by Ciar Cullen
“Blood, do you mean?” Doyle asked, seeming to resign himself. “Ah, euphemisms. Yes, just for now. It is not the blood of an innocent person, though, is it?”
“No. It is mine, and I am no innocent, as you’ve noted. But it will do until you are ready for more.”
She drew her teeth across her wrist and he winced, but his disgust turned to lust in seconds and he grabbed her arm. Now he knew it was not legerdemain.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Sullivan.
George sat on Lillian’s roof for a moment alone, swinging his feet off the edge, wishing he’d thought to buy a new pipe.
It was evening again, and the house was too full. Two young ladies—new maids—had appeared, but from whence had they come? Why did Lil have to bring in more people? Well, vampire maids were few and far between, he admitted, so they would have to make do with mortals. He couldn’t imagine her doing all the washing, cooking, cleaning, and so forth.
Oh, and the boys. Lord, what about the boys? Were they all now his as well?
“No, one belongs to Johnnie,” he reminded himself with relief. But Johnnie was in a very sorry state indeed. George had chosen to use some dramatic demonstrations on the skeptical if quick-witted man, and Moran had finally succumbed to the obvious. Whether he would allow his brother to live amongst them was questionable.
Johnnie was grateful for Marie’s death; that much was certain. And, George thought, the man was a bit frightened, perhaps because of some of the dramatics. He’d lost his fiancée, seen his friend crushed by a carriage and then brought back as a vampire, but he had no one normal to talk to about any of it. Would the constable put aside his fear but not his loathing of vampires and run about, trying to rally mortals to fight them? Or had Marie’s death mollified him? Only time would tell.
Phillip, he thought. He’s the one to make this right. He’ll know how to soothe Johnnie a bit. And some ready cash wouldn’t hurt the man either. Maybe we could buy a nearby house for him? No doubt the constable lived in one of the cramped guest houses catering to those employed but a step away from destitution. George would fix that, he swore, first thing in the morning. It was an easy enough gesture, whereas making the man believe he and the others were no danger to law-abiding mortals would take more time.
He peered down into the empty street. Nine o’clock, with the quiet that sometimes signaled an imminent snowfall. But no, it wasn’t nearly cold enough.
“May I join you?”
Ah. That voice. George stood. “Sullivan! We’ve been wondering about you. I was certain you’d quit the city already.”
“Phoebe would like that.”
“Then go. We are grateful beyond words…” George put his hand on Sullivan’s shoulder as he saw the giant vampire shake. “Whatever is wrong?”
“Do what you can to avoid angering an Elder, George.”
“Your meeting was frightening, I imagine?”
“More than that. I cannot explain.”
“Tell me about him.”
“No, and do not ever mention his name. He can be…summoned.”
George watched Sullivan carefully, regretted any part he may have had in putting anguish on his face. Finally he said, “It seems we socialize on rooftops, Chauncey. An odd choice.”
“I’m to kill you. All of you. Especially the boy.”
George examined his countenance, saw the sad resignation etched there. And yet, nothing seemed to have changed. “Ah. But you’re not going to, or you wouldn’t be talking. You’d be acting. And ‘especially the boy’? Why would a lad capture the interest of the Elders?”
“Marie violated the law. She bred. That makes Lillian and her child threatening in some way I don’t fully understand.”
George’s stomach dropped. How foolish of him! He’d forgotten that aspect of Lillian’s birth. Even if Sullivan didn’t act, they were in grave danger. But Sullivan was the most immediate threat.
“What happens if you don’t comply? Ah, Phoebe.”
Sullivan shrugged. “Both of us. I do not much want to die anymore, either.”
George was silent, thinking. Beside him stood the giant. Both stared down into the street. They shared an odd camaraderie.
“You’re done anyway, George. All of you. If I don’t kill you, he will.”
George glanced at him. “Then why not save yourself?”
Sullivan shoved his hands in his pockets. “Never did kill children, George. Never had the nerve. Still don’t. I don’t want to die, but I’m also tired of this life. Maybe Phoebe’s prayers will earn her a spot in Heaven. I’ll no doubt rot with my own Lord in some special hell he’s created for me.”
“Run, Chauncey. Go as far as you can, as quickly as you can.”
Sullivan nodded. “I had already decided as much. It may postpone the end.” He glanced at George. “Honestly, he seems a bit…lazy, I suppose. Ambivalent? He wanted Marie to die, but I got the sense that he didn’t care very much about anything else. Almost as if you all were but an afterthought. But, George, if the boy is unusual in any way, keep it hidden. I cannot promise that he won’t come himself, or find another slave to do his dirty work.”
God, the spirits. How many already knew? George’s heart skipped a beat. “Unusual how?”
“Ah,” the dark-skinned giant said sadly. “I see it on your face. Don’t play cards, George.”
George nodded, and there was a brief silence. “We never said it, all of us. Chauncey, thank you. This chance… You cannot know what this means to Lillian, to Phillip and me.”
“I did it for myself. I had no choice.”
“Ah, well, you sound like me now. There’s always a choice. We are all free of her because of you.”
“Thank him. He gave me the idea and the means.” Chauncey chuckled darkly. “Maybe he’s not such a bad Elder after all.”
Then Sullivan was gone, leaving George to wonder if his beloved was destined to ever have a moment of peace in her life.
The clip-clop of cab horses below made his heart leap. Lillian! She had been gone most of the day, tending to Arthur and visiting Bess. What a strange weakling he’d become, slave to the woman he’d created. No, though, he’d not created her odd style, great mind, beautiful body and face. How had the union of two devils created such an angel?
Lillian stepped from the cab, Jack clutching her hand, and George leapt down into the back yard. When he entered the kitchen, a young woman, one of the sisters—God, what had Darby said her name was?—looked up from her sweeping and squealed.
“Please, I am Miss Holmes’s fiancé. Do not be alarmed. My name is George.”
The woman curtsied, and her black curls bobbled to and fro. “Mr. George. I am Ella, Miss Holmes’s new nanny.” She bit at her lip. “Although, to be honest, I’ve not yet met Miss Holmes. But I’ve met the boys. They left a mess in here, and I don’t want to answer to Cook in the morning.”
“Carry on, then, Miss Ella. And, welcome to the fold.”
George shook his head, wondering how this house, although expansive by Baltimore’s standards, could hold a married couple, four boys, a large dog, a maid, a nanny, and a cook. God, if Lillian intended to bring back Addie and Thomas, the pair would have to pitch tents in the back yard. His morning in bed with Lillian seemed like a fleeting dream, and he cursed. He’d thought of nothing else all day but repeating the tryst. Well, hardly anything else, if Arthur and Johnnie had taken a dent out of his time. What now to do about this awful reminder of Sullivan’s?
When he entered the parlor, Lillian smiled and he let out a breath. It didn’t matter, he realized. Nothing mattered. He had her, and they had Jack, and they would work through the details.
“An interesting day, Miss Holmes, was it not?”
“Indeed,” she replied. “Jack, run off to your room and try not to wake the other boys—if they are in fact asleep.”
Jack did not go. He tugged on her arm, and she stared at him.
“He’d like a goodnight word or kiss, Lil,
” George said, surprised he understood.
“Oh!” She knelt and pulled the boy in for a hug. “There, you sleep well and we’ll have splendid adventures tomorrow.”
The boy ran next to George, who wondered again that such sweet and kind creatures as Lillian and Jack could have come from Marie and Henry and the Jackal. But so it was, and after a hug the boy scampered up the stairs. Lillian put her hand over her mouth and laughed, although George knew she was on the verge of tears again.
“It will take time. I’m so happy for you,” he said. He closed the distance between them and pulled her in. “I love you, Lil.”
“George,” she whispered, and angled her face up for a kiss.
The unmistakable sound of the Musketeers scrambling down the stairs made him groan. Would they not have even a kiss?
“Boys, you should be in bed!” Lillian said.
The quartet giggled at having caught them in an embrace, but they all lined up, ready for duty. Jack pushed in between Darby and Billy. Mr. Lincoln barked a few times but managed to sit rather obediently next to Paddy, who had a grab of his fur.
George sat, knowing that his patience would be sorely tested, only vaguely interested in whatever new mission Lillian had sent the boys on.
“All right,” she was saying, “but five minutes and then off to bed with you!”
He only half listened as the boys went on in a circuitous fashion regarding the whereabouts of the remaining members of the Learned Order of Psychic Scholars. Etta Langhan was back in her home, which was of no consequence; the woman was surely innocent. Congressman Coyle and his wife—dead, of course. Mr. Doyle was not to be found, Darby reported. But Messieurs Donnelly, Holt, Poe and Frederick were also not to be found. No doubt laying low, George surmised. For with Coyle’s death and Marie de Bourbon missing, the jig was certainly up. They would not get their immortality or riches.
He watched Lillian carefully. Was it worth it, to pursue these men and destroy them? She needed a long break from murder and drama, although he did not blame her for desiring revenge. No, he decided, he would never share what Sullivan told him. If they had only a decade together, even a year, it would be better than running and fighting. In a way, he thought, it would be as if they were human again.
Lillian dispensed pennies for the information and shooed the boys and Mr. Lincoln upstairs.
“I think that does it for tonight, George,” she said. “Now, where were we?”
He stood and scooped her into his arms. She kicked and giggled a bit uncharacteristically, and her giggling increased when her hat fell off and he pulled the pins from her chignon.
“Have you eaten, my dear?”
“No, and I’m famished.”
“Perhaps we can have a naughty snack of one another tonight.”
“Perhaps.”
She pressed her teeth to his neck and nibbled as George moved to the stairs, already in discomfort from the constriction of his trousers. Things would be quick at first, and then they would have time to—
“Oh!” The nanny had pushed through the kitchen door into the parlor and frozen, hand over her mouth. “Begging your pardon, Mr. George!”
Hell. To hell with servants and this house full of distractions. Married life would have to be different. It was different in his fantasies. Now he was the one who wanted to set the date for the wedding. Imagine that, Georgy.
“That is not your fault…Miss Ella, is it?” he asked, mastering his annoyance. “This is your mistress, Miss Lillian Holmes. Lillian, say hello to the nanny.”
“Hello, and welcome.” Lillian waved a bit as George carried her to the staircase. “I will speak with you more properly tomorrow. Are you finding everything satisfactory?”
Ella nodded, eyes wide.
“Is your room suitable?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Is your sister quite happy as well?”
“Yes, Miss Holmes.”
“Very well. Have a good night.”
They left the nanny downstairs, speechless, but as George carried Lillian up the staircase he asked her how Doyle was getting on. “What’s to be done with him?”
“I was hoping you would help me take him hunting tomorrow night. He’s a very hungry man, and I would hang on to some of my blood.”
“And then?”
“It is up to him. I’ve taken one choice away from him, and I won’t do so again. I would dearly love him to stay here, to live, but he has obligations. A sick wife, most notably.”
“And the Learned Order?”
Lillian sighed. “I think I have neither the time, the energy, nor the taste for revenge right now. Perhaps someday.”
“I am glad to hear it,” George admitted. “I brought you some nourishment, so we need not be interrupted again.” He reached into his coat pocket and revealed the tip of a blood-filled vial.
Lillian nodded. “I’m too tired to ask where you got it.” She took the vial and drank it down in a single swig, and then she snuggled into his arms and was sound asleep within moments. George reached her bedroom with the continued discomfort of his arousal, but the peace in his beloved’s sleeping face was more important. He dearly loved to see her happy.
And, no matter, they had many such nights ahead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
A shy newborn.
“I do not like this place, George.” Lillian linked her arm through his and stared at Arthur, who peered into the night as if he’d never seen darkness before. Of course, Annaluisa had been killed on this roof. Yes, she had known something of Lillian’s mother, for sure. And she had paid a terrible price for that knowledge. “Did he choose this spot or did you?”
George pointed to Doyle, indicating the location had been his choice.
Arthur had taken to flight well, and Lillian felt some pride in her newborn. He had been ill during the day, which would come and go and gradually abate. But now he needed real sustenance or the hunger would kill him or drive him insane.
Arthur turned. “She was a friend, Madam Pelosi. I know now that she hid a great secret from me, but still, she was kind to me and we had splendid conversations.”
“You understand that you helped destroy her murderer, sir?”
Arthur nodded. “I’m glad for that little role. Johnnie visited me today, and I believe he feels the same vindication for his Aileen. Although, of course, his loss is so much greater.”
“We will look after Johnnie,” Lillian said, wondering exactly how they would do that.
George approached Doyle and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Arthur, if I may, we should not delay in the search for someone suitable. You are weak and will grow weaker by the hour.”
“I cannot do this.” The Scotsman hung his head and dropped his tense shoulders. “I do not have the heart for it.”
A racket in the building on the floor below them stopped Lillian from speaking. A man and woman argued violently, and at a scream from the woman she, George and Doyle dropped to the balcony outside that window. Through the lace curtains they could see that the man—large, round, and in his cups—had knocked the woman to the ground. She held her cheek and cried.
“That will not do,” Lillian said.
The man pulled the woman roughly to her feet and she cried out again, shaking and sobbing. “I didn’t do anything!”
“You do not leave this room without my permission! How you test me!”
“But I only wanted a little meal!”
He hit her so hard that she fell to the floor in a heap, unconscious or dead. Then he started kicking her.
“We must stop this,” Lillian whispered. She could not have hoped for a better victim, and she prayed Arthur would act—or she would.
George pushed the window up, and the man stared at him in wonder.
“What? How?” He stepped back a few feet.
“Would you like to try that on me?”
“Stay out of it!”
Arthur stepped in front of George. “Ach, you son of a bitch.
I will not stay out of it.”
“No? Go ahead—”
Before he could finish, Arthur knocked him to the ground and punched him in the nose, which made a nauseating cracking noise.
“He takes after his maker, doesn’t he?” George said, turning to Lillian. “You both seem to like fisticuffs.”
Lillian looked on in mixed pride and regret as Arthur made a meal of the man and then sat back and cried. He would be fine on his own, she saw now, but her hero would also suffer great remorse each time he ate. She pitied him that.
“I will miss him dearly when he goes,” she said to George. “This man will definitely return to his wife.”
“I believe I will miss him as well,” George said. “But we have some time. He wants to interview young Jack. And my guess is that he will not go back on his promise to help Bess with her foot.”
“How can he help her now? He can barely think of facing his family. He will not reach out to colleagues!”
“Ah, my little newborn,” George said, “I have seen many meeker souls than this become ruthless killers in my three centuries, find ways to hide their nature. He’s getting a taste of two things that feed his personality and his hunger: blood, and the feeling that he is doing something righteous. Our task is to keep him on the path of right. We can do that by giving him a family. Maybe even establishing a House.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Friends.
George laughed as Bess stomped her little foot in frustration. “No, I will not take it back. I suppose you are forced to spend it.”
“I cannot even show it to my family! They will think me a bank robber!”
“Bess, sit down, your cheeks are so red they are emitting a strange glow. We cannot have any more deaths. Now, what do you think a great Watson should earn for putting her own life at risk for a friend? For going to an asylum, and then to an orphanage guarded by a…‘creature’? For helping her find a son? What price would you put on that?”
