Crane gave one of his bows. “Happy hunting, Miss Jenny.”
“You too, Crane.”
Jenny spent the next hour trying and failing to organize Corbin’s files. Each time she took a shot at it, she either got distracted by something interesting to read—there was one musty old book that had all kinds of interesting stuff about healing potions and herbs—or got fed up and stopped after only sorting a few things because it was boring.
To her horror, she was going to have to admit that her older sister was right.
Considering she’d been spending the better part of a decade thinking of Abbie as nothing but wrong, this was a bit of a revelation for her.
Putting it out of her mind, she left the armory and headed up to North Broadway and then down to Chestnut Street.
The first time Jenny had set foot in the Whitcombe-Sears Library, it was in the company of Sheriff Corbin.
“This old church is a library?” she had asked the sheriff when he brought her down Chestnut the first time.
Corbin had smiled under his beard. “Hasn’t been a church of any kind in fifty years. It was Episcopal, and done in the Federal style—which is why it’s made out of brick instead of stonework, and why the inside was boring as hell. Give me a good old-fashioned Gothic church or Catholic cathedral any day.”
Jenny had stopped walking and given him a look. “Is this gonna be another lecture? ’Cause if it is, I can go back home right now.”
Putting a reassuring hand on her back, he guided her forward. “No lecture, I promise. At least not from me.”
They had gone inside the large wooden double doors, which opened with a creak. Inside was a small hallway with a staircase on the left and a wall on the right that had a bulletin board covered with flyers about various happenings and services in the town. In front of them sat a doorway to the larger church area—or, rather, library area—which had a small security gate designed to read the bar codes on books that hadn’t been checked out.
Past the gate had been rows of bookcases where pews probably used to be. Looking up, she saw more bookcases up on the balcony where the organ probably was. Up front, in the area where the altar would have been, sat a huge wooden desk.
Corbin had made a beeline for that desk. On top of it had been a pile of books, a computer that was top-of-the-line the year Jenny was born—the fan was making a labored noise—and a wooden box containing call slips and small pencils. On either side there had been two small tables with computers of the same vintage as the antique on the desk, which Jenny had figured to be for the use of the general public.
Said public had been nowhere to be found, as the two of them had been the only patrons present in the library.
Behind the desk had sat a middle-aged man with a beard that was even grayer than Corbin’s, and with thinning wispy salt-and-pepper hair, which was tied back in a ponytail.
Without preamble, Corbin had smiled and said to the man behind the desk, “You know that desk violates the fire code, don’t you?”
The librarian—at least, Jenny had assumed he was a librarian, though she never did find out for sure—had just grinned. “So cite me, you old reprobate.”
Corbin had put out his hand over the desk, and the librarian shook it enthusiastically. “Good to see you.” He had turned to Jenny then. “Jenny Mills, this is Albert Whitcombe-Sears, the proprietor of this august place of learning.”
“Thank you, August,” Al had said, mispronouncing Corbin’s first name with the accent on the second syllable like the adjective Corbin had used to describe the library. Then he had offered her his own hand. “Pleased to meet you, Jenny—but you can call me Al. Just don’t call me Betty.”
Jenny had returned the handshake, and had also given him a confused look. “Why would I call you Betty?”
Corbin had waved the joke off. “Paul Simon song.”
“Who?”
“I’ll burn you some CDs. Trust me, you’ll be grateful. Anyhow, Al, we need to look up some genealogical stuff going back to the early nineteenth century. Involves a haunting up in Douglas Park.”
“You know, this church hadn’t been built yet,” Whitcombe-Sears had said. “It was all Dutch Reform around here in those days. Wasn’t until the railroad that all the rich Protestants started moving up here. Then, suddenly, we had Episcopalians and Presbyterians and the like. Then the auto industry showed up, and it was all poor immigrants, who were almost entirely Catholic, so this place becomes a library.”
Jenny had glared at Corbin. “You promised me no lectures.”
“No, I promised you no lectures from me.”
The research they had done that day had been less useful than Corbin had hoped, though they had taken care of the ghost in the park. Whitcombe-Sears had even helped. The banter between Corbin and Whitcombe-Sears had been so practiced that Jenny had been surprised when Corbin had sent her back to the library rather than go himself to see his old buddy.
Today was the first time she had visited since Corbin’s death.
The vestibule hadn’t changed much. The bulletin board still advertised various services and events happening around town, including one of the local schools putting on a production of 1776. Jenny thought it would be hilarious to bring Crane to see that, just to watch his head explode.
She walked through the same security gate, walked past the same bookcases in place of pews, all stuffed to the gills with various and sundry musty tomes.
Approaching the main desk, she saw the biggest difference since the last time she was there: Whitcombe-Sears had finally upgraded. The computers were all brand-new and with flat-screen monitors instead of the monster cubes he’d had before.
The man himself had cut the ponytail off, which just emphasized how far his hairline had receded.
He looked up from reading his fancy new monitor and his eyes widened. “Goodness gracious, great balls of fire, if it isn’t Jenny Mills! Didn’t expect to see you again. I’d heard they, ah—”
“Put me away? Yeah, I was institutionalized for a while, but I’m all better now.”
“You ask me, you were always crazy.” He grinned, then dropped it quickly. “I guess that’s why you weren’t at the funeral?”
Jenny lowered her eyes. “Yeah. They don’t give furloughs, not unless it’s a family member.”
Whitcombe-Sears shook his head. “Stupid rules. You and Corbin were family, in all the ways that mattered. Anyhow, that’s neither here nor there. What can I do you for?”
“I actually want to take a look at your exhibits.”
Frowning, Whitcombe-Sears said, “Since when do you care about art?”
“Oh, I really don’t. But I read online that you have an Independence Cross on display.”
“I have one on display, yes. Wanna see?”
“Please.”
That got Whitcombe-Sears to blink in surprise. “ ‘Please’? Damn, being in the funny farm made you all polite and stuff.”
Jenny actually credited Crane with any semblance of decorum she had. It was hard not to be polite around him. It was like he exuded a force field made out of manners.
But the last thing she wanted to do was try to explain Crane to—well, to anybody, really, so she just prompted Whitcombe-Sears. “Exhibit?”
“Right.” He tapped something on his computer and then got up and led her to the area to the south wall on the left.
“I thought the restrooms were this way.”
“They also are, yeah.” Whitcombe-Sears grinned. “I’ve got a ton of family heirlooms, and I rotate ’em through the display cases.”
He led Jenny through the doorway. She’d been through it before, but always to turn right and go down the stairs to the bathroom. This time she continued ahead a bit and turned left to find a small room filled with glass cases.
Ignoring everything else in the room—though a nice portrait caught her eye—she made a beeline for a piece of metal in the shape of a cross. The cross itself was even on all sides, and rather short
, so it was more like the Red Cross logo than, say, a Catholic crucifix. It had a small loop on top of it, which was probably what a string or chain was run through so it could be worn around one’s neck.
“The crosses were all forged by a French silversmith named Gaston Mercier,” Whitcombe-Sears started in what Jenny had come to recognize as his lecture tone. “This one belonged to one of my ancestors, Caleb Whitcombe. He worked with Henry Knox to move cannons from Fort Ticonderoga to Boston, and set them up at Dorchester Heights. That helped win the Siege of Boston, which was one of the—”
“The first battles of the Revolutionary War, yeah, I know.”
Whitcombe-Sears stared at Jenny dubiously. “Since when do you know about history, Jenny?”
“Let’s just say I’ve developed a more than passing interest in the American Revolution.” She squinted more closely at the cross, noticing what appeared to be scratches on the side, but after gazing more intently upon them, she realized there was a pattern to them. “What’re those scratches?”
“Good catch. Anybody else came in here and asked that, they’d get the spiel about shipping and time passing and other nonsense. But lucky you, Jenny Mills, you get the real story. See, Gaston Mercier wasn’t just a silversmith—he was an alchemist. He couldn’t actually turn straw into gold, like other alchemists tried, but he learned how to infuse magic into solid objects. Especially silver, which conducts spellcraft quite efficiently. And there was a reason why Washington specifically chose Mercier for this commission.”
Jenny steeled herself for another lecture.
SEVEN
MOUNT VERNON, VIRGINIA
AUGUST 1785
GEORGE WASHINGTON PACED back and forth in the sitting room, waiting for the physician to finish his examination of his wife.
“Your perambulations are dizzying me, cousin,” said Lund Washington, who managed the plantation for Washington, and had been one of his greatest confidants in the two years since the British conceded, recognized the independence of the thirteen states, and signed the Treaty of Paris. It had been a near thing, and Washington knew that victory was achieved as much due to King George III’s concerns about turbulence in France—much closer to home—as it was Washington’s own strategies.
Since resigning as commander in chief of the Continental Army after the treaty was signed, Washington had enjoyed the quiet life of a retired general, advising the thirteen states as they worked to determine what type of nation they would be.
“It should have been over, Lund.”
“It is over, George. We were victorious. Or, at the very least, the Crown conceded.”
“It is not the Crown that concerns me,” Washington snapped. “It is the forces that allied themselves with the Crown against us.” He turned to look out the large picture window that showed him his plantation, the crops struggling through an awful drought. “They do not take defeat well.”
“There’s been no sign of any retribution from the daemonic forces, have there?” Lund asked. He had been kept informed of the second front on which Washington had been fighting the war, as much due to fear of the very reprisals that he believed were now being visited upon his family.
“Earlier this year, Martha’s brother Bartholomew died of a fever. Last month, her mother also died of a fever. Now Martha is ill with a fever, and I fear the worst.”
Lund shook his head. “People get fevers, George. It’s not—”
The physician chose that moment to exit from the bedroom, sparing Washington from whatever platitude Lund was about to utter, and Washington turned to face the short, stout, red-haired doctor.
“What news?”
Shaking his head, the doctor replied, “I cannot say, General. She burns with a fever the like of which I’ve never seen. In truth, I’ve no idea how she clings to life with her bodily fires burning so brightly. The slaves are applying cloths wetted with cold at my direction, but I do not know what else may be done for her. I’ll return in two days—please have your slaves continue to keep her cool. I recommend leaving the windows open wide at night as well.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
After another of the slaves saw the physician out, Washington turned to his cousin. “Unnatural heat—the crops have also suffered thus.”
Lund smiled. “I know that expression, cousin. You have a thought.”
Washington let out a breath through his dentures. “Don’t be boorish, Lund. The crops have suffered this summer due to excess heat. Bartholomew and Mother Dandridge both died of a fever, and now Martha suffers one. You’ll notice, I’m sure, the common denominator in these events.”
“Besides you? Heat.”
“Yes. And there is one foe of ours, whom I thought was dispatched. A priestess named Serilda, who was granted the power of a daemon in Trenton in 1776 and took up residence in New York shortly thereafter, wreaking havoc on our cause. She destroyed settlements in Saratoga, Albany, Kingston, Peekskill, and Sleepy Hollow before she was burned at the stake. But she led a coven, and I believe that they are attempting to enact revenge.”
Even as Washington spoke the words, the sun seemed to disappear all of a sudden, as the room grew very dark. Washington ran to the window to see that the sun had been reduced to that of a ring around a small black circle.
A female voice sounded from everywhere in the house, yet Washington could see nobody except for himself and Lund. True, it was darker, but he could still see the sitting room, albeit faded, and even some of his crops through the window.
The voice sounded cold as death, and was definitely female despite how deep and resonant it was as it echoed.
Your precious wife will not live out the week, enemy of ours! Soon everything you hold dear will be gone, gone, gone!
“Show yourself, cowardly woman!”
Tomorrow, when the moon is new, I will take your love from you, and you will know suffering as you have never known before!
Then the sun started to brighten once again, and the voice disappeared.
Washington moved quickly after that, assigning his male slaves to guard the plantation, even going so far as to arm some of them. He had no idea if Serilda’s minions would be affected by gunshot or bayonets, but they tended to employ human vessels, and those were vulnerable enough.
The following afternoon, however, a horseman arrived with a package. Lund met the messenger at the door prepared to turn him away—Washington had left strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed—but then the retired general recalled the letter he had received the previous week from France.
“Let him in!” Washington bellowed from Martha’s bedside, and then he left her in the hands of the female slaves who continued to apply wetted cloth in a vain attempt to arrest the fever.
The rider smelled very much of horse, a stench that Washington found at once invigorating and nauseating. It reminded him far too much of the war. He wanted nothing more than to put the war behind him, to move forward with aiding in the creation of a republic.
The war, however, was apparently not quite ready to be put to rest.
“General Washington.”
“Simply ‘Mr. Washington’ will suffice,” Washington said quickly. He hadn’t bothered to correct the doctor, but this messenger traveled all across the new nation, and might bring reminders of Washington’s preference not to be referred to by a title he’d quit from two years previous.
“Very well then, Mr. Washington. The gentleman from France has finished his commission. He apologizes for the late—”
Reaching for the parcel the messenger held, Washington said, “Yes, yes, I read M’sieu Mercier’s missive that he sent ahead of the commission.”
“Of course, sir.” The messenger allowed Washington to take the package from him. “I should also add that the gentleman emplaced the runes as you requested. He didn’t feel it prudent to mention that in his letter.”
“Understandable,” Washington said gravely. He unwrapped the parcel, which had sailed across the Atlantic
from Paris, arriving in the Port of Baltimore several days ago, and ridden here to Mount Vernon by the messenger.
Inside were the ten crosses that had been awarded a decade ago. For a moment, Washington thought of those who had not survived the interim since the Congressional Crosses were awarded. In particular, he thought sadly about Crane and van Brunt, and how their fates were intertwined.…
But now he had more pressing concerns. Each cross was individually wrapped in sackcloth and twine, and Washington started to untie the twine on one of them. “Lund, fetch the chalk and bring it to Martha’s room.”
The messenger cleared his throat. “If that will be all?”
He looked up in surprise at the messenger, having briefly forgotten the man’s existence. “Sir, my apologies. Do you require refreshment, or—”
Holding up both hands, the messenger said, “That will not be necessary, sir, but thank you. I shall leave you to your work. I have already secured lodgings in Alexandria, and I shall proceed there once my mount has rested.”
Placing the cross back in the box, Washington reached out to shake the messenger’s hand. “Thank you, sir, for the great service you have done to these United States.”
“The honor is mine, Gen—” He smiled. “Mr. Washington. My service is as nothing compared to yours.”
After the messenger took his leave to sit with his horse until it was watered and rested enough to make the eight-mile journey to Alexandria, Washington brought the box into Martha’s room. Lund joined him a moment later.
“How is she?” Washington asked the slave tending to her.
She shook her head. “She’s doin’ mighty poorly, sir. Fever’s still ragin’.”
“With luck, we can cure her soon.”
Washington took the chalk from Lund, knelt down, and began drawing the sigil on the wooden floor in front of Martha’s bed, hoping that he remembered it exactly as the Reverend Mr. Knapp had shown him. Ideally, he would have the reverend himself perform the ritual, as he was far better versed in such sorceries than Washington ever would be. Knapp had always said that Washington was far too much of a rationalist to give himself over to the power of the magic, and perhaps that was still true to some degree, despite everything he’d seen. If anything, seeing how the supernatural forces of the world fed on ignorance and passivity served to increase Washington’s belief in self-determination. A republic where rule was by the people rather than tyrants was the only way to fight those forces. There was a reason why the daemons allied with monarchs and kings, after all.
Sleepy Hollow: Children of the Revolution Page 7
