by Kat Ross
“Harrison Fearing Pell,” the thing said in a paper-thin voice. “And Mr. Weston.”
Harry felt vaguely disappointed when she failed to add, So we meet again.
“Where is it?” John demanded, brandishing the frying pan.
“The key? It belongs to us.” This time, the old woman and Araminta spoke in simultaneous, overlapping voices.
“It belongs to Count Balthazar,” Harry said.
The old woman made a wheezing sound that might have been laughter.
“He paid someone to dig it up. That doesn’t make it his.”
“It doesn’t make it yours either,” John said.
Light glinted in the hollows of her eyes. “Claudius Ptolemy promised me passage in exchange for knowledge, but he abandoned me. He was a liar and a cheat.” The daemon sounded almost petulant. “Few men travel to the Dominion and fewer still leave. He owes me a debt.”
She raised a claw-like hand. Harry saw a flash of gold. The amulet.
“The thirteenth gate will open,” Araminta said in a strange, hollow voice. “The dead will walk.”
“Look,” John said. “You’ve had your fun. Time to crawl back to purgatory. Let’s not overstay our welcome.”
The old woman bared her broken teeth in a grin. “Those whores in London were merely a prelude, John Weston.” It tilted its head, considering. “Perhaps I’ll wear your skin next. You can watch through my eyes. We’ll hold the knife together.” That amused wheezing again. “I am the Dominion made flesh. Abyssus abyssum invocate. Do you remember? Hell calls to—”
Harry pointed the gun at its heart and pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening in the small room. The old woman fell backwards, vanishing behind the desk. Araminta let out a high-pitched screech. She seized a letter opener and lunged forward. John swung the frying pan, but she twisted like a snake, easily dodging his blow.
“Get the amulet, Harry!” he cried.
She nodded and cocked the hammer of the pistol. Then she crept forward and peeked around the corner of the desk. Blood stained the carpet, but the old woman seemed to have vanished into thin air. John’s scream made her whirl around. The letter opener was buried to the hilt in his right shoulder. Araminta wrenched the frying pan from his grasp and brought it down on his head with a horrifying crunch. John fell to his knees. Another blow and he collapsed bonelessly on the carpet. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
White-hot rage scoured Harry’s bones. She got the gun up and fired, but she’d never been a good shot. The bullet went wild, smashing into the desk. Araminta’s face was perfectly blank and Harry had a sudden vision of her cutting out her husband’s eyes with the same chilling calm.
Harry was about to squeeze the trigger again when the old woman skittered out of the shadows and grasped Araminta’s skirts. Blue fire raced from its fingers. Within seconds, she was ablaze. Araminta staggered to the window, beating futilely at the flames. The heavy velvet curtains went up like a torch. Glass shattered as a dark shape hurtled through the window into the rain-soaked night.
Araminta’s screams seemed to go on and on. The sickly odor of burning flesh and hair filled the air. Orange flames streaked up the wallpaper, quickly spreading to the boxes of books and paper. Harry crouched down, seeking clean air. She still had the pistol in her hand, but the metal was growing hot. She tried to get her bearings in the smoky darkness. She crawled across the floor, groping blindly. Finally, she found an arm.
You’re a fool, she thought. An arrogant fool.
Harry’s throat burned. She dropped the gun and cradled John’s still form, stroking his hair, wet with blood.
“I’ll get us out, don’t worry,” she whispered.
Flames licked the ceiling. Sweat poured down her face and her scalp tingled from the intense heat. Mercifully, Araminta’s hoarse cries had finally stopped. But Harry’s heart sank as she saw the fire had already spread to the doorway and hall beyond. The window was the only possible escape route, but the blazing curtains created a barrier and John was too heavy for her to carry. She tried to shield him with her body, pressing her nose and mouth into the thin pocket of air on the floor. Shadow and flame, Mary had said. Flame and shadow. It comes for us all….
Wood splintered as the door flew open. The fire roared like a live thing at the fresh oxygen. A beautiful woman with brown skin and hard eyes grabbed Harry like a sack of potatoes. Behind her, a slender man lifted John in his arms. John had to weigh at least a hundred and eighty pounds, but the man handled him like a child. They dashed into the burning hallway and down the stairs. Harry dimly heard a crash as part of the roof caved in behind them. And then cool night air hit her face, and glorious rain. She blinked red, watery eyes, coughed violently. Outside, a crowd was gathering.
Her savior set Harry on her feet. “Are you burned?”
“I don’t think so.” She coughed again. Her lungs felt scalded. Araminta’s screams still echoed in her ears, but even worse was the sound of the frying pan striking John’s skull. It had to be fractured. Oh dear God…. “He needs a doctor.” Tears clogged her voice. “Immediately.”
“It’s being handled,” the woman said cryptically.
“How?” Harry looked around. “Where are they? Who are you?”
The woman opened her mouth to reply when Jackson Sabelline came rushing out of the darkness. “Where’s Mother?” he asked frantically.
Jackson turned to run inside the inferno but Harry seized his arm. “She’s dead.”
His face crumpled and she knew she could never tell him what his mother had done. It would be too cruel.
“How could you leave her?” He tore at his wavy brown hair. “How could you?”
“She was already gone.” Harry hesitated. “I’m terribly sorry.”
The crowd fell back as a pumper truck drawn by three enormous draft horses tore around the corner. Firemen in long, heavy coats leapt down and started unspooling a white cotton hose. Jackson gave her a last despairing look and ran over to speak with them. Harry scanned the faces lined up across the street, searching for John and the man who had rescued him. Rain and smoke stung her eyes. Most of the gawkers sheltered under umbrellas, but then a brief space opened up and Harry caught a glimpse of a man with grey streaks at his temples. He wore a bowler hat that cast his upper face in shadow but something about him struck her as familiar. Was it Count Koháry’s manservant?
She blinked and the crowd swirled together again. Harry was about to run across the street when the tall woman next to her spoke.
“I’m Vivienne Cumberland,” she said in an upper-crust English accent. “My associate Alec Lawrence is seeing to your friend. I don’t suppose you managed to get the amulet.”
Harry stared at her, understanding dawning. “You’re from London.”
She nodded. “We came as soon as your boy brought his message to Mr. Kaylock.” Her voice hardened. “The daemon was here.”
“Yes. It got away with the amulet. I think I shot it, but then it set Araminta on fire. With its hands.” She shuddered. Even at this distance, she could feel the heat of the flames. “Everything happened so quickly. I heard a crash. It must have jumped out the window.” Harry forced herself to meet Lady Cumberland’s cool gaze. “We’ve made a terrible mess of things, haven’t we?”
Vivienne sighed. “There’s no time. We need to leave before someone starts asking questions. Come.”
They ran past the firemen. One of them gave Harry’s soot-covered face a sharp look but made no move to stop her. Despite the downpour, the blaze had already spread to the adjacent houses. The Sabelline home was made of brick, but its neighbors were wood. Flames erupted from every window and the entire street was bathed in reddish light.
The carriage waited at the curb a block away. “Harry!” Connor called out when he saw her. “What happened?”
“I’ll tell you later,” she said with a wan smile. “But you brought help just in time. Thank you.”
“It’s a habit of mine,” he res
ponded cheerfully.
They crowded into the carriage. John lay slumped against the seat, his eyes closed. Vivienne signaled to Connor and he urged the horses into a trot away from the chaotic scene.
“Mr. Weston needs a hospital,” Harry said. “Araminta stabbed him with a letter opener and bashed him on the head. Twice.” She leaned over and took his hand. A lump of guilt lodged in her gut like a stone. “Poor John. He always seems to get the worst of these encounters.”
Vivienne laid a reassuring hand on her arm. “I told you, Mr. Lawrence will see to him.”
Harry studied Alec Lawrence for the first time. He was young like Lady Cumberland, perhaps a decade older than Harry, but both of them had an ageless quality. A slight strain was evident around the eyes, as if he too carried pain but had learned to live with it. A cane with a silver handle sat propped between his knees.
Alec Lawrence looked at Vivienne.
“You can let me go now,” he said mildly. “We’re far enough away.”
Harry didn’t understand what he meant since Vivienne wasn’t even touching him, but a moment later his expression softened. Something like satisfaction stole across his features. He turned to John and gently cupped his face, watching him intently. Harry frowned, but the hair on her arms rose up as if a breeze had swept through the carriage. The raindrops coursing down the window seemed to shiver. Alec gritted his teeth. Whatever he was doing, it was unpleasant. Harry suddenly wanted desperately to stop it. She opened her mouth, unsure of what she planned to say, but Vivienne gave a sharp shake of her head.
Moments later, John stiffened. He gave a low gasp, back arching beneath Alec’s hands. His eyes flew open, wide and startled.
Alec released him. He looked exhausted. “It’s done.”
“What’s done?” Harry demanded.
Vivienne ignored her. “Are you all right?” she asked John.
He raised a shaking hand to his eyes. “I think so. Who are you?”
Harry stared at him in wonder. Blood still matted his hair, but he was sitting up now.
“These are the agents from London,” she said. “They just pulled our fat from the fire. Literally.” She squinted at Alec. “What did you just do?”
“Mr. Lawrence has special abilities,” Vivienne said, her tone discouraging further questions.
John gingerly tested his shoulder. “Miraculous, I’d say.”
Harry leaned over and gently probed the spot where he’d been struck on the head. There wasn’t even a lump.
“Miraculous,” she repeated faintly.
Alec smiled at them, though there was something grim in it. “You’re both lucky to be alive.”
“I know. Thank you.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “We read your report on the Hyde case, Miss Pell. It seems you’ve caught another killer, but I’m guessing this one met her own brand of rough justice.”
Harry nodded. “Araminta confessed to murdering her husband. She thought she’d be rewarded with eternal life. Instead, it sacrificed her to get away.”
“Demonic pacts do have a way of turning on one,” he said dryly. “Any idea where it went?”
“I’m afraid not. It jumped out the window.”
“We need to review everything we know. There must be some clue.” Alec banged on the roof of the carriage with his cane. “Pearl Street!”
Chapter 24
Both Harland Kaylock and Orpha Winter were waiting at the S.P.R. offices. They sat on opposite sides of a large drawing room on the first floor, Mr. Kaylock perched on the edge of a divan like some dark bird of prey and Mrs. Winter elegant in a high-necked blue silk gown the precise shade of her eyes. They might not have liked one another, but their stony faces made it clear they were united in disapproval of their newest agents. Not even John’s bloodstained clothing seemed to generate much sympathy.
Harry held her tongue while Alec Lawrence gave a brief accounting of his and Lady Cumberland’s arrival at the Sabelline home. Had Connor not driven like a maniac back across the bridge, they would have been too late. Her rescue was a blur of heat and darkness, but Harry remembered the crash of the roof coming down just seconds before they ran out the front door.
John sprawled in a chair by the grate, still seeming a bit dazed. He nursed a brandy poured for him by the butler, Joseph. Vivienne Cumberland paced up and down, smoking distractedly. When Alec explained that the amulet had been lost, Orpha Winter made a small sound of genteel disgust. Harland Kaylock briefly closed his eyes. Smelling blood in the water, Joseph shuffled to the far end of the room.
Overall, the atmosphere at Pearl Street crackled like one of Edison’s electrical turbines. When Alec finished, Mr. Kaylock’s gaze settled on Harry.
“It was fortuitous indeed that the agents from London were here when your boy came rushing in,” he said in a flat voice.
“It was, sir,” she agreed, resisting the urge to wring her sweaty hands together.
“And that they were kind enough to go to your aid.”
“Very kind.”
“I’m rather confused on one particular point, though. Perhaps you can enlighten me?”
“I’ll do my best, Mr. Kaylock.”
He leaned forward, his blade of a nose stabbing the air. “I expressly told you not to pursue the case any further. You were to wait for Lady Cumberland and Mr. Lawrence. Was any part of my instructions ambiguous, Miss Pell? Because you appear to have disregarded them completely.”
Harry withered under his vulpine stare, but managed to keep her chin up. “I had no intention of doing that, sir. But Jackson Sabelline came to me yesterday with a letter he’d found in his father’s effects. It was from Mary Elizabeth Wickes.”
“The child poisoner?” A flash of surprise crossed his face.
“Yes. She warned him he was in danger. Sabelline took her letter seriously enough to change the lock on his office door, but it wasn’t enough.”
“You should have brought the letter straight to me.”
“I promised Jackson Sabelline I would pursue it myself.”
He frowned. “That was a rash promise.”
Harry cleared her throat. “It seemed to me there was a direct connection with Brady’s crimes, which you’ll recall was my case. With all due respect,” she added hastily. “If the Brady case has been reopened, I’m within my rights to pursue closure on behalf of my client.”
“Your client?”
“Elizabeth Brady, sir. She paid my fee.”
“You’re splitting hairs rather finely, Miss Pell,” Kaylock said. “If you had only come to me first, I could have sent Lady Cumberland and Mr. Lawrence with you to the Sabelline house. The daemon wouldn’t have gotten away with the amulet. It’s even possible that Araminta Sabelline might have lived to face a jury.”
“Yes, I do see that,” Harry said in a small voice. “I didn’t realize they’d arrived. Time seemed of the essence.”
“I’d say it still is,” Kaylock said, biting off each word. “The daemon now has what it came for. A talisman to tear open the veil to the Dominion. To unlock the gates Lady Cumberland and Mr. Lawrence have spent their lives guarding. So it’s impressive you solved the little mystery of who killed Julius Sabelline, but I’d say we’re in rather a worse position for the knowledge, wouldn’t you, Miss Pell?” His gaze raked over John. “How about you, Mr. Weston? Anything to say for yourself?”
John opened his mouth, then flushed red and closed it again. Vivienne and Alec appeared embarrassed at witnessing the dressing-down but as foreign agents, it wasn’t their place to interfere. In the end, rescue came from unexpected quarters.
“Oh, leave off, Harland,” Orpha Winter snapped. “The girl defied me too. I told her to wait to approach the count and she went ahead and showed up on his doorstep, demanding an interview.”
“How did you know—” Harry began. Then she saw Connor edging toward the door. “You told her.”
“Well, ya never said I shouldn’t,” he muttered.
Orpha
gave Harry an unpleasant smile.
“If you’d only asked him, I wouldn’t have had to,” Harry said sullenly, feeling like she was eight years old again and Mrs. Rivers had caught her sucking the lemon meringue out of a freshly baked pie with a paper straw.
“I did, foolish girl. More than once.” She gave Harry and John an icy look. “I agree that our newest investigators require some reining in, but now isn’t the time to do it. At least Miss Pell had the brains to figure out it was Araminta. Without her, we’d be chasing our own tails. Now, I suggest we find out exactly what they’ve learned, every scrap, and then we can determine a course of action.”
Harland Kaylock pursed his thin lips but refrained from comment. Joseph poured everyone brandies except for Connor and Alec Lawrence, who took tea. It was still raining hard outside, blowing in sideways gusts that made a soft hiss against the windows. The others listened in silence as Harry related the series of events at the Sabelline house before the London agents arrived, and how she had deduced that Araminta was the killer.
“She had access to the madu Jackson had borrowed from Count Koháry,” Harry said. “He showed us a drawing of one. It’s not a large weapon and easily concealed. After the party, she waited for her husband to go to the strongbox. Then she followed him. I do believe she had an altercation in the hall with Mr. Sharpe over the affair. After he stormed off to his office, where he probably had another bottle stashed, she carried out her grisly task.”
“And the footprints?” Orpha asked.
“Araminta wore her husband’s shoes to throw off the police and keep her own shoes clean. But that meant she had to get rid of them. First she tried hiding them in the air duct, but they wouldn’t fit. So she slipped upstairs and placed them in one of the sarcophagi.”
“And she lifted the lid alone?” Kaylock asked skeptically.
“Daemons confer superhuman strength on their mortal victims,” Alec put in quietly. “I saw it when I encountered Dr. Clarence in Oxford. He nearly bested me.”
“What about the eyes?” Orpha asked. “What drove her to such grotesque lengths?”
