Darker Still (20 page)

“You’re the bravest woman I know…” He approached me, taking my hands, lifting my cap to touch my curls, and seeking the me who was more familiar to him. “Don’t do this—”

“Hush, don’t be sentimental and don’t act like I’m going to die, please,” I grumbled, though I couldn’t help leaning into his outstretched hand a bit. It was then he noticed the tip of the red gash I’d fashioned and he gasped.

“Good God—”

“Theatrical effect,” I assured him. “To explain my lack of voice in a way that denotes the company I keep rather than my weakness.”

His horror turned to admiration. “That’s brilliant. You are absolutely
brilliant
.”

“I’ve read too many books,” I replied, and we shared a grin.

“Promise me you’ll be careful. I couldn’t bear anything happening to you,” he said achingly.

“Of course you couldn’t.” I smiled. “Without me you’ll be doomed.”

“In more ways than one.”

My heart fluttered.

As he caught my hand, I didn’t want to look at him. I didn’t want to second-guess this or have time to think of all the terrible possibilities. I needed momentum to propel me forward, but he grasped my hand and cupped my cheek, and I truly thought he was going to kiss me after all. My knees weakened at the thought of it, but he seemed to remember himself and kissed my forehead instead.

“You beautiful fool, be careful,” he murmured. “I’ll be with you. If your dreams are connected to me, then surely I can project myself to you.”

“Like my guardian angel.”

“Always.”

I think that if I hadn’t been dressed as a boy, we might have kissed, then and there. I resolved to come back very soon. In a dress.

“Why are you putting yourself at such risk for me?” he asked.

I paused and almost said it was because I loved him. But a nervous wash came over me and kept me from the words. I wasn’t sure how he’d take them. “It feels like destiny,” I said instead, breaking from his gaze. “When the demon comes, press him for answers—where he’s going, what he’s doing. Mrs. Northe insists our best clues lie in
why
. Make him explain himself.”

Jonathon smirked wearily. “You mean we can’t rely on literary convention and wait for the beast to simply state his evil plot to his unwitting prey?”

I chuckled. “Oh, it’s a better tale if you bait him. And if you’re furious, I daresay he’ll tell you more.”

“Of course. I’ll do whatever I can,” he promised.

I smiled, turned, and stepped forward. He instinctively reached for me but drew away as I stared at his hand. “I’ll see you soon, Jonathon,” I said over my shoulder. “I’ll return in a dress.”

I tumbled back out and into my disguised self, and turned to the portrait, where his lordship stood as handsome as ever, if not a bit worried looking, at the center. I took my place behind the small, nondescript locked door opposite the open one that awaited the demon of the hour.

It’s here that I’ve written down these most recent accounts while I wait. Since having fallen through worlds to meet Lord Denbury, time seems so differently fluid, even when I am outside the painting.

I feel the temperature around me chill.

There’s a hissing crackle.

The beast has come!

Fifteen minutes later

Back in the carriage, I’ve instructed we maintain pursuit. I must take down details!

It was a shock to see the devil of Denbury again in the flesh. From the keyhole I could see him framed in the doorway, standing in my reality, his beauty unmatched in this world or in any other.

My breath stilled. There stood the man who had changed my life. A strong impulse made me want to fling open the door and run to him, to shake him loose of the demon, to speak as I knew him, to save him by my very presence. He already knew me and was already intrigued by me. He
wanted
me. Meeting in our mutual world could set him free to be my prince after all.

But then the creature laughed, and I was jarred by the cruel illusion. I couldn’t trust my senses. If the painted world of Jonathon’s spirit had witchcraft that lured me, his bodily reality had the same magic outside the prison. But this stolen vessel was a murderer, made beautiful and cruel. The trouble was that both Denburys continued to have a profound effect on me.

Looking at this Denbury played tricks of the mind, so I stayed against the wall, straining to hear through the keyhole. The villain spoke, pressing his face in through the barrier of the painting, as if it were a basin of water. His words careened around the room through a supernatural echo like wild birds flapping desperately with no way out. I shuddered. The demon owned Jonathon’s voice but with something inhuman layered upon his fair British tone.

“Hello again, my vessel,” it said. “My, you look well. We’ll soon fix that right up, though.”

There was a rustling sound, muffled but angry. I felt a surge of pride. Jonathon was doing what we had asked, baiting the demon with his fury. The more defiant he became, the more the demon would drive home his hopelessness. It was the way of evil. Just as Iago condemns Shakespeare’s audiences into becoming accomplices to Desdemona’s murder by the provoked Othello, so were we, Jonathon’s soul and I, condemned to this eager confession.

“You can do nothing to stop me, boy. Barbara’s blood is hardly dry, yet there is plenty of other tender, vulnerable meat directly nearby.”

There must have been a further challenge. I could not hear it, but the creature made a chuckling reply: “It is human nature. Hypocrites will tear down one house of sin only to help build another next door. Sin moves easily, a vagabond, and we move fluidly within our own. I feed on the weak, and you suffer the consequences. It is as the Creator intended—”

I started at this blasphemy and so did Jonathon, evidently, for his response had the beast roaring with amusement.

“Yes, yes, blind fealty to your Creator, but where is He now? I walk among you, but
He
does not. Fitting to do my work in your form, you who are so fond of weaklings. Where are the holy namesakes of these women as their lifeblood runs through my fingers?” He cackled, a disgusting laugh. “The world is not prepared for our new dawn. These first sacrifices are but the birthing pains. We’ve an empire to build, my dear Englishman.”

And then the beast withdrew from the painting. He walked away whistling, life and death his playthings.

Thankful for deep shadows, I followed, my heart in my throat and terror at the ready to overtake me in a swoon. But I thought of Robinson Crusoe and the Count of Monte Cristo, of the Musketeers and all the idols whom I’ve worshipped since I had first devoured their adventurous tales. I was doing them all proud.

The hired carriage awaited per my instructions, sheltered from moonlight by a copse of trees on the uptown side of the building and ready to follow surreptitiously down the avenue. Knowing the building intimately, I slipped out a shaded side entrance devoid of guards and hurried to the driver, pointing at the fine carriage already paces ahead. He nodded, and we were off.

The demon’s words ring in my mind, my dread of him pounding in syncopation with my heartbeat. I had hoped for an insight into the beast’s specific madness, not premonitions of some infernal revolution…Forgive my bobbing script. It was good that I hardly ate anything at supper; otherwise, I might lose it as the carriage tosses and turns.

We proceeded on a slanting course down Broadway, where the finer blocks are lit by gas lamps but many others are not. We passed the occasional theater, stable, and grand palace where ill repute supposedly reigns in back rooms. Farther down we passed the even grander shopping palaces lining Ladies’ Mile, a place I’ve always yearned to promenade.

But promenading is the talk of fine ladies. Fine ladies don’t journey to the Five Points to track a demonic murderer inhabiting the body of the man they love.

Well, if I’m indeed living an adventure novel, there must be a love story. There’s
always
a love story. I’m so fond of literary tradition, and right now, its consistency remains my only comfort.

The carriage ahead of us slows. The puddles are thick—the street hasn’t been cleared of horse manure or foul human waste. We must be nearing the Five Points area. The carriage appears to be slowing near Anthony Street. Searching for what, I don’t know. Number 66. And there goes my quarry! Down from the carriage and gliding up the stoop. I shall wait a moment and then follow him. You, dear diary, will remain tucked into the bandages binding my chest, right over my heart. You may make a nice shield against a bullet or a blade.

• • •

I’ve been captured! I know not where I’m going. I’m in a carriage. Heading north, I think. I can write only a quick note:

Dear Father, if you find this diary, please know that I love you and that all of my actions have been to try to help a dear soul who deserved help. You’ll never believe a word of it, but it’s all true. I love you and thank you for everything you’ve done for me.

Later…

Obviously I’m not dead.

Thank the Lord, I live to write these words. I must recount what happened inside that frightening residence turned house of horrors.

I’ll have to tell you of Cecilia and Midge and the whole of the events in the Five Points, but first let me say what happened in regards to my capture.

You see, I had relaxed too soon. All seemed well and my escape assured. I had gleaned important information while inside 66 Anthony Street. Upon leaving the premises and breathing a sigh of relief, I was grabbed roughly and tossed into a cab heading uptown. I tried the door—willing to fling myself into the street to escape—but it was locked from the outside.

Could Crenfall have trailed us or discovered that I was a spy? How could anyone have known? I was so unremarkable…Or maybe my disguise was absurd.

I did recall that a carriage had pulled in behind us, making a trio as we headed downtown. It was a cab that had sidled onto Fifth Avenue from the shadows. In my recollection, the traffic had been heavy around Longacre Square and Forty-Second Street, a place so filled with carriages that it was impossible to determine whether we still had a tail. I gazed out the window and couldn’t stop shaking.

Surely it was Crenfall, I thought. My father wouldn’t have the good sense to have me followed.

The team of horses came to a halt, and I couldn’t help a sigh of relief at the familiar sight outside the window. Mrs. Northe’s Fifth Avenue town house—

But then panic seized me again. If she’d called upon my father, I’d never be let out of my room. I’d lose any freedom my post at the Metropolitan had offered, and I’d be off to the convent for sure.

The man who had collared me outside 66 Anthony Street dragged me roughly out of the carriage and nearly pushed me up the walk to Mrs. Northe’s home. He likely expected me to ask him who he was or make some claim of protestation. Maybe he knew I didn’t speak. He didn’t say a word either but gripped my arm as he pressed the bell. I shrugged him off to stand proudly. I had nothing to be ashamed of.

And yet, in the next moment, I stood ashamed and dressed as a boy in Mrs. Northe’s foyer as she looked me up and down.

She examined me as if measuring my disguise, circling me and clucking her tongue. Despite my fear and embarrassment, I detected a bit of pride in Mrs. Northe’s face.

“You,” she said, her tone scolding, “have read too many books.”

She waited. I assume she wanted me to agree. I shrugged.

She continued. “And you put yourself in grave danger and I shall not easily forgive you for it. And I may have to tell your father.”

I furiously signed pleas, begging her not to doom me.

And then she smiled. “Unless you tell me everything that happened. I had my man follow you in case you did something unforgivably stupid. He was to bring you directly to me once you satisfied your…curiosity.”

“Your man?” I signed. “He was hardly a gentleman,” I added, rubbing the arm he had grabbed.

“I don’t pay him to be a gentleman. I pay him to be quiet and brilliant.”

“I was gathering evidence,” I signed. “You said we couldn’t sit back—”

“Indeed. Do tell. But only after you’ve made yourself back into a woman. And good God, wipe that terrible thing off your throat. That’s hideous. But quite well done, I must say.”

I loved this woman. Once dressed, I did tell her everything, and she escorted me home at a full three in the morning! I slipped in and up the stairs while everyone was asleep. I still wonder how she knew to have me followed. Her instincts were usually uncanny, yes, but that had been downright psychic.

But without further ado, here’s the tale of 66 Anthony Street.

It was so dark in the place that one could easily get away with murder. And so likely the fiend assumed, rightly so, that he would not be recognized again—even with the newspaper descriptions. He did not bother to remove his hat or his cloak, which served to further obscure his face.

I did not immediately slip in behind the creature, of course. I have more sense than that. I waited until a few minutes had passed and then mounted the crumbling stairs and slipped into another world. It was as distinctly different a threshold as stepping through a painting…