by E. J. Dawson
“What’s above us?” Letitia asked.
“The foyer.”
Circling the column and surveying the brick work, Alasdair couldn’t determine anything else from it, and so they left it to go upstairs where the storm was ready and waiting. Rain came in a torrent down the glass panes, washing the dust from the surface, and the crackle overhead grew at every gust of wind. In the entrance hall, Letitia paused, not sure where to start.
She was drawn to the reception desk, but when she went behind it there was nothing but the floorboards, pigeonholes for keys, and a few cupboards, along with pencils, a letter opener, and other odds and ends scattered about. Alasdair placed the lantern she’d left there on the floor to study the grooves of wood, but nothing showed a trap door of any kind.
Letitia turned to the desk itself, putting down her lantern to open drawers, one of which revealed an old ledger book marked by an oddly flat key. She put the key to one side and with gloves on flipped open the ledger. The soft lines of lead denoted guests from years ago, though little was entered against them. At least at first glance.
“Do you know this book?” Letitia asked as Alasdair examined the panels.
“It’s just a relic. I didn’t want to throw it out in case it could tell me what the blasted key was for.”
The key was flat and made of brass, and the shaft was a narrow strip of metal with uneven segments cut from the end.
She checked the ledger, noting the entries. They meant nothing to her until she got to the end. There was a different slant to the handwriting for the last few entries, and what drew her attention was not the names but the numbers against them.
12.
11.
13.
12.
11.
10.
12.
Seven figures in all.
“The same ages as the missing girls,” Letitia said, her mouth curling in disgust as she noticed they even had check-in and check-out dates. Someone marked the last one for yesterday. Letitia dropped the book on the counter.
She wanted to walk away, to throw up, to be anywhere but here, but there was also an anger firing within her at the numbers. The little ledger was a sign of a revolting appetite, but it was also proof of her theory.
“Look at this,” she said, trying to stop the roiling in her stomach.
Alasdair leaned over the counter where he’d been measuring the floor of the foyer, and she observed the moment he understood what she had found.
“So, Calbright did bring them here,” he said with revulsion.
“Yes, but where?”
Alasdair didn’t answer, resuming his study of the floor. Letitia put the book aside, and she scanned the woodwork for something that would show her what the key was for. It was here, close at hand, and all she had to do was work out where it went.
They searched the area, but nothing stood out.
“I’ve been over this hotel more times than I can count,” Alasdair said. “There is nowhere but the cellar that’s dark and underground.” He was almost shouting his frustration at the walls, and Letitia guessed where his thoughts lie—with Finola in the dark, and he with no idea of how to reach her.
But Letitia had one.
“I can try something…” Letitia said, her words trailing off.
“What?” Alasdair said, striding toward her.
“I can scry for her,” she said. “But Finola may not know how she got to where she is now. She might have been unconscious, which leaves me with only one option.”
“You can’t.” Alasdair stopped when she gave a slow shake of her head. He must have seen the fear in her eyes, and he guessed her intent. “I can’t let you do that.”
“Do we have a choice?” she asked. “If I scry for him, he might show me where he kept the girls…and where Finola is right now.”
“But isn’t that dangerous?” he said. “If Lynwood knows you’re looking for him—” Alasdair broke off with shock, but it was too late.
The hotel groaned around her in protest at the storm, but there was something else in the air as well. While the weather raged outside, inside the air was heavy and pendulous.
It was laden with animosity.
He was coming to strike them, but she didn’t know where or how.
Letitia lifted her lantern, studying the halls and walls, and as though Alasdair sensed it, too, he stood with his back to hers, lantern aloft, while they stared at the ominous shadows.
There was a creaking noise and the windows by the front door shattered. Rather than fall to the floor, the shards spun through the air, tearing toward Letitia, who stared at the oncoming glass yet couldn’t move.
Alasdair’s arm encircled her waist, jerking her to the side, and pieces of glass smashed into the wall, thudding into the wood and breaking apart. More debris flew at them, driving them back down the corridor and into the kitchen. Alasdair dragged her along as she covered her face.
He let her go and slammed the door shut, and Letitia snatched the salt from one of the bags, pouring it across the threshold. Alasdair was quick to catch on, doing the same to the cellar door before bolting it shut. Letitia went to the windows, liberally spilling salt over the sills.
They stared at one another, panting at the sudden display.
“Was that the spirit?” he said. “I didn’t know it could do such things.”
“Yes,” Letitia panted. “And he doesn’t want us to find him.”
“We’re trapped here,” Alasdair said, staring around as the realization dawned on him. “If we go out there…”
“He could kill us,” Letitia answered. “Which is why I must find the lair.”
She went to the ancient stove, looking for anything to light a fire in the old hearth to give them light and warmth against the pressing dark.
“Let me.” Alasdair was there, grabbing old, discarded newspapers off the kitchen table. A bucket of dry wood sat beside the stove, though Letitia doubted it would last the entire night.
While Alasdair made a fire, Letitia dug through the shelves to find an appropriate dish. There was an old metal pot, which would hold enough water, and she retrieved the vial of juniper oil from her pocket and placed it on the table. At the old sink, the hand pump wouldn’t budge until Letitia put all of her weight against the handle, forcing dirty water to splash out. She waited until it ran clear before she filled the dish and carried it to the table.
By the time she was done, Alasdair had managed to find some coal in a hidden box beneath the stove and used it to feed the flickering fire.
“What can we expect?” he asked, as he watched the flames.
“More moving objects, perhaps voices outside, the same paranoia and anxiety we experienced when we’ve seen him before. As much fear as he can muster. He likes to terrorize his victims, even if we aren’t his preferred type.” On the latter point, Letitia’s voice trembled, and she had to close her eyes to force herself to think. “Imagine yourself surrounded by light if you can, and if you feel your thoughts stray, pinch yourself or something worse, but do not let your thoughts wander or fall out of focus.” She stood behind the chair before the pot of water, fighting the terror within at what she was about to do.
“Are you sure this is the only option?” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes darting to the door as though the spirit might appear before them. But this wasn’t something Alasdair could fight. It was Letitia’s battle.
“I can do this,” Letitia said. “I will seek him out and find the lair, and there is a good chance that during it he will be enthralled. If I can follow him in his own memories, he’ll be distracted for a time, perhaps long enough to find where he’s hiding Finola.”
“You said the last time you did this that something possessed you, tried to come through and take you.” Alasdair’s voice rose, hand falling on her shoulder, and Letitia
turned to him.
“I am not as naïve as I was then,” she promised, “and we cannot stay here. He will be crueler, make you do far worse than in the cellar. Anything to stop us reaching Finola.”
It was a lie. A cunning and deceitful lie, and though he stared hard at her, she did not waver or flinch. She did not know how to fight or stop Lynwood. It was like nothing she’d faced before. But she had no other choice. It was the only way to find Finola, and she would be damned before she left the hotel without doing everything within her power to save the girl.
“I don’t want to lose you.” His confession should have been sweet, but she couldn’t afford the vulnerability.
“Would you rather wait for him to kill us?” she said, her tone harsh. “He’s already proven he can slip into your mind and possess you. Not much, not as bad as I’ve seen, but remember what happened in the cellar. Remember what he truly enjoys. What if he made you do it?”
She shot the question off, hammering with the truth, and his hand withdrew from her shoulder.
“Don’t trust your thoughts,” she went on, sitting at the table. “And don’t leave this room. Not until I know for sure where he’s hiding.”
“How long can you last?” he asked.
“Not more than twenty minutes,” she said. “Less if he’s waiting for me. I will try to tell you where the lair is during the vision, but I may not be able to until it’s over. Alasdair—”
She broke off and chewed at her lip, hesitating over her fears, but he waited for her to finish.
“If something happens to me—if I’m not myself…” she said. “Don’t trust what I say or do.”
“You mean if he takes you.” Alasdair’s hands clenched on the table.
“Y-yes,” Letitia said, swallowing against her pulse rising in her throat at the thought of an entity like Lynwood making its way inside her. The power she contained was no small thing and was regularly exercised with her readings, but there was no telling what a creature like Lynwood could do with all she possessed. Lynwood borrowed Finola’s gift of reading minds from her connection to Alasdair, but there would be no telling what he’d do with Letitia’s gifts.
Letitia took a deep breath, trying to remember all of Old Mother Borrows’ advice, but on the heels of it was the certainty that this was what she had to do.
“I’m going to…insert myself into his vision and the final moments of his death,” she said. “That will make me more than an observer. I will be a participant in his memories, but it makes me vulnerable to what happens inside them as well. If this doesn’t go well, you have to promise you’ll leave. Let me fight it on my own terms, but don’t make yourself a tool of its arsenal again.”
She held his gaze, and after a moment he nodded.
Knowing the time was at hand, Letitia leaned forward, surprising him with the briefest kiss.
“To remind me of what to come back to,” she said and drew away to stare down into the water, seeking out the spirit of the old hotel.
“Thank you for staying at the Santa Barbara Seaside Estate,” he said to the disappearing customers, who gave quick glances back as they hurried away.
They were the third customer that day to cancel early, and he was distressed.
Had the sheets not been clean, the food not excellent? The sea made it difficult to grow much, even if the oaks protected the garden from the worst of the weather. It was the salt air, but that’s what guests came for—a seaside retreat.
He tried to think back and recall slips of any kind.
The elderly couple who’d come for a restorative stay while their son ran an operation out in the new gold-mining district had been hastily collected by the son and his wife that morning.
He’d only had a note and the remainder of a paid bill left on a man’s bed. When the maid told him, he’d dismissed it as an emergency of some kind or an early train.
Instead of worrying about the cancelations, he instead finished writing up an account on his beloved typewriter before he toured the public rooms.
It was a regular activity, pointing out any little inconsistencies to staff in the otherwise pristine service the hotel offered. It was what his financial backer demanded, and he did his level best to make sure every room was occupied, everyone wore a smile, and every account was paid.
Now, though, he saw the darting eyes. The unfriendliness of the place he had come to call home pressed on him from all sides. Dropping the account book, he yanked a bill from the typewriter, shoved it in the guest’s pigeonhole, and went to the dining room.
Tables were scattered throughout, each with a cream tablecloth that would have done an English restaurant proud. Silver service was denoted by the cutlery and pristine plates on every table, ready for dinner. Crystal glasses lit the tablecloths in rainbows, one for each type of wine. Towering over them were bouquets of seaside flowers and grasses, a colorful array for the oncoming spring.
He checked every table, measured a few, but otherwise it was as perfect as a lord’s house.
Walking to the library, he found a book lying on the floor, but no one nearby who may have been reading it. Shelving it, he went to the rear drawing room that looked to the north. There was no one there either. It was eerily quiet, and he was quick to stride across the hall and into the kitchens.
The cook was gossiping to the butler.
This wasn’t an unusual affair, he was used to it, but when the cook’s gaze slid to him and her eyes widened, the first real dread settled in his chest.
“Is the dinner menu ready?” he asked, ignoring her reaction to him.
“Yes, sir.” She answered slowly, hands clutching at her apron. “Just like you asked for.”
The butler said not a word, but his gaze penetrated. A kindly old man, the look reflected there was of a disappointed father.
Letting the door close, he continued his rounds, questioning here, directing there.
Each time he found the staff jittery, their normal subservience lost in nervous glances.
He wasn’t here to be liked, but he knew well enough that they at least respected him and the work he did.
In an uncharacteristic action, he climbed the top stairs to go to his room, perhaps make sure there was nothing untoward in his appearance. The maids, with the beds made and nothing much to do until the servant’s dinner gong rang, were collected in the servant’s hall and didn’t notice his stealthy feet upon the stair.
“It’s all over Santa Barbara,” one girl said. “Someone saw him with that little girl, the one that went missing. That’s what I heard. Alice, that was her name.”
The world was ripped out from beneath him.
He’d been found out.
Someone had seen him. He could deny it all—it had been dark and quite early in the morning—but not without speaking to the police. They’d ask for an alibi, which he didn’t have, and they’d come to the hotel and ask questions. The idea of them traipsing through his sacred space was abhorrent.
Abruptly turning about, he saw a woman on the landing below, staring at him.
“Who are you?” he said, surprised at her quiet presence.
“Oh!” she said, startled by his sharp tone, “I’m looking for…my maid.”
“What’s her name?” Lynwood asked. He didn’t recognize this woman, but some of the guests had checked in while he’d been busy.
“Jane,” she said quickly. “Yes, Jane. Can you call her?”
He stared at the odd woman a moment and then turned to look down the hall.
“Is there a Jane here?” he called. “Your mistress is looking for you.”
A single head peeked around the corner at him after a long moment.
“Ain’t no Jane here, sir,” she said. She withdrew when he asked no further questions, but when he turned to tell the lady that her maid was not upstairs, sh
e was gone. Frowning at the rudeness, he ignored it, remembering instead what the girl had said. The way she’d looked at him.
With revulsion.
The police were coming.
Lynwood wasn’t sure what to do. A part of him had always known this day would come, and yet he had found such happiness here. It had been a delight, living his dual life, excelling in and relishing both.
It dawned on him then that he couldn’t let the police take him. He couldn’t fall victim to their public inquisition. His affairs were intensely private and he—
Stopping on the stair, he caught sight of the woman who’d been looking for her maid. She studied him now, eyes wide, mouth grim, but her gaze was so intense it took him several moments to take her in.
Within the hazel eyes were streaks of silver, and as he focused on her, a floor below, he couldn’t help but feel it was a mirror of himself. Something about her was intriguing, and he had to speak to her. He hurried down the stairs, but she ran, too. No guest paid her any mind, even though she was pushing past them down the stairs.
Who was she?
His mind was not driven by anything other than the mystery of her person, and the more he tried to remember her face the more he found that he couldn’t. He saw only her eyes, burning brightly, her penetrating attention propelling him.
She was not a woman he would have lusted after—too wide in her hips and breast—but he found himself aroused all the same. Not from her body, but what he would do to it.
When he rounded the last corner of the stair and stood in the foyer, the woman was gone.
He scanned the room searching for her, whatever drove him to find her goaded by the oncoming paranoia of police involvement. They would be arriving any moment now, so there was no time to waste.
Striding behind the receptionist desk, he took a key out of the drawer.
No one but him knew what it was for or where it went. With another glance around the room to be sure it was unoccupied, he turned and placed the key in the lock hidden in a miniscule hole between the panels. Further along the wall behind the reception desk, a seamless door swung inward at the key’s turn. No one would ever know it was there without tearing down the panels.
