The torrential rains slowed traffic to a crawl. It took more than an hour to get downtown and the same to cross the mile-long span of the Brooklyn Bridge. Harry sat quietly, lost in thought. John stared out the carriage window at the turbulent grey waters of the East River, muttering to himself as he ran through a dozen new theories.
“Even if Jackson despised his stepfather enough to kill him, I still don’t see how it all fits,” he finally exclaimed as they inched down the exit ramp to Sands Street. A forest of black umbrellas clogged the pedestrian walkway to the right as some of the early-shift commuters made their way home from Manhattan. “How did he lock the door without a key? And why on earth would a promising young student from Yale want to unleash hordes of undead on his fellow man?”
“It’s an exceedingly peculiar and complex case,” Harry said. “But I believe there is only one explanation that fits all the facts.”
“Well?” John demanded. “Let’s have it.”
She adopted what she hoped was an enigmatic smile. “Don’t fuss, you’ll find out shortly.”
“You’re doing that supercilious thing again, Harry. Smug and awful.”
She laughed. “I could be entirely wrong, and I don’t wish to embarrass myself by bandying about pure conjecture.”
“Fine. My wager’s on Jackson then.” He searched her face for any sign of affirmation. “Wait, no, the whole madu weapon thing is too obvious. I’ll say Holland. Holland and Araminta.”
Harry just gave him her Cheshire Cat grin.
“You’re a horrible girl, do you know that? Davis Sharpe, and that’s my final answer! Perhaps he’s the illegitimate son of Jeremy Boot and they conspired together.” He pulled out his notepad and began flipping through the pages. “I know it’s in here somewhere,” he muttered. “It always is. That needle in the haystack of utterly irrelevant and misleading information.”
“Poor John,” she murmured. “You mustn’t forget Orpha. Despite her initial appearance at the post-mortem, she hasn’t been all that helpful, has she? Almost obstructive. And she has a strong interest in the supernatural. What if her true affiliations are darker than anyone imagined?”
“Be quiet,” he snarled. “I’m trying to think.”
Two blocks before they reached No. 17 Cranberry Street, Harry called out to Connor.
“Let us out. We’ll walk the rest of the way.”
The boy pulled on the reins and the carriage juddered to a stop in front of a series of identical row houses. “In the pouring rain?” he asked.
“I don’t wish to announce our presence. Not until we know who’s at home.” Harry turned to John. “You don’t mind getting a bit wet, do you?”
He looked with resignation at the deluge outside the window. “Go for a swim, you mean? Of course not. December drenchers are my favorite. Especially without an umbrella.”
“I’ll take that for a yes,” Harry said, buttoning her coat.
“Should I wait fer ya here?” Connor asked.
“No. Go straight to the S.P.R. offices. It shouldn’t take long. The bridge ramp is only a few blocks from Pearl Street and traffic should be lighter heading back to the city. Tell Harland Kaylock where we’ve gone. Tell him it’s nearly over.”
Connor hesitated. “Yer sure, Harry? Seems a bit reckless to leave you two here alone.”
“Maybe you should listen to the ten-year-old,” John said. “He’s actually making sense.”
Harry gripped the Colt in her pocket. The feel of the cold metal gave her courage. “There’s no time, Connor. Just go as fast as you can. We’ll look after ourselves.”
“What about the police?”
“There’s things they wouldn’t understand.”
“If you say so.” He gave them an encouraging nod, though doubt was plain to read in his young face.
They jumped out. Within moments, the carriage was speeding back toward the river. John turned his collar up, tugging the Homburg low over his eyes. Harry shivered as chilly droplets slid into the neck of her gown and straight down her spine.
“What’s the plan now?” John asked. “Storm the castle with torches?”
“We’ll go round to the back garden.”
They hurried the two blocks to the Sabelline house, splashing through small lakes at the corners. The cobbled street was deserted, though cracks of light could be seen through the heavy curtains on both the first and second floors. Harry and John slipped through the front gate and crept around to the side. They crouched beneath a window. It was closed, but they could just make out voices inside. One belonged to a woman. Harry felt certain it was Araminta. The other had a cracked, whispering quality.
“Can you tell who that is?” John whispered.
Harry shook her head.
“Jackson?”
She pressed her back against the bricks and risked a quick peek inside. The room was empty. Whoever had just been there was gone.
“Let’s give it a few minutes. Maybe they’ll return.”
The eaves of the house offered partial shelter from the rain. No sparrows today, but no crows either, which Harry took as a good sign. The last of the daylight bled away. They heard nothing more from inside the house, which was still as a grave.
“I’m going to knock,” Harry whispered.
“But—”
“Just follow my lead.”
She seized John’s hand, dragged him around to the front door and gave it three smart raps. When no one came, Harry banged again, harder this time. They shared a quick glance as tumblers spun and the door swung open.
“Miss Pell?” Araminta Sabelline clutched the doorframe, her face pale as chalk. She wore the same black dress as before. She seemed surprised to see them, but not angry or upset.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Sabelline. I’m sorry to trouble you but I have some news. This is my colleague Mr. John Weston, also of the S.P.R.”
John touched his hat in greeting. Araminta smiled uncertainly.
“May we come in?”
“Of course.” She stood aside so they could enter. “What foul weather we’re having. You can hang your coats over there.” She gestured to a small mud room off the hallway, with racks for boots and pegs for outerwear. “Our maid Berthe’s taken sick. She lives with her mother in Williamsburg. It’s just as well she stayed home today, I imagine the streets are a mess.”
“It took ages to get over the bridge,” John said, hanging up both of their coats. “I must say, this is a charming house.”
“Thank you. We bought it when Jackson turned five. I prefer Brooklyn to the bustle of the city. A much healthier environment for children.”
Somewhere in the depths of the house, a clock chimed five. The echoes faded into perfect silence.
“Is your son at home?” Harry asked.
“I’m afraid he’s gone out.” She looked at them anxiously. “Did you follow up on the letter he found, Miss Pell? Is that the news you’ve brought?”
“I did. And we’ve discovered some other things as well. Perhaps we should sit down to discuss it.”
Araminta took a steadying breath. “I wish Jackson were here. He said he had to meet someone, but wouldn’t tell me who. I’m certain he keeps things from me, simply out of natural protectiveness, you understand. He means well. But the not knowing is maddening too.” Araminta rubbed her arms as though she felt a chill. “This whole tragedy has shattered my nerves. Nothing seems quite real anymore.”
She led them down the hall to the same sitting room at the rear of the house. Araminta lit the lamps. It was nearly dark as night outside. Rain beat against the windows in a soothing rhythm. Beyond them, the garden was a misty blur.
“Can I offer you anything?”
“Thank you, no,” Harry said, settling herself in an armchair. Araminta took the sofa, and John stood by the mantle, discreetly examining the photograph of Julius Sabelline and Count Habsburg-Koháry.
“I’ll begin with the author of the letter, Mary Elizabeth Wickes. She’s a prisoner at the Tombs.”
“The Tombs?”
“The city jail on Centre Street. She’s due to be hanged for murder in a week.”
Araminta drew a sharp breath and put a hand to her throat, fingering the crucifix. “Whatever did she want?”
“To warn your husband about the amulet of Osiris. She knew it placed him in danger and that someone would kill to get their hands on it. Mary told us he never replied, but I think her letter frightened him enough to put new locks on the windows and to change the one on his office door.”
Araminta looked away. “My husband didn’t order those locks,” she admitted. “I did. The ones on the windows, at least.”
“Why?”
“I thought I saw someone looking in. A man. It frightened me.”
“When was this?”
“About a month ago. I told Julius. He was dismissive. I’ve always been high-strung and he thought it was my imagination.” She passed a hand across her eyes. “I can’t be sure it wasn’t.”
“You didn’t recognize him?”
“No. I’m certain it was a stranger.”
“Not Nelson Holland?”
Araminta gave her a sharp look. “Why on earth would it be Mr. Holland?”
Harry let the silence lengthen for a few beats. “I may as well be blunt. Davis Sharpe said he saw you together in Mr. Holland’s office.”
“Oh.” Araminta’s voice was barely audible, but she didn’t bother trying to deny it.
“Did your husband give you the bruise on your wrist, Mrs. Sabelline? Or was it Mr. Holland?”
“Neither,” she said dully. “It was Davis. He confronted me after the party. He must have been waiting in the corridor when I excused myself to freshen up. He was very upset, and of course, he’d had too much to drink as usual.”
“What did he want?”
“He said he was tired of being falsely accused by my husband. That it was ruining his career. I begged him to keep quiet. Not that it mattered in the end.”
“What happened next?” John prompted.
“He stormed off to his office. I went to the ladies’ room. I was rather shaken by the encounter and stayed in there for ten or fifteen minutes. I didn’t want Julius or Jackson to see me that way. They would have known something was wrong.” She stood and walked to a sideboard. “Are you sure I can’t offer you anything? I don’t usually drink before dinner, but I could use one now.”
John opened his mouth. Harry answered for both of them.
“No thank you, we’re fine,” she said.
Araminta poured herself a glass of red wine and took a long sip. It seemed to steady her.
“I know you must think me an awful person, but my husband was a cold man, Miss Pell. I’m not sure he ever really loved me. I suppose I should be grateful he took us in.”
“After Jackson’s father died?”
She nodded. “Julius was a good provider. I hoped he’d be more—a father figure—but he simply wasn’t capable.” She set her glass down. “I don’t care if you believe me or not, but I held no ill will toward Julius. And I certainly didn’t kill him.”
“No one says you did.” John sounded sorry for her. “Do you know when Jackson is returning?”
“He didn’t say.” She took another sip of wine.
“It’s a strange case,” Harry remarked. “Nearly everyone involved has lied about something. But it all comes down to two facts. The rest is window dressing.”
Araminta stared out at the rain-soaked garden, now shrouded in darkness. “I fear there is devilry at work, Miss Pell. Forces beyond our understanding.”
“That may indeed be so, but it was clear to me from the very beginning that this case revolved around the key and the seemingly impossible fact that the door was locked from the inside after the deed.” She leaned forward, blue eyes bright. “Let us say for the sake of argument it was not Jeremy Boot. We will rule him out.”
Araminta Sabelline tilted her head and nodded.
“Nor was there a third copy of the key. The locks had been changed that day and the reputation of the locksmith is above reproach. So how could it be done?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“We all know the order of events prior to the discovery of the body. Your husband left first, followed by Holland and Sharpe. Shortly after, Jackson claims he went to view the second floor exhibits, though no one actually observed him there.” Harry looked at Araminta. “You left and encountered Mr. Sharpe in the hallway. The count and Orpha Winter were the only ones remaining in the main hall. Am I correct so far?”
“I believe so.”
“At some point during this time, your husband was murdered and his strongbox looted. The act itself would have taken no more than five to ten minutes. Let us now arrive at the discovery of the body by yourself, Mr. Sharpe and Jeremy Boot. Before this moment, all is clear. The facts are unchallenged. But now things become a bit murky.”
Araminta bridled ever so slightly at this. “How so?”
“Well, we have poor Mr. Boot vomiting on his shoes. Mr. Sharpe standing in the doorway, no doubt transfixed by the scene of horror before him, and perhaps going to Boot’s aid. And you, Mrs. Sabelline, taking several steps into the room and fainting.”
“Your point?”
“We all made an erroneous assumption from the start.” She turned to John, who knew just what she was up to and was watching her closely. “That since the key was found in his desk, it had been there all along.”
“Oh damn.” He slapped his thigh. “You mean someone put it back afterwards?”
“Precisely. It’s the only possible explanation.”
Araminta didn’t speak, but her face had gone deathly pale.
“If that’s the case,” Harry continued, “it could only have been done by one of the first people to enter the room. We know Mr. Sharpe didn’t actually come inside, but instead went for help. Mr. Boot was busy getting sick at the sight of the mutilated body. He also had his own key. Replacing the one that belonged to the victim would only cast suspicion on himself, which is just what happened.” Harry smiled unpleasantly.
“Which leaves you, Mrs. Sabelline. When you pretended to faint, you no doubt caught yourself on the edge of the desk. It would only be a matter of seconds to return the key to the drawer before anyone noticed.”
Araminta laughed dismissively and placed her empty wine glass on the table. “That’s where you’re mistaken. Mr. Sharpe did come inside. Both he and Mr. Boot assisted me into the hallway. Assuming all this wild supposition is even true, he could easily have returned the key himself.”
“But Mr. Sharpe didn’t have access to the murder weapon,” John interjected, light dawning in his eyes. “We’ve learned what it is. A madu. Quite an exotic item. And we know Jackson borrowed one from Count Koháry’s collection.”
“Perhaps you thought that in the unlikely event the police figured it out, suspicion would fall on your son.”
“I’d say that’s a bit cold,” John muttered.
Araminta lifted her chin. Dark purple stains streaked her lips from the wine. “You have no proof of anything.”
Harry ignored her. “The ruse with the footprints makes sense if it was someone who had small feet and wished to throw off the investigation by wearing a large pair of shoes. Your husband was also a size eleven. I wonder if you recently purchased dress shoes for him? I think you did, and I also think they’d be missing from his closet.” She leaned back in the chair and steepled her fingers the way Myrtle did. “As for the proof, you must have the amulet stashed away somewhere. The police are on their way and I have no doubt they will find it.”
“Bravo,” John said under his breath.
Araminta snorted. “You’re a fool, Miss Pell.”
“I’m not sure why you did it, or why you cut out his eyes. Further misdirection, I suppose,” Harry said, although the certainty in her voice faltered. “Perhaps you intended to sell the amulet on the black market. Perhaps he refused to divorce you—”
“You know nothing.”
“Or perhaps you had an accomplice,” John said. “We heard two voices through the window. Who’s here, Mrs. Sabelline? Is it Jackson?”
“I sent him away.” A shadow crossed her face. “It’s not safe.”
“Why?” Harry frowned, her mind racing through parallel possibilities. “Is it Nelson Holland?” She wished she hadn’t given John her coat. The Derringer was in the pocket. Sloppy, Harry.
“The police are on their way,” she repeated in a louder voice, wishing it were true.
That’s when Araminta Sabelline began to chuckle. It was a horrible sound, half-mad and full of despair.
“Nelson Holland? Why, it’s the master who’s come.” She smiled coyly. “You know him, don’t you? Mr. Hyde.”
Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked.
“I’ve dreamt of him. He promised me eternal youth and beauty. Everlasting life. Oh, the things he showed me.” She cocked her head. “The master tried to show Julius things, but he wouldn’t listen. Wouldn’t look. Kept his eyes shut tight. We didn’t like that, so we took them. The eyes are the windows of the soul, you know.”
“Where is the amulet?” John said, grasping her arm. “Where?”
Araminta looked at the ceiling. She slowly raised a pale hand. “Upstairs. In Julius’s study.” She grinned and yanked free. “Come and get it.”
John staggered back as she gave him a hard shove and ran from the parlor. Footsteps pounded up the stairs to the second landing. Harry made to follow but John blocked her way.
“Are you mad?”
She squared her shoulders and tried to look down her nose at him, which wasn’t easy since he was about a foot taller. “We have to get that amulet, John.”
He shook his head in amazement. “Something’s up there, Harry. A daemon. The same one that possessed Mr. Brady. We’ve no idea how to stop it.”
“James Moran shot it before,” she said stubbornly. “Bullets do have an effect. The thing is in a mortal body. We’ll just have to stay back.” She looked at him. “Give me one moment first.”
“What?”
“I left my gun in the mud room.”
John sighed. He was swigging from the bottle of red wine when she returned.
“Want some?”
“No, thank you.”
John took a last gulp and tossed the empty bottle aside. “So the plan is we take the keys to Hell and walk out of here?”
“Yes. Run, probably.”
He sighed again. “Hang on.”
John disappeared. A moment later he came back with a heavy iron frying pan in his hand.
“Only thing I could find, but it’s better than nothing. Lead the way then.”
They ascended the stairs to the second floor. The hall was dark save for a door at the end, which showed lamplight through the crack.
“I expect it’s in Dr. Clarence,” Harry whispered, cocking the pistol. “Just don’t get in front of me, I’d hate to shoot you again.”
“Yes, that would be inconvenient.”
Harry put her hand on the knob. “Ready?”
John nodded, eyes huge and frying pan poised to swing.
Harry eased the door open. Julius Sabelline’s study was more cluttered than his office at the museum. Boxes of books and papers were stacked haphazardly around the room. A single standing lamp in the far corner cast a dim pool of light. The windows had all been thrown wide open and the curtains fluttered as rain swept inside.
A figure sat behind the desk. It seemed shriveled, shrunken, its face hidden in shadow. Araminta crouched on the floor next to it like a faithful dog. Harry brought up the pistol and aimed it at the faceless thing in the chair.
“I will not hesitate to shoot you,” she said, trying hard to keep her hand steady. “We’re agents with the Society for Psychical Research, fully trained to deal with your sort. Where is the amulet of Osiris?”
The creature leaned forward into the light. Harry drew a sharp breath. It wasn’t Dr. Clarence at all but one of the oldest women she’d ever seen. Even her wrinkles had wrinkles, like the underbelly of an ancient sea tortoise. She wore a ragged dress that had been washed so many times it seemed to have no color at all. Stringy white hair drew back into a tight bun atop her head.
“Harrison Fearing Pell,” the thing said in a paper-thin voice. “And Mr. Weston.”
Harry felt vaguely disappointed when she failed to add, So we meet again.
“Where is it?” John demanded, brandishing the frying pan.
“The key? It belongs to us.” This time, the old woman and Araminta spoke in simultaneous, overlapping voices.
“It belongs to Count Balthazar,” Harry said.
The old woman made a wheezing sound that might have been laughter.
“He paid someone to dig it up. That doesn’t make it his.”
“It doesn’t make it yours either,” John said.
Light glinted in the hollows of her eyes. “Claudius Ptolemy promised me passage in exchange for knowledge, but he abandoned me. He was a liar and a cheat.” The daemon sounded almost petulant. “Few men travel to the Dominion and fewer still leave. He owes me a debt.”
She raised a claw-like hand. Harry saw a flash of gold. The amulet.
“The thirteenth gate will open,” Araminta said in a strange, hollow voice. “The dead will walk.”
“Look,” John said. “You’ve had your fun. Time to crawl back to purgatory. Let’s not overstay our welcome.”
The old woman bared her broken teeth in a grin. “Those whores in London were merely a prelude, John Weston.” It tilted its head, considering. “Perhaps I’ll wear your skin next. You can watch through my eyes. We’ll hold the knife together.” That amused wheezing again. “I am the Dominion made flesh. Abyssus abyssum invocate. Do you remember? Hell calls to—”
Harry pointed the gun at its heart and pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening in the small room. The old woman fell backwards, vanishing behind the desk. Araminta let out a high-pitched screech. She seized a letter opener and lunged forward. John swung the frying pan, but she twisted like a snake, easily dodging his blow.
“Get the amulet, Harry!” he cried.
She nodded and cocked the hammer of the pistol. Then she crept forward and peeked around the corner of the desk. Blood stained the carpet, but the old woman seemed to have vanished into thin air. John’s scream made her whirl around. The letter opener was buried to the hilt in his right shoulder. Araminta wrenched the frying pan from his grasp and brought it down on his head with a horrifying crunch. John fell to his knees. Another blow and he collapsed bonelessly on the carpet. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
White-hot rage scoured Harry’s bones. She got the gun up and fired, but she’d never been a good shot. The bullet went wild, smashing into the desk. Araminta’s face was perfectly blank and Harry had a sudden vision of her cutting out her husband’s eyes with the same chilling calm.
Harry was about to squeeze the trigger again when the old woman skittered out of the shadows and grasped Araminta’s skirts. Blue fire raced from its fingers. Within seconds, she was ablaze. Araminta staggered to the window, beating futilely at the flames. The heavy velvet curtains went up like a torch. Glass shattered as a dark shape hurtled through the window into the rain-soaked night.
Araminta’s screams seemed to go on and on. The sickly odor of burning flesh and hair filled the air. Orange flames streaked up the wallpaper, quickly spreading to the boxes of books and paper. Harry crouched down, seeking clean air. She still had the pistol in her hand, but the metal was growing hot. She tried to get her bearings in the smoky darkness. She crawled across the floor, groping blindly. Finally, she found an arm.
You’re a fool, she thought. An arrogant fool.
Harry’s throat burned. She dropped the gun and cradled John’s still form, stroking his hair, wet with blood.
“I’ll get us out, don’t worry,” she whispered.
Flames licked the ceiling. Sweat poured down her face and her scalp tingled from the intense heat. Mercifully, Araminta’s hoarse cries had finally stopped. But Harry’s heart sank as she saw the fire had already spread to the doorway and hall beyond. The window was the only possible escape route, but the blazing curtains created a barrier and John was too heavy for her to carry. She tried to shield him with her body, pressing her nose and mouth into the thin pocket of air on the floor. Shadow and flame, Mary had said. Flame and shadow. It comes for us all….
Wood splintered as the door flew open. The fire roared like a live thing at the fresh oxygen. A beautiful woman with brown skin and hard eyes grabbed Harry like a sack of potatoes. Behind her, a slender man lifted John in his arms. John had to weigh at least a hundred and eighty pounds, but the man handled him like a child. They dashed into the burning hallway and down the stairs. Harry dimly heard a crash as part of the roof caved in behind them. And then cool night air hit her face, and glorious rain. She blinked red, watery eyes, coughed violently. Outside, a crowd was gathering.
Her savior set Harry on her feet. “Are you burned?”
“I don’t think so.” She coughed again. Her lungs felt scalded. Araminta’s screams still echoed in her ears, but even worse was the sound of the frying pan striking John’s skull. It had to be fractured. Oh dear God…. “He needs a doctor.” Tears clogged her voice. “Immediately.”
“It’s being handled,” the woman said cryptically.
“How?” Harry looked around. “Where are they? Who are you?”
The woman opened her mouth to reply when Jackson Sabelline came rushing out of the darkness. “Where’s Mother?” he asked frantically.
Jackson turned to run inside the inferno but Harry seized his arm. “She’s dead.”
His face crumpled and she knew she could never tell him what his mother had done. It would be too cruel.
“How could you leave her?” He tore at his wavy brown hair. “How could you?”
“She was already gone.” Harry hesitated. “I’m terribly sorry.”
The crowd fell back as a pumper truck drawn by three enormous draft horses tore around the corner. Firemen in long, heavy coats leapt down and started unspooling a white cotton hose. Jackson gave her a last despairing look and ran over to speak with them. Harry scanned the faces lined up across the street, searching for John and the man who had rescued him. Rain and smoke stung her eyes. Most of the gawkers sheltered under umbrellas, but then a brief space opened up and Harry caught a glimpse of a man with grey streaks at his temples. He wore a bowler hat that cast his upper face in shadow but something about him struck her as familiar. Was it Count Koháry’s manservant?
She blinked and the crowd swirled together again. Harry was about to run across the street when the tall woman next to her spoke.
“I’m Vivienne Cumberland,” she said in an upper-crust English accent. “My associate Alec Lawrence is seeing to your friend. I don’t suppose you managed to get the amulet.”
Harry stared at her, understanding dawning. “You’re from London.”
She nodded. “We came as soon as your boy brought his message to Mr. Kaylock.” Her voice hardened. “The daemon was here.”
“Yes. It got away with the amulet. I think I shot it, but then it set Araminta on fire. With its hands.” She shuddered. Even at this distance, she could feel the heat of the flames. “Everything happened so quickly. I heard a crash. It must have jumped out the window.” Harry forced herself to meet Lady Cumberland’s cool gaze. “We’ve made a terrible mess of things, haven’t we?”
Vivienne sighed. “There’s no time. We need to leave before someone starts asking questions. Come.”
They ran past the firemen. One of them gave Harry’s soot-covered face a sharp look but made no move to stop her. Despite the downpour, the blaze had already spread to the adjacent houses. The Sabelline home was made of brick, but its neighbors were wood. Flames erupted from every window and the entire street was bathed in reddish light.
The carriage waited at the curb a block away. “Harry!” Connor called out when he saw her. “What happened?”
“I’ll tell you later,” she said with a wan smile. “But you brought help just in time. Thank you.”
“It’s a habit of mine,” he responded cheerfully.
They crowded into the carriage. John lay slumped against the seat, his eyes closed. Vivienne signaled to Connor and he urged the horses into a trot away from the chaotic scene.
“Mr. Weston needs a hospital,” Harry said. “Araminta stabbed him with a letter opener and bashed him on the head. Twice.” She leaned over and took his hand. A lump of guilt lodged in her gut like a stone. “Poor John. He always seems to get the worst of these encounters.”
Vivienne laid a reassuring hand on her arm. “I told you, Mr. Lawrence will see to him.”
Harry studied Alec Lawrence for the first time. He was young like Lady Cumberland, perhaps a decade older than Harry, but both of them had an ageless quality. A slight strain was evident around the eyes, as if he too carried pain but had learned to live with it. A cane with a silver handle sat propped between his knees.
Alec Lawrence looked at Vivienne.
“You can let me go now,” he said mildly. “We’re far enough away.”
Harry didn’t understand what he meant since Vivienne wasn’t even touching him, but a moment later his expression softened. Something like satisfaction stole across his features. He turned to John and gently cupped his face, watching him intently. Harry frowned, but the hair on her arms rose up as if a breeze had swept through the carriage. The raindrops coursing down the window seemed to shiver. Alec gritted his teeth. Whatever he was doing, it was unpleasant. Harry suddenly wanted desperately to stop it. She opened her mouth, unsure of what she planned to say, but Vivienne gave a sharp shake of her head.
Moments later, John stiffened. He gave a low gasp, back arching beneath Alec’s hands. His eyes flew open, wide and startled.
Alec released him. He looked exhausted. “It’s done.”
“What’s done?” Harry demanded.
Vivienne ignored her. “Are you all right?” she asked John.
He raised a shaking hand to his eyes. “I think so. Who are you?”
Harry stared at him in wonder. Blood still matted his hair, but he was sitting up now.
“These are the agents from London,” she said. “They just pulled our fat from the fire. Literally.” She squinted at Alec. “What did you just do?”
“Mr. Lawrence has special abilities,” Vivienne said, her tone discouraging further questions.
John gingerly tested his shoulder. “Miraculous, I’d say.”
Harry leaned over and gently probed the spot where he’d been struck on the head. There wasn’t even a lump.
“Miraculous,” she repeated faintly.
Alec smiled at them, though there was something grim in it. “You’re both lucky to be alive.”
“I know. Thank you.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “We read your report on the Hyde case, Miss Pell. It seems you’ve caught another killer, but I’m guessing this one met her own brand of rough justice.”
Harry nodded. “Araminta confessed to murdering her husband. She thought she’d be rewarded with eternal life. Instead, it sacrificed her to get away.”
“Demonic pacts do have a way of turning on one,” he said dryly. “Any idea where it went?”
“I’m afraid not. It jumped out the window.”
“We need to review everything we know. There must be some clue.” Alec banged on the roof of the carriage with his cane. “Pearl Street!”