A SUMMONING OF SOULS gets a "MOMENTOUS" review from Publisher's Weekly!

Coming 7/21 in digital & Trade Paperback!

Hello friends! I'm THRILLED that Publisher's Weekly gave a STELLAR review of A SUMMONING OF SOULS, releasing 7/21 from Kensington Books! The highlights: 

“Hieber’s momentous third Spectral City fantasy (after A Sanctuary of Spirits) sees tensions in the spirit world come to an explosive head…It is extremely satisfying to witness the scrappy heroes rise up…Eve and Jacob’s growing attraction, meanwhile, provides a welcome romantic respite from the fast-paced action. Hieber’s latest fires on all cylinders.”- Publishers Weekly 

Check out the full review, additional plot details here! 

Pre-order a digital copy wherever eBooks are sold! Print pre-order links are coming soon! Nook - Kobo - Zeebra - Amazon - Apple - Google

Please share with fellow-readers looking for their next ghostly, gothic Supernatural Suspense with a sweet romance! Cheers and Happy Haunting!

Teaser Tuesday: Spotlight on The World of Tomorrow Is Sadly Outdated

Hello Dear Readers! I hope your New Year is splendid thus far!

For the next month I'll be spotlighting some of my lesser-known works with sample chapters and information. Today is all about The World of Tomorrow Is Sadly Outdated, a novella that is available in digital across all digital platforms! It is a parallel narrative between 1888 and 2088 where the past saves the future... Here are the first three chapters!

THE WORLD OF TOMORROW IS SADLY OUTDATED

By

Leanna Renee Hieber

One

New York City

1889

            “Shall we?”  Evan Halford grabbed one brass wheel with both hands.  His partner, Samuel, grabbed the other. 

             Together they turned the wheels to open the Receptor’s valves.  It woke with a pumping hiss. Evan stepped back, grabbed the gloved hand of his wife, and murmured a prayer. At his “amen” there came a tiny flicker of light.

            Grace Halford stared at the Receptor’s vast screen and her breath seized in a tightening squeeze, as if someone had drawn her corset strings too tight. The Receptor took up half the attic wall of their brownstone townhouse, surrounded by metal tubes that hissed like a nest of snakes; a glass-headed gorgon with a body of whirring belts, cogs, pistons and levers. 

A point of light on the screen grew into a sepia square, expanding until the whole panel was a rectangle of amber.  Text flashed before their eyes.  It was tomorrow’s headline from the Eagle.  The screen flickered.  All three held their breath.  The image stilled and remained. 

They stared at tomorrow.

Evan scooped Grace up in his arms, her skirts rustling as he twirled her around. She’d worked so hard for this moment, she wanted to feel joy. And yet…

            “Oh, my darling Grace, we did it!”  He gave her a smacking kiss before turning to Samuel, who stood tall and austere in his modest suit.  “Samuel Stein, by God, you genius you,” Evan cried, clapping him on the back.

            Samuel’s cheeks reddened.  He nodded, peering closely at the screen to divert further attention.

            The information on the screen continued to hold Grace’s breath captive. In hoping to see tomorrow, she’d hoped she’d see a better day. But faced with it, she realized that looking into the future meant you might not like what you see.

            “But darling, Evan, please look…”  Grace asked.  “There will be a tornado in Brooklyn tomorrow.”

            “Let a hurricane come! We located the current!” Evan cried.  “There’s Tesla’s Alternating, Edison’s Direct, and yes, by God, there is our Temporal Current!” He danced off to open champagne.  The rolled cuffs of his dress-shirt loosened as he flailed.

            Grace pursed her lips.  “We should alert someone-”

            “No force of ours could stop a tornado,” Samuel murmured, glancing at Grace before looking away.

            “True, but-”

            Samuel’s raised hand stopped her.  “The pact, Grace.  We cannot stop, or alter time, only watch it.”

            Grace folded her arms, knowing full well the hours they had labored over the moral quandary of undoing time, and the hard-fought decision to let it ‘be as it would’.  They were innovators alone, seeking glorious answers to improbable questions, questing to tap into the Current, not to see if the Current could make them God. Shoulders tensed with worry, the capped sleeves of her blouse neared her ears. She didn’t want to regret their miracle the moment it lived. But it had been such a dream until now.

The Receptor flickered again then guttered.

            Samuel frowned. Moving to the behemoth, he tightened gaskets around the screen before dropping to his knees. His head disappeared behind the massive wiring that surreptitiously leeched off the new 14^th street electric lamps, drawing stolen current into their townhouse, up to their attic, to light the screen and extend up the tallest lightning rod in Manhattan.  At least, that’s how Evan had explained the spire to neighbors staring horrified at their rooftop when he installed it: “You must understand, my dear Grace has a simply absurd fear of lightning…” 

Samuel put a vise on a fray of copper wire and pressed a sequence of valves like a trumpet.  Puffs of steam jetted from the corner vents, tiny brass lids lifting and settling. The screen flickered to life again.  More headlines.  Grace squinted at the text, compelled to look even though she was torn between dread and fascination.

“There’s a seal in the corner.  New York Public Library.  There will be a public library?  How splendid!”  She leaned closer, her coiled muscles easing. “And a word I don’t recognize. Inter-net.”

“Inter-net!” Evan said the foreign word with relish.  “I set the Temporal dial to pick up the earliest dates, closest to our time.  It must be picking up our location too!” 

There was a loud pop, a flying cork and Evan busied himself with delicate champagne flutes. He tried to pass the bubbling flutes to Samuel and Grace, who both stood rapt in future newspaper stories, time clicking forward day by day as the Temporal Current fed into the Receptor.

            “Come,” Evan insisted.  “There will be plenty of time to examine the history of the future.  We’ve worked too hard not to have a moment of triumph.  We’d best celebrate since no one else will do so.” He forced the drinks into their hands.  “A shame, that.  Tesla and Edison get to have their little war over their currents, and here we are with something infinitely more exciting with ours-”

            “Not again, Evan.  We’ve discussed the dangers if the world knew,” Samuel said sharply. What few words Samuel said, he meant, and what he meant was generally sensible.  He and Grace, from the start, had lobbied Evan to secrecy and drove home the necessity of their laissez faire actions towards future knowledge.  

Staring at her husband, Grace melted, finally accepting the champagne and toasted his glass.  A hard-featured, thin man, Evan’s rarely absent smile kept his sharp face something engaging and elegant.  His hair mussed, a sheen of anticipation glistened on his broad brow and his blue-grey eyes were lit. Grace wondered for a moment if the electricity they were siphoning mightn’t be wired right into her husband. His energy, smile and his mind were the reasons she’d fallen in love with him, and all of these qualities were on full display. She didn’t want to embarrass Samuel by kissing her husband deeply and so she decided to move to Samuel instead, toasting his glass with a polite nod, her doubled taffeta skirts swishing as she walked.

Evan bounced to Samuel’s other side, his enthusiasm contagious. “Quite a long way from sewing machines, eh?”  Evan grinned.

Grace recalled the first time she’d ever heard Samuel’s name. It was years ago when Halford Garments hadn’t a single malfunction on its machines for an unprecedented year.  When Evan finally asked if anyone knew why his Singers managed such uninterrupted perfection, a young German seamstress pointed to the then fourteen year old Samuel and said simply, “Why, he fixes them all, Mr. Halford, and has done since he started working here.  You haven’t noticed?”  Evan made Samuel a partner in the company that very day. Evan was a fair owner, unopposed to the unions so many of his competitors rejected, and he made Grace proud. She too took pride in the company, as many decisions had been made off her own advice.

            “Machines. I trust sewing machines,” Samuel murmured, wincing when he saw news flicker across the screen that there would be yet another Garment District fire before the decade was through. An even worse one in 1911. Grace put her hand to her mouth at the death toll.

            “Evan, you’ve got to help the unions with safety protocols-”

“I hope you’ve a way to hold this information, Evan,” Samuel interrupted, blinking back tears that had come to his eyes, “lest the future flicker away before we’ve examined it.” 

Blocks of text and occasional illustrations ticked by like seconds on a clock face.

            “Of course!” Evan exclaimed, beaming like a child. “Look here, I installed this yesterday.”  Evan pointed to a round glass ball where a bright bulb flicked on and off in rhythm.  “A print of each will be stored.” He pointed to a wooden tray below the screen where, one by one, papers fluttered to their rest.  “An amalgamated history of the future, here, provided she keeps humming.” Evan carefully patted the corner of the Receptor’s thick screen.

            Samuel grimaced.  “A book of Revelations.”

            Evan batted his hand.  “You’re a Jew.  You don’t believe in that book.”

            “But he’s right about its power,” Grace said, understanding some of her own dread. “This cannot become some Nostradamus prophecy-”

            “I pledged that nothing would leave this room. Do you not trust me? Truly?” Evan’s eyes flashed. 

Grace moved to him, wanting to reassure his earnest, too-easily-hurt feelings. “Your excitement, my dear, is all that worries us, since it’s a difficult commodity to contain.  Not lack of trust.”

She kissed his warm temple, wanting to set unease aside for joy and camaraderie.

But the room was no longer ruled by a loving husband, wife and a dear friend.

The room was now ruled by the Temporal Current, and it would not be denied.

An uncomfortable silence passed as they stared back at the screen, frozen.  The only movement in the room became the tick of falling, revelatory pages and the rising bubbles of their champagne.

Two

The Borough of Brooklyn

2081…

New York City still smoldered.  Swaths of smoke and wisps of steam hung suspended in the stagnant air, hovering ghosts breathing shallowly.  So many ghosts.  Nearly all that was new fell away in the Meltdown, and only the old remained. 

The skyline looked as it might have in the distant past, when the gothic Woolworth tower was the tallest in the world; looming mighty over downtown Manhattan.  Except in that glittering past there wouldn’t have been rubble, hanging wires, corroded plastics or broken glass. 

Woolworth stood defiant against a modern world that had never replicated its sumptuous terra-cotta exterior.  A world that had left it, and everything like it, for dead.  How ironic that it was now one of the few survivors.

None of the Brooklynites said a word as they rowed closer, gliding over the empty East River.

Thirteen year-old Jack Barton stared up at the jagged Manhattan skyline and thought about the pages and pictures he’d seen of old New York when he was training as an Innovator.  It used to be so beautiful; churning with manufacturing and alive with industry.  He salivated to think of those times, and how useful they would be to his people now. 

Many glass and steel buildings stood; but only those that had immense metal around their windows to deter the destruction of the Formula.  Downtown was now a foreign land, a well-resourced and unpredictable foe.  The once bustling financial district was now filled with impromptu orchards, cultivated within those towers of glass and steel to produce uncontaminated food, protected by shelter.

            A man in metal armor, helmet and goggles came into view at the top of the haphazard, makeshift barricade along the crumbling Manhattan shore.  Anything that was protruding, sharp and unwelcoming, whether it was glass, pikes or beams, had been positioned out like poised weapons. “Halt or we’ll shoot!”

            The group of rowboats bobbing on the East River bank bumped the edge of the rusting ferry terminal at the tip of the island.  Their passengers looked up into the barrels of shotguns trained on them.

            The Brooklyn battalion raised their hands.  Jack watched as Borough President Frank Taylor, a blue and orange baseball cap slung haphazardly on his metal helmet, clambered from the front of the rowboat onto the jagged shore, keeping his arms raised.  Jack’s father, John, was close beside.

            “We don’t want violence, we just need help, our resources are strained to the limit.” Frank’s bass, authoritative voice echoed in the tense quiet.  “Let’s join forces. We’re all struggling for survival-”

            “Nothing joins or takes from Manhattan.  Boss’ orders.”

            Jack watched as his father took his turn and clambered up onto the bank beside Frank.  “And who’s boss in Manhattan?” John Barton asked.

            “Steven Nevin. Husband to Jeanette Halford of the Manhattan Halfords.”

            “Then I would like to meet with Mr. Nevin,” John said.  He began to climb further up the vicious barricade spilling from Manhattan’s edges into the river.

            A shot rang out. John screamed, falling back, blood pouring from his leg. 

            “Dad!” Jack screamed, rushing out towards his father. 

Frank dragged John back into the boat and was pressing down upon the wound, pulling thongs from his armor to fashion a tourniquet.  Dimly, Jack recognized the dreadful clicking sound of more readied ammunition above them.

            “Hold your fire!” A firm, young female voice declared.  Jack looked up.

            “Says who?” the guard demanded.

            “Says me,” she replied, undaunted. She strode towards the guard, ripping off her helmet.  A stream of blond curls spilled down her shoulders.  She was a striking young beauty in contrast to the ugly destruction surrounding her.  Piercing blue eyes flashed with defiance. “I am Ellen Halford Nevin.”  She lifted her arm, emblazoned with a red and white Halford crest.

            “Miss, put your helmet back on or you’ll get Formulaburn!” another guard chided.

            “I was making my point. I want you to listen to me.” She replaced her helmet, goggles and metal facemask.

            “I’m not the one with a problem listening.” The guard gestured with the barrel of his gun at the Brooklynites below.

            Jack tore his eyes away from Ellen, likely his same age, and again tended to his father who hissed in pain.  The wound was shallow, the bullet having grazed the flesh. But a small cut could kill a man these days.

            Ellen looked down.  She was a small, metal covered body against a backdrop of useless, goliath skyscrapers.  She could’ve looked insignificant.  But she didn’t.

            “Here, you’ll need this.” She threw a canvas bag down between the pikes.  Jack caught it.  Inside were a few emergency medical supplies; rare, lifesaving treasures.

            Jack removed his helmet and facemask and stared up at her.  His hands shook but he masked apprehension with a clear voice that had just dropped within the year.  “Thank you, Ellen. I’m Jack Barton. I hope someday we can all be family.”

            A curt nod was her only reply. Jack put his protective gear back on.

            “Miss, please, tell your father it doesn’t have to be this way,” Frank Taylor growled as he pressed John’s leg. “We can’t survive separately forever.”

            “I’m afraid we’re going to try,” Ellen said sadly, and turned away.  Her armored form disappeared through the ranks of other metal-covered bodies that parted as she passed.

Three

Manhattan 1889

            Evan stared at the Receptor, an amazed laugh tickling his throat.

            Grace looked up from her sewing.

            “There will be a World’s Fair,” he gurgled. “In Queens County, of all places! Queens!”

Putting down her embroidery hoop, she came closer. It would appear that in just nine years, the rural Queens County would become a part of Metropolitan New York City.  And forty one years after that, what was currently a ragged string of small towns would host a fair. A World’s Fair, in Flushing. Who would have ever thought... 

            “Goodness, what is all this?” Evan exclaimed, tracing the screen with a fingertip.  “The World of Tomorrow they call it. Fascinating! Automobiles. Oh, Grace, just look at what this company, General Motors, has in store for us in forty years!”

            Staring at the pictures of the exhibition models; tiny vehicles on long stretches of roadway, like insects gliding endlessly along angled veins of leaves, Grace felt immeasurably sad. She frowned. 

            “How dreadful. People going their lonely way in those… pods… Isolated.  Sterile. Where has our city gone? Just these cement tracts?”

            Evan’s face twisted.  “Darling, must you be so damned sour about this?  Perhaps we should have tapped into the past’s Temporal Current since you don’t like what you’re learning about the future.”

            Grace sighed.  “True, I don’t. I’m sorry love, I don’t meant to dampen your excitement, but sometimes you don’t understand what you have wished for, or the consequences of those wishes, until they stare back at you.”

            Not to be dissuaded, her husband gazed at the screen in wonder.  “I think it’s fantastic.”

            Grace pursed her lips.  “I wonder what will come of it.”

(End of Excerpt)

Praise for World of Tomorrow: 

 "I finished this novella at exactly the correct time, because I needed this. I needed to grasp that silver thread and hold it fiercely in my hand, to cup it gently in my palm and whisper, "See? This is our future. Our present. Our past. These are the kinds of heroines who really lived, who are living, who will rise in days to come. These are the women we need so desperately. These are the women WE ARE. Imagine a world where not only *can* women save the world, but that they MUST. Buy this. Get it. Read it. Absorb it. And then go out and create that world. That is what Leanna is giving us here: a gentle pride of the past, a small hope for the future. It's a precious gift. Don't waste it." -- Kiaras at Waiting for Fairies waitingforfairies.com 

World of Tomorrow at Amazon - World of Tomorrow at Barnes & Noble

 

See you next week for more free fiction material!

Cheers and happy haunting...

 

A Haunted Night in the Morris-Jumel Mansion

As you've noticed, the blog has been overtaken by the serialization of The Double Life of Incorporate Things, which has been such a wonderful, fascinating ongoing experiment. But recent experiences ought not go unmentioned.

Fittingly on November 2nd, dia de los muertos, and All Saints' weekend, I spent the evening in the haunted and incredibly historic Morris-Jumel Mansion in Manhattan for a ghost investigation, thanks to dear friend Elizabeth Kerri Mahon, author of Scandalous Women, who found out about it in the first place and invited us along (on her birthday, no less!).

This mansion saw the likes of George Washington, Aaron Burr, Bonapartes, and least of all, the indomitable lady of the house, Eliza Jumel.

Paranormal is my normal. I believe in ghosts because I have seen, heard and felt them, all in various ways and capacities through my life. If you've read my work you know that spirits and spirituality factor in as the major themes.

So I don't NEED proof. I know what I know. I am suspicious of and generally dislike the idea of ghost hunting. I write about ghost-busters, I don't need to patrol them myself, because often if you go looking for things the wrong kinds of things are looking for you.

But in this case, the mansion itself was putting on the evening, billing it in a relaxed manner in which it would be a historical sleepover with tour guides availing themselves to our questions and giving us a whole night in the house to ourselves, what a neat way to live in that house for a day and get a chance to immerse myself in the history of it. If there was a haunting along the way, so be it.

What I wasn't prepared for was the amount of spectral activity that availed itself to us in the house as if it were another tour guide. The lady of the house was certainly active for her guests. Known to actively and unabashedly haunt the house, Eliza Jumel was a fascinating woman who led a fascinating if not oft controversial life. (For more about this amazing lady, please visit Elizabeth's fabulous blog post about her.)

The evening began with the group of about twenty participants interested in history and the spectral (my kind of folk), listening in the small ballroom to gentlemen from Acoustic Archives. They spoke with us about some of the amazing spectral activity captured and recorded in the house, showcased video and audio, and explained a little about what they'd be doing with equipment in the house that night. We continued with a tour of the outside and full inside of the mansion by very talented, knowledgeable guides.

Then we all gathered in the kitchen, the basement of the house and the official "ghost hunting" began. With this, I was skeptical. Ghosts don't necessarily like to perform on command. The questions to "show yourself" and "give a sign" as bidden by the gentlemen with the equipment weren't really garnering a response. But they were amenable to all of us asking questions and participating and the group got an interesting discussion going in the dark, talking about history and positing things the spirits might be feeling or hanging onto. It was a large sort of seance, in a way, but there was just too much activity, too large of a group, I thought, to get a specific response. However there were significant cold spots near me and my friends, and I saw that someone had taken a photo and there were a lot of orbs. I sensed we were not alone, but I knew it would take time before something responded, if anything would. I don't like to test the spirits, and had this not been a welcoming energy in the building, I would not have stayed there. I certainly don't tempt malevolence. A fascinating development began when we decided to split up the group by gender. Men went upstairs with equipment, we ladies remained downstairs and for the next hour. And we communed. Without any real need for communication with spirits (I can sense people's desperation about these things, proof of the paranormal drove a lot of very intelligent persons from Conan Doyle to Houdini a bit batty, so I try to steer clear of ever having expectations of the spirit world, for in expectations therein sets up disappointments), we talked to them anyway.

We all, taking turns, told them of what all had happened for women in the intervening time since women had been there in that basement as slaves or servants, young or old, all of them living a life of great toil and struggle and limited freedoms. We told them of laws, of suffrage, of rights, of careers they likely couldn't have imagined in their day. We thanked them. Profusely. For being our foremothers. For having visions that grew into our modern world. For having stories no one would ever know. We honored them. We tried to imagine what their lives would have been like. We all realized how lucky we are now. How much there is to be thankful for. How much there is still left to be done, in terms of equality. And then, when we wondered if the lady of the house had much hand in the kitchen, all the track lighting flickered on in a wave and then off. (No one was near the switch and it was not on a dimmer so the effect would have been impossible to create by hand). There were certainly spiritually charged feelings about house and housework.

When we rejoined others upstairs, they were taking our questions and comments further, with incredible results. With a small flashlight with its cap unscrewed so that any connective presence from a ghostly response would make it flicker on or turn it back off, the lady of the manor was answering questions.

With a directive to turn the flashlight on to full or off depending on a yes, no, or 'flicker if maybe' question, the lady told us she liked our presence there, was fond of men but never really loved one, had complex feelings about children, was very proud of her home, would like to have a ball in the ballroom (she was hesitant about this until I clarified for her if she would like it if it were a ball done in the style and dance of her day, and this was a resounding flashlight "yes"). And she really liked being spoken to in French. (Thanks to fellow writer and bookseller Stacey Agdern for helping provide insights and some French).

Perhaps the most striking answer to a question was the flashlight blazing in full when asked if she might linger on haunting her own home because of fear. Fear of what was next. Fear of the beyond. Fear of passing onwards...

It's something I muse on in every one of my books. The veil between our world and the spirit world is always very thin in my work. As I feel it is very thin in general if one but focuses upon it. Ghosts play prominent roles; are heroes, antagonists, love interests, plot twists, problems, saviours, complications. What I try never to do is answer those questions beyond what I feel the characters can safely say. What the strictures of my worlds dictate.

I was moved by our night in the mansion, both from a human level of what we accomplished as people, strangers drawn together merely by a very respectful interest in history and what might haunt it. And then from a spirit level as there was no trickery to the flashlight, (I'm enough of a skeptic to have queried the item but there was no incentive for the light to be rigged, no one was filming this, no programs were watching, and no obvious way it could have been rigged, so I simply took the item for what it was) and Lady Jumel's responses matched what we know of history, of her nature, with some surprises and nuance. She deigned to bring herself to life for us and entertain in her home once more. What an honour.

I don't come away from a night like that with any answers, or any different notions about ghosts or about an afterlife. I believe what I believe; that the spirit world is always there for us, but that we shouldn't rush desperately into its arms. As for the Great Beyond, that's the divine mystery. And we'll all find out when we do. I don't go looking for proof of the supernatural, in this case, I went looking to spend time in a historic mansion. I let instances happen to me and then I enjoy and respect them for the isolated incidents they are. Life and the spirit is an unfolding journey. I can be a very impatient person, but when I just trust in process, I'm happier and more likely to be presented with all that I need, moment by moment, experience by experience. For more poetic and lyrical musings of that nature, please read my books.

Soon I'll post another musing of visiting a building that helped define me and my mission in life and art.

Happy Haunting...

 

 

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 25

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

Chapter Twenty-Five

Evidently, the British agent Mister Brinkman was just across the street, awaiting a signal. I suddenly felt that, at any minute, any number of persons could descend upon us from unseen corners. The intimate, singular horrors that the Society had perpetrated upon Jonathon and me were now becoming a crowd sport.

Knowles palmed a small, hand-held lantern that had been sitting as a lit globe upon his desk. He moved to stand before the narrow, tall window to the side of his bookcases, putting a hand to block the orb's light and then removing it three times. A minute later, I heard a key turn down the hall, then the front door open and close quietly and then not a sound until an uncanny apparition was seen in the doorway: a distinct form in a black cape. The man set his hood back upon entering the room. Brinkman.

I wondered how intently the spy had been watching us. Reading lips through binoculars, perhaps, poised and on sharp alert to all tells and ticks? When he crossed the room in a few measured strides, his eyes went right to us as if he'd known our positions. He made me feel as nervous as he did safe. I watched Jonathon's face as he stared at the man, I assumed gauging his aura. As Jonathon remained cool and composed, the man's aura must have remained positive…or at least neutral to us. I took a moment to thank whatever magical offsets had granted Jonathon that ability, as it was one of the more useful supernatural traits our situation could have afforded.

Brinkman could see me examining his oddly handsome face, trying to get a read on him. So many years of mutism had made me uncannily adept at reading moods, bodies, intentions, and more, just by look and physicality. This man was a compelling, blank slate. He simply smiled enigmatically at me, giving nothing away but that he was a man not to be trifled with. A consummate spy. I was no less nervous. But I was just a little bit impressed.

"Miss Stewart," he said, bowing his head to me. I inclined mine in turn.

Knowles busied himself at a vast cherrywood credenza, making sure all the gentlemen had snifters of bourbon.

Brinkman turned to Jonathon. "From what you said upon our return ride from the Society office, it seems you laid the groundwork well, Lord Denbury. I'm hoping this little party will allow me to collar Moriel and his two top cronies. I'd like to cuff his whole cabal of six, but it would seem all the 'Majesties' are hardly ever in the same country, let alone the same room. Hopefully, the Society will fall out from under the top tier once we topple them."

"What brought the Society operatives together in the first place?" I asked.

"The only consistent factor is that they are very old aristocracy from three different country's traditions. Each of their line was at one point disgraced and remains relatively forgotten, with little money. However, they've gained traction in property."

"Making a deal with the devil for a return rise to importance?" Knowles asked, taking his place at his desk.

Brinkman shrugged. "That's the only thing I can figure about their aims."

I heard a key in the lock down the hall and then Lavinia's voice speaking in a pouting tone.

At the sound of movement at the door, Jonathon stalked out of the room and met them, lingering there at the mouth of the hall while Lavinia's voice continued, getting closer as she said: "You do realize how much I've given up, Nathaniel, back and forth with you across the pond. I truly needed just one normal evening with my lady friends. Must we strategize at this hour?"

"We'll address your sacrifices in time, dear," Nathaniel murmured as they neared Knowles's office door. "But that isn't for here and now, with lives on the line. Everyone is here. Please appear as sensible as I know you are capable of being."

Whatever Lavinia was feeling, she put on a calm and brave face when she entered Knowles's now-overcrowded office.

The solicitor gestured to a decanter of some sort of rose-colored cordial and raised an eyebrow at Lavinia and me. Lavinia set her jaw and pointed to the bourbon instead. Knowles grinned and despite the departure in custom, included us both in the gentleman's drink without question, a small courtesy that made us feel involved and respected. These were not times of common propriety. No one was looking to drown their sorrows in any substance; such behavior would not help our cause. But having something to hold and busy one's hands with was a tiny comfort to take the edge off the tension in the room.

"I never thought I'd be grateful for anything that has befallen me," Jonathon said as he reentered the room, stalking over to my chair and standing behind it to voice what I'd been thinking when he examined Brinkman. "However, the ability to see the lit aura, the incorporeal traces of any of my potential enemies is very useful. It would seem no one followed you here. I see no spark in the shadows outside."

"I told you I'd be careful," Nathaniel replied. Jonathon nodded at his friend.

"Friends," Jonathon began, addressing all of us. "Let's get to our points. The Society shall arrive at the estate at six tomorrow. I explained to Moriel that I would leave the proverbial 'bait,' the tokens, bound in the dining room." He squeezed my shoulder over the back of the chair. "Do forgive me, my love, for referring to you as such—"

"I understand, Jonathon. That's how they might refer to me. Not you. You will both have to play the part," I reassured, even while I shuddered at the thought.

"They seem to be interested in blood tokens," Jonathon said, clenching his jaw. "If you are bound at the table, my brave ladies, don't worry what will befall you. Nathaniel schooled me in some sleight of hand. I don't want you dreading anything that will be mere show, but please do react accordingly as though you've been affected."

Lavinia nodded. She was used to this sort of thing more than I; surely, one of Nathaniel's vampire bits on stage had her prepared for necessary theatrics. I swallowed hard and tried not to look ill.

Jonathon continued: "Nathaniel and I will meet the company at the door and lead them in, as it would be best they not find us all fraternizing in the dining room when they arrive. Tomorrow morning the Society said they'd return the staff to the premises to prepare the meal." Jonathon turned to Brinkman to explain in a bitter tone: "Moriel confirmed, laughingly, that the staff they retain are possessed bodies. The family that overtook the estate per the Society's coaxing is now enslaved to it. Moriel has taken those poor wretches on as his personal cook, footman, and the children as veritable slaves."

"And their poor souls are trapped in the dining room portraits," I added. "Before any arrests are made, we'll need to invoke a countercurse to return souls into bodies and trap the demons. It's not something I'd trust to leave to the average police officer. With all due respect."

Brinkman nodded and tried to act as if the directives were commonplace, but his halting speech revealed his discomfort. "If you say so. I trust, then, that... you'll handle the...countercurse?"

"We will, you must leave that to us," Jonathon replied. "Natalie, I'll trust you to later explain the principles of the countercurse to Nathaniel and Lavinia."

I nodded again. I sipped the bourbon, and its sting was a nice offset against nerves.

"I'll need a cue for my men to pounce," Brinkman stated. "I don't want it to come too early, but also not too late. I don't want these bastards to try anything."

"Or to let their magic build," I added. "We can't know just how many demonic forces they have, truly, at their disposal. Those we've seen have been embodied, but what about those awaiting a host?"

"We can't allow anything in," Jonathon murmured. "We don't know exactly where these demons come from. How they summon them. If you've ever had a faith, now is the time to hold to it. We must not give those wretched, soul-sucking entities any room for entry."

I nodded and thought of Maggie. I wondered what on earth could have happened to her. "Maggie's gone missing, Jonathon," I murmured. "No one knows where she's gone. Mrs. Northe wired Mr. Knowles here to tell us. If she or Karen has any clairvoyant indications about what went on, we don't know."

"Well, she let the beasts in, Natalie," he replied with a harshness I understood but didn't expect, "and allowed the forces that tried to kill us to grow stronger by her reverence and favor. We can't help her any more than we did. I can't worry what's become of her now. Not right now."

I looked at the edge of Mr. Knowles's fine desk and clenched my jaw, knowing Jonathon was right but still wishing there was something I could have done months ago to prevent her disappearance now. I said a prayer for her soul.

A slight movement of Nathaniel's hand caught my eye, and I saw him clutching a beaded length with a crucifix in his palm, something he'd wound around his wrist, perhaps a rosary. Anglican England still utilized Catholic-associated tokens as they were very similar in structure, just as Reverend Blessing owed a great deal to the Catholic Rite of Exorcism. Every denomination, at its root, directed back to the same governing principles. Symbols of faith were the touchstones of our own retaliatory magic. Ours was a different color and weight, but no less powerful than the breed the Society perpetuated. I had to believe we were as powerful as demons, so long as we stood up to them.

Brinkman's face was pinched; a slight crack in his facade indicated his own trepidation. I could empathize that a man like Brinkman didn't appreciate supernatural variables in a carefully calculated plan. "My men will be instructed to wait for my whistle," he stated, "but I can't cue immediately. Not until there's a bit of dirt under Moriel and company's nails, otherwise we may not have as flush and solid of a case as we need to ensure their downfall."

"If we're drawing out their plan," Jonathon piped in, "someone must be stationed to record what is said for evidence. If we place your men in my secret passages as we discussed, there is a pipe that's perfect for listening in."

"I'll be sure one of my best court recorders takes notes," Brinkman said eagerly. "If the paranormal aims of the Society are to be believed, we'll need as much in the form of a confessional as possible, the madness and desire for chaos expressly stated so that the threat to queen and country cannot possibly be denied."

"Jonathon," I murmured, a dreadful detail resurfacing. "What about the cellar?"

He swallowed hard.

"What about the cellar?" Brinkman queried, looking from one of us to the other. "I thought you said the estate was empty?"

Jonathon took a deep breath and spoke slowly. "There's also the possibility of a reanimate corpse as evidence. Be advised that the infernal magic the Society uses to reanimate the corpse makes the creatures very difficult to endure. There's a terrible mental strain, an inner sound of screaming, as if they creatures are built to rip apart the very fabric of sanity. A horde of ghosts is tethered to a body to make it come to life. The ghosts are the animate spark."

Brinkman's lips curled in disgust. "How horrid. Ghosts as Doctor Frankenstein's lightning?"

"I suppose. I've never seen anything like it before Doctor Preston's work in New York. I discovered all the same equipment we saw in New York down in my wine cellar. So I don't know what to expect."

"The unexpected is all we can count on, it would seem," Brinkman replied bitterly. "We'll all have to play it very safe, moment to moment, and very close to the vest." He bowed to us all and moved to the door, his tone allowing for a slight weariness. "Until morning, my motley battalion."

We stayed the night in London, one of Jonathon's finer carriages escorting the two couples to the Denbury flat, an exquisite set of gas-lit rooms in Knightsbridge. The place had a warm glow about it in all the golden flocked wallpapers, lighter woods, and gilt-accented furniture, a contrast to Rosecrest's deep, dark Gothic charm. The flat was that of more modern romantics, more fanciful in color and lush fabrics.

Nathaniel, being familiar with the flat, led Lavinia off somewhere. I wondered if they'd separate as propriety would dictate or if Lavinia would indeed come away from this a fallen woman. It wasn't my place to judge, she could make her own choices, and I hoped Nathaniel was man enough not to pressure her either way. Women were given little leverage in our world, and a girl's modesty was not something to be given or taken lightly, and men would do best to always keep that in mind.

As I sat upon one of the lavish divans in the main room, I had no idea how in the world I was going to sleep, but Jonathon seemed prepared for that, having stoked a small stove in a rear kitchen and returning to me with teacups in hand.

"Have some tea. It's... powerful tea," he said, handing me a warm cup and saucer.

"What's in it?" I asked, catching a whiff of a foreign scent.

"Some opiates and sedatives. I just took a draught myself. Else I'll never sleep. You and Lavinia can take the far room. Nathaniel is taking my room."

"You may have to untangle them—"

"I'm counting on Miss Kent to make an honest man out of Nat." Jonathon chuckled. "I don't let him play Don Juan in my home. I never have. He knows better."

"Where will you rest, darling?"

"On this very divan, dear. While the draught calmed my nerves, if I need to pace in the middle of the night, I'd best do it away from those I hold dear. You need your rest to be sharp."

"As do you..." I set down the cup and ran my fingers down the sleeve of his magnificent frock coat.

"When I was saving lives in my London clinic, sometimes my clearest decisions as a doctor came when I was truly exhausted and the drive of panic kicked in. Trust me, Natalie. I've faced many life and death battles. Just not necessarily my own. Not those most precious to me," he said, trailing a finger down my cheek, resting a fingertip upon my lips. I kissed his fingertip delicately, slowly, and he closed his eyes and let me see the shudder of sensual delight that coursed down his body.

"You're very brave," I murmured as he trailed the fingertip down my neck.

He set his own teacup beside mine before moving closer to press his lips to where his fingertip had been. After a slow, languorous kiss he murmured, "Didn't I tell you I learned bravery from the best?"

"You were brave long before me."

"But together..." He kissed me again.

Together is how our fates were determined. The course of my life, since the Denbury portrait had entered into it and I was granted a peculiar magic and agency to save this dear soul, was inextricable with his. Whether brilliant or doomed.

That night, in a lovely guest room done up in a soothing pale blue, grateful for a fresh dressing gown in which to sleep thanks to stores Lavinia brought for us, I tucked a bible under my pillow.

Lavinia, to my chagrin, had no trouble falling asleep across the room, not even bothering to change. She just curled up like a black-winged bird upon a lush velvet chaise and drifted off to some uncharted inner waters. I wonder if she'd been drugged harder. Or if Nathaniel had managed to distract her into bliss that powerfully.

I lay back and murmured what had been my mother's favorite psalm, number twenty-three, over and over again until the opiates finally took hold, first of my body, and then my racing mind.

--

(End of Chapter 25 - 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.

Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 24

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

Chapter Twenty-Four

I didn't demand to go with the gentlemen to the Majesty's office, but I did demand to go to London. What else would they have done with me? Lavinia had a dear friend she wished to visit, desperate to have something of normalcy. I had no plans, but I didn't dare miss London.

During our carriage ride, the gentlemen took turns driving. Jonathon was quiet and introspective when he rode with us, his hand entwined in mine, Lavinia stared at the new engagement ring with a wistful envy that she did not voice. As we'd readied in the morning, she noticed the piece, and I told her what had happened, my initial rejection of him, and the second chance in the study. She had embraced me and congratulated me. But I could feel the pang then and saw it now as she turned away from the garnet treasure upon my finger.

Nathaniel entertained us ladies with new material, blatantly overjoyed to have a captive audience. Thankfully, in this case, it was no trouble to be captive, as he was exquisite in his rendition of Shelley's Ozymandias. It was an interesting narrative, the epic poem, as epic London grew before us, beginning in modest outlying villages to clusters of greater population in a radius around the heart of the matter and unto the great, gargantuan golem of a city that was London...

Ah, London. What a beautiful mess. What a terrifying wonder and mystery. Did newcomers look at New York this way? Utterly overwhelmed?

Nothing could quite have prepared me for the scope of what I was seeing out the carriage windows. Manhattan, while vast, was an island, so simply its space had limits. London seemed an endless sprawl that was utterly confusing. There was no grid. No numbered streets. Everything was at twists and turns. And nearly all of it covered in soot. Though I wasn't sure what of that lens was made a shade darker by the gray, overcast sky.

The city grew narrower in brick alleys and confining arches over our carriage head and then expanded to grand lanes in dizzying instants, devastation like I'd seen in records of Manhattan's Lower East Side, but then palatial stretches much like our Fifth Avenue. They were sister cities in their own right, I supposed, centers of the world in many ways. But I was left with no idea where I was or how I could ever orient in such a tangle of streets and masses of people. It was vibrant and dark, grand and guttered. Impressive and terrifying. And it seemed without end.

The carriage made its rounds, Nathaniel first escorting Lavinia to a mutual friend, leaving me alone in the cab while Jonathon stayed with the horses. Next, I was taken to a friend of Mrs. Northe, Mr. Knowles, who would keep me until the gentlemen came back with news of their plans. We were in a business district; I could tell from the pristine streets and the lack of human bustle. If there were residents in the area, they kept their lamps trimmed low or were not yet home from being out and about on what had turned out to be a fine day with a brightly setting sun.

Nathaniel stayed with the horses, and Jonathon led me through an iron gate and up a stoop of a well-appointed building that had several names etched in gold upon the glass door. He plucked a key from his pocket and opened the office door.

"You've keys?" I asked, incredulous, as if all of London might be at Jonathon's disposal.

"Knowles and Brinkman have availed many resources to me," he explained. "As the Society is a sincere threat to crown and country, I've secret allies and places to hide."

"And yet you're confronting the Society directly, tomorrow," I said ruefully. "Why can't all those secret allies and those threatened take over instead of us running blindly forward at this point?"

"Hiding in plain sight is often the best strategy," Jonathon replied with an impressive nonchalance. "Besides, prosecuting the Society's aims needs as much evidence as possible. So much of it is paranormal circumstance you and I could not prove in a court."

I nodded acquiescence as he led me into the first floor foyer and then moved ahead to a frosted-glass window that was lit from within. He knocked, was bid enter, and there was a conversation I couldn't hear for a moment before he poked his head back into the hall to gesture me into the room. I walked into a warmly lit office well appointed in leather and books. A vast desk with matching mahogany chairs faced a wing-backed leather chair prominent before a grand fireplace. The trappings were similar to the finery of the Denbury study, but in a business setting, not residential.

At the door stood an elegant, patrician fellow in a well-tailored suit, the splash of a russet ascot offsetting the grey of his entire person: silver hair, eyes, frock coat, waistcoat, and trousers all the color of the English sky.

"Mister Knowles, this is my fiancée, Miss Natalie Stewart," Jonathon said. As Knowles inclined his head to me, I smiled, for the first time hearing the word fiancée. The newness of it must have been evident in my blush, for Mr. Knowles's wise-looking eyes sparkled in a way that was quite familiar.

"You know Mrs. Northe," I said eagerly.

"That I do," he replied. He turned to Jonathon. "I know you must be off, feel free to leave the girl in my care. She is under careful protection here. An officer has been assigned to this building with the precinct on watch."

"Thank you, sir. I'll return with news." He reached out and grabbed my hands in his and kissed them, one then the other. "I won't be long, my brave girl."

I smiled at him with a look that spoke of trust and care and stood at the threshold of the office to watch him go, my heartstrings tugging along after him. He looked back at me at the front door and pursed his lips in a kiss. I blew one back. He caught it and reached into his coat, placing it in his breast pocket, close to his heart. "For safekeeping," he said. "I'll need it."

And with that he vanished to go confront his enemy. "Be careful," I called as the door shut behind him. I clenched my fists and tried to set fierce worry aside, as it would do me no good. I took my place in Knowles office, sitting in one of the fine wooden chairs he proffered to me.

Knowles looked at me with a wistful smile as he set tea before me, gesturing me to a seat across his desk. "She was Evelyn Rutherford when I met her," Knowles began, "in her first 'season' in London, full of New York wit and vivacity, catching the eye of every available bachelor and married man alike. Who knew that quiet, unassuming Peter Northe would catch her in the end? Baffled everyone. But then again, aside from the man's money, he was simply kind. She always said a man's kindness was worth as much as his pocketbook. Thankfully, she earned double, then, while the lucky man lived."

I smiled back. I thought of my father. That's why she cared about him. A tear came to my eye.

Knowles pretended not to notice and instead leveled a gaze at me. "She's not happy you're gone, I'll have you know."

I chuckled and shook my head. "Oh, I'm sure she isn't."

"Not surprised, mind you, as not much surprises a woman as gifted as she. But she said if I ran into you, that there will be quite a talking-to that awaits you. Also"—his expression grew grave—"as you're not a child, I'll not treat you with kid gloves. But you should know that your friend Miss Hathorn has gone missing from Chicago."

I blinked at him. "When? Why?"

"Neither Mrs. Northe or Miss Hathorn's caretaker have any idea. But, obviously, if you in any way hear from her, do let Mrs. Northe know, she's sick to death about it. About the both of you."

I suddenly felt so guilty I hadn't written to Maggie sooner. Had she run away? Was she homesick and simply decided to make a run for it? Had something called to her and lured her back to the erring paths? She probably didn't even get my letter. A profound sadness hit me like a slap to my face. I was selfish. I wasn't the only one going through troubled times. She needed a peer, someone with whom to commiserate. I vowed to be that more strongly and presently for her if I possibly could.

"Don't keep Mrs. Northe in the dark," I replied. "I'm sure she knows where we went. She tried to stop us. But she went into a medium's trance, and we eluded her. The spirit she channeled guided us, warned us, Miss Kent and I. Feel free to write her about any of our goings-on if you feel they will arrive safe to her and not place her in any danger. Not having her at my side for this battle doesn't feel right, but I'd not dare try to involve her. I feel this is Jonathon and my fight to see through on our own."

"She told me you were a brave, dear girl. But no hero does his or her entire quest on their own."

I nodded, allowing myself to take that in as comfort. We shared more tea. He told me of his late wife who had died in childbirth, and of her ghost that haunted him still. Evidently, 'that was how he and Mrs. Northe had become close. Séances. He asked if I'd met Senator Bishop, and I promised I'd give the man my best whenever I saw him again at Mrs. Northe's house. If I ever returned to her house…

No. I couldn't think like that. Act like that. I couldn't possibly manifest that even as a possibility.

"I've my mother with me," I stated, invoking her as a ward and guardian to refuse thoughts of failure. "Much like your wife, I know she watches over me. I do know I'm not alone. And for that I rejoice. Loving souls are never truly alone, for those who have loved us are always connected. Even the death of a body cannot stop that tether."

"Spoken like a true spiritualist," Knowles said with a fond smile.

"I've learned from the best," I replied, sharing the smile.

Jonathon returned within the hour. Nathaniel was with him. They entered the office, elegant black-coated figures shifting the quiet energy Mr. Knowles had cultivated into something alive and on edge. I jumped up, impetuously embracing him. I was his fiancée. I was allowed to do such things in the presence of others. His tensed shoulders eased a bit as I snaked my hands around them and clasped my lace-gloved hands about his neck. "Well?" I murmured, noting that the look on his face was tired and haunted, but not defeated.

"I think the "Majesty" continues to believe me," Jonathon said. "Nathaniel, too, but I believe the next step will be a test. Moriel is his name. He said he'd be delighted by a dinner party and would be sure a few of his ministers attend. We'll have our quarry. Let's make sure our trap is well set and in place. We must be able to draw out their strategy and once they’ve confessed their plans to listening ears, we’ll strike to the roots of their insidious tree and uproot it as best we possibly can."

"We have to take care in regards to the trapped souls in the dining room," I cautioned, turning to Mr. Knowles. "The family that took over the estate, their souls are separated from their bodies in a painted prison, likely the bodies possessed by demonic energies, as Jonathon's was. I do not know where the bodies are, I assume in the service of the Society, but the paintings, and the persons, cannot be harmed until body and soul are reunited. I cannot trust police to be delicate in those matters. That family will be collateral damage if we are not careful. We need to ensure the countercurse is landed before the police make the arrests."

"Very wise," Jonathon agreed, squeezing my hand. "See how sensible my lady is, Mr. Knowles? I am a blessed man."

"You have been a cursed man," Knowles said gently. "And so you deserve such blessings as she. It is only right and just."

I simply smiled, squeezing his hand back, tightly.

"Let's fetch Miss Kent and Mister Brinkman and ready the plan," Knowles said.

And we were off to the proverbial nightmarish races…

--

(End of Chapter 24 - 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.

Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 23

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

Chapter Twenty-Three

It would seem that my nightmares waited to strike. At least, during the course of our time within the estate, which was drawing to a close for the evening.

However, I refused to get too comfortable. My nightmares weren't to be dismissed so easily. The worst kind of terrors were those that lay in wait.

Jonathon and I returned to the dining room. With determination, I went up to the paintings and examined them. They did not change for me this time, but they were still beseeching in the same pose as before. That was problematic, as it indicated a presence had been in the house. The Society would realize some sort of unknown variable. They might not trust Jonathon's invitation. I glanced behind each frame.

"Runes?" Jonathon asked. "Carved into the frames?"

"Indeed." I replied. "It's all looking just the same as it was done for you, to you. I imagine that once the devils realize what worked in your case, they would not have deviated in others. It seems like the same pattern, perhaps the same poem driving the spell, I'm not sure. I can only hope the countercurse will still drive to the heart of the matter, no matter what the runes truly say. I wish I'd brought the translation book—"

"We'd not have the time even if you did. We'd best not stay here any longer and should not be caught here sleeping. Back to the cottage we go, and on to London in the morning."

I stared back at the paintings. I couldn't leave them like that. Jonathon watched me, sensed my thoughts or emotions, and took my hand.

"You can't help them right now," he murmured gently. "Not tonight."

Something occurred to me. "I know. But I think I can give them hope. And you know better than anyone how desperately their trapped souls need it. Paper and pencil. Can you get that for me, quickly?"

Jonathon didn't question me; he just darted off. And for that, that simple respect of my agency, for his trust in me and my wits, I was grateful.

When he returned with page and pencil, I wrote a note and held it up for interminable moments before each portrait. The note said: Return to your positions. Help is on the way. Patience.

Due to Jonathon's internment and my experience within his painted prison, I understood the basic principles of what the suspended lives of these subjects were like. Sight beyond the frame was somewhat hazy but possible. I patiently waited before each portrait until the bodies returned to their poses as originally painted. The children were the last to return to their stasis.

When they did, I scribbled. Thank you. Keep patience and faith.

And then I walked out without a second glance behind me, as I could not bear their pained eyes. Neither could Jonathon, even though they were the unwitting souls who had usurped his property. They had been duped. We'd all been victims. But I didn't want to relegate myself to that and neither did Jonathon. Neither did any of us fighting the good fight.

We found Lavinia and Nathaniel sitting on the wide window ledge of the downstairs foyer, bathed in a shaft of moonlight that made them look like they were in a stage photograph, all in grayscale and silver light. Their hands were clasped together. All I heard was Lavinia respond simply.

"You didn't drag me into this. Our Association was sought out."

"I dragged you into this,” Jonathon declared. “All of you. Though I certainly didn't do so wittingly. I promise I will repay you however I can for all we've endured. Come, let us return to the cottage. A night here is…" He looked about. "Unwise. But, give me a moment. I've something by which to cheer us."

He darted off past the dining room, and I heard a door open, heard feet down stone stairs, and there was silence in the house for long, interminable moments before a slow tread up again, a door closing, and footsteps upon the wooden hall led Jonathon back to us once more.

He appeared in the moonlight of the foyer with a bottle in his hand. But he was ashen faced, changed in the silver shadows, a haunted look on his face I knew all too well. In his other hand, he'd drawn his pistol.

"What… What did you see, Jonathon?" I asked, dread in my tone. He gestured to keep voices down.

"We need to leave," he whispered. "Come on. Keep quiet." He gestured Nathaniel and Lavinia back in the direction of the library, and they quickly moved on ahead, impressively keeping the noise of footfalls at a minimum. I rushed with them, Jonathon at my side, back past the dining room once more where I refused to look even past the threshold.

"What is wrong?" I whispered again as he grabbed my hand and we darted back to the library. The maw of the door that was a bookcase opened on its side to reveal the secret passage stood before us; the dim golden torchlight of the underground corridor beckoned eerily from below. Jonathon shut the door behind all of us, gesturing for us to go on ahead, Nathaniel in the lead. We were many paces into the earthen and stone corridor before Jonathon answered.

"What we saw in Preston's office," he replied gravely. "That's what was down there."

"Oh God…" I swallowed hard. "They've a corpse below? One they're trying to reanimate?"

"No corpse. But everything else was there. The table. All the wiring and equipment. And small, suspicious boxes. Bottles of fluids, medical and funereal. The scent of decay. All in my bloody wine cellar," he said, spitting out the words like venom as we darted up the long corridor.

The scenes of Preston's basement hospital wing, yet another dread corridor, came back to me in the forceful way terrible memories resurfaced. Either they were preparing to reanimate a corpse and tether numerous spirits to its form to power the animate force of the thing, or they had already done so. And if they'd done so, the whereabouts of the creature were cause for great concern.

Finally, we resurfaced in the cottage. Jonathon bolted the iron door behind us. Next he checked the whole of the cottage, pistol drawn, then surveyed outside. Nathaniel joined him outside, going to check on his horses.

I sat down upon the dusty but plush velvet window seat of the bay window and looked through the glass, trying to appreciate just how beautiful the moon was.

Lavinia went searching about for something. I wasn't sure what, until I heard a "pop." And then the clink of glasses. She returned to me, two wineglasses filled with deep, dark red in her hands. She handed me one.

I had never been one for alcohol, save in communion at church, but this seemed the thing to do right now. One glass to calm the nerves. Some distraction. Some reminder that we were with friends and lovers. I was in a new country, something I'd never done before. I wanted to feel like there was some excitement. I was engaged to the man I loved. I smiled at Lavinia, feeling some of my tension ease before I'd even begun to sip the glass.

The gentlemen soon returned to us. Lavinia had poured for them, and they glided, as if magnetized, to two more crystaline goblets she filled upon the golden lacquered center table that she'd cleaned of its layer of dust, leaving the surface to glimmer in the candlelight.

"To sending devils back to hell," Jonathon said, lifting his glass and looking each of us in the eyes, mine last. We all toasted gladly to that. His eyes burned into me, and I felt the pledge of our engagement swell in my heart. I thought about telling Lavinia and Nathaniel about it in the moment but thought better of it. Somehow I knew it would sting Lavinia, and I couldn't have her feeling insecure when she was called upon to do something so brave.

"It's a good thing this bed is enormous," Jonathon stated nearly draining the glass in a few long drinks. "Because I'm not sleeping on the floor." He grabbed me around the waist and dragged me to the grand alcove where the vast four-poster bed was visible behind its open red curtains. I let him. He spoke over his shoulder to Nathaniel. "Come on, you two, there's room for all on here. And that will force us to behave ourselves."

"Normally I'd object and find some dark corner to drag this one off to," Nathaniel replied, grinning at Lavinia. "But I'm deathly tired. I'm sure we all are."

It was true. I was utterly exhausted, and I allowed myself to acknowledge it, finally, as I felt a modicum of security. The cottage did feel safe, an unused place the Society clearly hadn't gotten its hooks into, a piece of lost history, a secret put to good use as an encampment before an upcoming battle rather than a clandestine affair.

The temperature was nearly perfect, and so I didn't need to crawl under the velvet duvet. I simply allowed Jonathon to drag me onto one side of the bed, and I lay back in his arms. Sleep overtook me almost immediately. The ability to breathe deeply in a setting that didn't have all my hairs on edge, coupled with the glorious protection that was being in his arms, was enough to sweep me into much-needed rest.

-- (End of Chapter 23 - 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.

Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)