by P. N. Elrod
“How is he a part of this?”
She seemed startled. “He’s not. Not yet.”
Yet? “What do you mean? Answer me!”
But she held her peace and edged toward the entrance.
There wasn’t enough light to allow me to influence her, but I had to try. “Listen to me, Clarinda. I want you to hear me and—”
Perhaps she sensed the danger, somehow. She could not have known what I was trying to do, only that it was somehow a threat. She sighted along the muzzle and fired, just like that.
My only warning. Just barely enough.
Without hesitation, I made myself fade away, and just in time. I glimpsed the explosion and roar but, thank God, did not feel the ball scorching through the space where I stood—floated. For but an instant.
A half second later and I was solid again.
Weak. I was so weak. Drained. Hollow. Swaying.
Clarinda watched me avidly. The powder flash in this dim chamber must have blinded her to my brief disappearance. She couldn’t see that I was untouched. She waited for me to fall.
And fall I must. I’d used myself up, pushed myself too far, more of this and I might not—
Ridley appeared at the entrance. The mate to Clarinda’s dueler was in his hand.
Damnation. Another vanishing would finish me. And if he fired, the shot might also finish me. I hadn’t the strength to handle either.
I should have gone on to the stables, I thought, crumpling forward and letting myself gradually slip to the floor. Shutting my eyes, I held still. Waiting. Hoping.
“What the devil’s happened?” Ridley snarled. “Where did he come from?”
Clarinda’s voice was high with the strain. “See if he’s dead. Go on!”
“You—”
“Go on!’
Cautiously Ridley stepped past her and knelt by me, putting a hand on my heart. “Done for,” he pronounced.
Thank God for that. Now if they’d only leave.
“You’re sure?” My, but wasn’t she anxious.
“He’s gone, I say. What happened?”
Excited as she was, she managed to explain everything to him in a few short rushing words. He seemed caught between admiration for her nerve at being able to kill a man and anger that he’d been cheated of the task himself.
The winter cold seeped up from the marble floor and into my bones. I’d be shivering soon, giving myself away. No, Johnny-boy, that would be a bad thing to do. Let them get on with their work, get out and then you can stagger to the stables and fill yourself
“Why’d you have to shoot him?” Ridley complained. “Now how will it look? A sword cut and a pistol ball in one—”
“It will seem as though they’d fired, wounded each other, then finished themselves off with swords.”
“But it won’t look—”
“I can’t help that! We use what we have and make the best of it. Now see to Arthur. Quickly.”
Ridley abandoned me to look at his cousin. Arthur was still with the living, which I found to be something of a displeasure. By now I’d had my fill of the lot of them and whatever purpose they were trying to achieve.
“Wake him,” said Clarinda.
But alas, Arthur remained unconscious.
“What’d the bastard do to him?” Ridley wanted to know, but I gave no answer, having cares of my own.
“Never mind him, then,” she said. “We’ll manage without.”
“The slab’s too heavy. It was all we could do to move it earlier. I need Arthur to—”
“Who’s not going to wake until spring. I’ll help you. Just put your back into it.”
With ill-grace and grumbling, he acquiesced. I cracked an eye open to see what they were about.
Using his good arm and with Clarinda’s assistance, Ridley dragged Arthur’s body from the lid of the sarcophagus and away to one side. He groaned and complained and favored his wound, but Clarinda had little sympathy.
“You should have killed Jonathan outright at that bloody Masque, not played with him,” she reproved, catching her breath.
“I thought I had. I know I—”
“Yes, yes, you ran him through, so you’ve told me.”
“Right through, and dropped him.”
“Except that he got up again to return the favor.”
“Then you should have fought him yourself.”
“I was busy elsewhere.”
He gave a mirthless laugh.
“Come along,” she said. “I can’t be out here all night.”
He sighed. “Very well, take that end and push. I’ll pull on the corner.”
She did as directed, placing her hands against the edge of the slab covering the sarcophagus. After a bit of Herculean effort on their part, the thing budged. I saw then that the lid was divided into two great squares and that they were trying to move one of them. What devilry was this? Were they planning to hide me in there?
They paused, panting awhile, then tried again, shifting it even more. Perhaps while they were busy with it, I could creep out, lose myself in the woods . . . .
Someone inside the sarcophagus cursed.
Clarinda and Ridley dodged back as a hand shot up from the opening they’d made. Ridley clawed hastily for his dueler and held it ready.
“Awake are you?” he said. “Out, then, and save us the trouble.”
My hackles went up. A man began to emerge, a large man, moving slowly as though injured. He sucked air in and all but sobbed it out again. His mourning clothes were much disarrayed, and there was blood on his hands where he’d beaten them against the confines of his ghastly prison.
Edmond Fonteyn.
“Damn you to the pit,” he grated at them. His eyes blazed hellfire. I could feel the hate, the sheer fury rolling from him, filling the chamber.
“We’ll see you there first,” said Ridley, showing his teeth. “All the way, now, there’s a good fellow.”
Edmond painfully struggled to haul his big frame free of the small opening. Clarinda watched from a safe distance behind Ridley. Both were between me and the door.
Finally out, Edmond leaned on the great stone box, exhausted. He first saw Arthur, then me. I made my gaze fix sightless on nothing at all. “My God. How many more, Clarinda?” he asked.
“Just you, husband,” she softly answered.
“And you think you’ll not swing for it?”
“I know I won’t. It will seem as though you and Jonathan had your own private duel and killed each other.” She smiled. “Over me, of course.”
“No one will believe that.”
“I’ll make certain they do, never you worry. You’ve already helped things along. All that glaring at Jonathan—anyone with eyes could see how you despised him.”
“And then what? You’ll marry that fool?” He nodded at Ridley, whose eyes narrowed at the name-calling.
“No . . . not yet, anyway. But dear Cousin Oliver, now—”
“Oliver?” Edmond laughed.
“He likes me well enough, and I’ll see to it that he has every chance to comfort this grieving widow. And I shall be most understanding about his own grief.”
“Oh, yes, you’re good at that, aren’t you?”
“Excellent good, Edmond.” She smirked. “Well do you know, yourself.”
He started toward her, but Ridley told him to be still, using the pistol to enforce his direction. “Let’s finish this, Clarinda,” he said. “I thought you were in a hurry.”
“All right, but I want to put things properly in order. Where are the swords?”
“There.” Ridley indicated the end of the sarcophagus where I lay. She glided over, picking up the sword I’d found earlier. “Where’s the other?”
“In Barrett’s cane. There’s a trick catch—”
She bent
and got it. “Oh, one of those things. How do I . . . yes, there it is.” She drew the blade free, discarding the stick. She placed the blade on the floor near my hand, then put her empty pistol next to it.
“Come on,” Ridley urged.
“Never you mind me, just make sure you hit Edmond properly.”
“Do you want to do it?” he asked, exasperated.
She gasped a little. It sounded like a laugh. “Yes, I do.”
“You’ve the devil in you, woman, and no mistake.”
“Sure you want to marry her later?” Edmond queried. “I assume that’s the final plan to all of this. First she marries Oliver, then she inherits his money. How do you plan to kill him, hey?”
I shifted my gaze a bit. None paid attention to me. The hilt of my sword was but inches from my hand. I moved enough to close my fingers around it.
Now what, Johnny-boy. Charge Ridley, waving and yelling and hope he misses?
Possibly. If I could just stand up.
Edmond continued. “Will you arrange another duel? That is, if she doesn’t kill you to keep you quiet about this night’s work.”
Ridley laughed in his turn.
“Just look at her. Go ahead. Trust her. She’ll soon serve you as you’re serving me. See if she doesn’t.”
“She already has, Edmond. And what a marvelous fine piece she is to be sure.”
“Joke if you like, but after tonight she won’t need your help, you know. She’ll soon have what she wants, the Fonteyn money and a protector she can more easily twist ’round her finger. She won’t need you at all.”
“It’s not working, husband,” Clarinda put in. “Thomas and I understand each other too well for you to put doubts between us.”
That seemed true enough, though it had been an excellent argument.
“Give me the pistol,” she said.
“Not so close to him,” Ridley cautioned. “Don’t want him to grab it away from you, do you?”
They stepped back. Clarinda’s skirts brushed against me.
Ridley handed over the dueler, swiftly, smoothly. The barrel wavered but a quarter inch, then she fixed it on Edmond.
“Don’t hit him to kill,” he advised. “Remember he’s supposed to last long enough for swordplay afterward.”
“I know, I know. Where, then? His leg, shoulder—?”
“His belly, my dear. Will you want to put the sword in yourself, too? To finish him?”
Edmond was dead white, but held his ground. Brave man.
“Yes,” she answered. “I think I want to do that, as well.”
There were Clarinda’s feet peeking from under the hem of her gown.
Not quite within reach, but if I let go my sword and . . . .
“What will it feel like?” she wondered.
I twisted and dug my knees against the floor, reaching with both hands. Suddenly engulfed in a drift of black fabric and petticoats, I blundered heavily into her. She screeched in surprise as I tried to take hold of her legs. She kicked once and began to fall, overbalanced.
Ridley cursed and I had an impression of him starting for me until something large slammed into him. Edmond, probably. I left them to it, being engaged myself.
Clarinda kicked again, viciously, catching me on the forehead with the sharp edge of her heel. I yelped and held fast to the one leg I had. Her vast skirts hampered us both, she for movement and me for sight as I tried to sort out what was going on. She screamed Ridley’s name, fighting to break free. Her heel next caught me on the shoulder. This time I got hold of it while breathlessly damning her to perdition.
I heard violent commotion going on between Edmond and Ridley. Clarinda also seemed aware of them and abruptly ceased trying to get away from me.
Oh, my God.
Letting go her legs, I surged up and glimpsed her taking aim at Edmond’s broad back with the pistol.
“No!” I cried, throwing myself bodily forward.
The explosion deafened me. Too late. Too late. In panic as much as anger, I cracked a fist against her jaw. She slumped instantly. Behind and above me I heard more commotion, grunts and thumps ending with a soft, sickening thud. Someone made a gagging sound, then a body fell on the floor next to me.
I pushed and turned away from Clarinda, fearful of an attack from Ridley; I need not have worried. It had been his body that had fallen.
Edmond towered over us, chest heaving as he struggled to regain his breath, his eyes were dark pinpoints in a white sea and not quite sane. For a second I thought his mad stare was for me, then realized it was Clarinda that held his attention. I was glad she was unconscious. What he might have done had she been awake did not bear imagining.
Neither of us moved. I was too tired, and he . . . well . . . his mind must have been in the grip of the shadows. Having been in their awful thrall myself more than once, I knew it would take time for him to break loose. I remained quiet for his sake.
Bloodsmell in the air. Edmond’s. Fresh.
There was a long tear on the outside of his left arm. The ball from Clarinda’s pistol had come that close. It might have been closer, had I not—
My corner teeth were out again.
Ignore it. Now’s not the time or place.
God, but I was hungry. Thankfully not to the point of losing control as before. I wasn’t falling over the edge of starving survival this time. I could wait a little longer.
But not long.
Edmond stalked around us to sit on Aunt Fonteyn’s defiled sarcophagus. He pressed one hand to his wound, bowing his head. There were new lines on his face, but the old ones had settled back into something resembling their previous order.
“Let’s get some help for that, shall we?” I suggested, my voice so thin and shaken I hardly knew it.
Edmond raised his gaze to stare at me. His expression rippled as the muscles beneath the skin convulsed. Not a pleasant sight, that. Even worse when I realized he was laughing. With only the slightest of changes it might also be weeping. I fell quiet again. To offer a comforting arm as I’d done for Oliver would not have been welcome in this case. Edmond shook with horrid laughter, was racked by it, sobbed with it, the sounds reverberating against the shocked walls of the mausoleum until the last of it dribbled away and he was utterly emptied.
In the thick silence that followed, I strove to remove myself from the floor and, after a bit of struggle, succeeded. Like Edmond, I half sat, half leaned on the sarcophagus. Unlike him, I had no grim mirth in me, only a vast fatigue that would have to be answered soon.
Ridley was alive, I noticed, and I was surprised by the fact. Edmond had thoroughly pulped him from what I could see of the fellow. His face was well bloodied, and there was more blood on the wall that may have come from a nasty-looking patch on one side of his shaved scalp. He’d lost his wig sometime during the battle, else it might have provided a bit of protection. Then again, perhaps not. Edmond had been terrifically incensed.
Now he appeared to have regained a measure of self-possession. He looked at his unconscious wife.
“I . . . I really thought she loved me, once upon a time,” he said softly. “Didn’t last long. But it was nice for a while.”
“I’m sorry.”
He puffed air. Almost another laugh. “You’ve no idea.”
I thought I had, but said nothing. I shut my eyes and thanked God that Oliver had not been involved, after all. I let myself feel ashamed for having believed it for even a moment. Ridley’s talk had been too vague on the point, and I’d suspected the worst. Yes. Very bad, indeed. Then there was one other thing that had been said . . . .
“Edmond?”
He grunted.
“Did Clarinda kill Aunt Fonteyn?”
His great head swung in my direction. “Why do you think that?”
“Because she reminded Ridley that she�
�d been busy elsewhere during the duel. It’s bothered everyone why Aunt Fonteyn had gone to the center of the maze that night, but Clarinda might have managed to get her there.”
He was quiet for a long time, head bowed, shoulders down. He took in a draught of air and let it out slowly, shuddering. “I think you’re right,” he whispered. “Clarinda was somewhat . . . nervous that night. Bright, she was. I thought it was because of the party, because she was meeting someone. Another man. Always another man. We’d long passed the point where I didn’t give a damn what she did anymore and separated at the party soon after arrival. She must have—”
“She killed Aunt Fonteyn so Oliver would inherit everything. Then we were to die tonight so she could be free to marry again. To marry the money.”
“With enough scandal involved so the family would hush the worst of it up.”
“But why kill me?” I asked.
“Eh?”
“They wanted me to die at the Masque. Both of them.” Though I had a separate quarrel with Ridley over that street brawl with him and his Mohocks, why had Clarinda wanted me dead?
“You don’t know?” He seemed bitterly amused at my ignorance. “You really don’t?
“What is it, then?”
“I’ll have to show you. At the house, once everything’s taken care of. These three can keep until we send someone for them. Come along, boy.”
Really, now. I wasn’t that green a stick. To him, perhaps; this night must have been a hundred years long to him, shut away in that awful box.
He ponderously moved toward the door. I got my cloak back from Arthur and put my swordstick together to use as a cane. Tired as I was, I needed its support just to hobble. Edmond was in better fettle and strode up the path toward the house more easily. He paused to wait for me, but I waved at him to go on ahead. As soon as he was out of sight, I veered away on a course that would take me directly to the Fonteyn stables and their red promise of swift restoration.
Afterward, of course, I took care not to show myself too lively when I made it back to the house. The cloak covered the alarming state of my blood-soaked clothing, and while Edmond roused certain members of the staff and household and gave orders, I managed to avoid drawing undue attention to myself.
