by Grace Draven
CONTENTS
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE
ABOUT GRACE DRAVEN
Gaslight Hades
Grace Draven
Nathaniel Gordon walks two worlds—that of the living and the dead. Barely human, he's earned the reputation of a Bonekeeper, the scourge of grave robbers. He believes his old life over, until one dreary burial he meets the woman he once loved and almost married. Lenore Kenward stands at her father’s grave, begging the protection of the mysterious guardian, not knowing he is her lost love. Resolved to keep his distance, Nathaniel is forced to abandon his plan and accompany Lenore on a journey into the mouth of Hell where sea meets sky, and the abominations that exist beyond its barrier wait to destroy them.
Gaslight Hades - Copyright © 2011 by Grace Draven.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Artwork ©2016 by Louisa Gallie
Dedication
This tale is dedicated to my darling Willow who loves all things unique and eccentric, just like her.
Also to my intrepid editors, Mel Sanders and Lora Gasway, my saviors in all things writing-related.
Sincerest thanks to Antioch Grey, my favorite Brit, for her invaluable help.
CHAPTER ONE
For the last time, Lenore gazed at her father’s coffin, draped in black velvet and topped with a spray of everlasting flowers. Her mother’s doing of course. Arthur Kenward would have hated the frippery, but Jane Kenward was adamant that no expense be spared, and the bouquet had been ordered and delivered for the funeral. Lenore found it repulsive. The flowers were as lifeless as the body resting beneath the coffin lid.
She did her best to ignore the ache in her chest. The weight of it had pressed against her breast bone for almost a week; her own silent grief at her father’s passing. She already missed his good-natured company, the frantic workings of his mind, so filled with ideas and creations that his inventor’s hands couldn’t build them fast enough. He’d enlisted her help in his work since she was old enough to hold a wrench. Much to Jane’s frozen disapproval, teatime was often spent in discussion of Arthur’s latest improvement to a submersible’s navigation system or a modification to the rudder of an airship in the Queen’s dirigible fleet.
“If you’ll step back, miss, we’ll cover the grave.” The undertaker indicated the sextons waiting nearby with their shovels.
Lenore blew the coffin a kiss and moved far enough from the grave to stay out of the sextons’ way but still keep a close eye on their work. She recalled her mother’s waspish indignation when Lenore refused to leave after the initial interment.
“You cannot remain here alone! You’ll accompany me to our carriage this instant.” The black feathers on Jane’s hat quivered as the woman shook with outrage.
Lenore’s blithe disregard of her mother’s ire made the feathers flutter even harder. “No. You are welcome to return home and see to our guests, Mama, but I’m not leaving here until I know Papa is properly interred. I won’t have some thieving resurrectionist digging him up before the earth around him is even settled.”
Unwilling to engage her recalcitrant daughter in an argument in the midst of mourners and guests, Jane had flounced away in a huff. Lenore expected she’d be subjected to a fiery tongue lashing when she returned home. She didn’t care.
The undertaker had instructed one of his coachmen and carriages to remain until she was ready to leave. At the moment, he kept an eagle-eye on the sextons, making certain the grave was properly covered and suitably bricked.
Lenore kept her own vigilance but couldn’t quell the worry and fear. The resurrectionists were snatching bodies these days before the grave diggers had even put away their shovels. She only hoped the work involved with quietly unbricking a grave in the dead of night might deter the thieves.
When the sextons finished, Lenore nodded her approval and requested a moment’s privacy. They and the undertaker tipped their hats and left to wait nearby.
The pea soup mix of fog and coal smoke thickening London’s air washed in a tide through Highgate Cemetery. Through the enveloping murk, Lenore glimpsed another burial close by. Minister and family, friends and business associates, professional mutes in their mourning cloaks; they all reminded her of a murder of crows.
Many in that crowd watched her in return, their features pinched in disapproval. Despite the fact that the Royal Sea and Air Navies regularly sent women to fight alongside their male counterparts against the horrifics that sometimes broke the Guild Wall, a young woman alone and unchaperoned anywhere, even in a cemetery, still raised the disapproval of many. The temptation to offer up a rude gesture almost overcame Lenore. Nosy, gossiping biddies far more concerned with a breach of social etiquette than the exodus of a loved one from the world.
She turned her back on them to offer a final prayer over Arthur’s grave when chaos erupted amongst the gathering. Much swooning and fearful cries ensued, and Lenore gawked in amazement at the sudden transformation from somber gathering to milling circus.
“Merciful God, what is that thing doing here?” A portly gentleman pointed a trembling finger at something behind her.
Alarmed, Lenore spun and peered into the murk for a glimpse at what captured every one’s attention. A lithe shadow passed along the walls of lichen-covered crypts, gliding over the brown grass of late winter before finally halting near the winged statue of the archangel Raphael. Like her father, Lenore was not of a fanciful bent, but she imagined feathered wings fluttered away from the angular darkness.
More fearful cries sounded through the cemetery. She paid them little heed, stunned by the sight before her. It was rude to stare, but Lenore couldn’t help herself. She’d never thought to see a Guardian. At least not this close.
All the fears one held of the dark had gathered together and stitched themselves into the shape of a man. Rumor had it that Guardians weren’t human, having lost their claim to the appellation in the notorious Dr. Harvel’s crazed experiments. Lenore ignored most gossip, but this rumor carried the weight of truth.
Still as a scarecrow, the Guardian stood between the stone angel and a stately crypt, oblivious to the crowd gaping at him with open-mouthed horror. The sinuous fog intermingled with his long hair, both white as a shroud.
His apparel was nothing like one might see on the streets of London, worn by commoner, aristocrat or even one of the more eccentric airship captains. Lenore doubted such garb was worn by anyone except a keeper of the dead. Ghastly and sharp, it encased his tall form in black armor reminiscent of an insect’s carapace.
As if he heard her thoughts, the Guardian turned his head. The group of mourners fled en masse
, including the clergyman, leaving the grave abandoned. Even the undertaker and his minions sped for the cemetery gates.
A gaze, so eerie and unlike any she’d ever seen in a human face, pierced her mourning veil. The sclera of his eyes was black as were his irises, his pupils an impossible contrast of white pinpoints as bright as a lightning flash. That long stare bore into her, stripping away layers of black crape, crinoline, flesh and muscle until it reached her soul and dissected it with pitiless scrutiny.
Lenore’s stomach tumbled to her feet, and she swayed. Except for the silent dead, she was alone with this creature. She crushed the folds of her skirt in one hand and prayed she wouldn’t faint.
He came no closer, content to settle next to the angel and watch her from the gloom. Lenore looked to her father’s newly bricked grave, then to the one forsaken by the fearful family and took a deep breath for courage. She was no body snatcher and as such, had nothing to fear from this Guardian. She made herself take those first steps toward him, gleaning strength from the knowledge that her mother would ignite in outrage if she saw her daughter now. Her father, if he were still alive, would chuckle with gusto.
Her steps slowed as she drew closer to the marble angel and its equally still companion. The Guardian watched her approach, saying nothing until she stood no more than a foot from him.
“May I be of service, miss?”
Lenore shuddered at the words. The Guardian’s hollow voice buffeted her like a cold wind off the North Sea. Rendered speechless, she could only stare into eyes that revealed an endless stretch of barren tundra. He was a study in sharp angles and contrasting colors of soot and bone. His white hair, unfashionably long, cascaded over a suit of blackened steel spiked at the shoulders, hips and knees.
She might have stood there forever gaping at him had she not caught sight of the oddest thing among the already strange. He carried a cane and leaned on it with the casual grace of any London gentleman. The affectation snapped her out of her trance.
“You are a Guardian, sir?” The question was purely rhetorical, but she had nothing else proper for which to start this conversation. She only wished her voice didn’t sound so shrill.
“I am.”
He fell into silence, the endless gaze resting on her as he awaited her next statement.
Butterflies battled within her, knocking frantic wings against her ribs as she grasped for some measure of calm. The Guardian hadn’t twitched a muscle, yet he loomed over her, a spectral shadow.
“Yes, well...I would beg a favor of you.”
His casual stance didn’t change nor did her sense of being thoroughly scrutinized, but something new pervaded the air between them, that breathless hush before a storm. Lenore cleared her throat.
“The sextons have bricked my father’s grave, but I fear it won’t be enough to deter the resurrectionists. I’m told the Guardians protect the dead from such men. I can pay you…”
Long fingers briefly brushed her glove, halting her movements as she reached for her reticule. Enthralled by the contrast of wraith-white hand against black glove, Lenore found it difficult to look up when the Guardian spoke.
“Do not trouble yourself, miss.” He glanced at the grave near her father’s. “There will be no criminal disinterments in Highgate. I protect all who rest here. Your father and the others will remain undisturbed.”
The hollow voice, with its hints of eternity and long night, raised chills on her arms, though now it was from fascination instead of fear. She lifted her veil to better see him and bit back a gasp. Pale as the dead he guarded, his features held a peculiar beauty highlighted by sharp cheekbones spaced wide and high, a long haughty nose and solemn mouth. He was a combination of sinister and fragile, unearthly and eerie…and familiar.
Some invisible tether anchored her to him, drew tight until she was nearly leaning into him, peering hard into those pinpoint white pupils. Her better judgment warned such a notion was impossible, yet she asked the question anyway.
“Do I know you?”
Something bright and hot ignited in that desolate gaze before guttering. The Guardian cocked his head to one side in a puzzled gesture. “Do you?”
Lenore almost leapt away, her cheeks hot with embarrassment. She yanked the veil down. “Forgive my presumption. Of course we don’t know each other. For a moment, you just reminded of someone I once…” She almost choked on the words. Two deep breaths and she managed to find her voice again. “I won’t take up more of your time. On behalf of my family, I thank you for your vigilance, sir.”
She broke all rules of polite convention and proper decorum and held out her hand. Even through her glove, pleasant tingles cascaded from the tips of her fingers to her shoulder when the Guardian clasped her palm lightly and bowed. A thick lock of white hair brushed her knuckles. Lenore imagined she felt its softness.
“I assure you, the pleasure is mine, Miss Kenward.”
Her hand twitched in his grasp, and he released her. “How do you know my name?”
His lips curved a little. “I read your father’s monument when it was delivered to Highgate. I assume that as his daughter, your surname is the same as his.”
Lenore almost groaned at her foolishness, but a tenacious certainty that she once knew this Guardian goaded her to push a little more despite the fact she was making a cake of herself. “How do you know I’m not married?”
“Because a husband of any worth would never leave a wife to grieve her parent alone in the graveyard.”
The words, spoken in that sepulchral voice, brought greater heat to Lenore’s cheeks. She’d never been so thankful for the half-blinding safety of her mourning veil and the murk of London’s filthy air. “You are very observant.” Thank God she sounded so collected in this strange conversation she’d impulsively instigated.
“A useful skill in my line of work, Miss Kenward.”
Lenore nodded and backed away. “I thank you again, sir, and bid you good day.” She pivoted, her skirts snapping around her legs, and strode toward the cemetery gates where carriage and coachman waited just outside the grand entrance.
Eager to flee the cemetery and the guardian’s deathless presence, the coachman all but tossed her into the carriage before leaping onto the coachbox. The horses lurched forward in their traces, hard enough to jolt Lenore backward and knock her bonnet askew. She turned for a last look at the keeper of the dead. He’d followed her and lingered beneath the gates’ stone archway, a statue himself wreathed in fog. She raised a hand in farewell. He did not return her salutation, but she fancied she heard his voice over the creak of carriage wheels.
“Until next time. My Lenore.”
CHAPTER TWO
Nathaniel watched Lenore Kenward’s carriage until it disappeared behind a tree-lined esplanade. His Lenore. Despair knifed through him, as cutting and painful as that first moment of recognition when he saw her alone at her father’s graveside.
Her mourning veil hid her face, but he’d recognize that proud posture anywhere, the graceful curves of her body swathed in yards of black paramatta silk. He’d envied the mist that swirled over her skirts and caressed her back.
As a Guardian, he stayed hidden in the shadows of Highgate’s crypts and sprawling oaks. His role was not to terrify the living but to protect their dead. He’d broken an unwritten rule amongst his kind, manifesting in the midst of the fog and frightening the clutch of mourners gathered nearby, but he couldn’t stay away.
Unlike him, she had changed very little since he last saw her five years earlier. His appearance was the stuff of nightmares, his aspect warped by the twisted ambitions of a crazed and soulless man. Lenore did not run away; she blanched with fear, but she didn’t run.
He drew no closer, unsure if she might yet change her mind and flee. Instead, she approached him with single-minded purpose, hesitating as she came nearer. She might be frightened, but it didn’t stop her from seeking him out. He’d almost smiled. She was still as firm-minded as he remembered.
> When she spoke, the cane on which he leaned nearly snapped beneath his tightening fingers. He might not have forgotten her stubbornness, but the cadence of her voice had dimmed in his memory. Soft and sure, it caressed him as surely as if she reached out and stroked him with her hand, bringing back breathless recollections of a lost time. When she raised her veil to better see him, he’d almost dropped to his knees.
Some would say Lenore Kenward was an unremarkable miss of strong intellect and banal looks—the perfect recipe for a blue-stocking spinster. Her brown eyes, dark hair and regular features didn’t conform to fashion’s definition of great beauty. Yet Nathaniel had been struck dumb at first sight of her in her father’s workshop almost a decade earlier, his bewitchment complete as he came to know her mind and character.
Even now, when no one would call him a man any longer, he remained ensorcelled, entranced, and deeply in love with a woman who once rejected his proposal and now thought him dead.
“Do I know you?”
She’d rammed the knife home and twisted it for good measure with the simple question. Nathaniel thought himself no longer capable of emotions beyond the blunt satisfaction in killing resurrectionists or the equally dull grief in his existence. He’d been wrong. Those four words kindled a living fire in the empty places where his soul and heart once resided—a fire of anger and regret.
“I was your friend and your lover,” he wanted to say. “I would have been your husband had you not rejected me.” Instead he uttered none of these things, answering her with a question of his own. Even if she’d truly known him, the Nathaniel of five years ago no longer existed. Only his spirit remained, still bound to earth by unnatural means in an unnatural form.
