by C. J. Archer
Smith struck a light and lit a lamp. He hung it from a low beam. The lamp's glow illuminated the bulging features of Smith himself and Butterworth's softer ones. Its light didn't quite reach the corners of what appeared to be a large basement. I shivered, partly from the cold, but mostly because I felt as if I were being buried alive. The thick walls were too close, the ceiling too low. Despite the drop in temperature from being underground, sweat beaded on my brow and turned my palms slick.
A sniff came from the shadows off to my right. My heart leapt into my throat and I took an involuntary step closer to the master. His throaty chuckle had me taking a step back in the other direction.
"It's only Wendy," he said. "Come out, Wendy. Meet your predecessor."
A figure emerged from the shadows. It was her, the girl from my visions. She was alive. Relief made me forget myself. I ran to her, but she shrank away and ducked her head, as if she expected a slap.
"I won't harm you," I whispered. "I'm going to help."
Her gaze flicked past me. I turned just in time to receive a blow from Smith's hand across my face. The force of it sent me careening into the wall. Searing pain sliced through my injured hand again as I put it out to break my fall.
"I didn't give you permission to speak," the master roared. "Do you not remember, Charity? Hmmm? You need my permission to speak, to sing, to go, to stay, for everything!"
I whimpered, then grew annoyed at how pathetic it made me sound. If I was to get out of this, I needed to be strong. Strong and clever. And I would get out. Not just for me, but for the girl, too. I had to, if I wanted to live. The master was dead, and he wanted me to join him.
We belong together. For eternity.
I wasn't ready to leave this world. I wanted to live. Merely acknowledging that fortified me beyond measure. Years ago, the last time I'd been in the master's clutches, I'd not been so determined. I'd not had as much to live for as now.
I eyed the girl again. She was tall and willowy, like me. She couldn't have been more than about seventeen. Her long blonde hair looked clean, if not well styled, and her clothes were new and pretty. The master liked his girl to be nicely presented. I remembered that, too. Remembered so much, now. Samuel's memory block had completely worn off.
Samuel. He and Tommy would have returned to the house from the village. They would be frantic with worry.
I shoved thoughts of them aside. I needed to concentrate on my situation and assume I wouldn't be rescued. It was up to me.
The master came up to us. He was a little shorter than me, in Butterworth's form, reaching only to my nose. He rested a hand on my hip. So gentle. That's how he'd sucked me into his sinister world in the first place, with tenderness, sweet words and handsome looks. He'd been the perfect gentleman, utterly charming, until he'd drawn me into his lair. Then he locked the door, shed the charming facade, and transformed into a monster.
"Wendy has been keeping me company while I waited for you." His breath brushed my neck, warm and putrid. "She's not as beautiful as you, of course. Her essence is a little lackluster, shall we say. You, Charity, are as beautiful inside as you are out. That's what I've always loved about you. It's what I've always wanted."
I didn't dare speak or move; he hadn't given me permission. The only part of me that felt alive was my pounding heart, its beat fierce as it drummed out an erratic rhythm that echoed through my body.
"I had hoped to find you one day, Charity, but I never dreamed it could happen. Those visions were a stroke of luck, were they not?" He nuzzled into my neck. His tongue slithered across my skin above my collar. My insides recoiled, but I remained still on the outside. "I'm curious. Why do they happen?"
"I don't know," I said. "I was hypnotized and, ever since, we've been having visions."
"The hypnotist is the other fellow I met today, eh? Handsome devil. I'd wager you and he have enjoyed each other's beauty on more than one occasion." He nibbled my ear. I endured it without pulling away, just. "Tell me, does he need to hypnotize you to get you to do what he wants, or do you spread your legs for him willingly? Like you did for me."
I never did it willingly for you. That's what I wanted to tell him. I wanted to spit on him, kick him, hurt him. But I did not.
My gaze slipped to Wendy. She watched us, her expression wary. She kept her back to the wall, which meant she'd learned to keep her enemies in view. Good. She was cleverer than she looked.
The master let me go long enough to grab my hair. He pulled it, forcing me to bend backwards so that my face was beneath his.
"How would you like to die, Charity?" he murmured.
Wendy began to cry. I wanted to tell her to be quiet, so as not to attract attention to herself, but I didn't want the master or Smith to hit me again. I needed my wits about me.
"I don't want to die," I told him, my voice quivering.
He chuckled and let me go. "That's too bad, because it's already been decided. I've waited and waited and now I finally get to rest with you in my arms. So, what will it be? I could cut your throat, have Smith beat you to death, or strangle you."
"Strangle," I said quickly.
"Very well." He let me go and shoved me in the direction of Smith, standing near the lamp. And the ladder.
"Can Wendy hold my hand? I… I don't want to die alone."
"You won't be, you stupid girl. Smith will be here, as will I." He laughed. "I suppose I'm already dead, so I don't count."
Wendy whimpered again. She looked terribly pale and I hoped she wouldn't faint on me.
"It's all right." I held out my hand to her. She clasped it tightly and I squeezed, trying to reassure her. Judging by her violent trembling, I had failed.
Smith clamped his hand over my nose and mouth. It was just like when he tried to kidnap me, back at the school, in London. His big paw cut off my air. His arms held me against the side of his body. I couldn't breathe. In a moment, I would faint. The master stood at the edge of the lamplight, grinning. He licked heavy lips and watched me die with those hard, cruel eyes of his. Eyes that I would never forget, in this life or the next.
CHAPTER 14
I felt for the pocket in my skirt, hidden by the folds of cotton. My bruised and battered hand shook until my fingers wrapped around deliciously cool metal. The comforting sensation brought a sense of otherworldly calm to my taut nerves. I could do this. I needed to do this; if not for me, then for Wendy.
I withdrew Mrs. Peeble's derringer pistol and shot Smith in the chest before he had time to register what I was doing. He fell to the floor, dead.
Wendy screamed, high and excruciatingly loud.
"Quiet!" I snapped. It may have sounded harsh, but I couldn't think with all that noise. She quieted instantly.
I didn't take my eyes off the master. He stood a few feet away, staring down at the dead man. A ripple of shock disturbed his pudgy features before he once more schooled himself.
"Did that make you feel better?" he drawled.
"Not particularly," I said. "I would rather he faced justice, but I could see no other way."
"Indeed." He stepped closer to me.
"Stay there."
"You won't shoot me." He took another step, watching me the entire time. Testing me, daring me to shoot. "This body doesn't deserve to die like Smith. It belongs to an innocent man. You're too moral for that. Too good. It's part of the reason why I adore you."
"Go up, Wendy," I told the whimpering girl. "Run. Get help." It would be too late by then. We all knew it. The master was right. I couldn't kill Butterworth. My only option was to somehow render him unconscious then escape and lock him in the basement.
To do that, I had to get close enough to hit him over the head with the pistol's handle, the only weapon at hand. Even then he could probably overpower me before I got in a single blow, or transfer into my body.
At least Wendy could get to safety. He wanted me, not her. She scampered up the ladder and opened the trapdoor. Daylight fell across the master's eyes. He paused and bl
inked.
I had a moment. No more. I spun round and began my ascent, even though I knew I wouldn't reach the top. He could close the gap between us faster than I could climb.
His laughter echoed around the basement. "Come here, stupid girl."
I'd reached the third rung when he grasped my ankle. He pulled. I kicked out and hung on to the ladder. He pulled down again, using his weight as an anchor. My fingers slipped as my sore hand screamed in agony. I couldn't hold on any longer. My heart pounded and tears of frustration and pain started anew. There was no means of escape. I was going to lose to the master. Again.
A dark object fell past my vision. It hit him with a sickening thud. He released my ankle and crumpled to ground without making a sound. Blood trickled from his temple and soaked into the floor. A brick lay nearby. Wendy must have dropped it through the trapdoor.
"Is he dead?" she called down.
"I… I don't know." A dead man couldn't die again. The spirit of the master was very much here, trapped in Butterworth's dead or unconscious body.
Unless he jumped to me.
I didn't know how close someone had to be for a spirit to transfer from one body to another, but I wasn't willing to find out. I scrambled up the ladder and out into the fresh air above ground. Wendy stood a little to the side, breathing heavily. Her eyes were swollen and red from crying, her hair tangled around her shoulders.
She wiped her nose and gave me a watery smile. "Thank you." She threw her thin arms around me and I hugged her, but just for a moment; there was still work to be done.
"Help me cover this trapdoor so he can't escape." I returned the pistol to my pocket and piled bricks onto the closed door. In a few short minutes, Wendy and I had built a tower that no man could dislodge from underneath.
"What do we do now?" she asked, dusting off her hands.
"You have to go for help."
She blinked. "Me? Alone?"
"You'll be all right. I have to stay here and ensure no one stumbles onto the… onto him." I refused to call him the master. He was not my master. He was nobody.
She stared out of the nearest glassless window. "Where are we?"
"I'm not sure. Somewhere near Harborough is my guess."
"Harborough? Is that close to London?" Her accent was what I called post-slum. She still possessed the harsh vowels of someone brought up in a rookery, but was attempting to cover it with a more refined accent she had yet to master. He would have taught her to speak like that, just like he'd taught me.
"Hertfordshire," I said. "Did you live in London with him?"
She wrapped her thin arms around herself. "Not him," she said, nodding at the trapdoor. "Another man. Another master. He had a big house in Mayfair. Beautiful, it was. Then, two days ago, he ordered me to pack and we came here. We stayed in a house in the village."
"Mrs. Turner's house in Harborough?"
She nodded. "Then, this morning, that short, fat man visited. All friendly to us he was, and then suddenly he wasn't. He took me from the master and brought me here. Locked me down there." Her lower lip began to wobble. "I don't understand, miss. What's happened? Am I… free?"
I nodded.
She put her hands over her mouth to smother her sob. Her fingernails were filthy and broken. "But… the master? What if he comes here, too? I don't want to go back to him. I hate him."
The poor girl had been through enough. I wouldn't explain about the possession and frighten her further. "My friends went to the police to have him arrested. He should be locked away by now." Whoever he was, I hoped she would never see his face again. "You must go now, Wendy. Follow that road and any signs into Harborough or to Frakingham."
"Frakingham?"
"It's a large estate. My friends live there. They'll be looking for me, by now. They'll know what to do." Still she hesitated. "Wendy, you have to go. I would do it if you knew how to fire a gun." Or if I thought she had the willpower to stand up to anyone who might stumble upon us and demand the trapdoor be reopened.
She bit her lip. "I suppose."
"Just stay on the road. You'll be quite safe."
She finally left. I watched as she walked away from the house, casting a forlorn glance back at me. I gave her an encouraging smile. She had no shawl and wore a lovely pair of soft kid leather boots, not at all suitable for long country walks. The day was cool and the shadows grew long. I hoped she reached civilization before nightfall.
I settled myself into the window recess and pressed my temple against the rough brick. My mind wandered off, thinking of Samuel, Tommy and Sylvia. I hoped she was all right. It would have been convenient to have a vision now. If Samuel could see through my eyes, he might recognize the building site.
Something thudded against the trapdoor. I half-leaped, half-fell off the window embrasure. I stumbled and put my hand on the ground to stop myself falling completely. It was my bruised hand, the one Smith had stood on, and it hurt like the devil. I sucked air between my teeth and cradled it against my chest.
Thud, thud. "Bloody hell!" came Butterworth's muffled voice. "Let me out!"
I reached inside my pocket and withdrew the pistol. I returned to the window embrasure and rested the derringer on my lap, but kept it aimed at the trapdoor. I tried to shut out his shouts for help, but it wasn't easy. His shouts soon became panicked screams, then finally he quieted. He probably assumed Wendy and I had both left.
I waited. And waited. I scanned the road leading to the building site, but no one came. There were no sounds of wheels on the gravel, no police whistles. Just the rustle of the leaves of the forest trees and the chatter of birds settling in for the evening.
Once in a while the master called out, asking if anyone was there. He thumped on the trapdoor or grunted as he tried to shove the bricks off. Then he'd fall quiet again. Part of me wished he'd died, but that was pointless. He was already dead. The only way to remove him was to have Emily Beaufort or Cara send him back. It was a comfort to know they were on their way to Frakingham, and may have already arrived if they'd taken the train.
The sun dropped behind the forest and the air cooled. I shivered and wished I'd worn a warmer dress. Wendy should have found someone by now. Surely it couldn't take hours to walk to Harborough or Frakingham without meeting a soul. But what if she'd gotten lost?
An even more horrifying thought struck me. What if the master's spirit had transferred to her before she'd climbed out? What if I'd just allowed him to walk free and poor Mr. Butterworth was the one trapped down there?
I tried to think back to the events in the basement. When had she been close to the master? Had he still acted like himself right up until the moment the brick hit him? Or had the master, inside Wendy's body, aimed that brick at Butterworth on purpose to keep him quiet?
I was rifling through my jumbled thoughts when I heard the rumble of wheels on gravel. I spun round to see a familiar driver atop a familiar coach, Samuel beside him, half out of the seat.
He spotted me and almost jumped off while the coach still barreled along. He managed to wait until it had slowed down enough before he leapt down and ran to me.
I didn't get a chance to greet him or indeed say anything. He threw his arms around me and cradled me against his body. His warmth surrounded me, infused me. His rapidly beating heart thrummed through my body and echoed in my blood. He made me feel alive.
And yet so scared. He shouldn't be touching me. Not him. Not a man who could get what he wanted with mere words. Not someone with so much charm and far more power than a single man ought to have.
I pressed my uninjured hand to his chest and gently pushed. He broke away and part of me wanted to cry over the loss of his warmth and strength. But the rest of me needed the space between us. Craved it.
I pulled out of his arms completely. He didn't seem to notice my rejection. His gaze focused on the pile of bricks on top of the trapdoor. Muffled thumps sounded on the wood again.
"Is he in there?" asked Tommy. He'd joined us from the coach.
Behind him stood Emily and Jacob Beaufort, the school's patrons. I smiled tentatively at Mrs. Beaufort, relieved beyond measure to see her sweet face, kind brown eyes, and her husband's strong, capable frame.
Then, suddenly, my face crumpled. My smile turned wobbly and tears spilled down my cheeks. I couldn't stop them and I began to shake uncontrollably. I could barely even wipe the tears away, my hand trembled so much.
Mrs. Beaufort folded me into her arms while Samuel looked on, his eyes bright, his mouth twisted as he struggled to hold in his emotions. I buried my face in Mrs. Beaufort's shoulder so that I didn't have to look at him.
I heard the men pulling off the bricks and throwing them aside. The master must have heard it, too. His thuds became more frantic, his shouts filled with hope. Nobody answered him when he asked who was there.
When all the bricks were gone and only Samuel and Tommy stood on the trapdoor to keep it shut, Mr. Beaufort turned to his wife.
"Ready?" he asked.
She nodded and let me go to join her husband. "Let him out," she said.
Tommy stepped off. Samuel did not. He lowered his head and closed his fists at his sides. He was hatless and his hair fell across his forehead, covering his eyes.
My heart tugged. I wanted to go to him, but I hung back, uncertain. Mr. Beaufort rested his hand on Samuel's shoulder. Samuel huffed out a breath and moved off the trapdoor.
It sprang back and Butterworth's head popped out. He blinked in the dusky light and stared up at the men surrounding him. "Who are you?" he asked as he climbed out. It was a trick. He knew who Samuel was.
Mrs. Beaufort, standing a little behind her husband, began to chant the words that would banish the spirit. Mr. Beaufort's body was rigid, ready to stop Butterworth getting too close to her if necessary.
