There was a soft knock as the door slid open. Sampson leaned in.
“I heard voices, so I assumed I could enter.” The house manager looked to have aged ten years in the past twenty-four hours. “Can I get you anything?”
“The lassie be needing some fruit juice if you have it.”
“I’ll have a footman bring some for both of you. And a light snack.” Sampson tugged on a rope that signaled to the staff downstairs.
“Could you order a carriage for Mr. O’Sullivan? I’m sure he’d like to go home.”
“Of course.” Sampson left.
“Andrew . . .” Elizabeth bit her lip and touched his shoulder lightly. “I’m not sure how Rachel faired in all this. I had to be . . . how should I put it . . . not very delicate with her. I needed to use her to stop the man who kidnapped all those people.”
Andrew squinted. “You mind telling me who caused all this trouble?”
She studied him before answering. “I can’t. It’s too dangerous for you. It’s something I’ll need to discuss with my father.”
“What about Mr. Hunter?”
“It might even be too dangerous for him.”
Andrew bowed. “Spoken like a true lady of a Great House. There be anything else?”
She gave him a tired smile. “Yes, but not tonight. We’re all exhausted. Thank you, Andrew. We’ll call on Rachel soon. Please let me know if you or she needs anything. And reassure her that the shipments of food and clothing will continue.”
He gave her a short bow then shuffled out.
Elizabeth waited a few minutes for the juice to arrive, but when it didn’t, she made her way up to her room to take a bath. Her battle with Leland made her feel cold and dirty, but the encounter with the emissary was something else entirely. He had touched a part of her that gave her such pleasure. Yet . . . there was a cruelty behind it. She had no doubt now that he had been manipulating her. Elizabeth decided she would not enter the spirit passageway again until she had found a way to protect herself from him. When she was ready, she would discuss it with Rachel and Andrew. Perhaps the time for secrets was over.
Elizabeth walked into her bedroom and sat down at the vanity to remove her jewelry. As she went through the routine motions, however, a strange sensation came upon her. Her chest heaved as the air seemed to thin and her ears plugged up. It was as if the barometric pressure had suddenly dropped—something she knew was impossible. Confused, she shook her head and yawned, trying to pop her ears and relieve the pressure. When she glanced up into the mirror again—a miasma of stars had consumed her irises.
Her first thought was that she was going mad. She closed her eyes, trying not to let fear overwhelm her. It must be a hallucination, she thought to herself. She was exhausted and distraught over what harm she might have done to Rachel. That had to be it.
She opened her eyes and faced the mirror again. Emerald and amethyst lines swirled.
“No!” she screamed, jumping up and knocking over the vanity stool. Dizzy, she gasped for breath. It was if she had suddenly been tossed up onto a mountain top. Nauseous, she careened around the room as panic overtook her. “No, no, no. This can’t be real.” Stumbling back to the vanity, she picked up Rachel’s necklace and clutched it to her chest as if it could protect her. “Get out!” she cried out.
Above her a huge gash appeared in the air as if the giant talon of a predatory bird had ripped the fabric of her world attempting to escape another. A blast of wind from the opening pushed her back, and she held up her hand to protect her eyes. As she peered through her fingers, she saw the empty blackness of the spirit passageway. A figure of stars took shape inside the rift.
It was the emissary.
How can you do this? Elizabeth thought as she trembled with fear. What are you?
“I am what you wish to be.” For the first time his voice echoed in her mind. “Deep in your heart you know this.”
The emissary possessed more power than Elizabeth had understood, she now realized. Immense power. He had given her a taste of it to defeat Leland and was now using it to seduce her, to make her want more.
To make her want to do his will.
And she knew: a being such as him running rampant in Boston or anywhere else would be catastrophic. This new understanding horrified her. She had to stop him.
The emissary’s hands reached out toward the edges of the rift. As he did, his thoughts melded into hers as he reinstated their psychic connection. It was tenuous since she was not in the spirit passageway, but she heard him calling to her like the sirens of myth and legends. He wanted her to return. She created an imaginary brick wall in her mind to stop him, but a pulse of energy swept over her and she faltered.
“No!” she yelled at him, building the psychic wall higher and thicker. She imagined metal poles reinforcing it, but his mental assault was too great.
He blasted through it like it was tissue paper.
The emissary tormented her with images of Samuel being ripped apart by an angry mob. Blood vomited out of her husband’s mouth, and his eyes were burned out of his skull. She saw her father decapitated by a ghostly sword, yet his body lurched around as if to find his head. Fires erupted through Boston. Driven by rage and hatred, city dwellers from every walk of life killed and maimed each other—
And the emissary fed on it. His power grew by consuming the life force of the city and its inhabitants. This was how the emissary survived. The terror and horror of it all twisted her soul and squeezed.
Although she feared it wasn’t enough, Elizabeth reached down for every inch of strength she had. Piece by piece she rebuilt her brick wall, this time layering it with cement. The being’s assault slowed. Elizabeth lurched back to the vanity, hoping the miasma had gone from her eyes, but it was still there.
Elizabeth could sense the emissary’s frustration and his determination to break her. He would not stop—ever. But why? What was so special about her? In a corner of her mind, she ran through the times she had interacted with the emissary, seeing the way he had followed her—no, stalked her, then urged her to kill. She now understood that the burnt handprint on her boot had been him trying to follow her into to her world. But that attempt had failed. So he wasn’t invincible, just very powerful. He needed Elizabeth to succumb to his offer of power in order to pass through to this world and use it to feed on.
But why her and not Rachel? Or any other medium? What was special about her? Elizabeth realized that didn’t matter. The emissary needed her. That was his weakness.
Another blow to her psyche shoved her to the floor. She gasped in pain, curling up into a fetal position. Every nerve felt raw, searing as if on fire. She clawed at the floor in desperation. She tried to call for help, but no sound escaped her lips.
“You cannot defeat me, woman. You are a lesser being. Only worthy of being my vessel until I merge with the one who truly deserves that honor.” His voice echoed in her mind.
At that moment, a brief glimpse of who that person was flashed by. Now everything made sense to her. It also made her angry, and that anger gave her strength. Ideas of how to defeat the being tumbled through her mind until she latched onto one. Elizabeth knew her will would fail at some point and she would no longer be able to hold him off. She wasn’t strong enough. But if he needed her, she’d give herself to him—just not in the way he expected.
“Stop! I beg you. I’ll come. But please, give me a minute,” she said in her most plaintive voice, hoping that he would not see through her ruse.
The psychic assault abated but did not disappear. His presence hovered over her psyche like a swarm of mosquitos ready to extract every bit of what made her human. Elizabeth took those few moments to walk around the room and touch Samuel’s clothing, smell the fabric, clutch it to her breast. She wanted to remember everything about the man she loved even if it was just for an instant.
“I’m ready.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes and willed her mind into the passageway. Unlike before, the miasma
overwhelmed the darkness. It swirled and twisted into so many shapes and patterns that in the real world it would have made her dizzy. The emissary’s manlike form emerged from the haze and offered him his arm. Her hesitation was real and not part of her plan, but it made her acquiesce believable. Once again she took his arm and merged with him.
The same rush of power returned; if one could breathe in this place, it would have taken her breath away. The being released all of his primordial strength into her. Piece by piece the woman known as Elizabeth Weldsmore Hunter fell away as the emissary took over. Still, she fought to retain some vestige of control over her own psyche, otherwise her plan would not work. In one corner of her mind, she tucked away all that she was and the people she loved. She encased it with the strength borne of her father and her husband. She embraced the emissary, distracting him from her true purpose.
Protecting Samuel.
She knew now: the darkness that had haunted her husband all these years had been this creature attempting to claw his way into his soul, turning his thoughts troubled and violent. Something Samuel had done or been exposed to in the past had made him the perfect vessel for this creature. She was merely the conduit to achieve the emissary’s goal of transforming the man she loved into an unstoppable destructive force.
Elizabeth refused to allow this. It was time.
With an urgency grounded in desperation, she formed the image of the first bricks under their feet. But these were not just any bricks. She used her anger to reinforce them with the image of the steel that built her father’s ships. From there she built upward. In her mind, she constructed a cocoon of interlocking metal bricks in the shape of an egg all around them—trapping them both. Too late emissary flailed against it, trying to use his power to destroy it. When that didn’t work, he tried to extricate himself. He lashed out, pummeling her psyche to force her to release him, but Elizabeth held onto him and stood fast.
She knew it had taken both of them to destroy Rachel’s psychic wall, and without her to help they were both trapped.
The emissary screeched and writhed in her mind, but she didn’t let go until the last brick was locked in place. When she finally released him, he wreaked vengeance upon every part of her psyche, torturing her with images of Samuel’s death unless she helped him break out. But Elizabeth knew in her heart it was all a lie. She had saved, at least for a time, Samuel, her father, and the city she loved—Boston. Elizabeth had no doubt that someday the emissary would escape, but by that time she prayed there would be someone stronger than her who could stop him.
The violence of the being’s attacks grew more savage. She knew the death of her mind was near. How long it would take for her body to die, she had no idea. Elizabeth could only hope that Samuel and her father would work together to protect House Weldsmore.
Now it was time to let go to make sure her trap was complete. So she did.
***
Samuel leapt out of the truck as it screeched to a halt in front of the Weldsmore mansion. Another truck pulled in behind them, and he saw Jonathan being helped out of the back. Obviously his father-in-law had countermanded his order and had raced home. So be it. Samuel had no time to confront him.
Instead Samuel sprinted over to the entrance doors without waiting for the footman to open them.
“Elizabeth!” he cried out as he stumbled into the foyer and ran as fast as he could up the stairs. “Elizabeth!” Every step was agony as the darkness he had bottled up emerged to drag him down, but he kept going. He raced down the hall, paused at the bedroom door, looking for any sign of her.
And there she was. She had collapsed on the floor, but what hovered over her could only be described as a rift in the universe. The sight shocked him. What had she done? What was it?
He staggered toward his wife, knelt down next to her, and gathered her up in his arms. Her breathing was rapid and shallow.
“Elizabeth? Can you hear me?” His voice broke with emotion. “Someone!” he screamed toward the doorway. “Get a doctor. Now!”
He brushed the hair away from Elizabeth’s face then looked up at the rift. Inside lay darkness and a miasma of stars. He turned back to his wife. “Elizabeth, come back. Please come back.”
The rift began to shrink.
Jonathan lurched in. He saw the rift and gasped. “What the hell?”
It closed, leaving the room as if nothing had ever occurred there.
Samuel felt Elizabeth’s last breath leave her body. “No. It can’t . . . No.” His body heaved in despair as tears ran down his face. “We’re too late.”
“Elizabeth?” Jonathan stared at Samuel holding his daughter in his arms.
Samuel looked toward him. “She’s gone.”
23
Samuel sat across from Rachel at the same table where his wife had once sat during her lessons with the medium. It had been repaired since the last time he was there and the rest of the apartment cleaned up. Andrew leaned against the wall next to Rachel, his hands clasped in front of him. All were in mourning as Elizabeth’s funeral had been two days ago.
It had been a somber yet grand affair, suitable for a head of state or royalty. The heads of all the Great Houses from Boston had attended as well as a few others from New York and Pennsylvania. Others sent condolences and enough flowers to overflow the foyer and parlor at the Weldsmore mansion. Most of Boston came to mourn. It surprised even Jonathan to see how much she was loved.
A small contingent of South Siders had arrived to pay their respects, but was kept out of the church and the cemetery. When Jonathan saw the Irish, he’d ordered his men to clear them out. Samuel tried to stop him, but the look the older man gave him chilled him to the bone and he let it go.
At the reception, Samuel had overheard that someone from House Tillenghast had been caught up in the riots and had been injured so gravely he was carted off to an asylum. Samuel thought it odd but was too distracted to give it any consideration.
The one happy note to the whole incident was that Mary, Mr. Owen’s sister, and the girl, Abigail, had survived the riot and returned home. Many others did not.
Rachel was still weak from her ordeal and looked frail sitting across from him.
“Can you remember anything?” he asked.
She shook her head and glanced down at her hands, which kept twitching. Obviously embarrassed, she hid them under the table. “I be terribly sorry, Mr. Hunter, but I don’t remember much. There be a man controlling us, but who he was and what he looked like . . . I just don’t remember.” She closed her eyes. “There be so much pain in that room. It was hard to keep it out.”
“You must remember something,” Samuel begged, desperate for any information to help him track down who or what had killed his wife. “Who did you warn me about? How did you know she was in danger?”
Rachel opened her eyes and turned to Andrew.
“Tell him, lass. He’ll believe you.”
She gulped. “When Elizabeth entered my mind, there be another with her. Riding along like a leech. I’d never felt its like before, and I hope to God I never do again.”
“Another medium like yourself?” Samuel asked, his interest piqued.
“That’s what Mrs. Hunter believed, but she be wrong. It was . . . It was . . . as close to the devil as I’ve ever come.” Sweat broke out on her brow.
Andrew got her a glass of water. “Rachel, be calm, lass.”
Rachel sipped like she was trying to avoid speaking. When she composed herself, she put the glass down. “Mr. Hunter, whatever that thing was, it not be a man or beast.”
“Do you think you could enter this spirt passageway again? Find out more about this thing?”
Rachel’s face took on a profound sadness. “I lost it all, Mr. Hunter. My gift, my reason for being . . . It be gone. Ripped from me. I . . . I . . .”
Andrew stepped forward and touched her shoulder as if he could ease her pain.
Samuel considered telling them what he’d witnessed in his bedroom, but tho
ught better of it for now. The woman had been through enough. There would be time to discuss it later.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Callahan. Please let me know if you need anything.” Samuel stood up to leave.
“You’ll still make sure the bairns get the food and clothing your wife promised?” Her eyes pleaded.
He nodded. “Of course. I’ll take care of it myself.”
Samuel left the building and got into the carriage to go back home. Home. He scoffed at that idea. House Weldsmore was no longer his home with Elizabeth gone, but he still had business with Jonathan and a killer to find.
***
Jonathan sat in his office chair, turned toward the window with an empty whiskey glass in his hand. The other arm hung in a sling. On his desk lay an empty bottle of Ireland’s finest. He stared out the amber-colored window at nothing in particular.
He’d gotten word from Mr. Evans that his secret workshops had been discovered and destroyed. Most likely it was Tillenghast and his minions, but he’d never be able to prove it. The money he had sunk into those projects was lost. The Abyssinians were in disarray and had cancelled their contracts until further notice. Other Great Houses were keeping at arm’s length until the political fallout had settled. House Weldsmore wasn’t bankrupt but was in financial trouble. If he didn’t act soon, his legacy—or what remained of it—would disappear. Not that it mattered.
Tillenghast, Du Pont, and whoever else they were working with had gotten exactly what they wanted. His only heir was dead, and the future of House Weldsmore lay in jeopardy.
He heard Sampson clear his throat.
“What do you want?” The words came out more like a grunt.
“Sir, Mrs. Owen would like to know when to open the house to visitors again. So that she might plan appropriately.”
“Tell Mrs. Owen to fire half her staff, and you need to fire half of our footmen as well. We will no longer be receiving guests.”
“Sir? I don’t understand.”
Boston Metaphysical Society Page 25
