Heaven's Bones (21 page)

What did it mean,
Jaelle's Breed?

The man was still looking at him speculatively, almost as a predator regards its prey.

“I wonder,” he said, as if Weldon wasn't there. “I wonder if they'd allow me to kill you?”

Weldon tottered between anger and amusement, and the latter won out. “Gracious, man,” he chuckled. “I'd like to see you try.” He licked his lips. In his weakened state the dark man would be no match for the powerful Weldon. He
would
like to see him try.

The man shut his eyes. “I have no name,” he said finally. “It was taken away from me, and I must find another. As to the other—surely you know by now that the Mists live—if they live—by their own law. I became a creature of the Mists, and subject to their will. Whatever world this is, is where they choose to take me.”

He opened his eyes. “But I'm stronger than they are. I remade myself. I can force myself past the barriers.”

He looked down and wrapped his arms around himself. “I am complete again.”

The Mists live by their own law
. Weldon felt a prickle up his spine. If that was true—and it seemed to be true …

Then he was trapped in Riverbend forever.

London, 1867

Her mother was tired from visiting and had an egg sent up to her room, and her father was called out to see a patient, so Sophie was allowed to sit at the big oak table in the kitchen and eat her bread-and-milk under the watchful eye of Mrs. Blanchard while Cook did the week's baking. Mrs. Blanchard had Cook fry her up a bit of meat as well, for she had strong opinions about building up little girls' blood that would have shocked Sophie's aunts exceedingly.

Before Sophie had finished, Maggie, who was something between a parlormaid and Sophie's nursemaid, came looking for Mrs. Blanchard.

“It's the Greenes' girl,” she told her, with a quick glance at Sophie that told her the situation was Not Quite Proper for a little girl to hear. “They say her time's come, and it's her first.”

The housekeeper sighed. “Bring me my basket then, that's a good girl,” she said. “You'll find it on the floor by the armchair in my bedroom. Mind you bring it quick, and don't go poking around my things.”

Sophie finished off the last few spoonfuls. “May I come, Mrs. Blanchard?” she said, slipping off the chair and gathering the plate and spoon to wash.

“You need to stay here in case your mother needs you, Miss Sophia,” said Mrs. Blanchard, taking the dishes from her into the scullery.

“She's got Maggie. Please, Mrs. Blanchard?”

“Very well, if you're quiet and stay out of my way.”

She took the basket Maggie brought her. “Go up and fetch your coat and hat, then, child, for the night chills have started.”

As Sophie scampered out Maggie watched her, hand on her hips. “You'll lose your place one of these days, if you don't mind me saying so, ma'am. Taking that child to see God-knows-what.”

“Mind yourself, girl,” replied Mrs. Blanchard, wrapping herself up in a woolen scarf that looked too knobby to be comfortable. “She needs something to keep her occupied now her brother's gone off to that University, until they get her a proper governess. Are you ready, then?” This to the child, who had scampered back into the kitchen, suitably attired although gloveless.

“Yes, Mrs. Blanchard,” she replied. “May I take your basket?”

“You might as well,” returned the housekeeper, and they ventured out—an odd sight, the little girl bustling behind the slow-moving woman, bearing an oversized basket, but one the neighborhood was used to and took little note of.

There was a chill in the air, and Sophie had forgotten her gloves, so she tucked her free hand into her coat pocket. Her numb fingers encountered something round and hard, and she absently caressed the rough texture of its surface.

Then she realized and pulled it out, still hurrying behind Mrs. Blanchard, squinting at the disk in the yellow lamplight. It was the medallion of St. Margaret.

She frowned. Surely she had put it away?

She must have picked it up again without noticing. Shrugging, she tucked the trinket away and hurried behind the housekeeper, the basket heavy in the crook of her arm.

Artemis sat at his accustomed table at the Cat and Whiskers, scanning the
Evening Standard
with a keen eye. Seeing little that interested him, he laid it aside and turned to the
Daily Telegraph
.

No reports of missing women between the columns of blurry typeface about housebreaking in Seven Dials and pickpockets in Hyde Park.

More than that, there was an
abiding feeling
that had pervaded him since the night he was lost in the fog. Something he hadn't known was there was lifted away revealing an awareness of a figure bent over a mutilated girl in a Whitechapel alley—gone.

The Gentleman was gone.

Riverbend

Fanny was trying to lose herself in the Mists again, but the ground remained maddeningly firm beneath her shoes and the fog would not enclose her. So she walked instead, away from the river this time, out across the fields and meadows where the fog should rise and either block her or allow her access to that other Riverbend, burnt and desolate but somehow more real than this.

But the air remained clear and she found herself walking across rolling fields she'd never seen before, velveted with a short, rough grass and starred everywhere with tiny white flowers. The ground beneath the grass was rocky and hard at the tops of the hillocks she crossed; softer and spongy in the little depressions between.

She turned and looked behind her. Far away there was a green haze where the woods about Riverbend grew, and a little white square where the plantation house stood. She could see the river. The air was absolutely clear.

There was a salty smell in the air, sharp and bracing. Fanny could almost taste it in the back of her throat: like brine, but not so sour. A cool breeze, freshening, stirred her hair.

A tan-gray smudge on the horizon grew bigger, and she looked down to see that she was walking along an old track, almost vanished in the rough grass. Ancient ruts from wagon wheels dipped on each
side in the spongy areas, and here and there in the hard-packed earth a row of worn bricks surfaced.

The smudge on the horizon was resolving itself into a structure: a house all twined about with vines. The path was leading her to it.

A frantic whirr almost under her feet startled her, and she jumped to the other side of the track. A quail, plump and gray and black, scurried from a thicket of long grass beside the path, dashing away across the plain, followed by four miniature versions of itself. At a distance, a long warbling cry—unfamiliar birdsong—sounded as dark-winged silhouettes rose from their nests on the ground. The only trees in sight were those surrounding the house.

The salty breeze was teasing goose pimples from her arms, but she didn't mind. Fanny had never felt so
alone
.

It felt good. She wondered how long the Mists would allow her to stay.

The house, big enough to be called a manor, reared high before her, three stories of rumpled glass staring past her to the horizon and what lay beyond. The vines that were roped across the old brick walls had thick, woody stems, as if they'd been there for a hundred years, and their leaves were dark green, almost black. In contrast the small flowers that peeked from the leaves were white, with a pale pink blush at the center.

She studied the imposing oak door, shut tight against the breeze, and knew it in her bones: the house was waiting, and not for her. There was a tension in it, like a dog that hears the voice of its master but cannot see him yet.

Fanny found herself holding her breath, waiting with the house.

A wrinkle, quickly smoothed, across the sky, and the windows rippled as if they were briefly made of water. The house trembled and stood still, and Fanny knew that whatever it had been waiting for had arrived.

“It's here.”

She didn't start, but a cold sweat broke across her at the sound of that voice behind her. Cautiously she turned her head.

The dark man from the Mists. He stood almost beside her, but had eyes only for the house.

He wore a suit she recognized as her father's. It was a little baggy on him, but suited him somehow—it would be impossible for him to be clownish. Her father himself was standing a few yards off. He looked confounded and angry.

“What is here? What do you see?” he called to the dark man, frustration and hope battling in his voice. He peered ahead under heavy brows, as if he couldn't see the sparkling clear day, as if he was enmeshed in …

Fog.

As if he was trying to see through the Mists.

Fanny realized he couldn't see the house right in front of them; he couldn't see
her
. He took a tentative step forward, hesitated, then called again.

“Where are you? Dammit, sir!”

The dark man looked down at Fanny and smiled. She looked back at him, expressionless. The peace of the day was gone.

The house was his object, though, and he followed the primitive path to the bottom of the steps that led to that solid door, the door that looked as if it would never open again, so sealed was that structure unto itself.

With a creak, the door opened. Fanny couldn't help a little startled jump.

A man stood in the doorway—but he couldn't have been inside a few minutes before. She knew the house had been empty, as alone as she was.

He was above middle height, and thin, and worn-looking. Not so tall as the dark man, but a little broader in the shoulders.

He looked stooped now, as if he hadn't slept in some time. His clothing was a little strange, with enough of the familiar to make it disconcerting—the tie was not quite right, the jacket not quite right, the trousers …

He looked down at the dark man and cocked his head, puzzled.

“I don't remember,” he said in a queer accent, different than the ones she was used to but not sharp like a Yankee's. He paused, as if speaking startled him.

“I don't like this,” called her father from behind them. The man in the doorway didn't seem to hear.

“Meadows,” he continued. “And … and Janet. Where are the servants?” He glanced around as if an assortment of maids and footmen should be waiting on the porch. “Shouldn't Janet be here? I sent her home from London.”

The dark man had been studying the other; now he drew himself up at attention.

“No sir,” he said. “I am your only servant, sir. The others have gone.”

He walked up the steps, slowly, as if the man might startle and retreat inside. But the man only watched him, seeming hypnotized.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do recognize your voice.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And … and you will forgive me? I'm not myself, as you know. But I can't seem to recall … what is your name?”

There was the merest pause while the dark man hesitated.

“Trueblood,” he said at last. His voice was polite but firm. “My name is Trueblood, Doctor Robarts.”

“Of course.” The other man—Robarts—looked as if he was going to emerge completely from the doorway.

“Your work, sir,” said Trueblood. “It's time you got back to it.”

“Ah,” said Robarts. “But I was just going to take a little walk, to clear my mind. A turn around Piccadilly, I thought.”

“But Piccadilly Square's in … London,” returned Trueblood, sounding out the name as if it was new to him. “And you've had your walk, sir, and now it's time to return to work.”

“Is it?” Robarts whispered. “Well, if I must.”

He turned back inside. “Come then, Trueblood,” he said, sounding brisker and not quite so old. “Come inside and help.”

Trueblood smiled. “Yes, sir.”

Without a backwards glance he entered the house and shut the door firmly behind him.

The windows were blank spans of glass now, blind. It was just a house sitting in a meadow, nothing alive about it, no longer
waiting
.

Alistair Weldon was still peering around him, lost in a fog Fanny couldn't see. She considered leaving him alone and letting him find his own way out.

But something stopped her, a queer feeling in the pit of her stomach that after a few seconds she recognized as pity. He reminded her of a turtle turned over in the sun.

He might leave the turtle; she wouldn't.

“Here, father.”

He looked round at her approach, blinking.

“Fanny? Is that you?”

There was a trace of fear in the gruff voice; she wondered who else he thought it could be.

“Fanny. How can you find your way about in this muck?”

“Come, Father. I'll show you the way home.”

She walked past him and found the path, walking slowly that he might follow. After a suspicious glance backward, he did.