The Devil & Lillian Holmes (7 page)

Lil shuddered and pulled herself out of her dreary thoughts as the Staring Man exited the building, joined by a porter and a companion about his age and social standing, chatting amiably with him.

“No, that was
The Murders in the Rue Morgue!
Ah, had he lived, so I might pay the homage due to him. I would see his grave before leaving Baltimore,” the Staring Man said.

His companion sighed in agreement. “Well, his second cousin twice removed, I think it is, bears the same name and is in our group. I’m unsure whether it is a boon or curse to bear that name, but it did him no harm, as he was graduated from Princeton and has done quite well for himself, as you will see.”

“Indeed? Is he a poet?”

“A lawyer.”

“He’s more reputable and much less interesting than his cousin, I would imagine.”

“He is my dearest friend; you must give him a chance,” the other man chided lightly.

So,
Lil thought,
a quite learned gent,
for rarely did one hear praise of Edgar Allan Poe these days. And he was a Scottish gentleman with a pleasant expressive voice. Perhaps a man of forty or so years …

She suppressed a squeal of delight.

“I was terribly sorry to hear about Louisa’s state,” the Scotsman’s American companion said. The Scotsman simply inclined his head. The two were standing in line for a hansom, and the next driver urged his horse to move up and accept passengers, so Lillian could hear no more of their conversation as they embarked. But she hurried to the following driver and motioned him down.

The man’s horse fretted at her nearness and whinnied and tapped at the cobbles. Lillian hated that animals sensed her true nature and now reacted negatively to her. Even Mr. Lincoln gave her a wider berth these days.

“Now, Sophie, quiet with you!” The driver pulled a bit of apple from his pocket and offered it to the horse, who wouldn’t be calmed. Lillian stepped back a yard and motioned for the driver to join her.

“Where to, miss?”

“I will pay you double your fare—no,
quadruple
your fare—if you would follow that carriage in front of us and then report to me the final destination of the taller of the two passengers. An extra reward for your total secrecy.”

The driver grinned and tipped his hat. “Not the first time, not the last, miss. But you must hurry before he turns down Howard. Traffic is fierce this time of day! How do I find you?”

Lillian reached into her satchel and tore a corner off of an envelope she thought to mail to Bess. It is a sign, she thought.
Leave Bess be.
“Here is the address. If I am not about, my maid will take the information. Here is one note for you, another upon the completion of the task.”

The driver’s grin turned to awe, and Lillian realized how truly naïve he must think her. No matter, Mr. Conan Doyle meant the world to her. She intended to learn why he stared at her, and if he’d heard her discussion. Why, how wonderful and terrible to meet her hero in such a fashion! She couldn’t wait to tell George. Of course, she would leave out the part where he stared at her, lest George scold her about needing to be more circumspect. Or worse.

She decided to walk home, lighter of spirit for having seen her hero in person, regardless of his opinion of her. Lost in thoughts of George, Mr. Doyle, and a gnawing hunger to feed within a few hours, she walked up Charles Street, the sun casting long shadows as it began descending behind the towering five-story buildings of the city.

“I am here for you, waiting.”

Lil froze and swung around in a circle, scanning for the speaker. Everyone went on normally; no one was close. The
clip-clop
and clang of the tinker driving next to her made the most pronounced noise.

“Don’t forget me. Come back tonight and ride. I’ll show you the way!”

She stopped, feeling a vertigo that hadn’t plagued her since George helped cure her addiction.
God help me, not again!

The voices grew louder, and she covered her ears—with no result.

“Forget about George, forget about everything but riding, riding fast. Come see the dark treasures I have waiting for you!”

“No! Stop it! Be gone!”

A man turned to see what was amiss and started to approach her, but she held out her hand in warning.
God help me, God help me.
The city spoke to her again, words only she heard. How could it be? It had been the morphine before. How could she hear such things now, so pure her blood, so immortal her body? The Jackal and Dr. Schneider were long dead; no one poisoned her mind or her blood; there was no one to lock her in an asylum again. Was that where she truly belonged? This she couldn’t share with George. Her hands shook as they hadn’t in weeks.

She stumbled toward home, and a woman practically collided with her, a mere silhouette in the blinding setting sunlight. A lilac
eau de toilette
had been applied so profusely that it created a sickly sweet curtain around the woman, who, rather than offering an apology, chuckled.

Lillian’s head ached so that she didn’t turn to see who had been so rude.

“You can’t ignore me forever, my dear!”

But had the woman spoken, or was it the city again?

CHAPTER SEVEN

A honeymoon is over before it starts.

“I thought you’d be happier.” George tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. Lillian had been through enough in the last months to last an average mortal a lifetime. Still, why didn’t she seem remotely pleased about the plan Phillip and he had constructed over three hours of debate?

She would stay with him in Baltimore and be free to search for her child. Kitty, albeit a very angry woman, would be spirited away by Phillip to New York, where Phillip would recruit Sullivan and any of the New York House he could convince to help fight Marie. On the way back he would rustle up some of the “ruffians” of Philadelphia if he could, hoping to appeal to their mercenary instincts. Whether any of it would work George had grave doubts, but he was certainly willing to try, as the alternatives were running, perhaps forever, or dying a gruesome death at Marie’s hand.

“I’m not feeling well, George. Just a bit of a headache.” Lillian rustled through her satchel, banging her pistol on her desk.

“I’ve not seen you so careless, Lil. That isn’t loaded, is it?”

She didn’t answer but continued to fumble through her bag.

“What are you looking for?” he asked. But he knew and his heart sank. What desperation she must be feeling to search for a pill so openly. “How did it go with the Adencourts? Off safely? We must discuss your household, for surely Marie will target those living in—”

“I said I’m not feeling well! Cannot I have a moment’s peace?”

George sat, stunned. In the few months he’d known her, Lillian had not once spoken so sharply. She’d already gone through the initial anger and shock that came with the change, and he’d found intense relief that she hadn’t come to loathe her maker—at least, not yet. At least, he had thought that the case. His heart ached at the possibility his unexpected fortune—no, his unexpected salvation—might be at an end. Perhaps she didn’t love him.

But, such a change in the space of a day? Why, just last night they’d shared a bed, shared secret thoughts and desires, expressed love and devotion. No, this was an aberration.

“Come on, let’s dine. Down to the docks for your favorite menu—”

“I’ll eat a rat or a cat, as that’s all I seem to manage on my own!” She looked up at him, eyes rimmed in red and hair falling from its chignon.

“Lil?”

“May I not have this night alone? I have been so worried of late about Marie and about your safety, about finding my child…I must recoup my strength a bit. I must have some quiet. Do you understand?”

She might as well have taken a knife and plunged it into his chest. Why didn’t she want to share her troubles with him? He was her
maker.
And her
lover.

“Of course.” He would not argue, so George stood and gathered up his coat and hat, wondering how such simple acts could feel so unfamiliar and awkward. He felt frozen in time, as if each motion were captured by an artist. Was it the end? If so, he would remember this moment forever. She had loved him despite his evil, loved him for his peculiarities. He had loved her for hers.

She turned toward her desk and he resisted going to her and planting a kiss on her head before leaving.

“I will see you tomorrow, George.”

“Lil?”

She didn’t turn. He craved to stroke her raven hair, to thread his fingers through it and nibble on her neck, to hold her so she could never get away.

“Marie is in town,” he reminded her, just to be cautious. “You understand how tenuous things are, do you not?”

“Yes. I will be careful.”

“There is no amount of care that can be taken to guard against her. At least, not with our current numbers. You are unsafe out of my sight.”

“Unsafe with or without you, so what does it matter?”

Another knife thrust. They were hounded by a devil, and Lillian might be giving up on everything.

As he left her house, George prayed for perhaps the second time in a century.

* * *

Lillian flattened out a page of her journal, intending to write about seeing Mr. Conan Doyle. She also listened for any commotion at the door that might be the hansom driver with information on the author’s whereabouts.

Not telling George had been difficult. Very difficult. And yet, it hadn’t seemed the time or place to point out the presence of a man who had expressed an interest in vampires. She was still embarrassed about her mistake. God, how angry would George be if he learned she’d discussed a murder before one of the greatest investigative minds ever? And Doyle was a physician, she remembered, who might recognize more quickly the peculiarities of her person.

Peculiarities.
Her hand shook too much to write. Not all of her peculiarities were related to vampirism. Why had the voices returned? What would George think of her, should she tell him that the old delusions had resurfaced and were not related to her medicine? Would he believe her that she hadn’t yet taken a pill? He hadn’t hated her for it before, but he’d gone to great lengths to help her recover.

Perhaps I am truly insane
, she thought
. And if I am insane, I am not worthy of George. I will certainly put him and his brother and all they care about at more risk than I already have. Mr. Doyle. I cannot even remember what I said to him!

When feeling her best, she had been reckless in her letter to Mr. Doyle. What would she do to endanger George’s secrets if she were hearing voices, running down the streets of Baltimore, pushing past strangers and talking to herself? What choice would George have but to lock her away? God, how could she have imagined herself fit to be a mother?

Perhaps…perhaps it was simply the stress of things, the constant worry, the recent changes in her body and mind. Not being able to speak honestly to her friends, not being able to do anything normal… It thrilled her to catch criminals in the act and dispose of them before they could do mortal harm, but sometimes, sometimes she chastised herself. Weren’t those criminals still human? Did she enjoy being judge and executioner a bit too much? Where was her former strict adherence to law and order? Was “justice” simply an excuse to tear into a neck and suck a body dry, to feel the life throb in her veins and strength stir in her limbs? It came close to the ecstasy she shared with George in their bed, and at times even exceeded it. Had her metamorphosis left her with any sanity, any humanity?

Do you truly want me to find you, my child?
She had already assigned a name to her missing girl: Jane. Lovely Jane—with long dark hair, no doubt. Lillian refused to believe the child had inherited any of her rapist father’s looks or temperament.
But are you any better than he, Lillian? You’re a devil yourself.

Where is she? Why can’t I find a clue? And there were no good choices about the future.

Too much, too much.
Lillian laid her head on her desk and wept until she had no strength to even change her clothes. She closed her journal and opened her desk drawer to return the book to its proper place. As she did, one tiny pill rolled forward. Her medicine. Lillian stared at it and wondered, for the thousandth time, if Jane would want to be found. If her own mother would want to be found. And what they would think of her should she be successful in her search.

She should not have sent George away. But she would make it right tomorrow, she swore, and she put the journal back and picked up the pill.

CHAPTER EIGHT

An unlikely friendship develops.

Johnnie Moran tapped lightly on his commander’s door, his stomach turning with worry. Lieutenant Worthington rarely had good tidings to deliver in person, so this likely meant trouble. How would he support his brother if he lost this post? What had he done? What hadn’t he done? Damn it all, he’d been preparing to propose to Aileen, to take her two young brothers into his household—

A grunt of acknowledgment and the sound of a chair sliding on the wood floor made him pull his thoughts together. He’d take misfortune like a man and do whatever needed doing. Hadn’t that been the case since he was a boy?

He entered his commander’s room and took off his cap.

“Moran, have a seat,” Worthington directed. The Walrus, named for his enormous whiskers, had company much to Johnnie’s surprise—a stranger, a well-dressed man who seemed to take him in with one quick glance.

The Lieutenant made introductions and returned to his seat behind a cluttered desk. “Johnnie here will be able to tell you a bit more about the Rennard murder. It’s one of a half-dozen over the last year that come to mind. Despicable. We aren’t prone to such violence, I assure you, Mr. Doyle. These anomalies
may
be the work of a single man. A regular Henry Holmes he seems to be, although his targets are not only women and children.”

“Ah, I’m only vaguely familiar with your famous Henry Holmes. Sensational cases, I understand.”