The Devil & Lillian Holmes (3 page)

“I ate a rat, George! Are you satisfied? I ate a flea-riddled, scrawny rat. I was so weak I didn’t even try to catch the cat who vied for the very same meal.”

He stared at her for a moment. Then he stood and pulled her to her feet. “Oh, love, I’m sorry. I have had such times.”

She bit back tears and forced her body to stay still as he caressed her hair.
Do not let him see you shake.
She said nothing.

“Please, Lil. I know you are a strong woman—it is one reason I love you so—but you must trust me in matters of our ways. Perhaps I’ve been remiss, wanting to shield you from…”

“Self-loathing?”

He didn’t answer but closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. “Those first years are so hard. I remember them. It is onerous for me to see you in pain.”

She verbalized her recent decision, wondering if he would want to flee Marie soon. If he would force her to choose him or her daughter. “I am in no pain. I simply want to find my child. You will still help me, will you not?”

George paused. He was worried, she saw. He was strong but practical. Where was Annaluisa Pelosi? Their friend had purportedly gone to New Orleans to lead Madam Lucifer on a merry chase but had taken too long to return. The woman claimed some knowledge of Lillian’s mother also, but she had quit Baltimore before revealing her secrets.

I must find my baby,
Lillian vowed.

George kissed her hand and nodded. “I want to help you find your child, dear. Just…please be careful.” He indicated the desk drawer where she’d stowed her letter. “So, what does your hero write?”

“Nothing of great import.”

“I know that tone.” George leaned in, kissed her ear, and nibbled playfully at her neck. “What are you hiding? Let me see.”

“He is my
personal
friend.”

She stood to distract him with a kiss, but he pushed her back, holding her a foot away with a hand on each shoulder and staring into her eyes. “Am I to be jealous? What further secrets are there between us?”

“You should be quite jealous, for he is a great man and does not pen letters to you! Oh, you will be disappointed to hear that he no longer writes stories. I cannot bear to believe it is true.”

“That is rather shocking. Why would he stop?”

“He is more interested in the study of mystical phenomena.”

George laughed. “Ah, soothsayers and psychics, the scourge of every age. What a waste of talent.”

Lillian fought back annoyance. “I hardly think we are in the position to laugh at a man who might believe in vampires. In any case, he will be in Baltimore soon. Might we go hear him speak?”

“Did he specifically mention vampires?” George sat and rubbed at his forehead. “Oh, Lil, did you
tell
him?”

Well, Lillian, you are a special sort of idiot, are you not?

“Of course not! He mentioned his friendship with Mr. Bram Stoker; that is all.”

If she’d understood more when she’d written to him two months ago… If she’d only known how private she’d have to become! She’d lost her most beloved friend, Bess, to fear and secrecy. She’d sent her longtime companions Thomas and Addie off to the seaside and barely communicated with those servants who remained in her own home, her maid Aileen and Aileen’s young male siblings. None openly questioned the constant presence of the broodsome George, but they would in time wonder why the two ventured out primarily during odd hours and no longer took meals. And why they were not engaged.

How many times had she told Bess that no husband was better than the wrong husband? George adored her, lavished her with attention, tolerated her need for adventure, her eccentricities in a way no ordinary mortal man of society would. He was her maker, her mentor. No matter her recent struggles with existence, George had captivated her, body and soul. But,
wedding?
It was laughable. While she’d long ago given up the idea of a normal home life and family, her present state ensured nothing would be normal.

Give it a bit more time, George had said. The murder, the blood, the hollowness—it would all pass, he promised. But she’d seen the worry in his eyes. It did not pass for every one of them. No, some went insane and killed themselves. Some ate their own kind, grew very strong and flaunted the rules. Marie de Bourbon was one of those, Madame Lucifer herself.

Lillian and George had drunk from one another a few times, a dark adventure that stirred passion she hadn’t imagined could exist. And yet, no one had arrived to wreak justice upon her. George had assured her it was not a sin—well, not a sin by their standards—and that they would not become cannibals unless one drained the other completely. Not like Madame Lucifer…who also went unpunished.

The Elders: the few who had lived for many millennia without insanity or cannibalism. How many were there? George hadn’t been sure, although legend told of twelve brothers, all powerful, all the first generation of two damned parents. But, out of how many? Thousands and thousands of vampires through the years, likely. Many now gone. Mortals were weak but always a danger. Damn it, didn’t Bram Stoker himself seem to understand what it took to kill vampires? And she had written to Mr. Doyle, his good friend…

“Please, dear, let me see the letter.” George hooded his eyes, and Lil knew he suppressed the urge to force his will upon her as her maker. She admired that he never played that very special card, although she’d witnessed him press his brother Phillip that way.

What have I done? Surely Mr. Doyle is no danger?

She opened the drawer and handed the letter to George. He took a seat and read, mumbling and groaning at times. She busied herself with another project, trying to repair her riding goggles that had been run over by a trolley the night before.

“Wedding?” he murmured with a quick glance at her. Then, “I know that you adore your Sherlock and his creator, but you must now agree with me that a continued connection with the author is out of the question. You must never meet.”

“Hmnnn.” Lil didn’t look up from her project. It was
hopeless
without Thomas around. Of course, George would not allow her to employ her former butler at the house anymore. He’d seen too much, including the corpses George had left on her living room floor.

“I would like to know something about this Learned Order of Psychic Scholars. Sounds like a ridiculous name your little Irregulars would create.”

“I call the boys my Musketeers. Still, your mistake is understandable.”

“The Learned Order. Aging men with time on their hands—”

Lillian knew she was being bull-headed, but she couldn’t stop herself. She took a deep breath to steady her hands as she pried at a screw. A bit of medicine would be welcome now as a finger of anxiety coiled in her stomach. “Why should
you
worry about aging men with time on their hands? What can they mean to us?”

George folded the letter and tapped it against his hand as he stared out the window. He looked over his shoulder after a moment and said, “You think us invincible? Your Mr. Doyle is unlikely as simple as most in this city. Leave him be, Lil. Promise me.”

Lillian thought of her fantasy Uncle Sherlock. She had so little of her former self left. “I will not give up on my investigations!”

“No, of course not. You simply must be more careful. You are not to see Mr. Doyle, ever. Am I clear?”

His tone slapped her. He’d not chastised her once since she met him, since she’d seen him leaping from her neighbor’s balcony, since the moment she began to love him. But now…

“You are quite clear,
sir.”

George was silent.

“Annaluisa should have returned by now,” Lillian offered after a time. She knew George fretted about their friend. He worried about Marie de Bourbon. He worried about her. That was why he was being so strict. So…fatherly.

George turned and nodded but still looked distracted. “Yes, several weeks ago. Or at least sent word. But that is not all.”

“No? What, then?”

“A feeling. Not a very pleasant one. The hairs on my neck prickle and I’m unsettled, and I’m not prone to flights of fancy like you.”

Lillian eyed him balefully. “Perhaps a bottle of Mrs. Winslow’s remedy to soothe you?” When he did not bite she realized he was quite serious. “George, look at me. Tell me what this dread is.”

“Dread? Why, yes, I suppose it is dread. I cannot rid myself of the feeling that Marie de Bourbon is already near. Waiting.”

Lillian’s heart raced, though his pronouncement was unsurprising. She’d felt the same concern from time to time but associated it with being a newborn vampire unused to the myriad sensations and urges that came upon her at strange hours.

“Do you feel the presence of your vampire children?” she asked. Madame Lucifer was George’s spawn as much as she was his brother’s long-ago wife. “Do you know when
I’m
about?”

“No, I do not feel your presence as much as I anticipate and crave your nearness. And I released Marie’s bond very long ago, to the detriment of all of us. Even so, she possesses the strength of many from her cannibalism and thus is no child.” He remarked almost wryly, “I am quite shocked that our Elder has not cut her down. Perhaps he is not yet aware of her exploits.”

“Our Elder? We
personally
have an Elder? I am confused. Why have you not told me everything? This talk of vampiring comes in dribs and drabs.”

George arched an eyebrow and waved her letter in the air. It was a second slap, and well deserved. She sat down.

“I was not a very successful mortal,” she said. “It seems I am a worse vampire.”

George didn’t correct her, and she hoped that he simply hadn’t heard. She went to his side and rubbed his shoulders, thinking,
Please,
please,
tell me it will be fine.

“Would that you could massage this overwrought brain of mine,” he murmured instead. “While you have finally given me reason to want to survive, I’m terrified about your safety. And certainly Phillip and Kitty are at risk.” George took her hand and pressed a kiss to it. “Lil, we should leave Baltimore. Annaluisa has sent no word. I know Marie will find us, and I know that she is here. We are out of time.”

Lillian’s heart sank. She had hoped for another month or even a few weeks before this confrontation, all time to continue her search for her baby. Now she would have to follow George or abandon him. She did not think she could abandon him.

What did she know about her child, anyway? The Hebrew Orphan Asylum had once cradled her but had little interest in helping Lillian find the girl again. The stern director had looked over her spectacles at Lillian and done the arithmetic quickly.

“Seven years old? I’m afraid no girl here is that age. Are you quite sure?”

“I was sixteen,” Lil had murmured, clenching her bag lest her hands shake.
You don’t dare look at me like that! Blame the scoundrel who took me against my will. Blame the physician who was complicit in the cover-up. Blame the world for wanting to lock me away and for stealing my baby.

“Sixteen? I see. How unfortunate. I wish I could be of assistance, but these matters are treated delicately, and we rarely learn the true surname of a child. Are you sure she was left with us?”

Was she sure? Perhaps her governess and butler had been wrong about that as well. Lillian wasn’t sure of anything. Someone should have tortured the truth from the Jackal and Dr. Schneider before George killed them.

“My baby,” she whispered.

George brushed her cheek. “We will return when it is safe. Your child is no longer a baby and could live anywhere. I promised I would help, and help you I will.”

“Where would we go? Might I have a few days just to try again to find her?” Lillian found herself asking against logic. “If only Bess could help. She is quite smart and would be willing…if she didn’t loathe me. I wonder how she fares.”

“Bess would never loathe you,” George said. “She is hurt at your secrecy. Give it time, Lil.”

At her look, he ran his hand through his hair and blew out a breath. “I know, I know, I’ve said that too often lately. I did my best to prepare you for the isolation. It is not something words can adequately convey.”

“Indeed,” she acknowledged. “But, then, I am used to being alone.”

What had she done with her time before spending day and night with George, learning the basics of “vampiring,” a term she’d coined to amuse George? Most of her new life came seamlessly, innately, if she found herself questioning it later. She hungered and fed on the scum of the city, creatures who were monstrous in their own right. She grew tired in the sun and sought shelter. She slept less and moved about the city less, not knowing when or if someone might recognize her nature or ask a too-probing question. And still, while the police had accepted their explanation for the deaths of the Jackal and Schneider, deaths overall had risen in the city.

Risen by perhaps a third, Lil reasoned. Phillip, George, and now she were adding to the toll. And of course there might be others in this city that had no ruling House, no allegiances or long history. The city detectives must be wearing through a lot of shoe leather.

“I do miss my reading, George; there’s so little time without Addie and Thomas’s help about the place. How trivial that must sound to you! And yet, my books have been my solace for so many years…”

All my escapes are gone.
Just one pill, she wondered, what would one little pill do?

“Not at all, dear,” George said. “The things that made you special are never trivial. Do not insult me that way. I value your odd ways and…I understand your desire to find your daughter. Let me discuss these matters with my brother. Phillip has a fairly clear head at all times.”

Lillian jumped. Her little charges had burst through the front door, her maid Aileen O’Shaunessy and Aileen’s beau Officer Johnnie Moran hurrying behind. Lillian smiled at the boys. These were her Irregulars who called themselves the Musketeers. She smiled also at the flush on Aileen’s cheeks. Had the maid’s beau finally proposed?

She rushed to the girl’s side and reached for her hand, hoping to congratulate her, but Aileen pulled quickly away.