Still another officer barked at him. James gathered Catherine’s body up in his arms and cradled her against him. Tears scorched his throat.
“Back!” And he went slipping through the crowd, all the way to the edge of the circle, with Catherine motionless but still warm, caught tight against him.
Shouting came from the direction of the besieged house; all the steam cannons had now disappeared from the windows. So had Boyd and Becky, as if they’d never been. Had Becky seen her sister fall?
James stood, his arms numb around his burden, aching, until Brendan Fagan emerged from the house, still giving orders. He checked on his fallen officers, who, much to James’ surprise, stirred and got up, one by one.
Hope rose in James’ heart. If they lived, Catherine might. But she was flesh and bone, not steel.
Brendan caught sight of him, checked for an instant, and ran over, dismay on his handsome face. “Is she dead?”
James stared at him, mute with pain.
Fagan repeated, “Is she dead? The blast hit her in the chest. It will have stopped her heart.”
James hoisted Catherine’s body in his arms, bent his ear, good cheek down to her chest, and heard no sound.
Tears flooded his eyes. He stood like a child holding a dead pet.
“Aw, hell,” Fagan said. He considered James with his clear, blue eyes and then glanced over his shoulder at the house, now safely cordoned off by police both human and machine.
He called to someone, “Kelly, you’re in charge. I’ll be right back.”
The automaton from Nellie’s Bar shot James a glance and nodded slightly.
“Come on, and hurry,” Fagan told James.
“Where?”
“Just follow me, quick as you can.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
James ran with Catherine in his arms until the breath burned in his lungs, seeing nothing but Fagan’s broad, blue back before him. They pelted east down North Street, away from the commotion around Boyd’s mansion, past several side streets, and toward the big intersection at Delaware, corners and buildings going by in a blur. Catherine’s head bounced against his shoulder in time with his footsteps, but only as that of a rag doll might, and he fancied she cooled as they went.
Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead. His mind took up the rhythm of the word that matched the great, painful beats of his heart. This was it for him, then; he couldn’t go on, didn’t want to go on.
Yet he followed Brendan Fagan south onto Delaware and, struggling now like a spent hound at the heels of its master, past Allen. They veered onto Virginia Street and paused at last in front of a big, red brick house once fine but now gone shabby. Fagan shot him an intense look, went up the steps, and rang the bell.
James stood there not knowing where he was or why, fighting for breath, fighting for sanity, while the impossible seconds ticked by.
At last the door swung open, revealing a beautiful Negress with a small child in her arms. She barely glanced at Fagan before her wide gaze flew to James behind him.
“Officer Fagan. Oh, my, what’s happened?” She hesitated before she said, “Come in.”
The interior of the house smelled like furniture polish and a lot of other things James couldn’t identify. The woman with the child left them standing in the hallway and hurried off down a corridor. A door half way along opened, and several children peered out at them.
James asked through his aching throat, “What is this place?”
“Mrs. McMahon’s. She may be able to help us.”
“How?” James tightened his arms around his burden. “Catherine’s—”
“Mrs. McMahon can do miraculous things. Hush, now.”
James hushed. A second woman appeared from the back of the house, led by the first, who still held the child. Small of stature, though not so tiny as the Negress, she wore an incredible costume of men’s trousers, an almost-sheer white shirt, and a leather corset that defined her narrow waist. Her short hair gathered around her face like a cap of feathers.
“Brendan?” she greeted Fagan. She shot one startled look at James’ face before focusing on Catherine. “What’s happened?”
“Steam cannon, a big one,” Fagan told her. “Took the blast in the chest.”
“My God! Any other injuries?”
Fagan looked at James, who said hoarsely, “She banged her head when she fell.”
The woman asked, “How long ago?”
Fagan said, “Not long since. She’s still warm. Will you help us?”
Help, how? James wondered. And did he really care? He would trade his own life to save Catherine’s, if she weren’t already dead, dead, dead.
Again the woman—Mrs. McMahon, Fagan had called her—looked into James’ face.
“Do you love her?”
What kind of question was that, at a time like this? He gazed into the woman’s gray-green eyes. They seemed to look through him, demanding truth.
Mutely, he nodded.
“Then I’ll try. Bring her.” She looked at the Negress. “Georgina, I’ll need your help.”
“Where’s Liam?” Brendan asked.
“At work. Georgie, see if Nancy can watch Benny for you. Then fire up the boiler.” She glanced over her shoulder as she led them down the dim corridor to the back of the house. “This is Mrs. Collwys, who will assist me. Your name, and hers?”
Demand filled her voice, along with kindness.
“James Kilter and—and Catherine.”
“Is she your wife?”
“No.”
They entered a big room loaded with strange equipment: bottles, beakers, jars, and vials, as well as a large steam plant. Mrs. McMahon indicated a wooden table standing in the center of the floor.
“Put her down.”
James didn’t think he could. It felt too much like surrendering hope.
Mrs. McMahon told him, “It’s all right.”
Mrs. Collwys hurried in and fired the generator. It started up with a throaty clamor and began to bang through the room like a mighty heartbeat.
Gingerly, James laid Catherine on the table. Her head lolled back alarmingly and, suddenly, she looked quite dead.
Fagan came to James’ shoulder. “What is this place?” James asked.
“You’ll be all right here. Listen, lad, I have to get back; I’ve an operation to tie up.”
“You got Boyd?”
Fagan shook his head. “He got away out the back, and young Miss Delaney with him, which is one of the reasons I need to go.” He fixed James with a stare. “Mrs. McMahon will try to help you, but you can never speak of what you see in this room, understand? Never.”
What was he going to see? Doubt and hope tangled inside him, indistinguishable. He nodded.
Fagan clapped him on the shoulder and went out. Mrs. McMahon took his place.
“Let us see how badly she’s hurt.” She turned those wide, uncanny eyes on James. “You understand there are things I can’t repair.”
“Who are you?” And what? He dared not ask that.
“You can call me Clara. I have a talent, Mr. Kilter. Sometimes I can resurrect the dead.”
She said it so casually, James merely blinked at her. As she did, her hands moved, laying the remnants of Catherine’s shirt open very gently, exposing breasts and the great, terrible scorch mark left by the steam cannon.
She caught her breath. “Right above the heart.”
“The blast will have shocked it motionless,” said Mrs. Collwys from the other side of the table.
“Hopefully. You understand, Mr. Kilter, if her heart is too badly damaged I will not be able to revive her. And if she comes back there will be memory loss. She may remember very little.”
James heard only the words, if she comes back.
“Are you saying you can—can save her?”
“No, she’s already gone. But I might return her.”
The woman laid her hand above Catherine’s heart. Clouds of steam had begun to fill the room, obscuring most of the furnishi
ngs. With it came sticky heat—the faces of both women glistened.
Half horrified, James made as if to step back from the table. Mrs. McMahon’s hand darted out and caught his wrist.
“No.” Again she fixed him with those uncanny eyes. “We’ve learned a few things since we began this perilous practice, Mr. Kilter. You say you love her?”
“Yes.”
“Does she love you as well?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you’d like her to.” Clara smiled, and it warmed her elfin countenance. “Then your face must be the first she sees when she opens her eyes. They imprint upon their return—they orientate. You stand here. Let her see you.”
James, now certain it had been he who’d died out on the street and he now inhabited some fantastical afterlife, stood where planted, alarm coursing through him. Clara stood just opposite where, both hands now touching Catherine, she raised her head and closed her eyes.
And James saw something come and fill her—some power, some force accompanied by the billowing steam, which changed and transformed her. Breathless, his throat clogged and his heart pounding, he watched in stunned amazement as she suddenly bent forward and placed her mouth over Catherine’s.
A kiss, yet not a kiss. Instead, Clara breathed as if breathing for Catherine, who could not. Air—and something more—rushed into Catherine’s body, a breath of impossible length and power.
James, inhibitions forgotten, leaned closer so he could see Catherine’s face, watch her eyes.
Yet nothing happened. For many long moments the artificial beat of the steam plant continued. He thought Clara must raise her head and breathe again, but her fingers continued to massage Catherine’s chest, and he almost saw the power leave Clara’s body and fill Catherine’s.
He did not know what this might be. Witchcraft? Some dire, terrible rite? And would he refuse even black magic if it brought Catherine back to him?
Almost upon the thought, Catherine’s eyelashes twitched. Rosy color flooded her face, and her curled fingers scrabbled at the table.
Only then did Clara lift her head.
Catherine dragged in a great, shuddering breath on her own. The burn on her chest heaved, and her lips moved as if seeking to form words that would not come.
“There now, let her see you,” Mrs. Collwys said, and pushed James toward the head of the table.
Still another breath, two, three. James placed his hand where Clara’s had been, and he felt Catherine’s heart beating. A sob rose to his throat.
Catherine’s eyes opened and stared directly into his. Clear they were, focused and unwavering as if she saw only him. No matter then that his face was ruined, for a smile came into her eyes. He saw gladness, he saw her soul in her eyes.
Her lips moved again and this time formed a word. “Jamie.”
He slid his fingers to her hand and clenched it tight.
“Jamie, where were you? You seemed so far.”
“Here now, with you.” The words were all he could manage.
“Kiss me. Kiss me again.”
He did, and as it had in his room at the warehouse, and in Roselyn’s kitchen, her mouth opened beneath his, inviting him in. His tongue dove inside, and he tasted…what? Her essence, yes, but something else, as well: life, raw and sweet, and the remnants of power. Her tongue caressed his, her soul reached for his, she lifted her arms and wound them around his neck. Victorious madness rose to his head.
Alive. She’d returned alive, and she was his. His for all time.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
They sat in the parlor while Mrs. Collwys served tea, Catherine in James’ lap. She’d started out on the settee beside him but had climbed up onto his knees and hooked one hand in his shirt before many minutes passed. Now she pressed so close into his chest he could feel her heart beating.
Precious heart.
“The intense attachment should die down gradually,” Clara said, indicating their position with her teacup. “The initial rush tends to subside.”
James sincerely hoped not. After almost losing her—correction, after losing her and getting her back again—he could live with Catherine as an appendage. The only difficulty he could foresee was the constant erection.
Clara smiled slightly as if she guessed his thoughts. “Or, if you’re very fortunate, it won’t subside.”
In James’ experience, good fortune rarely found him. Except today.
“If you do not mind me asking,” Clara said gently, “how long ago did you suffer your accident?” She waved a hand at his face. “Steam burns, correct? I’ve seen them before but never, I think, so extensive.”
“Like our Woodrow,” Mrs. Collwys whispered, and set a plate of biscuits in front of James.
“Steam and boiling water both,” he replied. “Over ten years ago.”
“There are operations, you know,” Clara said tentatively, “though on injuries that old…”
Catherine released James’ shirt and caressed his scarred cheek with her soft fingers. Despite himself, he flinched.
“You are perfect just as you are,” Catherine said and kissed him, her fingers still busy smoothing his thickened skin.
He flushed with a combination of arousal and embarrassment.
Mrs. Collwys coughed and turned to the door. “I’ll just go and check on Benny.”
She went out without a sound. Very reluctantly, James ended the kiss and pressed Catherine’s head back into his chest.
“You say this is a by-product of what just happened?” he asked Clara.
“Hmm. Intense attachment forms at the moment of resurrection. We’ve found it can be transferred from me to whomever the subject sees upon wakening. Better than it being me, which often proves inconvenient. Of course the intensity of the bonding may be augmented by preexistent emotions.”
“Meaning?”
“That if she cared for you before her resurrection, she will care much more deeply now.”
“Oh.” James’ thoughts raced over that, almost afraid to examine it. “Exactly what did happen back in that room? I mean, she was dead.”
“She was.” Clara fixed those uncanny green eyes on him. “Mr. Kilter, I have a rare ability, an inherited power. I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention that to anyone. Very few people know. And I’d prefer not being the object of a witch hunt.”
“Of course. I didn’t thank you. How can I possibly thank you? I owe you everything.”
“Do not thank me too quickly. You are likely in for a difficult ride. She may not remember much. It will be like having a child on your hands.”
“I don’t mind. I’m grateful. If you ever require the last drop of my blood…”
“Save it for her. I require only your silence.”
The parlor door opened abruptly, and a man came in. Tall and with a crop of nearly-black hair that spilled over his forehead, he wore the clothes of a workman and moved with the confidence of a king.
His quick gaze took in the scene and he said with a lilt, very Irish, “Georgie said we have visitors. Who’s this, then?”
Clara’s face lit as if a beacon flared behind her eyes. She got up and went to him, laid a hand on his forearm in an act of blatant claiming.
“Liam, this is James Kilter and his friend, Catherine. Brendan Fagan brought them. Mr. Kilter, this is my husband, Liam McMahon.”
McMahon’s blue eyes inspected James frankly, lingering on the ruined side of his face before he nodded to Catherine and thrust out a large, work-hardened hand for James to shake. “Good to meet you.”
“Same here. I’m grateful to your wife. She—” Abruptly words failed James.
“Aye, Georgie said.” McMahon laid a palm against Clara’s back and looked into her face tenderly. “Are you all right?”
She nodded. “But I fear Mr. Kilter is in for an interesting time. Sit down, Liam, and have some tea.”
“Tea?” McMahon grunted, crossed to a sideboard and poured two generous measures of whiskey, one of which he
passed to James’ hand.
“Get yourself outside of that. You’re going to need it.” He sprawled in a chair as if he owned the world, or at least this bit of it—for all James knew, he did—and fixed James with that bright stare. “There’s a story in this, lad. Spill.”
James sampled the liquor in his glass and then took a bigger, steadying gulp. He’d never tasted better Irish whiskey. What a curious household, ruled by a workman yet sporting Ireland’s finest.
Catherine had subsided with her face against James’ chest and her eyes closed, breathing softly like a sleeping child. Quietly, so as not to disturb her, he told her tale and his, entwined. Everyone in the city would soon know what had happened at Boyd’s house anyway, and Brendan Fagan knew most of it.
McMahon and his wife exchanged several speaking glances as they listened, but did not interrupt or voice their thoughts until James concluded.
Then McMahon said, “So this bastard got clean away with the sister? How did he manage that?”
“I’d like to know,” James admitted, and wetted his whistle again. “Officer Fagan had the Irish squad all round the house.”
“You have one advantage,” Clara mused. “This villain—and Catherine’s sister, unfortunately—will have seen Catherine take that blast and fall. He’ll believe her dead. That may help you protect her.”
“Aye, so,” her husband agreed. “For if he suspects differently, he’ll not rest.”
“When she wakes,” James asked Clara, “will she ask about her sister? How much will she remember about what happened?”
“Not much, at least not right away.” McMahon answered and tipped his glass at James. “I’ve been through that. Poor lass will have a great, fecking wall in her mind for some time.”
Clara moved and perched on the arm of Liam’s chair, where she laid a hand on his knee. “She wasn’t dead as long as you, my love.”
“Aye, Kilter, you’ll have to wait and see.”
The parlor door opened and the tiny woman called Georgina came in, once more carrying the child in her arms. The boy sported a head of black curls, but his skin was a shade or two lighter than Georgina’s.
Her gaze went directly to Catherine.
“Sleeping,” Clara murmured. “Just what she needs.”
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