his imagination or was the relic warming?
Hurrying down the steps before she could protest, he thrust it into his trouser pocket. As it clinked against his other change, he tried to put it out of his mind. Agitated as he was by the evening’s high-keyed events, he strode down Pennsylvania Avenue to his hotel. But one thing struck him strange—it was warmer outside than in her house.
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