A thick Irish accent. And no drool.
This revenant was perfectly coherent. Perhaps a little too coherent. He eyed her embalming needle and lifted a brow, his fingers going snug on the pistol.
“You wouldn’t be having any men’s clothing around here now, would you?”
She did. In fact she had quite a stock of spare clothing, male and female.
“What’s your name?” she said as he dressed behind her screen.
She’d turned away just long enough to give him a pretense at modesty, but then watched him from the corner of her eye. He cleaned up well enough for a man who’d been killed and buried raw. The scars couldn’t be helped.
“Liath.”
“Lee?”
“Close enough. Liath O’Shea. Now I’ll be having a few questions for you, Miss Basemore.”
He knew her name! “How—?”
“I was listening to every word.”
She ground her teeth in frustration. Toby had a lot to answer for.
“Playing possum, as it were?”
“So to speak. Apparently I was dead and buried and you brought me back to life.” He stepped out from behind the screen, shirtless, dressed in ill-fitting gray trousers. “What sort of blasphemy is that?”
She sniffed. She didn’t believe in blasphemy or sacrilege or any of that nonsense.
“The kind that allows you to ask that question.”
He smiled. “Touché, as the French say.”
Not a bad smile. He reminded her of Alastair back in England. They’d been lovers. Poor boy had thought he was her one and only. When he found out about Rupert, he challenged him to a duel. It hadn’t ended well for Alastair—a bullet through the heart. She’d used the ritual—and Rupert—to bring him back but that hadn’t ended well either. That and complications from other impetuous acts had precipitated her flight to the New World.
“Well?” she said. “Out with it. What happened?”
Liath’s eyes clouded. “I don’t remember. All I know is that some guttersnipe stabbed me in the back.”
“Toby—the man who resurrected you—said you were stabbed through the heart from the front.” She pointed to the sealed wound in his chest.
“Was I?” He touched the spot. “Well, this is a new one. See, I don’t even remember that. I do remember walking past the docks on Pearl Street and then . . .” He shook his head. “I never saw him.”
“Come now. You can tell me. What happened that night?”
“Well . . . I remember I was on me way to me sister’s. She’s quite a cook, that one. Always stuffs me with brown bread and coddle—”
As he pulled the tunic over his head she saw her chance. She grabbed the parlor pistol from her bedside drawer—
“Hate to be disappointing you, dearie,” he said as his head popped through the collar, “but that toy is just a Flobert, and I removed the flint.”
She pulled the trigger anyway only to be rewarded by an impotent click. Silently cursing him, she tossed it on the settee.
He added, “And before you draw out that ghoulish-looking needle again, ask yourself a wee question: What’s become of them lovely liniments you were keeping in your safe, mm? And might you be wanting them back?”
Rasheeda fixed her teeth. “You . . .” She moved toward him, extending her neck. “ . . . impudent . . .” And drew in so close she had to tilt her face up to meet his gaze. “ . . . reckless philistine. How dare you steal my oil? Without me it’s no use to you or anyone else!”
“Seems of use to you, luv.”
“Oh, is that what this is? Imagine, a simple revenant, looking to make a penny!”
He shrugged, fastening his trousers.
She said, “The only reason I indulged your drivel was to learn who stuffed you in my graveyard so I could find them and grind them into sausage. Not because I give a fig about you. It’s my graveyard that’s been violated. And if you think you can blackmail me—”
“Ah, now look how you’ve got yourself in such a lather. You’ll get your liniments back. And not for money. Just give a helping hand in this.”
“In what?”
“Finding me killer, of course. It’s good for both of us. You said yourself you wanted to know who stuffed me in your garden.”
“Not that badly. And not likely I’d trust you. You’ve already fooled me with your drooling act.”
“Seemed the only way to get out of your basement on me own two feet. You’d’ve either thrown me in your oven or sold me off to rich folk.”
“How would you even know what I do?”
“Because I’ll be living in a part of the city that watches how the rest live. I’ve heard rumors about the strange house staff you rent out.” He eyed her. “And now I know where you recruit them: from graves.”
She straightened. “I prefer to refer to them as domiciliary revenants.”
“I don’t care if you call them coddled eggs, do we have a deal?”
She shook her head. “I don’t have time for this. I have a revenant who needs anointing before the moon changes. Tonight.”
She still had enough of the properly fermented oil for Eunice, the Traugott revenant, but what about the next lunar cycle? The mixture took two cycles to properly ferment. If he didn’t return that flask, she would lose everything by the end of the next cycle.
“I’ll be tagging along, and we can start looking for me killer along the way.”
“What? You’ve already been murdered once. I do not intend to be at your side should someone try again.”
His expression grew fierce. “Well, I’ll not be locking meself away, I can tell you that. I’ll find me killer and make him pay.”
Liath strode across the dark New York City cobblestones in a long dress, a veiled hat, and pinchy heeled boots. The only visible emblem of his masculinity was the brass knuckles he wore on his right hand. What a fine state.
But the lady—whose name he’d learned was Rasheeda—was right: it wouldn’t do at all to be recognized by the one who murdered him. Better to let him think he’d succeeded. He’d be off his guard then.
But Liath felt he had to go out tonight because he didn’t want to let Rasheeda out of his sight.
She was striding next to him, all cat eyes and gilded scarlet in the streetlamps’ glow, and not the least bit sympathetic to his boots. Quite a specimen, she was. Her skin was flawless. Obviously from India but not as dark as others he’d seen from that mysterious subcontinent.
Liath’s attire had once belonged to a grand if horsey lady who’d outlived two husbands and then been trampled by a spooked gelding. No doubt the lady’s family believed that Rasheeda had disposed of the dress. But no. It went into one of many basement trunks. Fortunate for Liath that Rasheeda hoarded death clothes the way a spinster collected cats. She said she never sent a revenant out in clothes they died in, but they most certainly went out in clothes that someone else died in.
“How do you make your living, Mister O’Shea?”
“I guess you could be calling me an importer.”
“Importer of what?”
He grinned. “Anything with a high tariff—the higher the better, I always say.”
She laughed—a musical sound. “You’re a smuggler!”
“You prefer ‘domiciliary revenants,’ I prefer ‘tariff-free importer.’ Me trade is made possible by the wonderful Republicans down in Washington, bless their souls. They love tariffs so much they place them on all imports—averaging thirty-six percent, would you believe? Without them I’d be out of business.”
“Do you think one of your fellow smugglers did you in?”
He shrugged. “Could be, but I doubt it. There’s plenty to go round.” But he wasn’t interested in his trade. He was thinking about all the revenants that had come before him. “So, considering me new circumstances, have you got any advice for a man like me?”
“Yes. Stop thinking of yourself as a man.”
Considering the dress, her advice rang obvious. “You k
now what I mean. As a pet monster, or . . .”
“Domiciliary revenant.”
“Fine. What’s me upkeep? A dab of that oil now and again?”
She eyed him. “Not that simple. The anointing has very sensitive timing. If the revenant is salvageable. And there’s a recitation involved.”
“What, a spell?”
She shook her head. “The entire process is a delicate balance. Your existence is completely . . . anomalistic.” She shrugged.
He turned his gaze back to the stones down the alley. So. Maybe he would not continue to exist as the coherent, functioning lad from Meath. Maybe he would degenerate into . . . what?
No use giving over to dread. He’d long since been doomed.
Vengeance was all he had left. Vengeance and wrath, rich as whiskey in the blood. He’d have a taste before his final bow.
The streets were dark and quiet. They’d left Toby behind to handle disposing of the donor sailor in the crematorium. Later Rasheeda would use the ashes as substitutes for corpses she should cremate but would resurrect instead. All so very ghastly, but Liath could respect her business sense.
He himself had dabbled in racketeering, bribery, or whatever was required, but he’d found he had a knack for the smuggling trade. He considered it more of a gentleman’s racket, although every once in a very long while he might have to doff some bloke and shove his body off the pier. But those were rare and unfortunate circumstances, and then only if the bloke were a true maggot.
Rasheeda gave Liath an annoyed glance.
He realized he was whistling, same as he’d done on the night he’d died. Whistling along, thinking of his sister’s brown bread and coddle . . .
He snapped to. A shadow moved at the far end of the alley.
Liath cleared his head and squinted. The shadow swayed. Just some drunk. But something familiar about him just the same.
Ah. Liath knew him but couldn’t place the fellow. He was singing some made-up lyrics to an old opus, something about “promenading in the park, goosing statues after dark . . .”
. . . and Liath nearly groaned. Ricky the Rake. An alcoholic thief who was known for laying hands on the ladies. Usually without consent. And he often combined his lechery with pickpocketing. More the worse, he was stinky. To graze past him was to be saturated by him. Yes, Liath knew Ricky all too well.
And Ricky knew Liath.
Liath moved to Rasheeda’s other side so that he was now striding—actually, scrabbling in his pinchy boots—between Rasheeda and the Rake.
If that lout didn’t accost the two “ladies” in the alley, it would be a first. And if he laid one hand on Liath’s bum, he’d figure out that Liath was a he.
The Rake seemed at first to take no notice, but then: “Oh, ladies. Hullo and good—”
Liath swung the brass knuckles in a roundhouse punch to the left side of the Rake’s chest. Ricky crumpled to the stones.
Liath and Rasheeda kept walking. Behind them, a low, long squeak escaped from Ricky’s throat.
At the end of the alley Rasheeda finally asked, “Are you going to explain what just happened or are you counting on my frisky imagination?”
“Just someone I knew. Didn’t want to risk being recognized.”
She glanced back over her shoulder. “Did you stab him?”
“No, luv. Just a little trick I learned from Five Points. They call it the Dead Rabbit punch.”
“He’s dead, I think.”
“Naw. That punch can stop a heart but our man there will see tomorrow, though he’ll remember that blow for weeks—every time he draws a breath.”
As Liath worked on the bit lock with an iron pick and a crooked finish nail, he heard Rasheeda grousing behind him.
“We’re too late, I think.”
He turned and saw her staring up at the moon. “Too late for what?”
“The moon . . . it’s past its full cycle. Damnation!”
The cylinder turned and he pushed the door open. The house was quiet, of course. Rasheeda had said the Traugotts were on holiday. Or supposed to be.
Then beyond the foyer, from the drawing room, came the sound of breathing. Loud, steady; a restless sleep sound.
And a wicked odor.
Rasheeda squeezed Liath’s elbow. “I was afraid of this! Turn on the light, I’ll cover the windows.”
She rushed to the far wall, pulling the sash and letting the drapes fall together. Liath switched on a Tiffany floor lamp.
There on the silk rug sat a gaunt and pasty waif, forearms resting on her knees and her skirts hitched so that her bloomers spilled apparent. A revenant dressed in a maid’s uniform. Her mouth was covered in gore. It formed a muzzle and stained her neckerchief and skirts.
The maid took no measure to conceal her disarray. She merely sat, staring, unresponsive to Rasheeda or Liath or the light that now bathed the room.
“What has she been . . . ?” Liath started and looked toward the hall.
“Oh, dear,” Rasheeda said softly. “Eunice, Eunice, Eunice.”
Kneeling next to the maid, she removed a carafe from her pocket and began streaking oil onto the revenant’s face.
“Go find the family,” she told him.
“And where might they be?”
“They will be dead and . . . not pretty.”
“Dead?”
She waved him on. “Go, go! See if anyone survived.”
Liath ventured deeper into the house. And one by one he found them: the husband, the wife, the children, a butler. Rasheeda had been right: not pretty. Each had been savaged as though by a rabid boar. Some were barely recognizable; others merely had their throats torn.
Of all the degenerates Liath had known, from Five Points to the Bowery, from the Dead Rabbits and Bowery Boys to the Municipals and the Metropolitans; not from any rank of thuggery had he witnessed such wanton disregard for human life as what that revenant had done in the Traugott home.
Worst of all: Why didn’t he feel shock or revulsion? Was it because he was . . . oh, well, might as well be saying it: dead?
He stood in the kitchen and gazed at what was left of the butler. The poor man lay eviscerated atop tiny little black-and-white tiles, a cloth still draped neatly over his arm. Shattered bits of china and a tea tray lay at various points around the baseboard.
What disturbed Liath more was that his own stomach was not turning flip-flops as it ought to. Instead it felt . . . hungry.
“Well, you can’t say I didn’t warn them,” Rasheeda said behind him.
Liath jumped in his boots. “Godsake woman. Don’t be sidling up on me like that.”
“Wasn’t sidling. I was just saying that I’d warned them.”
“You mean to tell me, all these people knew they risked slaughter and still they dallied in their return?”
“Well, not slaughter exactly.”
“No? Well, then, what were you after telling them—exactly?”
“I told them what I tell all my clients: without the lunar anointing, their servant will become inactive—as you can see by that wretch in the drawing room.”
Liath looked in the direction of the revenant maid. “But if I might be hazarding a guess, it appears she went into some sort of berserker rage first.”
“Yes. They do tend to do that when the anointing is delayed past the full moon.”
“Well, if these folks knew she’d do that—”
“They didn’t know that, exactly.”
“What? You don’t tell your clients their lives could be at risk?”
“Of course not. Why would I do that?”
“Don’t you feel some sort of responsibility to give fair warning?”
“Don’t be silly! Who would lease from me then?”
“No one!”
“Exactly!”
She was cold, this one. Colder than his own dead arse.
“That’s . . .” He found himself at a loss for words. “That’s unconscionable!”
She raised her chin. “I
’m not sure I care for an air of moral superiority in a career criminal—and a dead one, at that.”
“An air? Me? I’m not one for airs of any sort. I may be having a few failings now and again but—”
“A few? You’ve told me you’re a smuggler. That means your modus operandi is bribery, thievery, and probably extortion as well. I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t have a murder or two on your hands to boot.”
“Oh, listen to herself talking about murder. As if there’s not a drop of blood on her lily-white hands.”
“I have no blood on my hands, and what you imply as murder on my part is anything but. It is a simple transfer of life force.”
“The poor bloke’s just as dead as a man with a bullet in his noggin.”
“Besides, it’s not as if they were doing anything useful with their lives in the first place. We’re careful in choosing the types who tend to go missing anyway. No one is looking for them, I assure you. But you—how many have you killed?”
“Only two, and never with glee, and never a one who didn’t deserve it.”
“And what criteria, in your estimation, are required for one to find a place on your ‘deserve it’ list?”
He hesitated, scratching his cheek even though it didn’t itch. This wasn’t a comfortable topic.
“All right: both times was because of a double cross.”
“A betrayal?”
“Yes. Someone who says he’ll be doing one thing and then he does another.”
She rocked her head back and forth. “Oh, and I suppose you, as a career criminal, never break your word?”
“Never. And I don’t think of meself as a criminal.”
“Smuggling is a crime.”
“It is, but I’m after thinking of meself as a businessman whose trade simply happens to be against the law.”
“One who’s never gone back on his word?”
“Well, sometimes I may not be delivering on a promise—”
She jabbed at finger at him. “Aha!”
“—but only because of circumstances beyond me control. Never because I had a better offer elsewhere, or something heinous like that.”
“You mean . . . let me understand this: you mean to tell me that you hold to your word no matter what?”
“If I say I’ll be doing something, I do it. People have to know that when Liath O’Shea says he’ll be delivering, he delivers. How else will business get done?”
A Soft Barren Aftershock Page 160
