She Returns From War (3 page)

When the procession reached the tomb, the crowd parted to make room for the pallbearers. Victoria watched them pass, uncles and cousins she didn't know, but they didn't meet her eyes. They carried her parents into the cold shadows of the mausoleum. The stone walls of the structure were milky-grey, matching the hue of the clouds overhead. Moss wormed its way along the stone in fluid shapes, but it lacked the venerable serenity of the neighboring crypts. Her father had it built when she was a young girl to house himself and his descendants, but he had been too ambitious in its size. The sons he had envisioned lying next to him in eternal repose never arrived. Victoria's only sibling, a younger sister who had died in infancy, was the sole occupant of the family crypt.

Until today.

Tradition dictated that she should wait outside with the other women while the men followed the dead for the final interment. Had it been an aunt and uncle in the coffins, she would have gladly complied, but these were her parents. It was her failing that had brought them to this place. She owed it to them to see their bodies to rest herself.

The air inside the crypt smelled musty, of stone and soil and water. Men holding lanterns had gone in ahead of the pallbearers and now stood by the corners of the waiting sarcophagi. Eerie shadows danced to the rhythm of the flickering light like fey spirits. The sound of dripping water echoed in the shadows.

Victoria drew in a sharp breath. Her vision swam as a long-forgotten fear welled up inside her. She suddenly felt as though she was trapped inside a nightmare from her childhood. In them, she would always find herself lost in a maze of dark alleyways. Rain-slick cobblestones were cold on her feet as she ran, terrified, always just a step ahead of some unseen terror. Bleary gas lamps floated in the haze around her, but their light gave no comfort. Instead, they only served to confuse her, drawing her ever deeper into the labyrinth. Sobs filled her throat, choking off her cries for help. And still she would run; she knew that stopping meant certain death.

A hand touched her shoulder. She whirled toward it, arms rising. The haze lifted from her eyes, and she saw the face of her father's brother looking down at her. Concern creased the skin around his eyes.

"Are you still with us?" he asked, his voice quiet.

Victoria felt a hot rush of blood burn her cheeks. She nodded, lowering her eyes to the dusty floor. Her hands trembled. She forced them to be still and turned back toward the lanterns. The shadows still frolicked in their mischievous dance, but they no longer hid the monsters that haunted her dreams.

The pallbearers lowered her father's coffin into the sarcophagus. Echoes filled the small space as they slid the stone lid into place. Two lions, standing on their hind legs and grasping a sword hilt between their forepaws, adorned the heavy slab. The Dawes family crest. It was supposed to be her heritage and her pride, but she'd never felt much like a lion. A fox, sometimes, when she had done something clever, but never a lion.

The crypt grew colder as the men paid their final respects and left one by one. Soon, Victoria stood alone before the beautiful stone boxes. The lantern-bearers stood in the doorway, throwing shadows and light across the relief carvings in the walls. Victoria laid a hand on each sarcophagus, feeling their chill through her thin black gloves. Letting herself return to that night and its harrowing memories, she called to mind an image of the black dogs. She willed herself to stare into their glowing eyes. Rage flowed through her like liquid fire, and she let it spread, filling every fiber of her being. Her eyes glittered like distant stars.

"Father." Her voice was dark and hard like the granite walls around her. "Mother." She drew herself to her full height. "I'm sorry I failed you. I know it can't help you now, but I vow to you that I will hunt down those beasts. I will hunt them to the ends of the earth and back, and I will kill them. I know I may not have been the daughter you wished for, but I will make you proud in this. No matter the cost, no matter the distance, I will give you justice."

TWO

Victoria felt the curious eyes of the fellows all around her as she stood beside the coach. Aspiring scholars in flowing robes strode along the paved avenues in groups of two and three, oblivious to the grandeur of the buildings around them. Their conversations gave way to mute stares when they caught sight of her. Although Oxford had just established their first women's college, she imagined it had been a good while since many of the students here had seen a young woman of marriageable age without an escort. Stray strands of hair peeked out from beneath her hat, gleaming like gilded steel in the sunlight and catching the golden thread woven into the bodice of her dress.

She straightened her back and allowed her bosom to thrust forward a little. Might as well give these poor shutin schoolboys something to remember. Her mother had been a shapely woman, and Victoria had inherited her good fortune. Combined with her father's piercing blue eyes, she'd stolen many a young man's heart since growing into womanhood. She found it quite tiresome at times, waiting for a smitten messenger boy to deliver his message or seeing round, gawking eyes follow her from doorways and carriage windows. Still, she couldn't resist the modest flaunting of her charms from time to time.

Today, however, she couldn't linger to tease passing students. Pulling a slip of paper from a coin purse tucked in her bodice, she compared the name written on it to the building in front of her. Blackfriars Hall. This was where she was supposed to meet him.

Victoria approached the front entrance with an air of caution. Unlike the other buildings that comprised the various colleges at Oxford University, Blackfriars Hall was a squat, simple construction that had fallen into some disrepair. Two rows of windows stared gloomily out across St. Giles, and a third above them was nearly lost in the sloping roof. It boasted no sweeping arches or towering spires, and even its front doors were plainly carved. It seemed a poor choice for the professional edifice of such a renowned scholar.

Her hopes dampened, she pulled open the old oak door. Inside, the floor groaned beneath her, announcing her every step. A man ensconced behind a massive desk looked up at the sound, candlelight dancing in his spectacles.

"Excuse me, miss," he said. "Are you lost?"

"No," Victoria replied. "I'm here to visit a friend of my father's."

The man smiled and rose to his feet. "You must be mistaken. You see, Blackfriars Hall has not been in use by the university for a very long time. We keep it open for historical purposes, but I'm afraid there are no offices here."

"But I'm certain he told me to meet him here." The paper crackled in her hand as she held it out to the man. "Blackfriars Hall."

The man took the paper from her and inspected it. "Yes, that is what it says. Perhaps you misunderstood?"

"Perhaps not," Victoria replied. "I'm quite capable of reading, sir."

He offered her a thin smile. "With whom were you exchanging letters?"

"A Mr. Townsend, an acquaintance of my father and scholar of some renown."

Behind his spectacles, the man's eyes widened. He looked back down at the scrap of paper and swallowed. "Mr. James Townsend?"

"Yes." Victoria stood up straighter. "He requested that I come visit him, and he instructed me to meet him in this hall."

"Of course," the man said, returning the paper. "If you'll follow me."

Surprised but pleased by her host's sudden acquiescence, Victoria fell into step behind him. He led her down a long corridor lined with closed doors. Some had names and titles carved into their ancient wood, but the doorman's pace was too brisk for her to get a good look. Their footsteps echoed through the empty building. Despite herself, Victoria pictured a procession of ghastly scholars with black robes and pale faces following them. Her skin prickled, and she pushed the thought away. She was here to speak with this James Townsend and learn from him how she might avenge her parents. Whoever he was, she was sure he wouldn't be impressed by a young woman who was frightened of echoes. He expected the bold, determined woman from her letters, and that was who she must be.

Her silent guide led her up a flight of stairs and down another corridor. Dust danced about his shoes in tiny swirls. The back of Victoria's throat began tickling something fierce. She tried to swallow it away, but it persisted. Lifting her hand to her mouth, she coughed as quietly as she could. The sound seemed to fill the building like a locomotive in a tunnel, but the porter did not turn or even seem to hear.

Some distance down the hall, he turned and approached a door indistinguishable from the others. She half-hid behind him as he rapped on the door with his knuckles.

"Yes? Who is it?" The thick wood muffled the voice behind it.

"You have a caller, Mr. Townsend," the man in the spectacles replied. "A young woman."

There was a muted exclamation of surprise, and the door opened. The man on the other side was small and stout. Light from behind him glinted in his glasses as he smiled and extended his hand. "Mr. James Townsend, erstwhile professor of religious studies, University of Oxford."

Victoria didn't smile as he kissed her hand. "Victoria Dawes of Oxford, daughter of the late Henry and Abigail Dawes."

"Yes, of course," James replied, placing his other hand on top of hers. "My sincerest condolences for your great loss. Your father was a remarkable man, and your mother a most worthy wife to him. Please, come in." He stood to one side and waved a hand toward the room beyond.

Victoria smiled her thanks as she stepped through the door.

"Thank you, Benedict," James said to the other man. Benedict nodded without replying and began retreating down the hall, his footsteps fading into the darkness. Closing the door, James turned back to Victoria, who stood with her hands clasped in front of her. Her face must have reflected her distaste for the strange porter, because James let out a chuckle. "Oh, don't mind him. A queer fellow, to be sure, but harmless. You'd be hard-pressed to find a man in this building who wasn't a curious sort."

Victoria's smile felt shaky. An uneasiness had been growing in her since she came into Blackfriars Hall, and neither Benedict nor this James Townsend made her feel any more comfortable.

"Please, have a seat." James motioned toward a pair of high-backed chairs facing the fireplace. Victoria obliged him, settling gingerly onto one of the thick cushions. Electric lanterns filled the small room with a dingy yellow light, mixing with the sunlight glowing through the single window. The remains of a fire blinked at her with a dozen red eyes. Shelves on either side of the hearth sagged under the weight of the innumerable books piled on them. Victoria started searching for familiar titles, but quickly chided herself for expecting a scholar to own any of the Gothic romance novels she fancied.

James went to the desk and rummaged through the drawers. After two failed searches, he produced a dark green bottle and a pair of snifters from a third drawer. Glass clinked against glass as he filled the snifters. Crossing over to the other chair, he offered her one of the glasses before sitting.

"In memory of your parents," James said, lifting his glass. She touched hers against it and brought the liquid to her lips. Checking to make sure James was occupied with his own drink, she gave the contents a quick sniff. It smelled of apples and cinnamon. Satisfied, she drained her glass. The cider was sweetened with honey and not too strong. She thought it an odd thing for a man to drink in the privacy of his study, but perhaps he kept the bottle on hand for visiting women. The founding of St. Hugh's College at Oxford meant that he must entertain them regularly now, she supposed.

James set his glass on the carpet beside his chair. "I must apologize for the surroundings," he said. "I'm sure they aren't what you expected when I invited you to visit the office of an Oxford professor." She opened her mouth to reply, but he continued over her. "To be honest, they aren't what I expected when my associates offered me the position. One typically doesn't associate the world of Oxford University with closet-sized offices in rundown buildings, but here we are." He laughed at that. "I do sometimes wonder if I've moved up in station at all since leaving Lord Harcourt's employ. He did always say I was lacking in wit.

"But I digress," he said, straightening up and looking at her. "Perhaps I should apologize for my indiscretions instead of my surroundings. Here I am blathering on about myself when you have such a weight of your own to bear."

"It's quite all right," Victoria said. In truth, she didn't mind his prattling; it saved her from having to bring up an awkward topic. "You are aware of my reasons for coming to see you?"

"I gathered some of it from your letters. You wish to discuss the circumstances surrounding the death of your parents and feel that my particular expertise may be of some use." When Victoria nodded, the scholar sighed. "I'm not sure how much assistance I can provide, you understand, but I will do what I can."

"I appreciate your time." Taking a deep breath, Victoria made herself look him in the eye. "I believe my parents were killed by supernatural forces."

To his credit, James Townsend did not laugh or raise a skeptical brow. Instead, he merely cocked his head to one side and studied her through his spectacles. "What gave rise to this belief?"

"My own eyes," she replied. She recounted the events of that night, everything she could remember. The story sounded absurd even as she told it, but James listened with rapt attention. When she finished, he leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin.

After a few minutes of silence, Victoria said, "I've not gone mad."

"No indeed," James replied. "I'd not even considered it, in fact."

"So you believe my story?"

He nodded. "It is a fantastic one, I must admit. In that, at least, it is fortunate you found my name among your father's letters. Had you approached any of my colleagues regarding this matter, I daresay you would have found them far more skeptical. Worthy men, all of them, but perhaps a bit too cloistered in their thinking. Such matters are more academic than pragmatic for them, you see."

"But not for you?"

"Oh, no. You see, I alone of them - to my knowledge, at least - have practical experience with these sorts of things."

Victoria leaned forward. "You have experience with the creatures that attacked my family?"

"No, not them per se," James admitted, "although I am familiar with the stories regarding such creatures." Standing up, he moved to one of the cluttered shelves and began scanning the titles. "One hears reports of them all over England, though their exact nature and behavior, even their names, vary from place to place. Generally, however, they are referred to as Black Dogs, and they are regarded as signs of ill omen when they appear."

"If only it ended there," Victoria said.

James nodded. "Yes, omens are much more easily dismissed, and from what I remember, these creatures will not usually venture beyond the harassment of travelers."

"In the strictest sense, I suppose they didn't go beyond that in my case, either," Victoria said. Part of her couldn't believe she was discussing her parents' death in such a detached, factual manner. Had her heart died somewhere in the weeks since? Perhaps so, but if that was the price she had to pay, she would pay it.

James grunted his agreement and pulled a book from a pile. The movement caused several others to begin sliding off the shelf. He put out a hand to halt the impending disaster. Pushing them back onto the shelf, he tentatively removed his hand. They remained where they were, and he returned to his chair. He began leafing through the book even before he sat down, the pages crackling softly.

"Yes, here we are," he said after a few moments. "This phenomenon has been reported throughout the Isle of Britain for hundreds of years. As I said, they typically don't attack directly, seeming to prefer inducing fear and panic rather than harm. Still, as you so recently discovered, sometimes even that behavior can lead to tragic ends." Turning the page, he continued. "There are accounts of such creatures behaving benevolently, specifically in Somerset, where it is known as Gurt Dog. Not a terribly imaginative name, but only some of these are interesting. Black Shuck and Padfoot seem to be rather prevalent, though not in this area. Still, I suppose they're as good as any listed here and better than most. Shall we refer to these creatures as such?"

"I suppose so, yes," Victoria said, dreading the continuation of what had become a lengthy lecture.

"Far more intriguing a name than, say, Hairy Jack. Now then, you said the creatures that attacked you had yellow eyes?"

"Yes," Victoria said with a nod. Goosebumps rose on her arms and legs at the thought of them. "They looked like storm lanterns or windows in distant houses."

"That does seem to be an oddity, then," James said, adjusting his glasses. "Most accounts report bright red eyes, although they share the luminous quality with your sighting. Always seen at night, too. Some seem to think they are related to storms or other atmospheric phenomena, although sightings are also associated with crossroads, ancient 'spirit' paths, and places of execution. I don't suppose you were near any of those things that night?"

"Not a crossroads, certainly," Victoria replied. "I don't know about spirit paths or places of execution."

"No, of course not. Why would you?" James offered her a rueful smile. "After all, only old oafs like me go in for these sorts of tales. Pretty young ladies such as yourself have more pressing issues to attend."