No doubt about the cause of death: a knife blade—a large one, from the size of the cut—driven deep into the heart. Death must have followed almost immediately.
“At least you didn’t suffer. But the question is: Are you an innocent victim or did you get what was coming to you?”
But a more immediate question: Why had the burrower delivered him instead of Mrs. Babilani?
He went over to the machine and checked the programming board. Not at all like Miss Basemore to make an error of this magnitude, and no, she hadn’t: the destination peg was firmly set in the G-12 hole.
What was going on? None of it made sense. Toby saw everyone who went into the ground here and he’d never laid eyes on this man. From the looks of him, he hadn’t been in a coffin, just thrown into a hole in the ground and covered up.
And then Toby Hecker had an epiphany.
This corpse, this unaccounted-for body from who knew where was like a gift from God—or perhaps Shiva. This stranger would allow him to prove himself to Rasheeda Basemore and demonstrate beyond all doubt that he was ready to handle the important stuff.
He ran to the wall and removed the chained silver collars from their hooks. He clamped one around the corpse’s throat, then threaded the other through the bars of the cage and fastened it around the neck of the unconscious sailor. He opened the safe—he knew the combination—and there among the fermenting batch of new oil and Miss Basemore’s derringer lay the book that contained the ritual.
He positioned himself between the two men and began reading . . .
“KATRINA!” MADAME LOUISA said. “Put that down and let Miss Basemore anoint you.”
The young woman, dressed in an extremely brief French maid’s uniform, lowered the heavy armoire she’d been carrying across the room and did as she was told. Rasheeda used the oil to draw the Sanskrit words on her forehead, cheeks, and the backs of her hands while muttering the chant. She worked to make sure the oil penetrated the thick rouge someone had troweled onto her cheeks.
“Fit as a fiddle till the next full moon, I assume?” Madame Louisa said with a broad Southern drawl.
She stood on a short stool in the center of the room while a tailor pinned and chalked a dress of golden velvet he was fitting to her curvy form. Her eyes were close-set and her jawline wide, a look that had probably made her appear vulnerable when she was younger. She was about Rasheeda’s age and pretty, but her gaze was cold and calculating. Rasheeda supposed those qualities were necessary in the madam of one of the city’s premier seraglios.
“Rest assured,” Rasheeda said, slipping the carafe of oil back into her satchel. “Renascence Staffing guarantees it.”
“I remain amazed that this oil of yours imparts such wondrous strength to those skinny little arms.”
It didn’t, of course—that was just one of the many fictions Rasheeda had concocted about her revenants.
“Yes. It’s miraculous, in a way.”
“And it’s really true that my dear Katrina would become torpid and useless without your monthly upkeep?”
Rasheeda nodded. “Yes, the ministrations are necessary. You know that.”
“No, I don’t know that. I have only your say-so.”
“Why would I make up a story?”
“Perhaps it’s just some excuse you’ve concocted so you can come by every month to collect your rent. I’ve half a mind to lock you out next month and see what happens.”
Oh, you don’t want to do that, Rasheeda thought as the muscles at the back of her neck tightened.
“That would be . . . regretful.”
Louisa gestured to one of her minions. A beefy fellow with long blond hair—one of her bouncers, most likely—stepped forward to hand Rasheeda a cash envelope to cover the monthly lease. That too went into the satchel along with the other payments collected today. This was the part about these rounds that Rasheeda didn’t mind at all.
“Tell me,” Louisa said. “Where do you find such perfect servants? They’re strong as oxen, don’t speak, and do whatever they’re told. Whatever is in that oil of yours?”
They’re dead, Rasheeda thought, but smiled and said, “Trade secret.”
Louisa’s affable expression wobbled. Obviously she wasn’t used to being refused and didn’t like it.
“I understand. However, I have a business proposition I wish to discuss with you.”
“I look forward to it,” Rasheeda said, backing away, “but I have my monthly round of anointings to complete.”
“Some other time, then.” Her gaze became pointed. “We will talk soon.”
“Of course.” Rasheeda turned to leave, then turned back. “Mister Traugott is a client of yours, I believe?”
Louisa’s eyebrows lifted. “I do not discuss my clients with anyone. They are assured of discretion here.”
“I appreciate that, so let me rephrase: Are you acquainted with Mister Traugott?”
Louisa smiled. “Come to think of it, I do believe I am. Why?”
“The Traugotts don’t seem to be answering their door. I tried yesterday and the day prior.”
“That’s because they are on holiday.”
Holiday? A wave of cold passed through Rasheeda. She’d had no idea.
“But if they aren’t back today, their maid Eunice will miss her anointing.”
Madame Louisa laughed. “Well, I guess that anointing’ll have to wait, because they don’t get back till tonight.”
Rasheeda noticed that she’d slipped her façade to reveal a more working-class manner of speech. Madame Louisa seemed to catch herself, and when she spoke again, she did so more slowly.
“Anyhow, what’s the worst that could happen? As you say, she’ll go all sleepy and someone else’ll have to bring Fritz his brandy and cigar after dinner. I’m sure Fritz’ll survive.”
Don’t count on that, Rasheeda thought.
Despite what Madame Louisa had told her, Rasheeda went directly to the Traugott house. Mr. Traugott was a member of the Rhinelander family, which had made a fortune in sugar and shipping. He and his wife and children lived in a Yorkville mansion on East Eighty-Fourth Street, so Rasheeda took the pneumatic tube uptown from the brothel.
Despite repeated poundings of the heavy brass knocker, no one answered their front door.
This could be bad, she thought as she hurried back toward the Eighty-Sixth Street pneumatic station. Very bad.
RASHEEDA RETURNED HOME to find an unaccountably exultant Toby.
“I’ve got a surprise for you, Miss Basemore!”
Oh, no.
“What is it, Toby?” she said, not wanting to hear the answer. “Not Mrs. Babi—”
“No no no! I wouldn’t touch her!”
She let out a breath. Well, that was a relief.
“Good. Excellent. What’s all the ado then?”
“It will be easier to show you.” He was vibrating with excitement. “Down in the basement. Come!”
He dashed ahead and she followed, hefting the satchel of lease payments that was bound for the safe. She entered the basement, where the burrower rested near the tunnel entrance like a faithful mastiff, pressurized air still burping from its tubes.
Toby spread his hands to the cage. “You see? I told you I could do it!”
The cage door was closed. Stretched across the stones beyond it lay a sailor, Toby’s donor, dead, still tethered to the silver chain. And on the opposite end of the silver sat—
Not Mrs. Babilani.
No, the fellow next to the dead sailor was dirty and scarred, drool sagging from lip to lapel.
Toby rattled the bars. “On your feet, now. Say hello to your new mistress.”
The man did not blink. The stream of drool neither slowed nor coursed afresh. He was beyond stupor.
Rasheeda felt her fingernails tighten around the satchel. “Toby, what have you done?”
“Give me a minute. I’m sure I did it right.”
Toby slipped the key into the lock and threw wide the cage door
. He shook the man, though man was a generous word for this creature. No more animated than a bull thistle. And so covered in dirt he looked like he’d been buried without a box and crawled up through the soil on his own. Facial scars indicated that during his life some of the bones had broken and healed over a few times; and yet, were it not for his pallor and ghastly stupor, he might be otherwise handsome.
Toby shook him, but the man’s head lolled back without resistance. Only when Toby released him did the head slowly right itself to its normal posture.
This revenant was useless.
An inch at a time, Toby raised his gaze to Rasheeda.
“It was the burrower. It should have picked up the Babilani lady, but it brought him back instead.”
Rasheeda swung the satchel of coins and bills, catching Toby on the side of the head. He howled and stumbled backward, then jabbered about how he’d only been trying to salvage the situation. Wasn’t there something they could do? After all, this was Toby’s first revenant.
Rasheeda looked at the thing. “Certainly. We could sit him in Central Park as a means of attracting pigeon shite to spare the statues. I’m sure the Borough of Manhattan would pay . . . oh, let me see . . . nothing?!”
Toby sank to his knees and retrieved a gold eagle coin that had escaped Rasheeda’s satchel.
She snatched it from him. “You can’t revive just any old corpse. This one’s clearly been dead too long.”
“But he seemed so fresh. He was still leaking from the stab wound in his chest.”
Rasheeda pinched her brow. “Well, then, he probably wasn’t dead long enough. The timing is sensitive. There’s a reason I’m the only one who can do this. A good revenant is lively but dumb, docile, and compliant, and very plain to the eye.”
“But I never—”
“And you never will. We’ll have to get rid of this rubbish as it is. And the donor, too, which you’ve wasted. Now we have two bodies to dispose of, with no usable revenant to show for it. I should take the money I’d be getting for the Babilani woman out of your wages.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Miss Basemore.”
“You’re lucky he came to as a houseplant. These things can be dangerous.”
“I don’t know why the burrower didn’t bring her back. That part’s not my fault.”
Rasheeda scowled. But the burrower had made an error that she could not explain. She’d set it herself. She glared at Toby, then at the drooling heap he’d created.
“Oh, just . . . take me to the Babilani grave.”
EVEN IF TOBY hadn’t utterly failed, the man who sat liquefying back in the basement would have made a terrible revenant. Who would want that lurking around their pantry? Revenants sold best when uninteresting and unintimidating. And sexless. Wealthy ladies resented pretty maids; gentlemen hated chisel-jawed butlers. No one wanted a servant who was too feral. Or too exciting. Unless they were perverts.
Once the gravedigger excavated the soil, Toby clambered out from behind the controls and hopped into the hole, then opened the coffin. Rasheeda hated to risk exposure like this, but she needed a look inside.
Mrs. Babilani lay as they’d left her. Rasheeda stepped back from the grave.
Now that the gravedigger had gone quiet, the frogs’ calls filled the night. Ah-ah-ah. It sounded like they were jeering.
“Get the casket out,” she said.
Toby nodded and closed the cap over the corpse. He pulled the chains from the gravedigger, affixing them to the casket. Under his guidance, the gravedigger farted, reared, and plucked Mrs. Babilani’s casket from its not-so-final resting place. Dirt rained from its contours and sent dust billowing out in a ring.
Rasheeda lifted her lantern over the empty grave site.
Beneath the clean, chiseled, machine-cut grave: a crude hole. One just large enough for a man. A loose clod of dirt tumbled from its rim to the tunnel left by the burrower.
Despite herself, Rasheeda smiled. “Clever.”
“What’s that?” Toby asked as he jumped down to the grass, panting and slapping at a mosquito.
“That explains the light I saw in the graveyard last night. That is where your drooler got ditched.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Which fails to surprise me.” She drew a breath. “Someone or some people killed your man and dumped him beneath Mrs. Babilani’s gravesite. They must have spread dirt over his body, knowing that the Babilani casket would cover him forever. That’s why our burrower brought him back. He was under her.”
Toby gaped.
“Oh come on, you have to admit it’s clever!”
Toby said, “I still don’t get it.”
Rasheeda sagged. “Just . . . put Mrs. Babilani back, Toby.”
Rubbing her jaw, she turned away and headed for the house. Clever or not, she wouldn’t tolerate marauders in her graveyard.
This city knew all sorts of criminals. She couldn’t care less about any of them or what they did. But any criminals who trespassed on her property and cost her time and money—well, they’d soon wish they’d been caught by the police.
She’d take a better look at Toby’s drooler. Maybe she could find out who he was, where he came from. Maybe something on him could lead her to the trespassers who felt so entitled to her graveyard.
From somewhere behind her, the gravedigger resumed its coughing and groaning. The moon, close to the end of its full cycle, cast the lawn in tones of brown and gray. Rasheeda realized she was panting. She’d been striding faster than she’d intended, and her cheeks burned with blood. It occurred to her that she’d never felt so alive.
IN THE BASEMENT, the cage door still lay open. The sailor still lay dead. But Toby’s revenant was no longer drooling on the floor next to him. He wasn’t drooling anywhere. He was gone.
So were the keys—last she’d seen them, Toby had left them dangling in the cage lock.
Oh, no!
Rasheeda panned the room. The safe stood open. And empty.
Oh, no no no!
The implications were appalling, but not so appalling or urgent as a slavering revenant run amok.
There. A trail of dirt. Leading up the back staircase. The inside staircase.
She hitched her skirts and dashed halfway up before pausing and running back to the basement to retrieve . . . her derringer was gone. All she could find was a long embalming needle. It would have to do.
Back up the stairs, and when the clumps of dirt continued, up another flight to her own quarters.
He was in the lavatory. Probably rooting around, clumsy and mindless. She raised the needle and kneed the door open.
Toby’s revenant was seated in Rasheeda’s own bathtub. A pistol in one hand, a bar of soap in the other, the bathwater milky gray.
“Ah. I guess you’ll be the fine hostess, then.”
A thick Irish accent. And no drool.
This revenant was perfectly coherent. Perhaps a little too coherent. He eyed her embalming needle and lifted a brow, his fingers going snug on the pistol.
“You wouldn’t be having any men’s clothing around here now, would you?”
SHE DID. IN fact she had quite a stock of spare clothing, male and female.
“What’s your name?” she said as he dressed behind her screen.
She’d turned away just long enough to give him a pretense at modesty, but then watched him from the corner of her eye. He cleaned up well enough for a man who’d been killed and buried raw. The scars couldn’t be helped.
“Liath.”
“Lee?”
“Close enough. Liath O’Shea. Now I’ll be having a few questions for you, Miss Basemore.”
He knew her name! “How—?”
“I was listening to every word.”
She ground her teeth in frustration. Toby had a lot to answer for.
“Playing possum, as it were?”
“So to speak. Apparently I was dead and buried and you brought me back to life.” He stepped out from behind the screen,
shirtless, dressed in ill-fitting gray trousers. “What sort of blasphemy is that?”
She sniffed. She didn’t believe in blasphemy or sacrilege or any of that nonsense.
“The kind that allows you to ask that question.”
He smiled. “Touché, as the French say.”
Not a bad smile. He reminded her of Alastair back in England. They’d been lovers. Poor boy had thought he was her one and only. When he found out about Rupert, he challenged him to a duel. It hadn’t ended well for Alastair—a bullet through the heart. She’d used the ritual—and Rupert—to bring him back but that hadn’t ended well either. That and complications from other impetuous acts had precipitated her flight to the New World.
“Well?” she said. “Out with it. What happened?”
Liath’s eyes clouded. “I don’t remember. All I know is that some guttersnipe stabbed me in the back.”
“Toby—the man who resurrected you—said you were stabbed through the heart from the front.” She pointed to the sealed wound in his chest.
“Was I?” He touched the spot. “Well, this is a new one. See, I don’t even remember that. I do remember walking past the docks on Pearl Street and then . . .” He shook his head. “I never saw him.”
“Come now. You can tell me. What happened that night?”
“Well . . . I remember I was on me way to me sister’s. She’s quite a cook, that one. Always stuffs me with brown bread and coddle—”
As he pulled the tunic over his head she saw her chance. She grabbed the parlor pistol from her bedside drawer—
“Hate to be disappointing you, dearie,” he said as his head popped through the collar, “but that toy is just a Flobert, and I removed the flint.”
She pulled the trigger anyway only to be rewarded by an impotent click. Silently cursing him, she tossed it on the settee.
He added, “And before you draw out that ghoulish-looking needle again, ask yourself a wee question: What’s become of them lovely liniments you were keeping in your safe, mm? And might you be wanting them back?”
Dark Duets Page 33
