Something Strange and Deadly

by Susan Dennard

  The Chinese boy rose from our spot on the floor. He looked down at me. “Thanks for helping.” His voice was high and soft. He poked his thumb at his chest. “I’m Jie.”

  “Eleanor,” I answered, gesturing wearily to myself. “Wh-what do we do now?”

  “I go get people to help clean up before the flies come. You help Joseph, yeah?” He bounded off without a glance back, and with no regard for his feet hitting flesh and bones.

  I winced, glad that the roar of the water blocked the sound of his footsteps. The cool mist also kept some of the rotten scent at bay. I pushed myself up and shuffled toward Daniel and Joseph, who both lay in a heap on a bench nearby.

  “What just happened?” I asked. “With the machine? And why were you in the fountain?”

  “Now’s not the time,” Daniel grumbled. He rose, slid an arm under Joseph, and helped the bedraggled man rise. I lurched forward and added support to Joseph’s other side.

  “Mèrsi,” Joseph murmured. His eyes were glassy and his breathing rough.

  We shuffled from the pool and benches and approached the first of the collapsed Dead.

  “Hold your nose,” Daniel said. “And you probably don’t wanna look down.”

  I gritted my teeth and kept my chin raised high. Like Jie, I didn’t—couldn’t—avoid stepping on the corpses. My ankles and heels rolled and sank as we progressed forward.

  Daniel tipped his head around Joseph to peer at me. “What are you doin’ here, Miss Fitt? We told you to stay in the lab.”

  My heel poked through skin with a rip and a thud. I pressed my lips firmly together and forced my eyes to remain up and forward. “I couldn’t stay,” I said.

  Joseph cleared his throat. “There was a spirit.”

  “Yes.” I glanced at him, my eyes wide. “How did you know?”

  “I could feel the cold.”

  “You could?” I asked. “How? You weren’t near.”

  “When I stand in water, I can connect more easily to spiritual energy.”

  “T-to what?”

  Daniel answered. “It’s like electricity. Everything that’s—” He broke off and flinched. His foot was tangled in a corpse’s dress. He shook his leg free, wrinkled his nose, and then continued. “Everything that’s alive has spiritual energy. You call it soul.”

  We reached the giant Corliss engine, and though the air still stank of putrid flesh, the ground was clean. Joseph paused our slow trudge forward and straightened. “I can go alone now, thank you.”

  Daniel wiped his brow. “Like I was sayin’, souls are made of electricity.”

  His words clicked with something Elijah had taught me. “Water’s a conductor,” I said slowly. “Is that how it works?”

  “Right.” Daniel flicked his eyes toward me, and I thought I saw a glint of respect. “So when Joseph stands in it, he can connect to the spiritual energy.”

  “And so,” I pressed, “when he was in the water, he could control the bodies?”

  “Not control,” Joseph said, “but affect. You might have noticed a difference in the corpses’ speed when I stepped from the water. My ability to affect the corpses weakened when I left the water, so their speed and coordination improved.”

  Daniel nodded. “We’re lucky the Hydraulic Annex has such a big pool. We’re even luckier the corpses followed us there.”

  “Wi. It makes me think we were the target of the attack.”

  “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.” Daniel glanced toward the annex. “I should go back and get the machine.”

  “What is that thing?” I asked. “It made sparks.”

  “It’s called an influence machine. It makes static electricity from spinning the glass wheels. And when Joseph touches the spark, he uses it to blast all that corrupt soul back into the spirit realm. Kinda like a cue ball smashing apart all the other billiard balls.”

  “Oh,” I said, not entirely sure I understood.

  “But that machine wasn’t easy to make, and it can sell for a pretty penny. So I ought to retrieve it. Jie can help me carry it to the lab.”

  Joseph bowed his head, granting permission, and then he turned to me. He tugged at his dripping vest—as if his messy appearance was somehow the fault of his own poor taste.

  “Shall we?” He gestured toward the lab, and we resumed our march through Machinery Hall. “You see, Miss Fitt, I could feel the spirit while I stood in the water—it is quite strong.” He swallowed and fidgeted with his cuffs. “What was most worrisome was that it knew my range—how far I can reach to affect souls—and it hovered just outside.”

  I sucked in a breath, and the hairs on my neck stood on end. Was that why it stopped following me? But how would it know something like that? And for that matter, why had it even come here?

  “Mr. Boyer,” I said, “that’s the spirit my mother let out last night.”

  His lips compressed. “You are certain?”

  “Positive.” I shuddered, and hugged my arms to my chest. “It smells … it smells like dirt, and it’s so cold.”

  “Ah.” Lines etched their way over Joseph’s brow. “Then it is a very powerful spirit indeed.”

  “Mr. Boyer!” a Cockney voice shouted. I glanced down the nearest aisle of machinery and saw a cluster of men striding toward us.

  “Reporters,” Joseph spat, his nose curling. “Even worse, Mr. Peger. He only writes half of what I say, and never the important half.”

  My mouth went dry. I shrank behind Joseph. “I’m not sure I want to see reporters.”

  Joseph gave me a concerned glance and opened his mouth to speak, but the men were upon us.

  “Hello, ma’am,” said one of them, tipping his hat. “Were you trapped in the building during the attack? Did you see anything? Are you connected with the Spirit-Hunters? Did they rescue you?” He sang out question after question, leaving me no time to answer.

  I faltered back several steps. I couldn’t be in the newspaper. Someone would certainly see mention of me, and then Mama would find out I’d been with the Spirit-Hunters; she’d know I’d been with people of “low society” and, worst of all, that I’d been there because I needed help dealing with the Dead.

  I lifted my hands defensively and shook my head as more of the reporters approached me. Nearby, Joseph fared no better.

  A squat, square man with shimmering golden curls had attached himself to Joseph; and despite the reporter’s much smaller size, the Spirit-Hunter somehow seemed the tinier of the two.

  When one of the reporters requested my name, I made a decision. I’d had quite enough, and what were a bunch of reporters compared to an army of the Dead? I lowered my head, lifted my skirts, and pummeled through.

  It wasn’t until I was several blocks away, gasping for breath and coated in sweat, that I realized I stank like the Dead.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Thank the merciful heavens Mama was away when I reached home. She was calling on all our guests from last night—no doubt to explain away the evening’s unusual events.

  I bribed Mary to help me wash the dress. Her price was steep: a pair of kid gloves. But a lost pair of gloves was easier to explain than a foul-walking dress. Fortunately, Mary had been so pleased by her payment she hadn’t bothered to ask about my need for secrecy, or my smelly dress.

  Several hours later, just as the sun was beginning its descent, Mama returned and cornered me in my bedroom, clucking with joy over Clarence’s invitation for a drive. Apparently Mrs. Wilcox had shared the news—and invited us to the opera the following Saturday.

  It was actually the best possible turn of events, for now Mama had to let me leave home without an adult (for how else could I go join Clarence?), she couldn’t be angry over my morning escape with Allison (woo the sister while wooing the brother), and she was so delighted by our opera invitation she seemed unable to think of anything else.

  The only thing that didn’t work in my favor was that I couldn’t sneak back to the Spirit-Hunters lab on Sunday morning as I’d ho
ped. Mama and Mary pounced the minute I’d finished my breakfast. While Mary brushed my pistachio silk carriage dress, Mama tugged the laces of my corset as tight as they would go. She grunted and I groaned, and we sounded like the giant hogs I’d seen at the zoo—except that, rather than play in the mud and eat to my heart’s content, I was forced to sit daintily in the parlor without lunch. For two hours. With my mother for company.

  I was so grateful when Clarence finally arrived, I practically swooned with relief. After an awkward reception, he and I left for our afternoon drive. He drove a luxurious carriage with navy bench seats. It was pulled by two chestnut horses, and today he drove it with the top folded down.

  My hat and dress were conspiring against me as we traveled past the lavish homes of the neighborhood. I was forced to constantly adjust my position lest I crush the many plaits and ruffles that adorned my gown.

  To pile on the agony, once we reached Shantytown—a collection of shacks around the Exhibition that fed off the scraps of rich tourists—the ribbon on my bonnet decided today was the day it wanted freedom. It dangled before my face in a taunting display of rebellion.

  I tried to focus my attention on the summer sun and afternoon breeze, the rattle of the wheels and the beat of the horses’ hooves as we crossed over the Schuylkill, but my pent-up tensions and fear would not be rejected so easily.

  “So, Miss Fitt,” Clarence said once we turned onto a tree-lined road beside the river, “you are no doubt wondering why I invited you out.”

  I swatted the ribbon from my eyes. “And here I assumed it was my unsurpassable good looks.”

  He chuckled. “That was, of course, part of my motivation.”

  “Only part?” I slid my gaze left and watched him from the corner of my eye. “Well then, the rest of your reason must be that bribe you mentioned the other evening.”

  “Something like that.” He smiled sheepishly. “Quite simply, I must beg for your discretion regarding Friday night’s … um …” He seemed to be searching for the right word.

  “Rendezvous?” I suggested.

  He snorted. “I suppose you could call it that.”

  “Well, you needn’t worry. I haven’t told anyone.” I fingered the mother-of-pearl buttons on my gloves. “Though I am curious why you’re so keen to hide a trip for fresh air.”

  “Yes, well, that is my private affair.” He spoke lightly, but his eyes were hard.

  “And,” I continued, ignoring him, “why did you have that newspaper?”

  “Miss Fitt, you know curiosity gets men killed.”

  I grinned. “Then I daresay it’s good I’m a woman.”

  He groaned—an amused sound. “No wonder Allie finds you confusing. You’ve a retort for everything.”

  “No, only for Wilcoxes.”

  He rolled his head back and laughed. “All right, all right. If you promise to keep my secrets and enjoy this drive”—he opened his hands to gesture at the sun-dappled carriageway before us—“then I will explain.”

  I blinked. Really? All it took to get an answer was a witty turn of phrase? If only it were that simple with men like Daniel Sheridan.

  “Well, go on,” I urged.

  “I sent my footman to fetch a newspaper because …” He clenched his teeth and took in a shaky breath. “Because Frederick Weathers was my friend.”

  My eyes widened. Though his response made no sense in the context of the conversation I’d overheard, it was startling news all the same.

  “The man found headless?” I gripped at his sleeve. “He was your friend?”

  Clarence nodded once, his face tightening with pain.

  “Oh, Mr. Wilcox, I am sorry.”

  He gently removed my clenched fingers from his sleeve. “Yes, Miss Fitt. Now, if you’ll please keep this information to yourself.”

  “But don’t most people know? It’s in the newspapers.”

  “Yes, but his family wants it kept quiet. Allie doesn’t read the papers, so she doesn’t know yet.” He gazed into the distance, as if considering what to say next. “And it’s more complicated than just one man … one man dying. There are elections coming up, and Frederick’s father has withdrawn from them.”

  “His father …” I thought back to the newspaper article. “He’s on the city council?”

  “Yes, and he no longer wishes to hold office. That interferes significantly with my own campaign for city council.” He flicked his gaze to me for several moments, his mouth curved down. But in an instant his lips were back to their fetching smile. “Now, if you would kindly keep this to yourself.”

  “I am sorry for the loss of your friend,” I offered. This secret was hardly as sinister as I had expected—or hoped. Perhaps my own curiosity was really no better than Allison’s appetite for gossip.

  “Have you spoken with the Spirit-Hunters?” I offered. “Perhaps they can help.”

  “No.” He tipped his face away. “I would rather not deal with them. They’re low-life—disreputable, I’ve heard.”

  I frowned. Joseph Boyer seemed about as honest as men came—a true gentleman if I’d ever met one. “But,” I said hesitantly, “if they’re so disreputable, then why did the Exhibition board hire them?”

  “Because they volunteered? Because they’re cheap? I can’t say.” He lifted a shoulder. “Everything about the situation is worrisome, Miss Fitt.” He glanced at me, assessing. “Worst of all, I hear all the corpses in Laurel Hill have come to life.”

  I shivered and hugged my arms to my stomach. Laurel Hill was a graveyard on the steep, rugged hills beside the Schuylkill River. Because it was several miles north of Philadelphia, it had always been undisturbed and peaceful. Though, if all the corpses had risen … Well, that meant hundreds—perhaps even thousands—of Dead.

  And if the Dead came from Laurel Hill, then it seemed likely the necromancer was there as well. And if Elijah was trapped with the necromancer, then … then he could be in the cemetery.

  And he might be a corpse too. My skin crawled, and I heaved the thought aside.

  “Take me to Laurel Hill,” I said.

  Clarence whipped his face toward me, his expression revolted. “Why? What a horrible request.”

  “Please, Mr. Wilcox.” I scooted toward him. “It is not so great a detour to go there—it’s on our way into the countryside. I just want to peer through the gates.”

  “Give me one good reason to comply with such a morbid desire.”

  What could I say? I didn’t want him to know about Elijah. “My … my father is in Laurel Hill Cemetery,” I muttered at last. “You said all the bodies have risen, and I wonder if he is among them.”

  My words were not entirely false. My father was buried in Laurel Hill, and I was curious if his corpse had risen.

  “Ah,” Clarence said. He clenched the reins in one hand and massaged his forehead with the other. “I have asked myself that same question. About my own father, who is also buried there.” He narrowed his eyes a fraction and studied me. “All right, Miss Fitt. You win. But consider this your bribe to keep my secrets.” He shot me a half grin. “We will only stay a moment.” Then he flicked the reins, and we picked up our speed.

  Minutes later we rounded a shady bend in the road. The long, white-columned gatehouse that marked the entrance to Laurel Hill Cemetery moved into view. The gates were closed, and there was no one around. This was usually a place of wandering couples, visiting families, and rattling carriages, all there to view the forested cemetery grounds. Now it was silent and empty—no, not empty. Empty of the living.

  “We stop here,” Clarence said. “I don’t want the horses getting skittish.”

  We jerked to a halt, and I lurched forward in my seat. Clarence hopped to the ground and offered me his hand. “I do not wish to stay long, Miss Fitt. We shouldn’t be here, and …” He swiveled his head left and right, reminding me of a frightened squirrel. “Well, the Dead are reason enough.”

  “Yes,” I murmured, clumsily climbing down. My lips were dry
, and my heart thumped against my ribs. I had seen the Dead twice now, and they didn’t scare me anymore. No—what scared me was the possibility of seeing Elijah. Of seeing him dead.

  Soon, Clarence and I stood inside the gatehouse’s archway. My fingers gripped the gate’s iron bars, and my face was pressed against them. Upon the hill that rose quickly before me were the statues of Old Mortality and Sir Walter Scott. But beyond those stone men, I detected no signs of the Dead.

  “There’s nothing here,” I said, accusation in my voice.

  “You’ve got to be patient. We haven’t been here long.” Clarence glanced at me. “Trust me. The Dead are in there—I saw them from the river a few days ago.”

  “Oh.”

  “Be grateful. What I saw was horrifying. I instantly regretted my curiosity.”

  I sniffed haughtily and wished etiquette didn’t force me to bite my tongue. One would think, after Friday evening, he would know I was not prone to hysterics.

  Clarence swallowed. His eyes were locked on some distant point. “Look.”

  I followed his gaze. At the top of the hill, a figure shambled by. I knew that gait. The stride of long-dead bones.

  I clutched at the iron bars. “Where do you suppose it’s going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “North,” I murmured. “Perhaps we can see it through the fence.”

  “No. It’s overgrown.” Clarence waved toward the nearest stretch of bars. Though the outer edge of the fence was bare of brush, the inside was bordered by thick forest.

  “But there might be a break somewhere. Come on. Let’s follow it.” Before Clarence could stop me, I gathered up my skirts and hurried out of the gatehouse. I sped along the road until I reached the iron fence traveling north.

  Clarence’s footsteps were close behind, but he made no move to stop me. It would seem Mr. Clarence Wilcox wanted to see beyond the fence as much as I. Yet, just as he had declared, I could find no opening in the shrubs within the cemetery.

  “Miss Fitt,” he said after several minutes of searching. “Our risk of being noticed by the Dead rises each moment we linger.” His tone was friendly, but there was a harsh edge to his words. “I have fulfilled my end of the deal. Let’s return to the carriage.”