by Erin Hayes
I spent last night steeling my heart at that thought. That I’d basically be condemning my child to my same fate. But I was condemned when I was born.
I try to not think about my memories with Papa. The good ones and the bad ones. I’d be denying my child a father and instead offering a life where she would be shunned by society.
But to protect Margaret and Thomas, to protect my own heart... I know that I need to do this.
“I’d train her,” I say. “I’d train her to be the best damn Harker there ever was. So that she wouldn’t get killed. And so, she’d protect Margaret and Thomas from this fate.” In that way, I’d be protecting my siblings and my daughter. By making sure that she’s well prepared.
Even better than I am. Better than Catherine...
“If Margaret becomes the Harker, she will die before she has an heir. And that would be even worse,” I remind Lizzie.
“And what if it’s a boy?” she ventures.
I’ve thought of that, too. “I’d just try again for a daughter.” Even though the thought of it is terrible. Like my son would be a disappointment. I try to not show her my discomfort at the thought.
Lizzie puts her hands on her hips to glare at me. “So you’ve thought all this through. When you have a mad man who ran you through with a bloody sword, Hazel. Shouldn’t you be searching for him?”
“The trail is cold,” I tell her. I even went back to where I’d been attacked last night to search for clues with a clear head. There was nothing, almost like my attacker had come back and cleaned the alley after we left. “I’m sure he’ll show up when he has a reason to do this.”
Lizzie gives me a dubious look.
“I have to do this.” I look at Lizzie, imploring her with my eyes. “Surely you know this is the right way. The only way.”
No one will be hurt. There will be no widower left behind to mourn my passing. Margaret and Thomas will have a happy future. The only cost is my own future. And I’m willing to do that. For them.
“I can only do this with your support,” I tell her. “I have to know that if something were to happen to me, you’d help raise my daughter to be the Harker.” Father will be furious. Mrs. Hudson may treat me like a harlot. I have no idea how Margaret and Thomas will react, but I know that it may not be favorable.
I trust Lizzie though. I trust her with my life. And now I trust her with my child’s future.
She licks her lips uncomfortably. “You know I will, Hazel. I just hate that you’ve reached such a horrid solution.”
“Can you think of another?” I challenge her. “Put yourself in my position and tell me you know of a better way.”
I know there’s not. And she slowly reaches the same conclusion as well.
“It’s just…” Lizzie struggles for words. “It’s just so sad.”
I chuckle. “It’s the lot of the Harker family. Be glad you are my cousin and not my sister.” And by cousin, I mean a cousin far removed. Somewhere along our family’s history, Lizzie’s line split on the paternal side, meaning that she has little claim on the Harker line.
Still, and it’s to the Cypher family’s credit, they’ve remained at the side of the Harkers. And I don’t think I can do this without Lizzie.
There’s a long pause from her. “I will do whatever I can,” she promises finally.
“Good.” I nod and put my mask back on and pick up my foil. “En garde.”
4
Jared
London is not New York City.
As many times as I've seen the skyline of London, it never fails to feel so different than my home back in America.
I lean against the rail of the SS Vermont, a merchant ship that departed New York twenty-five days ago for London, exporting iron and steel to the British Empire. We'll stay docked here for a week, transporting our cargo off the ship while getting our land legs back underneath us before taking the route back across the Atlantic back to New York. And that's how it will be, through storms and bad weather until I either die of old age or the sea claims me before then.
The life of a merchant sailor. At least it's better than my life back in New York.
Thinking about that, my lip curls in a snarl and my hand makes a fist. I became a sailor to escape that life. I traded it in for this.
"I swear, London gets foggier e'ery time I see it."
I look to my right to see my friend and shipmate Rob Chandler as he leans against the railing as well. A man in his fifties with wiry gray whiskers, he's been on these seas much longer than I have, and it's made his skin a dark, bronzed shade of wrinkled leather. He thoughtfully chews on tobacco, looking out to our destination, and raps his knuckles on the steel beam of the rail.
"Or is it just me?" he asks, glancing over at me.
"Not just you." I smirk. "But I do think your eyesight may be failing you, old man." I nudge him. "At least you got the city right this time."
On one of our trips to Antwerp, Rob had been drunk on beer and mistook the Belgian city for New York City. He had stood on the bow of the ship hooting and hollering that we were finally home in America and nearly fell into the ocean. The whole crew still makes fun of him for it.
He hates to be reminded of it, though.
He mutters under his breath. "Shut your bone box, boy."
I quirk an eyebrow. "Boy? I'm twenty-five, Rob."
He snorts and shakes his head. "Exactly. Boy. When you've been on the seas for thirty years, then you're no longer a boy."
"What are you, then?"
"A damned idiot, that's what."
I bark out a short burst of laughter, even though he does not look amused. Rob seems to have less and less to be amused of these days, his demeanor getting more cranky with every crossing of the Atlantic. He says it's because the cold out on the high seas chills him to the bone, but I wonder if there are other reasons. Maybe at his age, he's wondering about the life choices that he's made.
Or maybe I'm just giving a grumpy old man too much credit.
"Cannot wait to set foot on land again," I say. I've been a sailor for five years now, and I'm still considered a landlubber by the whole crew, given that I still feel more at home on land than on a ship. There's just something that eases in my chest, less to worry about, when I'm on dry, solid ground. Not to mention that I'd have a much-needed bath. I stink to high heaven, and I have yet to get used to it.
"I doubt ye'll e'er be a true sailor," Rob mutters with a shake of his head. "Why not work on building those tall skyscrapers back in New York? They could use a young, scrappy man such as yourself. You'd have your heads in the clouds, but at least you'd be on land at night."
I shake my head. "No." And that's where I always end that conversation.
He sucks in air between his gapped teeth, assessing me for a long moment before giving me a nod. "Right. Right." As much as I have worked with Rob over the years, I don't divulge much about my past. And, thankfully, Rob doesn't ask.
We have a good, working relationship like that. He knows that many sailors join merchant ships to escape their pasts, and, honestly, I'm no different. Add in a sense of never belonging, and that's why I ended up on a merchant ship. I've seen much of the world. And there's still much more to see. But it doesn't help my sense that I don't belong anywhere.
"I bet yer excited 'bout finding a lady to warm yer bed," Rob says. "A man on the seas after such a long voyage deserves to have a bit 'o fun, eh?"
"Perhaps," I say mildly. I've been known to take a whore or two to bed when I'm at a port, and the women in London tend to have an exoticism about them that American women don't have. This time, though, I plan on finding my way to a local pub and not leaving until the Vermont leaves for New York again. Anything to keep my mind occupied.
Rob snickers. "And that makes me wonder if you're actually a dead man, Jared."
I look at him, curious. "A dead man?"
"Cold, unfeeling." He smirks. "Like you'd have to be dead to turn down a whore's advances."
"Yo
u don't have to be dead," I tell him. "Just smart enough to know where your nob should and shouldn't be."
He blinks at my words and then starts chuckling to himself, which leaves him in gasping, short breaths. "I suppose yer right." He looks back at the murky skyline of London as the Vermont nears the mouth of the Thames, heading for the docks. "I suppose yer right."
"Come on," I tell him, straightening up from my spot on the rail. We must get ready to dock and unload. Most fun a sailor can have."
"No, boy," Rob shakes his head as he follows me. "That's where yer wrong. That not the most fun a sailor can have."
And he winks and rolls up his sleeves, ready to start the day's work. I roll up my own sleeves, ready to join in.
5
Hazel
I’m nicely sore from my fencing practice with Lizzie, aching, and my injured shoulder is stiff despite my best intentions not to use it.
There’s no one to greet me as I enter my home, which makes me worry. Usually Mrs. Hudson is at least hurrying to the foyer, fussing over me. I pause as I shut the door, and check to make sure that it’s still light outside.
In any other family, it wouldn’t be suspicious to be alone in my house; however, I have this fear that I’ll come home to find everyone murdered by vampires.
“Hello?” I ask, my voice ringing throughout the house. I undo my bonnet with my one good arm, the other still in its sling underneath my cloak. I don’t want the whole city to see me with my arm in a sling—too many questions and too much gossip could start if too many people see me, when it will be healed within a few days. There are those who know who I am, but to most, I’m simply Hazel, a spinster and a wild woman.
Not someone who patrols the streets at night to keep the vampires of London in line. And certainly not someone who would be run through with a sword.
Perhaps I’ll go on another hunt tonight. There haven’t been any more vampire sightings and Scotland Yard hasn’t approached me with any other murders, but I do need to make my presence known in order to keep vampire activity low in the city.
Still, though, I need to investigate who it was that attacked me. That person knew who—or what—I was, which means that they are either in league with the vampires—which has happened in the past, or they’re someone I know, whether in Scotland Yard or in my family.
Any of those possibilities make me unhappy.
Mrs. Hudson comes out into the hallway, wiping her hands on her apron. I place my hand on my chest and sigh in relief.
“We’re in the sitting room, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says, beckoning me over to her. I notice the tears in her eyes.
“Mrs. Hudson, what’s wrong?” I ask, alarmed.
“Nothing, nothing. Come, come,” she says most insistently as she takes my elbow and directs me into the sitting room. Perplexed, I follow her, where I understand why she is crying.
They’re tears of joy.
“Hazel!” Margaret exclaims, rising from the sofa to embrace me. She’s exuberant, radiant, and I see the ring on her finger with a deep, dark ruby that glitters in the light. “Mister Holmes proposed! And I said yes!”
I hug her back, and notice the gentleman sitting in the armchair facing Papa. I recognize him immediately and bow my head to him in a gesture of respect as he rises to his feet. “Mister Holmes.”
Mister Henry Holmes is in his late forties, with a full mustache that mostly covers his mouth and clear blue eyes that show his immense intelligence. His top hat is on the coffee table, and while he does have mutton chops, the top of his head is balding.
I remember what Margaret had said about him not being a handsome prince like they are in fairy tales. Mister Holmes is far from that, being over twice Margaret’s age, as well as being a widower. However, swirling within the intelligence in his gaze is affection for my little sister, nevermind that I know he’s wealthy enough to provide for her and he’s her match when it comes to tinkering and inventions.
And that makes him just the perfect match for Margaret. Despite the dysfunction my family has, he saw beyond that to court my sister while we were all grieving. Me and Margaret had been at odds with each other as rivals ever since Margaret showed a knack for tinkering in her early years.
Somewhere along the way, that turned to affection.
He saw my sister for the kind young woman she is. And I approve of their courtship.
“Good to see you, Miss Harker,” Mister Holmes says, giving me a smile as he comes to his feet to shake my hand.
“Please, we’ll be family soon,” I say. “Call me Hazel.”
His eyes sparkle. “Then call me Henry.” He frowns, his gaze going to my sling. “What happened to your arm?”
“Shoulder, more like,” I tell him. “Sprained it when I slipped in the bathroom.”
Margaret’s cheeks turn bright red, and she adds to help my lie, “Hazel is the most clumsy out of my siblings.”
That is true.
I chuckle and turn my attention to Papa, who has not looked once in my direction since I came into the room. The feeling of elation that I had felt in my chest diminishes at his snub of me, and I swallow back the lump that’s forming in my throat.
Papa doesn’t acknowledge me. His eyes skirt away from my gaze, and, instead of looking at me, he brings his whiskey to his lips and takes a drink.
Fine then. I squash the disappointment, yet then I’m disappointed in myself, aren’t I?
I turn to Margaret and lead her by the hand over to the sofa. For her reservations when she spoke with me yesterday, she is the vision of happiness and warmth for the man at her side.
“You’ll have to tell me all about it,” I tell her, smiling.
Margaret exchanges glances with Mister Holmes.
“Well,” Margaret says, grinning, “Hazel, you would never believe it.”
And she tells me of all the details, how he took her to the theatre today and later to the park where he had proposed. “And of course, I said yes,” Margaret adds, beaming at her betrothed.
I watch their interactions, how it seems like Henry’s every movement revolves around Margaret. I’m happy for them, as I feel an ache in my chest as it’s something that I’ll never have.
Papa may be disappointed in me, and he’s right. Yet, if anything, this solidifies my position and my idea.
I must do what is best for Margaret. Sweet Margaret. I will do anything it takes.
Even sacrificing my own happiness.
“That’s wonderful news!” Lizzie says as she and I stroll through London’s East End. “I always knew that Margaret would be the first to get married.”
“Yes,” I murmur softly. “It’s great news.”
Lizzie seems to be in good spirits, while I’ve spent our entire hunt in contemplation, wondering what lay in store for me.
I need to be mindful of our time on the streets, yet I’m so wrapped up in my own thoughts, as to be a danger for both Lizzie and me. If a vampire were to approach us now, I’d be useless.
The gas lamps flicker in the night, barely illuminating the streets. The store fronts and shops are dark, and the sky is cloudy, making the night feel even more dark.
I should be paying more mind, but my thoughts keep scattering.
“Hazel,” Lizzie says, drawing my attention to her. She gives me a bewildered glance. “Have you been listening?”
“I have to do it,” I tell her. “In a few days’ time when my shoulder is healed. I have to follow through with my plans.” I’ve done the maths as well—I should be at my most fertile in a few days, due to its proximity to my monthly bleeding.
I massage the wound on my shoulder. I had a look at it before our hunt tonight, and it looked even better than it had this morning. A few days more and it will be good as new.
My plans to dress up as a lady of the night won’t be marred by an arm in a sling. No one will have to question it and, if anything, I’ll better be able to protect myself.
“Hazel.” Lizzie’s expression falls. “You don
’t have to do this.”
“I do.” I chuckle softly. “This just solidifies it. I want Margaret and Mister Holmes to be happy.”
We pass by an alley where there’s a man and a lady of the night in the throes of their passion. For a moment, I see myself in the whore’s position, subjected to the whim of their client for the night.
I won’t be that woman, though. I’ll be in control of the entire situation and…
The woman looks over at us, and I startle, seeing the blood on her lips. A vampire. The client—the man, who I thought was her client—crumples to the side, and I immediately notice the double puncture points.
The woman hisses at us, and I suck in a deep breath as I summon my sword from my palm. Good thing the sword comes from my good hand.
“Harker,” the woman hisses, spittle flying.
“And Cypher,” Lizzie adds. She sighs as she pulls out her own stakes, testing the heft of them in her hands. “Why do no vampires remember me?”
The vampire blinks in surprise at her response, and it gives me enough time to close the distance between us, and I swing the sword in a downward arc toward her neck. The vampire dodges—as they usually do—and bounds away, landing on all fours.
She snarls at me. “You are half the Harker of the previous one.”
I pull out my own stake and throw it, catching her in the chest. The vampire squeals and looks down in surprise.
“I know,” I tell her as I hold up the sword to slice off her head, and she lets out a raspy, breathy laugh that stops me in mid-swing.
“You’re in over your head, Harker,” she wheezes. “Once we find the serum, you’ll never have a moment’s peace.”
“Serum?” I ask, shivering. “A serum for what?”
She chuckles, and before I can stop her, she grabs the stake in her chest and with deft movements, twists it and plunges it deeper into her heart. She lets out one last death rattle as the life fades from her eyes, and she dies.
“That was...strange,” Lizzie says as she comes up to me. She huffs a bewildered breath. “What did she mean by serum?”
