The Devil & Lillian Holmes (30 page)

“And the Learned Order?”

Lillian sighed. “I think I have neither the time, the energy, nor the taste for revenge right now. Perhaps someday.”

“I am glad to hear it,” George admitted. “I brought you some nourishment, so we need not be interrupted again.” He reached into his coat pocket and revealed the tip of a blood-filled vial.

Lillian nodded. “I’m too tired to ask where you got it.” She took the vial and drank it down in a single swig, and then she snuggled into his arms and was sound asleep within moments. George reached her bedroom with the continued discomfort of his arousal, but the peace in his beloved’s sleeping face was more important. He dearly loved to see her happy.

And, no matter, they had many such nights ahead.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

A shy newborn.

“I do not like this place, George.” Lillian linked her arm through his and stared at Arthur, who peered into the night as if he’d never seen darkness before. Of course, Annaluisa had been killed on this roof. Yes, she had known something of Lillian’s mother, for sure. And she had paid a terrible price for that knowledge. “Did he choose this spot or did you?”

George pointed to Doyle, indicating the location had been his choice.

Arthur had taken to flight well, and Lillian felt some pride in her newborn. He had been ill during the day, which would come and go and gradually abate. But now he needed real sustenance or the hunger would kill him or drive him insane.

Arthur turned. “She was a friend, Madam Pelosi. I know now that she hid a great secret from me, but still, she was kind to me and we had splendid conversations.”

“You understand that you helped destroy her murderer, sir?”

Arthur nodded. “I’m glad for that little role. Johnnie visited me today, and I believe he feels the same vindication for his Aileen. Although, of course, his loss is so much greater.”

“We will look after Johnnie,” Lillian said, wondering exactly how they would do that.

George approached Doyle and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Arthur, if I may, we should not delay in the search for someone suitable. You are weak and will grow weaker by the hour.”

“I cannot do this.” The Scotsman hung his head and dropped his tense shoulders. “I do not have the heart for it.”

A racket in the building on the floor below them stopped Lillian from speaking. A man and woman argued violently, and at a scream from the woman she, George and Doyle dropped to the balcony outside that window. Through the lace curtains they could see that the man—large, round, and in his cups—had knocked the woman to the ground. She held her cheek and cried.

“That will not do,” Lillian said.

The man pulled the woman roughly to her feet and she cried out again, shaking and sobbing. “I didn’t do anything!”

“You do not leave this room without my permission! How you test me!”

“But I only wanted a little meal!”

He hit her so hard that she fell to the floor in a heap, unconscious or dead. Then he started kicking her.

“We must stop this,” Lillian whispered. She could not have hoped for a better victim, and she prayed Arthur would act—or she would.

George pushed the window up, and the man stared at him in wonder.

“What? How?” He stepped back a few feet.

“Would you like to try that on me?”

“Stay out of it!”

Arthur stepped in front of George. “Ach, you son of a bitch.
I
will not stay out of it.”

“No? Go ahead—”

Before he could finish, Arthur knocked him to the ground and punched him in the nose, which made a nauseating cracking noise.

“He takes after his maker, doesn’t he?” George said, turning to Lillian. “You both seem to like fisticuffs.”

Lillian looked on in mixed pride and regret as Arthur made a meal of the man and then sat back and cried. He would be fine on his own, she saw now, but her hero would also suffer great remorse each time he ate. She pitied him that.

“I will miss him dearly when he goes,” she said to George. “This man will definitely return to his wife.”

“I believe I will miss him as well,” George said. “But we have some time. He wants to interview young Jack. And my guess is that he will not go back on his promise to help Bess with her foot.”

“How can he help her now? He can barely think of facing his family. He will not reach out to colleagues!”

“Ah, my little newborn,” George said, “I have seen many meeker souls than this become ruthless killers in my three centuries, find ways to hide their nature. He’s getting a taste of two things that feed his personality and his hunger: blood, and the feeling that he is doing something righteous. Our task is to keep him on the path of right. We can do that by giving him a family. Maybe even establishing a House.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Friends.

George laughed as Bess stomped her little foot in frustration. “No, I will not take it back. I suppose you are forced to spend it.”

“I cannot even show it to my family! They will think me a bank robber!”

“Bess, sit down, your cheeks are so red they are emitting a strange glow. We cannot have any more deaths. Now, what do you think a great Watson should earn for putting her own life at risk for a friend? For going to an asylum, and then to an orphanage guarded by a…‘creature’? For helping her find a son? What price would you put on that?”

“That, sir, is called friendship. No payment is required.” Bess took the stack of notes and threw them up in the air. They fluttered down around her, and she made it quite clear that she was not going to pick them up.

“You are quite frustrating at times,” George said with a laugh.

“You sound like my Lil,” Bess replied. “Only you both are twenty times more frustrating than I.”

Phillip folded his newspaper and yelled at them both to be quiet. “Arthur has finally stopped playing the piano, and now I have to listen to this bickering?” he complained. Then, “Elizabeth, listen to George. Money is not an issue for us. It is his way of thanking you, and you must sometimes allow him his odd ways. He is not a normal man. There is no need for your family to suffer.”

“It’s charity,” Bess said, “and charity—”

“Please, might we have some quiet?” Arthur yelled across the room. “We are conducting a serious investigation!” The author sat with Lillian at a table across from Jack with a small standing mirror between them. Arthur held up various small objects that he kept from Jack’s view and asked the boy to identify them.

George watched Lillian, wondering if she remembered that they had sat at that very table with Annaluisa conducting a séance. He had begun to fall in love with her that night, the same night he went to her room to silence her. It had been only two and a half months ago. Now he was to be married in a week, had a son, a rather easy relationship with his brother, and freedom to live as he wished. Of course, their lives could be cut short soon at the hands of Vasil, assuming the Elder’s threat was serious. He sounded quite lackadaisical, to hear Chauncey tell it. But the threat gave George the curious feeling that he was human again, not secure that life would go on forever. Oddly, wondering if today could be his last, wanting to accomplish a few things before the end, gave life a sweeter taste than before.

He felt Phillip staring at him. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Spit it out now. You’ll say it eventually.”

Phillip laughed. “That’s quite true. I’m simply gratified that you finally understand what I’ve been trying to tell you these last few years.”

“What?”

“That your misery was always a choice.”

George threw a cushion at him, and his brother threw it back, laughing.
So right you are, Phillip,
he thought. But he didn’t say it. There was no reason for it to go to Phillip’s head.

EPILOGUE

Dear Arthur,

Thank you so much for the telegram reporting your safe arrival. I am devastated at the further deterioration of your wife. Would that I could have known her. I am also greatly saddened that I could not be there to support you at this difficult time. I understand some of the torture you might have felt at the decision facing you with regards to her illness. But, as we have discussed in depth, some matters are to be left in God’s hands.

You will be happy to know that Jack is thriving and is still speaking of having many adventures within your spirit realm. It is sometimes very disconcerting, but he seems not at all bothered by the ghosts who speak with him. George has made me promise to keep Jack’s talents quiet, and again, I entreat you to keep his identity secret. George and I want the boy to have as much normalcy in his life as possible. The Musketeers have taken so well to him. They are a happy if mischievous band of fellows.

We are sorely in need of space, and are buying a house on the same street so that Addie and Thomas Adencourt, my former governess and butler, have a fine place to spend their days. They are newly returned from Chicago. Oh, yes, well, you did see them at the train station that first day! I do not know if they are aware of our “nature,” but I am certain they will turn a blind eye toward it if necessary. I would trust those two with my life.

I am pleased to report that Johnnie Moran has agreed to reside in that house with them, along with his brother. In that way, we will all be close.

Johnnie seems better by the day. He asked me to say hello to you should we correspond. I thought of asking him to accompany us on our visit to collect Bess in the spring. I do hope that her presence is not a burden with your wife’s illness. Do give her my love, and let us know how her medical treatment progresses.

I know this time must feel very dark indeed. I remember it well. Please know that George and I would give anything to be with you now. We were discussing the wedding just this morning, and what a blessing it was that you agreed to give me away. It shall remain one of my most treasured memories, always.

Dear Mr. Doyle, I miss you so much. I even took to rereading your stories during my recuperation. It was happily successful, and George and I have agreed that it is quite for the best that I do not take medicinals of any kind, ever again. Thank you for your advice before you parted. In any case, I do not feel the need for them.

I am anguished by your talk of aiding the troops now engaged in South Africa. I have heard horrors about this “Boer” war, although I suppose all wars are thusly horrible. You are at a fragile point in your recovery, and the battlefield may not be the wisest choice. Please do write when you have time, and let us know of Bess’s progress and when we can visit.

Ever,

Lillian Holmes

Just as she finished writing, George tapped her shoulder and she jumped.

“Johnnie is downstairs, wringing the life out of his cap and talking about a murder on the outskirts of town. I think I saw that Mencken chap outside, no doubt lurking to find a good story.”

“Wasn’t the murder-suicide at the castle enough to get both of them promotions?”

“Johnnie is so dedicated, and Mencken is so ambitious. They make a fine team.”

Lillian smiled. “I feel the need for a good investigation.”

George lit his pipe and grinned. “I think you like sparring with Mencken as well.” He turned and indicated their son. “Jack and I are building a fort in the back. He has made me promise to sleep outside in it with him tonight.”

Lillian laughed. “Wait until Phillip hears.”

“Phillip is helping to build it! Thomas is out there telling us how poorly we’re doing. I think if I leave them alone, they’ll have it done and forget about me. Or maybe I’ll try to charm him.”

Lillian folded her letter to Arthur and cupped her hand on George’s face, taking a moment to admire how her ruby ring gleamed against his pale skin. “You’re a handsome devil, George. But those good looks won’t work on Thomas, trust me. He’ll have you working again before I’m out the door with Johnnie.”

George sighed and pressed a kiss to Lillian’s head. “No one told me about this part of the bargain.”

She laughed and grabbed her messenger bag.

George stood and gave her one last embrace. “Don’t forget your pistol. And bring me back a little snack, love. It doesn’t seem I’ll get out tonight.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ciar Cullen hails from Baltimore. She spent her high school years as a theater geek, attended UMBC and studied archaeology before pursuing an advanced degree at Indiana University. She left Indiana to live in Greece for 8 years, working on the artifacts from a prehistoric cave site. Ciar also sweated out a few summers in Missouri on a First American site. She wound her way to England, where she studied archaeological remains at the British Museum of Natural History for a time. Finally, she inadvertently settled in New Jersey, married, and adopted a number of rescue cats. After several positions in nonfiction publishing, she landed at Princeton University, where she helps run the molecular biology department.

Ciar started writing late in life on a whim, and considers herself a hobbyist. This is her 18th book. Her website is
www.ciarcullen.com
and she loves to hear from readers. You can also chat with her on social media sites.