by Kat Ross
“The will of the user,” he muttered. “The will….”
Even with her eyes closed, Harry flinched at the sudden flare of light. A great cracking sound followed and dust rained down from above. The surface of the water churned.
“I think I see it,” John cried, pulling her past the momentarily stunned ghouls—for that is what they were, Harry knew. “The way out!”
What she had taken for a shadow resolved into narrow crevice. They dashed inside just as chunks of the ceiling smashed into the water behind them. John held the amulet up for light, but it dimmed the further they went from the gate. Water still cascaded down from above. It was like climbing up a sewage pipe, Harry thought, while someone repeatedly flushed the water closet. When the amulet finally went dark, they made their way by touch.
The main problem was that the crack seemed to be slowly sealing itself up again. Every few seconds, the stone would shudder beneath their feet. When it stopped, Harry felt certain the walls had shifted even closer together.
“There’s a branching,” John muttered.
“Do you remember which way we came?”
“Not a clue.”
The crevice had grown very tight. Harry had a sudden vision of getting stuck while the undead children crept up behind them on cold bare feet.
“Would it do any good to call for help?” she asked, despising the squeakiness of her voice.
He hesitated. “Well, if it’s Mr. Hyde up there, we’re in trouble anyway. If it’s not, maybe Lady Cumberland will hear us. So let’s try it. We can’t be that far from the top.”
They called out, their voices sounding both too loud and oddly muffled in the confined space. Harry’s spirits lifted at faint answering cries.
“This way!” John seized her hand and dragged her into the left-hand tunnel.
They stumbled and crawled, the rough rock walls scraping skin from palms and John’s shoeless foot. After a minute, Harry detected a glimmer of light. The foundation groaned around them, contracting like a giant stone fist. At last, they squirmed out of the crack into Mary’s cell. Two lanterns had been hung from the bars of the tiny window.
“Well, aren’t they a sight,” a deep voice declared in a thick Irish brogue.
“Is that Mary?” another voice said doubtfully. “Don’t look like her.”
“One of t’others, I suppose.”
Hands grabbed Harry under the armpits and yanked her to her feet. She tried to pull free and earned a rough shake that rattled her teeth.
“Let her go!” John objected, himself in the clutches of three large men wearing navy guard uniforms.
“I don’t know how the hell you got down there in the first place, laddie, but you won’t be leaving again.” A guard with a stringy blonde mustache unhooked a set of handcuffs from his belt. “Don’t make it harder on yourself.”
“But we’re not prisoners,” Harry said indignantly.
“Sure you’re not, Miss. That’s why you’re crawling around in the Tombs.” His face hardened. “We found Sister Emily floating down by the end of the ward. If one of you did her, you’ll swing for it.”
Nasty laughter erupted. “Or maybe you’ll be one a’ the first customers for the new electric chair they’re building up at Auburn Prison,” another guard said.
“You don’t understand—” John began.
“Shut yer gob!” The mustachioed guard brought his club back.
“I wouldn’t do that,” a cool voice said from the doorway of the cell.
The men spun around.
“And who the hell are you?” Mustache demanded.
Something in Lady Cumberland’s eyes seemed to give the men pause. She was soaking wet from head to toe. Blood stained her beautiful dress and one arm hung at an awkward angle. Her face could have been carved from granite.
“Touch him with that club and you’ll regret it,” she said.
The guard stared at her in open-mouthed astonishment. “Who is this mouthy negress?” he said to the others.
Blood rushed to Harry’s face. She opened her mouth to cut him down when Orpha Winter strode into the cell wearing a hat with enormous soggy-looking ostrich plumes. She carried an umbrella in her gloved hand, which she pointed at the guard like a spear.
“I very much hope you’re not speaking of the Marchioness,” she said icily. “Assuming you value your job.”
“Out, boys,” said the middle-aged man next to her. “Let ‘em go.”
The guards exchanged puzzled glances.
“Now,” he repeated firmly.
“Yes sir, Warden,” Mustache said reluctantly.
Even in her chilled and bedraggled state, Harry felt a spark of interest at meeting the man newly appointed to run the Tombs. Charles Osborne had taken over in April when Thomas “Fatty” Walsh, a Five Points crony of Mayor Hewitt, was forced to resign after being denounced in the editorial pages as a gambler and general lowlife. Osborne was widely viewed as a respectable alternative; he’d been deputy warden for years both at the Tombs and the penitentiary on Blackwell’s Island.
“Remove his handcuffs at once,” Orpha said. “My God, have your men nothing better to do than harass honest citizens?”
After a nod from Osborne, one of the guards produced a key and opened the manacles. John rubbed his wrists. The guards pushed past them, avoiding eye contact with Vivienne.
“They did break into the jail, Mrs. Winter,” Osborne said uncomfortably. “And someone killed the keeper of the women’s prison.”
“Mary Elizabeth Wickes did that, did she not?” Orpha gave Harry and John a look that dared them to say otherwise.
They both nodded.
“There’s another body down here!” one of the guards called.
“Stay away from him!” Vivienne rushed down the corridor, her face a thundercloud.
Harry moved to follow but Orpha laid a hand on her arm and gave a brief shake of her head.
“But Mr. Lawrence—”
“Let her handle it,” Orpha said in a low voice.
“Where is Mary Wickes?” Osborne asked.
“We followed her down there,” John said, pointing at the hole in the floor. It had narrowed to less than a foot across. The cavern below was submerged completely now, and the crevice sat under several inches of dark water. “She…she drowned before we could reach her.”
“I see. I’ll have to send men down to verify that.” He shook his head wearily. “What a night. Maybe the legislature will finally do something about the fact that this prison is sinking into the muck. Frankly, it should have been torn down years ago. I’ve been telling them that, but no one listens.”
“Thank you, Charles,” Orpha said. “Perhaps Mr. Winter can exercise some influence in this matter.” She glanced at John and Harry, who stood shivering near the door. “Are we free to go? I’d like to give my agents some blankets and hot coffee.”
He waved a hand. “You’re free. I need to organize a search party. Better you’re not here when they arrive, Orpha.”
She nodded and signaled to Harry and John. Harry threw a last glance at the crevice, half-expecting a small hand to reach out, but the water remained still.
“First things first,” Orpha said briskly as they waded down the corridor. “What’s the status of the gate?”
“I’m not entirely sure, but it seems to be closed again,” Harry said. “You should warn Warden Osborne though. He oughtn’t send anyone down there who isn’t trained to deal with…that sort of thing.”
“Indeed. Charles is a man of the world. I’ll find a way to explain it to him. It helps to have friends in high places,” she added airily. “Mr. Kaylock doesn’t seem to grasp that fact.”
“What about Mr. Lawrence?”
Vivienne and the guards were nowhere in sight.
“We’d best leave him for Lady Cumberland. London takes care of its own.”
“But—”
Orpha cut her off. “Mr. Osborne was right. We should leave while we still can. This p
lace will be crawling with officers in just a few minutes. There will be awkward questions I’d much prefer not to answer. The warden will keep our presence here quiet, but not if we announce it to the world.”
“Is Mr. Lawrence dead?” Harry asked quietly.
Orpha shrugged. “If he is, there’s nothing we can do. If he’s not, Charles Osborne will make sure he’s taken to a doctor.”
Harry could see the doors to Centre Street. She longed to get out of the Tombs, to breathe the fresh night air—or what passed for it in lower Manhattan. What Orpha Winter said made logical sense.
It was also utterly wrong. Harry stopped walking.
“No.”
“What?”
“No, we’re not leaving her. Are we, John?”
“I was about to say the same thing.”
They turned and began running back down the corridor.
“Miss Pell!” Orpha cried, her voice brittle. “Mr. Weston! Come back at once!”
They found Vivienne just past the first turning beyond Mary’s cell. She was trying to lift Mr. Lawrence over her shoulder with one arm. Harry could see the other was broken. Alec’s eyes were closed. He looked ashen.
John pressed his fingers to Alec’s neck and let out a breath of relief. “He’s alive, but we’ve got to get him out of this cold water before he succumbs to shock.” He glanced at Vivienne. “And you have a nasty fracture of the radial bone. Here.”
He removed his suspenders and created a makeshift sling. It had to hurt to like hell, but Lady Cumberland didn’t even wince as he maneuvered the sling into place.
“Osborne sent for men to help, but he can’t wait,” she said, her gaze fixed on Alec.
“Of course not.” Harry lightly touched her shoulder. “Agents of the S.P.R. stick together, don’t we? Come on, John. You take his legs.”
Vivienne seemed so lost, Harry didn’t want to ask her any questions about what had happened. She understood all too well. Their last case had ended with John in the hospital undergoing a risky blood transfusion. She’d sat in the waiting room with his parents and four brothers, waiting to find out if he was alive or dead. It was the worst three hours of Harry’s life.
Mr. Lawrence was still alive, though for how much longer was anyone’s guess. At least they could take him someplace warm. She lifted him gently under the arms and together she and John carried Alec out of the Tombs. His body hung limp, his head lolling on his chest.
Orpha Winter waited next to the carriage, impatiently slapping her gloves into her palm.
“Hop to it, boy,” she said to Connor when they appeared at the top of the stairs. “Get the door open! Can’t you see we’ve got an injured man?”
Connor rolled his eyes but leapt down from the driver’s seat and helped them lift Alec inside. It was a tight fit, but they managed. John rode up top with Connor. Harry and Orpha sat on the rear-facing bench, while Vivienne and Alec occupied the other. He slumped against her, pale and motionless.
“We can go straight to New York Hospital,” Harry said. “It’s the closest. They treated John when—”
“There’s nothing they can do for Mr. Lawrence,” Vivienne interrupted in a tone that brooked no argument. “We’re staying at the Astor House, though I suppose it would cause a scene to carry him through the lobby. The Pearl Street offices are best for now. I’ll see to him myself.”
Orpha relayed their destination to Connor. Vivienne stared out the carriage window. She didn’t look at Alec again, but the hand not in a sling gripped her skirts like a drowning woman clutching a lifeline.
Lady Cumberland was a proud woman, Harry sensed. She wouldn’t indulge in grief before strangers. Better to distract her with the tale of Mary and the amulet.
“You’ll want to know that John Weston closed the gate,” Harry said. “At least, I think he did.”
Vivienne’s eyes sharpened. “Tell me what happened.”
“We followed Mary down to the foundations of the prison. It had flooded, forming a kind of lake. And in the center….well, it sounds mad, but there was a gallows.”
Vivienne nodded. “I’ve seen queer things manifest in the vicinity of a gate. In simple terms, I believe they’re places where the boundary between our world and the Dominion has grown thin. The Tombs is a site of executions. It doesn’t surprise me that such a potent symbol would be reflected near to the gate itself.”
Harry told her all that happened next. Lady Vivienne stayed silent for a moment, considering. Then she gave a smart rap on the roof. The carriage jolted to a stop. Vivienne opened the door and leaned out. The rain had lightened to a fine mist that made yellow haloes around the gas lamps.
“Mr. Weston?”
He looked down at her from the driver’s bench. “Lady Cumberland?”
“Do you have the amulet of Osiris?”
John flushed. “Of course.” He rummaged in his pocket and produced the gold talisman. It gave a brief flicker of light as he passed it down to her. “I never meant to keep it.”
She smiled. “I know. You did well, Mr. Weston. Very well.”
He reached into his belt and withdrew the iron knife, extending it toward her hilt-first.
“And thanks for this as well. It came in handy.”
Vivienne gave him a small smile. “It’s yours, Mr. Weston. I have others. And you never know when you might need it again.”
He smiled back and touched his forehead in a brief salute. “Thank you, milady.”
“Just Vivienne will do.” She glanced at Alec. “We’d best get moving. Mr. Lawrence needs a bed.” She tucked the amulet into a pocket and shut the door. The carriage resumed its journey to the S.P.R. headquarters.
“He has the spark,” she muttered.
“What?” Orpha Winter asked.
A faint smile touched Vivienne’s lips. “Mr. Weston has the spark. He can use talismans.”
“What does that mean?” Orpha demanded, leaning forward.
Harry batted a limp ostrich feather away from her face. Orpha’s hat seemed to take up half the space in the carriage.
“He has the blood.” Vivienne sighed. “Ask me later. I’m too tired to talk anymore right now.”
Orpha sniffed, irritated, but let it go. “Can you at least tell us what happened to the daemon?”
A shadow crossed Lady Cumberland’s face. She pulled out a crumpled, waterlogged packet of cigarettes, looked at it, sighed, and tossed it out the window.
“In the universe, there are things that are known, and things that are unknown, and in between, there are doors.” Vivienne ignored Orpha, turning instead to Harry. “Mr. Weston closed one, but someone else opened another and I’d give anything to know who.”
Chapter 31
Wednesday, January 2, 1889
Snow dusted the entrance of the American Museum of Natural History as John and Harry bought their tickets to Ptolemy’s Tomb: The Secrets of Alexandria. The line to get in snaked around the corner. The exhibit was already shattering attendance records, and the abrupt resignation of Nelson Holland only added to the public speculation.
Dr. Julius Sabelline’s murder had been closed. The official conclusion was that Araminta had killed her husband during a violent argument and committed suicide by burning their house down. Harry had heard through Nellie Bly that Jackson was back at Yale, seeking solace in his studies. She felt truly sorry for him.
That night at the Tombs still seemed like a fever dream. Mary’s body was never found, but no one seemed overly concerned about the fate of a girl who was going to be put to death, and although it couldn’t be proven, few doubted she had murdered Sister Emily during an escape attempt. Charles Osborne managed to keep the S.P.R. agents out of the matter completely, sparing Harry and John being called as witnesses at the inquest.
The old woman whose body had tumbled out of the wardrobe was never identified. John hectored Orpha Winter until she reluctantly paid for a burial plot in Greenwood Cemetery, so at least the woman wouldn’t go to a pauper’s mass grav
e.
With the mayor’s blessing, Charles Osborne sent in an army of workers to seal up the cracks in the prison’s foundation. A few of them (discreetly on the payroll of the S.P.R.) carried iron knives, but no one reported seeing anything untoward. The ghouls had vanished—though Harry still got a funny feeling when she walked over sewer grates.
“Show me the sarcophagus where they found the shoes,” John said, offering his arm. She took it, and they spent the afternoon drifting through the rooms of the museum and hoping to understand the man who had traveled to the Dominion and met the daemon called Farrumohr.
“So Claudius Ptolemy had the spark too,” John mused.
That’s what Mr. Kaylock had called it when they’d met with him the previous afternoon.
The spark. An inborn ability to use talismans like the amulet of Osiris. It was very rare. Mary Elizabeth Wickes had it. So, it seemed, did John Weston.
“Ptolemy likely went through the Greater Gate in Memphis,” Harry said. “It was the closest to his home in Alexandria. He met this daemon, pumped it for information about the Dominion, and then fled. I can’t really blame him.”
“But where did he get the amulet in the first place?” John mused.
“We may never know.”
“Well, he should have destroyed it. Once he realized what it could do.”
“That’s easier said than done, apparently. I suppose he thought the next best thing was to stick it in a box with a nasty curse. It worked until Julius Sabelline came along and dug it up.”
“Do you believe what Mr. Kaylock said about Alec Lawrence?”
“That he’s not human?” Harry shrugged. It was a measure of how far she’d come that being told one of the London agents was not a man at all but something called a daēva had barely fazed her. “After everything else, after all we’ve seen, how can I doubt it?”
