Renegade (15 page)

He hoped that his eyes had been playing tricks on him, and that he had not actually seen that creature. He’d never believed those old bedtime stories, the old myths. And yet he had been so certain. He wondered vaguely if he was going batty.

“Will ye bide on me?” John asked, running toward the shore and disappearing behind some rocks, near where Frank had thought that he’d seen the creature.

“Be quick, man—it’s start’n to pour,” Franklin shouted after him, frustrated that John couldn’t wait to use the pub lavy. He felt vaguely uneasy, and moved under a copse of trees closer to shore. He pulled his jacket up over his head for some protection from the pelting rain. When, after about a quarter of an hour, John still hadn’t returned, Franklin felt annoyed.

And concerned.

“John!” Franklin yelled above the thunder. “John!” He cupped his hands around his mouth.

No answer.

A fear rose within him that he wanted to ignore. The fear made him feel foolish. Why did he give credence to the bedtime stories? The night was chilly, but he felt perspiration on his forehead.

“Don’t be stupid,” he muttered out loud to himself, embarrassed by his rising fear. “John!” he shouted again, although through the rain, his shouts would not carry far.

Finally, Franklin walked to the shore, easing his way toward the enormous pile of rocks where John had disappeared. When he reached the mound, he stopped, horrified.

That woman-creature—that lamia, that carnivorous selkie, whatever she was—crouched before him, her body hunched over something on the dark muddy sand. In a flash of lightning, he saw her wet hair draped across her scaly belly like a nut-gold blanket. She had long, greenish, scaled arms that became increasingly scaly and bloodstained toward the claws. There was something mythical, something hypnotic about her terrible beauty. And even as he saw her fangs, even as her bloody lips curled away from them in a snarl, he felt mesmerized by her form. He could not move.

Franklin felt only vague horror at her crouch as she inched toward him, her movement that of a predator over a prey. Her greenish serpentine eyes slitted, dilated, and then focused upon him.

The instinct to run rose within him, and yet he could not, even as she came closer. He felt arrested by her gaze. The rain had lightened, and some sort of eerie calm settled around them. Her blood-stained face became less startling; he heard the echoes of the fairy tales his gran had told him in a sweet, soothing voice. These stories were not terrible; they were of fairies, of elves, and would lull him, make him warm. Cocooned. Secure.

The creature was almost upon him. In fact, he could smell her scent of saltwater and blood.

Stupidly he muttered, “Selkie?”

“Oh no, my lad, much worse.”

Her voice was old, layered. He thought of aged wine.

There was only a little pain.

Thirteen

T
he dream started out lovely. I was swimming somewhere in the depths of the ocean, seeing creatures I had never seen before—seals, stingrays, porpoises—and craggy underwater caves and caverns. It felt both soothing and exhilarating. But I had an uncanny sense of déjà vu , and, remembering my vision of the lamia, I stretched my body out in the water. I saw talons instead of fingernails; my breast and entire body had grown and were covered in scales. My hair swirled in the water, hazelnut and long. Buttery gold. But I was not me. I was some sort of creature—the mythical lamia.

“Abbie.”

My heart pounded as I heard Max’s voice in my head.

“Abbie.”

His voice came out sharp and clear. I hadn’t heard it in months, and intuitively, I knew that this was more than a nightmare.

Wake up. Wake up.
I willed myself desperately to wake up.

When I finally awoke, I found myself drenched in sweat and I couldn’t catch my breath. My chest felt as if it was seizing upon itself. Pulling apart my bed curtains, I sat up and saw that it was near daybreak.

Max. He was somewhere, summoning me. He had to be behind the dreams of the lamia. But it didn’t make sense.

I forced myself to be calm, to deal only with one issue at a time. I felt certain that Max had spoken to me, sent me a vision, and I had to warn William and Simon that he had returned to us.

On my way out, I told Richard, who had just taken Jupe outside, that I had to be at work early that morning. He looked at me curiously. I usually didn’t work on Saturdays, but I hurried away before he could ask me any questions. I practically ran to Simon’s house, hoping that his mother was away at her seaside place and that his sisters were not at home. I wanted to speak to Simon alone.

A pert young maid in a crisp dress answered the door. I hadn’t seen her at the St. John’s residence before. The other servants knew who I was, but she looked up and down my work dress and pinafore with distaste.

“I must speak to Dr. St. John.”

She did not open the door fully. “He is at breakfast … ”

I pushed past her.

“Miss!” she shouted behind me.

Quickly, I found my way to the dining room where Simon sat eating alone, already dressed for work at Whitechapel Hospital.

“Abbie,” he said, standing, alarmed. I thought I must look terrible. Ill, perhaps. I felt panicked.

“He’s returned,” I whispered.

“You must sit down.” He lead me quickly to a chair in the dining room. “You are pale. You must eat something.”

After another servant brought in breakfast, Simon shut all the doors. I was almost annoyed by his considerate, practiced attention. I was in no mood to eat, and sipped nothing but some tea. I told him about my nightmare, about hearing Max’s voice last night loud and clear in my head. Then I told him about what I saw that night in Highgate Cemetery, about that woman with the uncanny resemblance to Mariah, about the strange figures. I also told him about my exchange with Abberline where he showed me the sketch of the Conclave’s symbol.

Simon was silent for a few moments. Sunlight began to flood the breakfast room; it was almost blinding upon the pale daisy wallpaper as it glinted off the mirrors. I heard a great clatter; a servant somewhere must have dropped a bundle of silverware. It felt odd, discussing such unbelievable matters in ordered, comfortable Kensington.

“I would have spoken to you sooner,” I said quickly. “But I worked so many hours at New Hospital this week, and I assumed that William had at least told you about the stolen child.”

“He did not. Of course, on that night, I was not at the hospital. But he should have told me the next day.” Simon’s extraordinarily pale face flushed, almost pink in anger. “You should know, Abbie, that immediately after … ” He cut himself off, unable to proceed.

“After William and I parted ways.” Speaking it plainly to Simon saddened me, but it needed to be said.

He cleared his throat. “Yes. And ever since you left us, William has been extraordinarily … irresponsible. On Wednesday, when he arrived at work, I suspected that he had been drinking too much. He has been working late hours this week, it’s true, but he’s also been arriving far too late in the morning. This Thursday, he didn’t arrive until almost noon. And if, as it seems, a child was taken from our ward, that is a serious security issue. I have heard nothing about this matter, and I must confront him regarding this issue.”

I knew the weight of the word “confront” in an interaction between William and Simon. But why hadn’t William said anything to Simon? That did indeed seem negligent—“extraordinarily irresponsible,” as Simon had put it.

I bit my lip before taking a long sip of tea. “The children have to be safe.”

Simon said nothing. He was silent, deep in thought, his blond brows furrowed.

“What do we do about all of this?” I asked. I could make no sense of any of it, and I felt as if something terrible was being played out. That Max was somehow behind it. And I felt like he was reeling me in, pulling me toward him. But it all seemed so indecipherable, and I was at a loss about how to react.

Simon sat quietly, thoughtfully, for a few seconds. Then his blond eyebrows drew together and he said, “In terms of Inspector Abberline, I am not terribly concerned with his knowledge of the symbol. It is, after all, on that painting in the laboratory closet. Furthermore, it is not unlikely that he saw it on one of the Conclave member’s arms. What does matter, however, is that he does not learn of its significance. And it seems that he has not.”

“If he does,” I said bleakly, “he is a dead man.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“These Highgate Cemetery murders and the Ripper murders might be unconnected,” I surmised. “The cannibalism could have been committed by a random crazed lunatic. That woman might have merely looked like Mariah. Perhaps I am jumping to conclusions.”

“And perhaps you are not.” Simon picked up the morning edition of the
Times
, turning it over so that I could see the headline:

More cannibalism and murder in Brompton Cemetery.

Fourteen

O
n the way to New Hospital that day, I felt stunned. Three more resurrection men had been murdered and cannibalized, in Brompton Cemetery in Southwest London, the night before. The murders were almost identical in nature to those that had occurred in Highgate Cemetery. My dream of the lamia—Max’s voice in the dream—these murders—I had no specific evidence that they were connected, yet I felt great unease. Nothing made sense, and it was maddening. Simon and I had agreed to be on guard, to communicate everything to each other from that point forward. I feared for William’s safety, but Simon assured me that he would relay to William everything that happened.

Even though it was Saturday, Simon was going to work as well. Although I was not expected at New Hospital, the last thing I felt like doing was returning to Kensington and doing nothing.

“Abbie, be extraordinarily careful. I’ll call upon you soon,” Simon said as we took our leave.

“Of course.”

But he held my arm a moment longer, his level gaze half-serious, half-amused. I loved the way Simon could communicate so well with his expression. I could tell he was remembering how foolhardy I’d been last autumn, when I’d traveled to Whitechapel Hospital by myself at night.

I smiled a little. “Of course, Simon. I’ll be very careful.”

He said nothing, but I knew he was not reassured.

I returned to Grandmother’s house in the late afternoon, my arms heavy with medical and anatomy books. I had spent the entire day following Dr. Davis around the wards, aiding her in deliveries and prenatal exams, but before I left, Dr. Anderson met with me briefly to give me the books. They would help me study for my examinations in the fall.

When I walked through the door, Richard met me with a note. Once again, I felt warmly toward him for safeguarding all of my mail. “Thank you, Richard,” I said, my heart skipping a beat when I saw that the message was from William. I tore it open as soon as I reached the privacy of my bedroom.

The note contained only three words:
I believe you.

Grandmother, fortunately, was at Lady Violet’s home for the evening. She wouldn’t be back until late. I felt grateful for this, as it saved me from having to argue with her about going out again. Swiftly, I washed my face and removed my work pinafore, but I didn’t even bother changing out of my work dress.

Just before leaving, I paused at my bedroom door.

“Be extraordinarily careful,” Simon had said.

I flew to my closet and opened the trunk where I kept many of Mother’s things. The lamia portrait hung upon the closet wall, above the trunk. In spite of my hurry, I had to pause to stare at it. In the dim light of my bedroom, in that moment, I began to see it differently.

The painting had a stark beauty to it. More than in any of Rossetti’s other works, there was something raw, more than mythical, about it. Gabriel had taken great care to make Mother look human as well as monstrous, and I thought his depiction of her was nothing less than brilliant. A bleakness marked her features, under the haze of sunlight. Her face seemed tragic. Sand was smeared among her hands, and wiry green seaweed dangled from her red locks like bold tendrils.

What are you trying to tell me, Mother?