Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1)

by Jeanine Croft

  But the footman cleared his throat and informed his employer that the esteemed neighbor in question was out of town…with his conveyance.

  “Devilish inconsiderate of him,” their host grumbled, following Mr. Haywood and his family from the room. “We’ll flag down a bone-shaker then.”

  “Give over, Stapleton, I shall be climbing my doorstones before your man has even spotted a hack.” Uncle Haywood took his coat and hat from the servant. “The fog’s too thick to see through, never mind drive in.”

  “I never met with a more stubborn man.”

  “I have no doubt of it,” Mr. Haywood replied, grinning as the rest of the party assembled in the foyer to see the intrepid pedestrians off. Emma and her guardians departed shortly thereafter. Would that she had not glanced back at the house, though, for it was dreadfully disconcerting to see the silhouettes of Mr. Stapleton and his family gathered at the window, safe in their circle of light. The malignant street lights hovered in the darkness like disembodied Lampades dancing in the mist.

  A lamplighter was scurrying down his ladder as they turned a corner, leaving Mr. Stapleton’s street. Visibly startled, the man froze and watched them as they passed him by; the street was otherwise uninhabited. His gaslit eyes glimmered with carnelian dread and his mouth parted as though he might be on the verge of saying something, but after a moment he shook his head and hurried off with his ladder. The man then disappeared into the gloom that seemed to suffocate even the orange glow of the gaslights.

  How dark it was tonight, Emma thought, looking up at where the eaves and upper windows disappeared into the fallen clouds so that any candlelight swaying dismally at the glazing appeared otherworldly. Shivering, she endeavored to keep pace with her uncle’s militant stride, loath to admit even to herself that the night was starting to disquiet her. The shadows themselves glared from the fog, raising her hackles. Only silence prevailed. The silence of the night and brume disrupted only by the rhythmic strike of her uncle’s cane and three pairs of heels slapping briskly upon the cobbles as they marched through the white, creeping drift. Rhythmic until, unexpectedly, a fourth set of sinister footsteps was heard to echo in the street, the discord instantly tripping Emma’s heart.

  She froze and listened, her gaze furtively cutting through the fog that lay behind them. “Do you hear that, uncle?” When he made no answer, she turned to find that he and his wife had been wholly swallowed behind the milky silence of London’s wraithlike curtains. Gone! Even the terse staccato of his cane was utterly drowned. There was no one there but she alone, and the unearthly footfalls that pursued her. “Uncle?” She was looking all about her, febrile with panic as her pursuer drew ever nearer.

  As she hurried after her guardians, she felt the icy fingers of presentiment stealing over her heart, threatening to unroot it with a rip. There was something so awful about the quiet, swirling fog around her that it seemed to defy the scream that threatened, locking it fast in her throat. She feared that by calling out, she’d only be inviting the monster at her back to descend upon her all the sooner.

  She gave a sudden yelp of fright as a large cat streaked past her, nearly tripping her before vanishing like a wraith into the alley to her right. It was almost as though something had startled it from across the road. And then, with a sudden gust, the fog parted and she saw for herself what had frightened the cat.

  There was a shadowy figure standing in the park, behind the iron fence. The face was hidden behind a cloak, only the long locks of hair escaped the hood, floating about like white chaos. But she could feel the eyes staring fixedly at her. So unmistakable was that intrusive stare that it pierced her and crawled its way up along her spine like an insect. One moment the stranger was there, watching, and then, the very next instant, the fog closed around him and he vanished, melting into obscurity.

  Terrified, she flattened herself against the brick wall, near the alley. Her hair, like the cat’s, was rampant with terror. How had her aunt and uncle gained so much distance so quickly? Or had she turned to stare behind her longer than she’d thought? She tried to ignore her fear—tried to force her frozen limbs into action—but fear seemed to coil about her feet like an adder, entrapping her. If she screamed, would her aunt and uncle hear her? They could not have wandered too far ahead—were perchance already waiting for her to catch up. All she had to do was run. Run!

  The townhouse was close and if she hurried, she would be home in a moment. Finally, she pushed herself off the wall and compelled her feet to move. Sprinting, she passed under another gaslight pouring its dull light into the mist. Here she stole another glance over her shoulder like a frightened heroine of a penny novel romance. Who the devil was lurking behind her? The mad butcher, to be sure.

  The thought had no sooner crossed her mind when the church bells began to toll. Her hand was suddenly wrenched in a vice grip. She shrieked and spun toward the malefactor. She’d been so busy watching the fog at her back that she had not looked for danger ahead.

  “What a hearty lass, out so late on her own.” The voice rasped like old parchment, the tut-tutting tone belied by tenebrous amusement. It was the figure from the park! A gypsy of some sort! A creature of considerable height and long, lethal-looking fingers.

  “Let go!” She tried again and again to twist her arm free.

  She felt the creature smiling even before it pushed back the hood to reveal its face. The fog swallowed her screams as the man seized her in his hideous gaze, violating her with unspeakable intention. Later, she would not recall the shape of the face or the features that had filled it, only that leering emptiness; only those lifeless, bloodless eyes that had somehow rolled back in their sockets; only the sense of nothingness that threatened to consume her. And black teeth—such long, black teeth! She would also not recall how she had freed herself. All that was certain was the fact that it had not been her own strength that had gained her release.

  In the midst of her struggles, those long cold fingers unexpectedly released her and she fell backwards, stumbling into the street, arms flailing. She tripped and landed in the road with unceremonious swiftness just as a carriage came racing out of the night fog like an eight-legged steed. The sound of hooves pounding against the stones was like thunder rushing towards her, threatening to devour her beneath dust and iron. Her lungs seized with renewed horror as the carriage bore down on her, the driver shouting a panicked alarm as he spotted her. Too late!

  This time, when a pair of hands snatched her up, there was no thought of screaming. She was plucked so swiftly from the causeway that her neck jerked with unexpected violence. The entire incident was a surreal blur like the harrowing sting of horse hair whipping across her brow, her skull passing inches from an iron hoof.

  The world only resumed its natural tempo once she was standing on the walkway, gasping in distress and gaping at the retreating coach. Its wake disturbed and curled the fog that hugged the glistening road. The driver waved his fist furiously at her, but she was too aware, suddenly, of the man at her side—her rescuer—to pay the coachman any heed. Not the gypsy, thank heaven.

  He released his hold on her and moved away to place a respectful distance between them.

  “You…you saved my life, sir!” she stammered, glancing down at her stinging palms where shallow cuts were glistening red.

  “Now that is something I have not yet been accused of,” the stranger replied. His voice was as dark and low as a growl, the effect not a little sinister despite his silky grin.

  Just like that, Emma’s relief curdled in her belly.

  Chapter Four

  The Witching Hour

  Emma’s rescuer was dressed in black, only the crisp white of his cravat contrasted with his heavy greatcoat and dark top boots. She caught herself staring at the shadowed lineaments of his face, almost completely veiled from the gaslights by the brim of his black beaver hat. Only the lower half of his face was visible as he retrieved the cane that he had ostensibly dropped when he’d flung himself into th
e road to save her.

  She watched the leather of his dark gloves tighten around it with an audible rasp. “Thank you,” she said, still hoping that he would prove himself her savior and not her murderer.

  But he dashed that hope the very next instant. “Do not thank me yet.”

  Warily, she backed away. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “You may thank me when you are safely home.”

  She offered a feeble smile and then, to distract herself from imagining all the nefarious things he might do to her, she scoured the road for her spectacles. But she was none too pleased when she finally discovered them. “Quite ruined!” She shook her head as he drew up beside her to examine the spectacles cradled in her palms.

  “Quite,” he agreed with a desultory air. “Well, never mind, spectacles are far less costly—and more easily replaced—than your life.”

  She nodded, trembling with shock.

  “Do you always take late night strolls in the middle of the street?”

  The question was repeated again before Emma blinked her shock away enough to answer. “No, I…” It was then that the events that preceded her fateful fall came rushing back. “The gypsy! He attacked me and I fell!” Dear God, she would never forget those eyes!

  “I wonder that you saw anything in this infernal fog.”

  Emma did not let his unsympathetic response give her pause too long. “It…it was an old man, I believe—unaccountably strong and tall. I don’t remember what he said…well, he didn’t say much…that is to say, he didn’t have to say anything. He smiled and lifted his hood away and I saw…” She shuddered to think what he might have done to her. Those deathly pools had glistened like white, watery graves. “His eyes were monstrous!”

  Her rescuer’s lips tightened beneath the shadow of his brim. “It is very dark tonight, and it seems you took a fearful tumble, Miss…”

  “Oh! Emma Rose.” She’d never had to introduce herself to a stranger before. This night was turning out to be the oddest of her life. And now he likely thought her a maundering twit! Not that she cared what he thought of her.

  “Well, Miss Rose, I do not doubt you’ve had a terrible fright and the fog can play such wicked tricks on the eyes, but wheresoever your gypsy is now, I assure you he is far from here—of that you may be sure.” Out came the smile again. “I am rather a fearsome creature myself when I wish to be. I frighten even gypsies.”

  As imposing as his figure was, she did not doubt it. “Did I scream?” She thought she had—she must have! Surely her screams would have penetrated even her uncle’s impaired hearing.

  “The Bow Bells, madam,” said he. “Your screams were overcome by the tolling of the hour and the thundering of hooves.” He drew out his pocket watch. “It is getting very late, you know; on nights like these the witching hour comes early. And witches are vicious creatures.” His smile became feral, almost defying her not to believe him. “You must allow me the honor of escorting you home.”

  She studied what little of his features she could make out and wondered again if she ought to be scared and run away. Doubtless he would catch her easily. At any rate, why would he offer assistance if he only meant to exsanguinate her later? Besides, he was well dressed and the lower half of his face was very handsome, very unlike a mad butcher.

  She released a long steady breath. “I do not fear witches, or vampyres, or any such impossible nonsense. Only wicked monks are to be feared.” Had she lost her senses somewhere in the fog? Why else was she standing in a deserted street, shrouded from reality, alluding to The Monk with a complete stranger whose face was all but shadowed?

  “Nothing worse than wicked monks,” he said. “I avoid their society at all costs.”

  “I confess I did fear you might be one, but as you have risked your life to rescue me and are not wearing a cassock, I must consider that you might be something else entirely.”

  His teeth flashed behind his smile. “Miss Rose, you have quite piqued my curiosity. What is it you think I am? Surely I am not a vampyre, for you have just told me that such things are impossible.”

  “No, not something as fatuous as that.” As she watched his impenetrable smile curl a little higher, her flesh rippled in response.

  “What then am I? Come, come, do not keep me in suspense any longer, I beg you.”

  “A knight errant, of course.”

  “A white knight or a black knight, I wonder?”

  “I wonder that too,” she said. Until she saw his eyes she would not be able to fathom the color of his character clearly, nor see the lamps to the soul. Then it occurred to her that the footfalls she’d heard dogging her earlier might just as likely have been this gentleman’s and not the dread gypsy fiend who’d attacked her. In which case he was not to be trusted after all. A black knight then.

  “I see you are trying to make out my character,” he said.

  “Yes, but it is hard to do so in the dark.”

  “Some things are best done in the dark, Miss Rose.”

  “That is just what a wicked monk would say.” If nothing else, she was grateful for the darkness that concealed the crimson flush overspreading her cheeks.

  “Then allow me to play the knight errant and convey you safely home before I forget my manners again. We really ought not be dithering in the street like this…alone.”

  “I should be most obliged to have your company, but only if you promise not to exsanguinate me.” Heavens, she really hoped she wasn’t flirting with the mad butcher himself! Only Emma Rose of Little Snoring would be that unlucky.

  The bark of laughter that followed was unrestrained and engaging. “I vow, madam, for tonight at least, I shall behave like a good monk. Will that appease you?”

  “I suppose it must. But to what name does this monk answer? I should very much like to know to whom it is I owe my life.”

  “Of course,” he drawled. “How utterly remiss of me.” He bowed gallantly but did not remove his hat, which she was very sorry for because she’d been eagerly awaiting a glimpse of his features. “Markus Winterly. Rescuer of demoiselles and slayer of gypsy fiends.” His upper lip quirked slightly at the corner, affording her just the smallest flash of white teeth. “But, I own, a demoiselle in distress invariably requires rescuing from me.” There was an edge of warning in his tone, but, seeing as he had just prevented her brains from spilling across the street, she was disinclined to heed it.

  Instead, she fell into step beside him. “I am not usually a benighted damsel, you understand.” She flicked a stray hair out of her face, imagining with a grimace the absolute chaos that had likely befallen her once respectable coiffure. “Nor do I make it a habit to flee from gypsies into oncoming traffic.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  “You see, I seem to have misplaced my aunt and uncle in the fog.”

  He gave a nod. “Misplaced kin, perilous gypsies, bloodthirsty carriages, and ruined spectacles—I fear this has turned out to be a penny novel romance of impossible nonsense, Miss Rose. Next you will tell me a vampyre escorted you home.”

  “No,” she said, flushed, “a monk walked me home.” It was a good thing she heard her name being called and looked up to see her aunt and uncle hastening towards them, for, in another moment, she might have been in danger of regretting the reunion. She was having the strangest fun of her life! “There now” —she waved at her guardians— “my wayward kin have finally noticed my absence.”

  “So they have,” he answered softly. “And not a moment too soon…”

  Instead of relief, her uncle’s face was mottled with ire. “What the devil do you mean by dawdling on a night like this, Emma?”

  It was Mr. Winterly, however, who answered him. “My dear sir, your niece has had rather a shocking experience.” He politely stepped aside as little Aunt Sophie threw her arms around Emma. “I beg you will not be wroth until after you have heard her tale.”

  “Dear girl, do not tell me you are hurt!” Her uncle’s ire suddenly receded be
hind a wary glance that leapt from his niece to the stranger and back again.

  “I am well, Uncle. I tripped onto the road as a speeding carriage approached, but Mr. Winterly happened upon me with timely expediency and managed to pull me from harm’s way.” She did not know why or when she had suddenly resolved to omit the exact cause of her precipitate fall in the first place, but she found that she rather preferred Mr. Winterly’s opinion that what she’d seen had been only a trick of the fog. Moreover, strange sightless gypsies might savor of madness and lend credence to her uncle’s emphatic belief that her love of gothic horrors, or the macabre conversations in the Stapleton drawing room, had led to a regrettably excessive and energetic imagination. And perhaps the poor gypsy was a blind mendicant who’d been frightened off by her screaming—his deformity was certainly no fault of his own. The poor wretch had likely only wanted a penny.

  Heavens, she couldn’t think clearly with Mr. Winterly’s probing eyes upon her (she might not see them but she could certainly feel them). And what did he think of her sudden omission of the blind gypsy? She glanced up into that ever present smile, her cheeks warmed by his obvious amusement.

  “What a devilish night altogether.” Her uncle gave her shoulder a reassuring pat, misunderstanding the deep color suffusing her face. “There, there, you are all right now, my clumsy dear.” To Mr. Winterly he bowed and said, “I heartily thank you, sir! For a moment I had feared…” The implication of the mad butcher’s reign hung palpably in the air yet went unspoken.

  “Yes,” Mr. Winterly replied gravely, “you were right to fear.”

  “My poor lamb,” Aunt Sophie cried, kissing her niece’s warm cheeks as the men proceeded with introductions.

  “The Viscount Winterly?” Her uncle’s manifest surprise brought a thoughtful furrow to Emma’s brows. Not a knight after all, but a lord!