The Dark Days Club

by Alison Goodman

  “That’s true, my lord, Berta was only”—Darby corrected herself again, with a hard swallow—“that body was only eighteen.”

  “So where is the creature now?” Helen asked.

  “Probably in one of the German states,” Carlston said. “Most likely in a child’s body. That is one of their great fears: to be consigned to the body of an infant and have to survive childhood yet again.”

  “Well, let us hope that is her fate,” Mr. Hammond said. He held up his glass to his sister, who touched it with her own in a chime of crystal.

  Helen watched the toast, irritated. “You say Berta could not have passed into another body in our household, but could there be another Deceiver still in my home?” she asked his lordship.

  “I think it unlikely, but Lily is there now, so be easy. She has a keen eye, and will look out for anything that might point to a Deceiver.”

  She nodded, the idea bringing a little relief. But only a little. The corpse downstairs was too real for any sense of ease. There had once been a girl in that flesh—the same age as herself—destroyed to make way for a Deceiver. The unfairness of it brought a wave of rage.

  Carlston walked back to the decanter again and poured a smaller measure, then tilted it toward Helen: an invitation for another. She shook her head. She had enough of an irritating buzz in her head without adding more heavy spirits to it. Every joint in her body seemed to ache with the need to move. She flexed her hands and lifted her feet in her half boots.

  A knock sounded on the door, which opened almost immediately to admit Mr. Quinn. For a moment the big man filled the whole doorway, then he stepped in and bowed to his master.

  “It is all arranged, my lord.” He closed the door.

  “What is arranged?” Helen demanded.

  Mr. Quinn cast a questioning look at his lordship. At Carlston’s nod, he said, “The disposal of the creature’s human remains, my lady. By fire.”

  “Should she not be buried at crossroads with a stake through her heart, my lord?” Darby asked. “It was a suicide.”

  “I can assure you that the corpse does not have a soul that may rise again,” Carlston said. “The Deceiver destroyed that girl’s soul when it took over her body.”

  “Oh.” Darby took another nervous sip of her brandy.

  His lordship waved Quinn to the last glass on the tray, then crossed to the marble mantel, where a fire burned in the grate. He stood for a moment staring into the flames. An unnecessarily theatrical pose, Helen thought peevishly, then realized he was drawing a line through the discovery and disposal of Berta. It was done, and now there was something else on his mind. This world of his moved with brutal speed—it was unreasonable. She placed the brandy glass on the writing desk with a loud thud. For a moment she was overcome with a mad impulse to smash it. She snatched her hand away.

  “We have a potential problem on Monday,” Carlston said. “Bellingham’s execution.”

  Helen sat up straighter. Was he going to ask her to attend a public hanging? Surely he must know she could not. She rubbed the base of her skull, trying to dislodge the buzz.

  “I have received a communication from the Home Office,” his lordship continued. “The Luddites are stirred up even more by Bellingham’s trial. None of the other Reclaimers can be spared from the North to assist with the crowd at Newgate.”

  “That’s bad,” Mr. Hammond said. “They are predicting a crowd as big as that which attended the Haggerty and Holloway execution.”

  His sister shook her head. “I think it will not be as large. The Times is already urging people to stay away.”

  Helen wiped her mouth with her fingertips. Her tongue felt so dry, and through the lingering woodiness of the brandy, she could taste metal.

  “It will be large enough for the Deceivers to attend, whatever the case,” Carlston said. He looked at Helen, and she knew what he was going to say. It was as clear as his stupid, self-important pose. She felt a surge of resentment.

  “I suppose you want me to go to the execution and help defuse the mob,” she snapped. “And how am I to do that? There is no possible way I can attend a public hanging. Particularly in your company. I may as well march over to Covent Garden and set up for business.”

  She halted, aghast. What was she saying? She looked around the room. Lady Margaret stared at her in horror. Darby’s mouth was agape. Mr. Hammond, intent upon a sip of brandy, snorted, his amusement amplified by his near-empty glass.

  His lordship crossed his arms. “Are you quite finished?”

  “I beg your pardon,” Helen said, feeling heat washing through her body. The buzzing was in her spine now, and every limb. She shifted her legs, jiggling one of them in a fast rhythm. It seemed to release some of the unbearable energy that was building behind the infernal hum.

  “I do not expect you to go into the crowd with me,” Carlston said. “I have secured a room overlooking the square. I want you to view the crowd from the window with your miniature in hand, and direct me to those Deceivers you can see feeding. In that way I can curtail their activities and . . .”

  Although he had not moved from the hearth, his voice sounded far away. Helen gritted her teeth, feeling a wave of energy rock her body. What was happening to her?

  His lordship’s voice suddenly stopped. She looked up to find him squatting at her side. “Are you quite well, Lady Helen?”

  She dug her fingernails into the arms of the chair, feeling them sink into the wood. “No. I am not very well at all.”

  “Look at me.” She forced her eyes up again. “Are you feeling an excess of energy in your body?”

  She nodded, clenching her hands into tight balls. “Everything is humming. I can taste metal.” The compulsion to slam her fist into his face was overwhelming. She groaned with the effort of holding back the mad desire to strike. It was as if some savage, wild part of herself was taking over.

  Carlston rose to his feet. “Quinn, get everyone out. Now!”

  His man sprang into action, pulling Darby from the sofa. Lady Margaret and Mr. Hammond stood, bemused, their glasses still clutched in their hands. Quinn herded them toward the door.

  “What’s happening?” Helen gasped. Uncontrollable waves of energy surged through her, shaking her whole body.

  “I cannot leave my lady alone,” Darby cried, then she was out on the landing with the others.

  Quinn firmly shut the door on them and spun around, staring at Helen. “What’s wrong, my lord?”

  “Her strength is coming.”

  “But that’s meant to come slow, with the training.”

  “I know.” His lordship shoved the tray at his man. “This looks like it’s coming over her all at once. Get rid of the brandy and the glasses. Anything that could be a weapon.” He whirled in a quick circle, eyeing the sparsely decorated room. “Those candlesticks over there.” He pointed to a heavy pair on the mantel. “And that pitcher. Then go!”

  Quinn snatched up the glasses and candlesticks, piled them on the tray, then hooked the gaudy jug by its handle. “Let me stay, my lord.”

  “You know you won’t be able to keep up. You’ll just get hurt. Whatever you hear, don’t let anyone in.”

  Quinn opened the door. “Aye, my lord.” He hurriedly maneuvered the tray through the door and closed it.

  Helen grabbed the arms of the chair, as if it could anchor her into sanity. “Am I going mad?” Her terror rose into a shriek. “Am I going mad?” She closed her eyes, gasping for breath.

  “Look at me.”

  She opened her eyes, panting. Carlston leaned over her, a hand on each arm of the chair. “Look at my face. You are not going mad. This is your Reclaimer strength. You must let it come.”

  She did not want to follow this dizzying descent into savagery. The darkness was waiting like a huge maw. “I cannot! I cannot!”

  “It is going to
come—you cannot stop it. I will not let you lose yourself.” He grabbed her forearms; the promise made physical. In reflex, she pulled back, gritting her teeth, hot blood pounding in her temples with the effort. No, it was more than effort. Her blood was hammering a battle call, beating through her veins, her muscles, her sinews, bringing a sudden burst of power. For a moment she fought it, then it crashed over her, sweeping away any coherent thought. She was nothing but combat and instinct. Savage power held down by an enemy. With a scream of rage, she wrenched both hands up against his grip, locking them into a stalemate of brute force that shook their arms.

  “That’s it, that’s it,” he said through his teeth, his breath shortening under the sudden strain.

  Gathering her strength in her legs, she surged up, driving the crown of her head into his jaw. Kill him, kill him. The impact brought a moment of streaming color across her eyes. She felt herself jerk up out of the chair as he reeled back, his hands still locked around her forearms. She staggered forward, dragged by his momentum. A shake of her head and the blinding colors cleared into opportunity—a flash of what-would-be. She propelled herself into his body with her whole weight. They crashed to the floor, sending a small side table cannoning into the wall. Her head hit his shoulder bone, the crack bringing a few moments of sickening gray. Beneath her, he gasped for breath. A chance. She yanked her arm free and aimed for the damage already done to his jaw. It was a wild strike from her weaker side. Too slow. He blocked: a raised forearm. It was like hitting stone. Pain burst through her hand, but it barely registered. She punched again, aiming for his eye, this time feeling the skin split, the heat of blood against her knuckles.

  He grabbed her shoulders, thrusting her off with a groan of effort. She was in the air, then hit the floor, breath forced out of her, rolling across the thin carpet. Her back slammed into the stone hearth, the hem of her gown catching around her ankles. Distant pain throbbed along her spine. Panting, she drew up her legs and wrenched the material free, her attention suddenly riveted by the sight of metal inside the grate. An iron poker. Weapon. She snatched it up as the man groped for the edge of a chair and hauled himself into a crouch.

  “Ah,” he said, wiping blood from a gash in his forehead. “Didn’t see that.”

  She smiled: a snarl of animal delight. The length of iron felt good in her hand. Power sang through her blood, her muscles readying for the next attack. She felt fluid, fast, deadly. She felt right. The man stood, watching her warily. She tightened her grip, ready to swing. Not yet, not yet. It would be in his eyes: the right moment. He moved. She was across the short space in a heartbeat, iron slicing through the air at his head. It connected—but there was a cracking explosion of wood instead. A chair lifted into a shield. She swung again, the metal smashing through the seat.

  “Stop!” he yelled.

  She raised the poker. Swung and smashed, demolishing the chair. Large splinters of wood spun up into the air. A tearing pain dug through her shoulder.

  “Lady Helen!”

  This time the poker found its target, slamming into the man’s right side. He gasped, absorbing the impact, then lunged for the end of the weapon. She yanked it back, but it was too late. He had it in his grip.

  “Helen!” he yelled in her face.

  For a moment she hung suspended in the harsh sound of her bare name. Then, with a moan, she crashed back into herself, a slamming of savagery and sense into one screaming unity, all her breath forced into a long howl that sang her new strength, sang her power. It was terrifying, and it was glorious.

  Finally she ran out of air. She gasped, gulped, blinked. Lord Carlston stood before her, panting, face bloodied, grimly holding the end of a poker. She looked down: her hand had the other end in a death grip. She let it go, her chest suddenly flaming with pain. A sizeable splinter of oak chair was lodged under her collarbone, blood seeping into her burgundy silk bodice. She touched the jagged end of the wood, snatching her hand back as the small pressure sent a spike of agony through her body. “What is that doing there?”

  “It is part of the chair you demolished,” Lord Carlston said. “Here, let me see how deep it is.”

  He tossed the poker to the carpet, the motion drawing a soft hiss of pain, and closed the short distance between them. He bent to study the wood embedded in her flesh, his breathing pained and shallow. Over his shoulder, she saw pieces of chair littering the carpet. A small table in two pieces, a chunk of plaster missing from the wall above it. And of course, his bloodied face. The evidence coalesced into sudden shocking images of the last few minutes. Attacking him. She closed her eyes. She had slammed a poker into his side; she could still feel the force of it in her hands.

  “I hit you. With the poker.”

  He grunted. “Broke my ribs, I’d say. I wasn’t quite expecting that much force. Reclaimer strength does not usually come all at once like that.”

  “Why did it, then?”

  He looked up from his examination. “I don’t know.” He smiled, wincing slightly. “It was very impressive, though.”

  “No!” She shook her head, appalled. To raise her hand against another. To be so unrestrained. So wild. It went against everything that was womanly. “I was not in my right mind. I was like an animal.”

  “That won’t always be the case. With training, you will control the power—not the other way around.” He turned his attention back to her wound. “This is not deep. Brace yourself.” She felt the splinter twist in her flesh, pain radiating through her shoulder, and buckled, feeling his strong hands catch and hold her up. “It is out,” he said. “You won’t feel it in a minute or so. One of our most useful gifts.”

  “That was not much time to brace myself,” she said through her teeth.

  Yet he was right: the pain was already receding. Enough for her to realize the scandalous proximity of his body. He was holding her elbows, his chest almost against her own, the heat of him blending into the soft howl that still sang through her blood. Something leaped within her: a remnant of that savagery. She moved. It should have been away from him, but it was not. The shift brought his eyes to her own. He stood still, wary, like a wolf caught in the open. The smell of him—soap and sweat and brandy—drew her even closer. She slowly reached up, shocked by her boldness, her shaking fingertip brushing the damage she had wreaked upon his jaw. A realization stilled her hand.

  “You did not fight back,” she whispered.

  She saw the answering leap in his eyes. His head tilted to follow her mouth, the warmth of his answer on her cheek. “No, I did not.”

  She turned toward his words, her mouth now so close that she felt the soft quickening of his breaths as if they were her own. “Why? I could have killed you.”

  He bent closer. Her vision filled with him—the cleft of his chin, the curve of his lower lip, a smear of blood. If she swayed forward, she would feel his mouth on her own.

  “No,” he said. “I could have killed you.”

  “My lady?” Darby’s voice came from the landing outside the door, shrill with concern. “Are you safe? Are you safe?”

  Carlston gave a soft laugh. Regret. Or was it resignation? “You are safe, my lady.”

  Helen felt his hand fleetingly touch her cheek, just before he stepped away. Just before the door opened and the civilized world came clamoring back into the room.

  WITH A CLICK of her tongue, Darby pressed a pad of cloth against the wound under Helen’s collarbone.

  “Your bodice is quite ruined.” She glared at Lord Carlston.

  “It is not his fault,” Helen said. “The piece of wood flew from the chair.” She looked pointedly at her maid. “Which I broke.”

  Darby shook her head, still amazed at such strength, and returned to dabbing the wound. Helen glanced at his lordship, standing at the door and talking reparation to a stoical Mr. Pardy. It seemed that the publican had witnessed far worse than a mere gouged wall
and broken furniture. She averted her eyes from Carlston, remembering the caress of his hand, his warm breath on her skin. Sweet Heaven, she had stepped closer to him and touched him. Her own wantonness brought a flush of humiliation. Yet, she had to admit, the urge to touch him was still shamefully insistent.

  Darby withdrew the pad again and peered at the gash. “You’re right, my lady: I think it is already beginning to close. Fancy that!” She dabbed one last time. “Your shawl will hide it for the journey home. Once we are safe in your room, I’ll fashion something to cover it.” She studied Helen’s face. “Are you sure you are well?”

  “I have never felt better, Darby,” Helen whispered. “It is remarkable. I feel so . . . strong.” She could not contain a smile of wonderment; strong did not even begin to describe the sense of power that still thrummed through her body.

  Across the room, Mr. Quinn picked up one half of the split table and tidily placed it next to its mate, while Mr. Hammond helped himself to another brandy from a new-brought tray. Lady Margaret sat on the far sofa, watching Helen with a strange intensity. Her narrowed eyes flicked to his lordship, then back to Helen again, lower lip caught between her small white teeth. Had she guessed what had happened? Helen pressed her knuckles against her cheeks, feeling the heat in her skin. Perhaps the lasciviousness was marked upon her face.

  A low bow from Mr. Pardy signaled the end of the negotiations, and he withdrew. His lordship took the glass of brandy Mr. Hammond held out, then crossed to Helen, his arm held protectively over the ribs on his right side.

  “Have you recovered?” he asked.

  She looked up at him, forcing herself to see past the memory of his lips almost upon her own. “Yes, completely. I feel very well.” She gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “Almost too well, I think.”

  He smiled. “Yes, I remember that feeling.”

  “Your poor ribs,” she said. “I am so very sorry.” Such inadequate words for what she had done.