by C. J. Archer
Quin leapt backward, out of the way. We didn't need to give him directions for him to realize one of the ghosts was once more behind him. He swung around and slashed, catching Stomach Hole's arm.
Stomach Hole gasped and stumbled back. He inspected his arm and swore loudly. An ordinary blade would have no effect, but it seemed an otherworldly one could hurt. The blow wasn't enough to stop him, however. He rejoined Fat Ghost and both lunged in synchrony, once more.
Quin dodged both blades easily enough, but did not immediately attack.
"The fellow on your right is injured, upper right arm," I called out. He didn't acknowledge me and I didn't want him to. He had to maintain focus.
"I don't know if I'm making a difference at all," I told Jack. I felt useless. The fight could drag on for hours, until Quin either tired or got injured…or worse.
"You're not the only one feeling that way," Jack muttered. "Take this." He rested his hand over my fist, bunched on my knee. The metal of his small knife was cold through the leather of my glove. "Use it if necessary."
"But you'll need it if you wade in. Which, by the way, I think is a bad idea."
He reached under the seat and pulled out a long, curved sword. It looked like one of the ones that hung on the billiard room wall of Frakingham. "It's not going to harm either of them, but it will keep one of them occupied while St. Clair destroys the other."
"Have you ever used a sword before?"
"I've fenced a few times."
"A few times!"
He shrugged. "How difficult can it be?"
I spluttered a protest, but he simply stepped past me, handing me the reins as he did so.
"Keep them steady," he said. "If the horses get spooked, just hold on."
"I know how to drive."
He dropped lightly to the ground and joined Quin, immediately striking at Stomach Hole. What he lacked in finesse, he made up for in sheer strength and speed. Stomach Hole was forced into a rose bush. Then he disappeared.
"Jack, behind you!" I shouted as Stomach Hole reappeared.
I directed the fight from the coach as best as I could, but I was no conductor and this was no orchestra. As soon as Quin or Jack got the upper hand, the ghosts would suddenly disappear and reappear elsewhere, often behind their opponents, sometimes to the side. It could not go on in such a manner if the ghosts were to be defeated. Quin and Jack would tire eventually.
They knew it too. That must have been why they reorganized themselves to stand back to back. They spoke in low tones that didn't reach me. In that formation, there was nowhere they couldn't see, no way the ghosts’ sudden reappearances could surprise them.
They engaged a sprit each, keeping their backs together, fighting as one unit. I hazarded a glance past them to Half Face and was surprised to see that he hadn't moved from the porch. Why didn't he help his friends? What was he waiting for? Perhaps there were no other swords in the house. A shorter weapon, like a knife, would put him at a disadvantage and expose him to Quin's soul-destroying blade, but a broom handle or other long wooden weapon would be easily broken.
Then he vanished. I scanned the garden, but he didn't reappear. I stood up and looked behind the coach and all around. Still no sign of him. I tightened my grip on the knife and sat again. A sense of foreboding settled in my chest.
"Half Face has disappeared," I called to Quin and Jack. "I think we need to end this very soon."
Fat Ghost laughed. "Got you worried, eh?"
"You should be," his companion added as he dodged Jack's blade.
Quin said something to Jack that I couldn't hear. Jack's lips moved, forming a curse word that I'd never heard him use. He shook his head, not in refusal but dismay. Then he turned, tossing his sword to Quin as he did so. He was unarmed.
I gasped, wanting to cover my eyes, but wanting to see how it played out at the same time.
I watched as Stomach Hole's blade slashed at Jack. Jack dodged, then created a fireball in his hands. Stomach Hole paused, clearly confused and somewhat mesmerized by the flaming ball.
Quin parried Fat Ghost's stabbing thrust with Jack's sword and lunged at chest height with his own. Fat Ghost squealed and dropped his sword. Quin kicked it away and tossed Jack's sword back to him so he could once again engage Stomach Hole.
Quin wasted no time in smashing his fist into his opponent's chest, pulling out the dark mass and crushing it. Fat Ghost's scream of anger and frustration lingered longer than his ghostly body and sent a chill racing up my spine.
Quin then turned on Stomach Hole. The ghost glanced around, clearly looking for help from Half Face. But he was alone. He couldn't beat both men and he knew it. Panic made his swings wild and his eyes wide, but he continued to fight. Jack and Quin separated, and Stomach Hole chose to fight the more dangerous opponent, Quin. Jack slashed at the ghost's body, hitting resistance each time. If he'd been alive, the blade would have cut him open. But since he was dead, it merely glanced off him without drawing blood. It did, however, hinder him. Jack quickly realized he needed to attack Stomach Hole's sword arm, forcing his thrusts off course.
Quin timed his sword's slice to coincide with one particularly strong blow of Jack's. Stomach Hole gasped and let go of the sword. He ran off toward the house. Quin and Jack couldn't see him, only his sword lying lifeless in the grass. I opened my mouth to give them directions, but a strip of cloth clamped over it, smothering my shout.
Above me, the mangled flesh and greasy hair of Half Face appeared. His mouth twisted into a sneer. "Quiet, wench," he snarled.
I let go of the reins and tried to pull off the hand holding the cloth, but I went right through him. I grappled with the cloth and tightened my grip around Jack's knife.
Just then, Redbeard appeared under the apple tree. He laughed at me then turned his attention to Jack and Quin who'd lowered their swords. Both had their attention on the house, not me. They had no clue there was any danger.
I struggled against the cloth, shouting through the gag and stamping my feet on the kick board.
Quin spun round. "Cara!" He set off at a run, Jack at his heels.
"Now!" Redbeard shouted.
A dozen ghosts appeared, including Stomach Hole, knives and rocks in hand. They didn't chase after Jack and Quin, but instead, threw their weapons.
CHAPTER 7
A rock pelted Quin on the shoulder and a knife glanced off his arm. Jack half-turned and deflected a blade, but another bit into the back of his thigh. He grunted but kept going, limping toward the coach. The ghosts ran to their fallen weapons.
Quin's face drained of color. "Cara! He has a knife!"
So did I. The sharp end of the spirit's blade pierced a hole in my jacket and dress, but met more resistance from the whale-boned cage of my corset. He grunted in frustration. I took the opportunity to punch Jack's knife at Half Face's chest, as hard as I could.
He let me go with a gasp of pain and horror. He glanced down at the gaping hole I'd gouged out of his chest and tried to cover it with his hands. But I simply reached right through into the cavity as Quin had done. My fingers touched something solid. It felt like a smooth, cold rock. There was little resistance as I pulled it free and squeezed.
I gathered the reins as Quin leapt up beside me. He took in the dust at my feet then glanced over his shoulder. "Duck!" he shouted at Jack.
Jack did so as a knife sailed over him and hit the ground just short of the coach. Several rocks slammed into his back and he stumbled forward, but kept running. Quin jumped down and deflected another knife with his sword, allowing Jack to pass. A ghost appeared in front of Quin, dagger in hand. He sliced in its direction, ripping through the body, and reached into the wound. He pulled out the spirit's soul and squeezed, deflecting yet another knife as it sailed toward him.
He ran backward, watching for more flying weapons as I kept all the ghosts in sight, including Redbeard. The big brute was no longer laughing. Jack climbed up beside me, and Quin stepped onto the ladder. I urged the jittery horses
forward and we raced away from the house and spirits. The horses followed the road without me needing to direct them, so I was able to keep watch on our surroundings.
No ghosts appeared. Quin, who'd been hanging off the side of the coach, now joined us on the driver's seat.
"I should thump you," he growled at Jack.
I looked past Jack and frowned at him. "He helped you."
"He left you unguarded."
"He gave me his knife and I was quite capable of using it, thank you." I didn't tell him my corset saved my life. I didn't think he'd be inclined to forgive Jack sooner if he learned a few pieces of whale bone stopped Half Face's knife from cutting me.
"Mind if I say something?" Jack asked.
"No," Quin snapped.
"Go ahead," I said.
"There were many more of ghosts at the end."
"Too many to count," I told him.
"And they seemed to have worked out how to defeat the two of us."
I nodded. "They kept their distance so that you couldn't engage them in close combat then used whatever weapons were at their disposal."
"Where did they all come from?"
"Half Face fetched Redbeard, and I suspect they were with him. They clearly had formed a plan before making an appearance. I think he's their leader, despite what they said."
"Leader in deeds, if not quite in name," Jack agreed. "Do you think they would be useless without him?"
"Perhaps. Quin, what do you think?"
"I think Langley should have remained with you."
I sighed and chose to ignore him while he brooded. "How's your leg?" I asked Jack.
The wound at the back of his thigh was difficult to see, but his hand came away bloody when he wiped it.
"We'll take you directly to Dr. Gowan," I said. "I'm not delivering you to Hannah like that. Do you have any more injuries?"
"A few minor cuts and bruises." He rolled his shoulder, testing it. "Nothing of concern."
"Quin?"
"No."
He remained silent, simmering with barely controlled anger all the way to the village. While Dr. Gowan attended to Jack, Quin and I drove to the police station and spoke to Detective Inspector Weeks.
"You must keep everyone away from the Tudor house," I told him. "Perhaps spread the word among the village that it's too dangerous at the moment."
"Miss Moreau," he said with a slippery smile. "It's a pleasure to see you again. I'm sure Miss Langley and Mrs. Langley are happy to have your esteemed company at Freak— Frakingham House."
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "Thank you, Inspector. But, er, did you understand what I said? It has come to our attention that the Tudor house on the edge of the village is somewhat dangerous right now."
He arched his severe brows at me then turned to Quin. He seemed rather fascinated by Quin, and I could see he wanted to ask him where'd he come from and why he had a sword strapped to his hip. Quin had refused to leave it behind in the coach tied up outside.
"And why is that?" Weeks asked. "Sir?"
"This is Mr. St. Clair," I said, mustering my patience. "He's a guest of Jack Langley's. Mr. Langley was injured at the Tudor house," I went on, interrupting their handshake.
"Injured?" Finally Weeks was taking me seriously. "In what manner?"
"In the manner of…claw marks."
His ratty nose twitched. "Is it the same wild dogs that plagued Frakingham?"
"It could be." I didn't like to lie unless absolutely necessary. Hopefully my answer was suitably vague to worry him enough to do something about it.
"Curious." He frowned. "Perhaps that's what's been making noises at night here in the village, and breaking things."
Quin's hand passed over his sword hilt as if he were preparing to draw. "Breaking things?"
Weeks nodded. "Our very own windows in fact, and the street lamp outside. Indeed, this building has been targeted more than any other in the village."
I'd noticed the boards across the window, but not the smashed lamp.
"It's as if someone has a grudge against the constabulary," he said.
My gaze locked with Quin's briefly before flitting away. The sorts of dark souls that were sent to Hell would certainly have a score or two to settle with the authorities. The police force was new to England, formed after the lifetimes of many of the spirits I'd seen today, but there had been a form of law and punishment even in ancient times.
"Has anyone in the village been injured?" I asked.
"A few ladies have complained of intruders in the night, but we've not found any evidence of breaking and entering."
"It may only be a matter of time before someone gets hurt," Quin said.
"I agree with you, sir. Although I'm not sure wild dogs did the damage we're seeing here in the village." He nodded at the window. "I thought it was gypsies. Last time this sort of thing happened, they were camped outside the village."
"I don't think it's gypsies this time," I mumbled. It didn't seem fair to lay the blame on the doorstep of real people. Wild dogs near Harborough, however, were nonexistent.
"Whoever or whatever it is, we'll stop them before they do any more damage." Weeks seemed pleased with himself, even winking at me. "Isn't that right, Constable Jeffries?"
The baby faced constable looked up from his desk behind the front counter. "Pardon, sir? I wasn't listening."
Weeks sighed.
"Just keep everyone away from that house," Quin said. "We'll take care of the problem."
"Now, sir, I don't think it's wise to take the law into your own hands. I know it can be frustrating to let others take care of matters, but—"
"I said, we'll do it." Quin's voice was low, guttural, an unspoken threat threaded through them.
Weeks swallowed and backed up against the counter. "I can't condone the involvement of civilians in maintaining law and order."
"I'm not asking you to condone it. Just ignore it."
"We've dealt with them before," I assured Weeks quickly. "We know what we're doing."
Weeks gave an unconvincing nod. "With respect, miss, sir, if it is gypsies, you'd better get them to move on real soon. Any more of this and a mob will form and storm the Tudor house."
"Please, don't allow that to happen," I begged. "It's far too dangerous for ordinary folk."
"If you think I can control a mob then you're sadly misguided, Miss Moreau."
I sighed. "Just do your best, Inspector. For the sakes of the villagers."
Quin and I left. I climbed up onto the driver's seat as he untied the reins from the post. "This is quickly turning into a disaster," I muttered as he joined me.
"At least the ghosts haven't ventured too far afield."
"That we know of."
***
The entire household must have been awaiting our return. Hannah, Sylvia and Tommy met the coach before it had come to a complete stop, while Bollard pushed Langley in his wheelchair onto the porch. They were all clearly relieved to see us again.
The three of us sat on the driver's seat, Quin holding the reins. Both men had refused to sit in the cabin while the other drove, and I didn't want to be alone. The journey had at least given us some time to discuss what to do next.
"We saw you coming from the tower window," Sylvia said. "What took so long?"
Jack climbed down, jumping the final foot or so and landing deftly on his feet. It was all an act for his wife's benefit. He'd limped out of the doctor's surgery.
"Jack!" Hannah cried. It would seem his ruse hadn't worked. "Jack Langley, you're injured! Let me look."
"It's nothing," he told her. "Just a scratch."
"A scratch that required Dr. Gowan to sew him up again," I told her.
Hannah gasped then scowled at Jack. Jack scowled at me.
I shrugged. "She ought to know."
Fray led the horses and coach around to the stables while we entered the house amidst a barrage of questions that came from all quarters, except Hannah. She was still too busy a
lternately scowling at her husband and embracing him.
"Before I begin, I need tea," I said as I headed to the drawing room. "Very strong tea."
"Tea isn't strong enough," Jack added. "Is it too early for brandy?"
"Yes!" Sylvia clicked her tongue. "You can drink tea like the rest of us, for now."
"After he has changed and I've inspected his wounds," Hannah said. Jack didn't object. Indeed, he looked rather pleased at the prospect of his wife fussing over him. He certainly needed to change to make himself presentable. Not only were his trousers ruined, but his waistcoat bore the marks of several dirty rocks that had hit him, and his shirt had come untucked. Neither he nor Quin had worn jackets, preferring the freedom of movement without them.
"If you'll excuse me too," Quin said. "I must change as well."
"Do you require assistance?" Tommy asked.
"Thank you, but I can manage."
"I'll fetch the tea then."
"You'll stay right here," Sylvia said, snippy. "You're no longer the footman, valet or butler. You're one of us."
Langley cleared his throat, which caused Bollard's usually blank gaze to switch to his master. The small lines around his eyes deepened.
I arched my eyebrows at Sylvia. "It appears you've made some changes while we were out."
Jack gave a firm, decisive nod. "Good. I'm glad. Save that discussion for my return."
He and Hannah departed, Quin having already gone ahead of them up the stairs. I watched his retreating back, wondering how severe his own injuries were. There was no blood on his clothing that I could see, and he seemed to be moving easily enough.
Sylvia looped her arm through mine and led me into the drawing room. "It's up to you to tell us what happened, Cara. And then we shall tell you all about our morning, won't we, Tommy?"
He nodded and tossed out a smile that lit up his face. It was good to see them both happy.
I told them about our morning fighting spirits, pausing only when the maid brought in tea and sandwiches. We'd missed luncheon and I was grateful for the food. Quin joined us, looking fresh in a clean shirt, though he wore no waistcoat, tie or jacket. His damp hair had begun to dry and curl at the edges, softening the severe lines of his face. He still moved easily enough, so I was quite sure he was uninjured, although there was a small scratch on the back of his hand and a faint bruise on his left cheekbone.
