The Devil & Lillian Holmes (6 page)

“It is one of the commandments.”

“
Vater
is fond of his commandments, it is true.” The ancient stopped and faced Chauncey, who tried to take a step back but couldn’t.

Father. Atil.
Which son was this?

“Vasili. Vasil. Basel. Your choice.”

Vasil, as Chauncey had heard him called for decades, smiled, his pale cheeks flushing. Except for his build, with his waist-length pale golden hair and flawless fine features he looked nearly like a beautiful woman. He cocked his head to the side for a moment, and Chauncey squirmed under his scrutiny and at the unfamiliar pull the creature had. It felt for all the world like falling in love. He wanted desperately for the Elder to leave, and at the same time he never wanted to be parted from him.

“And now we sit,” Vasil said and motioned to a low stone retaining wall. He moved close to Chauncey and took his arm, made the burning come alive again. Then he chuckled and said, “What we will do for the love of a beautiful woman! I should say, what
you
will do. I am not so drawn to beautiful women.”

“Please don’t harm Phoebe! She is no cannibal!”

“You will stop speaking now, yes?” Vasil scratched his overlong nails on his trousers, making a noise that sounded like trolley wheels squealing loudly only inches away. Chauncey covered his ears and tried to ask Vasil to stop, but he couldn’t make a sound.

“Good. Just so, you already suspect that I will destroy your Phoebe, and not in a kind fashion, should you refuse my order. Of course, your life is at risk as well. And for good measure I will add everyone you ever turned. You are a guilt-ridden man, so that should make your decision so much easier. I am generous, am I not?”

Vasil rubbed the backs of his fingers lightly along Chauncey’s jaw, setting that side of his face afire. Chauncey nodded, wondering what he could do for Vasil that Vasil could not do for himself.

“The first commandment is…?”

Again, Chauncey could only nod.
Do not breed.

“Correct. Offspring, in the extremely unlikely event they survive, can tear the curtain between our world and the next. We would not like that, now would we? We survive forever here, but what awaits us on the other side of that curtain?” Vasil shuddered dramatically and pulled his cloak tighter around him. “At least,
Vater
does not wish to perish in Hell just yet. Perhaps someday. So, that brings me to you!” He patted Chauncey’s arms happily. “Just so!”

“What the hell does this have to do with me?” Chauncey realized he’d been allowed to speak, and he wished he had chosen different phrasing. Chatting with Vasil felt like dancing through a field of sharp-toothed animal traps.

“Yes, so you will take care of a little problem for me. You will kill Madam Lucifer.”

“My maker? That is also forbidden! How would I do that?”

Vasil waved away Chauncey’s objections. “She flaunts her broken commandments, yes? She is one of the cannibals who has neither gone
completely
insane nor become at all penitent. So you will kill her. And so, Phoebe lives on happily, as do you, and I may go home.”

“You could kill her with a glance! I cannot harm her.”
I would like to,
he realized.
With all my being, I would like to.

“And, moreover,” Vasil continued, ignoring him, “you will kill everyone who is dear to her, who is near to her. Her maker, her children…anyone you can find.”

“I thought you didn’t care about cannibals?”

“Madam Lucifer claims to have bred. Whether she did or not, it would be good to kill her, no? Pleasurable for you, no?”

“How? I’m no match for her! You could—”

“Tsk, tsk. Manners, please. It is not a request. I choose not to approach a torn curtain.”

“I still do not know how,” Chauncey said.
I will fail, and Phoebe will die.

“Silence! Your chattering annoys me.” His girlish smile gone, Vasil’s blue eyes flashed black until he closed them and blew out a deep, freezing breath. He withdrew a small gold vial on a chain from his cloak and let it swing in the air, which rippled and shimmered along that arc. “A few drops, that is all. Marie will want it, crave it, which will make your task easy!”

Chauncey recoiled. The vial seemed to have life, to stretch and breathe on its own.

“Take it. It will not bite.” Vasil laughed loudly, sending more birds aloft.

Chauncey extended his hand, eyes closed. Vasil clucked and leaned forward, put the chain around his neck.

The cold hit his chest but gradually abated. “What is it?”

“Elder blood.” Vasil shrugged. “Mine. Not the most potent, but it will easily do. Use it wisely.”

“Won’t it make her stronger? Elder blood makes one invincible!”

“As we said, some legends are true, some are not. Some are…less black and white.”

Chauncey nodded, anxious now for Vasil to leave him alone. “Where will I find her?”

Vasil waved his hand again, and Chauncey looked away lest he annoy the ancient further.

“We will likely not meet again, my handsome friend.” Then Vasil kissed him on each cheek and disappeared. The void he left cut through Chauncey like the worst grief ever felt. Why wasn’t he relieved instead?

Chauncey rose and tucked the vial under his coat. It reminded him that he hadn’t been dreaming.

CHAPTER FIVE

A Scotsman arrives in town.

Arthur looked at his pocket watch for the third time and let out a sigh, bringing on a cough that made his chest rumble. The voyage had not been restful, and he didn’t feel himself. His lectures in New York were well attended, but except for a very few spectators he knew they wanted to hear about his stories and not about his serious studies. America had not caught up to the notion that he’d put aside fancy for the fantastical.

Perhaps this leg of his journey would differ. Hopefully the Learned Order attracted more serious investigators into spiritism. At the moment, he wasn’t terribly impressed with the city or his host. While Americans didn’t seem to be able to keep their trains to a schedule, he wasn’t so late that Donnelly should have given up.

He bought a paper on the platform and took the stairway to the general reception area, a sorry place imitating a much grander relative in New York. It smelled, however, like every rail station he’d visited—of coal, soot, hot metal, and the faint aromas of burnt coffee and stale tobacco. Taking a seat on a centrally located bench lest someone try to pick his pocket, he scanned the crowd for his contact, taking in the slightly different mix of people Baltimore seemed to offer. Some familiar characters: the shoeblack, the newsie, a shabby man with a telltale bulbous nose brought on by overindulgence, a few confused-looking immigrants, some Italian, some Irish… Those were the same at nearly every station.

Standing among them, as still and erect as a statue, a beautiful young woman stared at the station’s great clock, which was as big as an elephant, and compared it to her own small pocket watch. Arthur fixed on her, wondering why she intrigued him so much aside from her lovely face. Her deep green dress, matching feathered hat, and raven hair brought out a very pale complexion, but as much as he tried he couldn’t characterize her further except for being from wealth.

At another time in his life he might have constructed a great mystery around her person, to have it unravel before his readers with painstaking care. She reminded him of no one he’d ever known, although he’d penned such exemplary figures into his stories. He thought briefly of his wife, once nearly as lovely as this mysterious female. She’d languished for years with tuberculosis and a premature dementia, both illnesses that seemed unwilling to take her, unwilling to let her go. Drink had nursed him through the first awful months after Louisa stopped recognizing him, but good friends had convinced him to put that down and face the bleak truth. Yet from the misery of grieving her before she was dead Arthur dearly needed this break.

The young lady looked worried and glanced at the clock again. She scanned the crowd as well and tapped her gloves on her palm as the conductor held up the placard that announced the imminent departure of a train to Chicago and points west.

“There you are!” she cried at the sight of an elderly pair shuffling toward her, a porter following quickly with a trunk in tow. Arthur folded his paper and stood, feigning interest in the placard so he could get a bit closer. The woman didn’t notice him.

“You must hurry! What took so long? Oh, never mind. Here, Addie, let me take that.”

The elderly woman and man exchanged a quick embrace with her.
Parents?
No, too old. Some other relation perhaps.

“I told Thomas we should have left sooner, as one never knows—”

“Don’t worry about that now, Addie! Go on, I will follow behind.”

Addie and the porter moved toward the tunnel to the platform, and Arthur moved another few steps to listen.

“Hurry, Thomas, please do catch up to Addie!”

But the elderly man would not be brushed off easily. He was bent and used a cane, but Arthur could picture a time when the tall lean man stood proud. A veteran of the War Between the States, he surmised. He’d seen many in New York, most of them drifters and homeless, and so many with cut-off limbs. A crueler war he’d never heard of. Arthur silently asked the young woman to treat this crippled friend or relative with respect and tenderness.

“Now, Lillian, tell me that you will be careful while we’re in Chicago. That young man is looking after you, isn’t he?”

“Of course, Thomas. Trust me! With the Jackal gone from this world, I am in no danger.”

Thomas scowled. “Aye, your young man killed him. We know, and we are grateful.”

The young woman named Lillian grimaced. “I suspected you knew the entire sequence of events. Yes, George rescued me—and would let no further harm come to me, so you needn’t worry about a thing!”

“You don’t look yourself, Lil.” The woman named Addie seemed concerned but forced herself to shake the feeling off. “Well, Constable Moran is around all the time now, isn’t he? He’ll also help if you need it. We miss you, dear.”

The young woman’s face softened, and she stood on tiptoes to place a sweet kiss on the man’s cheek that made Arthur sigh in approval. “Take care of that leg,” she said, “and take care of Addie. Enjoy your stay with your cousin! Now, hurry! And do write to me!”

The conductor waved the placard and gave the final call. The young woman’s shoulders dropped, from tension falling away or sadness weighing her down, Arthur couldn’t tell, as the conductor helped the older man with his bag.

Just another ordinary scene, Arthur decided: a woman seeing off relations on a journey of no consequence. Except that they had discussed the murder of someone called the Jackal. Most extraordinary! Why he’d felt the need to spy…

Well, old habits died hard, certainly.
But you are only a simple doctor,
he thought,
with not even the bravery of John Watson, much less his great friend.
This matter was for American police. Still, Arthur gave himself high marks for curiosity, although his wife’s urgings to live only vicariously through his fiction had grated on their marriage. He barely knew how much of his current character was formed of natural cowardice and how much Luisa’s constant nagging to stay close to home.

Arthur broke from his ruminations when the young woman turned and caught his stare. She froze. Her assessment grew curious, and he feared that he’d been caught eavesdropping. Was this Lillian dangerous? A murderess herself? His blood ran cold.

But you are in a public place, and she is a slender female.
Arthur looked over his shoulder to ensure the police officer patrolling the station was still present.

The young woman tilted her head, raised a quizzical brow, and turned toward the grand entrance. It was if she might have recognized him, but that would be ever so unlikely. Whatever small fame he’d garnered in America, he knew only three people in Baltimore, and none of them well.

Oh, and he’d corresponded with that woman whose letters were certainly not typical of the dozens of inquiries he received monthly. He made a mental note to inquire about her before leaving town, but he truly doubted she shared company with his companions, a group of stern scholars, eccentric psychics, and fellow writers. What was her first name? Miss Holmes, he recalled, but he should have brought her letter with him, which also would have contained her address.

A pity he’d left it at home.

CHAPTER SIX

A troubling pest returns.

Lillian hid behind an ornamental column of the Union Station building, watching for the emergence of the Staring Man. How could she have been so stupid, letting Thomas speak openly of a murder in such a setting?

Once sure she hadn’t been followed, she waited for the stranger to appear. The October sun should be less strong, she grumbled to herself. While she didn’t mind the daytime as much as George, it
did
have some effect on her, turning her mood a bit dourer, draining her energy. But so essential was it to get her former governess and butler out of Baltimore, she’d arranged for a grand trip for the brother and sister. They would stay in Chicago with their cousin for several weeks and then see some of the Western wonders that intrigued Thomas so much. A shame, the great White City was long gone from Chicago. Even Lillian would have liked to see its spectacular offerings.

Lillian leaned in an unladylike fashion against the building, not caring much what anyone thought, exhausted by so many threads that needed mending, required her attention. She couldn’t put everyone in Baltimore on a train. What of Aileen and the boys? What would Phillip do about Kitty? And she thought of Bess with a pang of hurt that was never far away. Bess had perhaps come upon the truth of Lillian’s existence but had evidently not shared her knowledge with anyone else. That proof of her love frustrated Lillian even more.

“I would have my Watson back,” she whispered. But, no. Bess was now out of harm’s way. She wouldn’t suffer Annaluisa’s fate.