Darker Still

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  Surely it was Crenfall, I thought. My father wouldn’t have the good sense to have me followed.

  The team of horses came to a halt, and I couldn’t help a sigh of relief at the familiar sight outside the window. Mrs. Northe’s Fifth Avenue town house—

  But then panic seized me again. If she’d called upon my father, I’d never be let out of my room. I’d lose any freedom my post at the Metropolitan had offered, and I’d be off to the convent for sure.

  The man who had collared me outside 66 Anthony Street dragged me roughly out of the carriage and nearly pushed me up the walk to Mrs. Northe’s home. He likely expected me to ask him who he was or make some claim of protestation. Maybe he knew I didn’t speak. He didn’t say a word either but gripped my arm as he pressed the bell. I shrugged him off to stand proudly. I had nothing to be ashamed of.

  And yet, in the next moment, I stood ashamed and dressed as a boy in Mrs. Northe’s foyer as she looked me up and down.

  She examined me as if measuring my disguise, circling me and clucking her tongue. Despite my fear and embarrassment, I detected a bit of pride in Mrs. Northe’s face.

  “You,” she said, her tone scolding, “have read too many books.”

  She waited. I assume she wanted me to agree. I shrugged.

  She continued. “And you put yourself in grave danger and I shall not easily forgive you for it. And I may have to tell your father.”

  I furiously signed pleas, begging her not to doom me.

  And then she smiled. “Unless you tell me everything that happened. I had my man follow you in case you did something unforgivably stupid. He was to bring you directly to me once you satisfied your…curiosity.”

  “Your man?” I signed. “He was hardly a gentleman,” I added, rubbing the arm he had grabbed.

  “I don’t pay him to be a gentleman. I pay him to be quiet and brilliant.”

  “I was gathering evidence,” I signed. “You said we couldn’t sit back—”

  “Indeed. Do tell. But only after you’ve made yourself back into a woman. And good God, wipe that terrible thing off your throat. That’s hideous. But quite well done, I must say.”

  I loved this woman. Once dressed, I did tell her everything, and she escorted me home at a full three in the morning! I slipped in and up the stairs while everyone was asleep. I still wonder how she knew to have me followed. Her instincts were usually uncanny, yes, but that had been downright psychic.

  But without further ado, here’s the tale of 66 Anthony Street.

  It was so dark in the place that one could easily get away with murder. And so likely the fiend assumed, rightly so, that he would not be recognized again—even with the newspaper descriptions. He did not bother to remove his hat or his cloak, which served to further obscure his face.

  I did not immediately slip in behind the creature, of course. I have more sense than that. I waited until a few minutes had passed and then mounted the crumbling stairs and slipped into another world. It was as distinctly different a threshold as stepping through a painting…

  I did not worry that the vile possessor of Denbury would notice my entrance. The place was hazy with smoke and deep in shadow. Even after the darkness of night, my eyes needed a moment to adjust. I was shocked that the place was unlocked, though I had noticed silhouettes at windows, likely paid to watch the front door from up above and from across the street. This was an area the police were loath to visit. Vice had a reprieve here.

  From the exterior, the building looked like an average town house, not terribly run down, but its drawn curtains and shuttered windows hid the hazy, acrid reality from outside view.

  Once inside, I could see that the main parlor was strewn with bodies. The fiend walked among them, keeping his face to the shadows and tucking a wad of money into his pocket. I shuddered anew when I saw another familiar face already within the establishment. Standing against the wall and looking like an awkward statue as a shaft of light unpleasantly illuminated him was Crenfall.

  It was good indeed that I was in disguise. A frisson of fear ran through me. Almost immediately, I felt a hand upon my shoulder. But no one was there. I saw a faint pulse of hazy white light. My angel. He was reaching out to me, aiding me in a way only his soul could.

  And I suddenly felt invincible.

  I thought I’d walked into a veritable morgue, but the bodies strewn about stirred listlessly, a swarm of nearly naked flesh with pipes hanging from their mouths. Permeating the room was the stench of body odor, perfume, sweat, and smoke. The smoke had a peculiar scent, and then I realized what it must be: opium. An opium den. As I reached that realization, a portly man towered over me. His eyes were slanted in suspicion—the proprietor, no doubt. His Irish accent was brash.

  “I don’t know ye, boy. And I know everyone who walks through that door,” he said, and then his eyes flickered over to the fiend possessor with confused fear.

  Likely, as Denbury’s possessor had said, the familiar clientele had merely moved to a new address, and I was not a welcome member. I had prepared my written tablet and prayed to God that the proprietor could read.

  I want a girl, my paper said.

  The proprietor laughed. “And yer too scared to say so? How old are ye, thirteen?”

  I shifted my cravat to reveal the scar. I turned the page of my notebook, the phrase having been written: You do not want to know how I received that.

  The proprietor seemed delighted and intrigued, and his nervous glances toward Denbury eased with this new game. “Pick yer lass if ye got the money,” he said.

  I lifted up a promising bill. His watery eyes widened.

  “How ’bout the quiet one? Ye’ll make quite a pair.” He reached into the shadows—with frightening nimbleness for such a round man—and pulled a scrawny young woman, likely my age, into the lamplight. She cringed and would not look me in the eye. My heart broke for her.

  A larger, fierce-eyed woman launched herself from the wall upon which she’d been leaning and moved closer. Her gaze flickered from Denbury’s body to me to the proprietor to the girl he had grabbed. The girl also regarded the form of Denbury with horror. The women strewn about the ground were too drowsy and in the haze of opium to notice him. That could be the last mistake of their lives.

  I nodded to the girl and then turned to look at the other woman.

  “You’re a pretty lad. Why don’t you take me and leave poor Cecilia alone? You need a woman to teach you a thing or two, boy, not another mute.”

  Cecilia.

  My heart convulsed. I heard the Whisper. This is why I was here. I would yet save a life tonight.

  I had to calm my racing heart and focus on the larger woman protecting this girl. I liked her for it, though I shuddered to think they actually believed I was a boy. I stared at Cecilia. Another mute? My heart broke further. I wished I could help any and every woman who had fallen into this trap. This entire situation was unbelievably upsetting.

  The proprietor was hovering. “No, Midge, the boy takes Cecilia. We need to get her…”

  He trailed off when I handed him another bill, hoping money would ensure his cooperation or at least keep him from being meddlesome. The wealthy had long made a habit of getting away with things relative to how much they could pay for silence. I made a motion for him to leave us in peace. He whistled and did so.

  Cecilia stared at me blankly. She took my hand in her tiny one and began to lead me down the hall. I resisted and held up a hand, motioning for her to wait. I was on the lookout for the beast in Denbury’s body. He had taken up the pipe of a hookah and was sitting with a woman splayed across him. My blood roared in my veins to see a man I cared for so sullied. It took everything in me not to draw my blade upon the beautiful creature, to call him out for everything he was and demand he be accountable. My own reaction was startling. My protectiveness toward Jonathon had made me brave. Or stupid.

  There was another stilling hand upon my shoulder, a reminder sent to me upon the wings of our tied souls
. The man I cared for was not physically here. I needed to stay on task for him.

  The tall woman, Midge, leaned close. “You’re interested in that dandy, aren’t you? Your eyes keep flickering over to him and have since you walked in. Are you here for him, rather than for a good time?”

  I shook my head, not wanting my business known. I took Cecilia’s hand with more authority and began to lead her into one of the open rooms lit by a tallow candle just a yard away. At the door I paused. Cecilia led me into the tiny room furnished only with a bed and reeking of smells I do not wish to recount.

  She shut the door behind her and turned to me, trembling, in her moth-eaten chemise and thin skirt. These were her underthings, and the idea of having to sit in rooms only in one’s undress was horrifying. She batted mousy brown hair out of her eyes and began to fumble at my cravat, noticing the scar with a frown.

  Moving her hand aside, I backed away. She looked at me, confused, and gestured to herself as if her body was self-explanatory. I shook my head. I was with one of my kind, which was perfect—no one would know what we were talking about!

  I signed: “I need help. Information.”

  She stared at me blankly. “There’s a man out there.” I gestured beyond the door and kept signing. “Handsome. But odd—”

  She kept staring at me with a hollowed gaze. My heart sank. Of course she didn’t know sign language. I scribbled the same sentences on my pad of paper. She stared at the paper, then up at me, and shook her head. Of course she couldn’t read.

  I was a privileged fool, and I made note to thank God and my father more often for what I had been given that so many women of the age had not.

  Her tired face with its sunken cheekbones softened, and it seemed almost as if she wanted to laugh. We were quite the pair.

  I pulled out the newspaper. Perhaps the picture would help. I pointed to the police sketch resembling Denbury. Cecilia pointed out to the main parlor. Her eyes widened. I pointed at the picture and opened my hands, helpless. I hoped she would see that I needed information, and then I’d find a way to warn her of the danger I inexplicably knew she was in.

  Cecilia held up a finger and left the room before I could reach for her. The proprietor was immediately barking at her, telling her he’d kill her if she abandoned a client. He then started barking at Midge. I opened the door and held out another bill into the hallway. I didn’t want to attract the demon Denbury’s attention.

  Cecilia returned with Midge, who laughed and closed the door behind her. “I suppose Cecilia still doesn’t know how to take off a man’s clothes.” She started in on me, and I had to bat her hands away. “Oh, don’t be scared, little boy.” The tall woman chuckled. I shook my head.

  I again lifted the newspaper article. I wrote on my pad. I would try again with Midge.

  “Did you know Barbara? What do you know about him?” I wrote and gestured to the hall. The tall woman could read, at least passably. I was relieved. But her eyes widened.

  “Jesus, the police are sending them young these days. How old are you, thirteen? You’re too pretty to be much older. You some sort of spy? If you’re here to arrest us, I’d like to see you try.”

  I vehemently shook my head.

  “Or…perhaps you knew Barbara?” she asked. I made my gaze tortured. “Ah,” she added. “I see. I’m sorry. Terrible way to go.”

  “Did you see ‘Barry’ that night?” I wrote.

  “No,” Midge replied, “but my friends, they did. He’s been about the area for a week, I’d say, ’round the Points. Hadn’t thought him the violent type, big with the smoking and taking a lot of women. He’s a fine-looking one but weird, they say.”

  Poor Denbury, his gentlemanly body thrown to such depths.

  “Weird, how?” I wrote.

  “The other girls at Cross Street said he wanted to know all their names. Like he was obsessed with them, so the boss tries to make nice and Knox starts rattling off a list, you know, and when he got to Barbara, Mr. Fancy over there let out a strange noise. ‘That one,’ he said. ‘I want that one. I want her head.’ Right crazy, if you ask me,” Midge muttered.

  Something jarred me, and my mind struggled to make sense of it. Names.

  “He got what he wanted, didn’t he?” Midge said sadly. “Beheaded her. And now he’s back. Seems he’s paid the whole block so much money no one will turn him in. No one ever listens to us anyway, sure not the police. They want nothin’ to do with these acres of hell. But a beheading, shouldn’t that count for something? Aren’t we human? Don’t we deserve better than that?”

  I nodded my utmost agreement.

  And then it came to me. Barbara. Beheaded. There was a girl back at the asylum obsessed with Catholic saints. Mary O’Donnell had relished telling of all the awful, ungodly ways in which they were martyred. Saint Barbara was beheaded. Jonathon had said that the beast mentioned the forty martyrs of England before overtaking him. Mary had listed those martyrs to me all in a torrent that was quite impressive. I recalled that several of them were named John…Jonathon. But the beast had wanted to call him John, like the saints.

  “What’s in a name”…indeed. The beast was going to kill as many saints as possible. They were offerings to his mad quest. Sacrifices. Martyrs.

  My eyes widened. The women were staring at me.

  And then the proprietor pounded on the door. “Cecilia!” he cried. “When yer done in there—and with a boy that young, I daresay it won’t take long—ye’ve got another one who’s taken with ye. A right British gent.”

  Cecilia’s eyes grew wide.

  Poor Saint Cecilia, how did she die?

  I desperately tried to recall the other names Mary had imparted to me. As Lutherans, we’re not as enamored of the saints, but such gruesome deaths were ingrained in me. Saint Cecilia had withstood many death attempts—suffocation, beheading, crucifixion. I could only imagine how Denbury would try this in a brothel room.

  “You must get her out of here,” I scribbled furiously, and Midge read my note aloud to Cecilia as I wrote. “She has the name of a saint. It’s about the saints. Tell any woman who has the name of a saint to change it, until he’s caught.”

  Cecilia looked as if she was going to faint.

  Midge pursed her lips. “Boy, we’re all named for saints. There’s a hell of a lot of them,” she retorted. I gave her an exasperated look. “Well, we’ve nicknames too. Best use those. Come, I’ve a place we can go,” Midge murmured, gathering Cecilia. “I’m not letting anything happen to you, girl. I swore to protect you, and I mean it.”

  Midge turned to me. “Thank you, lad. I don’t know who but God sent you. May heaven and the saints be praised indeed. I’ll tell any girl I know.” She opened the door cautiously. Stepping outside, she grabbed Cecilia and hid her tiny frame in front of her as they moved quickly to a rear door. I followed, not wanting to face that beautiful demon again. The reality of how closely I had flirted with danger was overwhelming, and I felt sick to my stomach.

  We were out the door before I heard the proprietor’s yelp. Midge and Cecilia didn’t wait or say another word. They were off into the shadows down alleys they knew far better than I did. I was between tenement buildings, a pile of wood scraps on one side of me and a stinking pile of trash on the other, rats squeaking between the two.

  I was wondering how to get back to the front of the building and the carriage I hoped was still waiting where the streets opened onto a grim open space as the five streets came together, hence the name Five Points.

  And that’s when Mrs. Northe’s man clapped me. The dread of the situation had begun to take hold once I saw panic on faces other than my own, so I’m surprised I did not have a fit right there when I was seized. I think the saints were with me after all.

  I related all of this to Mrs. Northe, who was incredulous, but she commended me so highly for my deduction about the saints that you’d have thought I’d cured some disease with my brilliance. I couldn’t stop blushing. Once I was presentable as
a lady again, she seated me in her study and we discussed the matter.

  “This is the key!” she cried. “Not only to the victims, but perhaps to even more. Well done, Natalie!”

  She took her seat opposite me and leaned in, speaking excitedly. “Naming has great power,” Mrs. Northe said, “despite Shakespeare’s protestation, a phrase our devil was all too eager to quote. Countless instances in works of folktale and faith invoke the power of the name. Poor Hagar, banished when she was about to give birth, is unnamed in the Bible until God calls her by name and establishes her for the ages. There are times when names are avoided, as in the case of something very evil, when things or persons shall not be named. Speaking the name is thought to give the unspeakable some power. Other instances may occur to you.”

  I grinned and a small sound of amusement came from me. I signed out many letters. “Rumpelstiltskin.”

  Mrs. Northe laughed.

  I gestured to my forearm, thinking of my dream, Denbury’s arm, and Barbara’s corpse.

  “It would seem carving the names is part of harnessing that power. I can’t piece it together yet, and that may speak to greater spell-crafting. I can’t think this only has to do with poor Lord Denbury. This devil has a bigger game afoot.” She scratched her head. “Runes. Allusions to many faiths mixed with base signs of witchcraft and paganism, the stuff from which all faith was born. It has no one ownership. And that frightens me.”

  “Why?” I signed.

  “Well, if it were just full of the telltale signs of the Golden Dawn, theosophy, or some sort of subverted Masonic rite, we could just adhere to that for our answer, couldn’t we? Just find the right restricted, scandalous book? But this is something new, and like I’d said, all those jealous gods pitted against one another in this ragtag assortment of religious weaponry. Jealousy makes sane men mad and gentle persons into murderers. Who knows what demons may do with it? Now how do we turn that very power back upon the beast?