Spectris: Veritas Book Two

by Quinn Coleridge

  This kind of interaction with a ghost is rare. Most of them are howling or gnashing their teeth or threatening to haunt me forever. They’re too traumatized to remember any details about their murders, but Willa looks quite lucid. She appears to be more annoyed than traumatized, watching me with critical, blood-red eyes and tapping her foot.

  Well, Visionary? What do you want?

  Hold on a moment, Willa. Let me cover up a bit more.

  She mutters grumpily as I reach for my robe at the side of the bed and drape it over my nightgown. May as well capitalize upon a helpful spirit when it presents itself.

  All right, that’s better. You told me I should look to the money. I assume that Shaw’s envelope was a payment of some kind.

  Willa rolls her hideous eyes at this. Yes, yes obviously. Shaw paid it twice a month—on the fifteenth and the twenty-eighth.

  Sir Death was right about this one. She has will and spleen to spare. Who’s the man in the charcoal suit then? And why did he demand payment?

  I have stumped Willa with the very first question. She looks as though she’s swallowed a sour plum. I don’t know his name, only that he frightened Shaw. Not so much lately, though I can’t say why. Sleuthing is your job, Visionary. Not mine.

  To be honest, I’m a bit disappointed. I had hoped Willa would be a treasure trove of information. That’s it? You have nothing more for me, no hidden nugget to help solve your murder?

  Her bloody eyes begin to glow. She shrieks and then disappears with a loud pop. It seems as though the answer to my question is a negative. No treasure trove, no hidden nuggets.

  Sleep tight, Willa. Don’t let the Reapers bite.

  Without bothering to remove my robe, I pull my covers up and close my eyes, shutting the mental tall boy with a slam. No more thinking, Hester. Resume the investigation tomorrow.

  My muscles tremble with fatigue, but I relax slowly, by degrees, until I am teetering on the cusp of slumber. But the summer night turns to ice, the air frosty as the dead of winter. Shivering, I open my eyes and see myself sitting up in bed: hair down, no corset, robe sliding off one bare shoulder. My brows shoot upward.

  Blast and damn and bother. Do you mind, Sir Death? I am in dishabille.

  What’s that? Oh, pardon me.

  And please shut off the Reaper-vision. It’s quite disturbing.

  As the Sight fades, my psyche is filled with the image of Sir Death lounging against the wall by the window. A dark blue suit and a pink tie show from under the robes this time. Sweet blazes! What’s He doing in my bedroom?

  How goes your investigation, Lady V? Any recent breakthroughs?

  Has Death no shame? His visitation goes against all protocol. I draw the neckline of my robe together and try to think of a tactful way to ask Him to leave. How does one rebuff an immortal without inviting His wrath?

  I shake my head politely. Tomorrow would be better, Sir. We’ll discuss it then. As you can see, mortals need rest.

  Death walks over to my bed and sits down on the corner, crossing his elegantly dressed legs. He steeples His fingers. I would’ve thought darkness the best time for investigating. Imagine the criminals lurking in the shadows, committing crimes at their leisure. Perhaps you might consider rearranging your schedule.

  While Death’s reasoning might hold some merit for a less weary mind, His tone strikes my last nerve and snaps it in two. Rearrange my schedule? You can’t be bloody serious. My life, such as it is, accommodates the whim of whatever ghost or vision comes my way. Now I’m to cater to criminals as well? Goodbye, Sir Death! Get out! I am done with the supernatural until morning.

  Blue eyes glittering, He rises to His feet in a huff. You’re rather shrill, do you know that, Visionary?

  In a fit of pique, I grab a pillow and hurl it at Death. It flies right through Him. You haven’t heard shrill yet, Sir. On your way now, if you please.

  The pillow spins across the floor, and I wait in appalled silence for the punishment that is sure to come. I’ve never sworn at Sir Death, let alone thrown things at His corporeal manifestation. What will He do? Stop my heart, steal the breath from my lungs? But the Reaper only gathers the skirt of His black robes, making them ripple like an angry pool of water. How inhospitable. You wouldn’t treat your golden-haired doctor friend this way.

  A bitter, herbaceous heat fills the air. Gentian root with a hint of pickled ginger, or rather, the scent of jealousy and loneliness. I lift a hand of reconciliation toward the Reaper, instantly contrite. I never knew He had feelings, but it makes sense Death would be lonely, given His calling. Having experienced much of this emotion in my own life, I feel sorrow for Death. It would be terrible to wish for companionship and see no end to one’s isolation.

  My bedroom warms as He fades from view. Blind once more, I find relief in the peaceful darkness. It winds about me like a silken shawl. The crickets begin to sing outside and an owl hoots softly in the trees near the barn. Perhaps my encounter with Sir Death was actually a nightmare brought on by the toil and stress of the day. I can hope, can I not? The last thing I need is another complicated relationship.

  Sir Death is correct, of course. I would treat Kelly differently than the immortal. For one thing, the doctor doesn’t frighten me, and he usually smells of delicious, life-affirming things. Chocolate, peppermint, and citrus. French-milled soap and spicy cologne. I imagine tossing a pillow at Kelly. Would he throw it back or keep it, I wonder? Perhaps he might offer to share . . .

  Grinning, I settle against the mattress, aching with a lust for shut eye.

  And maybe also for Kelly.

  As thoughts of my pseudo-husband fill my mind, I hear a noise in the attic. Not a scuttling, mouse-in-the-wall sort of noise, but a sneaky, I’m-crawling-through-your-window-in-the-middle-of-the-night sound.

  Di miserentur—enough is enough! After the vision of the factory explosion, the ghosts, the Furies, even more ghosts, and Death, what’s bloody next?

  I throw my legs over the side of my bed, reaching for the knives in my nightstand. Using echolocation, I determine that Willard and Gabriel are sleeping soundly in their rooms, bless them, snoring to wake the dead. I strap the throwing knives to my thigh and hope that I won’t have to use them. Correction. I do want to use them. If that noise is not coming from a ghost, I may be tempted to kill someone, or at least give them a flesh wound.

  The house is quiet as I negotiate the stairs, careful to avoid the squeaking boards. Passing the second floor now, I turn my face left, toward Cordelia’s bedroom. Nothing, empty. Gabriel slumbers away in his chamber on the right. Two others sit across the landing, both unoccupied. I continue my journey to the attic, noticing a dry odor, as though the dust on the normally untraveled steps has been disturbed.

  Who came up here before me? And why do I smell a burning candle?

  Removing a knife from the sheath on my thigh, I move deliberately, choosing each step with care. Tom Craddock, my telepathic first love—who died briefly and came back to life a stranger—taught me to throw knives. An unlikely skill in a blind person, but it works because of my excellent ears. I reach the top step and listen for the rustling sound. It’s still there, just a bit softer.

  This level is smaller than the one below, and it takes just a few steps to reach the door. I twist the knob, hard metal against my palm.

  Pinpointing the muffled sounds in the room, I raise my blade and step inside.

  5

  Miserare

  Have mercy.

  “Stop, Hester!” Cordelia cries. “For the love of heaven! Where did you get that knife?”

  “It’s just us!” Isaac Baker says at the same time, shrieking like a maid.

  Hell’s bells.

  I lower my knife and exhale sharply. Why are they skulking around at this time of night?

  Cordelia steps forward and pushes my hand, and the blade it holds, even lower. I turn my back on her and Isaac and slip the weapon into the sheath under my nightgown.

  Too tired for words, I si
gn instead. Relax. No harm done.

  Do I hear Cordelia wringing her hands? Why is she breathing so fast?

  A current of fear pulses from her. “I’m so sorry to sneak up without asking, Hester—”

  Isaac interrupts and tries to assume the blame. “It’s all my fault. I climbed through your attic window. The roof has quite a steep pitch, I might add. Nearly fell to my death because of it.”

  The thought of Isaac attempting such a thing gives me a start. He very well could have fallen to his death. Why hide here? I ask.

  Cordelia sniffles for a moment. “The constable came to my parent’s home, to Isaac’s family, all over the neighborhood. They want to arrest him for the bombing.”

  It’s obvious Isaac isn’t guilty—Constable Drown can’t hope to make the charges stick. However, eluding the authorities this way might imply, rather than deny, Isaac’s guilt.

  Get a good lawyer. Surrender to police.

  “No!” Cordelia says. “Not the ones from this side of town.”

  Why?

  “There’s not an honest copper in the lot, Hester. Everyone knows that.”

  Why have I heard nothing about this until today? I’ve lived in the area for months, completely unaware of police corruption. Albeit, I have been rather preoccupied with my own problems: asylum escape, drug addiction, evil brother . . . Shaking myself a little, I return my attention to the problem at hand.

  Who does one trust when the authorities themselves are untrustworthy?

  I haven’t the foggiest. I’ll have to ask Kelly about it—as coroner, he might be able to help. Yet I must use tact. He tends to be overly-protective, and I can’t have him taking control of my life.

  Fine, I concede to Cordelia. He stays. For now.

  The couple sigh in relief simultaneously, as though they’ve been married for years. “Thank you, Miss Hester,” Isaac says. “Thank you! I won’t be a problem at all. You’ll hardly know I’m here.”

  Oh, I’ll know he’s here, all right, and he will cause me problems. Regardless, this arrangement must work for the time being. I’m taken aback when Isaac hugs me, and I pat his shoulder several times before withdrawing awkwardly from the embrace.

  Since the attic is rather barren, Cordelia and I decide to sneak downstairs—careful not to awaken Gabriel and Willard—and gather bedding for Isaac. Plus food and water, a candle and some Lucifer matches. We can’t use a lantern because it would shed too much light and shine through the attic window, leading Constable Drown and his cronies directly to public enemy number one.

  The idea of Isaac on a wanted poster makes me snort, but I sober quickly. Innocent or not, I don’t think he’d last long in jail. It’s been a hot summer, and tempers are running high. The people at the bomb site were certainly worked up, and that kind of public outcry, along with a corrupt police force, might hasten Isaac’s trial and sentencing. He could be swinging from the gallows in a week.

  As I carry a pillow and a jug of lemonade to the attic, I hear Cordelia and Isaac laughing softly. “One more goodnight kiss,” she whispers. “And that’s final.”

  I’ll have to remind them to be quiet. I don’t wish to involve Gabriel and Willard in our scheme to hide Isaac from the police if I can help it. Life is difficult enough for an Indian and a scarred giant in Stonehenge, and I don’t wish to burden them further.

  When I reach the top step, it dawns on me how young Cordelia and Isaac are. So naïve that they think this will all work itself out. I am only a few months older, but it seems like eons. These dear, unworldly souls can’t be allowed to suffer.

  I will ensure that someone does—a person callous enough to kill mothers and daughters and wives. When I imagine the killer, I see a well-dressed man tucking an envelope of cash into his breast pocket. An incandescent burst of heat sweeps through me as truth vibrates in my bones.

  This all goes back to the man in the charcoal suit.

  One must call a spade a spade. Breakfast is horrid.

  The eggs have a scorched texture that eggs should never possess. And there’s the burned smell, which is enough to put anyone off their food.

  Gabriel tactfully excuses himself after examining the victuals, murmuring that he must get to work at the forge. Willard mutters Arapahoe holy words to ward off evil spirits and leaves for the back garden without taking one bite. Since the attic upstairs tends to collect heat and household odors, poor Isaac will be stuck with the hellacious combination for the entire day.

  Jail might not look so terrible by this evening.

  Cordelia offers to make supper, and I immediately accept, knowing her to be a skilled cook. My mother didn’t raise a stupid child, just one that’s a disaster in the kitchen.

  I polish my opaque glasses and gather the slate and chalk from the parlor, putting them inside my reticule. Now for my hat and cane. Cordelia takes charge of me briefly, smoothing the skirts of my plain-weave cotton dress and adjusting the sash. She pins my straw boater into place at a jaunty angle over my right eye, at least it feels rather jaunty. As she’s tucking up a piece of my hair, Cordie mentions that one of her aunts replaced the old ribbon on the hat and added a few silk daisies for effect. I nod, unsure how to react to this information. Artificial flowers mean little to me.

  “How is it you stay so pale, Hester? I step outside for two minutes, and I’m covered in freckles. Never you, though. Work in the garden for hours, sit in direct sunlight—not a bit of pink on your skin.”

  Near-albinos aren’t comfortable discussing pigment, or the lack thereof. Especially when one’s paleness relates to excessive exposure to death and ghosts and spiritual darkness.

  “Well, whatever your secret is, you look lovely today,” Cordelia finally says, bridging the uncomfortable silence. “Like a breath of summer.”

  I am a breath of something all right, most likely burned eggs. She adjusts my skirt one last time and asks where I am going.

  Walking, I sign. To the park.

  My friend makes a humming sound, as if she’s trying to decide whether to believe me or not. Thank the stars, Cordelia hasn’t time to dispute my claim and must finish her own grooming. She works across town at the library on High Street and cannot be late. For a girl who loves books, it’s the perfect job even if it doesn’t pay much. I hope Cordie can make it there and back without Constable Drown bringing her in for questioning. We agreed last night that she should continue her routine as usual—upholding an innocent front—in the event the coppers are staked out nearby.

  Cordelia follows me as far as the door. “Enjoy your visit to the park, Hester. Although I doubt you’re actually going to one.”

  I ignore the jab at my being less than forthright with her and wave goodbye. When I clear the porch steps, I think of taking my horse Jupiter out for a spell. Kelly bought him last year, on my behalf, when Jupiter was destined for the glue factory, and I have loved the old horse ever since. I occasionally go riding on my own, but Kelly is oblivious of this. He’d have a conniption if he knew. It’s a kindness, really, to spare him such fits.

  On those rides, Jupiter plods along and we keep to the backest of back roads, away from the busy thoroughfares. Needless to say, mistakes have been made, and I’ve had some rather close calls. No more than a half dozen, a piddling number by any count.

  Unfortunately, Jupiter will have to wait. I’m all about business at present. Cardiff Avenue is still closed, according to Willard, and some of the surrounding streets are being cleared of wreckage. No matter. I will avoid the area and go elsewhere, on a mission that demands subtlety. Monitoring dirty coppers must be done with finesse.

  Tapping my cane a few inches before my feet, I set a steady pace, traveling due east. A shuddering sensation comes over me and makes my skin crawl. I filter through the layers of sound to find the cause, but there’s nothing unusual. Shopkeepers doing business, housewives gossiping on their front steps, carriages and people moving about and so on. Nonetheless, I feel I am being watched, and I cannot tell whether the observer
is friend or foe.

  Definitely supernatural. Magic bounces off the brick homes and tenement buildings before weaving itself around me. Light or dark being, it’s anyone’s guess.

  Who are you? I ask the presence.

  I call again telepathically and wait. My observer doesn’t respond, but continues to watch in silence. These kinds of games make me tired. Why so blasted mysterious? If the person meant well, he or she would have identified themselves.

  Right, then. Better be going.

  Walking on, I bash into a strapping fellow, who smells of fermented hops and tavern smoke. “Slow down,” the Irishman says.

  Someone else tries to walk around us, but we’re blocking the way. “Move, will I?” he mutters, thoroughly Welsh.

  Now they’ve heard each other speak, both men are spoiling for a fight. Ireland stands on my left. “Get on with you then,” he says to the Welshman. “Stop pestering the girl.”

  His opponent exhales in a gust. “Oh, she’s in no danger from me, Mick. I don’t knock women about like the Irish do.”

  The argument escalates before I can think of a way to stop it. I jump back as the blows begin, but one of them stumbles into me, and I’m knocked to the sidewalk. Knees stinging, I crawl away, like a failed scrapper in a back-alley contest. All summer it’s been like this, fist fights and tempers igniting at the drop of a hat.

  In this part of the city, the Irish contend with the Welsh. Farther south, Italian factions are at war with themselves. Then there are the Germans versus . . . well, everybody. And heaven help us, the Russians, with their plot to establish a czar of Stonehenge. They all battle over jobs, or politics, or just the wrong look in a man’s eyes.

  Who needs a reason to hate when the weather’s this hot?

  I must try to stop this violence, having brought the two men together in the first place. Perhaps a woman’s gentle presence will help them see reason. I hold my throat and speak as amiably as I can.

  “Gentlemen. There’s no need for this. Please stop.”