The Dark Days Club

by Alison Goodman

  For a moment, all Helen could see were those two bright blue whips curved in the air and the disgusting feeder buried in that poor woman’s chest. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, swallowing the rise of terror. Her whole world had shifted beneath her feet. What had once been solid ground was now a chasm of endless questions and fear.

  “I do hope Lady Jersey’s girl is suitable,” Aunt said. “Although even if she is not, I shall have to give her the position. We cannot offend a patroness. It is just too bad of Berta to have run off like that before your ball. It has put me in such a difficult position.”

  “What if she did not run off, Aunt?” Helen ventured. “What if she was taken?”

  “You have such a vivid imagination. If she had been taken, I’m sure someone would have seen something. We are in the middle of Mayfair, for heaven’s sake.”

  Helen put down the cravat. Someone had seen something: the Holyoakes’ page. He had reported a gentleman’s coach to Philip. Maybe he had seen more. Here, at least, was something she could do, instead of tormenting herself with unanswerable questions. “I think I need some air, Aunt. May I take Darby and walk a little?”

  “I thought you were tired.” Aunt clicked her tongue. “You would do better to go upstairs and rest. You do not want to fail in the last dances tonight.”

  Helen shook her head. “No. It is not rest I need. It is air. Please, Aunt.”

  “Just for a short while, then. I have engaged Mr. Templeton from midday to refresh your steps.”

  Helen nodded, although she was in no state of mind for dance instruction.

  “And wear your warm pelisse,” her aunt added, peering out of the window at the sunlit street. “It may look pleasant, but I think the day is quite cold.” She turned back to her tambour frame. “The last thing we need is for you to get a chill before your first appearance at Almack’s.”

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER Helen and Darby could attest to how cold it was outside. A frigid wind cut through Helen’s red wool pelisse and blew Darby’s straw bonnet askew as they walked along Curzon Street toward Berkeley Square, where the Holyoakes lived.

  “Do you see any of the creatures, my lady?” Darby whispered. She righted her bonnet and deftly retied the yellow ribands under her chin, her eyes fixed upon a plump matron in a salmon-pink mantle walking along the pavement. “Is she one?”

  Helen shook her head, feeling a little dizzy. Before they had left, she had tucked the miniature under the buttoned wrist of her left glove, tight against her skin, and consequently, a pale blue shimmer surrounded every person on the busy street. While that was reassuring, the effect had produced a heavy, dragging ache behind her eyes, as if something was being wrenched from her head.

  Darby sniffed. “It seems unfair that people are going about their business not knowing these creatures are among them.” She lifted her shoulders as if the idea had crawled across her nape.

  Helen waited until a red-coated army officer walked past, then said, “Just think what would happen if everyone did know about them. It would be like the witch hunts in history.” She glanced at a young gentleman coming out of a shoe shop, his portly body bathed in pale blue. “The creatures look no different from us, Darby, so anyone could be a Deceiver—a husband, a wife, a brother, a friend. People would turn on one another. Mobs would attack anyone who did not fit. It could even bring on a Terror, like in France.” Helen wet her lips. The grim conclusion had been another weight upon her: she could not share the fact of the Deceivers with anyone. At least, no one but Darby. “We must keep silent about them. You do understand, don’t you?”

  “Of course, madam.” Darby rubbed her forehead. “I just don’t see why you are the one to fight them. Forgive me, but what kind of people expect a young lady to fight demons?”

  “Desperate people, I think. Lord Carlston says there are only eight Reclaimers in the whole country.”

  “Well, it is not right. Demons are the work of the church, not a girl of eighteen.”

  Helen gripped her maid’s arm. “You are very good to believe me so readily.”

  Darby fleetingly placed her hand over Helen’s. “My mam says there’s much more around us than our eyes can see. You’ve never lied to me, my lady, and I’ve seen what you can do: catching that box and reading the expressions of those around you.” She shook her head. “Still, it’s fair mad to think you can fight like a man. If I was you, my lady, I would stay away from Lord Carlston and his like.”

  “It is not as easy as that,” Helen said. “Although I wish it were.” She could not forget what she had seen, nor the hope that had been placed upon her abilities.

  They walked on. Helen wriggled her right forefinger into the opening of her other glove, easing the tight fit of the red kid. Perhaps it was the overfirm press of the portrait against her skin that was causing the headache. Or maybe its use had a time limit upon it: fifteen minutes and then it brought a sickening migraine.

  A flicker of something dark and sinuous caught the edge of her vision. She turned, feeling the pain in her head sharpen into tiny daggers. Across the street, a middle-aged man with high color in his cheeks had stepped out of a house in the company of two friends, his life-force a few shades brighter than their pale blue glows. A livid purple-black tentacle of energy extended from his back through his fashionable green tailcoat and undulated across the shoulder of one of his companions. A feeder.

  Helen stopped, her body thudding with alarm as the groping, tubular end of the foul extrusion sucked at the younger man’s life-force, drawing up a thin, pale thread of his energy as if into a pulsing mouth. Yet there was nothing in the young man’s demeanor that spoke of pain or weakness. Quite the contrary: he was frowning, vigorously arguing a point. Clearly, the creature beside him was not in a glut like the one at Vauxhall, but it was still drawing energy from oblivious victims, like a fly supping on spilled honey. All three men descended the steps to the street, the tentacle still constricting and relaxing in an obscene sucking motion. The Deceiver stood between his friends as a servant girl approached, errand basket in hand. Without even seeming to notice her, he reached his tentacle outward, sliding it across her bodice and caressing the curve of her bosom as she passed. He smiled.

  Helen felt her gorge rise. Beneath her horror, she could feel something else. Another beat within her that whispered, Do something, do something, do something. She stepped back. There was nothing she could do.

  “Lordy, you’ve seen one, haven’t you, my lady?” Darby whispered.

  “The man over there, in the center.”

  “But he’s a gentleman,” Darby said.

  “I told you it could be anyone.”

  The Deceiver suddenly looked over at Helen, a frown on his reddened face, as if he had sensed she could see his true form. Gasping, Helen turned her face and grabbed Darby’s arm, pulling her into a quick walk. She dug at the miniature inside her glove. Finally it slid free. She folded her gloved hand around its hard edges. Instantaneously, all the shimmering blue outlines dropped away, and with them the vicious ache in her head. She closed her eyes for a moment, sighing into the sudden release of pressure and pain.

  They reached the bend in Curzon Street that veered toward Berkeley Square. Helen risked looking over her shoulder. The Deceiver had turned back to his oblivious friends, and they were strolling in the other direction, pausing to let an elderly gentleman pass. Did she dare take one last horrifying look? With heart pounding, she pressed the portrait to her skin and off again, leaving a loathsome image in her mind of a bruise-black tentacle reaching for the pale glow of the old man.

  BEFORE LONG, HELEN and Darby stood opposite the Holyoakes’ house in Berkeley Square.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to return home, my lady?” Darby asked anxiously. “You look awful peaky.”

  Helen shook her head, although she still felt unnerved by the encounter with the Deceiver. It was one
thing to witness Carlston’s battle with the Pavor in the Gardens, but another entirely to see one of the creatures on the street, passing as human and feeding on those around him.

  “We are here now,” she said, forcing some steady practicality into her voice. “We may as well try to speak to the page.”

  Behind them, the large fenced garden in the center of the square was busy with people who had dared the chill for a chance to stroll in the weak sunshine. Helen glanced over her shoulder. Nurserymaids called warnings to well-swaddled children, ladies strolled arm in arm under the plane trees, their heads bent together in conversation, and a young girl in an ill-fitting dress sang a sweet love ballad, offering song sheets for sale to a small group of onlookers. Beyond her, Helen glimpsed Gunter’s Tea Shop at the opposite corner of the square. Two men lounged against the rails outside, spooning up the famous ice cream.

  Any of them—male or female—could be a Deceiver.

  She turned from the unsettling thought, ignoring the small voice that told her to fish the miniature out of her reticule and check everyone’s life-forces. One encounter was enough. Besides, what could she do if she found another Deceiver?

  She rubbed her gloved hands together and frowned at the Holyoakes’ firmly closed door. “Perhaps I should just go and ask for the boy. We will freeze to death if we wait for him to come out.”

  “No, my lady. What will it look like, you asking for a page at the front door?”

  It was true. She was not acquainted with the Holyoake family, and such outlandish behavior would be rightly refused. She could, of course, offer her card and explain her quest. Still highly unusual, but it was possible she would be invited within and allowed to talk to the boy. She did not, however, want to do so with his employer or a senior servant present; that was a sure way of finding out nothing. Nevertheless, waiting for the page to emerge from the house was a fool’s errand.

  Darby adjusted her bonnet. “Let me ask at the kitchen.”

  “But you know no one in the household either.”

  “It is worth a try, don’t you think, my lady?”

  Although dubious, Helen nodded her agreement, and they crossed the road.

  The stone steps that led down into the basement courtyard were guarded by an iron gate and a small white-and-tan terrier sitting on the second step. The dog stood as they approached, tan tail poised, waiting for final identification of friend or foe.

  “Hello,” Helen said. “Hello, boy.”

  The dog’s tail gave a doubtful wag. It looked too big and alert to be a turnspit dog: those poor, overworked animals had to be small enough to fit inside the wheel that turned the meat spit over the fire. This must be a pet then, or perhaps kept for the rats.

  “He seems friendly,” Helen said. “I think he will let you pass.”

  Darby walked up to the gate. “I don’t know, my lady. These small ones can give a nasty bite.”

  “Don’t show him your fear,” Helen said, but it was too late. The dog had made his judgment. His small body bounced with each shrill bark, front legs stiff with the outrage of Darby’s hand on the latch. She snatched it back.

  “Perhaps you would like to go past him first, my lady,” she said pointedly.

  “Rufus, be quiet!” A woman’s voice cut through the barking, but did not stop it. “Rufus, you mangy cur! Hold your tongue.”

  Rufus subsided and, with a last glowering look at Darby, trotted down the steps, his job done. A woman’s face, plump and heat-reddened, peered up from the basement courtyard, her thick gray hair tucked back into a clean cook’s scarf. “Oh, I didna know someone was there. I thought the little beggar was just making noise again.” She took in Helen’s person and then gave a quick bobbing curtsy. “Are ye lost, madam?”

  “No, I would like to speak to the Holyoakes’ page.”

  “Thomas, ma’am? Has the little scoundrel done summat wrong?”

  “No, not at all.”

  The woman twisted a cloth in her hand. “Do ye wish to go to the front door, Madam . . . ?”

  “No, I am quite happy to wait here for him.”

  With another bob, the woman disappeared through the basement door.

  “You are shivering, my lady,” Darby said. She moved to shield Helen from the wind, then leaned closer, her voice lowering into secrecy. “Do you really think this Dark Days Club has taken Berta?”

  “I don’t know, but after what I saw last night, I think the removal of a maid would not bring them any anxiety.”

  Movement in the courtyard stopped their conversation. They both peered down. A fair-headed boy of about ten years, clad in smart blue livery, had come into the courtyard, escorted by Rufus.

  “Stay,” he told the dog, then took the steps two at a time. They moved back as he opened the gate and came through, then bowed to Helen in a marvel of pretty dignity. “You wished to see me, my lady?”

  “You know who I am?”

  “Lady Helen Wrexhall. From over on Half Moon Street.” He smiled, its sweet hesitancy shifting into a smothered grin. “I’ve seen you in Hatchards, my lady, reading the natural philosophy books. While I’ve been waiting for Lady Holyoake.”

  Helen bit her lip. She often perused a book of science hidden inside one of the poetry folios at the bookshop. “You won’t tell, will you, Thomas?”

  The grin blossomed. “No, my lady.”

  “Thomas, you probably know why I am here.”

  He nodded gravely. “Your maid.”

  “That’s right. I know my footman Philip has already spoken to you, but I was hoping you might have remembered something else.”

  Thomas looked down at the ground. “I don’t know, my lady. Perhaps.”

  Darby clicked her tongue. “I know a guilty rascal when I see one, my lady. You’ve known something all along, haven’t you, boy?”

  Thomas raised his eyes, fair skin flushed. Guilty, indeed. Helen felt a rise of excitement.

  Darby crossed her arms. “You should have told Philip everything you saw, boy. Poor Berta’s been gone over a week now.”

  “It’s all right, Darby.” Helen crouched down in front of Thomas. “Philip is a very large man, isn’t he, and a bit impatient.”

  “He was all pushy and grabby, my lady. Gave me the creepies,” Thomas muttered, giving a theatrical shiver. Darby snorted. “He did an’ all,” the boy added defiantly.

  “Likely you gave him too much cheek,” Darby said. “Philip’s got no patience for cocky little whelps.” She leaned forward. “Nor does her ladyship.”

  “Darby, please,” Helen said. She smiled reassuringly at the young page. “So, you told him about the carriage?”

  “Yes, my lady, but he said he’d give me a hiding if I was giving him hum. I didn’t like the look in his eye, so I took off.”

  “But you saw something else, didn’t you?”

  “And make it straight. No pitching the gammon,” Darby said.

  Helen glanced up at her maid. Wherever had she picked up such language?

  Thomas gave Darby a haughty glare. “I ain’t no liar.”

  “Then tell her ladyship the truth, before I get old and die.”

  He narrowed his eyes, then turned back to Helen. “There is not much to tell, my lady. The coach pulled up on Berkeley Street just as your girl was walking by—”

  “She was on an errand, my lady, for Mrs. Grant,” Darby murmured.

  “Yes, I know.” Helen motioned for Thomas to continue.

  “The whole underside of it was covered in mud like it had come far. I couldn’t see who was in it, and it didn’t have any markings on it, but I saw traveling trunks strapped to the back. One of them had a coat of arms.”

  “Do you know whose?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, my lady.”

  “Can you describe it?”

  “The shield had blue a
nd yellow chevrons”—his fingers traced triangles in the air—“and two unicorns at the sides.” He curled his hands and raised them into rearing hooves.

  Helen did not know it either, but the two supports meant it belonged to a peer. It would be listed in her uncle’s copy of Debrett’s. Finally a fact amongst all the conjecture.

  “And then what happened?”

  “What do you mean, my lady?

  “Did you see Berta after that, or did someone get out? Did she approach the carriage?”

  He shook his head. “I was picking up a parcel from the stationery man along there, and I went into his shop. When I came out, the coach was gone. And I didn’t see your girl, neither.”

  “And she never came back to the house after that, my lady,” Darby added. “I asked all the other staff, and not a soul can remember seeing her after Monday morn.”

  Below, Rufus barked. They all peered down.

  “Get away, you silly hound,” the cook said, sweeping her way clear of the circling terrier with an impatient foot. She looked up the stairwell. “Thomas, her ladyship wants yer.”

  “Begging your pardon, my lady, but I must go,” Thomas said, bowing, his hand on the latch.

  “Wait.” Helen opened her reticule and reached inside for a coin. Her fingertips touched the frame of her mother’s miniature, and pale blue glows leaped around the boy’s slight body and Darby’s ample figure. She blinked away the sudden spike of pain and hurriedly withdrew a coin. “Thank you, Thomas.” She pressed the farthing into his hand. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  He looked down at the coin for a moment, then passed it back. “No, thank you, my lady. I don’t want to profit from a girl gone missing. That ain’t right.”

  With another little bow, he was through the gate and down the steps, Rufus announcing his return with shrill barks and tight twirls of delight.

  THE WALK BACK to Half Moon Street was brisk and silent. Darby seemed lost in her own thoughts, and Helen was intent upon retrieving her uncle’s copy of Debrett’s Complete Peerage. The book contained color plates that illustrated every coat of arms in the country. It would soon tell them who owned the luggage.