Something Strange and Deadly (5 page)

And in an instant I understood Elijah's favorite line from
Macbeth
: “There's daggers in men's smiles.”

When the sisters and their two escorts reached our table, Mercy bobbed a curtsy. “What a coincidence seeing you two here!”

“Quite!” chimed Patience with a curtsy of her own. She waved to the mustached boys. “These are the McClures. This is Tom and this is Luis.”

I nodded politely before noticing they were twins—matching dark red hair, olive skin, and perfectly tailored suits. Even their bushy mustaches were identical!

“Imagine seeing you,” Allison said icily. “I thought you were busy.”

“Oh yes!” Mercy twittered, and avoided the comment. “That séance was so
amazing
, Eleanor! Our mother spent the whole night with a case of the vapors!”

“Where's Mr. Wilcox?” Patience asked Allison with an arched eyebrow.

Allison's nostrils flared. “Clarence is at home with our mother. She's still distraught.”

“And your brother?” asked one of the McClure twins, his gaze focused on me. “Is Elijah still detained?”

My lungs grew too large for my chest, and for a moment I had no response. He had asked the very question I still needed to answer myself.

I tugged at my earrings. “He's not back yet. From New York, I mean.” I laughed shrilly. “D-do you know Elijah?”

“Oh yes,” said the other twin. “We were all at Germantown Academy together.”

My eyebrows drew together, and my lips flicked down. Elijah had been miserable at Germantown Academy. He'd been tormented every day by a quartet of devils led by one boy: Junior. Were these boys a part of that bullying gang?

“He was a year ahead of us,” he added. He smiled kindly, and my frown vanished. Elijah's tormentors had been older boys—not younger.

And honestly, even if I
did
meet Junior one day, what would I do? What
could
I do? Nothing more than what Allison was doing right now: fume silently with a veneer of cold politeness.

“We ought to all sit together,” Tom said. His gaze was unabashedly focused on Allison.

Peeps of disagreement broke from the Virtue Sisters' lips. They'd lost the attention of their gentlemen. No doubt this was the precise reason they'd avoided Allison's company in the first place.

“Our treat,” Luis added.

“Yes!” I blurted. “Join us!” The Virtue Sisters shot me fierce glares, but I stoutly ignored them and waved the waiter over. If these mustached McClures were so intent on impressing Allison with a show of generosity, I had
no
problem with that!

Soon enough, another table had been shoved next to ours, and the twins had dropped down beside Allison. I was left to chat with Patience and Mercy; and despite the sisters' disgruntled disappointment and my pressing errand, I found myself enjoying them. Maybe it was simply because Mama wasn't there and I could speak uncensored, or maybe it was because, when they smiled, the Virtue Sisters were actually rather fun.

Plus, Mercy ate so many croissants, I didn't feel guilty indulging in a few extras myself.

When the church bells rang noon in a thunderous clamor, I knew it was time to go. I needed to find the Spirit-Hunters and face this situation with the Dead and Elijah's absence.

I convinced Allison I could make it home alone, thanked the McClure twins profusely, grinned broadly at Patience and Mercy, and bid the entire group a good afternoon.

Once I reached the hotel's lobby, I bought a streetcar ticket at the front desk before scampering into the hot sun and boarding the first horse-drawn streetcar that rattled down Chestnut Street.

Free brunch, no chaperone, and a few new friends. Life was the shiniest it had been in years. All that remained to make it perfect was bringing Elijah home.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

D
espite the morbid motivation for going to the
Centennial Exhibition, it felt wonderful to be alone—to finally do what I could for Elijah.

When the streetcar reached Lancaster Avenue and the towers of the Exhibition hit my eyes, I hopped off the car. My home was within walking distance, and since my remaining coins would be spent on the Exhibition entrance fee, I would have little choice but to use my feet.

The newspaper had said the Spirit-Hunters were to be found in Machinery Hall at the Exhibition. Like the first world's fair in London, our International Centennial Exhibition was meant to unite the world in a display of technology, culture, and progress.

Iron spires and colorful flags rose up along the Schuylkill for ten blocks, making the Exhibition look just like a fairy-tale. Enormous buildings housed the world's wonders, and not even a whole slack-jawed, wide-eyed week of exploring the gardens and halls would be enough time to see everything.

The sun scorched down and the wind whipped my parasol as I joined the throngs that poured through the turnstiles, paid my fifty cents, and strode into the enormous entrance plaza. It was like a field of daisies with all the parasols twirling and bobbing in the breeze. Bartholdi's bronze Fountain of Light and Water rose from the plaza's center and towered over the thousands of visitors. I paused before it to let the mist spray over me.

I had already seen the Exhibition. I had gasped and twittered with all the other visitors, but even the greatest feats of man lose their luster when one's head is filled with storm clouds.

Feeling cooler, I lowered my parasol and turned. Before me was the most popular building at the Exhibition: Machinery Hall, a long, narrow structure made entirely of wood and glass, and I had to crane my neck to see the top.

I entered the building to find sun pouring in through windows that spanned the walls. Sharp beams of light flew from the metal machine surfaces that packed the hall.

Engines, furnaces, sewing machines, locomotives—every example of man's newest creations hummed with life. The hall resounded with the whirs and clicks of a mechanical symphony. Singing with it was the chorus of people's laughter and chatter, and above it all was the percussive boom of a massive steam engine.

It was the Corliss engine, sitting in the center of Machinery Hall and soaring more than forty feet up into the rafters. Two monstrous cylinders spun a thirty-foot wheel, and the energy it generated was enough to power almost every machine in the building.

Yet among all the vibrancy, the alarms hung solemnly on the walls at regular intervals. Fire alarms and the new, but necessary, Dead alarms. I shivered as the horrible clang I'd heard in the train depot played in my mind.

I pulled the newspaper article from my pocket, careful to keep the print off my gloves—dirty gloves would incite Mama's ire—and verified the way to the Spirit-Hunters' office. It should be near the east entrance through which I'd just passed.

I glanced to a narrow aisle between the wall and a locomotive exhibit. It was also the path to the men's toilets. Scarcely the sort of place a lady should see. For that matter, scarcely the sort of place I
wanted
to see. Hesitantly, I continued on, keeping my gloved hand to my nose. The stink of urine was strong in the morning heat, and I fumbled for my handkerchief.

I slunk past the water closet door, cheeks aflame and eyes averted, until I saw a narrow door with a small handwritten note fixed to it.

P
LEASE KNOCK.
E
XPERIMENTS RUNNING.

I took one last stifled gulp, returned my handkerchief to my pocket, and gritted my teeth with determination.

I knocked. As the moments ticked by and no one answered the door, my determination faded and frustration wormed in.

I pressed at the handle to check if the door was locked. It flew open and promptly hit something—presumably glass, judging by its spectacular crash.

This was followed by a furious bellowing, sounding much like I imagined an enraged bull would.

Steeling myself, I stepped inside and peered around the door.

“Didn't you see the sign?” shouted a lanky man with tousled, corn-blond hair. He stood beside a table, his shirtsleeves rolled up and the top buttons of his shirt undone. All his exposed skin sent an embarrassed warmth through my face.

As if he wasn't frightening enough with so much profanity, he also wore the strangest set of goggles I'd ever seen. They covered half his face and were made of shiny brass with thick, clear lenses that made his eyes look like grass-green croquet balls.

And he was looking at me as if he expected an answer.

“P-pardon me?” I asked.

“Didn't you see the sign?” he snapped.

I glanced behind. “Well, yes.”

“So?” He rolled his hands in a quick, wheel-like movement as if to say “Now what?”

“I knocked,” I said sheepishly, “but no one answered.”

“Because I'm busy.” He stomped toward me, and I shrank back, ready to retreat through the open door should his expression turn any more menacing.

“S-sorry,” I stammered.

“You should be,” he said. “You've contaminated my grave dirt—look!” He thrust a finger toward the floor. I flicked my eyes down. Soil and glass covered the ground.

I opened my mouth to apologize but clamped it back shut at the sight of his blinking, goggled eyes and sharp frown.

“See that?” he barked. “D'you know how hard it is to get dirt from Laurel Hill? I ought to make you get more! Make
you
face the Dead and...”

I stopped listening. His hands flailed up, down, and side to side as he declared me reckless, thoughtless, and I even think I heard rude mentioned.

I took his foulmouthed moment to examine the room, which was no bigger than my bedroom, all the edges crammed with books, flasks, and trunks. There was just enough space at the center for several people to move about (albeit closely). Light shone from a single, tall window at the back. Behind the goggled young man, a table stood covered with wrenches, screws, wires, and other equipment one might find in an inventor's lair.

My breath caught as my eyes rested on a telegraph like the telegraphs at the fire stations—telegraphs that spring to life when a fire alarm sounds. This one must be connected to the Dead alarms.

“And,” the young man said, interrupting my thoughts with a forceful fist in the air, “I needed it to calibrate my goggles!” His chest heaved as if he'd just fought a boxing match, and I decided silence remained my best response. After several empty seconds, his hand dropped and he cleared his throat. He slid off the goggles' strap and gently eased the lenses from his face.

I blinked in surprise. The lenses were no longer clear but a murky brown. How had the glass changed color? My surprise grew when I noticed that, with his face fully exposed, the blond man was quite young—perhaps only a few years older than me. He had red dents on his face from the goggles, and his formerly bulbous eyes were now normal and entirely too predatory.

He folded his arms over his chest. “You've ruined my experiment.”

I took a weary breath, lifted my hands, and purred, “I'm truly sorry, sir.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you're a kitten.

“I thought it might calm you.”

“I don't need calming,” he snapped. “If you'll just leave, that'll take care of everything.” He pointed to the door. “There's the exit.”

I blinked. Part of me wanted to flee his short temper and take refuge in well-bred manners. But another part of me wanted to let my indignation loose. I hadn't come all this way to let some green-eyed, scruffy-faced boy stand in my way.

Indignation won. “Now see here, I've come to see the Spirit-Hunters.” I jabbed my parasol to emphasize each word. “I won't leave until I speak with them.”

“What would a lady”—he drew out the word like “laaaay-dee” and waved in my direction—”possibly need the Spirit-Hunters for?”

“That is none of your business.” I pushed my shoulders back, bristling at his snooty superiority. “I will speak with Mr. Boyer and Mr. Boyer only.”

“Is that so?” He rocked his weight onto his heels and examined me from head to toe. My face burned under the scrutiny.

He stepped close to me. I had to roll my head back to see his face—he was at least half a foot taller—and he gazed down with barely concealed distaste.

“I have grave dirt to sweep,” he said, “so if you'll be stayin' around for Mr. Boyer, could you at least stand somewhere else?” He gripped me by both arms and pushed me backward out the door. I was so shocked to be touched I couldn't even protest. All I could do was skitter back where he directed. Even if I'd wanted to stop, my eyes were locked on the very near and very disturbing open collar and exposed throat.

With his hands still planted on my arms and with his lips curved in a satisfied grin, he drawled, “I'm Daniel Sheridan, by the way.” He said it so casually, as if all introductions were preceded by manhandling. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss...”

I twisted free. The rascal. The scalawag. I gave him my haughtiest dragon stare. “I am Miss Eleanor Fitt of the Philadelphia Fitts.”

He flashed his eyebrows and doffed an imaginary hat. “Why then, you're practically royalty.” He whirled around and strode back into the lab. The door slammed shut behind him.

I stood outside the lab. My shoulders and neck were locked with fiery rage, and I felt as if flames might spew from my fingertips and eyeballs.

Royalty? Humbug! I should have quipped, “And that makes you my subject” or “It's Queen Eleanor to you” or any number of responses more glib than my furious silence.

“Oh dear,” said a rich, baritone voice behind me. “I told him to keep his temper in check.”

I spun around and found my face two feet from the buttons and collar of a black frock coat. I angled my head slowly up and met the speaker's honey-brown eyes. He was the most elegant young gentleman I'd ever seen. His suit was impeccably tailored, a slick top hat sat upon his head, and his dark skin seemed to glow from within.

“Misyeu Joseph-Alexandre Boyer,” he said with a bow. “At your service.”

I opened and closed my mouth. My composure was thrown at how unlike Daniel this man was.

Joseph opened his hands in a graceful apology. “Please forgive Mr. Sheridan. I am afraid he works better with machines than with people.” He spoke with such poise and his movements were so refined that all I could do was gawk. He cleared his throat and looked decidedly uncomfortable.

“Oh yes,” I mumbled. “I suppose I shall forgive him.”

“
Mèrsi
.”

“You're French?” As soon as I asked, I knew my guess was wrong.

“Creole,” he corrected. “There is a difference in how we speak and spell our words.”

My eyebrows jumped. “Creole? Truly? I've never met a Creole before.” I extended my hand. “I'm Eleanor Fitt.”

Joseph stiffened, his eyes fixed on my gloved hand, and I realized—too late—that I'd put him in an uncomfortable position. A gentleman simply was
not
supposed to shake the hand of an unmarried woman without a proper, third-party introduction. I was so used to chaperoned meetings that I had acted on foolish reflex.

Then his features relaxed, and a smile passed over his lips. He shook my hand firmly before guiding me back into the cramped lab.

“Come in, come in,
Mamzèi
.” Joseph removed a stool from under the table and gestured for me to sit. “Please excuse the mess. As you know, we are busy people.”

I glanced uneasily at Daniel's back. He was bent over the table and occupied with something I couldn't see. I took the offered stool.

“How'd the meeting go?” Daniel asked without turning around.

“Mr. Peger was there.” Joseph's voice was a soft growl.

Daniel spat, and the spittle landed beside my feet. Droplets splattered on the hem of my gown, and I recoiled. Had the man never heard of a spittoon?

Joseph chuckled, apparently in full agreement with Daniel's reaction. “Yes, and I will give you three guesses as to what was decided.” Joseph placed his hat on top of the alarm's telegraph.

Daniel grunted, hammering at some unseen metal. “My three guesses are no, no, and no.”

“Exactly.” Joseph squinted at the floor. “You do realize there is soil everywhere?”

Daniel barked a laugh and whirled around to look smugly at me. My whole body ignited with embarrassment. Daniel flicked his gaze to Joseph. “I'm well aware of the soil, but back to the meeting. What did they give as a reason this time?”

“The usual. They listened with much more attention to Mr. Peger, and so they do not believe we need more reinforcements. They also insist no men can be spared.”

“They're gonna regret that,” Daniel muttered. “When they see what's in the cemetery, they're gonna wish they'd listened to you.”

“Yes, but I think that is enough talk about that.” Joseph glanced at me slantwise, and I got the impression that whatever topic they were discussing it was not for my ears. He turned toward me. “Tell me, Miss Fitt, what brings you here?”

“Oh.” I swallowed and sat up straight. “It's two things, actually. One... well, one has to do with the walking Dead, and the other is about a spirit.”

Joseph raised an eyebrow and gestured for me to continue, so I described everything that had happened. I rambled, backtracked, and fought off tears, but soon information about the corpse, the letter, the séance, and the spirit had all rushed from me. Throughout the speech, Daniel and Joseph shot concerned glances back and forth.