Spirited (3 page)

My heart thrummed in response.

“Amelia?”

Had Warren groaned my name, or had I imagined it?

A demon’s wail echoed through the hall. For an instant I feared it came from my own throat. What Warren Fox did to my self-composure was a sin. Then I remembered the wailing beast was the signal for Nora’s descent.

I ducked under Warren’s arm. He clasped a quick hand around my wrist with a disbelieving laugh.

“Where are you going?”

I tugged from his grip. “I can’t miss Nora’s entrance.”

He eyed the distance to the staircase and then started for the servant’s corridor the guard had taken.

“This way,” he said, disappearing into the darkness.

I followed him down the narrow ramp, and we descended into another world. The ballroom had become the embodiment of Rumsay’s interpretation of the underworld. There were too many gothic tapestries, replicas of tombstones, ornate arrangements of blood-red roses, and too little silver for my liking. Guests wore elaborate costumes, having taken the invitation to dress macabre quite to heart. Angels, devils, witches, and more, all clad in feathers, headdresses, beads, and painted papier-mâché masks.

I secretly relished the ease with which we navigated the crowd thanks to Warren’s commanding presence as he cut a swath through the crowd. Soon we stood at the frontline watching Nora step gracefully down the marble staircase. Nary a hand on the railing, despite her pallor.

That’s my girl
. I beamed proudly when I caught Nora’s eye. Her own sparkled with repressed excitement and nerves. Swept up in the moment, I clutched Warren’s hand and pressed it to my heart.

“If getting you to the front of the herd is all it took to get this kind of reaction, you should have informed me sooner,” Warren drawled in my ear.

Heat rushed to my cheeks. I dropped his hand as if I’d discovered I held a dead rat. I opened my mouth to give him yet another dressing down, when a haunting scream echoed through the mansion, drawing a collective gasp from all present.

In unison, the crowd looked upward. A young woman, painfully thin, wearing a white cotton dressing gown, plummeted feet first over the railing at the top of the staircase as if she’d climbed atop the rails and simply stepped off. The noose around her neck stopped her fall with a tremendous jerk. Her neck broke with an audible snap. The room was silent save for the creaking of the rope as her gaunt form swayed a few feet from the floor. Each soul in attendance seemed fixed in place as if the very devil prowled around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.

Nora reached the last step and touched the solid ground of the ballroom’s marble flooring. My dear friend’s gaze fixed on that of the dead girl, then she staggered, and fell backward.

Mr. Rumsay caught his daughter before she could plummet to the floor and gave a hearty laugh. He announced in a booming voice, “What a performance, but there’s plenty more to come. Let the Specter’s Ball begin.”

Instantly, relieved gasps and snorts of laughter rang through the crowd. Guests congratulated my friend on her dramatic entrance. She put a dazed hand to her forehead and did her best to smile. I lost sight of her as everyone glided toward the refreshment tables and away from the stairs. The quartet in the far corner began to play Baroque arrangements, enticing couples to dance.

Yet neither Warren nor I had moved. I doubted we even breathed as we, the only audience that remained, watched the girl sway.

“That was no performance,” Warren said finally. “We just witnessed a murder. Either that or Rumsay did some recent grave robbing or purchased a cadaver for the occasion.”

I shuddered. “There’s but one way to be sure.” I took a step forward.

“Amelia, do be careful.” Warren looked over his shoulder and then came up behind me, blocking my actions from any who might glance our way. Such as the automaton guards hovering in the entranceway.

Damned if I didn’t find strength in Warren’s proximity.

I reached out, my fingers hovering over the woman’s fine-boned wrist. A faint warmth radiated from her flesh, though she was definitely dead.

Until I touched her hand.

Then she jerked and gasped. Her clouded eyes blinked.

“They killed me, didn’t they? Well, doesn’t that just jar your gizzard,” she said, her voice a whisper, blood sliding over her lips to drip down her chin.

“Who killed you? Do tell.” I risked a glance at Warren. His grimace of disgust could have been for a number of reasons—that the woman had been murdered for a bit of society entertainment, that the show of blood turned his stomach, or that the girl he’d just tried to kiss could bring the dead to life.

“My bairns will need feeding. You’ll see to Maggie MacInnis’s daughters.” The dead woman’s hand now grasped mine, nearly crushing my bones. “Get them out of Five Points, promise me that.”

A low groan escaped me. Five Points? How on earth was I to find two children in the worst Irish slum in New York City? Still, a pact with the dead must be kept, or my soul would blacken beyond redemption.

“I swear I will,” I said.

“Let her go,” Warren snapped.

To me or the dead girl, I couldn’t quite tell. I could barely breathe.

Intense pain did that to a person.

The whirring sound of a guard in motion reached my ears. Both Warren and I scraped at the rigid digits locked around my wrist.

“Rumsay’s man promised me a good wage.” Her nails elongated, digging into my flesh.

I tried to pry her fingers loose. Warren cursed, increasing his efforts.

“See that they both hang.” With that she released my hand and returned to whence she came, her flesh cooling, her blood clotting at the corner of her mouth.

“Do you require assistance?” a guard asked in that sharp voice I so despised.

“No,” Warren said. “But I do thank you for asking.” He spun me around and guided me into a darkened corner.

The whirring faded as the guard drifted back to the crowd.

“I really don’t like those things,” I said on a near sob.

“They’re harmless. Toys for the man who has everything. Here, let’s see the damage.” He lifted my arm for a better view of the semi-circular grooves carved into my wrist, the bruising that had already begun to show.

“She had such strength,” I said, sucking in a breath, resting my free hand over my pounding ribcage.

“Of course, she was newly deceased and freshly awakened.” Warren ran his thumb gently over my wounds. “I should call your father out for this. He declared you trained. Said you were fit for duty should the council get their heads out of their…” He trailed off as his eyes met mine.

If I could have shot flames from my eye sockets, I would have.

I twisted from his grip. “I am trained.” I put my hands upon my waist. “Didn’t you see what I did? I raised the dead.”

Warren’s gaze hardened. “A necromancer is no use to the council if she is wounded the second she raises a raving corpse. We hired your father not just to raise the dead, but also to command them, to gain information only those on the other side can provide. Why do you think your father has been preparing you to be his replacement? His age is a factor. He’s weak. It takes great strength not to succumb to the dead. Their will is strong.” Warren touched my cheek. “Yours must be stronger.”

I jerked out of his reach.

“Believe me, my will is iron.” I stalked toward the dancing, laughing throng, calling over my shoulder, “Now stay out of my way.”

“Not a chance, Amelia.” Warren’s words struck me as if hurled at my back. “Once this night is behind us, we’ll see if you hunt again.”

My steps faltered as my ire rose. What did Warren know of my training? How my father had risked everything to see that I had some modicum of control over my abilities? How hunting gave me purpose, focused my skills, and that, without it, Blackwell’s would be the only place for me?

Warren and his ilk sought only to debunk and rid the world of magicks. My father and I had higher aims, a belief, a hope that the natural and preternatural worlds could co-exist. But Rumsay did have to be stopped. On that we were agreed.

And I vowed I would be the hunter to do it.

All because I had a locket of the late Mrs. Rumsay’s pale blonde hair.

Thank goodness for death masks.

~*~*~

Hanson hunched over a stereopticon, watching as visual data streamed from the modified optics of Rumsay’s guards. Mr. Fox and Miss Strangeways had lingered far too long around dear Maggie, and the XI unit had been too slow to respond to the command to investigate, so he hadn’t had a clear view of the happenings. Still, something had occurred, of that he was certain.

Pressing a glowing amber button on the console, Hanson communicated with another guard, VII, closer to their master.

“Tell Rumsay it’s now or never. The hunters are about to make their move.”

He released the button and straightened, groaning at the ache in his lower back. He rubbed away the pain. Through the thick material of his suit coat, he massaged around the metal nubs fused to his spinal cord, making him a hybrid—part man, part machine.

He’d been remiss of late. Another procedure would be required. Soon. Thank the gears, he no longer had to rely on Rumsay for routine maintenance.

He wondered at what point the creation had begun to outshine his maker.

~*~*~

“Amelia, wherever did you get to?” Nora’s tone was light, but her teeth chattered as she spoke, betraying her tension.

“Oh, just ensuring you have your moment to shine, but I’ll join you now, if I may.” I took her arm in a show of support.

The relieved smile she gave me went unnoticed by the gaggle of guests fawning around her, never meeting her eyes, seemingly bedazzled by the jewels around her neck, dangling from her delicate ears.

And they thought
me
uncouth.

“Mr. Clark has a fascinating theory of how my father was able to ensure that poor young woman’s fake death looked quite the thing,” Nora said, a hint of a waver in her voice.

“If you’ll allow the speculations of skeptic, then I’ll continue,” Mr. Clark said with a superior smile. He did not give anyone enough time to voice an objection. “As I was saying, the girl is, of course, one of Rumsay’s clockwork creations, built to scale, lifelike indeed, but nothing more than another of our host’s servants.” He glanced around and, upon spying one of the automaton guards, called it over with a sharp gesture.

“Do you require assistance?” the guard asked.

“Yes, I do, point of fact, and yours specifically. That girl who was hung, she was like you, correct?”

“How can I provide assistance?”

Mr. Clark rolled his eyes, and the milling group of guests laughed. “You do so, my thick friend, by answering the question. Who made the girl who hangs over there? You see? The one who looks dead.”

The guard bucked on its wheels, causing a gasp to ring out. Then it stilled and in its usual harsh tone said, “Who made the girl is unknown. Our master oversees all discontinuations.”

A titter of nervous laughter rang out as the guard glided to meet the needs of another guest.

Nora paled.

I held my breath.

Mr. Clark seemed unfazed, “There, you see,” he said, “she was one of them and merely discontinued.”

As if to punctuate Mr. Clark’s ignorance, Rumsay addressed the crowd. He stood in the middle of the ballroom as guests formed a circle around the perimeter.

“Friends, it is time to further entertain you with the artwork of Ben Knightly and a shadow play technique known as phantasmagoria. The images you will see are the result of light and shadow, not specters and magic. No hard feelings, eh, Knightly?” Rumsay called out to a gentleman in a threadbare tuxedo.

Mr. Knightly gave a brief bow.

My heart pounded. Rumsay was up to something. I scanned the faces of those in attendance, skimming over the mouths open with anticipation until I saw a familiar jaw clenched in concern. Warren met my gaze. He raised an eyebrow.

I glanced at Nora.

Warren nodded.

Once I had Nora out of danger, we’d work together to see the fools safe, despite our mutual antagonism.

“Many among us tonight seek out the supernatural and profess to understand its inner workings,” Rumsay continued. “I speak of my fellow members of the Ghost Club. For seven years I have attended their meetings and visited the sites of hauntings, attended séances, what have you. In all our dealings I have come to the conclusion that spiritualism is a hoax. Those who pursue it are blind to the scientific explanations readily available, if one is educated to look for them. Tonight I will prove it.”

He waved again to Mr. Knightly. “On with the show.”

At once the already dim gaslights died in a blackout. Faint cries of the startled guests echoed through the high-ceilinged ballroom. Whirring surrounded us and, when Mr. Knightly’s machine sparked to life, giving enough light for movement, Rumsay’s guards blocked each exit.

The phantasmagoria machine stood six feet high, four feet wide, and two feet deep. Constructed from solid oak and sporting intricately carved double doors, it was as unassuming as any French wardrobe, until Mr. Knightly dramatically swung the heavy doors open and steady gusts of fog trailed into the ballroom. Mysterious multicolored lights flickered from within the machine. A malevolent tune, haunting and dissonant, churned from its depths from a gramophone, cranking all by itself.

Nora whimpered. She clutched at my gloved hand, while the crowd around us gasped and stared in wonder.

Mr. Knightly took up position to work his macabre machine. He sat upon a wooden-backed Empire chair, mounted to the main platform. From our side view I could make out the terminal of buttons. Their soft green glow illuminated his pale, gaunt features as he flicked and pressed them with efficient fingers. No need for a mask to add an air of the supernatural to his visage, the man and his machine were both eerie and ominous.

“Time for a trip to the powder room, I think,” I whispered in Nora’s ear, pulling my friend behind me and making for the exit at the rear of the ballroom. I felt Warren’s eyes on us, but refused to meet his gaze. I’d be back to help him once I had Nora safely tucked back in her rooms, or perhaps in the wine cellar. Yes, the cellar might provide more safety.