Lillian Holmes and the Leaping Man (10 page)

Lillian pushed down a lump in her throat. Thank God, no message for her. The medium no doubt understood she was too intelligent to fall for such a crude game.
But… But what, Lil? Who would you hear from, even if it were possible? Your parents would not reveal themselves in life, much less in death.

Bess, trying to be helpful, glanced at her, and Lillian shook her intention off with a glare.

“The spirit world has not ignored your friend, Miss Wheeler.” Annaluisa moaned and swayed again, eyes closed.

As if he read her dread, George squeezed Lillian’s hand gently and leaned close. “You do understand that this is a game? Your blood pounds through your veins at a startling rate. Please, do not be afraid.”

“Of course not.” But fear gripped at her chest, fear of the man who tried to calm her, fear of the woman who tried to trick her, fear at the sensations swirling in her head, through her body. Another pill would help, but it was too late for that.

“Quiet! She approaches!” Annaluisa scolded. And Lillian knew that once again she would speak of her mother, a woman with no name, no heart, no connection to her life after the moment of giving birth. It was a low, low trick to play on one’s emotions. Was the Leaping Man in on the ruse? Were the two trying to break her spirit, her mind?

“No!” Lillian pulled away from the men and stood. Despite the longing for answers, the horrid gaping hole in her chest, the years of wondering and wanting, she would not be a pawn in a parlor game.

Madam Pelosi opened her eyes. “Oh, my dear, please, I can tell you about her.”

“You cannot, and I will not pretend that you can.”

George rose and supported her arm, and despite all rational thought Lillian welcomed the comfort. “We will respect Miss Holmes’s wishes. Shall we move to the living room, Lillian? I tire of this myself.”

She glanced into his dark eyes and saw what she never expected: sincerity. Why would a murderer want to give her comfort?

“No,” she said, “I’m afraid it is time for me to depart. I am getting one of my headaches.” Though, Bess would not want to depart. She could not leave her friend behind amongst these strange creatures.

Kitty looked on the verge of tears as she approached. “I am sorry you do not feel well, Miss Holmes. Did the séance upset you? Perhaps on another evening—?”

“I have had a wonderful time, Miss Twamley. You are a great hostess. I simply have not been at my best today. I hope that one day soon you will visit my home.”

Kitty seemed relieved by the lie. Lillian waited by the door as goodbyes were said. Surprising her, Bess linked arms with her and reluctantly pulled her across the threshold and down the stairs, obviously overcoming her desire to stay in order to keep Lillian out of mischief. It was likely a wise move. Lillian looked back to find George Orleans standing on the porch, arms folded, head tilted, smiling curiously. He inclined his head slightly before she turned, and she could feel his stare burn into her back as she and Bess walked home.

After a few deep breaths her hands had nearly stopped shaking and she reached into her bag for a pill.

“Lil! What are you taking? You are not yourself at all tonight!”

“Nonsense. I am quite myself. Who else would I be?”

“Hm.” Bess clearly did not know how to respond to that. “Kitty is nice, don’t you think? I hope to see her again.” She paused. “It is a strange household, though. I think, Lillian, you are influencing me finally. I believe Madam Pelosi is a charlatan.”

“I thought it a bit dense for her to expect your living grandmothers to speak to you from beyond the grave. She did no research. And the Orleans brothers, Bess?”

“Must I look past their manly beauty? Then, yes, they are…different somehow.”

“Yes, Bess. They are different. The game is afoot.”

“You have said that before. I have no idea what that means.”

“You will.”

*****

Rain came that evening, but it did not clear the city of heat. Lillian heard the chatter of the Musketeers as they bid Constable Moran goodnight and accompanied Aileen to their new quarters on the third floor. Lillian listened to ensure Abraham Lincoln did not accompany them, and then turned back to her journal.

Shocked that her hand still quivered, she put down her pen and withdrew her pistol from her desk drawer. Her bottle of medicine, nearly empty, rattled in the drawer, and she stared at it while thinking about George Orleans.

Why had she ignored Constable Johnnie Moran and gone to her room without mentioning the fact that she had sat in the home of the Leaping Man, the murderer of Baltimore’s mayor, of a young neighbor, and God only knew how many others? Certainly it wasn’t the man’s charm that saved him, although he
was
charming in some unholy fashion she couldn’t identify. Did she truly intend to prove her case first, and report her findings to Scotland Yard?
Scotland Yard, Lillian?
No, the Baltimore city precinct.

She sat at her desk and drank the blue bottle empty. Tomorrow she would begin Dr. Schneider’s course of slow weaning; that would be the time to stop.

Fury swept through her suddenly, and Lillian threw the bottle into the cold fireplace. If only Madam Pelosi
could
speak to the dead, tell her who she was, why she was, what she was to do with her life! Only the Leaping Man seemed the least interested in guarding her from the charlatan. He had seemed to understand her pain somehow. Or was that wishful thinking? No one understood. Well, perhaps Dr. Schneider did, but she feared him as much as the Leaping Man. One could imprison her and one could kill her. There was no one to trust. Perhaps Addie and Thomas had already sided fully with the Jackal.

The city was calling to her through the open window. The bay. Release. She glanced out to look for the Leaping Man before yelling at the city and slamming the window shut.

“Holmes! You aren’t making sense,” she said aloud.

Uncle had known times like this, when he was besieged by the Melancholies. He’d take up his violin or shut himself away for days. She had no violin, and the Jackal would not let her hide. Perhaps it would be best if the Leaping Man killed her and hopped off her balcony, carrying away her pain into the night. A profound hurt welled up in her chest and she fell to her knees, sobbing for the losses of people and promises she’d never know.

After some minutes, exhausted, she crawled into bed, some of the tension of her body relieved by her weeping. She would go to sleep, and in the morning, all would feel brighter. “The best bridge between despair and hope is a good night’s sleep,” Addie was fond of saying.

Casting her evening dress aside, Lillian lay on the bed in her chemise and bloomers, and tucked her pistol under her pillow. She lost track of the chimes of the clock tower before it struck its final note.

CHAPTER NINE

Desperate times and desperate measures.

George knew his brooding annoyed Phillip to no end. No, that wasn’t quite right. It worried his brother, and the worry would start to annoy him and wear him down. But this steady ethical diet of the dangerous men of Baltimore had soured his temperament. Still, Phillip was coming to appreciate his efforts at walking the straight and narrow, no doubt doubly so since Kitty eyed him like a hawk.

He had to get out alone or go mad. And he had a terrible predicament on his hands.

“Are you ready?” Phillip asked as he threw on his overcoat.

“I don’t want to hunt tonight. I’ll keep Kitty company. Where is she?”

“In my bed and you well know it. You’ve bedded and eaten too many of my women already.”

“You wound me sometimes, Phillip. Really, I do have feelings.”

“I’m too tired for your jokes.”

“Is Kitty going to stay here at the house before you get married? It will elicit censure in the neighborhood. And it puts a severe damper on things for me.”

“Things you should not be at in the first place. It’s late. She was tired.”

“Yes, that’s the reason. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m jealous of your lovely little romance and you’ve caught me. Now be a good boy and run along, leave me with my brooding and my pipe.”

Phillip didn’t leave but seemed to weigh the merits of an argument in advance. “Then, you won’t go out tonight?”

“I don’t think so. You can’t watch me every moment, keep me prisoner here! Must I promise?”

“Yes, I think you must. And you must promise not to harm Kitty, for all that your promises are worth.”

George clasped his hands over his heart solemnly. “I will not harm an innocent mortal this evening. You really are too much.”

“Go to hell,” Phillip called over his shoulder as he left.

“Yes, well, who knows about that? One would have to believe in a God for there to be a heaven and hell. These things are the least of my worries.”

Peace, blessed solitude. Madam Pelosi was back to her hotel, the yapping Langhans back to their mansion, Kitty asleep, Phillip gone. The blonde—what was her name?—no doubt dreaming of a handsome suitor.

And Lillian Holmes. What of that enigmatic beauty? She’d recognized him. Still, she’d faced him head-on, chin high, eyes scanning his for guilt. What he wouldn’t give to have her back in the house, clutching his hand in mixed horror and excitement. Her pounding heart had nearly drowned out the voices around them. Her beautiful face, delicious figure, and extraordinary intellect—despite something muddling her mind—made him anxious for a few moments alone to fantasize about a sexual liaison with her.

So, she thought him a murderer.
Well, you are, George.
But she’d never come to know the truth of his existence. How could she? Annaluisa had told him she didn’t even know her own heritage, hadn’t spent more than a month with her mother before the woman became a victim of Madam Lucifer. Orphaned without knowing why. Perhaps she had indeed gone daft as Phillip suggested. She acted curiously enough.

Annaluisa had thought a bit of the tale might help Lillian gain confidence, soften the blow of being alone in the world. George had convinced her that the woman was driven enough to try to track down the truth—which was ugly indeed—and intelligent enough to succeed. Mother was a vampire living in London, not killed but turned by Madam Lucifer. She’d killed Father. Annaluisa had finally conceded to silence after talking it through, agreeing that Lillian seemed likely to pursue the facts to their inevitable deadly end.

But, what was he to do about her? Why weren’t the police at the door right now if she intended to turn him in for killing her neighbor? Dimwitted, immoral, lazy…none of that fit her. So she was waiting for something, planning something beyond his understanding. But what? And could he allow it to happen?

If he killed her, Phillip would recognize his hand in the murder.
And I don’t want to kill her. Not yet.

Why, I’d actually like to spend some time with her,
he realized in wonder. When was the last time he felt that way about a mortal? Far past the decades when he longed for a normal life, it was something of an unwelcome anomaly.

George brushed aside his thoughts and put down his pipe, knowing what he must do. But as he left the Orleans home, he wondered if he’d ever be welcome to enter again. If Phillip would speak to him again. His only ally.

Well, he’d have to fix that and amass a following. If Marie de Bourbon had done so, he surely could. With his looks, charm, and hunger, he could have his own House in Baltimore, dull as the city was. Perhaps he’d start with the lovely Miss Holmes.

Invigorated, George nodded to the usual characters who shared the night with him as he walked towards Federal Hill: a carriage driver hoping for a final customer; a young man hurrying home on unsteady legs, no doubt after some raucous outing; a few servants playing dice and drinking. Soon he stood in the alleyway beneath the house where his last “murder” occurred and peered up at Lillian Holmes’s balcony. There was no God to intervene on his behalf, and so he would have to kill her or turn her. His fervor cooled now that he was close to his goal, he half wished the situation were reversed. But tired, so tired of his life, he nonetheless found the energy to leap to her window.

George peered into the room carefully, lest she be up and about. But no, even in the dim light of the moon he saw her tall figure stretched out on the bed in filmy white as if she were on her funeral bier. The sight stirred so much in him: lust, for both the sexual beauty and her blood; sorrow, for what he would no doubt need to do to her; fear, for she made him loathe himself and he didn’t like that.

He stepped across the sill into the room, still unsure of what exactly he would do but knowing he must act to save himself, to sate himself. Unlike Phillip, he wouldn’t indulge in longing for a normal life, for romance and companionship. But oh, wouldn’t she be a companion? So odd, this beauty. So strong and fragile at the same time. Annaluisa had said her mother was a beauty as well, and of course was one still. But George was certain the mother couldn’t have the spirit or intellect of Lillian Holmes.

Damnation, this is cruel.
I don’t want to kill her, he thought. If I don’t, I will have to flee Baltimore, for she might be wise enough to uncover the truth. And then he’d be alone again against Madam Lucifer. He knew what she’d been up to in the mud of his front lawn. He knew she had the strength and wit to do verbal battle with him, despite knowing him to be a murderer. What would she do if she knew the bitter truth? Revile him more, for certain. No, she would turn him in. She must be stopped.

But perhaps he could leave her be, take Phillip’s suggestion and find a spot of boring solitude, hide away like the refugee he was. Alone, yes, but what else was new? Phillip had tried to love him for years and seemed nearly ready to give up. Perhaps those days of trying were finally over. They certainly would be if he learned of George slaying this beautiful girl in her bed.

Lillian stirred a bit and rolled onto her side. George groaned as the play of moonlight on her long legs, hips and breasts made his body tingle in anticipation of all she might offer both man and vampire. He noticed perspiration gleaming on her pale skin as he got closer. The night wasn’t that hot; was she ill? No matter, even if she had the plague, it wouldn’t kill him. He’d learned that firsthand a few centuries earlier.