by C. J. Archer
I breathed in two deep breaths of semi-clear air, before more smoke billowed from the flames. Through the sting of my tears, I could just make out three bodies and a dismembered leg on the floor amid broken pieces of furniture, crockery and splattered food. I recognized Cook, Gus and Lincoln. Only Cook coughed. The other two didn't move.
Oh God, oh God.
"Water!" Seth shouted. "Put out the fire before it spreads."
"Stay there," the general growled, pointing a small handgun at Seth. "No one move."
"Enough, General," Marchbank snapped. "Put the weapon away, and let us save them."
"Get Lincoln out," the general said. "No one else."
"Are you mad?"
"He's my son!"
"No," I rasped. "He's not."
The general pointed the gun at me. "You corrupted him. You changed him. He was loyal and content to do his duty for the ministry until you appeared."
I couldn't protest. A coughing fit assaulted me and snot streamed from my nose and tears from my eyes. My imp was gone and I couldn't attack the general from my weakened position, hunched on all fours.
"Damn you, Witch. You're going to hell where your kind belongs." He pulled the trigger and a shot rang out.
Yet I didn't die. I opened my eyes—I hadn't realized I'd shut them—to see the imp on its hind legs, a bullet in one paw, a pail in the other. It splashed water from the pail over the flames licking the pantry doorframe, as if it did that sort of thing every day and had not just saved my life.
Seth grabbed the gun as the general stared dazedly at the imp.
"What is that thing?" Gillingham murmured from behind Lady Harcourt.
"Move aside," Marchbank ordered, pushing past. He, Buchanan and Harcourt rushed in, pails in hand. They tossed water over the flames. Between them and the fast-moving imp, the fire was soon put out.
The kitchen was a charred, ruined mess. I scrambled through the shards of crockery and splintered furniture to Lincoln's still body. Too still.
I brushed his hair off his face and pressed my ear to his mouth. His shallow breaths wheezed. Despite my parched throat, I began to cry.
"Does he live?" Lady Harcourt knelt at my side, a candlestick in hand. Now that the fire was out, it provided the only light.
I nodded and she let out a low wail. The general murmured something at the ceiling and lowered his head. "My boy."
I was too exhausted to tell him Lincoln did not see himself as the general's son.
"Doyle," I rasped. "Fetch Dr. Fawkner."
The butler nodded then disappeared.
I stroked Lincoln's face. Except for the blue-black lump on his forehead, he was so pale. He looked younger, but that could have been because I'd never seen him so helpless. I pressed my lips to his, half kissing, half breathing in the hope that I had the power to keep him alive.
"Get away from him," Lady Harcourt hissed. "You're smothering him."
I cradled his head in my lap, and continued to stroke his hair and watch for signs that he would live. But there was no flutter of eyelashes, no parting of lips, and he remained deathly pale.
"Fool!" the general spat. "He wasn't supposed to set it off yet."
I followed his gaze to the dismembered leg, still clad in trousers and a boot. It belonged to neither Cook, Gus nor Lincoln.
"You orchestrated that explosion?" Marchbank demanded. "Are you mad?"
"We could have all been killed!" Harcourt growled.
"Idiots!" the general snapped. "All of you! There can be no battle without casualties, but not once did I put your lives in danger. Only those who are expendable."
"Lincoln is not expendable!" Lady Harcourt screamed.
The general's face fell. His gaze softened as he looked at Lincoln. "Something went wrong. The explosion shouldn't have gone off yet. It was too soon. Too damned soon."
"You tried to kill Charlie in the dining room," Seth snarled, pulling hard on Eastbrooke's arms.
The older man winced. "She's a danger to society! Every single one of you knows it. Even you, Vickers."
Buchanan wound up his fist to punch the general, but he moved and hit Seth's jaw instead. Seth fell back and must have loosened his grip. The general muscled free and scooped up the gun I recognized as Lincoln's from the floor. He aimed it at me.
"Damned idiot, Buchanan," Seth snapped, rubbing his jaw. He went to raise the gun, but the general aimed his at me. Seth swore and lowered his weapon.
The imp straightened and stretched tall again.
Eastbrooke eyed it with a mixture of fear and wonder. "It only saves you, doesn't it?" With a derisive snort, he aimed the gun at Gus, now coughing and spluttering on the floor. Blood dampened his shirt at his waist.
Cook sat up, swayed, and rubbed his eyes. He quickly took in the situation and tried to come toward me, but the general ordered him to stay.
"All of you stay," he said. "Or I will kill him."
"What do you think will happen?" I asked. "You think Lincoln will treat you like a father after this? You truly are mad if you believe that."
"You've turned his head." He momentarily aimed the gun at me before pointing it at Gus again.
I closed my eyes and muttered a prayer, a familiar one from my childhood that I hadn't recited in so long.
"That's why he agreed to the committee's vote to end his tenure as leader," he went on. "Because of you. Because he thinks it's what you want. He won't listen to anyone else."
"Why do you want him to be the leader so desperately? Because of an ancient prophecy, the origins of which no one can trace?"
"Forget the prophecy. I want him to be leader because it's who he is. It's part of him, like being an army man is part of me, and a necromancer is part of you. It's his life, his essence." His tongue darted out and licked his top lip. "What is he without the ministry?"
My hand stilled on Lincoln's cheek where I'd been absently stroking him. As much as I hated to admit that the general was right, he had a point. Lincoln and the ministry were tied together as much as my necromancy was part of me. While I didn't want to be labeled as a necromancer, or a gutter rat, or an orphan, I couldn't deny that I was all of those things. I was the sum of all my experiences, yet I was so much more, too.
I couldn't let Lincoln give up the ministry leadership for me, no more than he would ask me to stop being a necromancer. He'd tried that and it hadn't worked. He'd learned from his mistakes. It was important that I didn't make the same mistakes now, with him.
"Put the gun down," Seth said calmly. "You don't really want anyone to get hurt."
The general grasped the gun in both hands to steady it. "If you believe that, then you don't know anything. I've killed vast numbers of men, Vickers. More than you'll ever know. I've led my own men into certain death." He choked then wiped his nose and mouth on his shoulder.
"The campaign in Bhutan?" Marchbank asked. "I recall when you returned. You were…a different man."
"Twenty-five years ago. So many dead…my boys. It was supposed to be an easy battle against a weaker foe, but…it was a bloodbath."
"So you wanted to raise them, using a serum," I finished.
"It's too late for them, but not for others. Imagine if we had an army that kept rising and rising again. We wouldn't need fresh soldiers. So many lives could be spared. No more fine young men would be cut down."
His honorable reasons made it all so much more tragic. "Why now?" Lady Harcourt asked.
"I've been trying for years. No one has gotten close until Bell. Then you spoiled it, Witch, by convincing Lincoln to remove him."
"Bell wasn't close to producing a serum," I said.
"He was. He wrote to me only the other night, claiming he raised the body of Mannering, a recently deceased colleague."
"I raised Mannering."
Eastbrooke's lips parted. A trickle of sweat dripped into his eye and he blinked. "You?" he whispered.
"I meant why all the murdering now?" Lady Harcourt said. "If you hate supernaturals, w
hy not kill them earlier? You've had years."
He licked his lips. "Because it wasn't until she appeared and Frankenstein sought her that I realized what could be done. He could use her to raise the dead himself. She was the key to his experiments. Her, and others like her. I had to eliminate all supernaturals who could be potentially used for such inhumane purposes."
"But you wanted to raise the dead too," I said. "How was Frankenstein doing anything different?"
"At least with me at the helm, the serum would be used for England, for defeating our enemies. Imagine if an unscrupulous monster perfected Frankenstein's experiments and then sold them to another country, along with the necromancer. Imagine what our enemies would do with such powerful magic. At least with a serum controlled by me, there would be no risk of rogue supernaturals selling themselves to the highest bidder. My serum would be kept here, safe, and used only in times of war."
"I am not a danger, General," I said with a sense of calm authority that surprised me. I felt anything but calm. "No more than anyone else. You cannot play God like that."
His nostrils flared. "Nor can you."
"Don't think we're going to let you go," Marchbank said. "There has to be punishment."
Gus stirred. His eyes opened and he muttered something that I couldn't hear. Eastbrooke looked down at him.
"Don't shoot!" Seth slowly, slowly approached them, the general's small gun still in his hand. He aimed it at Eastbrooke's chest. "There's no point. You kill him, and I'll kill you. It's as simple as that."
Eastbrooke blinked at Lincoln, lying in my arms. Tears dampened his eyes. "Get him a doctor. Tell him I'm sorry." He aimed the gun at his throat and pulled the trigger.
I closed my eyes just in time to avoid seeing the mess, but opened them again to watch the general's spirit drift out of his body and then form his shape in the air. He hovered there, staring down at Lincoln. My heart pinched.
"I'll tell him," I said to the spirit.
He glanced at me, nodded, then the mist dispersed and floated away. I let out a breath.
"Has he gone?" Lady Harcourt whispered, her lips trembling.
My imp shrunk to its normal cat size and nestled into my skirts with a soft mewl. "Go back," I told it. "Return and rest now."
The flash of light brightened the dark room, but only for an instant.
"You have a lot of explaining to do, girl," Gillingham snapped at me. Now that the danger was over, he stood like a peacock, his chest puffed out, his stance wide apart. He'd left his walking stick behind.
"Do be quiet," Marchbank said, sounding tired.
Dr. Fawkner rushed in and took in the bloody scene with a mixture of horror and curiosity. "You mentioned there'd been an accident," he said to Doyle, "but I hadn't expected this…chaos." He picked his way carefully through the mess to where I sat with Lincoln. Doyle nipped at the doctor's heels, carrying the medical bag that Lincoln kept in his rooms.
Fawkner bent over Lincoln while Seth rummaged through the bag and pulled out cloths. He lifted Gus's shirt and silently cleaned away the blood to inspect the wound. It didn't look deep, thank God.
"Will he be all right?" Lady Harcourt asked Fawkner.
"Hard to say." Fawkner opened Lincoln's jacket, waistcoat and shirt then inspected him. "The blow to the head must have been severe, but I can't see any other wounds."
"He be closest to the explosion," Cook said, pulling the general's dead body away. "Aside from Eastbrooke's driver." He nodded at the charred pantry, where perhaps the rest of the driver lay. I didn't want to look. "The blast's force pushed Fitzroy back into the wall, but that's all I saw before I got hit." He picked up a stool leg, as if that were the culprit. "Something must have hit Fitzroy in the head, too. Gus, now, he got shot before Fitzroy came in." He crouched beside Seth and clasped Gus's forearm. They exchanged grim smiles, perhaps relieved to see they'd both survived.
"It's not too bad," Seth said with cheerfulness that I didn't believe for a moment. He was as worried as the rest of us. "Stop looking for sympathy from the ladies."
Gus clapped Seth's shoulder. He glanced at me then Lincoln. "He all right, Doc?"
"We need to make him comfortable," Dr. Fawkner said. "Hopefully he'll wake up soon."
"Hopefully?" Lady Harcourt cried. "Is that all you can do? Hope"
Fawkner took a wary step away from her and almost tripped over a pot. "Head injuries are unpredictable. I…I'm sorry."
"Take Lincoln to his rooms," I told no one in particular. Buchanan and Harcourt came forward and lifted him. They carried him out, led by Doyle with two candlesticks.
To Fawkner, I said, "You may go home now. The danger is past and you're free." I looked at the general's feet, avoiding seeing his face. "We'll notify Dr. Bell tomorrow."
Fawkner stretched his neck out of his collar and eyed Lady Harcourt carefully. She, however, only had eyes for her stepsons as they carried Lincoln away. I resisted watching too, even though every part of me wanted to race after them.
"I'll check on your friends first," Fawkner said.
I touched his arm. "Thank you."
Seth drew me into a brief hug. "Go and be with him, Charlie. I'll see to everything down here."
I walked off, only to have Lady Harcourt attempt to race ahead of me.
Seth caught her. "No," he growled. "You have to help clean up."
"I do not clean," she said with the defiance I expected from her, but hadn't seen of late. "I am Lady Harcourt."
I caught up to her stepsons as they lay Lincoln on his bed. They removed his jacket and waistcoat, but left his shirt on. I thanked them then sat on the edge of the mattress. I wasn't aware they'd left the room until I heard the door click closed.
Lincoln lay motionless, the bruise on his forehead a deep black against his pale skin. It wasn't right. Someone with Lincoln's vibrancy and strength shouldn't be rendered weak. He would hate it, and he would hate me seeing him like this.
I touched his cheek. It felt cool so I pulled the bedcovers up and tucked them around him. His eyelashes fluttered and I held my breath, but he didn't wake. I stroked his cheek, his forehead, traced the line of his brow to the edge, beneath the bruise. Injuries to the head were unpredictable, so Fawkner said. Lincoln could wake with memory loss, or his speech could be affected, or his body. Or he might never wake.
My stomach lurched. Tears spilled, even though I thought I'd shed enough. If he died…the hole his absence would leave in my life and heart would never close.
Soft footsteps approached. "Charlie," Doyle whispered from the door. "I brought you tea. I thought you may need it." He set the tray down on the bedside table and poured me a cup.
"Thank you." I took my cup out to the adjoining room with the butler. "How are the others?"
"The guests have left. It was decided that the police will not be informed. The gentlemen removed the general's body and, er, what remained of his coachman. The coachman will be disposed of and his family informed, but they were not forthcoming on the particulars of the disposal. The general's body will be left in his carriage near his house. Any questions from the police will be quashed by their superiors and the proper arrangements made for the funeral et cetera."
"He had no family," I said, numbly. "Only Lincoln, of sorts."
"Seth and I are seeing to the clean up in the kitchen with Cook overseeing proceedings. I had to make tea in the drawing room fireplace."
"Be sure Cook and Seth get some rest, too. And Gus?"
"In bed."
"Good. Thank you, Doyle."
He gave me a flat smile. "Let's just be glad Bella was given the evening off and her mistress is out."
I checked the clock on Lincoln's desk. "She'll be home soon." I sighed, not looking forward to the explanations. "I'll come downstairs and help."
"It's not suitable work for a young woman. Stay here and watch over Mr. Fitzroy."
"I've cleaned up blood before." And bits of brain and skull, belonging to Lord Harcourt's brother-in-law.
"Seth will have my head if I allow you downstairs. Rest in here or your own room."
"Very well. Thank you, Doyle. You're a marvel."
He left, but I neither rested nor returned to Lincoln's bedroom. I was too tightly wound to sleep. I set my teacup down on the desk and began searching for a list of the supernaturals and where they'd gone. The task helped distract me from the man lying on the bed, and from what had transpired tonight. I didn't want to think about the general, of what he'd done and tried to do. Nor did I want to explore the emotions rolling through me.
Yet I couldn't help it when I saw my engagement ring in its box. The box was open, as it had been every time I came into Lincoln's rooms.
I rummaged through drawers, willing myself not to think about our broken engagement, of what might have been if he'd never sent me away. But I couldn't help it. The ring drew me back again and again, until I finally picked up the box. It was a beautiful ring with its multi-faceted diamond, but it was no longer mine.
Unless I wanted it. I suspected Lincoln wanted me to be his fiancée again, but I couldn't go back to the way things were, the way I was. I wasn't that girl anymore. I wasn't foolishly in love with the perfect man. Lincoln wasn't perfect.
Nor was I.
The pad of heavy footsteps coming from the bedroom had me dropping the ring box and leaping out of the chair. Lincoln appeared in the doorway, looking disheveled and groggy but alive. "Charlie," he croaked.
"You're awake," I said, going to him. I kept my arms folded over my chest and dug my fingernails into my palms to stop myself from going to him.
He slumped against the doorframe, his shoulders stooped and tangles of hair falling over his eyes. "Barely." He touched the bruise on his forehead and grunted.
I blinked back tears and bit the inside of my cheek to hide my grin. It was so good to see him alive and talking, even if he looked like he'd just survived the apocalypse. "You should rest some more."
He suddenly looked up at me and stumbled forward. I caught him as he put a hand out to the doorframe. He managed to stay upright, but I clung to him as tightly as he clung to me. His shirt was still open from when Dr. Fawkner had unbuttoned it and I pressed my cheek to his chest. The steady, rhythmic beat of his heart was the most wonderful sound I'd heard all evening. I closed my eyes and drew in his smoky scent.
