Renegade

by Amy Carol Reeves

  I watched anxiously for a flutter of eyelids. For something. Anything. I was at the end of the reversed fairy tale, the princess reviving the prince, and I clung to my own foolishness, my adherence to the narrative justice that he must awake.

  But nothing happened.

  Simon had been cautiously optimistic, and I was desperately hoping that William would recover. But I knew how inaccurate even the best physician’s guesses could be.

  I laid my head on William’s bare, battered chest, and I heard his heart beat far below my ear. The beat was weak, but steady.

  My head still on William’s chest, I felt myself crying. What if all of this was to be in vain? What if William did not awake from this?

  I heard the tiger growling from the other side of the bed, softly, melodically almost. I didn’t feel that his growls were such a threat, or a warning to us anymore. I felt that he sensed his mistress was gone; instinctively, he felt the loss. From out in the hall, I heard Hugo whine as Simon continued to stitch his wounds.

  Then my heartbeat paused. My hair had come undone from its knot during the battle with Seraphina, and I felt William’s fingers suddenly entangled in it. I lifted my tear-streaked face.

  “William!” His eyes were not yet open, but I saw his lips move, as if he were trying to speak but could make no sound. His chest heaved under me at the exertion. I grasped his hands in mine.

  “William!” I heard myself say. Even more tears spilled out then.

  “I … ” he muttered.

  I held my breath.

  He paused.

  “Don’t speak if it hurts,” I said quickly.

  But he shook his head, and I realized he was pushing himself out of this, surfacing to speak to me.

  His eyes remained closed, but after he had breathed hard for several seconds, and then became still again, he spoke. “I have been unjust, weak, resentful. I have behaved unforgivably. But when we were together, Abbie, I was never inconstant. Nor will I ever be. I am in love with you, Abbie. Irretrievably in love.”

  And then, in the dim bedroom light, with the groans of the grieving tiger in the background, I kissed William. He tasted like blood, like her venom; his skin had Seraphina’s serpent-scent. But I didn’t mind. I thought of how he might still hurt me, but it didn’t matter—it was far too late for me to abandon him now. Indeed, my love for him was like a poison in my own blood.

  I kissed his lips, then lightly kissed his jaw, his neck. William was wild. Untamed. But he was my William. I had fought this battle, but I knew that he would fight a thousand battles for me. In the firelight, with his dark curls and handsome face, he looked like a fallen hero—I thought of the mortally wounded Paris.

  But there was no anguish for me now, because I knew William would heal. He would recover.

  Twenty-seven

  After Simon stitched up the wounds in Hugo’s side, he returned to the bedroom where I remained with William. I had attended to the fire, concerned about keeping William’s body temperature from dropping. Simon’s salve had already eased the pain from my own bite wound, and the swelling had ceased a bit.

  Simon and I now cleaned William’s wounds more carefully, washed the dried blood from his forehead and hair, and placed him in Seraphina’s bed. His breathing and heartbeats steadied even more after Simon gave him some laudanum, and he fell into a deep sleep.

  Simon and I then tranquilized the tiger and moved him to his cage in the menagerie. We collected Seraphina’s and Neil’s bodies, and we buried them in a sandy part of the island. As we dug their graves, we found several bones and bone fragments in shallow graves that must have belonged to Seraphina’s victims. But I think we were both too weary to discuss the matter much. As we dug into the hard sand, I felt an increasing sense of Seraphina’s loneliness, of her isolation.

  The morning had come on full force, yet the heavy mist that blanketed the island remained settled about us. Nature moved restlessly nearby; my eye caught several razorbills in their nests on the rocky cliffs above. A peregrine sat on a boulder near the waters, eating a fish. I still felt cocooned in this place, set apart. The isolation was almost unbearable, and I longed to return to the mainland.

  As we buried Neil, I felt my heart grow even heavier. There were no circumstances under which I could consider returning his body, in its grim state, to his widow, and I did not look forward to seeing that little girl again when we went to his house to speak to his wife. I choked back a sob. A wet gust of wind blew at my hair as Simon and I packed the last bit of sand over Neil’s grave.

  Neil had said the child was strong; she would have to be. I tried to push away the memories of Mother’s death, of Roddy’s death—I carried, and would always carry, those memories with me, but they did not cripple me. The child might still be all right.

  When Simon and I returned to Seraphina’s home, a wave of sleepiness almost overwhelmed me, for the first time. But I could not sleep in the clothes I wore, with Seraphina’s and Neil’s dried blood stained across my shirt and trousers. So I went to her bedroom, hoping to find clothes and to attend again to William.

  I felt my heart leap a bit as I entered—William’s eyes were open. He was awake. He lay where we had left him, in bed, propped up a bit against the mound of Seraphina’s pillows. Although still very pale, with terrible bruises about his neck and wrists from the shackles, he seemed better. But he still seemed far too fragile, and I feared embracing him. He rolled to his side, wincing in great pain at the movement.

  As I rushed to his bedside, he considered me with a sardonic grin. “What are you wearing?”

  “Simon’s clothes,” I said, twirling a bit. My attempt at humor felt lovely after all that we had been through.

  “That is most distasteful,” he said, with a scowl and another great wince. “Speaking of the man, I believe that I’m carrying some of his blood.”

  “You are. The transfusion saved your life.”

  “That must be precisely why I’m having strange urges to fall on my knees in prayer and to wear that beastly black suit and collar that he sports so frequently. Hopefully, these religious leanings will wear off soon.”

  I smiled, brushing William’s curls away from his forehead. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” Then I kissed him. He started to pull me to him, but then pushed me away. “No, it’s too bloody strange.”

  “What’s strange?” I asked, surprised.

  “Kissing you as you wear St. John’s clothes.”

  I laughed a bit.

  “I think you should inspect the lady’s boudoir,” William said, nodding toward a small door set into the fireplace. “She has quite an array of finery in there … ”

  Then his face convulsed a bit, and I felt alarmed.

  “William … ”

  “I’m fine. I’m fine. Simon said that I might feel some pain, some nausea during my recovery. Particularly as the venom works out of my system.”

  “Do you need … ”

  “I need you to change out of those clothes!” he barked, closing his eyes and settling into the pillow on the bed.

  I smiled a bit as I opened the boudoir door. It made me feel better that William was acting like his old self—an ass.

  The boudoir was indeed extravagant. Seraphina had a large vanity with combs, pearl earbobs, gold and diamond necklaces, and sapphire rings scattered over the entire surface. I surveyed the many gowns. These were no ordinary tea dresses, the type of prim dresses that Grandmother and I wore so often. I did not see any bustles, corsets, or crinolines. These gowns were imported from the Continent—loose and free-flowing dresses of taffeta and silk gauzes, with gold and silver threading the hems. They were low-necked, with ribbons around the waists. I saw kimono robes and other gowns, shockingly low, bohemian in style. The colors showed excellent taste—no dark brown or blacks, these were all pastels, mostly the colors of the sea—greenish or light
blues. There were piles upon piles of slippers, lovely slippers in pale green and plum hues.

  Did Max bring her all of these?

  A lump formed in my throat—all of this jewelry, these gowns, reminded me of the woman she had been. Her crumbled form in that vision … it had been too sad, too terrible. She had also lived these years not only as a beast, but as a woman.

  I washed my face and body in a porcelain tub. Then, choosing the least elaborate gown I could find, a plain rose-colored silk with red tassels falling about the waist, I put it on with a pair of her slippers. Feeling more like a china doll than myself, I left the boudoir.

  When I entered the bedroom, I saw Simon standing by the bed and William asleep. Simon had turned down the lights.

  “I’ve given him a sedative,” he said quietly to me, still looking at William’s face.

  As I walked toward the bed, Simon’s expression concerned me. “What is it?” I asked.

  “We can’t move him yet. Not while the venom is working out of his body. He needs to heal a bit before we return home.”

  “How long will that take?” I asked.

  Simon shrugged a little. “Hopefully not very long. I’m quite surprised he survived this ordeal at all.”

  “But he’ll recover completely?”

  “Undoubtedly.” But I saw a small shadow cross his expression.

  While William slept, I sat with Simon in the library sipping brandy. Hugo slept at our feet. He would recover; his entire side had been stitched and bandaged by Simon. We discussed our plans. Apart from making the treacherous journey back to land and getting William safely returned to London, we needed to figure out what to do with all of the Conclave’s animals.

  “We can’t just leave them here,” I said, as we stared wearily at the roaring fire.

  Simon took another sip of brandy. “What to do with the animals will be a bit of a problem. Perhaps we could give some to the Zoological—”

  “The photograph album!” I exclaimed, as my eye caught sight of a large album on a side table. In our concern over attending to William, Hugo, and the bodies, both Simon and I had forgotten Seraphina’s last words, directing me to the album.

  As I opened it, I caught my breath.

  There were photographs, rows and rows of photographs.

  “Max must have recorded their travels, their discoveries,” Simon said as he peered over my shoulder at it. There were pictures of Julian Bartlett in Africa, of Robert Buck in India. I saw close-up photographs of Robert’s shrunken heads. There were also several photographs of Seraphina, both in her monster form and in her naked human form. In one particularly stunning photograph, she sat totally nude in front of her boudoir, her back to the camera. Her long hair was pulled over her shoulders, in front of her, so that her tattoo showed boldly and clearly.

  I gasped when I came to the final photograph. It was my mother, painting in our garden in Dublin. She didn’t seem to know that she was being photographed, and I felt my heart freeze, wondering how many times Max had observed us there, monitored us throughout the years. He had been near us, those days before Mother’s death. I recalled again her transfixed gaze as she looked into the woods on that stormy night after she had fallen ill. The argument that had ensued between her and Max after he had saved me. She had known that he was lingering near, but to then see me in his arms—I could only imagine her fear.

  Then a letter fell out of a pocket on the last page of the album. Quickly, I opened it. Most of the letter had been damaged by water. I couldn’t read any of the writing, even the date. I couldn’t even read the signature.

  Was this the letter that Seraphina wanted me to see?

  Simon and I took it over to the fire, to examine it better in the light, but my eyes were tired. The exhaustion was overtaking me and I had difficulty focusing.

  “The letter is written to Max,” Simon said calmly.

  I saw the faint shape of an “M” near the top of the page.

  “There. There is one distinguishable line,” I said, peering closer. The letter was so damaged, I felt as if it would crumple at any moment in my hands. I read it out loud: “Keep him alive. You must keep him alive.”

  “Keep who alive?” I asked Simon. We both tried to read the signature at the bottom, but we could not. It was impossible. “Someone wrote to Max, insisting that he keep someone alive,” I concluded.

  Simon drained his glass of brandy and stared hard into the fire. “Abbie, tell me again what happened to you, that night in Highgate Cemetery.”

  Although perplexed by the question, I quickly recalled to Simon, as best as I could, everything about that awful experience.

  Simon remained thoughtful, staring ahead.

  “And you saw nothing after William arrived? No more strange figures threatened you once William was there?”

  “Yes. That is correct.”

  Simon said nothing.

  Instinctively, I felt defensiveness rise within me. “William isn’t responsible for this. If you think he is somehow in league with Max—”

  “That’s not at all what I am considering,” Simon said calmly. “I am simply making some connections in my head.”

  My mind spun, confused.

  “Are you thinking that William is the person whom the letter-writer wants Max to keep alive?”

  “I’m considering it.”

  Simon moved his gaze from the fireplace to my face. His mouth curved into a half-amused smile. I blushed. “When was the last time you slept, Abbie?”

  “When we were on the train,” I said.

  “Sleep now.”

  “But … ”

  “We do have more ahead of us to figure out. But nothing can be done now. William needs sleep. You need sleep.”

  “But Max … ”

  “I’ll remain awake.”

  I started to argue, but he was already placing blankets upon the sofa.

  “Shhh … ” Simon said as I made a weak attempt to argue. He turned the lamps down, hushing me, and I felt my body sink onto the sofa; in spite of my anxieties, I was dead to the world before Simon even left the room.

  But my sleep did not go undisturbed.

  I was underwater somewhere. In the waters near here. Sunlight broke through the surface. I swam without having to breathe. It was easy, dreamlike. The waters became cloudy, and then parted. She stood in front of me, a full lamia, but kind, not threatening. She reached out and touched my fingertips with her talons. As she did this, as her image wavered, she became my mother, her long red hair rippling out—my mother as the lamia.

  I heard myself whimper under the water in longing. She brushed my cheek with her scaly palm, and then swam away into the watery darkness.

  The dream melted away and I found myself in a shadowed room. The smell of rot around me assaulted my nose. Spoiled meat. Then my eyes adjusted as I saw human limbs, decomposing corpses strewn everywhere. I was in some sort of underground place—a basement or a charnel house. I saw a slab table in front of me … and some sort of saw nearby.

  A light approached the doorway as someone came near this room where I found myself. Then I heard a chuckle from the darkened corridor. The Ripper chuckle, the chuckle of my nightmares.

  I awoke, sweating. Shaking. The library fire had died down and I hugged myself, pulling the tassels about my waist tighter. What was happening? What was Max scheming?

  In horror, I thought of the graveyard murders, of our follower. Whatever was happening, I felt certain that Max was no longer alone. Was he starting a new Conclave? And why had he felt so strongly about me slaying Seraphina?

  I left the library and found Simon sitting in a chair near William’s bed, reading a book. William was still fast asleep. But he kept turning back and forth among his pillows.

  “I think the laudanum is giving him strange dreams. He’s been muttering things … ”
Simon said.

  “What sort of things?” I asked, wondering briefly if William was having the same nightmare I had just had.

  But Simon’s eyes veiled a bit. “He keeps uttering your name.”

  I felt myself smile. In spite of everything behind and ahead of us, the fact that William and I were restored to one another was deeply gratifying to me.

  “You are pale, Abbie.”

  I shook my head. “I had another nightmare. But I don’t feel like talking about it now.” I said this quickly, imploringly.

  “William’s fever is returning,” Simon said. “This is good; at this point it means his body is fighting the infection. Nonetheless, I don’t want it to get too high. We’ll need to sponge him again with cool water.” He stood. “But now he needs more laudanum. I’m afraid what I gave him last night will wear off soon; I will need to retrieve some more from the boat.”

  I felt a sudden urge to escape this place. To go outside with the wind and water.

  “I’ll go.”

  Simon frowned at me, but I was already putting on my boots—I felt certain that I looked awkward wearing my mud-stained boots under the graceful gown.

  “I don’t mind going upstairs,” I said. “I need the fresh air.”

  Simon cocked his head.

  “Oh truly, Simon, I just slayed a century-old lamia. I think I can take care of myself,” I snapped as I walked into the boudoir to retrieve my bowie knife from where I had left it on the pile of my dirty clothes. I put the kimono robe over my gown before going outside.

  After ascending the stone steps to the beach, trying not to trip over the too-long kimono robe, I noticed that there was only a little sound now in the calm night. I heard only the soft slap of waters against the island’s rocks, and the small breath of wind in my ears. As I walked toward the boat, which Simon and I had checked after attending to the bodies, I was glad to see that it was still secured; fortunately it had been only a little damaged from our small crash onto the island. Carefully, I reached into the bottom of the dory and found the large laudanum bottle.