by Ciar Cullen
The man took a few steps toward her and looked her up and down. The man’s mutt backed away, tail curled down, and growled.
“There, Abernathy, what’s wrong?” The man glanced at Lillian. “You’re scaring Abernathy with that silvery tongue. I’m no bad egg, lady. Not a bludger, not a lush, don’t hit children nor women. So, name your price.”
“I don’t know what a bludger is, sir, but I presume you are telling me it is a bad trait?”
“You’re a right corker, aren’t you? A bludger. A man with a bludgeon.”
Lillian groaned. The fellow was almost likeable, aside from being a rude oaf. Hunger tore through every bit of her at the vein that popped out now and again on his neck when he tilted his head. Who would miss him? Who would care? A wife, a daughter? Abernathy now whimpered for his master to quit the alley.
“You shouldn’t be out alone like this, miss…”
She could fly away and leave the man doubting his sanity. She could take two steps and rip through his sun-weathered neck, drink enough to last for days. She suspected that alone and hungry George might take this man’s life. But then, no. George had changed. She had seen to that, hadn’t she?
“You are the spit and image of a girl I knew…”
Lillian didn’t hear more. The pounding in her ears made her dizzy, and she clutched at the doorway. Make your move. Lay your hand on me, so I may feel better about what I’m about to do.
He took a last look at her and waved his hand dismissively. “No offense meant, miss, but I think Abernathy and I will take your advice and go shake an elbow. Wish me luck!”
She reached out to make her move but caught the terror in the dog’s eyes as he dared cast a backward glance at her. “You have already found good luck, sir,” she called.
Lillian heard him mumble “Loony” as he left, whistling for his dog to follow. “Gave you the willies, didn’t she…?”
She sat on the slimy threshold and cried into her hands. What would this life be if she couldn’t bear to frighten a scrawny hound, much less his innocent master? Worse, if that was even possible. But she also thought of the daughter she’d never met, how at the very least she could one day tell the girl that she had never harmed an innocent man or woman. Your mother is no monster, my love.
At least, not yet. Not fully.
She wiped at her tears with her cloak, wondering what the others would think if they saw her in this state: George, his brother Phillip, her own butler and governess, her friend Bess, her maid Aileen. Her Musketeers. They would not believe their eyes.
Lillian stood tall, pulled her cloak around her, took a deep breath and reached up to a windowsill where a rat scampered in the dark. She clutched it quickly, wrung its neck, and carried it with her off into the night.
CHAPTER TWO
Our heroine is attacked from all sides.
Dear Miss Holmes,
Thank you for your most recent letter. How wonderful that you have begun to follow in Mr. Holmes’s footsteps! I sincerely hope that you are able to locate the relatives about whom you spoke, and I am greatly calmed that you now have a beau to assist you. Certainly you will be safer in his care, if he indeed approves of your avocation.
I fear you will not welcome the news that I am no longer writing Sherlock Holmes stories. This fact has brought some small outcry from readers in England, but certainly they will forget about him in time. My efforts are fully turned towards my studies of spiritism, a subject that engrosses me in a somewhat obsessive fashion. As a person of great intellectual passions, if I may presume to know you well enough to say it, you might understand.
You asked me about vampires in your letter. Indeed, a rather surprising question from a young lady, but you intrigued me greatly. Might you expand upon the reason for your interest? I cannot comment on a belief one way or the other about vampire souls, however fascinating the question, but, yes, I am well acquainted with Mr. Stoker; he is a friend. His interests of late involve Mesmerism, and he now loathes discussing the subject of “vampire folktales,” as he calls them. He chides me regularly on my interests. In London there has been much talk of late about a supernatural connection to a recent spate of unusual murders. Most laugh at such notions, but I am not among them.
I understand your interest in me arose from my novels, and I will not presume that you desire to continue a correspondence. I am, however, quite curious about your talk of vampires. Might you humor me with a reply?
I wish you all the best in your future adventures, and of course on your forthcoming nuptials!
Cordially,
A.C. Doyle
Postscript—I will be in Baltimore within the month to speak to their chapter of the Learned Order of Psychic Scholars and will scour the newspaper for an announcement of your wedding and latest detective pursuits!
“Wedding’?” Lil murmured, folding the letter and tucking it into her desk drawer. Wedding?
“What’s that?” George wrinkled his brow, struggling with a jeweler’s tool to fix a tiny handmade spyglass she had found in her former butler’s workroom. He turned to her and complained, “I can’t do this, dear! You must send it to Thomas. It is his. I am a complete failure at normal male occupations. And I’m starving. I think the postman will have to do today.”
“You are not so bad at some male occupations,” she replied, thinking of the night before. He snickered, and she winked. “And please do not eat the postman. He’s the most punctual I’ve had in ages.” But Lillian’s joke felt flat to her own ears and George always saw through her weak attempts to appear strong and nonchalant. She asked in truth, “You were teasing, were you not? Our bargain remains: Innocents are verboten?”
George looked away, annoyed or worse. “You have lost faith?”
“George, look at me. Have you killed anyone innocent since we made our bargain?”
“I have hunted only with you.” He turned accusing eyes on her. “You, however, cannot say the same. Was that not also part of the pact?”
“I…” What to say? He was right. And he had warned her that she was unready to hunt alone, that her education had just begun. He hadn’t gone as far as forbidding her to hunt without him, but that quick push at his hair told her he was angry. She thought of the chatty stranger at the dock, wondering how he had spent his night. She was glad she had not killed him.
“One mistake, Lil, one step in the wrong direction, will bring forces down on us that you cannot imagine.”
“What forces? Marie, you mean? Lady Lucifer?”
“She is rogue, insane, a cannibal. The forbidden drinking of vampire blood has made her supremely strong, but there are those stronger still. I told you of them.”
The Elders. She had almost thought them a legend. Hoped it, perhaps. “Yes, you told me of them. So, they are real? They are the ones that rule the Houses? You said we had no House in Baltimore.”
George snorted. “The Houses are ruled by families who like to believe they have a stranglehold on a city, puffed up peacocks with an interest in wealth and position who have carried the worst of mortality into their new lives. No, the Elders are ancient. They are the ancestors of us all. And I have told you their rules. Marie breaks them regularly, and it seems you are flirting with breaking them, too. Where did you go without me?”
“I ate a rat, George! Are you satisfied? I ate a flea-riddled, scrawny rat. I was so weak I didn’t even try to catch the cat who vied for the very same meal.”
He stared at her for a moment. Then he stood and pulled her to her feet. “Oh, love, I’m sorry. I have had such times.”
She bit back tears and forced her body to stay still as he caressed her hair. Do not let him see you shake. She said nothing.
“Please, Lil. I know you are a strong woman—it is one reason I love you so—but you must trust me in matters of our ways. Perhaps I’ve been remiss, wanting to shield you from…”
“Self-loathing?”
He didn’t answer but closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. “Tho
se first years are so hard. I remember them. It is onerous for me to see you in pain.”
She verbalized her recent decision, wondering if he would want to flee Marie soon. If he would force her to choose him or her daughter. “I am in no pain. I simply want to find my child. You will still help me, will you not?”
George paused. He was worried, she saw. He was strong but practical. Where was Annaluisa Pelosi? Their friend had purportedly gone to New Orleans to lead Madam Lucifer on a merry chase but had taken too long to return. The woman claimed some knowledge of Lillian’s mother also, but she had quit Baltimore before revealing her secrets.
I must find my baby, Lillian vowed.
George kissed her hand and nodded. “I want to help you find your child, dear. Just…please be careful.” He indicated the desk drawer where she’d stowed her letter. “So, what does your hero write?”
“Nothing of great import.”
“I know that tone.” George leaned in, kissed her ear, and nibbled playfully at her neck. “What are you hiding? Let me see.”
“He is my personal friend.”
She stood to distract him with a kiss, but he pushed her back, holding her a foot away with a hand on each shoulder and staring into her eyes. “Am I to be jealous? What further secrets are there between us?”
“You should be quite jealous, for he is a great man and does not pen letters to you! Oh, you will be disappointed to hear that he no longer writes stories. I cannot bear to believe it is true.”
“That is rather shocking. Why would he stop?”
“He is more interested in the study of mystical phenomena.”
George laughed. “Ah, soothsayers and psychics, the scourge of every age. What a waste of talent.”
Lillian fought back annoyance. “I hardly think we are in the position to laugh at a man who might believe in vampires. In any case, he will be in Baltimore soon. Might we go hear him speak?”
“Did he specifically mention vampires?” George sat and rubbed at his forehead. “Oh, Lil, did you tell him?”
Well, Lillian, you are a special sort of idiot, are you not?
“Of course not! He mentioned his friendship with Mr. Bram Stoker; that is all.”
If she’d understood more when she’d written to him two months ago… If she’d only known how private she’d have to become! She’d lost her most beloved friend, Bess, to fear and secrecy. She’d sent her longtime companions Thomas and Addie off to the seaside and barely communicated with those servants who remained in her own home, her maid Aileen and Aileen’s young male siblings. None openly questioned the constant presence of the broodsome George, but they would in time wonder why the two ventured out primarily during odd hours and no longer took meals. And why they were not engaged.
How many times had she told Bess that no husband was better than the wrong husband? George adored her, lavished her with attention, tolerated her need for adventure, her eccentricities in a way no ordinary mortal man of society would. He was her maker, her mentor. No matter her recent struggles with existence, George had captivated her, body and soul. But, wedding? It was laughable. While she’d long ago given up the idea of a normal home life and family, her present state ensured nothing would be normal.
Give it a bit more time, George had said. The murder, the blood, the hollowness—it would all pass, he promised. But she’d seen the worry in his eyes. It did not pass for every one of them. No, some went insane and killed themselves. Some ate their own kind, grew very strong and flaunted the rules. Marie de Bourbon was one of those, Madame Lucifer herself.
Lillian and George had drunk from one another a few times, a dark adventure that stirred passion she hadn’t imagined could exist. And yet, no one had arrived to wreak justice upon her. George had assured her it was not a sin—well, not a sin by their standards—and that they would not become cannibals unless one drained the other completely. Not like Madame Lucifer…who also went unpunished.
The Elders: the few who had lived for many millennia without insanity or cannibalism. How many were there? George hadn’t been sure, although legend told of twelve brothers, all powerful, all the first generation of two damned parents. But, out of how many? Thousands and thousands of vampires through the years, likely. Many now gone. Mortals were weak but always a danger. Damn it, didn’t Bram Stoker himself seem to understand what it took to kill vampires? And she had written to Mr. Doyle, his good friend…
“Please, dear, let me see the letter.” George hooded his eyes, and Lil knew he suppressed the urge to force his will upon her as her maker. She admired that he never played that very special card, although she’d witnessed him press his brother Phillip that way.
What have I done? Surely Mr. Doyle is no danger?
She opened the drawer and handed the letter to George. He took a seat and read, mumbling and groaning at times. She busied herself with another project, trying to repair her riding goggles that had been run over by a trolley the night before.
“Wedding?” he murmured with a quick glance at her. Then, “I know that you adore your Sherlock and his creator, but you must now agree with me that a continued connection with the author is out of the question. You must never meet.”
“Hmnnn.” Lil didn’t look up from her project. It was hopeless without Thomas around. Of course, George would not allow her to employ her former butler at the house anymore. He’d seen too much, including the corpses George had left on her living room floor.
“I would like to know something about this Learned Order of Psychic Scholars. Sounds like a ridiculous name your little Irregulars would create.”
“I call the boys my Musketeers. Still, your mistake is understandable.”
“The Learned Order. Aging men with time on their hands—”
Lillian knew she was being bull-headed, but she couldn’t stop herself. She took a deep breath to steady her hands as she pried at a screw. A bit of medicine would be welcome now as a finger of anxiety coiled in her stomach. “Why should you worry about aging men with time on their hands? What can they mean to us?”
George folded the letter and tapped it against his hand as he stared out the window. He looked over his shoulder after a moment and said, “You think us invincible? Your Mr. Doyle is unlikely as simple as most in this city. Leave him be, Lil. Promise me.”
Lillian thought of her fantasy Uncle Sherlock. She had so little of her former self left. “I will not give up on my investigations!”
“No, of course not. You simply must be more careful. You are not to see Mr. Doyle, ever. Am I clear?”
His tone slapped her. He’d not chastised her once since she met him, since she’d seen him leaping from her neighbor’s balcony, since the moment she began to love him. But now…
“You are quite clear, sir.”
George was silent.
“Annaluisa should have returned by now,” Lillian offered after a time. She knew George fretted about their friend. He worried about Marie de Bourbon. He worried about her. That was why he was being so strict. So…fatherly.
George turned and nodded but still looked distracted. “Yes, several weeks ago. Or at least sent word. But that is not all.”
“No? What, then?”
“A feeling. Not a very pleasant one. The hairs on my neck prickle and I’m unsettled, and I’m not prone to flights of fancy like you.”
Lillian eyed him balefully. “Perhaps a bottle of Mrs. Winslow’s remedy to soothe you?” When he did not bite she realized he was quite serious. “George, look at me. Tell me what this dread is.”
“Dread? Why, yes, I suppose it is dread. I cannot rid myself of the feeling that Marie de Bourbon is already near. Waiting.”
Lillian’s heart raced, though his pronouncement was unsurprising. She’d felt the same concern from time to time but associated it with being a newborn vampire unused to the myriad sensations and urges that came upon her at strange hours.
“Do you feel the presence of your vampire children?” she asked. Madame Lucifer was
George’s spawn as much as she was his brother’s long-ago wife. “Do you know when I’m about?”
“No, I do not feel your presence as much as I anticipate and crave your nearness. And I released Marie’s bond very long ago, to the detriment of all of us. Even so, she possesses the strength of many from her cannibalism and thus is no child.” He remarked almost wryly, “I am quite shocked that our Elder has not cut her down. Perhaps he is not yet aware of her exploits.”
“Our Elder? We personally have an Elder? I am confused. Why have you not told me everything? This talk of vampiring comes in dribs and drabs.”
George arched an eyebrow and waved her letter in the air. It was a second slap, and well deserved. She sat down.
“I was not a very successful mortal,” she said. “It seems I am a worse vampire.”
George didn’t correct her, and she hoped that he simply hadn’t heard. She went to his side and rubbed his shoulders, thinking, Please, please, tell me it will be fine.
“Would that you could massage this overwrought brain of mine,” he murmured instead. “While you have finally given me reason to want to survive, I’m terrified about your safety. And certainly Phillip and Kitty are at risk.” George took her hand and pressed a kiss to it. “Lil, we should leave Baltimore. Annaluisa has sent no word. I know Marie will find us, and I know that she is here. We are out of time.”
Lillian’s heart sank. She had hoped for another month or even a few weeks before this confrontation, all time to continue her search for her baby. Now she would have to follow George or abandon him. She did not think she could abandon him.
What did she know about her child, anyway? The Hebrew Orphan Asylum had once cradled her but had little interest in helping Lillian find the girl again. The stern director had looked over her spectacles at Lillian and done the arithmetic quickly.
“Seven years old? I’m afraid no girl here is that age. Are you quite sure?”
“I was sixteen,” Lil had murmured, clenching her bag lest her hands shake. You don’t dare look at me like that! Blame the scoundrel who took me against my will. Blame the physician who was complicit in the cover-up. Blame the world for wanting to lock me away and for stealing my baby.
