An exclusive excerpt from THE SPECTRAL CITY

A SPECTRAL CITY excerpt featuring a few beloved return characters and showcasing what's become everyone's favorite part of this series in early reviews and responses: the growing chemistry between the star, Eve Whitby, and her colleague Detective Horowitz. May I present, a 19th century ball! Setting: 1899, in haunted Manhattan…

From THE SPECTRAL CITY (book 1 in the Spectral City series with Kensington, Rebel Base Books, by Leanna Renee Hieber)

Sweeping down her staircase, enjoying the drama of her dress train, Eve lifted the gargoyle-headed doorknocker and let it go, creating an echoing boom on the hefty wooden door that had been put in to connect her home to that of her parents. Her mother let her in, and closed the door behind her quickly, as if a ghost would slip through if she left it open. That was in fact a distinct probability, even though Sensitives had warded the door against them.

Eve now stood in the central hallway of the main Denbury townhouse, which led to a grand staircase on one side, the front door on the other, and a little rounded foyer with rooms edging off of it—parlor and dining room, everything furnished in warm rosewoods and pale satin colors, with an airy palette diametrically contrasting the richer, heavier tones on her side. “See?” she said triumphantly, opening the silk capelet to reveal the dress.

“Look at you, out of black and into something livelier for a change. And purple, no less!” her mother exclaimed. "My favorite,” her mother said with a smile, her green eyes lighting up. “And you wear it beautifully. Is there a particular interest in the Prenze family that has you out on this crisp night?” Eve knew they were asking because this was outside of any of her social norms.

She leaned in. “Do you really want to know?”

Mother turned to Father, who had stepped into the room to greet her. “Do we really want to know?”

“If she asks us that, you know it’s about the ghosts, so I defer to you, dear,” her father said quietly.

Eve held up her hands, absolving herself of any responsibility should they be made uncomfortable.

“You do look lovely, though, Eve, dear,” he added. “Belle of the ball I’m sure.”

“Say it, then,” her mother prompted with exasperation.

“Our department was told to stay away from the family, that there had been ‘spectral intrusion’ when I had ordered no such thing. I want to see why they’re defensive.” When her mother opened her mouth, Eve anticipated her. “I’ll be careful. They are of a certain social status. So is Gran. Nothing will be strange. Paths will cross. I hope to navigate the department that much more safely. No good comes from hiding one’s head in the sand, you know that.” Her mother’s lips thinned, but the expression on her face showed that she couldn’t contradict her own advice. It wasn’t that Eve’s parents had ever wanted her to lie about the fact that spirits ruled her stars; they just wished the paranormal had at least skipped a generation. To give them all a longer respite away from something they’d never asked for.

In her early life, Eve had not appreciated the pain of it. Only Gran could fully navigate the tension, and thankfully her arrival had cured all. Having let herself into the house, she exclaimed at the sight of Eve. “Ah,” Gran cooed, “you wore the House of Worth!” She kissed Eve on the head and moved to embrace her step-daughter.

“That’s it,” Eve muttered. “I was trying to remember who I was wearing.”

“I would have thought,” Gran began in a chastising tone, “considering you now serve the city in the de facto capacity of a detective, that you’d have a better mind for such details, noting every class in which you might find yourself moving in. Besides, they are the very best designers and I confess to loving a gorgeous gown as much as anything. Call me trivial.” At this, Eve laughed and Gran gestured to the door. “Let me take her off your hands. I promise to keep an eye out for promising suitors, the one she already has notwithstanding,”

Gran assured, and when Eve noticed how her parents lit up at this, Gran simply patted Eve on the hand as if there was nothing in the world to worry about. Eve kissed her parents each on the cheek and they followed her to the front door.

Outside, she again allowed herself a moment of grandeur descending the stoop in her gown before the heel of her nicest pair of shoes—some impractical, satin-covered concoction—nearly caught in one of her modest trains. A near tumble down the steps humbled her from any grander notions.

A few familiar ghosts whose spectral forms remained forever in their finest regalia swept up to her, drawn by her finery, and chattered away about their favorite moments from balls long gone and suitors long dead; a sudden, sentimental cacophony. Eve turned to all of them and offered a smile and a little curtsey, which seemed to content them. The burst of spectral onslaught faded, the knot of spirits wafting down the lane to haunt the edges of Central Park, still murmuring about stolen kisses. Eve allowed herself to enjoy their explosive sentiment, letting it kindle a fondness within her.
That’s what she wanted the world to understand about spirits; they told you more about life than death. They were a constant reminder to appreciate it, every moment you could.

Once seated in Gran’s carriage it would be a quick drive to the event. When Eve had suggested they simply walk the avenue and several blocks, Gran had taken one look at her fancy shoes, and Eve relented. “Detective Horowitz agreed to meet me at the event. As social foundation, assurance and chaperone, Gran, can we wait for him at the entrance? I suppose I should have asked if that was all right before inviting him,” Eve said rather sheepishly.

Gran chuckled. “The moment you said you had a ‘suitor’ I was prepared for any contingency. It doesn't surprise me you've created a ruse, but I hope the young man is amenable.”

Eve smiled. “He is, and you’re the best friend anyone could ever ask for.”

“It’s my calling,” Gran said, returning the smile. She thought a moment and the smile turned slightly worried. “Do you two intend to go searching the house?”

“As tempting as that might be, I think it highly unwise. I think instinct, and the whisper of spirits, will give us plenty to work with for now, lest my department receive another complaint.”

Pulling up, there was a carriage ahead of them and they stared out the window at the property. It was a large white granite block of a building with golden metal details, ornate cornice pieces, and another rectangular extension of large garden grounds on either side. Tightly trimmed hedges with topiaries poked up from the hedgerows, and the top of what looked like a huge golden gazebo, with open lattice-work more like the top of an enormous bird-cage, could be seen at the rear of the complex. “Well, it’s a . . . statement, this place,” Eve said.

The carriage path cleared and their cab rolled ahead as the next to alight. “The whole property feels like an elaborate series of traps,” Gran muttered. “The walled garden, that outside cage affair, this portico—look, the stones in the arch are like teeth, a mouth ready to swallow guests . . .”

Gran’s driver, a lovely man named John, helped them both out and whistled at the property. “I know it’s not quite your style, ma’am, but it’s something else.”

“It’s something else all right,” Gran said with a little chuckle.

“I’ll be ready by ten, take whatever time you need. It’s good to see you out socializing and not just working, Miss Whitby,” John said, bowing his head.

“Oh, I’m working,” she countered quietly. “That’s the only reason I’m here. But don’t tell them that,” Eve nodded towards the house. “I’m here incognito.”

John laughed. “At least you all keep life interesting,” he said, climbing atop his perch and driving off.

From under the portico maw, a raised portcullis gate with golden spikes hovering over them like waiting fangs, they ascended the few steps to the front door landing. Once inside, a few guests in the wide entrance foyer were fussing with cloaks and capelets, handing them over to a footman dressed to the nines in livery. “There’s a young man who will be here on my invitation,” Gran stated to the footman. “Should we simply wait for him here? I don’t want to be in anyone’s way, but I don’t want any lost lambs.”

Just as she said this, there was a tentative but familiar voice calling out from the shadows beyond the threshold of the open door, part of a head peeking in. “Hello there, sorry if you’re waiting for me!”

Stepping into the bright electric light of the stone shelter was the detective, his mop of curly brown hair tamed a bit, but not entirely. He was in a very fine black suit with a royal blue waistcoat, a small white rosebud in his lapel. Dashing, Eve had to admit. There was something about dressing up that had the capability to create magic and possibility.

“Well,” Gran murmured approvingly.

“Ah, the man of the hour,” Eve declared as his warm brown eyes edged in blue flicked from her to Gran and he smiled a wide, dazzling smile. It’s as if he knew he needed to play his role as charming gentleman and had stepped into it with ease. “Gran, may I introduce you to Mr. Horowitz, who has become a truly valuable asset to me and mine.”

“Jacob Horowitz, at your service, madam,” he declared, bowing slightly before holding out his hand. Gran gave hers. “I’ve heard you’re the cleverest and the most important woman on the planet. I look forward to saying the same from personal experience.”

Gran laughed. “Flattery, even before anyone’s had a glass of champagne— what a lovely night so far. Come, let’s have our cloaks taken up,” Gran gestured to the waiting footman.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” the detective murmured to Eve, his cheeks coloring scarlet. “Mother made a bit of a scene over me.”

Gran graciously involved herself with talking to another lady she recognized. By the way they spoke of dogs and a Reverend it was clear  they knew one another from Reverend Blessing’s ASPCA events. The Reverend, one of Gran’s best friends was an ardent rescuer of animals. It was lovely that Gran knew everyone, it was lovelier still that Gran knew everyone from doing amazing things.

“Mother was so overjoyed at the idea of my going to meet someone,” Horowitz explained, still in a whisper, “well, to be specific, a girl, that she insisted, last minute, on a new suit. I didn’t have the heart to tell her you weren’t Jewish, she might have made me return it.”

Eve chuckled. “Well, it’s a very nice suit,” she offered.

“Thanks,” he said, trying to adjust the stiff collar with a grimace, to no avail. “But I can’t move.”

“That makes two of us,” Eve said, gesturing to her own trappings.

“Well, it’s a very nice gown,” the detective offered in turn.

 “Here we are, in the nicest of things, longing for shirtsleeves.”

“You’re telling me,” he exclaimed. “And the ability to breathe.”

“You’re telling me,” Eve countered, patting the doubled layers of boning and stiff satin. “I’m in the corset.”

Horowitz shook his head. “I don’t know how you ladies do it.”

“I don’t, usually. Thank goodness for modern times and dress reform.”

“Agreed.” Horowitz gestured ahead of him. “For this set, dressing like this is a uniform, part of their job. I don’t envy it.”

“And they don’t envy us; keeping the distinction of classes comfortably each at their own level, not at one another’s throats. I suppose we’re a fine example of capitalism at its most gracious.” At this, Horowitz laughed a little too loudly. Everyone in the entrance foyer turned. Horowitz turned too, as if looking at someone behind him. Eve bit her tongue to hold in a guffaw.

“Come on, you two, into the fray,” Gran said gently and the trio stepped forward. Another liveried gentleman was checking guest names and Eve let Gran do all the talking. What was and wasn’t acceptable Eve didn’t dare presume; she didn’t have the social intricacies to fathom it. While Gran didn’t know the Prenze family personally, one of their relatives had insisted that any function that crossed Gran’s notice was open under her name, and to lean on her association with the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This seemed to do the trick and they were allowed to pass into another reception area, an empty room with a marble floor and a reproduction of part of the Sistine chapel painted along the walls, with extra gilding added onto the paint. In this square room a few people stood milling and chatting, glancing around for others they knew.

A stream of people were progressing down another hall beyond the painted anteroom, towards music in the distance. They followed. Wooden pocket doors with golden inlay led to rooms off the main corridor, but all were shut. Small decorative tables were inset along the corridor, each one sporting a grand urn-like vase in 18th century French style that was positively tumbling with fragrant lilies. “Smells like a funeral,” Gran murmured in Eve’s ear, and she again bit her tongue so as not to bark a laugh, her tongue now sore from decorum.

Their trio entered the ballroom and drank it in. It was the very epitome of the nouveau riche that the old aristocracy abhorred. Gaudy and overblown, trying to make a statement not by saying something but by shouting it. Everything was gilded, there were fountains at each corner hewn from marble, and electric light blazed from seashell sconces, illuminating a dome above them littered with hanging chandeliers of innumerable crystals along the circumference and a ceiling painted to be a blue sky with a golden sun at the epicenter. The ballroom floor itself was marble, a theme through the house, but not the best choice for dancing; it made everyone too careful and there was no bounce to it, no give, making movement hard and stiff, not to mention noisy, as if it was all for show with no thought about the enjoyment of it. A cluster of men in tailcoats were near one of the recesses of the ballroom, an inset dais of golden-backed, velvet covered chairs from which one figure stood.

Eve followed Horowitz’ eyes as they widened. The most arresting woman Eve had ever seen descended from the dais with a laugh, her gaggle of admirers following her. A stunning flame-haired redhead, with hair so bright as to be nearly copper, her eyes were wide and crystalline, and her mouth a pink bow of a smile. She was dressed in what appeared to be a white Regency gown, with a length of sky blue crepe hanging from lithe arms. She wasn’t clothed remotely in the style of recent fashion, but appeared to have stepped out of some costumed drama and Eve wondered if everyone had missed an instruction to appear in clothing from long ago. It was obvious that everyone was murmuring about her as a centerpiece of the event. Eve glanced at an enormous portrait hanging at the back of the ballroom, and she understood this woman must be part of the family with her uncanny resemblance to the couple who stood painted in Regency finery, to which her dress was an homage.

Eve found herself moving towards the center of the room, almost unconsciously, as if everyone who looked at this woman was immediately magnetized and drawn into her orbit, when she caught sight of an unfortunate figure by the wall and paused. Horowitz, at her side, followed her eyes and groaned. “Mahoney. After the complaint about this family I can’t imagine he’ll like seeing me here, so let’s try not to be seen,” Eve stated. He was standing in a fine suit, arms folded over his barrel chest, his thinning silver hair swept back from his bulldog-jowled face, a frown drooping down below his bushy mustache. His eyes were affixed, as nearly all were, to the beauteous lady of the house.

This gave her cover to find Gran, who had taken up a gilded chair not far from the punch table.
Her sitting there, as if on a throne, was its own breathtaking moment for Eve, looking at this regal creature in her saffron gown, like a ray of elder sunlight descending from the painted sky, there to illuminate them all with wisdom and wit. Though Eve wondered a moment about her needing to sit. In earlier years she likely would have been one of the first on the dance floor, regardless of the surface, there to shine radiant beams and catch everyone up in her glow. Gran’s eyes flicked behind Eve and as the three of them were close enough, Gran murmured, “Quite the family.” Eve turned to see the beautiful woman talking to a lanky, lean man who shared that same orange-flame hair, save his was streaked with bands of white at each temple. An elder brother.

Additional movement caught Eve’s eye. “Oh, no, here comes a bit of trouble,” Eve muttered. “Gran, I’ll need your help on this. Mahoney is one of our chief critics.”

At this, Gran stood and Eve was reminded just how towering she was—not just tall, but statuesque in her power. The man approached them, his drooping scowl seemingly affixed to his face at rest. Evelyn stepped forward as if to defend Eve, but armed with an effervescent smile, and the parties kept a comfortable distance of a few feet while the music changed to a different baroque tune, something old-fashioned and courtly, matching the gilded, dated decor.

“Miss Whitby, Mrs. Northe-Stewart,” Sergeant Mahoney bobbed his head. He turned to Horowitz. “Detective? What are you doing here?”

“The Horowitz family has been a long-time friend of our family,” Gran stated, and Eve was grateful for the connection to her mother’s school friend Rachel. “I’ve been telling the detective he needs to appreciate the finer things in life, a pastime this family so clearly delights in.”

“I do hope you’re simply here in the service of high society,” he grumbled, choosing to address only the elder Evelyn.

“Oh, of course, why else would anyone attend a ball? Are you a relative or the hired help here this evening?” Evelyn asked pointedly.

Eve kept her face neutral but was surprised by Gran’s directness. Her position, age and wealth afforded her this ability. Eve would hardly be given such breadth.

Mahoney’s jaw clenched. “I believe in this family’s philanthropic work.”

“And just what all does that work entail? Usually the people in my sphere are very public about it, carving their names into cornerstones and naming institutions after themselves.”

“And this family just so happens to be private about it. More godly, don’t you think, to be private about one’s service?”

“So you know nothing about it?”

“I know that Mister Prenze is a reformer to those who have sin in their hearts and minds. Those who are restless and seeking. He’s saved lives and souls. After a family loss, the only succor is prayer.” He spoke with such certainty Eve felt clear he was speaking for himself and some tragedy he personally sustained.

“Well that sounds very fine of him,” Gran offered. “And I’m terribly sorry to hear of a loss.”

The sergeant’s eyes widened. “I’d have thought everyone in high society knew about the death of the Prenze twin.”

“Ah, that’s right,” Gran exclaimed, clucking her tongue. “I’m terribly sorry, how rude of me. I do remember reading about that, my memory isn’t what it used to be!” She shook her head. Eve wasn’t sure if that was true or not. There were games one played in conversations in places like this. “I don’t believe we’ve ever been introduced to Mr. Prenze directly—my connection here is through a mutual associate. Is that something you’d like to arrange or would it be best if I manage that myself?”

The sergeant glanced first at Eve, almost as if to ask if she’d put her Grandmother up to this, and then glanced back. “He’s obviously very busy, as is his sister.”

“Well, I’ll just have to introduce myself when I see him unoccupied,” Gran said with a winning smile. “Good evening, Sergeant. My dears,” she turned to them. “Let’s have more punch.”

Eve and Horowitz nodded their heads in respect and followed Gran’s lead of sweeping over to the refreshment table just as fresh champagne was brought out to the guests. Mahoney’s scowl remained fixed after them. Eve could feel it as if it were a hand on the back of her skull, but Gran paid no mind, continuing on with her effervescent smile.

“I am all kinds of curious,” Horowitz whispered.

“If he has a certain ‘ministry’ I imagine he has loyal followers, if this is any indication,” Eve said, watching the admiring crowds at work.

“Industry. I want to know what industry made the family’s wealth,” Horowitz stated. “Usually one can tell.”

“Medicine. Tonics. Placations and palliatives,” Eve offered. “I’ve seen the name in adverts. It’s often obvious in design or motif in homes built from robber baron profit. You’d think there would be at least a caduceus or something, illuminating the source of their fortunes under all the garish light.”

“It is bright, isn’t it?” Horowitz said, looking around. “Almost too bright.”

“Do you want to know the oddest thing of all?” Eve asked. The detective gestured for her to proceed. Eve drew closer, taking one of Gran’s proffered cups and handing one to the detective. She leaned in toward Gran, so that both could hear her murmur. “There are no spirits. Not a one. Ghosts love balls. But there are none here. None passing through, none lingering to watch or pine, or to frolic. This is a void.”

“It’s true,” Gran assented. “Nothing. That’s the strangest thing, next to a marble ballroom floor. Who on earth wants to dance on the hardest stone and injure their feet? Everyone knows the best ballroom floor is a wooden one,” Gran scoffed.

“Perhaps the Prenze family just thinks everyone will glide about their floor,” Horowitz offered with a slight smile. “It does seem to be trying for a celestial sort of look.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Eve replied with a little laugh. “I’m not sure God would be so gaudy, but who am I to guess? Not for mortal minds to fathom.”

“But no spirits in the least,” Gran said, glancing about a shallow clerestory level above the ballroom. “It’s troubling, truly. Because I have felt, since I came onto these grounds, like I’m being watched. Do you?”

“Well, yes, by the sergeant,” Eve answered.

“Beyond that man; he was harmless,” Gran countered. “Just a loyal dog trying to feel very important. But right now, I feel watched. Distinctly. But I cannot find from where, or by whom.”

They looked around, at everyone, at every level, at every bright corner, as there were no shadows to be seen, hoping for an answer.

“Do you dance, Miss Whitby?” the detective asked after a while. She looked at him. His unique face, angled and distinct, was more handsome to her the more she stared at it. He’d asked a question . . .

“I have. At least, I have been taught to dance. And I’ve been known to, occasionally.” Goodness, she thought with terror, could she sound more awkward? And why did she even care? The whole point of her pretense was so that she wouldn’t have to.

“Would you like to?” he prompted.

“Dance?”

“Well, yes,” he replied haltingly. “We’re at a dance. In a ballroom. It’s what it’s meant for, ill-suited floor notwithstanding.” Eve paused. “We don’t have to, I mean, I know we’re not—I understand fully. I feel the same—”

“Ah, a waltz, my favorite!” Eve exclaimed as the music shifted and she tried to absolve them both of awkwardness. Perhaps it was good there were no ghosts, lest they chatter about her and the detective and make her self-conscious. It was one of the reasons she’d been so reluctant to consider a suitor.

Many people often insinuated themselves and offered unsolicited opinions when it came to romance, but none so much as the dead. She’d struck a deal with spirits when she was fourteen that if they didn’t stop fussing over what she wore or looked like, or whether they thought she’d gotten enough rest or had the right attitude about something, she’d never respond to them ever again, on the surety that they’d all, young and old and every kind equally henpeck her to death. Treat me as you’d wish to be treated, she’d had to remind the spirits. Right now, she didn’t want ghostly editorializing as she felt Horowitz’ firm palm cup her waist and his outstretched hand receive hers.

Twirling about, Eve caught sergeant Mahoney’s scowling gaze. On another twirl she caught Gran’s bemused expression, seemingly delighted that Eve was at least playing at enjoying her pretense of a suitor. On another spin, twirled under the detective’s deft arm—and why did he also have to be so effortless a dancer—she watched as the Prenze brother and sister danced together, their fair faces beaming, like oscillating candles with their orange-flame hair, lighting up the whole room as they spun.

There was a great deal of love there; that was clear. And yet, without spirits hanging about in rafters or against walls or swooping down over the company in glee and abandon, as Eve had always known, something felt terribly empty here. There was no life when there was no death . . . This world was entirely incomplete.

They enjoyed one waltz but at the end, breaking apart, their eyes meeting in a flash as bright as the electric bulbs, it seemed clear with a resurging swell of awkwardness that they’d best not indulge in a second.

“Thank you,” they said at the same time, and smiled.

(end of excerpt)
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THE SPECTRAL CITY releases from Kensington Rebel Base Books 11/27 in eBook (only $3.99!) print paperback, or audio book! Pre-orders can get a special gift by putting in their conformation # here!  - Amazon - Barnes and Noble - Indiebound - Signed, Personalized copies via Etsy

ETERNA AND OMEGA excerpt, pre-orders and more!

Hello Darling Readers,

I've been oh-so-very busy writing you wonderful new stories, like the third Eterna Files novel, working title: THE ETERNA SOLUTION‎ and much more, dreaming up new stories with familiar faces as all my worlds and stories continue to be parallel storylines.

I am very much enjoying exploring new territory of the supernatural and spiritual, and I'm so excited to share the next books with you.

Stay tuned this month as the Tor/Forge blog will be bringing you a FREE novella in the ETERNA FILES world, you'll learn more about ghostly Louis Dupris, his relationship with his brother, with Clara Templeton and their unfolding love, and the mysteries that surround them. Think of it as a prequel to book 1.

Speaking of book 1, for those of you who were so very upset by THE ETERNA FILES cliffhanger, worry not, I'd never do that to you without promise of a sequel, and ETERNA AND OMEGA is almost here! August 9th! You can get a signed, personalized pre-order copy from WORD bookstore, a fabulous independent company in Brooklyn that is very involved with their community and so good to local authors. Pre-orders help authors so much as it shows the publisher there is interest in the book and series and helps that series continue. Please place any personalization requests in the comments/notes section of the order so WORD can share with me how/to whom you'd like it signed/dedicated.

YOU CAN READ CHAPTER ONE of the new ETERNA AND OMEGA right now! The fine folks at Tor.com have posted the first part of the novel! Go forth, read, enjoy (Magic Most Foul fans you'll notice Evelyn Northe-Stewart is a familiar co-star in this section!), and please share the post and spread the word about this series! I'm really trying to build back momentum with Tor, it's always so important to foster word-of-mouth with a new series and your support is priceless!

Also, I know Miss Percy and STRANGELY BEAUTIFUL has a LOT of loving fans. Can you take a moment to leave a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads for STRANGELY and ETERNA FILES? The more reviews, the more visible Amazon makes the product to customers. That word-of-mouth thing in action. Thank you!

Cincinnati, OH! I'll be joining you for an incredible LAUNCH DAY party for ETERNA AND OMEGA on August 9th, 7pm at Barnes and Noble in the Streets of Westchester shops off Union Center Blvd exit.

Stay tuned for more appearances, there will be an NYC reprisal of our amazing Morris-Jumel Mansion event, waiting to lock down the date, but get ready to return to Manhattan's oldest (and most haunted) house to enjoy its renovation and celebrate ETERNA AND OMEGA's release as well as the launch of Wormwood and Gall's new ETERNA line of creepy, gothic accessories!

Cheers, happy reading, and as always, Happy Haunting!

Leanna

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 27

(For previous chapters, see right side bar. If viewing by mobile, scroll down from http://leannareneebooks.blogspot.com for other chapters)

Dear Readers, as we've crossed into December, today marks the last installment of the serialization to be posted on the blog, however it is not the end of the story! Free serialization has been happening weekly since March, but now that the full novel is available, the Double Life team is letting the rest of the full novel speak for itself in entire completion, in its intended form. For those who haven't already donated, we all hope you'll pick up a copy of the novel. It is now available in print and Kindle formats (Nook / Barnes & Noble links we're told will go live by the end of the week)! (To the Double Life donors who donated $20 or more to the project, your signed books and donor rewards will be shipped/arrive Mid-December). The Double Life team thanks everyone for being a part of this journey. Please enjoy this installment and then the rest, as there's still more story to tell.

Still stay tuned every Tuesday! Because Tuesdays will now become "Teaser Tuesdays" as I release a segment from a forthcoming book or novella, musings on the latest works, insight into the current creative process, or a selection from a work-in-progress. So fresh fiction will still wing its way to you every Tuesday, whatever the current project or teasers for upcoming releases, you'll have exclusive sneak peeks right here, just as you've been the first to read this novel as it's happened! Now I'm expanding the material to a greater range of work. Considering all my series have crossover characters, just think of it as spending time every week with different members of an extended family. An utterly mad and ridiculously colourful extended family...

Now, without any further delay, here is chapter twenty-seven of The Double Life of Incorporate Things' twenty-nine full chapters.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Jonathon and I jogged up the earthen corridor, coughing. The increasing smoke would present a problem indeed if we didn't keep moving.

My whole body ached as we finally climbed the stairs into the cottage. The rest of our compatriots had all found places to collapse ahead of us, draped on the edges of the bed or leaning bent against fine furniture that our sooty, bloody, bedraggled forms looked so at odds with.

Someone had opened the front door to the night, to the forest. Everything outside was still, save for the night sounds of insects and birds. So quiet. Peaceful. We did not turn on more than the one lamp at the entrance. We did not want to see the sharp details of what the night had done to any of us. What it had taken from us.

Jonathon brought a wet towel moistened from an outside water basin over to me and washed the inked cross from my forehead and then his own.

Reverend Blessing had laid out Maggie's body upon the bay window where the moonlight upon her face made her lovely face even lovelier and turned the garish pools of blood all over her dress into grayscale. Mrs. Northe had Maggie's head in her lap, at work in the moonlight, removing the blood from her face, neck, arms, and hands with silken kerchiefs.

I knelt upon the divan, and Jonathon drew close. As he sat I collapsed onto his lap, resting my head in his gentle hands that were shaking so hard. But he stroked my hair anyway. Wherever we landed, we wept. Silently. For a long time.

Finally, Mrs. Northe stirred, gesturing Reverend Blessing over to her side. "Reverend, I'd like to pray with you here, over my niece, if you would be so kind." I'd never heard her speech so gentle, so tired, so grieved.

I rose and moved with him; kneeling before the bay window bier, we prayed over her, said thanks for her, her bravery, and sacrifice. We asked for forgiveness of all of our sins that led to her death, Mrs. Northe having a most difficult time with the guilt of it.

I simply took Evelyn's hand, and she held it. I was well aware it could have easily been me upon those cushions with hands folded over my still breast. I might have done the same, trying to buy us time, but I'd never have thought to do what she did, not so boldly. With great sadness I realized she probably hadn't gotten my letter. I was a fool not to have sent it sooner.

Death brings such guilt to the living, illuminating all the things undone and unsaid. It wasn't fair. She didn't deserve such a death. And yet we didn't deserve such a sacrifice. But if she hadn't done what she did, likely casualties would have been higher. She may have had no choice.

I wondered what had happened in Chicago right before Maggie left. I wondered if she had dreams like I did. She'd shared with me, once, that the demon had visited her dreams. What if she knew it was all as inevitable as I had known? Somehow that gave me comfort, as her actions seemed far too calculated to have been inspiration in the moment.

Mrs. Northe had promised there would be death. But even the most clairvoyant, if too close to the truth, couldn't see it. Not precisely.

"I should have known, I should have seen. It should have been me." Those words she kept repeating numbly in different variations. I shook my head at her.

"That does no good, Evelyn," Blessing murmured. "Accept the facts as they lie. As you live, give thanks for her life. Pray for her undying soul, that will be rewarded in heaven for such selfless acts."

Mrs. Northe nodded and just kept stroking Maggie's hair. That was a comfort, the idea of her reward. I hoped in heaven, for Maggie, there would be lots of balls and pretty dresses and exquisite company, that she'd have no need for gossip or intrigue, merely be loved and cherished by heavenly hosts until I'd see her again in some future day and thank her soul myself. I moved back to rest in Jonathon's arms.

After some time, Brinkman banged upon the iron door from the other side, making us all jump. He called out to us to let him in.

"Most of the wing was saved," Brinkman said as he entered, mopping a sweaty brow. "Thank goodness for stone frames between wings. But you'll need a new dining room, Lord Denbury. I'm off to Scotland Yard, friends," Brinkman said, crossing the cottage in a few stern strides. "I'll fill out the reports and keep your further involvement to a minimum. I'll push for an immediate trial."

"Shouldn't you rest, Mister Brinkman?" I asked.

"Not until I have my satisfaction," he said gravely. "Those wicked bastards have my son. My child. My only joy in this goddamn world. I'd rip out all their throats with my bare hands if I thought I could still find him without their knowledge."

There was a terrible silence in the room at this still unfinished business.

"Let us know how we can help," Mrs. Northe said gently.

"Thank you," Brinkman said, burying his pain. He glanced at Maggie's body. "I take it you knew her. I'm sorry for your loss."

"We'll be praying for your son," I offered. Brinkman managed a slight smile.

"Thank you. Ladies, you were very brave. I doubt the men hidden in those walls waiting for the signal could've done all you did. If it were up to me, I'd have the queen award you a medal, but I doubt we'll be allowed to talk much about this, if any of it, ever again," he said with bitterness. "I'll follow up with Knowles about the properties to make sure any lands and assets seized by the Society are returned to proper owners. This is your estate. You've a grateful family who have been ferried off to the station that would like to return Rosecrest to you."

Jonathon nodded. Brinkman bowed slightly and stormed off. I heard a cry urging on a fast horse. Hoofbeats pounded off and faded into silence. For poor Brinkman, this was just one ongoing nightmare. Suddenly I felt very lucky. I had my joy in this room with me. Maggie's body notwithstanding.

I glanced from Mrs. Northe to Jonathon, to the tall form across the room of Reverend Blessing, dark skin gleaming in the moonlight as he remained in prayerful watch over Maggie's eternal rest, to the brave entwined couple of Nathaniel and Lavinia who had risen to the ultimate challenge. Lavinia was already fast asleep on Nathaniel's shoulder.

I had everyone I needed right here, except Father. Mother lived on in my heart, having always shown herself when I needed her most. Love was like that, taking the form of angels when faced with devils.

As the cottage had neither amenities nor staff, it was not a place we could weather the night. The appetite we'd all lost during the battle returned with painful awareness. But we couldn't be seen like we were. Nathaniel gently roused Lavinia, and we each did as best we could to put ourselves together. We hid our bloodstained clothes under cloaks and rode into Greenwich proper in Nathaniel's fine carriage. All of us were able to fit as Lavinia chose to ride up above with Nathaniel driving. At the back of the carriage, laid out upon clean boards and swathed in thick layers of black fabric, Margaret Hathorn's corpse made the journey back with us.

We went to the nearest inn, a modest establishment, and took over a shadowed corner of the public rooms and ate everything they could lay out for us. Something about the looks on our faces did not invite any comment. It was late, after all. And we were a bedraggled, strange set of compatriots that thankfully no one took exception to. Surely we looked as haunted and as at the precipice of death as we felt.

The gentlemen took turns driving back to London, all of us dozing in and out. That night, in Jonathon's flat, the whole motley crew remained gathered. None of us could bear to be alone or separated because our collective trauma made us stronger.

I cried myself nearly sick. Nothing else would do. The anguish I felt was only matched by a wave of hatred for myself, guilt threatening to drag me under into a mental state that I wondered if I could recover from after the progressive stages of grief. I'd been stronger when I had been trying to soothe Mrs. Northe. Now that reality was truly setting in, I was coming undone.

Someone dying in your arms is something no one can prepare you for.

It is the most terrible thing in the world.

It is the most incredible thing in the world.

Because never are you so aware of your own fragility, of that precarious moment between life and death. One moment here. The next, gone. A fleeting, breathless moment gives over to no breath ever again.         

It was eerie, it didn't feel real, it felt like a thousand knives in my heart and in my eyes, replaying her final moment. Her fine, amazing, brave, incredible final moments. Here I thought I was brave and she was weak. I was a fool, and she was a savior.

I threw up everything that was in my stomach and cried every tear that could be cried and still they came. Jonathon  just continued to bring me water and hold me tighter. But he couldn't hold this away. Sometimes we cried together, for my tears granted permission for his.

Seeing his reanimate mother had to have been one of the worst possible sights a person could ever see. The fact he retained his sanity was a miracle. I was grateful I'd encountered my dead mother again as a ghost, a beautiful spirit helping me from the beyond. Poor Jonathon had been first confronted with his mother's desecration, and I would do anything to have taken that sight away. At least her spirit had won out and helped us, managing to redeem that dreadful blasphemy into a transcendent truth.

Our pain was so severe and so specific, we just held on to each other, knowing we were all we had, companions who had been through every level of personal hell, together, miraculously still alive to speak of it. Though I wondered if we'd ever speak of it again. I wanted to forget everything but the feel of his arms holding me as the sensation made life bearable.

Jonathon just held me until it was inappropriate for him to be in the same room with me any longer. It was only a mere hour or so before dawn. Lavinia and Nathaniel were curled up somewhere, recovering on their own time and terms.

At some point sleep claimed me until I was roused by something bright and cold hovering at the foot of the guest room bed.

Maggie floated before me.

I couldn't be sure if it was real or a dream, but I was very glad to see her spirit, in whatever way it wished to see me.

"Hello, my friend," I whispered. The tears came again. "I don't deserve you."

"Me?" Maggie scoffed. "The friend that almost had you killed back in New York? Of course you did. You do. This was my penance, Natalie."

"No, Maggie—"

"It was, Natalie. It was foretold. Your mother has been very kind to me. She's been showing me the ways of this place, this in-between area where I'm still watching the world but above it. The Angel Walk, she calls it, as she fancies herself your guardian angel."

"She is," I stammered through my tears.

"There are two walks," Maggie's ghost said excitedly. "The angels walk a path. And so do the devils. That's the path the Society was trying to carve open. From here you can see where things have come and where things may go. One life to the next, one body, one soul to the next… So many possibilities." Her voice was filled with a beautiful wonderment. "When you and I meet again someday, I'd like to think we will be better friends."

"We will be," I said through renewed tears. She was staring at me with such calm, such care, such love, the sort of warmth I always imagined an angel or Jesus might look upon me with, a look that knew of terrible suffering, temptation, and pain but chose to stare lovingly instead. "I promise you. If whatever or whoever I am is too blind to see the woman you're capable of being, shake me out of it."

"I think you'll know, next time," Maggie said. "If there's such a thing as past lives, well, we will have learned in the next one."

"We are imperfect creatures down here, Maggie. I'm sure things look so much different up there."

"Perspective." She said, bobbing slightly in the air. "Don't lose yours. There may be storms yet ahead, who knows. You have people who need you."

"We all needed you."

Her grayscale form smiled. "It was nice to be needed for once."

"You were never not needed, we—"

Maggie held up a ghostly hand to shut me up. "Stay safe, Natalie Stewart. Take care of that lord of yours."

"I promise I will. If you can visit again... I hope you will."

Maggie shrugged. "I don't know... I've a lot of exploring to do."

"Evelyn will want to see you. Your aunt is devastated."

"In time." Maggie shrugged. "When she's ready, she'll see me. We see what we need to see when we can best handle it, whether it feels like it or not. I've a letter for you, back in New York. It will explain everything."

"Thank you." I reached out to the chill air before me. "Truly. I owe you so much more than that, but—"

"You're welcome," Maggie said, waving a ghostly hand as if it were nothing. When it had been everything. "Truly."

And she vanished.

--
(End of Chapter 27 - Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga. For chapters 28 and 29, The Double Life of Incorporate Things is now available on Kindle and in paperback! (Nook / Barnes and Noble editions forthcoming). If you're not caught up on the series, pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and the sequel: The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart

Join us next Tuesday for Leanna's Teaser Tuesdays! Cheers and happy haunting!

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 26.5

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Chapter Twenty Six (Part 5)

Mrs. Northe, seeing that we had the family well in hand, turned her attention to the wavering wall portal, staring at it with concern. She began murmuring another iteration of numbers, but this time, from what I could guess, it was a sequence in the proper golden ratio, as high as she could think of and starting back again at a low number. Reclaiming the divine patterns, wresting a semblance of peace from the grip of malevolence. The edges of the carved wall, now cleansed of the blood tokens, flickered back into becoming a wall once more.

I stayed focused on the shifting paintings and the struggling possessed bodies, though I wanted to see the look of surprise on the faces of the two conscious leaders. None of them could have possibly known we could directly reverse one of their most consistent magics. I deserved a self-congratulatory moment of pride, but I didn't dare take my eyes off my targets.

Nathaniel rose to grab the little girl, even as a shot rang out. There was a scream and a clatter of a gun. One of the Majesties was clutching a bleeding forearm, blood all over the white tablecloth. It would seem Vincenzi had tried to fire a weapon, trying to take advantage of the chaos of wind, still-hovering objects, and the maddening whispers that summoning demons produced in the air, but Brinkman got to him before he could fire, a wisp of smoke floating up from Brinkman's own pistol.

Vincenzi was too late. The countercurse worked its magic.

There was a crackle of fire, and a fresh new screaming in the air added to the ongoing wail of Lady Denbury's ghostly retinue. In a huge, roaring pop, the paintings all came off their hinges and slid to the floor, leaving tracks of greasy, bloody paint along the wall as they descended; the canvasses were wet with indeterminate moisture. Trapped now in the frames leaning at odd angles against the wall were horrid forms, twisted and nearly gargoyle-like. Indistinct, demonic heads topped the fine clothes that were warped and dripping. Only the most ugly ephemera remained; an evil imprint, oily and greasy, a sheen of bloody perspiration bubbled up on sulfuric canvases.

So too did the bodies fall, slumping to the floor as if marionette strings had been cut. We knelt with the families as they began to rouse, terrified, but as Jonathon did, having some sense.

Brinkman took one look at the horrid exhibition against the wall and blew his whistle loud and several times, until the room crawled with officers. He instructed them to get the Winsome family to safety and explained in no uncertain terms who was friend and who was foe. The family was all too happy to exit the premises. The little girl threw her arms around me. The husband scooped up his son in his arms and seemed too ashamed to look at any of us who had helped him. The mother collected her daughter and murmured to me as an officer ushered her out: "I don't understand, but thank you…"

Above the din of the police, Reverend Blessing continued the exorcism rite, and this seemed to give comfort to the pallid officers, coming into the scene with no idea what to expect, but seemingly glad for some kind of spiritual offset. If the officers were uncomfortable taking blessings from a man of color, they didn't show it. I think they knew, seeing this scene, what was right to fear and who was a mere brother in humankind.

Blessing clutched the Society's insidious '"book of death,'" and between scriptural declamations he continued to read off names within, bidding that the souls mauled by the claws of the Society find their deserved rest.

"Spirits who weep here, heed me," Blessing bellowed into the foul air, his deep, rich voice captivating and compelling. "These men seek to gain power through methods of torturous unrest. Be their downfall by granting your own souls the peace God wants for you."

There was still a wavering line where the portal had gaped wide. Mrs. Northe was facing it, her arms out, her body fierce and taut, proclaiming scripture at the portal to try to shut it at last. Wrestling against the closing of the door, a black form darted out from the portal and careened into the hall. A demon on the loose.

"No!" Jonathon cried and ran after the wretched thing in the instant.

"No!" I cried and ran after him. I didn't think twice any more than he did. I just pursued.

Dimly, I realized the force was headed for the study, snuffing the lights out down the hall as it passed. Light by light, the vile force plunged our surroundings into darkness. We pursued it into the study where one gas-lamp chandelier remained dimly lit, casting the room into an eerie glow.

But the moment we both crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind us of its own accord and the gas lamp guttered into a pale, sickly blue pilot. Now it was just us in the dark. And a raw, untethered demon.

Jonathon went to the desk and turned a lamp, which illuminated for us that the black form stood in front of the window where beyond, the night was cool and dark, but the demon was blacker than the black night, its form not richly beautiful in night shadow, but empty and void of all life.

Jonathon and I stared at one another helplessly, and in the instant we both started crying scripture at its chasm-like form. Jonathon threw himself in front of me as the form floated closer. I struggled to put myself in front of him instead, but he kept me behind him. If such a thing inhabited Jonathon again, my mind would crack under the strain.

I withdrew the sharp scissor point from my bodice. But what a blade would do against an incorporeal force was laughable.

A wave of anger and despair washed over me, perhaps the effect the presence had upon us. Suddenly I wanted to shove Jonathon away from me. To be anywhere but near him. Ugly sounds gurgled in both of our throats. Snarling, animalistic noises. It would turn us against each other. In a locked room. While chaos still reigned in the rest of the house.

Down the hall I could hear that the wailing had resumed. This time, it had more voices.

The siren that was dead Lady Denbury had all the officers screaming too. It was, in the end, too much for us.

The spirits animating the corpse, the open portal, the lingering dark magic, all the amassed horrors the Society had brought upon this house, down into the floorboards and mortar, it was in the end too much for a few stalwart souls to close up and shut down. We needed an army of those as experienced as Blessing and Mrs. Northe. The rest of us were too beaten down, our reserves tapped by so many facets of this unexpected war. We'd fought a good fight. But now…

Our shoulders sagged as Jonathon and I both choked and shook. We were paralyzed by the dread and horror that was the core of the demonic presence. I felt a hand clamp around my neck. It wasn't Jonathon's. It was my own, the terrible force eating us inward, turning our own tired selves against us. We sunk to our knees, both of us gasping and snarling. I tried to rally, to reject the presence. A choking "I renounce thee..." afforded me one deep breath before the suffocating darkness threatened to overwhelm me once more.

I clutched the small scissors in my hand. Whispers careened around my ears. They urged me to drive the blade into my own flesh. To just give up. To let them in. To give them room. The point of the very sharp scissor point pierced my wrist, by my own doing. A drop of blood welled up. I remembered the runes that the magic had carved into my flesh, and I found myself making a line up my wrist, searing, burning pain sharpening every sensation.

"Natalie," Jonathon choked. A tendril of black shadow sweeping out from the demon's wake was wound around his neck, manifest evil taking shape and wielding violence.

I stared at the line of blood seeping from my wrist, my heart racing from the burning pain of it. I couldn't give up like this. This incorporeal beast before me was just that: incorporeal. It needed to be shot down with a bullet of light, faith, hope, and determination.

I pulled upon everything that had brought me to this point in one final shrugging off. I thought of all the sacrifices, Maggie's lovely, bloodstained face flashing before my eyes as if I were praying to a saint. She was a saint here today, and I was stronger than this. If she could take in five of the beasts, I could take on one. The worst wretches of the corporeal and incorporeal world always underestimated determined young women.

I remembered the cross that burned upon her, and with one even slice of the open scissor blade, I intersected the bleeding line up my wrist with another one, to make a cross. I lifted up my wrist, blood pooling in the lace at my cuffs. "I renounce thee!" I cried as the black silhouette of the demon advanced upon me, hovering.

I flung myself back, giving myself space from the beast as I plucked the cross I wore beneath my layers out into the open. It was a small, elegant cross my mother had given me after I'd gone through my confirmation classes at Immanuel Lutheran. I thought of Mother, of Father, of the beautiful fiancé before me, and suddenly I felt like Joan of Arc must have felt before going off to war, surrounded by saints.

But like Joan, I needed more armor. I looked around wildly for something else. I picked up the inkwell on Jonathon's desk, and I plunged my finger into it, making the sign of the cross upon my forehead as if it were Ash Wednesday. From dust we were made and unto dust we would return. But not today.

"I renounce thee!" I shrieked again. Jonathon was trying to close the distance between us, and I fell to my knees before him, using the inkwell to paint a messy cross over his brow. "We renounce thee!" Our rejection caused a tremor in the room. Books rattled on their shelves. The expensive trinkets from around the world shuddered on the marble fireplace mantel. The window panes shivered.

Jonathon shook his head, as if tossing off a terrible dream. He narrowed his eyes at the hesitating, pulsing dark form. "Upon the graves of our beloved mothers," Jonathon bellowed, "we renounce thee!"

A sudden burst of light had us blinking and wincing, and suddenly between us and the horrid, silhouetted form of congealed evil, floated the bright white forms of two beautiful women. Angels called down to the fight. I recognized one of the angels as my own. And the second one looked a great deal more like Jonathon than that thing wailing down the hall did.

"You leave our children alone," the spirit of my mother said to the vacuous silhouette in a venomous tone. "This is the end. Your kind has failed. You cannot win against such wondrous love as this." She turned her beaming, beautiful face upon us, and tears of amazement rolled down my cheeks.

"Did you hear that?" said the second spirit, a beautiful woman in a lavish gown, in a vicious hiss In the name of God the Father, of the Son, of the Holy Ghost. In the name of all the saints, the host of angels, and everything that is holy, get out of my house!" shrieked the spirit of Lady Denbury.

Lady Denbury was not tied to that body in the dining room at all but instead tied to her beloved son. Her spirit was resilient and made new again in the fight. The bright, transparent form of Lady Denbury lifted an elegant hand into the air and sharply backhanded the inelegant, tar-black form before her, and it splintered into a spattering mess, wet ashes upon the fine rug, nothing but ugly residue.

Jonathon seized me and stepped back so that none of the demonic muck could land upon me, all the while staring up at the ghost of the mother he'd never had time to grieve. The two ghostly women looked down at their embracing children.

"Don't go, Mother," Jonathon gasped, his tears flowing as freely as mine. "I never got to say good-bye, I—"

"I love you too, my darling, perfect boy," Lady Denbury said with a dazzling smile. "And you needn't say good-bye. I'll always be with you."

"I am so sorry, Mum," Jonathon said in gasping breaths. "I should've done more, I should've saved you—" He tried to reach out and touch her, hold her.

"You've done everything you can," Lady Denbury replied. "Look at all you've done. You've done more than you even know, my darling. I am so proud of you."

"Both of you," my mother added. "Don't they make a perfect couple, Lady Denbury?"

"Indeed. She's Lady Denbury now." Jonathon's mother smiled at me. "And I couldn't rest happier."

"Be well, darlings," my mother said as she and her friend in heaven began to fade. "We're never far, we live within you, and in any darknesses, we are with you. Never forget. Live in the light."

"I love you," both Jonathon and I blurted to our mothers simultaneously before they faded entirely. We swayed on our feet, breathing heavily. The study door swung open again of its own accord. There was no more screaming anywhere. Just the murmur of activity. Of cleanup. Of a battlefield victorious.

Somewhere I could hear Moriel raving as he was being led away, leveling threats and decrying the undeserving underclass. There was another loud smacking thud, and I suspected Brinkman had knocked him out again. It was admirable Brinkman hadn't killed Moriel, really. I'm sure the government would have given him leave to do so; however, whatever secret Moriel held had something to do with someone Brinkman loved. Human beings could do amazing, nearly inhuman things for love. This was something the Society seemed keen on subverting though they seemed unable to understand it. It was not something they could overpower. That was their ultimate hubris.

I heard Mrs. Northe calling for us.

"In here," I called into the hall with the last of my energy, allowing Jonathon to gather me up into his arms, sinking with me again onto the floor, our backs against his beautiful bookcase.

We were bloody and drenched in sweat, ink, and water, our clothes torn and besmirched. Bruised, battered, alive. Grieving. Joyous. Relieved. Exhausted. Alive. Jonathon tore his black silk cravat and made a bandage for my wrist.

Suddenly there were shouts and screams once more. Did I rejoice too soon? I smelled smoke. And burning flesh.

The dining room was on fire.

Brinkman popped a sweaty, smeared face into the study, standing wide-eyed at the threshold. "The corpse. The corpse of Lady Denbury… It..."

"Went up in flames," I finished. "The spirits will have their revenge. Let them combust the body. It's part of resolution…"

"My men are instituting a bucket brigade from your rear well, Lord Denbury," Brinkman said. "We'll do what we can to save the building. You've a haven at a safe distance, yes? We should evacuate you and your friends from the estate at last."

Jonathon nodded. "Up the earthen corridor behind the library. A cottage."

"Go on then, quickly." Brinkman shooed all of us into the hall and toward the library. I saw my four friends going on ahead, with Reverend Blessing carrying Maggie's corpse in his strong arms. The sight made tears spring forth again. Nathaniel and Lavinia directed them toward the library, and they disappeared into the next rooms.

"Do hurry," Brinkman insisted. "After all we've been through, I'd hate for a lowly fire to take you down. I'll join you once I see to it the men are at work with the well."

"Thank you, Mister Brinkman, for everything," Jonathon called. Brinkman batted a hand in the air and ran off.

Jonathon Whitby, Lord Denbury, III, paused in the middle of his corridor, watching flames licking out into the hall from Rosecrest's lovely dining room. Jonathon stared at the flames of destruction. "Sometimes," he murmured in a haunted, sad voice that was elder than his years, "some things are best left to burn."

He grabbed me by the arm, and we darted toward safety.

--
(End of Chapter 26.5 - Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends! Tweet it, FB, + it! The Magic Most Foul team really hopes the audience will continue to grow and it can only do so with YOUR help! If you haven't already, do pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and the sequel: The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause! Donations directly support the editorial staff.

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THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 26.4

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Chapter Twenty Six (Part Four)

There was smoke curling up in wisps from her bodice. Something had ignited upon her, perhaps within her... I struggled with my bindings, lifting the chair up behind me, managing a heavy step nearer to Maggie, but she shoved my shoulder with preternatural strength and I nearly hit my head on one of the table's sturdy candelabrum, a wisp of my hair catching in a candle flame.

It was a cross that burst into fire right at her sternum. A large crucifix had been hidden beneath her bodice, and it burned free of the layers, a solid metal pendant the size of my palm. As the cross ignited and sizzled her flesh so did it seem the demons burned within her, broiling from the holy water.

Jonathon jumped to his feet in the chaos. He hadn't been tied to the chair, only bound with wrists behind his back. He turned his back to the table and lifted his wrists over the candles on his side of the table, burning his hands and his cuffs. I could smell these terrible separate stenches of burning flesh and fabric. But in doing so, he burned his bindings too. Brave man, he suffered melting flesh on the side of his palm but snapped his wrists free. He too bounded toward Maggie, but she tossed him off as if he were a rag doll and his body came perilously close to the still-open portal where forces hung suspended in this precarious battleground.

Jonathon reeled to regain his balance and rushed back over to me. As the side of his palm wept blood and peeling skin, he undid my bindings.

It was not only Maggie's scream that filled the room but a magnified and horrible sound, many screams, burning from the inside out as the blessed liquid doused the demons within. Demons who were surely killing her from inside, as blood began pouring from her ears, dribbling from her lips, tears of blood rolling down her cheeks.

Her still-standing body went rigid, shuddering and shaking, the blood pouring faster. It was the most horrible sight I could have imagined. This was after having witnessed the sallow flesh of the dead come to life. But to see the living tortured so...

"Maggie!" I screamed amid the screams. She staggered to the side, to me, into my arms, and I sunk with her to the floor. I held her tight. And because I spoke now for someone else's life, somehow my disability was no match for this fight. My tongue and speech were free.

"Maggie, listen, say with me, say to the devils," I cried in a choking, desperate gasp, tears streaming from my eyes as the blood wept from hers. "I renounce thee... I renounce thee..." Her body shuddered and shook, her blood seeped all over my skirts and sleeves.

Margaret Hathorn looked up at me and smiled weakly, causing another river of blood to pour forth from her lips, and there was an aura of great white light about her, an angelic halo that took my breath away with heavenly beauty. She seemed as though she wanted to say something.

But then she died in my arms.

I screamed a wailing sob. I closed her eyelids immediately. Her dead, open stare would undo my mind. I held her close, her body and blood still warm.

But there was no time to mourn. For then, another cascade of events happened all at once. It was everything I could do to keep up.

The other two Majesties started up with the counting and the chanting again, which made the demonic threshold active, rippling open once more, but their incantation was stopped by Brinkman cocking the pistols. Nathaniel had managed somehow to wrestle one of the throwing knifes into his palm and was cutting loose his bindings and Lavinia's in turn.

Jonathon picked up a pitcher of water and threw them at the portal, directly toward the lintel and sides, trying to wash away the blood and ash that had activated it. Nathaniel did the same with a second pitcher. Lavinia took up a tureen of soup and poured it over the floor, falling to her knees and scrubbing free all the terrible things that had made this room such a magnet for the demons. All this action against the portal caused the rectangle to flicker. The heavy dread of the room lifted slightly. A scale sliding more toward our victory.

But the corpse of Jonathon's mother started screaming again. Items lifted off the table again and all of us winced, clapping our hands to our ears. I lunged for the terrible ledger book of the Master's Society, searching for clues in its terrible pages. We had to calm the spirits tied to the effigy of Lady Denbury. The names of the "parts" had to be addressed and sent to rest.

I dimly heard running footsteps in the hall coming closer. Was it the police officers at last? But Brinkman hadn't blown the whistle… Who else…

Yet more familiar faces ran into the room, one dark and one fair, both looking alarmed. Reverend Blessing and Mrs. Northe! Blessing dressed in his clerical suit and collar, Evelyn Northe in an elegant but unadorned riding habit.

Exactly where they'd come from, I couldn't know. They likely had traveled as soon as they could. Mrs. Northe wielded a pistol, the reverend, a cross. My heart soared, but as Brinkman trained a gun toward them, Jonathon, Lavinia, and I all lurched forward and shouted some variant of:

"No, they're on our side!"

Moriel, who had roused again from the punch, was aghast at the sight of the reverend's dark skin, for he snorted: "Oh, and you dare bring a blackamoor into my sight to soil the very air around us? Your species really is—"

Another punch from Brinkman sent Moriel back into the pudding again, causing Blessing almost to smile, but his gaze was soon focused directly on the more pressing matter of the reanimate corpse, and he moved near it, knowing exactly what to do as he had done in Doctor Preston's hospital wing. Mrs. Northe took a moment to consider the wavering, open portal but swept the room to meet our gazes first.

"My friends," Mrs. Northe cried. "Are you all—" That's when she saw that Maggie was in my arms. Alongside the siren-like wail of the reanimate body, she shrieked, falling to her knees at my side. I stared at her helplessly.

"She took them into her," I cried. "Demons. From the portal. Five of them. We couldn't stop her, we didn't know—"

"It should have been me," Mrs. Northe insisted, tears splashing onto Maggie's scorched bodice. "It should always have been me, bearing the brunt, my poor girl, no, it should have been me—"

"Right before Maggie acted," I explained, "she looked at me, with stern resolution, as if this was the only thing she could do." I spoke as if somehow an explanation could ease the pain. It didn't.

In the background I heard Blessing begin an exorcism rite to untie and set to rest the collective of unseen spirits that by our experience we knew were attached to the embodiment of Lady Denbury. The other two Majesties were laughing and taunting the black man, calling him derogatory names, the Society clearly based on the falsehood of racial superiority along specific bloodlines.

But Blessing was unruffled by the racist slurs. He remained focused on spiritual matters at hand. The Denbury body was one thing, but the retinue of spirits, they were further unwanted company. We could all feel the chill the ghosts carried in their wake.

"Reverend Blessing, the names of the dead are writ here," I declared, sliding the ledger book across the dining room table toward him, fighting to be heard against the din of spiritual unrest.

He nodded and began addressing the spirits the Society used in their methods to power reanimate bodies. He called them by the names listed in the book. He bid them leave the dead flesh and promised that their remains would be put in sacred ground. The poltergeist effects the spirits were wreaking in the room began to settle a bit. Mrs. Northe echoed all of Blessings words, acting as his assisting minister in the exorcism rite, though she reiterated and enforced his scripture while still rooted to the ground near Maggie's cooling body.

The two conscious Majesties started up with insidious chanting again, in a tongue indiscernible to me, and as they did, the open portal wavered, dark shadows drew closer to the threshold, as if another wave of monsters were about to seep over. Brinkman nodded at Nathaniel and spat in one of the Majesty's faces. Sansalme just sneered up at him. Nathaniel moved to gag both the men on either side of the still unconscious Moriel.

"This is just the beginning," Sansalme said in a slight accent I thought might be French. "You've really no idea." He dabbed Brinkman's spit out of his eye with a silk handkerchief.

"Well, I'm sure you'll be telling us all about it in a court of law," Brinkman growled.

"No…" Sansalme replied, seemingly unconcerned. This terrified me as much as the portal. What could threaten these wretches? I shook myself away from staring at them in disgust.

"We need to get the 'help,' the family, together," I cried to Jonathon, to Mrs. Northe, to Nathaniel and Lavinia, who were still trying to repair and erase the various dark magic effects upon the room. "That's the cue for the arrests!"

We had to settle the room, lest the police turn against the unwitting victims, as the officers could hardly be sure who or what was doing the damage. This was the type of horrific chaos the Society wished to wreak, where no one could effect change and keep faith, where no one knew who was friend or foe. Where everyone turned against one another. But the Society couldn't know what a wonderful team we had among us.

I stared down at Maggie's corpse. My despair would not help the dead woman in my arms who had been so brave. It was my turn to show that kind of strength and willingness of sacrifice. I had the knowledge to wield a countercurse, and I needed to wield it now. I shifted Maggie off my lap, and Mrs. Northe took her into her arms instead. Her blood had soaked through my dress, was all over my hands. I couldn't worry about that.

I darted to the elaborate screen that traditionally hid the staff during the meal and closed off the door that led to the kitchen stairs. And there the family stood, dazed, just behind the wooden panels. Glassy eyed, they stood slightly swaying, waiting to be summoned. The sight of all four of them triggered my immediate shout as I dragged the children forward first. As soon as I moved, Jonathon was with me in the instant, following with the wife and Nathaniel with the husband.

"Ego transporto animus ren per ianua, Beelzebub the Devil!" I cried, and Jonathon echoed me.

The adults struggled against us, the demons within sensing that we were at war. Jonathon dodged a punch; I nearly had my hands bitten by the red-eyed children. Lavinia, Blessing, and Mrs. Northe all rushed to lend hands while still spouting scripture. The forces which sought to harm us recoiled. Together we took up the same shout, shoving the disoriented, confused bodies toward their respective paintings.

We said the countercurse again and again: '"sending the soul through the door…" This had been Jonathon and my puzzle to sort through together when we met. The words were roughly translated from Latin, but with an Egyptian word for "soul-door" put in for an extra complication, as the portrait frames were literally a door for the soul to be deposited into. It had been a hard-fought mystery to solve but the countercurse had worked for restoring Jonathon.

Jonathon, Nathaniel, and Lavinia, all of us took up the countercurse together, utilizing variants on the Devil, Satan, the damned, any possible name for what was supposed to be the penultimate of evil, the prince of darkness itself. We tried to encompass all that these foul energies wished to be, and in doing so, trap them by the title they aspired to. The power of the name, we'd learned, was one of the eldest powers of all, and it was one the Society seemed to take very seriously. We had our faith. They had theirs. And now we had to play ours against theirs with everything we had.

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(End of Chapter 26.4 - Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends! Tweet it, FB, + it! The Magic Most Foul team really hopes the audience will continue to grow and it can only do so with YOUR help! If you haven't already, do pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and the sequel: The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause! Donations directly support the editorial staff.

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