EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®
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Copyright© 2018 Jessica Marting
ISBN: 978-1-77339-708-5
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Melissa Hosack
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WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
For David, as always.
THE FALLS
The Searchers, 3
Jessica Marting
Copyright © 2018
Prologue
November 8, 1889
Seecombe,
Please find enclosed the wedding invitation my fiancée and the rest of the Searchers felt appropriate to send to you. Whether you choose to attend or not has no bearing on our future happiness; rather the newly-appointed lieutenant of the New York branch of the Searchers was the person responsible for our extending the invitation. Miss Violet Singer felt it prudent given your role in the Mayfair incident last spring, and she is curious to meet one of her British counterparts.
You will treat Miss Singer and the future Mrs. Sterling with the utmost of respect, lest I demonstrate my improved performance with stake and mallet upon your person.
We anticipate your presence in December.
Maximilian Sterling
Chapter One
Samuel’s teeth chattered on the open observation deck of the dirigible and he had to force himself to breathe in the frigid air. The massive aircraft moved with such speed that he swore he could feel tiny invisible icicles pricking at his eyes, his nose, every bit of exposed skin.
Bloody hell, how could people live in such climates? And why was he forcing himself to make his way to the open deck again?
He remembered the heavy, cloying stink of cigar and pipe smoke in the upper class lounge and shuddered. That was why he ventured out here; mingling among the other passengers had become unbearable. It was an unspeakable choice, really: freeze his arse off on the open deck of a dirigible crossing the Atlantic Ocean in December or sit among noxious fumes and make aggravating small talk with those responsible for them. If he thought he could get away with it, Samuel might have taken his chances getting some air, albeit stuffy and stale, in the steam class lounge, but was certain he would be chased out as soon as those passengers saw him or heard his Mayfair accent.
This was untenable, and Samuel officially loathed traveling by air.
Breathe in, breathe out. Ignore the chill and appreciate the clean-smelling air.
He couldn’t believe people actually paid to go to Swiss vitality clinics for the cold mountain air.
Breathe in, breathe out. Ignore the icicles forming in your nostrils.
He fumbled through his traveling satchel for his box camera and raised it to the deck railing. The light was bright enough for the device to capture images, although he could only guess whether it would focus on the frigid ocean waves roiling beneath the dirigible. He’d find out once he landed in New York, took all the pictures the camera could, and then send his camera to the Kodak plant to have the film processed. That was the best and worst part of his new hobby, the waiting and then seeing what he’d managed to capture on film.
He was the lone passenger on the open deck, save for one of the dirigible’s poor stewards who now briskly walked to him, seemingly impervious to the cold. “Can I get you something to warm you up, sir?” The man’s American twang was unmistakable, his expression friendly. “A hot toddy or a cigar, maybe?”
Samuel needed to get used to that, given his impending stay in America. He shuddered faintly in revulsion at the idea of cigar smoke, let alone smoking one. “A toddy,” he said shortly, then remembered the man wasn’t a servant in the British sense. This was an American dirigible with American employees. He quickly corrected himself. “A hot toddy, please.”
“Right away, sir. You’ll still be here?”
“I will.”
The steward pointed to his camera, still in Samuel’s gloved hands. “What’s that, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“It’s a box camera.”
“A camera? Well, they’re just getting smaller and smaller, aren’t they?” The steward smiled. “I’ll be back with your drink in a couple of minutes, sir.”
“Thank you.”
He was getting better at remembering to say please and thank you to the help. Ada Burgess, soon to be Ada Sterling, might be pleased about that. If nothing else, Samuel was determined to adhere to American customs while he was abroad. It was the polite thing to do.
He wouldn’t even concern himself with what her fiancé would think of his attempt at cultivating American manners. Samuel was certain that Maximilian Sterling would never, ever care for him.
The steward returned with a steaming cup and presented it to Samuel, who thanked him and took a sip.
Oh, dear God.
He tried not to make a face at the taste, but the steward noticed something was amiss. “Is something wrong, sir?”
“No,” Samuel said. Damn it, he would be polite. “May I ask what this is made with?”
“Only the finest bourbon, sir. The best Tennessee has to offer.”
Bourbon. Was this what American distilleries could produce? Samuel made a point to remain sober during his time in America. “Very good,” he said. “I shall enjoy it.”
He would enjoy the hot toddy, damn it, just as he would enjoy New York City.
****
“You don’t have to go out of your way to aid Mr. Seecombe, Violet,” said Max. “I’m sure he can navigate the New York Airfield on his own.”
“What kind of host are you, anyway?” Violet wrapped herself in her heavy winter coat.
“The kind of host who isn’t boarding Samuel Seecombe in my home. My offer to pay for his hotel stay still stands, Violet.”
“And that’s where your being ungracious ends,” his fiancée, Ada, said. “We talked about this already. Samuel helped save my bacon back in London, and the least we could do is invite him to our wedding.”
“Actually, he’s invited because we need to increase our lines of communication with the rest of the world,” Violet said by way of correction. “Inviting him to a social occasion is good manners, and if he’s as stiff and proper as you’ve told me, he won’t cause a scene or embarrass anyone.” Coat buttoned and voluminous knitted scarf wound around her neck, she looked around her flat one last time. It was tidy, just as she liked it, and ready to welcome her new boarder. The room Samuel Seecombe would stay in—provided he wasn’t offended by the notion of staying with a woman—was ready to receive its visitor. “He also would have received the cable I sent before he left London. He’ll be expecting me.”
Violet was looking forward to having a guest, besides. She enjoyed having company.
Ada and Max were likewise putting on their winter coats, although they wouldn’t be accompanying her to the airfield to meet Mr. Seecombe. “Please tell me you’re not planning on going out to hunt tonight,” Ada said. “Me, Max, and Frank have our part of Brooklyn taken care of.”
And between Ada and her brother, and her husband-to-be, their Brooklyn territory would be well cared for, should any vampires be stupid enough try to make a home there. “I’m staying in,” Violet said. “I take full advantage of my nights off now. I have enough work during the day to ensure I do
n’t have the energy to take on extra shifts at night.”
“Keep on doing that. But I still miss working with you in the field, you know.”
As the newly-appointed lieutenant of the New York branch of the Searchers, Violet found she was doing more work during the day than she’d ever thought possible. It was wreaking havoc on her sleep. She wouldn’t trust herself to hunt vampires right now, anyway. She was likely to get bitten or worse when she was tired.
But not so tired she couldn’t go to the airfield. Max and Ada followed her out of her flat, and Violet locked the door behind them. Once outside, she hailed a steam cab and climbed in. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at headquarters,” she said before she closed the cab door.
“We’ll have a full report at the ready,” Ada said.
Violet smiled and closed the door, and she heard Max’s fussy London accent telling her goodbye and good luck through the vehicle as he hailed a steam cab for the two of them.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“The airfield, please.”
“New York or Coney Island?” He sounded irritated at the request.
The Coney Island Airfield had opened just a couple of weeks ago. Ada’s brothers had picked up work there during its construction. Violet had completely forgotten about it. “New York.”
“New York it is.”
Violet settled back on the cab’s stained seat and tried to ignore the cold December wind whistling through cracks in the window. A couple of hot bricks, wrapped in dirty flannel, rested on the cab floor and she put her feet on them. She watched the city through the grimy window, as afternoon shifted into twilight. She was glad she wasn’t scheduled to go out hunting tonight, not that her vampire sense was picking up any bloodsuckers nearby. Vampire activity had dimmed in recent months in New York thanks to the countless hours put in by the Searchers.
The steam cab left her outside the airfield and Violet braced herself against the cold before walking through its gates. Samuel Seecombe was scheduled to arrive on the Hope, an American-owned airship, at half past five. Checking the pocket watch she always carried, she saw it should be landing any minute, and she hurried through the ever-present crowds to the docks.
She had little to go on as to what to look for. Ada had described Samuel Seecombe as a “stuffy, prissy upper-class bastard in clothing nicer than he was,” and she wasn’t sure how she could pinpoint those qualities in a traveler. Max had been a little more helpful, telling her to look for a tall man in his early thirties with dark hair and blue eyes, but Ada was still sure that would describe many of the passengers disembarking from the Hope. She’d sent a cable to the London branch before he was scheduled to depart, asking him to meet her and telling him to look for a silver-haired woman wearing a thick blue knitted scarf and matching hat. There was no point in beating about the bush when it came her crowning glory, only blond and magnificent until she was twenty-four, seven years’ prior.
Silver-haired, not grey. Grey hair denoted someone much older than she was.
Remembering that cable, she looked around the other people waiting for the Hope to finish docking. She was the only silver-haired woman wearing a blue scarf and hat that she could see.
The wind shifted a little in the outdoor waiting area, and she stuffed her mittened hands in her coat pockets, looking up to see the huge shape of the Hope begin its descent. Its anchors dropped, and airfield workers quickly rushed to secure them to pulleys that would drag the airship out of the sky. It was fascinating to watch, a sight Violet rarely got to take it. She hardly traveled, let alone on an airship.
The airship secured, passengers started walking down the dock’s gangplanks, luggage in hand. Violet kept her gaze fixed on the people disembarking, looking for a single man who matched Max and Ada’s vague descriptions. She wished she asked the London branch to provide a better description of her guest.
A mix of accents and languages greeted her ears as passengers greeted and mingled with the people waiting for them. Violet fidgeted impatiently as the minutes ticked past. Was Samuel Seecombe looking for her as well, or had he decided to simply take off and make his way to her flat on his own? She didn’t know what to expect.
Finally, an unaccompanied man walked down the gangplank. Tall, dark-haired, about her age, impeccably dressed in a fine coat, bulging satchel over one shoulder and large valise in hand. The look of uncertainty flitting across his face sparked a flare of hope in Violet. Maybe this was the man she was looking for.
She pushed her way through the crowd until she was at the foot of the gangplank. Snowflakes swirled in the air, settling on his coat. “Mr. Seecombe?” she said.
He looked at her and started. “Yes?”
Violet held out one of her hands. “Violet Singer.”
He stared at her hand for a moment, then her, before gingerly accepting it and shaking her hand. “Welcome to New York, Mr. Seecombe,” Violet said.
“Thank you.”
She could tell he was trying not to show it, but he must be freezing cold. “I sent a cable before you were scheduled to leave London,” she said. “I have a room ready at my flat if you’re inclined to stay there.” And why wouldn’t he? It was free rent for him.
He continued to look at her quizzically.
“Unless you’d prefer to stay at a hotel,” she said.
“No, I appreciate your hospitality,” he said.
The strange look he gave her only waned slightly. Violet took that a sign of encouragement. Ada had warned her before that Mr. Seecombe seemed to have some peculiar and archaic attitudes about women working as vampire hunters; she hoped she wasn’t making a mistake by letting him stay at her flat.
But some Searcher traditions were still adhered to, even in America. And one of them was extending invitations to overseas Searchers.
“Well then, you must be tired and hungry from your trip,” Violet said. “It’s a short walk back to the street, and we’ll take a steam cab home.”
“Thank you.”
Mr. Seecombe was quiet while they threaded their way through the crowds to the street. Violet sneaked the occasional look at him. He looked a little bewildered, out of his element, and not bearing a trace of the arrogance Ada and Max had complained about.
But then, they’d barely spoken ten words between them so far. And he could be too tired or hungry to be difficult right now. Or polite. The English were crazy about manners, according to Ada.
She hailed a steam cab and it clattered to the curb. “Don’t expect the driver to help with your things,” Violet said, opening the cab’s back door.
Mr. Seecombe looked surprised at the gesture. “After you,” he said.
Violet stepped in and slid down the seat, and he followed, setting his satchel between them and the valise at his feet. Unlike the one that brought her to the airfield, this cab didn’t have heated bricks on the floor, nor did the driver greet them beyond asking for their destination.
“I would like to tell you that drivers are better mannered than this,” Violet said quietly, “but I would be lying.”
A tiny smile quirked at the corners of Mr. Seecombe’s mouth, and some of the chill around him thawed a little.
“My apologies, Mrs. Singer,” he said.
“Miss. And please call me Violet.” Would he extend the same invitation to use his first name?
“I must admit that based on the description in the cable you sent, I was expecting someone else.”
“Someone older,” she said.
“Yes.” He paused. “Please call me Samuel.”
****
Miss Singer—Violet, Samuel corrected himself—lived in a surprisingly spacious flat, nicely decorated in dark, masculine colors and full of the modern conveniences that he hadn’t expected to see in America. Vampire hunting wasn’t an especially well-paying job, but in England at least the Searchers tended to be from the upper classes, making money less of an issue. Part of him was dying to ask how an unmarried, female Searcher could maintain
such a space, but even in looser American conversation he knew that would be unwelcomed.
Violet unwound her voluminous scarf and took off her heavy coat, revealing a dark grey skirt and bright blue shirtwaist. A thin silver chain was looped around her throat, a tiny cross dangling from it. It was a defense against vampires that managed to be both practical and sophisticated, as was the big silver clip resting in her matching hair, piled high on her head in a tidy knot.
She had to be the most unusual-looking woman Samuel had ever seen. Unusual and attractive, and he would not let himself stare at her.
He realized she didn’t have a housekeeper when she took his coat from him and stashed it in a closet. “Let me show you your room,” she said, “Then I can make something for supper, if you’re hungry.”
He was. The memory of that awful bourbon hot toddy sent a wave of revulsion through him; coupled with his body being out of sorts with the shift from London time to New York’s, he was wearier than he’d felt in years. “Thank you,” he said.
She led him down a short corridor and opened the door to his bedroom. Like the rest of the flat, it was tastefully decorated in dark, muted colors. Judging from the bright color of her blouse, it hadn’t been her who had done the decorating. It was one more thing he wanted to ask her about.
“Make yourself at home,” she said. “I’m going to make something for us, and I’m sure you have some questions.”
Had she read his mind? Did American Searchers have that ability alongside the vampire sense that called them into service?
But her expression remained friendly, green eyes sparkling. Samuel nodded, and Violet left him, returning to the kitchen.
He unpacked his satchel first, setting his box camera on top of the highboy, and examined the clothing he’d brought with him. The garments he planned to wear to Max Sterling and Ada Burgess’s wedding were wrinkled, but nothing that a good steam couldn’t take care of. Violet was sure to have one somewhere in here, although he would probably have to press them himself. Unless Violet had a housekeeper, which guessing from the size of the flat was a possibility.
The Falls (The Searchers Book 3) Page 1
