by Amanda Quick
The next thing she knew she was flat on her back. A man’s heavy body was crushing her. Her senses were still flung wide open. Instinctively she tried to brace herself for what would surely be an explosion of nightmarish energy. It did not come.
She recognized the currents of hot, controlled energy instantly.
“Mr. WiNters.”
A gun roared somewhere in the night. Griffin shuddered violently. So much for her theory that no one in the crowd of respectable theatergoers would be carrying a gun.
The darkness erupted in screams and shrieks. Horses whinnied in terror. Hooves stamped and pounded on the pavement. Carriage wheels clattered.
Adelaide was nearly overwhelmed by the icy currents of energy slamming through her. Not her own, she realized.
“Griffin,” she gasped. “You’ve been shot.”
“Social reformers,” Griffin muttered. “Damned nuisances, the lot of them.”
7
HIS LEFT SHOULDER WAS DEATHLY COLD. HE’D BEEN SHOT once before, back in his younger, more reckless days. Back when, like other men in their early twenties, he had believed himself invincible. He had learned several lessons from the incident, one of which was that he was, indeed, mortal. Another was that although the wound felt oddly cold now, the hot blaze of agony would hit him soon enough. In the meantime he had things to do.
He looked down at Adelaide. She lay beneath him in a tangle of skirts, petticoats and velvet cloak. Her hat and veil had come off and her hair had fallen free of the pins that had secured it. The light of a nearby carriage lamp slanted across her stricken features. Her eyes were dark and deep with anxiety. Energy flared in the atmosphere around them, hers and his own, he realized.
In that strange moment of shimmering awareness it seemed to him that their currents were intertwined. The sensation of intimacy—there was no other word for it—was unlike anything he had ever experienced, not even in a lover’s arms.
It’s the shock of the wound, he thought. Or maybe I’m hallucinating again.
“Mr. Winters,” she said, more sternly this time. “Pay attention, sir. Where were you hit?”
“Shoulder, I think.” His left arm was numb. He rolled to his feet and reached down with his good arm to pull her up beside him. Amidst the confusion that reigned in the street it was unlikely anyone would notice her, let alone recognize her, but he did not want to take any chances. He jerked the hood of her cloak up over her head and pulled a little more shadow-energy to veil his own features.
“This way,” he ordered. He seized her hand and hauled her toward his carriage.
Mercifully, she did not argue or ask questions. He got her through the maze of rearing horses, frightened women and shouting men. By the time he reached the carriage, Jed had the door open and the stairs lowered.
“What happened, Boss?” Jed demanded. “Heard a gunshot. Are you and the lady all right?”
Adelaide was halfway through the door. She paused to look back at Jed. “Mr. Winters has been shot. We will need a doctor immediately.”
“Is it true?” Jed asked, thoroughly alarmed now. “Are ye hurt, Boss?”
“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Griffin bundled Adelaide into the cab and got in beside her. “The lady is right. I’ll need a doctor. Get back to the Abbey.”
“Aye, Boss.”
“First help me get Mr. Winters out of his coat,” Adelaide said to Jed. It was an order, not a request. “I must see how badly he is bleeding.” She hiked up the skirts of her gown and started to tear wide strips out of her muslin petticoats.
Jed hesitated, uncertain whose orders to follow.
Griffin dropped down onto the seat across from Adelaide, closed his eyes and sagged back against the cushions. The interior of the cab was starting to swim around him.
“The Abbey, Jed.”
“I believe you are sinking into shock, sir,” Adelaide said. “You must let me deal with the wound at once.”
Looking at her through slitted eyes, he said, “I want you away from here. The bastard may be hanging around in hopes of taking another shot.”
Adelaide glanced out the window. “The prints of the man who shot you lead away from here down the street. He has fled, sir. You are safe, for now.”
He had to work hard to focus on that astounding information. “You can see his footprints?”
“I can see the dreamlight energy in them, yes. It is very hot. Not surprising in view of the fact that he just attempted to commit murder.”
“Son of a bitch,” he whispered. “Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”
“Oh, yes. Dreamprints are quite distinctive. But this is no time to discuss my talent. I must see how badly you are bleeding. Jed, I will need your assistance.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Griffin discovered that he lacked the strength to argue. That was not a good sign.
Jed scrambled up into the small cab and went to work. When he and Adelaide got the overcoat open and started to ease it off over one shoulder, Griffin was nearly engulfed in the flood tide of pain that washed over him. He closed his eyes again and clenched his back teeth to throttle the groan.
“Any idea who fired the shot, Boss?” Jed asked, struggling to work as gently as possible.
“No.” Griffin sucked in another sharp breath.
“Have to work up a list,” Jed growled. “You’ve made a number of enemies over the years. But I reckon we can put Luttrell at the top. Looks like he’s decided to break the Truce.”
Griffin started to respond but Adelaide was leaning in very close. Her fingertips touched his forehead. In spite of the rising tide of agony, it occurred to him that her hand felt very good on his skin. Soothing energy eased his senses.
“The pain only makes the shock worse,” Adelaide said, leaning closer. “It places additional stress on the body and the senses. Forgive me, sir. I know you will not approve of what I am about to do.”
He opened his eyes partway. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“Just relax, sir.”
Energy pulsed lightly.
He wanted to reach up, capture her hand and hold on to her forever. The pulse of energy was growing stronger, urging him into a place where there would not be any pain. But there was something he had to do before he let the shadows take him.
“Jed,” he said. He could not seem to get his eyes open. “Mrs. Pyne is coming to the Abbey with us. Keep her there, understand?”
“Yes, Boss,” Jed said. He got the blood-soaked linen shirt open.
“What on earth do you mean, Mr. Winters?” Adelaide demanded. She snatched her fingers away from Griffin’s forehead and began to apply pressure to the wound. “You cannot hold me against my wishes.”
He ignored her. “Jed, tell the others that she is to be guarded night and day.”
“I fear you are hallucinating, Mr. Winters,” Adelaide said. “You did mention that you’ve had some problems with that sort of thing lately.”
“The shooter wasn’t aiming at me,” he said to Jed. “Bastard was trying to kill Mrs. Pyne. If I don’t wake up send word to Inspector Spellar at Scotland Yard. He owes me a few favors. He’ll know what to do. Until then, I want the lady guarded around the clock. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Boss,” Jed said.
“Dear heaven,” Adelaide whispered, shocked. “You took the bullet meant for me.”
She removed one hand from his shoulder long enough to touch his forehead again. Her fingertips were as light as butterflies and stained red with his blood.
He slid into sleep.
8
THE DREAM WELLS UP OUT OF THE DARKNESS, FEVER HOT AND glacial cold. It begins as they always do, at the foot of the stairs . . .
He climbs slowly upward to the horror he knows is waiting for him. He would give anything, including his soul, to be able to turn and run out of the house. But he knows that will Not change the reality of what he is about to discover.
The silence on the floor above frightens hi
m more than anything he has ever encountered in his sixteen years. Old houses are Never so quiet. It is as if the once warm, cheerful home has become a tomb.
He reaches the landing and walks down the hall toward the closed door of his parents’ bedroom. The shadows are denser on this floor. His pulse is skidding with fear. It is late afternoon outside but on this floor all is enveloped by Night.
When he reaches the bedroom door he thinks once again of turning and fleeing back out into the light of day. But he knows that he cannot allow the terror to control him. He senses that running away from whatever awaits him on the other side of the door will constitute an act of betrayal.
The door is unlocked. He struggles to steady his Nerve and then he opens the door.
He wants to look anywhere except at the bed. But there is No alterNative. The white linen sheets are soaked in blood. One pale arm is draped languidly over the edge of the mattress.
Too late. He is always too late.
He opens his mouth to cry out his rage and despair and helplessness to an uncaring world . . .
“Calm yourself, Mr. Winters. You are dreaming again. I will ease the currents just as I did last time. Go back to sleep.”
He has heard this gentle voice before. He trusts it now. The dream images evaporate, leaving a sense of peace unlike any he has known since he was sixteen years old.
He drifts back down into a deep healing sleep.
9
“HE WILL BE FINE,” LUCINDA JONES SAID. “THE BALM THAT I gave you will ensure that no infection takes hold while the wound closes. Be sure to apply it twice daily. I will also leave you the ingredients for a tisane that will encourage healing. Make certain that he drinks at least two cups a day, morning and night.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jones,” Adelaide said.
She smiled at Lucinda across the width of the bed. Griffin was asleep again. She did not sense any of the nightmarish energy that had ebbed and flowed throughout the long night. He lay against the pillows, eyes closed, dark hair matted with dried sweat. He was nude to the waist. The bandage that covered his shoulder was fresh, the inside layers saturated with the therapeutic balm that Lucinda had prepared.
Immediately after the doctor had left, Adelaide made the decision to send word to the newly wed Mrs. Jones, requesting a consultation at the earliest possible hour. She had not been at all certain that there would be a response but she could not think of anywhere else to turn. The doctor who had closed the wound had scoffed at her concerns about infection. He was a good man, Adelaide had concluded, and quite deft with a needle and thread, but he was of an older generation. He gave no credence to modern notions of medicine.
“It was very kind of you to come out at such an early hour and in this dreadful weather,” Adelaide said. “I cannot tell you how very grateful I am. The doctor got the bullet out and I insisted that he clean the wound quite thoroughly but I have seen such injuries before. I know what can happen.”
“You were wise to be cautious.” Lucinda closed and buckled the satchel that she had brought with her. “In my experience, infection often proves more lethal than the original wound. But I’m sure he will recover nicely.”
“It is a relief to hear you say that. My housekeeper tells me that you possess great expertise in such matters.”
Lucinda contemplated Griffin. Behind the lenses of her spectacles, curiosity glinted in her eyes.
“I must say, I’m amazed at how quietly he is sleeping,” she said. “It is as if he had been given some opium concoction, but I do not detect any indication of the milk of the poppy.”
“I have some small talent for dealing with pain,” Adelaide explained.
Lucinda nodded, unsurprised. “Yes, I can sense that you possess some psychical ability, Mrs. Pyne. Do not worry overmuch about Mr. Winters. It is obvious that he is endowed with a very strong constitution.”
Adelaide looked down at Griffin’s broad, bare chest. So did Lucinda. There was a short pause while they both contemplated Griffin’s strong constitution.
“Yes, indeed,” Adelaide said. “Very strong.” She cleared her throat and hastily pulled the sheet up to cover Griffin’s chest.
Lucinda smiled. “Nevertheless, he will no doubt be in considerable discomfort when he does awaken. Men can get quite surly under those conditions.” She opened her satchel again and removed another packet. “I will leave you something for the pain, just in case. Mix a spoonful into his tea or a glass of warm milk.”
“Thank you.”
Lucinda buckled the satchel again and hoisted it in one hand. “Very well, then. I must be off.”
“A cup of tea before you leave?”
“Unfortunately I must decline. My husband is waiting for me in the carriage. We have another appointment this morning. Inspector Spellar from Scotland Yard has asked us to consult for him.”
“I understand. I will see you out.”
They left the bedroom and started down the staircase to the front hall of the big house.
“Again, allow me to express my gratitude, Mrs. Jones,” Adelaide said.
“Nonsense. Delighted to be of some assistance,” Lucinda said. “But I must admit I am surprised that you felt comfortable sending for me. My reputation in the press leads most people to believe that I am given to the pastime of poisoning people. How did you learn of my herbal skills?”
“I have had some experience of the press, Mrs. Jones. I am well aware of what it can do to a reputation. As for how I learned of your talent for concocting therapeutic remedies, I owe the knowledge to my housekeeper.”
“And who might she be?”
“Her name is Mrs. Trevelyan. She is acquainted with your housekeeper.”
“Mrs. Shute?”
“I believe that is her name, yes. The two have known each other since they started out in service together many years ago. Their world is a small one. Gossip flows through it just as freely as it does through the other social circles. Mrs. Trevelyan assured me that her friend would never have gone to work for an employer who was in the habit of poisoning the odd gentleman or two.”
Lucinda chuckled. “In other words my housekeeper provided me with an excellent character reference. I must remember to thank her for that.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Jones. And congratulations on your recent marriage.”
“Thank you.” Lucinda appeared mildly surprised. “You are, I gather, a member of the Arcane community?”
“My parents were Arcane but they died a long time ago. I spent the past several years in America and have had no contact with the Society. Growing up I was well aware of the Jones family, however. When the announcement of your wedding to Mr. Caleb Jones appeared in the papers I recognized the name and made the connection. That was when Mrs. Trevelyan informed me that her old friend was in your employ.”
“If you do not have any close connections within the Society, you may not be aware that Mr. Jones and I have recently founded a psychical investigation agency. Let me give you a card.”
Lucinda reached into a hidden pocket sewn into the folds of her elegant skirts and pulled out a crisp pasteboard.
Adelaide took it from her and glanced at the name of the firm printed in very fine black script.
“JoNes aNd JoNes,” she read.
“Should you ever feel the need of our services, I trust you will send word to our office. Jones and Jones prides itself on discretion.”
“That is very good to know, Mrs. Jones.”
Adelaide slipped the card into the pocket of the starched white apron that covered her from throat to ankle. Beneath the apron was a fresh, plain day dress. She had sent Jed to fetch Mrs. Trevelyan shortly after arriving at the Abbey. Demonstrating her considerable professional competence, the housekeeper had quickly packed a trunk that contained fresh clothes and a variety of personal toiletries. She had also put in a set of silk sheets and one of Adelaide’s silk nightgowns.
Mrs. Trevelyan had never asked any questions about the silk she
ets. She no doubt assumed that Adelaide’s rule of sleeping only in silk was simply an eccentricity. The reality was that it was a necessity as far as Adelaide was concerned. The disturbing energy of other people’s dreams and nightmares soaked into bedding and mattresses over the years and made sleep virtually impossible for someone with her unusual talent. She had discovered long ago that silk acted as a barrier to the unpleasant residue of old dreamlight.
Having seen to her employer’s immediate needs, Mrs. Trevelyan had promptly sailed into the kitchen and taken charge of the household. She reported to Adelaide that the large man named Delbert had put up some resistance at first. But he and the other enforcers had been won over when the fragrant aromas of a hearty breakfast and strong coffee had begun to emanate from the kitchen.
“Men generally respond very well to a good meal,” Mrs. Trevelyan explained to Adelaide. “Indeed, it has been my experience that they are more faithful to a good cook than they are to a lover.”
Delbert waited now at the foot of the stairs with Lucinda’s cloak. His coat was fastened around his bulky frame in a less than successful attempt to conceal the large revolver he carried in his shoulder holster. If Lucinda noticed the bulge she was too polite to question it.
Delbert was clearly unaccustomed to the business of assisting a lady into her cloak. He fumbled a bit with the long, sweeping length of fine wool and turned quite red when it did not settle properly around Lucinda’s shoulders. But Mrs. Jones did not seem to notice.
“Thank you,” she said politely.
“Yes, ma’am.” Delbert turned even redder.
Out in the street, rain was falling steadily. Adelaide watched from the doorway as Delbert used a large umbrella to escort Lucinda down the steps to the waiting carriage. The vehicle’s windows were securely closed against the damp weather.
