A Cold Legacy (24 page)

He flipped the switch, and sparks rained down the southern tower.

I screamed. The horses went wild, pawing at the gravel as their riders fought to regain control. Amid all the chaos, Edward threw himself to his knees into the deepest end of the courtyard, and plunged the live wire into the water.

With a terrible crackle and burst of smoke, the electricity spread.

I threw my hands over my ears; men cried out, horses screamed. Not even the rain could clear the air of the smell of burned flesh. When I dared to open my eyes, half of Radcliffe's men were dead, the other half disoriented and dying.

Montgomery and Balthazar still hid in the lee of the stone gate, on pillars that kept them dry and safe.

Edward, however, lay facedown in the water.

He wasn't moving.

“E
DWARD
!”

I started toward his body but jerked back as a bullet hit the gravel inches from my foot. It came from Radcliffe. Atop his horse, on the highest ground near the front steps, he hadn't been electrocuted. Through the rain, he aimed his pistol at me again with unwavering determination. I fumbled for the pistol I'd strapped to my leg, but my skirts were soaked and heavy, and I collapsed back onto the wet gravel. He spurred his horse closer.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Montgomery running from his hidden post, rifle aimed at Radcliffe, but I knew he wouldn't make it in time. I stared into the barrel of Radcliffe's gun and saw my future there. Blackness. Death. There'd be no one to bring
me
back.

A volley of gunshots rang out overhead as the servants took aim. With a grunt of pain, Radcliffe clutched his thigh where a bullet had gone clean through. McKenna grinned down at me from the window before reloading. Beside her, Lily and Moira and Carlyle were all raining down bullets on Radcliffe's few remaining men.

I stumbled to my feet, scrambling over the slick gravel onto the stone steps, and took shelter from the gunfire, crouching behind a statue of a lion. My pulse raced as bullets flew around me. One clipped the stairs by my foot. Another chipped the lion's ear. The wooden entrance to the manor was only a few feet away, but I couldn't make it. I'd be exposed for too long.

Carefully, I peeked over the lion statue. As best I could tell, only four of Radcliffe's men had been on ground high enough to survive the electrocution. They'd taken shelter behind the bodies of their comrades' dead horses. Montgomery and Balthazar both crouched by the gate, taking careful aim, narrowly avoiding being shot themselves.

I crawled to the other side of the statue to look for Edward's body. I prayed that he'd awoken and managed to crawl away, yet my heart sank. He still lay facedown in the puddle. Blood trailed in the water from where an errant bullet must have hit him. I bit my lip, willing him to move.

“Get up,” I urged. “Prove that you can't be killed that easily.”

But he didn't. One of Radcliffe's men caught sight of me and started racing up the steps, knife in one hand.

“Blast.”
I tore at my skirt to get my pistol out. Finally my fingers found the cold, sturdy handle, and I pulled it free of its holster. I aimed, but panic made my hands tremble, and I missed the man by a few feet. I scrambled to reload, but the gun slipped from my wet fingers and tumbled down the stairs.

I lunged after it. I was exposed, an easy target, but I
had to get that pistol. The officer had his knife at the ready. Another few feet and he'd be on me.

A blur came from the rain, a flash of white shirt and brown wide-brimmed hat that tackled the officer to the ground.

“Montgomery!”

I grabbed my pistol and aimed it at the pair scrapping in the gravel, but I didn't dare shoot for fear of hitting Montgomery by accident. Across the courtyard, Radcliffe's head whirled at my call. A pistol gleamed in his hand as he aimed at the pair, not caring if he accidentally shot his own man.

He fired.

I cried out at the sound. Montgomery jerked upright, tossing the wet hair out of his eyes. For a terrible instant I thought he'd been shot and my heart missed a beat. But then the other man slumped to the ground, blood pouring out of a hole in his back. I let out a ragged cry.

Montgomery hadn't been shot.

My relief was short-lived. Radcliffe took advantage of the chaos to grab the back of Montgomery's shirt and press the pistol against his temple.

“Give the order for your men to cease fire, Miss Moreau.” He jerked his chin toward the upper windows. “Or I'll shoot him in the head right now.”

“Stop!” I called without hesitation. “McKenna, Carlyle, hold your fire!”

One more errant bullet went off, and then there was silence. Smoke cleared as gunpowder settled, the night air
thick with the smell of blood and sulfur and the moans of a few dying men.

“You two,” Radcliffe said, nodding to a few of his mercenaries. “Keep your pistols trained on this man. If he moves, shoot him.”

Blood pooled from a nick on Montgomery's arm. His blue eyes met mine.

I couldn't let it end like this.

Radcliffe wiped away a line of blood running down his nose, breathing hard. “Tell your staff to throw their weapons down here and come outside.”

I clenched my jaw. I might as well be ordering McKenna and the others to commit suicide. “Go to hell,” I spat.

“Wait!” McKenna leaned out the upstairs window. “We'll do as you say. I'm sorry, mistress, but it's our duty to protect you as much as this home.” She threw down her rifle and I winced. With Edward immobile, she and the others had been our greatest asset. Moira and Lily threw theirs down as well, followed by Carlyle's heavy old Weston. The pistols clattered to the ground, where one of Radcliffe's heavyset mercenaries picked them up.

“You can kill all of us and scour the house,” I seethed. “You'll never find those journals.”

Radcliffe didn't seem troubled by my threat. The front door groaned open and the servants filed out, defenseless. They lined up under the eave of the door.

Radcliffe's jaw shifted as he looked among them. “Tell Lucy to come out as well. I want to see that she hasn't been harmed.”

My stomach twisted. My own father had never shown such concern over me, not even when my life had been in danger. He'd only studied my fear like another one of his twisted experiments.

“She isn't in the house. She's hiding out because she doesn't want to see you. You might as well leave, because you'll never get her or the journals.”

“Leave?” His cold countenance was falling, and there was rage beneath it. “Perhaps, after you are dead.”

“I'm the only one who's memorized the information. Shoot me, and the knowledge will be lost forever.”

Something about my words caught his attention. A strange look gleamed in his pale blue eyes. “You've memorized the science, have you? Suppose I were to kill Montgomery, then. Journals or not, you would have to use Frankenstein's science to bring him back. All I'd have to do was watch over your shoulder. It's your choice how we get there, Miss Moreau, but I assure you we'll reach the same conclusion.”

I balled my fist, furious. “It's Mrs. James now.
Not
Moreau.”

Radcliffe cocked his gun. “A difference I care nothing about.”

Time slowed, my vision becoming a series of flashes as panic took hold of my body. I couldn't let it end like this, and yet I was helpless. There was the pistol in Radcliffe's hand. His finger on the trigger. Montgomery's eyes sinking closed, waiting for the bullet that would take his life.

Out of the fog lurched a figure. It seemed like a ghost at
first, a shadow. I saw a flash of tweed cloak, pale white skin, as the figure threw itself in front of Montgomery's kneeling body.

“Wait!” the figure cried. Only then did I recognize the voice.

Lucy
.

The sound of a bullet ripped through the night. It was too late. Radcliffe had already pulled the trigger.

I stumbled back, stunned. Montgomery's eyes flew open at the gunshot. Lucy rolled over, her hood falling back. Dark brown hair not so different from my own spilled out. My throat closed tight.

“Lucy!” I collapsed beside her.

“Papa,” she choked as a line of blood appeared at the edge of her lips. I pressed a hand against my mouth, attempting to seal in a scream, but it didn't help. My desperate wail rang out over the moors as I scrambled close to her, touching her face, her hair, her cloak.

“Lucy. God, no!”

But her eyes weren't on me. They were fixed on Radcliffe. His pistol clattered to the ground. His icy facade was gone now, and there was only horror at what he'd done.

“
Lucy?
No . . .”

“Papa.” She had to force words out as more blood trickled from her mouth, “I didn't think you would shoot me.”

My eyes trailed down her body in horror. Her cloak and dress were already soaked through. The bullet must have hit an artery. Blood was everywhere.

“I didn't know,” Radcliffe pleaded. He wasn't the cold
leader of the King's Club now; he was merely a father watching his daughter die. “I didn't see you. Lucy . . .”

Her eyes rolled back in her head. I felt frozen. Another part of me took over, taking in the scene with the objective eyes of a scientist. The line of blood at her mouth. The paleness of her skin. The way her chest had stopped rising and falling.

It was too late.

I
PRESSED MY HANDS
against the bullet wound as if that could somehow keep the life inside her. Montgomery tore free from the startled men and knelt next to me, feeling her pulse. His movements were skilled, yet there was a dazed look to his eyes.

“She's gone,” he said, as if struggling to believe it himself.

I sank back on my heels. I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe. My entire body had gone numb, as if it was my blood dripping out into the mud.
Gone?
The girl I'd grown up with, the only friend who'd stood by me after the scandal, the daughter who'd abandoned her wealthy life for what was right?

“You did this!” Radcliffe hauled me to my feet next to Montgomery. Montgomery stood, too, and Radcliffe's remaining men aimed their rifles at our heads. “It was supposed to be
you
dead, Mr. James. Lucy shouldn't ever have been brought into this!”

“You brought her into this!” I screamed, twisting out
of his hand. “She fled with us to escape
you
!”

He blinked. For a few terrible seconds, none of us spoke. I threw a look to where Edward's body still lay in the puddle. Was he truly gone, like her? Had we lost them both? Had we lost
everything
?

“Leave,” I spat at Radcliffe. “Take your men and go. What do a few journals matter when your daughter just died by your own hands?”

He looked at me as if I were some nightmarish specter. He dragged a hand over his mouth, murmuring something to himself, refusing to believe it. “Died?” he said aloud, testing the word. “No.”

All his mad plans about acquiring the journals and selling the science seemed like an afterthought now. He turned to the courtyard wall, breathing heavily. In a way, I understood how he felt. My best friend was dead. After that, did anything matter?

“Juliet,” Montgomery whispered. “I'm sorry. I don't know what to say.”

Radcliffe's men still stood around us with rifles aimed. I could tell Montgomery wanted to fold me into his arms, but we dared not. Radcliffe still faced the wall, arms braced against it, shaking his head back and forth.

I couldn't tear my eyes off Lucy's body. So many people I loved had died. I'd buried too many of them. We'd brought Edward back, but his fate was unknown now. If he lived, I couldn't imagine what he'd do when he learned about Lucy. I looked up at the tower where I'd brought him back at her insistence.

“The tower,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone else. “Montgomery, if I could take her to the tower . . .”

“No.” Montgomery's eyes flickered with warning. “Don't think like that.”

But Radcliffe had turned from the wall and was looking at me with wide eyes. He'd heard me and put together what I meant. “The tower,” he repeated, and looked toward the window that showed Elizabeth's equipment. He swallowed. “Elizabeth's laboratory. That's it, isn't it, Miss Moreau? You can bring her back with Frankenstein's science. She doesn't have to stay dead.”

“It's impossible,” Montgomery said. “It's ungodly.”

“I didn't ask you, Mr. James.” Radcliffe's light eyes were fixated on mine. “We understand each other, don't we, Miss Moreau? We can both have Lucy back.”

My mouth felt dry. I pressed a hand to my head. “I don't know.”

“
I
do.” He grabbed my arm, dragging me toward the house. “You will bring her back, or I'll slaughter everyone in this household. Bring my daughter's body,” he called to his officers. “And keep a gun on Montgomery James. Lock him in the cellar until this is done.”

I twisted to look behind me, where one of his men walked Montgomery with his hands clenched behind his head. They dragged us inside the foyer, where the electric lights stung my eyes.

“You there, housekeeper,” he ordered McKenna. “Show my associate to the cellar where we can lock up Mr.
James. Miss Moreau, you and I are headed for the tower.”

He dragged me toward the stairs, while an officer carried Lucy's lifeless body behind us.

“Juliet, wait,” Montgomery called. I paused just long enough to meet his eyes. A million things could be said between us, but he chose only one. “Remember what I told you. You aren't your father's daughter. You choose your own fate.”

The words sank into me more deeply with each step toward the tower. The world around me seemed dim despite the electric lights. Only my thoughts blazed. For so long I'd fought against the idea of turning into my father, only to accept it with a feeling of inevitability. Was I now to uproot all my beliefs once more?

I clutched Jack Serra's water charm, wishing for magic when I knew none existed.

We reached the landing, where the portraits of the von Steins and the Ballentynes of old seemed to whisper to me, but what they wanted, I wasn't certain. The only thing I was certain of was Radcliffe's steel grip on my arm, my best friend dead, and Montgomery's final words.

You choose your own fate
.

At the top of the stairs, Radcliffe kicked open the laboratory door. The smell of roses met me, and my stomach clenched to think of Elizabeth's and Hensley's ashes on the wind.

“Put Lucy there,” Radcliffe ordered his mercenary, nodding toward the surgical table.

He released me, knowing there was nowhere I could run. He started to pull out the books on the laboratory shelves.

“You won't find Frankenstein's journals in here,” I said. “Elizabeth hid them. The staff doesn't know where.”

He steadied me with a cold look. “I shall make you tell me, Miss Moreau, but you have more important work at the moment.” He brushed a hand gently over Lucy's hair. His eyes scanned the tools, the metal trays and utensils. “I trust you have everything you need.”

I glanced toward the window desperately, wanting to buy time. “Lightning. I can only perform the procedure if there's a strong enough electric shock.”

He pushed back the curtains. “The rain hasn't stopped. It'll only be a matter of time before a storm strikes. That should give you time to ready the body and prepare for the procedure. I'll return soon.”

“Wait! I can't do it on my own. I need Montgomery. He's a surgeon.”

Radcliffe gave me a withering look. “And so are you.”

He slammed the door shut.

I tore a strip of cloth from my dress and plugged the keyhole so the prying eyes of the officer standing guard couldn't see.

A steady
drip drip drip
started behind me, but I didn't dare turn around.

I only stared at that door. Radcliffe wouldn't open it again until he heard Lucy's voice. But if I brought her back, he would know Frankenstein's science was possible. He would
tear the house apart until he found the Origin Journals, and he'd sell the research to unscrupulous men who would bring back countless dead bodies, perhaps even Henri Moreau's. And yet this was Lucy. I couldn't imagine life without her. With the exception of Montgomery, she'd been the only person in my life who had stood by me through the scandal. She'd defied her own parents to sneak to the park with me and sip stolen gin and giggle over boys, as though I was just a regular girl. She was my tether to the real world. She was my best friend.

How could I not bring her back?

Slowly, dread tiptoeing up my spine, I turned toward the surgical table. The
drip drip drip
continued. It was blood running off the side of the table, pooling on the stone floor and rolling toward a metal drainage grate. With trembling fingers I peeled back her blood-soaked coat.

The bullet had struck her in the center of the chest, just below the two little freckles she used to think looked like a constellation. It must have grazed the right ventricle of her heart, explaining the profuse bleeding. It would require removing the bullet, stitching up the torn ventricle, setting the broken ribs, and sealing the wound.

All within my skill. It wouldn't take but an hour of careful attention. My fingers already twitched to pick up a scalpel and begin the work that came so naturally.

My feet felt warm, and I looked down to find her blood had seeped into my slippers. I shrieked and kicked off my shoes, throwing them across the room, scrambling back into the corner of the laboratory.

I watched the line of blood slowly weaving among the flagstones toward me.

This wasn't a patient. This wasn't a specimen.

This was Lucy.

I pulled my knees in tight, trying to calm my breath, looking at the pale curve of Lucy's dead hand hanging off the table. Henri Moreau wouldn't have hesitated to reanimate her. If Montgomery hadn't told me the truth, I'd be reaching for the scalpel even now.

But my father wasn't in my blood. He wasn't even my father. He was just a stranger's skeleton on a faraway island. Which left me alone with the body of my best friend and a thousand unanswered questions, but only one mattered:

What should I do?

I glanced again at the scalpel on the floor. A wild idea entered my head. There was one way to spare me this terrible decision. I could take the scalpel, make two quick slits, and let my blood pool on the floor with Lucy's. I could join her in whatever dark place of peace she was in now.

I crawled toward the scalpel slowly, picked it up, and pressed it lightly against my wrist, just to test the feel of it. A person would bleed dry in ten minutes, but lose consciousness in two. Two minutes and it could all be over. Radcliffe wouldn't find the Origin Journals in Elizabeth's secret hiding place. Frankenstein's science would end. Lucy would still be dead, but I'd be with her, at least.

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, tart and salty.

Was I ready to die?

With an anguished cry, I threw the scalpel across the
room. I pushed to my feet and paced to the window, throwing it open and breathing in fresh air mixed with rain. In the distance, thunder rumbled.

Below, in the fading light of the house, I could just make out the barn. A lumbering figure moved slowly along the exterior wall of the courtyard. It was Balthazar, who must have snuck away from Radcliffe's men and was now headed to the barn to take over Lucy's role sheltering the little children.

Balthazar hadn't been made with a purpose, but he had found one.

If he could, then maybe I could, too.

I
wasn't
a madman's daughter. I wasn't a Moreau. I wasn't a Ballentyne either, not in my heart. Before, I had feared I'd be left with nothing and no identity, but now I realized that very lack of identity left me stripped free of shackles. For the first time in my life, I could make my own decisions, unbound by the shadow of my father. From now on, every thought, every word, and every decision was my own to make.

Starting now.

I turned to the table. Father wouldn't have hesitated to bring Lucy back, but I wasn't my father, and it was time I started making my own decisions.

I
N DEATH
, L
UCY LOOKED
older than seventeen. There was a darkness around her eyes that made me imagine what she'd look like at twenty, thirty, forty. She would have been a good wife and a good mother. Maybe in a different life she'd have
married Edward and had children of her own playing Catch the Huntsman in the hedge maze behind her house.

I brushed a strand of dark hair from her face, smoothing the wrinkles from her eyes. Her body still held the lingering warmth of life.

I could give you back that life
, I thought.
I have the power
.

It wasn't long ago that Edward had been strapped down to this same table. I'd been so convinced at the time that bringing him back was right. It had been my father's ghost urging me on. Now, no voices whispered in my ear, no urges compelled my hands to act. I took a damp cloth and dabbed away the spots of blood on her face and chest.

“I could give you back your life,” I whispered as my voice broke. The cloth shook in my hand as a rise of emotion swelled.

It was time to make the first decision of my life that was truly mine and not influenced by my father. I had the power to cure death, but what had new life brought to Hensley, or Frankenstein's monster, or Edward? Only more pain.

I couldn't shake Montgomery's words that there was only one life, and we must live it well.
When you can never die
, he had said,
do you ever really live?
Lucy's life had been short, but she'd lived it well. She had chosen her own fate, bleak though it was.

I closed my eyes and listened one final time for voices. For my father's, for my mother's, for Elizabeth's. There was only silence, and in that silence, I let my own voice speak.

The whisper was quiet, but it was there.

A tear rolled down the side of my face.

“I could bring you back,” I whispered again. “But I won't.”

A sob hung in my throat. I leaned over her body on the table, crying against her bloody dress. All these tools and books had held such meaning for me once, when I had yearned for Father's approval. Now I understood that such science never came without a steep cost. Pain. Suffering. Loss.

“I'm so sorry, Lucy. I can't do it. No more experimentation. No more ends justifying the means. No more screams in the night. I'm not like my father.”

With a deep breath, I wrapped the coat tightly around Lucy's body, hiding the wounds the best I could, and carefully dragged her body off the table. I set her on the floor, sitting upright with head slumped as though she'd fallen asleep. There was a hard object in her pocket; I took it out.

A matchbox, empty now. She must have taken it to light a small fire in the barn to keep the girls warm overnight.

An idea worked its way into my head. I couldn't get to the Origin Journals, but I could make sure Elizabeth's personal notes and experiments never fell into Radcliffe's hands. I began to open the books with a wild madness. I tore out the pages, crumpling them, stacking volumes. Outside, thunder cracked closer. I studied the coming storm with a grim determination. Lightning could bring a body back, yes—but it could also destroy.