by Sara Beaman
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“How sure?”
“Pretty fucking positive!”
“Do you remember what happened in that election?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “I was born in 1901. I wasn’t initiated until 1921.”
“What about Jennifer? Would she remember?”
Haruko sighs, rolls her eyes, and nudges Jennifer on the shoulder.
Jennifer removes her headphones. “What is it?”
“Do you remember the WotA election of 1893?” Haruko asks.
“You mean the one Desmond lost?” Jennifer asks.
Haruko nods.
“Yes,” Jennifer says, frowning.
“Could you tell me about it?” I ask.
“It was strange,” Jennifer says. “Carlyle’s campaign came as a shock to us all. No one really knew much about him before then.”
“Do you remember anything about him at all?” I ask.
Jennifer narrows her eyes in thought. “He was a quiet man. Diligent. He mostly kept to himself.”
“What about his campaign?” I ask. “Do you remember anything about that?”
“Not much,” she says. “Just that in the space of a few months, Carlyle managed to pull together an opposition party and put together a direct mail campaign—“
“Direct mail? Did you ever get any letters?” I ask.
“Well, no, but I was the sitting President’s sister,” she says.
I look at Haruko.
“That doesn’t prove anything at all!” Haruko says.
“Was a new version of the Sanguine Consensus published that year?” I ask Jennifer.
She considers the question. “Yeah. I guess there was.”
“When did it come out?”
“They always come out in July.”
“And when was the election?”
“In November,” she says.
“The space of a few months,” I mutter.
Jennifer frowns. “What’s this about?”
“Kate had some dream about Carlyle getting Mirabel to rig the election,” Haruko says. “Using the SanCon as the media vehicle.”
“I believe it,” Jennifer says.
“What?” Haruko gives her a look.
Jennifer nods thoughtfully.
“I believe it,” she repeats.
***
Hours later, the van slows, makes several turns, and stops. I hear the driver turn off the ignition, open the door and walk away. He returns just minutes later and we get back on the road.
At any point, it occurs to me, our driver could simply pull over, get out, and open the back door to the van, letting sunlight in and turning us all into ghouls. That is, turn Haruko, Jennifer and I into ghouls, and probably turn Julian into something much worse. Of course, then the driver would have three ghouls and some kind of nightmare monster on his hands. But still. It could happen.
My mind wanders to an even worse topic—wondering what’s happening to Adam. I can’t think about that right now, but I also can’t not. I need something else to focus my attention on, something that isn’t imagining what Mirabel must be doing to him.
Concentrating as best I can, I try and recall everything I know about Aya, and by extension, Markham. She was strong, I remember that. She could pick me up and carry me without much effort at all, which I always thought was a little weird. She was quiet and watchful. She was sensitive. Put another way, easy to piss off. She was polite in a way that made me feel uncomfortable. Well, honestly, her presence was enough to make me uncomfortable.
I try to remember things she said, clues she might have dropped about her true nature. She seemed totally devoted to Julian, of course. Beyond being in love with him, as Haruko observed, she seemed to think of him as perfect, almost saint-like. Above criticism or reproach. So there’s that. But is that really enough for us to take Markham alive?
The truth is I have no confidence that when we reach Chicago we will succeed in capturing him. Even if we do, I don’t actually expect that Mnemosyne will make good on her promise to keep Adam safe in exchange for the amulet. But what else am I supposed to do? Give up? Forget him? Move on?
I think of what Horace said about the amulet. If I were to claim it for myself, it would just about guarantee me total freedom, since the Wardens would no longer be able to sense my presence. And if we find Markham, what’s to stop me from keeping the amulet? Why wasn’t Mnemosyne more worried that I might betray her and take it?
Probably because I’m in love with Adam and she knows it.
I drag my fingers down my face, despondent. I’m not sure how things could be much worse.
And then I fall asleep.
***
And then I am in Lucien’s third-floor apartment, back in New York City.
I wait by the window, staring out at the lamp-lit street. I bring the fingertips of my right hand to my throat, just to feel my own pulse, quick and shallow. I see Lucien reflected in the window as he approaches me from behind.
“What is it like?” I ask, making eye contact with him through the glass.
“Dying?”
I nod.
“That depends entirely on the circumstances, my dear.”
“How did you die?”
“Strangulation. I was executed.”
“Why?”
“Treason and espionage.”
“Against whom?”
“A young man named Nero,” he says.
“Nero?” I laugh. “Certainly you don’t mean the Roman emperor?”
He smiles.
Out on the street a tall, grey-haired man wearing a black overcoat approaches. He looks directly up at our window, at the candle burning on the sill.
“Is that Mr. Radcliffe?” I ask.
“Most likely,” Lucien says.
“Wouldn’t you recognize him if it were?”
“He must be circumspect,” Lucien says. “And he is an illusionist. He needn’t wear his own face in public.”
“He can alter his own appearance?” I ask, astounded.
“He can do much more than that,” Lucien says.
The man enters the building. My mouth goes dry.
“Don’t be afraid,” Lucien says, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Julian is a decent man.”
I nod.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” Lucien asks.
Is this what I want? Tomorrow night Lucien must board a ship back to Europe, and I don’t believe I will be able to convince him to take me along. I may never see him again.
“I will return for you,” he says. “As soon as I can. I promise.”
There is a knock on the door.
“That must be Julian,” Lucien says, and he goes to open the door.
Out in the hallway is a much younger man than the one I saw on the street; he looks no older than twenty-one. He has pleasant features, but a sad expression, and his clothing is disheveled and worn. He gives Lucien a polite, guarded smile that doesn’t quite reach his green eyes.
“Julian,” Lucien says, bowing his head. “Please, come in.”
Julian steps inside. Meeting my eyes, he removes his hat and bows formally as Lucien locks and bolts the door behind him. I return the gesture with a deep curtsey, then extend my hand towards him. Julian takes my hand and brushes his lips against it in a manner that seems entirely symbolic. His touch is cold.
“Julian Radcliffe,” he says in an English accent. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss…”
“Marybelle Evans,” I say. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister Radcliffe.”
“You must be the actress Lucien is so taken with,” he says, smiling mildly.
I cover my smile with my fingertips.
“She is a true artist,” Lucien says. “Pity you won’t get the chance to see her work.”
“Whyever not?” Julian asks.
For a moment I, too, wonder what Lucien means. Then I realize that yes, of course, if this is my choic
e, then naturally my career is over. After all, I cannot expect to keep finding parts if I am to become a revenant; I would never be able to attend daytime rehearsals, not to mention that eventually someone would be sure to notice my cold skin, my still chest, my lack of pulse…
As I think of dying, really dying, even to live on after death, my hands start to quiver. I fold them in front of my stomach to keep them from shaking visibly.
“I told you I had a favor to ask of you,” Lucien says to Julian, smiling very slightly.
“Yes?” Julian asks.
“I would not ask this of anyone else,” Lucien says. “There is no one I trust more in this world.”
Julian glances at me, apprehension in his eyes.
Lucien gestures toward the sitting area of the little suite. “Please. Let us sit down and discuss the details.”
I take Julian’s coat and hat and hang them on the rack by the door. Lucien sits down in an armchair, but Julian remains standing.
“Lucien,” he says, “God knows I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, all the sacrifices you’ve made on my behalf, but please, let us be plain. What is it you wish me to do?”
Lucien nods, his face tense and drawn. I have never seen him look so anxious and uncomfortable.
“Let me explain,” he says. “You see, after meeting her during my first visit to New York three years ago, Miss Evans has become very dear to me. As I mentioned to you earlier, she is an actress. This city does not treat women of her profession well, and I fear what mortal life has in store for her.”
“I see,” Julian says, sitting down on the edge of the couch. “That must be very difficult for you both.”
“Indeed it is,” Lucien says.
“And so you are asking me to…?”
“Become her benefactor,” Lucien says. “I know, it is a terrible imposition, but please, at least consider it.”
Julian smiles nervously. “Forgive me for being insolent, Lucien, but is your own blood insufficient?”
“In fact, it is,” Lucien says. “Or rather, Mother has forbidden me from offering my own blood to Miss Evans.”
“You asked for permission, then?” Julian asks.
“Yes. And her denial was absolute.”
Julian makes a sour face and shakes his head. He looks at me. “Miss Evans.”
“Yes, sir?” I say.
“What are your feelings on this matter?”
For a brief moment I cannot put words to thought.
“I do not wish to die,” I say.
“Death is a prerequisite of the initiation process, my dear,” Julian says.
I smile contritely. “Perhaps it would be more accurate to say I wish to be immortal.”
“I see,” Julian says. “Why?”
I blink, taken aback.
Lucien laughs. “Don’t allow Mister Radcliffe to frighten you, Marybelle.”
“I want to hear her answer,” Julian says. “Why do you wish to live forever, Miss Evans?”
I look down, considering, wondering if Julian can read my thoughts as Lucien can. I’m not sure how to answer his question. I fear death, to be sure. I fear having my conscious existence snuffed out. But beyond that, I cannot think of a compelling reason why I want to live forever.
“She is a genius,” Lucien says. “She could easily dominate any profession, male or female. Even without any formal schooling, she comprehends advanced calculus, physics, philosophy. Her mind is like a diamond.”
“All the more reason I would like to hear Miss Evans answer the question for herself,” Julian says.
I open my mouth to speak, then close it again.
“Go on, child,” says Lucien.
“I do not know,” I say.
“Well,” Julian says to Lucien, “at least she is honest.”
My cheeks burn.
“Do you understand what is involved in the initiation process?” Julian asks me.
“Yes,” I say. “First I must complete the meditative exercises, and then I must drink the wine laced with poison.”
“And then?” Julian asks.
“And then you will place a few droplets of blood in my mouth, and I will awaken,” I say.
Julian frowns at Lucien. “Have you not warned her of the dangers involved?”
“If she dedicates herself to completing the meditations with a focused mind, the risk of failure is inconsequential,” Lucien says.
“Really. Is that what you still believe?” asks Julian.
“Of course,” says Lucien.
Julian catches my eye, holding my attention with a magnetic, almost palpable, force.
“The meditations are worthless,” he says. “And as I have never before attempted to initiate a corpse, I have no idea of my blood’s potency.”
“What do you mean to tell me, Mister Radcliffe?” I ask, my voice wavering.
“I mean to say that what Mister Verlinden is asking you to do may very well be suicide,” Julian says. “The poison will kill you. Though I will give you my blood, chances are good as not it will do nothing at all. Your body will remain inert. Dead.”
I look to Lucien. He won’t meet my eyes.
“And even if my blood does manage to animate your body,” Julian continues, “chances are good as not your rational mind will be destroyed in the process.”
“Is this true?” I ask Lucien.
He shakes his head. “The meditations are extremely effective. I cannot recall a single time they have failed.”
“Of course you cannot!” Julian says. “Your memories are not yours to keep!”
“Nonsense,” Lucien says. “I am adept at protecting my mind from intrusion.”
“You really believe you can protect yourself from Mnemosyne?” Julian asks.
“I assisted your escape, did I not? And nothing came of that,” Lucien says. “And that was not the first time I have gone against Mother’s will. She is not as omnipotent as she would have us think.”
“Perhaps you can guard particular memories,” Julian says. “Still. I cannot imagine Mnemosyne would allow anyone to remain so close to her if she did not feel assured of her primacy.”
Lucien does not reply.
“You say Miss Evans is dear to you,” Julian says. “That her mind is precious and valuable. But she is a human being, not some lost artifact. I will not initiate her for the sake of posterity.”
“You malign me,” Lucien says, sounding both hurt and annoyed. “That isn’t why I ask this of you. Not at all.”
“Is it not?” Julian asks.
“No!” Lucien looks up at me, his eyes soft and sincere. “Julian, I love her.”
For a long moment Julian says nothing.
Then, at last: “You told me you plan to leave tomorrow evening.”
“I must,” Lucien says. “But I will return as soon as possible. I will take the route you took. I am finished with the House.”
Julian sighs and sinks back in his seat.
“Please, Julian,” Lucien says. “Help me.”
Julian looks at me gloomily.
“Miss Evans,” he says, “I leave the choice in your hands. Do you really wish to seek death at your young age, knowing you will never see the sun again?”
I look at Lucien.
“Knowing you may never see Lucien again?” Julian continues.
Lucien reaches up and places a hand on my cheek. He smiles.
Taking a deep breath, I try to clear my mind in order to make my decision, but as I look inside, I see only blankness. Without thought or will, I feel myself nodding assent.
“Very well,” Julian says. “You may begin your meditations, though I fear they will avail you nothing.”
Lucien stands and takes my hand in his.
“Come,” he says. “Let us begin.”
***
I wake up to the sound of the van door sliding open. My eyes snap open, and for a moment I panic, worried about the intrusion of sunlight. But then, looking outside, I see a dark sky behind an
abandoned gas station. Cold air blows in the open door—the first breath of fresh air I’ve had since we left Savannah hours ago. Julian, Haruko, Jennifer and I pile out into the windy October evening, stretching, surveying our surroundings. Jennifer opens the rear doors to the van and rifles through a bag behind the back seat, searching for something.
“What are you looking for?” I ask.
“Since Julian is going in to visit Markham on his own, I thought he could wear a wire,” Jennifer says. “That way we’ll be able to hear how things are going.”
“How far away will we have to be?” I ask.
“It’s hard to say,” Jennifer says. “Markham’s a Thalian, obviously. If Thalians concentrate hard enough, they can project their sense to any location they’ve already visited, even if it’s on the other side of the world. They can also expand their senses outward from their current location.”
“How far outward?” I ask.
“From what I remember, Aya couldn’t manage to surveil more than a half mile radius at once,” Haruko says. “And besides, she—I mean, he won’t know where to look for us.”
“I should go in with Matthew and the van,” Julian says. “Markham knows I use this vehicle to travel during the day.”
“I guess the rest of us should rent a car?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Haruko says. “Let’s stop at the airport, rent a car, and move our stuff out of the van. Don’t want her seeing it. Him. Seeing it.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Jennifer says. “How much further do we have to go?”
“An hour,” the driver, Matthew, says. I look up as he speaks and meet his eyes entirely by accident. I look away quickly, feeling a weird mix of bloodlust and guilt.
Jennifer pulls a red silk tie out of her bag. “Might as well put this on now,” she says, handing it to Julian.
“This is the wire?” Julian asks.
Jennifer nods. “There’s a microphone sewn into the label on the back. We’ll be able to hear everything you say, and everything anyone else says near to you.”
“This is some James Bond level stuff,” Haruko says. “Where the hell did you get it?”
“A mail order catalog,” Jennifer says sheepishly.
Julian buttons the very top of his shirt and loops the tie around his neck in a few practiced movements.
“All right,” he says. “I suppose that’s it, then.”
“We’ll be waiting for you to tell us where to go,” Jennifer says. “We’ll book a hotel room close by just in case it takes a while for you to convince him to leave.”
