Spectris

by Quinn Coleridge

  “This is not my usual style, Hester, in the dark, rushing. I like to watch and witness, you understand. Death is the final discovery, isn’t it? The great, profound Question of our existence.”

  A poor fighter when his victim resists, Hammersmith has great difficulty getting up on his feet while holding my thrashing body. He falls at least three times before pulling my hair and dragging me upright. Blazes, that hurts. Behind the black spectacles, my eyes are watering, and I twist and scratch his face. There you go, stupid oaf, that’ll leave a scar.

  His seven ghosts surround us, in addition to Willa and the others. Through spiritual sight, I see Hammersmith, the dead, and myself. Shadows are everywhere, and a new heat builds inside me, the combined power of the ghosts. Supernatural energy crackles in the air as they whisper one word over and over.

  Vengeance. Vengeance. Vengeance . . .

  Rage storms through my blood, hot as a shaft of lightning, and my body is consumed by light. My eyes feel like fire as they glow with righteous rage. Hammersmith releases my arm, staggering back, falling to the ground again.

  “What are you?”

  The foolish monster never expected to face his reckoning when he pulled the blind, near-mute girl into the shadows. He’s bitten off far more than he can chew now that his victims have realized their power.

  Lifting my hand, I separate my fingers to form a V—for Veritas, the goddess of truth and vengeance—and my boots leave the ground. Up I rise and hover vertically above Hammersmith, hand still upraised, and call him to justice.

  Hammersmith falls to the ground, transfixed. I speak the names of his victims, and my rasping whisper pervades the night as the seven are remembered, ending with Ishranth. His murderer shrieks and frantically claws at the earth. The air smells like a tilled garden with the way the professor’s churning up the ground. He gets to his feet and runs in the opposite direction, but he’s lost a shoe. And gained a limp. His nose bleeds and his fancy spectacles are broken.

  According to the constitutional bylaws of Visionaries in the Colorado sovereignty, it is acceptable to apprehend a killer with legal or lethal means. The judgment of which method to use lies with me, or the Reaper, and since my Death may be injured or worse, I will decide Hammersmith’s fate.

  Magic warms my fingers, and I stir the air with my upheld hand. It grows thicker, similar to fog but more substantial, and heavy enough that I can throw it at the professor. It should catch him and hold his body fast. Or crush it, I can never remember which. Elemental conjuring is new to me, and this is the only spell in my repertoire. Mary Arden is a terrible mentor.

  But a shadow steps in front of Hammersmith, and the professor barrels into it. Light flares, and supernatural power gusts down the alley. This wondrous display isn’t due to my efforts. I release my pitiful magic air and descend to the ground.

  “Hello, Phineas,” Sir Death says. “I hear you’ve been looking for me. Am I all you expected?”

  Mild transitions from mortality are granted to those who are worthy. For soldiers who make the ultimate sacrifice and give their lives for another, for the brave who suffer disease and triumph in spirit if not in body. Always for the young and the pure in heart.

  Death comes gently to bring their souls home.

  Then there is the other kind. He who takes the evil ones kicking and screaming into the underworld. To them Sir Death becomes the Grim Reaper, dread sovereign of the damned.

  This second Death is what Hammersmith has found. The professor watched others die, searching for the answers to the great Question of the universe, and now the search is over. The professor looks into the eyes of his destiny and tries to flee, but he cannot. As his mouth forms a silent scream, Hammersmith collapses upon the earth, and the Reaper watches the still body for a moment before kneeling and touching his head. “Rise up. We have a rendezvous.”

  Spirit separates from body and Hammersmith looks about him, terrified. I don’t want to go.

  But you must come with me. Death gestures to the seven victims. As they will.

  I turn down my hearing for I cannot bear to witness the professor barter and plead for another chance. The Reaper gazes at his friend with cool blue eyes and then leads him into the shadows where it is darkest. In a blink, they cross to the other side.

  My body quakes as I think on Hammersmith’s last moments. Would I have killed the murderer or taken him to the police? Would the Furies disapprove either way? Thinking of them evokes the smell of olive groves and the Tiber. Or is it my imagination?

  No. The Three Sisters actually stand where Hammersmith died. The one who gathers kneels down and touches the body. You killed him, she says with her fearsome voice.

  The sound scrapes inside my skull, and I fight the urge to huddle at her feet. I did not. He brought this upon himself.

  The Fury with the scale looks up and down the alley. Where is Death?

  Doing what He does best.

  My comment must cross the line between assertiveness and insolence. The other Fury, who usually stands around watching her sisters, waves her hand and the invisible tattoo over my heart burns like a hundred suns. Blast! Ouch! Do not rub it, Hester. Wait until they leave.

  But the Furies stand together, looking regal in their snow-white robes. Until All Hallows Eve, Visionary.

  I bow as they begin to fade. Don’t be late, Ladies.

  Ouch again. Make that two hundred suns.

  After the immortals leave, I hear a muffled cry behind me and turn to see Carver. He’s rigid with fear, gazing at the exact spot where the Three Sisters stood.

  Is it them? Are the Furies the ones who hurt you?

  Without answering, he breaks into a run and passes straight through the alley wall.

  Sir Death returns a short while later, and His eyes look swollen and teary. Acquainted with the grief of others, He never really understood it until now. Hammersmith’s betrayal and expiration are His primary exposure to pain on a personal level. The professor wasn’t who He thought him to be and would have gone on killing until forced to stop.

  I’m sorry, Sir.

  The Reaper wipes His eyes and nods. The crape suit and tie beneath his robes are an unrelenting black. I’m the one who should apologize. How did I not see he was a monster?

  I shrug. You were human. Mistakes are expected.

  He laughs, and it is a very sad sound. Yes, I was for a time, wasn’t I? Thank you, Visionary.

  You’re welcome, Exitus.

  Willa Holloway clears her throat. If it isn’t too much trouble, we’d like to be moving on.

  We turn toward the ghosts. They are all restored to their human prime. Even Hammersmith’s seven. Four men, three women—now glowing softly and at peace.

  Sir Death smiles at me, the corners of His blue eyes wrinkling, and walks through the crowd of ghosts. They turn and follow Him into a shimmering mist, but Death stops and looks back, lifting His hand in farewell. It was quite a holiday. I’m sure I’ll see you again.

  Yes. You and taxes are inevitable.

  He resumes His journey through the mist, and all of the ghosts follow except one. Willa seems at a loss for words.

  Be happy and have peace. Farewell.

  She tilts her head, almost shy. What’s your name, Visionary?

  Hester.

  It’s kind of you to visit my Lizzie. She’s a good girl. Will I see you on the other side, do you think?

  I move a step closer, until we’re facing one another. Time doesn’t exist there. We’ll have an eternity to get acquainted.

  Maybe we’ll become friends, Hester.

  Maybe we already are, Willa.

  Sir Death steps back through the mist and gestures toward His last ghost. There’s a large group waiting for you over here. Don’t you think it’s time for a reunion?

  Without another glance at me, she runs to Death like the girl she was sixty years ago, and they are swallowed up in the mist. I stay until the last ray of shimmering light disappears.

  Until we
meet again.

  Epilogue

  Per ardua ad astra.

  Through difficulties to the stars.

  September 1892

  A month has come and gone since Willa passed over and Death ended His vacation.

  I hold a glass of chilled mint tea in my hand, relaxing under a wedding bower of sweet- smelling blossoms and vines. The leaves rustle a little, but there is not much wind this afternoon.

  Cordelia wouldn’t have stood for inclement weather on her day of days. She and Isaac exchanged their vows earlier, surrounded by family and friends. Her sister served as maid of honor for the ceremony, and I suppose I don’t mind being excluded. I’m just glad the deed is done. After all, Cordelia did explain her choice this morning as she pinned flowers in my intricately styled hair. To match the hair, she gave me a lovely dress for the wedding because I am poor, the same one I gave her years ago when I was rich. I think it’s an icy blue, but I’ll have to ask Kelly to be sure.

  “It means so much to Beatrix,” Cordelia said while doing my hair. “And we’ve never gotten along though we’re sisters. I gave her the honor like an olive branch.” Then she hugged me and straightened the lace at my bodice afterward. “You understand, don’t you, Hester? She needs it to feel special, and you don’t. You know I’ll love you always, until my dying day.”

  Eyes a little misty, I smile at her remembered words, knowing without a doubt they are true.

  Kelly escorted me to the wedding, telling me he wished we had been married in such a way, with flowers and friends and a celebration rather than the service being performed by proxy in a judge’s chamber. I told him that he was absurd and looked away before he could see the grin on my face. Our annulment papers rest in the top drawer of the dresser in my bedroom, and I’ve decided to leave them there. It was a stupid idea, now that I’ve thought it out. I love the man to distraction. I’ll have to let him catch me once and for all.

  Waiting for my soon-to-be-real husband to rejoin me under the bower, I think about that frightening night a month ago. Hammersmith’s body was discovered the following morning and his death was attributed to heart failure, although no one could explain the change in his hair color. Whereas it was very brown earlier on the day he died, every strand shone pure white post mortem.

  He finally had the answer to the great Question he was seeking, and it literally scared him to death.

  To Cordelia’s delight, Isaac was cleared of all suspicion in the factory bombing. Lennox admitted his guilt outright while making his deal with the police. He didn’t remain in the penal system of Stonehenge long, however. His cell door was mysteriously left ajar, and the prisoner tried to make a run for it. An intelligent man would have stayed where he was, but Charcoal Suit was never accused of being intelligent, just a fashionable dresser. Sadly, his escape was all too brief and culminated in Sergeant Drown shooting him in the back.

  A week later, the sergeant was advanced to the office of lieutenant, and the identity of Drown’s benefactor became crystal clear. It was never Lennox paying money to the constable, as I once believed, but James Scarlett. My half-brother was exonerated of all involvement in the smuggling operation, as well as the organized crime in the art community. Clean as a whistle, he has emerged unscathed, as Kelly said he would.

  Some of the smuggled artworks are being returned to their rightful owners. Other treasures have been claimed by galleries and museums—stolen from their very walls by thugs working for Lennox and Bloom. The only item missing from the crates was the journal of Rasputin.

  When I checked this morning, Little Rasputin, as I like to call him, was hidden in a new place, inside Mr. Ming, the cast iron dragon doorstop. My checking on Little Rasputin is beginning to be a compulsion. I did it three times today before leaving the boarding house, nervously assuring myself all was well. What havoc Mary Arden plans to wreak with the book, I cannot say. Maybe I should let her and Scarlett duel to the death for the bloody thing. But I would not be so lucky to be rid of them both. That hag Fate would make sure one survived.

  My soul feels heavy and distressed just thinking of Rasputin’s book in either of their clutches. Last night, I had another flash of the disturbing forest scene, but it was unlike the times before when I saw James Scarlett and Mary Arden sitting at the campfire. Or when the tall man ran with me through the forest, and we fell in dark water.

  This time, I stood on a hill at midnight, above a vast cemetery and surveyed everything about me. No stars in the firmament, only an enormous moon. The air nearly crackled with cold and snow covered the ground. The earth shook, and I lost my footing and fell to my knees. As far as I could behold, the soil covering each grave began to seethe, erupting from a flat plain into great mounds.

  The caskets within the graves were plainly visible, but one was far, far older than the rest. A large, ancient box, made of stone with curious runes. Its lid began to rattle and slowly opened. I screamed across the inky night as an unseen force took hold of my ankles, dragging me toward the grave. Whatever lay inside was gone and the force threw me into the vacated space. Runes were written inside the stone box, and I traced the symbols, quaking with fear of the name they evoked.

  Archimendax. I said it over and over, calling to him in his confinement at the heart of the underworld. The dream ended there, and I awoke with the loathsome name still upon my lips.

  Thinking of the fallen god, as I sit in my fragrant garden bower, makes me shake. Could the immortal be the one who plagues my dreams? I rub the chill from my arms. Of course not. How ridiculous.

  Another sip of my peppermint drink settles my stomach and clears my head. Why would the god who orchestrated Rome’s decline concern himself with me? In the vast scheme of things, I am of little consequence. Rather than his interfering in my life, it makes far more sense that my psyche is manifesting inner turmoil. Which could be why I can’t remember that block of time in the orchard. The life I lead takes a physical and mental toll, especially when combined with the lingering trauma of Ironwood and my general lack of sleep. I doubt those flashes from the forest and the graveyard represent anything real.

  I sigh at my own foolishness and push my glass away. Dark thoughts have some positive aspects I suppose. They make one appreciate being with loving friends at a happy event, even if the friends tend to be boisterous. Listening to the musicians play, I rub my forehead. The chronic headache remains with me, and I wish I had a bit of feverfew to alleviate the pain. Cordelia noticed my discomfort as we waited for Isaac at the church and gave me a tiny bottle of laudanum. Both she and my mother held me down and forced me take it when I was young. In fact, many women use this very brand for mood swings and malaise. A prescription isn’t required to purchase it at the Emporium.

  Dear Cordelia knows nothing of my drug use at Ironwood, my addiction and rehabilitation, or she wouldn’t have offered the laudanum. I’ll return it to her medicine box when I get home tonight. I smile at the thought of her little bedroom. She and Isaac will live in it after their honeymoon trip to the capital. I hope Denver is prepared for a tone-deaf composer and his effectual new bride.

  Lifting my hand, I’m surprised when I find that I am holding my reticule. I thought I had laid it on the table some time ago. Baffled, I put the reticule back and hear the bottle of laudanum within roll from side to side.

  Stop, Hester. Don’t think of it.

  My mind veers from topic to topic and lands on the letter Louella sent me. She and Desmond are the proud owners of a new circus, and they have relocated permanently to New Orleans. They love the city, with it’s variety of music, food, and people. Louella also mentioned Delilah, Bloom’s albino python. Now living on Millionaire’s Row in Newport, Delilah leads a pampered life in a private zoo. A happy outcome for the snake as well as the humans.

  I tune down my hearing a bit as the dance grows more raucous, filling the garden with people and sound. The venue belongs to Isaac’s grandmother. It’s a large space with lots of shady trees and the smell of roses and li
lies everywhere. I inhale and sit back in my chair, closing my eyes and listening to the joyful celebration. Children laugh, Tabitha Jane among them. She shows no sign of trauma after my abandoning her at the boarding house to follow Bloom. Willard Little Hawk got home shortly after I left and watched the baby until her mother came to fetch her. The whole experience proves to me yet again that I am not mothering material. It isn’t as though I can drop a ghost on its head or undermine its self-confidence.

  Thank goodness for Willard on more than one level. While tending Tabby, he roused Sir Death when he found Him knocked out cold in the parlor. As I’ve always said, Willard is the finest handyman of them all.

  A group of Welshmen drink and make toasts to the bride and groom. They say things like, “May you have happiness all your days . . .” “Love your beloved better than yourself . . .” and my favorite of them all, “Fight quickly, but make up for hours.”

  The first dance for the married couple begins. I hear Cordelia’s shy steps toward Isaac, and she laughs gaily as he swirls her away. The band is playing an old Welsh love song that brings a rush of nostalgia and longing. How I wish I could see the newlyweds waltz!

  In the midst of this beautiful moment, a cool breeze blows over me, and I tense, sensing the Reaper nearby. He calls my name, and I push back my chair, grumbling inside. Then I reach for my cane and stand, turning my face toward Death, measuring the space between us.

  I take a few steps in His direction and find myself distracted by Kelly, dismayed by the doctor’s laughter. He went to fill our dinner plates and got sidetracked talking with Cordelia’s sister Beatrix, the one who stole my place as maid-of-honor. She is not as kind as Cordelia, but they say the girl is comely and has a wit to boot. I glare in the vicinity of Noah Kelly, reminding myself to put a stop to his association with the unmarried Beatrix when I am finished with Sir Death.

  It would seem I am a jealous wife.

  The Reaper pulls me away to a cooler, quieter place. The trees smell like cedar, but I shiver in their shadows, drawing my shawl close. Hello, Hester. You look lovely.