The Double Life of Incorporate Things (Magic Most Foul)
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Authors: Leanna Hieber
The Double Life of
Incorporate Things
The finale of Magic Most Foul
by
Leanna Renee Hieber
© 2013 by Leanna Renee Hieber
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews, without written permission from the author.
Cover and interior design by Stephen H. Segal
Cover photo by Nik Merkulov/Fotolia
Published by Deus Ex Victoriana
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“There are some qualities—some incorporate things,
That have a double life, which thus is made
A type of that entity which springs
From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.”
—Edgar Allan Poe
October, 1880
The New York Herald
:
MADISON MADNESS—”MOURNING” HOOLIGANS
WAGE RAMPAGE ON CITY
Saturday night, a horde of black-clad youths, men and women in an altered state, recklessly endangered themselves and others in a sprawling public fit following a “wake” at the home of the British Emissary’s daughter Lavinia Kent. The Kents have lived in New York City for nearly six years. While her family was out of town, it seems Miss Kent threw a soiree that Poe in all his ridiculous dark abandon would have envied for one of his tall tales. Even Miss Kent’s poor chaperone was persuaded to partake in “The Cure”: a chemical concoction promised to obliterate melancholy and despair.
Miss Kent chairs the group known as “Her Majesty’s Association for Melancholy Bastards,” a group affiliated with British actor Nathaniel Veil. When asked why they were all dressed in funereal attire, one girl known only as Raven—presumably in honor of Mr. Poe—said she’d come not only to partake of The Cure but for a wake. (Though no one had died.) They were, it was said, in “mourning for their life.”
Those who took the substance, which could be inhaled as a powder or mixed into a fluid and consumed, were then purportedly changed mentally and physically. An hour after imbibing the concoction, the party charged up Madison Avenue, howling and tossing aside anything or anyone in their paths. Witnesses described superhuman strength, mesmerism, and suggestion. Those who encountered the mob said the youths held onlookers in thrall, even as they were roughhoused and bullied.
After a while, horrified onlookers said the crowd simply collapsed, silk frocks and coattails ruined, mourning veils shredded. Strewn on lawns and street corners, the youth had to be roused by various officers of the peace. Most, once roused, fainted dead away again or began weeping. “We’re not animals,” Raven insisted. “We don’t lose our heads like this. Nathaniel will be so angry with us.” Miss Kent herself declined to comment.
Whether Nathaniel Veil had any hand in this mess is unclear save for the association with his Association. The fact that this could be a mere publicity stunt has escaped no one. Veil recently returned to England to continue his run of ACROSS THE VEIL, a show on Gothic themes, musings on life, death, and dramatic explorations of the paranormal. (A show, this newspaper might add, that did not receive a favorable review within these pages.) After this little interlude he may want to be wary of his welcome back as he is slated to return for another run at the Astor by the end of next month.
Participants in the incident were charged with disrupting the peace and public drunkenness. A search for the provider of said “cure” is being launched by police, albeit with skepticism. Is there really a drug at work here or was this an excuse to lash out? Surely it’s merely sheer, overdramatic hooliganism at its morbidly dressed worst.
I set the paper down slowly enough to see the thin edges shake as the full, personal impact of the newspaper article hit me.
“Natalie, what is it?” Jonathon asked, staring at me with those eviscerating blue eyes of his. I opened my mouth but no sound came out. Damn my unpredictable, inconstant voice.
For the past many months now, I’d been pummeled by one strange event after another, pulled into the center of a paranormal whirlpool. At least in this case, we had an inkling, some sense of the next onslaught. Still, a foreshadow was hardly a comfort. We couldn’t have guessed the scope.
Now it wasn’t just myself or Jonathon Whitby, Lord Denbury, in danger, with the occasional collateral victim. Now it was a crowd. I knew the Association. I adored them. They weren’t hooligans or criminals, they were gentle souls, artistic and individual. Overdramatic, yes, but a threat? Hardly. This maligning was the work of The Master’s Society, turning lambs into lions in ungodly experiments, leaving them for fodder in sensational, indelicate journalism. It could only get worse. Exponentially worse.
“It’s begun,” I finally managed to reply quietly, sliding the paper across the lacquered console table behind the sofa toward Jonathon’s reach. “Another phase. They’ve gone after the Association. And the papers will vilify those poor dears, every last one of them. Jonathon, the demons won’t give up...”
I rose nervously, going to the lace-covered window of Mrs. Evelyn Northe’s fine parlor so I might watch New York City’s richest and finest parade about Fifth Avenue, Central Park their magnificent backdrop, while Jonathon read the article that had so upset me.
Once he finished he looked up, tossing the paper onto a nearby writing desk. “Indeed. The demons seem hell-bent on making everyone else as miserable as they must be. Well then, let’s find that laboratory where that damnable concoction was brewed.” His upper-class British accent made his words crisp and biting, his tone laced with a bitter undercurrent; he was a man ready to go to war. “Shall we?”
I turned to him as a trolley car rumbled downtown, the rattle of the long cab matching my nerves. Jonathon was across the room, sitting tall and composed in a blue armchair upholstered in a fabric as expensive as his black suit. The blue of the chair magnified the shocking ice blue of his eyes. Waves of onyx locks framed his handsome face and completed the elegant symphony of blue and black. I wondered if there would ever come a time when he wouldn’t take my breath away when I turned to look at him. Or if I’d ever stop being terrified of losing him.
“Jonathon, no, we can’t go,” I finally replied. “You’ve been compromised. You can’t play the demon. Remember the note?”
“Ah yes.” He smiled, a bit too confidently. “This note?”
He dipped a hand to an interior pocket and pulled out two items, a folded paper and an envelope. He opened the first folded paper, showcasing one line of neat black script that had chilled me to the bone. Even from across the room the words hissed:
“They’re coming for you.”
The phrase had become a recent feature in my nightmares. “Yes, that note,” I said through clenched teeth.
He smiled again. “But I received
this
in yesterday’s mail. A new development. Have a look.”
He slid the small, neat envelope across the console as I’d done with the newspaper. We had to sit across the room from one another, being unmarried. It was the moral thing to do. The fact that no chaperone was present was a testament to the fact that any who knew us had given up on the idea that Lord Denbury and I could ever have a
normal
courtship. Still, we
tried
to be proper.
The envelope was addressed to Lord Denbury in the same neat, flourished script as the warning note had been, the paper of a finer weave than had ever passed over my gloved fingertips. There was a small black seal on the back, with a crest that looked important. But I suppose all crests look like they carry weight. If our family had a crest, I’d no idea; I was descended of middle-class academics.
I opened the note Jonathon had already unsealed and read:
My dear Lord Denbury,
Your situation has made itself known to me. First, let me say I am very glad to learn you’re not dead. Secondly, I’m glad you’re no longer a demon. Thirdly, I’m terribly sorry about all your wretched luck.
I followed the course of your portrait with some interest and have been in contact with a friend, a solicitor who I understand assisted you. Mr. Knowles informs me you made contact with the “Majesty,” one of three heads of a group known as the Master’s Society. Ears we have employed inside that very office in Earl’s Court you visited tell us a lackey could be en route to look in on you. I doubt kindly, so don’t prepare tea. Take care.
But know you are not alone.
I was assigned to New York City five years ago, employed in most secret investigation, by orders from the highest and most precious in the land. I wish to meet with you. To do so, please hire a southbound carriage at the intersection of 75th and Lexington this coming Friday at 1:25 in the afternoon. Instruct the carriage to turn right at 74th, continue south down Madison, right on 72nd, and then westward; we shall meet at the park entrance. Don’t worry, I’ll find you. Keep your faith and your head, you’ll need them both.
Your friend,
Sir G. Brinkman,
Secret Investigator
Employed by Her Majesty, and Empress, Queen Victoria
PS Please burn after reading
I looked up at him, frowning. Secret investigator? “You’ve spies? Here? Spying on us? Why?”
“British spies span the world, my dear. We’ve an Empire, remember.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Last time I checked, this country fought a revolution and threw you out.”
“All the more reason for spies.” Jonathon grinned. He glanced around to see if we might be seen, jumped to his feet, and rushed to lock one strong arm about my waist. “We must keep a watchful eye on our wayward cousins here in our former colony.” He pressed his forehead to mine. “Who knows what they might get up to? We have to make sure they’re on their...best behavior...” He trailed a hand down my body.
I giggled as I gasped. His ability to set me afire remained overwhelming. Leaning in to him I murmured with my lips so very near his. “Are
we
really the ones who need watching? I’d beware all those entitled lords thinking they can just come over here and have their way with any American girl...”
Jonathon blinked. He slid his hands down my waist and clapped about my bustle. “Can’t we?” He grinned as I laughed, diving in to kiss my neck. It was true. He could have his way with me if I wasn’t careful. But before that happened... There was a little business of engagement. One could not play loosely with virtue. Not a woman with any pride or decency. Not a
lady
. “Ah, but you’re not just
any
American girl,” he murmured, his breath hot upon the hollow of my throat. “You were the inimitable girl heaven sent to save me. The
only
girl to see my plight. The only one brave enough risk your life for mine.” He pulled back to gaze into my eyes, his playful seduction transformed into deathly earnest. “And I’ll not lose sight for one moment of the fact I’ll never be able to repay the debt.”
I kissed him softly on the lips, wanting to indulge more, but painfully aware that at any moment meant Father or Mrs. Northe could come around the hall and in through the open pocket doors. “You mustn’t live in debt to me,” I murmured.
