The Devil & Lillian Holmes

by Ciar Cullen

  He’d relived the scene over and over: how dismissive she’d sounded, how willing to be without him. They’d not been apart since the night he saved her mortal life and gave her his own blood as sustenance. Well, except for a few nights before, when he’d felt her slip out of bed and heard her tiptoe out of the room. He’d thought to let her hunt alone for the first time, to give her the gift of confidence. Surely she hadn’t gone to another man?

  He couldn’t imagine being apart from her ever again, but evidently she could. He had been a fool, so used to women falling at his feet—literally and figuratively—that he’d assumed Lil would feel the same.

  Phillip had chided him earlier in the night when he returned home, tail between his legs. “You speak as if you’ve never known a woman’s temper, George. I know damn well you’ve angered legions of them. Perhaps Lillian is simply tired. It happens. Not every acerbic tone means the end of things. You’d last five minutes with Kitty. Now, speaking of angry women, I have to gather up mine and sweep her off to New York. If I don’t come back, you’ll know it didn’t go well with Sullivan.”

  “You were always well-liked, Phillip,” George had promised. “He’ll hear you out at least. I know he’d slam the door in my face. Seems that everyone feels that way these days.”

  “Oh, blazes, George. You’re picking a sorry time for one of your fits of self-pity. Let it go, and visit Lillian in the morning. You forget what it is to be newborn, to wrestle with all those annoying deep thoughts that inevitably arise. And buy her something pretty. Women like pretty things in my experience.”

  “Buy her something? She lacks for nothing.”

  “Oh, if we get through this horrid adventure you’ll need a long talk with my Kitty. Your courtship manners are sorely lacking.”

  “I’m not courting her,” George had snapped. “I’m her maker.”

  “That may be the problem. Take it from another of your children. Now leave me to my packing.”

  “Release her?” George had guessed at his brother’s meaning. “Release her from our bond? She’s not ready! She wasn’t even making sense today. Phillip, I think she may be taking her medicines again. I pray not, but…”

  Phillip looked up. “When will she be ready? When is anyone? Is she the one who is not ready, or do you wish to hold her close no matter the consequences? You have power over an obstinate, eccentric woman that a normal man wouldn’t. Surely you see that. The sooner you can release that bond, the better.”

  She is not ready, George knew. But Phillip was. How many times had he come close to releasing his brother’s bond only to pull back in fear that they’d never speak again? How many tests would Phillip have to pass before being granted the dignity he so assuredly deserved?

  He does not even fight me over it, George thought. He thinks me afraid. How could his brother be so generous? How could George himself be such a coward?

  Sitting on Lillian’s roof, George wondered what pretty thing she might like and tried to put his brother out of his mind. Buy her something? A new pistol? Another book on poisons? She needs new goggles. But Phillip had said something pretty, and he had no idea what that meant to Lillian.

  He’d done his best nonetheless. He already had something to give to her.

  “Feckless idiot,” he murmured aloud in the tone his mother had so often used to say the same. Then he quieted when he heard a rustling in the yard.

  He crept to the back edge of the property to see his Lil, dressed like a boy, mounting a contraption and walking it toward the street. He knew he should call out to her, be honest with her about his presence, but curiosity won. Did she go to meet another? Is that what the driver had been about, arranging a tryst? His blood boiled at the thought. And she was putting herself at risk, going out alone at night!

  Stupid George, she’s a vampire. Only another vampire can harm her. And if it’s Marie de Bourbon, what will you do but join Lil and die?

  She was probably just hungry. But she liked flying so very much and was so much better at it than him. Why would she ride that motorcycle?

  George wondered what else he didn’t know about Lillian—a million things, probably—as he trailed her from above. He wanted to know all those things, but would he ever get the chance to learn? How arrogant it had been to take her for granted, how perfectly like him. He’d made her, and in truth owned her. That’s how he thought. But this was not a woman to be owned, cajoled, guided, or bribed. Everyone in her life had robbed her of power, and he had been doing the same. No wonder her resentment built.

  Lillian rode north, away from the harbor, at a dizzying speed. What was so urgent? And why hadn’t she confided in him? He leapt from building to building until rooftops became so sparse that he was forced into the true flights he could maintain for only minutes at a time. This would exhaust him in due course, but not before she would run out of fuel—he hoped. She’d torn off her cap, and her long hair whipped wildly about her face as she approached Druid Hill Park.

  Where in God’s name is she going?

  They were approaching the city limits when she slowed a bit and turned down a barely lit lane. This far away from the center of things, the stars shone brightly and George could see her in the moonlight. She cut the engine and leaned her bike against a lamppost, and he landed on a roof and watched her. She pulled a paper from her pocket and looked east toward the great mansion at the end of the lane. George presumed it was her final destination.

  “Mansion” was a bit of an understatement. Someone in Baltimore had constructed a gothic monstrosity on the edge of a modern city, no doubt many decades earlier. If a public work, the architect should be promptly sued and the building razed. If it was a private residence, and it seemed to be, the owner had the poorest taste. George had not seen such a building in America. It combined, rather uncomfortably, sprawling porches on three sides and castle-like turrets on two of its corners.

  As she made her way forward, Lillian ducked behind trees and bushes. So, she was unlikely an invited guest to the mansion, which soothed George’s ire. His Lil was being a detective. But, was he not to share in those adventures with her? Had she indeed ceased to trust him? He followed at a distance, wondering if she felt that he kept her under lock and key. She needed so much nurturing, so much instruction. Perhaps he’d underestimated her desire to sleuth about.

  When she reached the property, she scurried along the porch and leaned her back against the house, listening at a great bay window open to the night air. George approached with care, keeping his eyes on her should she need help. Then, to his very great amazement, she waved her hand in his direction, motioning for him to get down.

  Impossible! He looked around, wondering if someone else was about, but no, he was alone.

  With a great leap, he landed noiselessly at her side. She cautioned him to further silence with a finger to her lips, and he winked in answer, thrilled to be included. Had she known he was following her the entire time?

  No one seemed to be inside the great room, but Lil waited and George stood close behind her, letting the scent of her hair fill him, letting the pull of her pale neck send lightning through his veins. As if she read his thoughts or perhaps just felt the same, she leaned back against him and rubbed her hand along his thigh.

  He bent in and kissed her ear, her neck, and pressed his hand over her mouth lest she make a noise. Then he spun her around and pushed her against the stone. Her dilated pupils and fast heart rate confirmed his fears. She’d taken her drugs.

  “Why are you here, Lil?” George asked as he fondled her and pressed kisses on her cheeks, unable to help himself.

  “Why are you here?” she whispered back, arching into his caress.

  “I’m ashamed to say I dislike any distance between us. I don’t want to give you a moment’s peace. You will have to fight me for solitude or send me away.”

  “Then I will fight, for I do need occasional solitude.” But clearly she hadn’t lost her taste for him completely. She wrapped her fingers in
his hair and pulled him down for a deep kiss with one hand.

  When he let out a moan, she smothered it with another kiss. “Quiet! Mr. Conan Doyle is within!”

  “What?” He spoke louder than intended.

  “Quiet, you idiot!”

  “‘Idiot’? What are we doing here? And how the blazes did you know I followed you? And more importantly, what is this about Conan Doyle?”

  “I believe this is where Mr. Doyle’s society meets. I saw him today at the station. How did you enjoy the evening on my roof?”

  “It was splendid. If you knew I was there, you could have at least invited me in. Now, what do we care about this society? Lil, we must concentrate on Marie. This pastime isn’t the best use of your—”

  “Pastime, is it?” She blew out a breath, and he waited for her ire. But: “I suppose it is. I would rather consider it a profession, as spinster heiress isn’t very impressive.”

  “God, I didn’t mean… Look, this isn’t the time for this discussion.” Spinster heiress? Is this the cause of her petulance? He shook his head. “All right, we’ll do it your way. Tell me what you hope to accomplish here and I’ll assist you.”

  “It is a long story, but the crux is that Doyle knew Annaluisa.”

  “Where did you hear this?”

  “From Aileen. Johnnie Moran met the man today, and they conversed for a good while. It seems Annaluisa was to perform a séance for this society last night. That is what this group is all about: psychics and spiritual goings-on. The appearance was scheduled a few months ago, before she became embroiled in this Marie de Bourbon debacle.”

  “God, what did Johnnie tell Doyle? Do you think he knows about us, that she was a vampire?”

  “I don’t think so, but I came to find out what Mr. Doyle believes. He does know Annaluisa was drained of life on the roof of the Rennard, and now the police have a strong lead on the identity of the victim. If they were friends, perhaps Doyle knows something mo—”

  George motioned for quiet as a light was flicked on inside and friendly chatter filled the great room. A man in black, likely a butler, opened the window, and George and Lillian hung back in the dark.

  “I thought we agreed you would not speak with the man,” he whispered in her ear. George hardly thought Annaluisa would have mentioned Lil’s mother to Mr. Conan Doyle, but Lil would evidently leave no stone unturned. “You have not learned to be circumspect at all.”

  “I believe you agreed with yourself.”

  George groaned. He had few choices. He could force her to leave with his maker’s will, but she would be furious. Or he could risk revealing too much to this silly society.

  The event seemed to be convening, as all the attendees became quiet except for one. This one said, “I call this meeting to order. Last night’s lecture was a wonderful start to Mr. Doyle’s visit, but tonight we have the chance to speak more openly without the larger audience present, as we are all brothers in arms. Excuse me, Miss Langhan, brothers and a sister.”

  “Etta Langhan!” Lillian mouthed to George, and he rolled his eyes. So, now there were two people who knew them inside: Etta and Mr. Doyle. That busybody Langhan woman would be the death of him. An intimate friend and patron of Kitty and her artwork, Etta appeared at the most inopportune times.

  “For the record, Miss Langhan, would you kindly record the presence of our members in addition to yourself? Guest member Arthur Conan Doyle, the honorable Charles Coyle, Henry Holt, Edgar Poe, George Frederick, and yours truly, Henry Grattan Donnelly.” There was a pause before, “Would anyone like anything else to drink…? That is all, James.”

  George wanted to scream. These men might have some foolish notions, but they were men of stature. A congressman, an influential publisher, a lawyer, a writer of some small note, and a writer of great note. Oh, and that Frederick fellow, Baltimore’s premiere architect. How had Etta Langhan burrowed her way into the mix? Well, George supposed it was the woman’s forte.

  He exchanged a glance with Lillian, hoping tonight’s meeting was not on the subject of vampire-banishing and that the death of Annaluisa wouldn’t even come up, but Doyle dashed his hopes within moments, after some foolish protocols of the society.

  “I have rather grim news to report this evening. The psychic who was to be my partner last evening has been dead these few days. You may have read about the murder on the roof of the Rennard. Her name was Annaluisa Pelosi. I had the pleasure of knowing the woman, albeit not as much as I would have liked. She was a great proficient.”

  Damnation, George thought.

  The murmurs of the group were topped by a squeal of horror from Miss Langhan. “Why, I knew the woman. She was a great proficient, as you say. This is terrible news. She was often a guest at a friend’s house.”

  A friend? This time, Lillian groaned. Etta would not shut up, of that they were both certain.

  “See why we must be here, George?” Lillian asked.

  Inside, the discussion continued. “Are you able to name the friend, Miss Langhan, or is the situation sensitive?”

  “Oh, of course. Two brothers, Phillip and George Orleans. They own the great shipyard, so perhaps you have heard of them? They are not out in society much, but I am patron to artist Kitty Twamley who is to marry Phillip Orleans at Christmas. Kitty must be crushed by this news.” Etta paused. “I assume the brothers are believers, as they were friends of Madam Pelosi, although they seemed to regard the séance at their house as entertainment. They are queer fellows, indeed, keeping mostly to themselves.”

  “How so?” asked Doyle after a moment.

  “When Phillip began courting Kitty, she said some odd things about the man which she has since denied.” Etta laughed as if embarrassed. “I suppose because of my interest in the spirit realm I may have misunderstood her. George spends his time now in the company of a very well-to-do lady of society, Miss Lillian Holmes. I suspect a wedding sometime next year.”

  “Lillian Holmes! How extraordinary!”

  Doyle’s distinctive Scottish brogue boomed through the night, sounding a terrible alarm it seemed to George. What a mess. He cast a look at Lillian, wondering what she thought of the mention of a wedding. She fished through her sack for something, but he knew she hadn’t missed a word.

  One of the other men spoke. “Do you know this woman, Arthur?”

  “I’ve corresponded with her. She wrote initially as a reader of my stories, but her letters have been out of the ordinary to say the least. Miss Holmes seems to believe she has met vampires in Baltimore!”

  This brought chuckles and a joke from one of the men inside, which pleased George; he did not want them taking the matter seriously. “She must have attended the legal convention in town last year!”

  “I say!” another voice protested, but with a good-natured tone.

  Then Etta Langhan hammered the last nail in the coffin. “Why, that is what Kitty Twamley thought of her beau at first!”

  There came silence, and George almost groaned. Doyle wouldn’t pass off everything as a coincidence or the ramblings of a busybody. He would likely have to be handled now.

  Another man spoke, albeit quietly. “You don’t think this murder of Mr. Doyle’s friend is related to the deaths of our former members last month, do you?”

  Last month? George shuddered. God help them, but did this man mean the Jackal and Dr. Schneider? He glanced at Lillian, who obviously wondered the same. She looked frightened for the first time that night.

  He pulled Lillian close and whispered into her ear. “Heard enough?”

  “We must learn what they intend to do about it!”

  George tightened his grip on her arm. “Trust me for once. We must not be discovered here. It is time to leave. Unless you would like to murder them all and be done with it? They must be talking about your Pemberton and Schneider. It’s all piling up too quickly.”

  Lillian turned her head away, and so much frustration was etched on her face he thought she might be winding up to punch him
. Then she glanced out into the night and he let his gaze be led.

  When he glanced back at her, she swallowed, hard. Given the look on her face, she may as well have punched him. Had her life become so unbearable that only drugs would dull the ache? Or was she simply that severely addicted, so consumed that the fast he’d helped her live through would have to be repeated again and again?

  He couldn’t understand how she could ingest opiates, why her vampire body didn’t reject them. She did have a few other unusual qualities, too. She shared a fair tolerance of sunshine with his brother Phillip. Her reaction to the change had been especially mild, and she tolerated modest amounts of tea and liquor.

  Regardless, she could be totally addicted again and he would not know. She had chosen not to share it with him.

  It was time, he thought with some asperity, to leave the premises.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A failed proposal.

  As Lillian watched George sleep, she brushed a lock of his black hair out of his eyes. Slumber had eluded her, although she was exhausted and drowsy from her medicine. At least the voices had stopped, and she hadn’t dreamt horrible nightmares these last two nights. She would thank Mrs. Winslow’s remedy for that.

  This is not logical, Lillian. You blame the medicine for the voices, and now you praise it for stopping them? Which is it? Reason above all else—you are not immune from the rule.

  She could not discuss the matter with George or with anyone. He would not want to stay with a lunatic. He had worked so hard to heal her. Well, perhaps he would stay and she was making excuses. The horror of swearing off her medicine had been almost worse than the change from mortal woman to vampire. She would have to go through it again.

  Just not yet.

  “Would I could sleep now,” she muttered. “Forever.”