Thunder cracks and I start so hard my forehead smacks the window. With the flicker of lightning the woods illuminate like Edison’s new light. And I see them.
Outside, lined on a branch like soldiers, are black butterflies. Their wings bend against the raging storm as they struggle to hang on.
Are they looking for her? I shake my head and turn my eyes toward heaven, then close them. There is no rational explanation for them. Darkness and another flash.
My eyes fly open, and tick left and right.
The butterflies are gone.
A trickle of intuition courses my spine. More like a deduction. Is Arabella staying put?
I don’t trust her. She’s so bloody impulsive when compulsion grips her.
The farmhouse is quiet, save the storm sounds. Another thunderclap blasts above, close enough the window panes rattle. Outside, I see a small tree uproot.
This storm’s more like a gale. The wind blows like God’s fingers; plucking out mighty oaks, casting them aside like wispy saplings.
I snatch my boots, my pistol and pack. The taste of fear coats my tongue.
I skulk down the hall, avoiding the crickety floorboards I’ve now memorized. No doors open this time and I exhale in relief.
And suck it back in.
Bella’s door is open. I cram my eyes shut for a brief moment. “Blast that woman.”
Think, Henry.
My eyes whip to the long window above the staircase. Surely, she would not venture out in this?
I look in her room and my heart sinks. Her parasol lies propped by her bed. And the knife-boots are at the bedside.
Snatched? By Stygian? I am going to hobble that girl and condemn her to stitch-work till she promises to stay put.
A hot stab of anger pulses through me, and I ball my fists; the walls of Bella’s room loom closer and quiver, as if ready to cave in. I bite down on my lip, reorienting my brain.
The desperate way he looks at her. Like he would do anything to have her.
Would he? Could he?
My anger floods my nose and with it the return of reason.
She’s either in the house somewhere, my eyes flick outside, or out in this deluge.
I examine the door. No signs of forced entry. But Stygian could have a key. Which would mean Mr. Abner is party to the game.
I bolt downstairs to the fireplace, and shuffle through the ashes. A small corner of the envelope was not destroyed, fallen off to the side of the grate.
I extract it between my fingers, shaking off the ash. My eyes scan the fireplace. I see another bit of brown on the other side and pluck it up.
My head swirls.
Abner Farm
c/o Henry
It is writ in Arabella’s hand. It was sent to me. He has intercepted something important. Since she struck her head after falling in the hole, Bella has been off. She failed to mention this letter. I have forgotten something important. Her words whisper in my ear.
I open the corner envelope and see it and my heart skips.
I tip the tiny bone from the envelope into the palm of my hand and try, try, try to focus.
I close my fist around it and stalk toward the sleeping rooms. I head to father’s room and knock lightly.
He’s behind it in two seconds, his voice rough with sleep. “Who’s there?”
“Father. It’s Bella again.”
In two minutes, he’s up to speed and we’re skulking together through the night like a pair of common criminals.
I halt him as he’s about to alight down the stairs. I drop the tiny bone into his hand.
“Bella sent me this, in the mail while we were at odds. She must’ve thought them very important—too important to keep on her person at the time. Stygian intercepted it. He was obviously flustered—it is so unlike him to leave loose ends.”
Father’s eyes narrow as he considers. “A Sesamoid Bone. They act as a ball-bearing, to help the foot to bend. I don’t understand.”
It hits me like a bloody steam locomotive. It was in the vat. I know it to my marrow.
“No time. Let’s go.”
I explain in a hurried whisper about the sausage factory, the vat and its connection to our missing scientists.
We hurry downstairs, past the rooms, to the main floor. A flash of lightning illuminates the room for the space of a breath, then extinguishes.
I notice Mr. Abner’s door is ajar.
Father and I exchange a knowing glance, and don’t utter a word.
My heart throbs so hard, so fast, I wonder if ribs can bruise from the inside.
Father draws his pistol at the same moment I reach into my waistband to extract mine.
He stands, back to the door, ready to cover my entry.
I rush the room, pistol brandished, swinging wildly.
My eyes sweep. Low embers in the fireplace, a still-made bed, no boots, mud or anything to indicate Abner has visited his room in many hours.
Father steps in behind me. “Hurry, Henry. No idea how long we have.”
Father drops to his knees, looking under Abner’s bed.
I stride to his desk, to the mess of papers, and rifle through them. Nothing.
A locked box sits atop the desk. I pick it up and shake it. “This box?”
I turn to see father brandishing a key he’s extracted from under the bed’s frame.
He tosses it and I catch it one handed and proceed to jam it in the lock. It pops easily open and I wrench open the lid.
The thunder rumbles once again.
My heart stops. I inhale and it restarts.
A letter. In Stygian’s unmistakable hand. It is dated over two years prior.
To: Joseph Abner
From: Brotherhood of the Revolution
Joseph. I am pleased you have accepted our offer and welcome you to the society. I knew of your father from L’uomo Deliquente, and he was a good and faithful servant to the cause. Our most sacred mission, to further the Darwinian revolution, can use every willing hand. The discovery of the giant skeletons on your property is most unfortunate. I’ve made it my personal quest to seek out and destroy any and all I suspect may truly be Nephilim remains.
Mankind are animals, barely able to contain their impulses. Belief in men, not some ethereal God, is how we should exist. I will arrive shortly, and do hope you are as willing as your father, to help by any means necessary to further the cause.
Yours,
FS
My hand shakes, rattling the letter as I thrust it into father’s outstretched fingers.
I fling open Abner’s armoire, pitching his clothes out to the floor and father’s eyes race back and forth across the text.
“So much for discretion,” father says behind me.
He too, wrenches open Abner’s desk drawers, looking for further clues.
A tree limb smacks the window and it busts open, destroying the latch. Father hurries to secure it and quiet its banging. The wind is so strong; papers alight in the air, swirling in a white-parchment whirlwind. The fire flickers against its force.
“Henry, it may be a tornado.”
I nod, fixated on the cabinet.
Nothing. But the intuition tickles. Something. I am missing something.
I knock along its outside. It rings hollow. I search every angle, but all appears normal.
I step inside it, tracing, feeling with my fingertips, knocking every few inches. My knuckles rap the back inner wall.
It echoes like a cave.
My fingers trace the smallest space in the wood. I push, and a catch releases.
It swings open.
Bones. An avalanche of bones clank out. Femurs, tibias, fibulas, hands and feet rush out in a soul-chilling jangle of remains. They fill the cabinet, burying me up to my thighs.
I pick up a sheared off long bone and peer inside.
“Father, your magnifying glass.”
I hold my breath as h
e slides it into the cabinet and I squint.
One-eighth full. Bones for flight. Nephilim bones. Every last one.
A startling crash erupts in the farmhouse.
Father whirls at the sound. “Henry.”
His face is the color of a corpse. We both say her name. “Arabella.”
Buried in the pile of bones, in the back of the false-cabinet is a painting. I swallow.
I rip it out, sending a shower of fingers around me.
It’s an R-.
Surrounded by snakes, like a family crest.
My brain clicks like a trigger. I recall the sun-faded circle on the entry wall. I step out of the cabinet, the painting in my hands. I flip it for him to see.
Father understands immediately. “The painting from the entry wall.”
My hands are shaking. “Please, father.” I gesture at the paper. “That is your evidence. Keep it safe. You must keep it safe.”
“Henry, look at me.”
His eyes are murderous as he steps closer and grabs hold of me.
He shakes my shoulders. I almost see the ghost of the soldier’s uniform fit to his body as he stares me down.
“This is the moment—be constant, miss nothing. We must find her. There is no time to lose.”
I nod, willing the anger again. I start as another limb hits the window.
“We are going to need help. Who knows how many Stygian and Abner have in legion with them?”
“I will go wake Montgomery. I cannot imagine he is in their clutches. I will send him for help.”
I think of Jeremy’s slightly wonky smile and shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
Father spins to go but I catch his shoulder. “Father, you should go with him.”
“Out of the question.” Paternal protection flares in his eyes. Just like when I was a lad.
“You think, now. Jeremy is a scientist, not a soldier, not even a scrapper. If he is intercepted, any hope for help goes with him.”
Father is frozen, his eyes ticking furiously as he works through my assertion, considering, I know, Montgomery’s skinny frame, his spectacles.
Father’s eyebrows ball together. He grasps both my shoulders, shaking roughly. “Henry.”
He swallows. A million emotions tear across his face.
It says; this might be the end. And all our differences, our battles. They don’t mean anything.
I nod, feeling the same. “I know. I’ll be fine. You taught me everything I know. And so has that stoic task-master you call a best friend. You must let me go.”
He nods reluctantly and releases me, eyes still anxious. “Find her Henry.”
He strides for the door, but quickly turns back.
He tosses me his walking cane, which conceals a sword.
He begins, “Be not afraid of greatness….”
The window bursts back open. I hear the bones shift behind me.
I finish it, “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.”
He nods. “Consider yourself thrusted.” And disappears.
I freeze, and sniff. I smell smoke.
Chapter Twenty-Four
L’uomo Delinquente
In the dark
Bella
The ache in my head is exquisite and the taste of chloroform coats my tongue.
“Miss Holmes. Not so very clever now, are we? Now you are just a girl, like any other.” Stygian bends closer, so his black eyes are visible through the gloom.
Where am I?
Two Stygian’s leer at me as my vision doubles. His face undulates and overlaps on itself as the identical-twin images hover back and forth.
“I had suspicions after my phrenology reading, that you were more than you seemed. Always so coy and innocent, yet somehow a coquette.”
I shake my head vigorously. It sends vertigo rolling around my brain like children’s marbles.
I see stars, multi-hued and multi-sized as my awareness fades, and flares again.
My hands and feet are bound and the chair rocks backwards as he shakes me.
I squint, trying to discern my surroundings without drawing his attention.
More skeletons surround me. Above me, barely perceptible slits of light cut across the length of the ceiling.
Behind him, is a tunnel. Most likely connecting to the mines.
We are beneath a floor. Is it the farmhouse?
Stygian’s hands grip my shoulders and shake. “Pay attention when I speak to you Arabella.”
I feel tears threaten. No. I will not give him such satisfaction.
“I saw the talent in your feet, Miss Holmes, how you picked up Mr. Watson’s timepiece. It confirmed my suspicions.”
“What suspicions?”
“That my deductions were correct, and you harlot, belong to me.”
I stare back confused.
“Only harlots can use their feet as such. It is well documented in my circles. No wonder Holmes shipped you to the America’s. The pompous detective was saving face; he was embarrassed by you.”
I nod and feel the sadness in my smile. “L’uomo Deliquente?”
Stygian’s mouth pops open. “Miss Holmes, you surprise me? You are a student of the writings?”
“Only a critic. It’s appalling that people could be so narrow minded to classify human beings solely by their physical attributes. How many have hung or been fired or carted off to the wrong marriage suitor based on these mad ramblings?”
Stygian’s chest is heaving. His eyes narrow to slits. I’ve insulted his God. His rule of law.
“I am not a harlot. I am a virgin.”
“Liar.” His face is against mine, and I smell the whiskey.
“But I shall soon know. I have two tickets for the train, and then a steamship. We will return to Europe. Revenge has never tasted sweeter. You see, my little scarlet letter, your father sent my brother to prison.”
He paces, his fingers twitching and face contorting, “A man so wholly pure in virtue. But now he shall be vindicated and you…rest assured, you’ll never be seen again.” He leans in and whispers, “And I will have you.”
I shake my head, willing back the panic.
Think, think.
What would father do?
I vainly search the dark. Nothing to defend myself. All of my weapons still in my room.
Stygian eases forward, lifting my nightdress to expose my thighs, white in the dark. Gooseflesh erupts all over them.
A noise, like a pot breaking, sounds overhead.
We both freeze, staring upward. Stygian pulls a rifle and aims it at the ceiling.
“Be quiet Miss Holmes. If you do not wish to die.”
###
Henry
Stygian? Did I hear Stygian?
I stop at the kitchen doorway, willing the broken pot to stop spinning. I don’t move for a full two minutes, waiting, searching, listening; pistol drawn.
Father and Montgomery departed a quarter hour ago. I am on my own.
The smoke is getting thicker. I look upstairs and see flames licking the staircase. The farmhouse is on fire. They are destroying the evidence. All those bones.
Abner leaps out, bat raised, his old arms quivering.
I shove him away from the kitchen. Stygian will hear us.
We roll to the floor. Wrenching his arms behind his back, I easily secure them with the rope from my pack.
I gag him, and haul him over my shoulder, running outside to the nearest tree. Heaving him to the ground, I tie him to the trunk and dart back inside.
I slide to the edge of the kitchen, listening over the fire’s crackle.
Shuffling below me. I look down, confused.
“I may bed you now, Miss Holmes. I’ll admit you’ve kept me waiting longer than I am used to.” He sniffs. “Or perhaps we should move into the tunnels a bit.”
My heart free-falls to my feet and a blast of h
orror ripples down my arms. I drop to the floor, peering through the slats.
Arabella is tied to a chair, surrounded by skeletons.
Stygian is kneeling before her.
I cannot see. The rage blinds me.
I hear father’s voice, cautioning in my head. ‘This means her life.’
My breathing is ragged and I fight to control it.
Stygian eases in, kissing her neck.
She whimpers.
“I shall have you, now. When we leave—you are a mute, using sign language to communicate.” His free hand caresses her hair. “And if you are not, I shall make it so.” His knife touches her cheek, threatening. “You will have a new life, with me. I will teach you how to quell all those unnatural ideas. I shall gift you with so many children you shall not have time for your precious bones.” His fingers lift her dress. “What, say, one a year for ten years?”
Her body shakes and I hear her teeth rattle.
The rage returns, coloring my world in a shocking red film.
I leap up, frantic, willing him not to violate her.
There must be an entrance.
I rush down the steps to the root cellar, the musty smell of rotting apples and potatoes making me cough.
My hands flutter wildly across the walls, searching, pleading with them to open. Nothing. Solid stone.
Smoke is trickling down the stairwell. I hear footsteps in the kitchen.
Someone is yelling, but I cannot make out the words.
I slip back up the steps; a man is kneeling as I was, staring down through the floor slats, listening and nodding. I instantly recognize him—it is Bella’s attacker from the steamer.
I charge. My gun-butt smacks the back of his head and he collapses.
“Littlebee?” Stygian’s voice, concerned beneath the floorboards. “Are you there? Quickly, you fool, we must depart.”
My feet swipe from under me, my head crashes against the floorboards. Littlebee’s awake. And fighting.
My eyes widen as he flips to his feet, grinning down at me.
“Help! Help me!” Arabella screams below my head.
I hear the unmistakable sound of a foot connecting with a gut.
And another. An all-out scuffle has erupted beneath the boards.
I roll right, scarcely avoiding a fireplace poker to the face. It strikes the floor, sizzling beside my head as a searing tendril of smoke wafts up.
Boneseeker Page 20
