by Kat Ross
“Worse.”
“Worse?” The marquess rubbed his hands together. “How perfectly awful. Let’s hear all about it.”
Nathaniel stretched out on one of the extra-long couches, hands interlaced behind his head, while Alec produced a version of events over the last five days that omitted how badly he’d been hurt on the tower and a few other minor details. He laughed long and hard when Alec described his luncheon with Lady Frances Hake-Dibbler.
“Just be grateful your thigh is the only thing she squeezed,” he confided. “I was at a weekend party once in Hampshire—”
“We all know that story,” Vivienne interrupted. “And frankly, you got off easy. I had to put up with that horrible bore, the Duke of Lancaster. I don’t think the man ever brushes his teeth.”
Nathaniel unfurled himself from the couch in one serpentine movement.
“My darling,” he breathed, drawing her close. “My ravishing angel. How I’ve pined for you these long—”
Vivienne chucked him under the chin. “I’ve missed you too,” she said. “Breakfast is ready.”
“Capital!” Nathaniel dropped her like a hot potato and bee-lined for the dining room.
“What did you tell him?” she whispered as Alec came to her side and they followed the marquess.
“Most of it. He pried it out of me.”
Vivienne rolled her eyes. “You just can’t resist his charms. It’s pathetic.”
Alec gave her a wounded look. “Nathaniel can keep a secret. He always has.”
“I know.” She cast a fond glance down the hall. “I would have told him myself anyway.”
The dining table was ridiculously long. They gathered at one end, Nathaniel at the head, Alec and Vivienne on his right and left hand, respectively. Quimby poured coffee all around and retreated to the sideboard. His face rarely altered in expression, but there was an added spring to his step. Alec wasn’t the only one who had difficulty resisting Nathaniel’s charms.
“So how’s life at Castle Blood?” Vivienne asked, reaching for a piece of bacon.
“Oh, you know,” he said airily. “Ghosts in the dungeons, icy drafts that arrive just as one steps out of the bathtub. It’s like a Collins novel. You ought to visit more often.” Lord Cumberland looked at Alec as he said this last part, sapphire eyes alight with mischief. “I promise you won’t find it dull.”
Alec grinned into his kippers.
“Now, let’s hear about your new case, Vivienne.” He buttered a piece of toast. “A daemon, eh? Sounds nasty.”
“It is.” She poked at her scrambled eggs, pushing them about on the plate. “We’ve no leads to go on. Nothing to do but wait for him to strike again.”
Nathaniel laid his knife down. “Haven’t you read the papers?”
“Oh God.” Vivienne sat stock still. “Don’t tell me there’s been some grisly killing.”
“Nothing like that. But you say this creature has a connection with Claudius Ptolemy?”
“What do you know, Nathaniel? Out with it.”
“Well, there’s a new museum exhibit opening in New York. Some American chap apparently found his tomb in Alexandria. It’s getting quite a bit of international press.” He shrugged. “Could be a coincidence, I suppose.”
“Or not,” Alec said. “Mr. Quimby? Would you bring in today’s Times?”
“Of course, sir.”
A minute later, he was scanning a brief article on page four. Alec felt a surge of excitement.
“It’s not opening until after the New Year, but there’s a gala planned for December 23,” he said. “The article doesn’t list the items found, but what if there’s a connection?”
“Dr. Clarence’s body was found in the Mersey River,” Vivienne said. “That’s near Liverpool.”
“The point of departure for transatlantic steam ships.”
“From what you told me, New York is this creature’s old hunting grounds,” Nathaniel put in. “Perhaps it’s going home.”
They were all silent for a moment.
“I’d like to speak with Harrison Fearing Pell,” Vivienne said. “She might know more than she included in her report.”
“And what if we’re wrong?” Alec asked. “What if it strikes in London while we’re in the middle of the Atlantic?”
“Then Cassandane will come down. She’s more than capable, as you well know.”
And that seemed to settle the matter.
The rest of the day was a flurry of packing and telegrams to Henry Sidgwick, D.I. Blackwood, and Cyrus and Cassandane, informing them of the latest developments. It seemed their luck had finally turned. A ship was sailing for New York on the following day. At first the agent claimed it was fully booked, but Nathaniel managed to pull some strings and secured them a first-class cabin.
That evening, when Lord and Lady Cumberland decided to go out to dinner at Claridge’s and scandalize polite society, Alec locked himself in his laboratory with paper and pen. He felt a foolish urge to write Catherine a letter explaining his sudden departure and that he didn’t know when he’d be back, but she oughtn’t worry. Foolish because she probably wasn’t thinking about him at all, and what they had should have been more than enough.
He could never tell her the truth: that Mr. Lawrence from St. Kitts belonged to another race of beings entirely. That she would grow old and die while he stayed the same. Alec had been down that path before and it always ended badly. It was why he paid for female company. Much better to keeps things businesslike.
Yet he couldn’t stop thinking about Catherine de Mornay. Not just her smooth skin and lush hips, but the light in her eyes when she looked at him. Her rich, unrestrained laughter.
Christ, Alec, don’t borrow trouble. You’ve got enough already.
In the end, after a dozen crumpled attempts lay scattered at his feet, he simply sent her the last verse of Love and Sleep. Unsigned, but she knew his handwriting.
And all her face was honey to my mouth,
And all her body pasture to my eyes;
The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,
The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,
The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs
And glittering eyelids of my soul's desire.
Friday, December 21
The Etruria waited at anchor in the Port of Liverpool, her two great funnels belching smoke. The lower furnaces had been lit the previous night and the top fires were burning hot since six that morning as she needed to run a full head of steam at least an hour ahead of departure.
The Etruria was only three years old and fitted with a new single-screw propulsion system that made her the jewel of the Cunard fleet. She’d set a speed record for the Atlantic crossing earlier that year: six days, one hour, fifty-five minutes. With any luck, the ship would arrive well before the Egyptian exhibit opened at the American Museum of Natural History.
Their first-class stateroom on the Saloon Deck was appointed with every luxury, but Vivienne wasn’t looking forward to the trip. Not only was she impatient to get to New York, but Alec had annoyingly forbade her from smoking in their shared suite.
A porter took charge of their luggage on the dock. Now they stood on the forward deck as the great ship prepared to set sail. Crowds lined the pier, blowing kisses and waving white handkerchiefs at the departing passengers. The whole scene had an air of suppressed excitement, except for the crewmen, who’d made the crossing many times and moved efficiently about their duties. Windlasses spun, winches cranked. The white-haired captain conferred with a representative of the company on the bridge.
“Watch the man from Cunard,” Alec said, checking his pocket watch. “Any moment now….”
The pair shook hands. The man disembarked with a brief salute, and the captain gave a quiet order to the first officer. It was quickly relayed through the chain of command. The capstan began to noisily haul the massive anchor chain back home. Vivienne drew a deep breath of cold salt air. Seagulls wheeled o
ver the bow.
The Etruria swung free of her mooring and the great engines thrummed to life. A long blast from the whistle claimed right of way in the channel, which was crowded with sailboats and cargo vessels. The schooner-rigged pilot ship guided them to the harbor mouth. And then nothing lay ahead but open ocean for more than three thousand miles.
“Let’s go inside,” Vivienne said, turning away from the rail. “I’ll never get a cigarette lit in this wind.”
Alec laughed. His skin glowed with raw vitality. Air had always been his strongest element. She suspected he’d missed standing under the wide sky, surrounded by nature rather than throngs of people and buildings. It was another difference between them. She preferred cities, but Alec loved the wild places.
“Is that really such a bad thing?”
“Yes.”
“You’re addicted.”
“Don’t be an ass.” She took his arm. “I know your leg hurts. Come rest it for a bit.”
They went to one of the lounges and found a quiet table with large windows overlooking the Upper Deck. A waiter in an elegantly cut jacket brought coffee and a plate of deviled eggs.
“I was thinking, Vivienne. If Claudius Ptolemy knew enough to map the Greater Gates, if he knew about the Dominion, there could be talismans in the collection.”
She nodded. “I think he understood all too well how dangerous those pages were. He made only one set and they were lost for more than a millennium.”
“Until that duke’s grandson found them and they went up for auction.”
“So our daemon somehow learns about it….”
“They’re here could have been referring to the map pages.”
“It snaps him out of his hibernation at the asylum.” She tapped a cigarette on the table but didn’t light it. Addicted? Ridiculous.
“So Clarence escapes and tracks them down. It all fits so far.” Alec frowned. “And how does he know about the museum exhibit in New York?”
“The same way we did.”
“The newspapers?”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “All right. The point is, the maps alone are no use to him. Not without a talisman of opening for the Gates.”
“Which is why he’s going to New York.”
Their waiter finally noticed Lady Cumberland fiddling with her cigarette and hurried over to light it.
“Thank you.” Vivienne took a long, satisfying drag.
“Can we expect full cooperation from the American S.P.R.?” Alec asked.
“Sidgwick says yes. He’ll send a cable warning them that something might be coming their way.”
The tinkling notes of a piano served as counterpoint to the muted conversation at other tables. Cunard had spared no expense to create the illusion they were in a fashionable hotel. The décor was modeled after a late-Renaissance Italian palazzo, with gorgeously carved oak paneling and a domed skylight depicting the signs of the zodiac. Without the faint pitching of the deck, Vivienne would never have known she was floating atop a thousand fathoms of frigid water.
“How much do they know about us?” Alec asked.
“Enough.”
“That I’m a daēva?”
“Yes, but only the senior officers.”
“Who are…?”
“Their president is a man named Benedict Wakefield. He’s some sort of wealthy financier. But the ones who manage day-to-day operations are the two vice presidents, Harland Kaylock and Orpha Winter. I’ve heard they can’t stand each other.”
“Well, that’s promising,” he said testily.
Vivienne knew Alec didn’t like people knowing what he was. Humans feared any power they didn’t share. The truth had been erased from history books, but Alec remembered. As a child, he’d been taught by the magi in Karnopolis to believe he was a demon himself. Impure. Druj.
“Do you trust them?” he asked.
“I haven’t met them, so no. Sidgwick does. Frankly, I’m more interested in meeting Harrison Fearing Pell and John Weston.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “This daemon we’re chasing, it was inside Leland Brady for at least a week. He was her client, Alec. I’d say she knows it better than anyone.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“You mean it might go after her?”
Alec didn’t answer right away. He stared out to sea, eyes fixed on the flat horizon. “There’s a storm coming, Viv. I can smell it. And we need to be in New York when it breaks.”
Part II
“If he be Mr. Hyde," he had thought, "I shall be Mr. Seek.”
― Robert Louis Stevenson, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
Chapter 12
Tuesday, December 25, 1888
Everyone agreed it was the party of the year.
Waiters in Egyptian costume plied the buzzing crowd with trays of caviar and frosty magnums of champagne. Hundreds of beeswax candles cast a cozy, flattering light on the cream of New York society, people with names like Vanderbilt, Astor and Gould. Mayor Hewitt chatted with the museum’s energetic director, Morris K. Jessup. A thick haze of cigar smoke hung like smog below the high ceiling.
Outside, Christmas wreaths adorned the brick façade of the American Museum of Natural History, but in the spacious entrance hall beyond its front doors, the décor was more exotic. A much-anticipated new exhibit would be opening on January 2nd: Ptolemy’s Tomb: The Secrets of Alexandria. The soiree was intended to provide an advance viewing of the treasures brought back by Dr. Julius Sabelline before they went on display to the general public.
Glass cases held amulets and terracotta amphorae and crumbling fragments of papyrus scrolls. There were blue-glazed scarab beetles and solid gold bracelets of writhing snakes. But the thickest knot of party-goers swirled around the six mummies in stone sarcophagi, one of whom was supposedly the famed mathematician and astronomer Claudius Ptolemy.
Speeches were made, more champagne consumed. By midnight, the party started winding down. The long line of lacquered carriages outside ferried their well-heeled (and well-oiled) passengers to mansions across Central Park, or to late-night diversions in less reputable areas like the Tenderloin. The hired staff cleaned up and departed for their own beds in cramped tenements and row houses. At twelve-thirty, the front doors of the museum were locked. Only eight people remained.
Dr. Julius Sabelline, the reclusive Egyptologist who had brought the relics back to New York from Alexandria.
His wife, Araminta, and twenty-year-old son, Jackson.
The socialite Mrs. Orpha Winter and Count Balthazar Jozsef Habsburg-Koháry, financier of the dig.
Nelson Holland, head of Near East and North African Acquisitions at the museum.
Davis Sharpe, Dr. Sabelline’s junior colleague.
And lastly, Jeremy Boot, the guard stationed at the front entrance.
Dr. Sabelline retired to his office to return one of the most valuable artifacts to a strongbox for safekeeping. Half an hour later, when he had failed to return, his wife went looking for him, accompanied by Mr. Sharpe. Dr. Sabelline’s office door was locked and he didn’t respond to their entreaties to open it. Boot was summoned with a spare set of keys.
He unlocked the door, took two steps inside, and promptly vomited on the carpet. Mrs. Sabelline rushed in behind him. A scream of horror echoed through the corridors of the illustrious institution….
“Does it actually say she screamed?” Harrison Fearing Pell interrupted. “I don’t remember that bit.”
John Weston paused in his dramatic rendering of the police report. “Wouldn’t she, though? Finding her husband lying there in a pool of blood, all mangled.” He gave Harry a sober look. “I’d shriek like a schoolgirl and I’m not ashamed to admit it.”
“I’m sure you would, John, but I believe it says she fainted. Don’t muddy the waters. They’re thick enough already.” She suppressed a smile. “I won’t hold it against you for taking liberties with the party. All of that’s probably true. But don’t embellis
h the crime itself, please. Or the key witnesses.”
The pair reached the corner of Seventy-Third Street and Eighth Avenue. Harry, a solemn, diminutive figure in sturdy boots and a red wool coat, her strawberry blonde hair dusted with melting snow. John, nearly a foot taller with brown hair and lively eyes, shaded now under the brim of a grey Homburg hat.
They had been close friends for many years, but in recent months, the paths of their lives had taken a strange twist. As of that morning, they had signed consultancy contracts with the New York branch of the Society for Psychical Research and been sent off to the American Museum of Natural History to investigate a murder with some very peculiar elements.
It had proven impossible to find a hansom cab so early on Christmas Day, so Harry and John took the elevated train to Fifty-Ninth Street and trudged north from there. To the right, the gentle hills and walking paths of Central Park lay under four inches of pristine snow.
John held his hands up. “Just trying to imagine the scene. Give it a little spice.”
Harry shot him a disapproving squint. “What else did you make up?”
“Not a single thing, I swear.” He consulted the paper. “Right…time of death occurred between twelve forty-five and one-thirty a.m., when the body was found. Cause was blood loss from six nasty stab wounds, all confined to the neck and upper body. No weapon was found, so the killer must have taken it with him.”
“Or her.”
“Or her,” John agreed. “But the ghastliest aspect is what was done to his eyes.”
Harry nodded, gazing distantly into the park. “Without question. It implies a very personal motive. And an aberrant killer. Someone with a point to make, who won’t hesitate to commit an act others would find repugnant.”
“It reminds me of the Hyde case.” John paused. “The way Brady covered his victims’ faces. This killer may be taking it a step further, but the result is the same. They can’t look at him anymore.”
“Or her,” Harry corrected automatically.
“Or her.”
