THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 15.2

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Chapter Fifteen part 2

I stared at the lovely red-haired young woman, framed in the doorway, clad in a black velvet robe that was somewhere between a dressing gown and a priest's habit. She appeared like a fraught archetype that one of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood's painters might have dreamed up, perhaps a rendition of her own ominous name utilized in one of Shakespeare's most gruesome tragedies. But since I'd had plenty of experience with cursed paintings, I'd take Lavinia's three dimensions over canvas any day, though the reality of her panic and worry cut straight to the bone, her passionate heart exposed for all to see.

"And do you have any idea where your dear Mister Veil may have gone to?" Mrs. Northe replied, rising to her feet and going to the door, keeping utterly calm in the face of Lavinia's panic. "It seems we've a rash of handsome Englishmen disappearing out from under our noses."

"No," Lavinia fumed. She began pacing in the hall, like a nervous raven, black fabric swirling as she stalked. "I do not. But I have my suspicions. I believe he has returned to England. He said he wanted to help Jonathon. He was looking all over for him yesterday. So I assume he's at least part way across the pond."

My heart seized with many emotions, firstly hope and pride that Jonathon had such good and loyal friends to rally around and help him. But I simultaneously seized up in pain, for I was not there, not a part of the chase, not immediately following after. After all, I had as much of a claim to him as a friend had... I was his love... I wanted to be his wife... Why the hell was I still in New York when my heart traveled across the Atlantic? My whole body ached to run out the door and down to the piers right that very moment...

Mrs. Northe was eyeing me, and I had to keep my calm, for she was gauging me and I had to keep in her good graces. There would be no going anywhere if she suspected me...

I spoke very gently in my most reasonable tone. "Do you happen to know if Jonathon told Nathaniel he was leaving for England? Because he didn't give me any clue—"

"No," Lavinia replied, stopping her pacing to come into the room and speak with me. "He said he was hoping he'd have seen Jonathon but was struck by a memory of the persons who targeted the Denbury clan to begin with, a night he still feels guilty about. And I'm sorry to be so rude and think only of myself and my heart... But are you...feeling better, Miss Stewart?"

"Do call me Natalie, I insist, and yes, I am, thank you. Thank you for helping keep order in the house, I understand it was...difficult. I am sorry for—"

"You apologize for nothing. It was I who brought this whole terror upon us—"

"The Society targeted you, you couldn't have known—"

Lavinia's bright eyes flashed darkly. "I should not have let anything in," she moaned. Shame made her cheeks burn nearly the color of her hair. "I should not have given a substance faith that I didn't have in myself. I should not have allowed my Association, my treasured comrades, think, for even one moment, that there was a shortcut to their health when we've all taken such great and measured strides together." She clasped her graceful hands together. Her every move was theatrical, whether she knew it or not, and yet all of it entirely sincere. "Proven medicine for ailments is one thing. Risks like what I undertook? No. I hope one day I'll forgive myself, but today is not that day. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to write some letters of inquiry on Nathaniel's behalf." She bowed her dark red head and disappeared.

Mrs. Northe was about to open her mouth and comment on the situation when the doorbell rang and the door was opened unto my father, who was shown upstairs, and soon after, the maids rushed about to make sure all of us had tea in nearly the blink of an eye. None would look at me. Surely they were frightened. And yet they remained in this house. Mrs. Northe created that kind of unbreakable loyalty.

"I... I'm so relieved you're recovered," was all my father could manage, coming into the room. I struggled to stand for the first time in what had evidently been a few days, wincing from the aches, but it felt so good to be upright.

When my father looked at me, he still blanched, as if he were staring at a ghost. Mrs. Northe had been through enough séances and exorcisms, it would seem, to not have been phased by the toxin's effects upon me; she treated me no differently, and for that I was grateful.

But for my father, though the inexplicable things that had followed Jonathon and then, by default, me, become commonplace, they could never be fully understood, never fully accepted. And yet, despite this, he cared enough for me and for Mrs. Northe, for this family of fate, to try his best to stare it all fully in the face even though I knew how utterly terrified he was. I wondered if he heard my mother's whisper, ever, in his mind, and if it steeled his gentle heart that was so full of love it sufficed for strength. I'd like to think he did.

We stared at each other for a long moment, as if summing one another up. My heart twisted in anguish for what I knew I had to do, break his heart all over again and disappear once more. He might never forgive me. I had to take that risk. And looking at the kind, distinguished face of a man who simply wanted to love me, for me to be happy without threat... It nearly made me ill, sick, and enraged all over again. What right did any evil force have to try to sunder something so lovely as the persons I had in my life?

I thought I was going to finally go home with Father. I hadn't had the heart to ask precisely how long I'd actually been Mrs. Northe's crazed invalid...but he stopped me as I started gathering whatever of my things sitting around the vanity had been brought from home during the interlude.

"Natalie, not that I don't want you home, but perhaps one more day under this roof? To truly make sure you're...yourself again? I just..." And he looked at Mrs. Northe with a mixture of fear and wonder. "I feel you're safer around Evelyn than you would be around me. She can...protect you better than I could. She knows... I was helpless. I suppose your Jonathon knows too... I just...wouldn't... I don't know what to do..."

He was the same man who desperately wanted the best for me despite his own personal cost. When faced with my disability, when I stopped speaking after Mother died, he sent me away from home to the finest school that the country offered so that someone more skilled could help me. I only just now understood, looking into those eyes that seized my heart with the force of their love, that cleaving me from him for my own good was the hardest thing he ever had to do. He'd lost his wife, and here his daughter kept needing expert care that he could not provide. And yet he did not let his pride withhold what I needed. What trust in grace. What wondrous love.

I moved to my poor, overwhelmed father, and embraced him. Hard. "Go home and rest, Father, you look like you haven't slept in days."

"I haven't," he admitted.

"I'll be fine. I've gotten this far, haven't I?" I said, offering him a smile that he returned.

"By the grace of God," he murmured, kissing me on the head and slipping quietly back down the stairs. Mrs. Northe escorted him to the door, and I heard him thank her gently in the downstairs foyer. "I'm sorry for all the trouble, Evelyn," he added.

"You're quite welcome, Gareth," I heard her reply. "And no trouble was had. But if there had been, your family would be worth it."

There was a long moment before I heard the front door close. I actively did not think about what that long silence might have meant.

Mrs. Northe did not come back upstairs. Perhaps she was pondering the same things I was, how beautiful and rare it was that a loving gentleman left the women he cared most for in the world to their own devices. Not because he was not interested, or thought himself above the goings-on. But because he trusted us. Despite all we'd both done in direct opposition to what would have engendered trust. Surely, the late Helen Stewart was somewhere helping our family cope... Or, maybe, my father didn't need any help at all, he was just very gifted at letting people do what they did best and caring for them as they did so.

I was left alone. I found I didn't like that fact, as I felt as though I might jump out of my skin, impatient and restless. So, as with anything I didn't like, I sought a remedy for my state. I poked my head into the hall. Down the lavishly papered and plush-carpeted hall, Lavinia's door was open. I padded down to its frame and left one rap upon the dark wood.

At the sound, she looked up from a small Turkish suite where she sat writing by the lavender light of a gas lamp with a purple glass shade. It make her look oddly spectral, slightly ghastly. 'I was sure she'd like the effect, provided it was in her control. It was clear the Association appreciated theatrical morbidity but wasn't fond of violence or actual threat. They sought to make light of death, not actively court it. That's where the Society had misjudged them.

Lavinia gestured me in and rose to close the door behind us.

"So," she murmured. "We're in a similar boat, are we not?" As she emphasized the word boat, I wondered if Lavinia was, in fact, thinking exactly what I was thinking.

"I'll never be let out of here at this point, I fear," I replied. "Mrs. Northe knows me too well. But I have to escape. I have to get on a steamer, and I have to get to London. To Greenwich, to his estate, wherever he is... The trouble is," I said, wringing my hands, feeling helplessness rise inside me like the raging tides so recently had, "I don't know the first thing about England, or international travel."

"Well. Good thing I'm British, then, isn't it?" she replied. "I'll take you to England, Natalie. I have to follow the man I love. As do you. And I feel much better about it not undertaking it alone. Everything happens for a reason, so they say, and one cannot fight the types of battles we've been chosen to fight on our own." I stared at her. Her lovely face, one I'd seen so often scared and nervous, was stalwart and resolute. I wondered if I'd looked the same way when I'd made the dangerous decisions I had in protecting Jonathon in any number of ways. Do not stand between a resolute lady and her love, that's for certain.

I nodded, squeezing her hand. "Yes. All of this, yes, Lavinia, thank you. And I hope to leave as soon as possible—"

"Tonight. I've packed a bag, I've secured money. I knew my parents were tiring of me long before they cast me off, so I've gathered and saved a considerable amount, and I've been clever about it, lest I lose it all to one unscrupulous thief on the boat."

I stared at her, impressed. "Your parents were wrong to cast you out merely for company you keep. I think the Association is wonderful, creative, and true to themselves, and there's nothing inherently broken about any of you. It's the world that needs assimilation when the individual needs only one's self. I am glad that if I've been subjected to the hells I've been subjected to, that it's been alongside fairly spectacular company."

She beamed. "There's an early-morning steamer, but we'll be seen by house staff in the morning, so we'll leave tonight, at midnight, prevail upon a friend of mine who lives not terribly far from the Cunard offices, wait out the midnight hours, and tomorrow morning, we begin. It takes too many days to cross the Atlantic to waste a single one more. Go to your guest room and gather what little useful you can. We'll have to procure other items in transit." She moved to the large mahogany wardrobe across the room, opened it, and handed me a hat box. It wasn't luggage, but it would have to do.

I nodded at her and moved quietly into the hall. I remembered what had felt best when anything frightening had been placed in my path, and that was to move around it. To act. Paralysis would kill me. The only thing to fend off any recurrence of the madness that had overtaken me was to again stare the demons down, one by one. The Master's Society and all its misguided experiments preyed on a mixture of fear and chaos leading to conditions for domination. I had to hope the demons and their agency hadn't factored in the spirited rebellion of those they crossed. But it did make us marked targets.

I hoped that night I could dream, to pluck details from Jonathon's innermost mind, wherein I would also see, surely, clues to my own doom. I had to believe those warnings could be avoided. If some increasingly slippery part of this ungodly puzzle would come for me regardless, I might as well meet it in battle...

---
(End of Chapter 15.2 -- 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 15.1

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

Chapter Fifteen (part one)

"Yes," Mrs. Northe agreed to my prompt. "Yes, we do need to think about those numbers. About any and all connections we can draw. Let's apply our thoughts to the paperwork I've managed to get hold of in the past few days."

"Paperwork?"

She smiled craftily, rising from my bedside and going toward the door. "It's good to know people in clerks' offices. For the devil is often in the details, my dear." She disappeared into another upstairs room and returned a few moments later with a few brown folders with papers inside.

"It would seem," she began, taking a seat beside me once more, "the Master's Society has been making major investments in New York City, by all kinds of means. Some over-handed, most under." She held up a stack of deeds, receipts, and a ledger. The top papers were stamped with the distinct gold and red dragon-flanked crest. "These transfers of assets, and general encroachment, have been happening within the past few years. A great deal of the property is centered around Grand Central depot. If you recall, that poor madman Crenfall was on about the 'grand and the central.' When Lord Denbury and I were out examining various suspected Master's Society properties before he disappeared, we concluded there must be a hub of something that will either be built or will occur around that area."

"I hope it's enough to take to authorities to examine? What can people like us do about mere property? Will anyone believe the underhanded aims of the Society enough to, what, what would we even suggest, raid these premises?"

"I'm not sure if the truth of the Society will be believed, if my dealings with the New York City Police Department are any indication. They don't take kindly to the idea of the paranormal. Well, they're not particularly hostile, they just don't believe—"

"At their own risk," I grumbled, and Mrs. Northe scowled.

"Well, yes, but you tell that to the sergeant who still has your diary in custody."

I felt my face go hot again. I'd truly like to get that back… There were so many personal details that just should not be public record…

"I've been discussing all this with Lavinia, to see if she has any insights," Mrs. Northe mused, gazing out the small window that presented a tiny sliver of a courtyard between her property and the townhouse beside. "Somewhere, between all of us, we'll figure out the chink in the demonic armor. She needs to feel empowered by what has happened around her, and not a victim. What happened here in my house, with all of the Association present, to that poor fellow George, and then to you, it dealt Miss Kent a bit of a regressive blow. 'She's not been seen out of her room much. I think she still feels this is somehow all her fault."

I sighed angrily, trying to move. "It isn't, none of this is anyone's fault but the fault of evil—"

"She'll appreciate hearing those reassurances from you, and I encourage you to tell her that."

"I don't suppose you'd like to let me up?" I said, shaking at my bindings.

"Ah." Mrs. Northe flushed, embarrassed. "Yes. I'm sorry. You do seem to be behaving yourself, so I suppose it's time…"

I looked up at her, trying to honestly remember the extent of the madness I'd glimpsed, those indistinct hours that were taken from me. It was all so hazy. But I'd never forget feeling so horribly compromised. Having a distant sense of faculty and having control taken away from you was, as Lavinia had said, the most horrible cruelty. "Was I really that awful?"

"I'm sure you could have been worse, the effects could have been worse. You could be like that poor George and still be comatose." Mrs. Northe sat upon the edge of the bed, leaning over to undo the bindings upon my wrists.

As I turned them and winced, rolling them in an aching stretch once released, Mrs. Northe picked up a minty salve from the bedside table, gently rubbing and treating the raw skin, mothering me as she continued. "The toxin is not to be trusted nor believed. Turns lambs into lions. Thank goodness it managed to stay contained within my house and we cleaned up the residue without much damage, else I'd not have had a house left."

Mrs. Northe helped me up to a seated position against the headboard, and I groaned, all my muscles aching and on fire from the lying down without being able to turn and all the struggling I must have done. The way she tended to me, I lost all the resentment about being bound up; she'd done it for my safety and for that of everyone around me. She had such a maternal way about her, and part of me wanted to ask about children, what she really thought about not having any, even though she sort of had surrogates in me, in Miss Kent, in Maggie...

Maggie... I hadn't told Mrs. Northe about the letter. There wasn't anything in it that was particularly private or damning; it was mostly just Maggie being her usual self, but it was worth mentioning the fact that I read her as still hovering on the edge of vulnerability and needing all the prayers and support she could get. She was precarious, and while I felt I should write back, I wasn't entirely sure what I should say. I was precarious too. Hardly confident. False reassurances from my sickbed would be of no use, the ailing counseling the ailing...

"What is it now?" Mrs. Northe asked, looking at my expression, which must have been telling. That, or her extraordinary depths of perception would have allowed her to feel the shift within me as much as see it.

"In all the madness," I began with a sigh, "I forgot to tell you a letter arrived from Maggie. While you're looking at paperwork, you might as well read it. I would like to know if you think, as I do, that she still has a ways to go until we would call her recovered... The letter is on your writing desk in the parlor if you'd like to take a look."

Mrs. Northe nodded. "I will." She exited to collect it and any other extraneous evidence.

The desire I had to help Maggie, wayward as she'd been, was nothing compared to the wave of panic that again crested inside me when I thought about Jonathon, out there on his own.

Mrs. Northe would not let me go anywhere, without a fight. My father… Well, of course in his mind anything remotely questionable, much less outright dangerous, wasn't an option. But I would go one way or another. Better to ask forgiveness later than permission now, especially when I knew the answer would be a resounding no... The hesitant forgiveness given from others would be nothing compared to the lack of any I'd ever give myself if I lost Jonathon. If the worst came to pass and I didn't try to find him… I was not worthy of the divine intervention I had earned thus far.

Not to say I was infallible, invincible, immortal. I was, most certainly, mortal. And here I was, ready to tempt every fate I'd yet encountered. How reckless. How necessary.

I simply had to go... It was inevitable, truly, and I'd learned that there was a certain magnetism to inevitable things. Once I knew something had to be done, it simply had to be so.

Whenever I could be assured that the sequence Jonathon warned me about would lead to one mystery solved, he himself would be my next case. I just had to figure out how a young woman traveled across the Atlantic unaccompanied... I'd have to put on the suit again, pretend. And I'd also have to steal some money... I wondered how much a steamer ticket to England would cost me...

Lavinia Kent interrupted my musing machinations with a desperate cry, wild-haired and wide-eyed at the door.

"Nathaniel's gone! Utterly gone! It isn't one of his tricks, he has vanished."

--
(End of Chapter 15.1 -- 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 14

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

Chapter Fourteen:

The sound of my screams certainly sent the house staff scrambling.

The door to my guest-room-prison was opened, and two starched-hatted maids in black dresses and white aprons peered blanched faces at me before darting down the stairs in a cumbersome tandem, gingerly calling for the lady of the house.

I heard Mrs. Northe muttering under her breath as a swift tread up the stairs came closer and closer.

"I have to go to him, Jonathon," I cried. "He's in England." I could feel my panic rising, calling out to her even before she entered the room. "He said to let him go and save myself, I don't know what to do, what he'll do, I have to—"

"You're not going anywhere, Natalie," she murmured, her tone more weary than I'd heard it for some time as she turned the corner into the room. She was dressed down; in a plain workaday linen skirt, white blouse with sleeves rolled up, and an open linen vest, she must have been at work on something. She moved to a water basin by my bedside. She dipped a cloth in water and ran it over my forehead that I only now noticed was warm for the contrast of cool water.

The next piercing physical sensation was how much my wrists hurt. I must have been wresting against my restraints in whatever level of precarious state I'd been in. The sight of the bonds made me freshly fierce.

"I will find him, I will find Jonathon," I cried. A wave of anger that felt foreign and reckless, huge and unwieldy, crested inside me like a cat extending claws. While the impetus of emotion was mine, it's scope was something that I could only imagine that the Master's Society would want to exploit in their endless drive to further misery... I tried to trade the anger for pleading, thinking I might get further on that sentiment, staring up into Mrs. Northe's wide, piercing hazel eyes that missed no detail and seemed to know me too well. "I know where he is, he told me, I have to go—"

"You know I can't enable a mere sentence from a dream," Mrs. Northe said gently. "But tell me more about the dream." She dipped the cloth again and soothed my brow, fussing over me but making no move to undo my restraints. "I do appreciate that you often reveal clues—"

"Don't treat me like a prisoner."

"Tell that to the man you threw a punch at before Nathaniel managed to wrestle you to the floor downstairs," she replied. I could feel the color drain from my face. "Not that it was your fault," she added, "but we must take the greatest care. I think you're in the clear now, my dear, and I'd like to unlash you, but let's be careful here, let's see how you deal with what you're telling me, let's just talk a bit, you and I, so I can ascertain your mood and your physical reactions."

"Did...did the demon overtake me?" I asked sheepishly, trying to think back to what I dimly recalled as maybe having been an exorcism... "The demon, the one we destroyed, it...it spoke to me through that poor man George... At least, I thought it did..."

"I believe you were merely in the grip of the toxin. Parts of you remained distinctly...you. Stubborn. Passionate. Opinionated. Hating to be restrained." She chuckled. "Reverend Blessing was here with me as I would suffer no possible risk to your soul. Your father was relatively terrified, but seeing that you had a small army around you, save Jonathon, he knew you were being taken care of. It didn't follow that you were actually possessed. Truth be told, I think you're too spirited for anything to have room in there," she said smiling, tapping me on the sternum.

I felt a partial smile break through my anxiety. I tried to get a read on my body, my heart rate, my skin, the parts that ached, what seemed natural or unnatural. I tried to breathe and relax as she spoke. I needed to appear well. I needed to be well. Mrs. Northe continued, maintaining a calm, soothing tone as if her words were extensions of the cool compress.

"And I'm not sure we should be thinking of the demon as just one, but rather, a negative force. I've been in my study, writing letters to my gifted friends to see if they've wind of a shift in their séances or communications with the dead. I've been trying to make contact with spirits myself, to seek a window in, to see if a whole army of hell is upon us or just isolated bodies of negativity seeking hosts—"

"Mother," I blurted. "Did you speak with my mother?"

Mrs. Northe shook her head. "She remains elusive. Not out of love, I'm sure, but..."

I looked away, another wave of emotion threatening to drag me under. I needed to remain sane. I needed to get out of this damned bed, and no further fits would get me out of it any faster. Mrs. Northe took her cue and changed the subject.

"If something was possessing George, it left with George, who remains comatose in a nearby hospital, with a police officer on guard. It would seem the toxin does like to feed upon emotion. Hence Veil's Association being quite the group to target. Lovely people, truly, though I had to eventually insist they all leave my home after all the events."

"Did they overstay their welcome?"

"Ah, no, they just like finery as a whole, it would seem, and I'm not sure any of them are much used to fine homes, so they were a bit entranced here. I admit, I did, once you were seen to, have quite a wonderful conversation with Mister Zhee about Peking. Amazing city, Peking. I'll have to take you sometime." Mrs. Northe said this so casually as if China were not on the other side of the world but just a train ride away. I supposed, for the wealthy, distances were not as long or as implausible. She was examining my limbs and skin as she continued speaking.

"He misses it very much. His wife, of course, he misses more so. What a shame this country won't let the women of his country in. Who can begrudge a man for taking work when it's offered and wanting to be with his family while he does it? Is this not a city were the world comes to make their way?"

This was news to me that only men of China were allowed here and not the women. How painful. Mrs. Northe seemed satisfied with the look of me; at least I couldn't discern any concern on her face, and while she did not unwind my bindings entirely, she did loosen them as she continued:

"It seems one of the Association members managed to extract Zhee from a crime syndicate that kept him as if he were a slave. Frightening what people will exploit from the needy. That Association"—she shook her head in amazement—"is filled with amazing stories of resilience and reinvention. No one there is exactly as they seem, and every last one of them has a fighting spirit in them that utterly defies their romanticisms. Zhee is now a valuable asset to Veil, a guard and friend, teaching Veil about the East and about the various disciplines he practices. Veil is like a sponge. I've never seen anyone drink up and absorb more details; he is an endless student of the world. Ridiculous and irascible, but what a good heart inside that restless, attention-seeking body. Maybe one day he'll even commit it to that poor, pining Lavinia." She chuckled, leaning close to murmur the last, as Lavinia was likely in the house, still '"recovering'" until she made her own way.

I hoped, for Lavinia, that Veil would do just that, help them build a life together now that she'd lost her parents' blessing, good will, and fortune. Fortune.

"Now, can you speak about the dream without an adverse reaction?" Mrs. Northe prompted.

I took a deep breath. I thought of that terrible corridor and tried not to relive the horrible sensation of its collapse, of being trapped, of watching Jonathon disappear from me...

"Jonathon is gone," I managed to say after a moment. "Back in England or at least en route. He was telling me I couldn't follow, and something about numbers, about the sequence, about that being important."

"Would he not have told us he was traveling again? He said nothing to me, were you informed—"

"I think the spy must have dragged him away before he could write," I replied. As Mrs. Northe's eyebrows raised, I bit my lip. I remembered we hadn't ever told her about Brinkman. I swallowed hard. "Oh. Yes. There was a spy in town."

"Really? Is that so? And when were you going to mention that to me, pray tell? Were you ever going to—"

"For his safety, we thought we'd not—"

Mrs. Northe batted her hand to stop me. "Well, Rupert—Senator Bishop," she hastily corrected herself from the easy familiarity, "will want to know that. I knew you were hiding something, something important, but I thought maybe it was just that Jonathon had stolen your virtue or something—"

"No!" I protested, my face growing hot with a furious blush. "He's a gentleman—"

"A spy,” she continued, as if she hadn’t even heard me. I blushed even brighter but lest she think ‘the lady doth protest too much’ I let the matter go and she continued; “How very interesting. Espionage. And you think this spy made off with Jonathon?"

"Why else would he not leave a note? Or send a telegraph via Morse, for transcript from the steamer? Relying on our dreams for information shouldn’t be trusted without circumspection. I'd like to think he'd not hide his exit from me unless it was hasty, and that he was in danger. Society operatives must have trailed him and found him, so he ran. I hope I can trust Brinkman to keep him safe in the meantime. Until I can get there."

"You're not getting there, Natalie, I can't possibly—"

"You can't expect me to just lie here—"

Her hazel eyes now flashed at me like lightning. She was shaking. "I could never live with myself, I...I just can't, Natalie. There are things I know, things that Amelia told me before she passed, things I've intuited—"

"About what? You can't play that game with me again; you withheld things from me before, about what the spirits said, about what my mother's spirit said—"

"The simple fact is if you go to England, your father will never trust me again for putting you in direct danger. And he'd never again trust you. And he shouldn't—"

"Why? Why do you even care about my father? More so than me?" I blurted finally. She turned to me and smiled, and in that smile and the soft, nurturing look in her eyes, I felt the full breadth and scope of my youth in comparison to the life she'd lived, and I felt very small.

"Natalie Stewart. Let's not play games with who has more of my affection."

"What do you even see in my father?" I grumbled, suddenly very resentful I woke up screaming and he was not there, as if this whole maddening part of my life just didn't include him at all. "When I went under, did he just stand in the corner being terrified, when you were doing things, or did he step up and acknowledge what's going on? Where is he now?"

"He is at work, so you can keep the roof over your head—"

"But truly, I ask you, what do you see in him, he's not of your league—"

"Natalie Stewart, you listen to me right now! Don't you dare for one more moment let that toxin inside of you make you more ungrateful than you already are." I'd never heard her take such a scolding tone, and I was taken aback. She took a deep breath. "Your father is a quiet, kind, intelligent man who treats me not as an inferior species. You'd be surprised how rare that is. While aware of my wealth and status, he does not put me upon a pedestal, for that is just as alienating. He meets me eye to eye and mind to mind. He shares his thoughts and is interested, genuinely, in mine. He has a quiet confidence that does not seek to dominate me but allows me my strengths as I would allow anyone theirs. This is a very difficult quality to find in men of this age, my dear.”

Her tone shifted from this spirited defense of my father to something more gently world-weary. “You've been spoiled by Jonathon, a man of a forward mind, dear. You don't really know the sorts of gentlemen that are out there, seeking to strangle a woman and keep her forever at heel, forever seen as solely domestic, forever out of realms of thought, employment, rights, and issues considered too intense for our 'delicate' sensibilities.” She bit upon her words as if they were sour. “Delicacy be damned. Delicate is for lace, and I look damned fine in lace, but my spirit should not be confused with what I wear."

I sat with all these words a moment, utterly taken aback by this chastisement, surprised by the depth of response, and suddenly I felt a pride in my heart for the man who had always tried to do right by the women of his life. I imagined, from what I'd heard about my mother, she'd have said something similar. Seeking out powerful women only meant he was confident enough in himself not to have anything to prove. Nothing but love. And the pursuit of art. Ah, what a poet's soul I'd come from. The emotions that had been so thick and violent within me now made me want to do nothing but weep. I had to hold myself together.

And I had to do right by my father. I couldn't just disappear to England, even if I did manage to escape from under Mrs. Northe's watch and board the next steamer. I owed him more than that. But he'd never let me go. And yet I had to go. Would it come down to choosing which of the men in my life was more important? The man who raised me or the man I hoped I'd someday marry? That wasn't fair, was it, to have to choose?

I looked up at her pleadingly, and that was no ploy, it was simply how I felt. "I have to do something. I can't just lie here... Surely there's something to do, to stop the evil creeping in..." I trailed off, remembering what else Jonathon had said. "The numbers. The numbered sequence. I think he might have meant that sequence that Crenfall was repeating. It's important. Very. I truly think lives hang upon us knowing what it refers to."

The look on her face proved she was taking this as deathly seriously as I was; altered state or no.

--
(End of Chapter 14 -- 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 13

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

Chapter Thirteen
When I thought I had the very worst luck a girl could possibly encounter, the heavens proved me wrong in giving me a helping hand, extending down into my tired, addled brain and granting comfort and a useful turn. God or the angels, or merely my clever subconscious, granted me my wish. Unsure what to thank, I said a prayer of gratefulness to all.

A dream. At last.

A shared dream.

Like Jonathon and I used to have when his soul was bound to a painting and I was his one tether to the tactile world. Some part of that original bond of soul to soul held on and connected. Love and truth will out.

Never mind the dream ended in nightmare. My dreams always did. My dreams forecasted unerring doom on a sliding scale. It would be up to Jonathon and me, our waking selves, to make the tragedy into a happy ending. My nightmares were riddled with roundabout clues, gifted from some power higher than I could give myself any credit for, and their ignominious end, those terrible moments right before I woke, were the worst-case scenario that we had no choice but to risk our lives to avoid.

But what I was presented with in the depths of my fitful rest was no solution, only information. But a tether to a missing lover was far better than no exchange at all.

I was getting very tired of the endless dark corridor in my mind where the dreams and nightmares took place, the narrow playground of terror, the dark, dank space where all things came to pass, where all clues were unfurled amid various horrors, my vulnerable mind unable to suitably brace itself against the inevitable onslaught. I wondered if at some point in my future I would see that hallway in my actual life and I would know that something important, if not abjectly horrible and life-ending, would take place there.

I did not know what of my dreams was clue and what was fancy. I had never known that balance or how to structure it. I dreamed, and then I woke. How else could one live life, but to make sure their waking life was full of love and actions of grace? I could not be held accountable for a mind in shadow that revealed what it would.

But there he was, Jonathon. Paces ahead of me down the dimly lit corridor that had no discernable light source and yet was luminous as if by an eerie phosphorous.

The British lord stood stiffly elegant in his fine black frock coat, navy waistcoat, and an azure ascot, his striking figure a greyscale palette with a splash of blue highlighting the spectacular color of his eyes. He was all the more striking for being against the run-down corridor, like in an old grand house but with wallpaper and paint peeling, wood panels cracked and splintered, foundations slightly askew so that the world was like a carnival mirror.

Jonathon's innate grandeur set against this sickened space made him all the more beautiful in contrast, and I could feel, with a swift punch to my gut, his absence from me. I could feel his distance as though a needle were pricking into my skin and drawing away something precious, threading out my heart in a thin, bloody line of passion.

Immediately, upon seeing him there in my mind's eye, in this corridor where our minds entwined, I somehow knew that he was no longer in New York City. I shuddered as I tried to take steps forward in this rotting corridor toward his handsome form. But my feet were uncooperative and the length of the corridor just kept lengthening, drawing us ever farther apart.

He stared at me longingly, then turned that beautiful head and began to walk away. As he did, a low and rumbling chant began to lift into the air as if a storm were rolling in and fast. I called to Jonathon, and he stopped. He cast a sad look over his shoulder.

"I've gone back to England once more, darling Natalie," he said. With great effort, I raised my lace-swathed arm to achingly reach out to him. He continued, with a weary, grim tone. "I have gone where you cannot follow. There was no time. I was dragged along, bid not to write to you for fear of tracking. But you've got to look to the numbers. The toxin will go wide. There was a sequence. Find it before it finds the city."

And then the corridor around us started to collapse. Jonathon in his paces ahead began running. But not to me, away from me.

"Let me go and save yourself," he cried. If he said anything further, his voice was lost in a horrid din, and I lost sight of him in the shadows.

There rose into the air, filling my ears like a violent swarm of insects, a chant of terrible numbers. A fog of red smoke rolled in like water, filling the moldering corridor. And then the walls came crashing down.

I fell beneath the force of the rubble, and my last sensation was of the life being pressed out of me as my lungs filled with acrid, stinging smoke...

I awoke with the gasping cry of, "I have to go to him."

No one was with me in the room, one of Mrs. Northe's fine guest rooms where I was still bound to a bed. I couldn't be sure when I'd be well, released, or safe around anyone, let alone the man I loved and was desperate to join, no matter the danger. Was I not in danger here in New York? Was I not in danger no matter where I went, where the demons seemed always able to pinpoint me, their insidious instincts by now having trained on my scent?

I closed my eyes, moaning in pain, burning physical aches. I thought about what Jonathon had shared. His words. There was something in them to stir results. I had instructions to give. I couldn't find any numbers or any sequences while tied to a bed. I figured I'd better start being useful by screaming for help.
--

(End of Chapter 13 -- 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 12

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

Chapter Twelve

Awake or dreaming?

 

I couldn't tell what state I was in, other than that it wasn't a good one.

 

All I could sense concretely was that there was pain, throbbing pain as if I were on fire. My mind swam.

I was laid out horizontally, in what I assumed was a bed, from what I could tell by the feel of my back, but I was not lying in comfort; everything was pins and needles. Every sensation felt raw and chafing. I was warm and perspiring, and yet my teeth chattered, and a constant, slow, undulating tremor went up and down my body as if I were my own tide, rolling in and out.

Trying to open my eyes was a gargantuan task I was not suited for. My eyelids would not respond, so I remained in a shallow darkness and tried to discern meaning.

There was the constant sound of screams. Whether the screams came from my mouth, my mind, from others, from nightmares…I was not at liberty to say, for I was not at liberty at all. My faculties were entirely compromised. I was not free. Something had taken over me. Some part of my mind was still my own, as I wondered if this was what it was like when a body was overtaken by a demon.

If I was entirely far gone, or entirely overtaken, perhaps I wouldn't have had a sense of self at all. It was said that people who were truly mad did not ask if they were mad. So perhaps, in this terrible state, there was hope for me.

The first thing I remembered as a product of true awareness, rather than swimming in a timeless sea of discomfort and confusion, was that I was laid out somewhere familiar, and there were voices. Outside of myself. But there remained many voices within myself too. I had to take a moment to sort out one versus the other.

After some time trying to pick apart the noises and distances, I began to recognize the exterior voices. Mrs. Northe. My father. The low, deep resonant voice repeating prayers. Reverend Blessing. He was praying over me. Was I being exorcised? What had happened? Had the demon, in speaking to me through that poor wretch who collapsed on Mrs. Northe's floor, transferred something unto me? Into me?

Was the pain I felt actually all those runes again carved onto my flesh? Was there any hope for me, or was this the beginning of the end? What had I done? Why did my wrists feel so sore?

A particular searing scream from my own mouth shook me fully alert, and I looked up into the dark-skinned face of Reverend Blessing, who was anointing my head with oil and murmuring scripture.

I renounce thee...

I tried to help him in my mind, to echo, to reiterate, to join in the scripture by my own renunciation of the evil that had clung to me, but only unintelligible noises were coming from my mouth. My cheeks burned in shame; it was like the ugly sounds I made when first regaining my atrophied voice...

That's when I noticed I was bound.

What had I done that required that I be restrained? A turn of my head revealed that my wrists were done up in long white strips. Ripped fabric from sheets or pillowcases were wound round my wrist and tied to the metal headboard in one of Mrs. Northe's pleasant guest rooms that at this moment felt very stifling and utterly unwelcoming.

My stomach churned in a sickening roil and clearly that nauseating sense of horror read on my face, for my father rushed to me with an awkward reassurance that was hardly reassuring...

"It's all right, Natalie. You didn't hurt anyone. Too badly." He chuckled nervously, miserably. "Just a...scratch or two, it was fine—"

I made some kind of sound of protest or shame, my blush further ignited by humiliation and frustration.

"Nathaniel and I held you back as you turned, before anyone was hurt," Mrs. Northe added. "You received the brunt of the toxin borne in on that poor fellow... And that stuff...changes people. It makes sane persons into animals."

I wanted again to retch at this, but something stopped me, something small and lovely. Even in my fevered state, I noticed Mrs. Northe take my father's trembling hand in hers, not in a measured gesture of comfort but a motion on instinct, a gentle act that was so natural and intuitive to her that wanted to join in that collective comfort, for us to be a family. Whatever fear and confusion raced inside my scattered mind, those same raw emotions were writ large directly on my father's face... I wanted to be well again for their sakes, for Jonathon's sake; all that was important to me bolstered me. I regained some sense of myself in my regard for my loved ones, as if I touched the foundations of some sacred site and the divine reached down to steady me in return.

I seemed not in a fit state to respond to them, so I merely bit back a sigh, a cry, a heaving and exasperated curse. I felt my body conspire against me and the whispers near my ears threaten to drag me back under into the murky depths once more. Before I lost consciousness again, I overheard Mrs. Northe say something about Jonathon.

His name was the one thing that could keep my eyes open.

"Where?" I managed. Mrs. Northe and my father exchanged a look. The nauseating feeling I was fighting returned in force, but now layered with a fresh terror. "What...what about Jonathon!"

"He's gone. We don't know where. It's been two days."

My eyes rolled back in my head, my whole sense of self and sensation pitching and roiling as if I were tempest-tossed in the worst of seasick throes. Before I lost myself again, I prayed with all my heart, then, that I could dream, and in that dream, find the man I loved and see where he'd gone and what he'd need of me if I could shake off these dreadful curses of ours...

--
(End of Chapter 12 -- 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 11

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

 

Chapter Eleven

The body remained too near to me as it fell flat, but even though I wanted to scramble away, shock and terror rooted me.

There was then, as one might imagine, panic in Mrs. Northe's fine home. A few screams pierced the suddenly fraught room, awash in murmurs and stirrings, our collective trance so rudely jarred into a living nightmare.

Lavinia rushed up to Nathaniel and murmured in his ear. He placed a protective hand upon the small of her back, nodding confidently as she shared something insistent. She drew the tulle veil that spread back from behind her feathered, beaded fascinator around her face and cupped the gathered fabric against her mouth with a lace-gloved hand.

"No one breathe freely," Nathaniel cried, putting his red silk cravat to his mouth, and others followed in his example. Lavinia made a move to withdraw, but he held her close and through the veil, I saw her fair cheeks redden.

"It's the powder to be careful of," Lavinia clarified for everyone's benefit, her usually soft and timid voice now carrying with the weight of necessity and authority. "Take care."

Everyone did as instructed; cravats and silk scarves, shawls and gloves, all created a shield. I did what I could with my sleeve, wishing I had some of the draping, flowing fabrics so many of the Association boasted.

"Stay here," Veil instructed to his crowd. He moved toward the front door in order to survey all of his crowd at once rather than having his back to anyone. "We must see if George was followed, if there were any others targeted. Were any of you approached? Have any of you been pressured by any 'doctors' or anything bearing the seal printed on that original leaflet?" His coterie shook their heads. "Then Lavinia has taken good care of you indeed since the first incident. We must remain vigilant."

"Is he dead? Georgie?" asked a mousy girl draped in black velvet, pointing a satin-gloved finger at the floor. I peered closer. There was a slight hitch of breath from the man's back, barely perceptible but there nonetheless.

"Not dead yet," I stated, hoping to help keep calm, as a death among us might trigger any number of unfortunate reactions. I wiped at my nose with the edge of my sleeve.

Veil gestured to a slender man in dark, embroidered silk whose black hair was slicked back and braided- Chinese, I assumed, though in the cultural fugue that is New York City, one should never assume. The intensely focused man nodded and slipped out the front door, his compact frame tensed. Perhaps he was Veil's bodyguard; this quiet man who I hadn't noticed until that very moment he was drawn out, as he'd blended with the more ostentatious crowd, a good safety measure.

Just then I heard a familiar voice of someone who was clearly surprised by a stranger at her front door.

"Excuse me, and you are? This happens to be my home. Did I summon for a party I forgot having thrown?" Mrs. Northe, key in hand, stood framed in her grand doorway of beveled glass, decorative ironwork, and carved wood.

Just as lovely as her home, she wore a deep green satin dress that was neither casual nor formal, the very definition of elegance in all she presented to the world. Her slightly off the shoulder dress was made more modest by a gray shawl that glimmered with silver beads. Her lace-gloved hands, the only part of her that showcased any tension, were fisted tightly about her keys, fan, and reticule. Were the situation not dire, the look on her face would have been pricelessly amusing as she took in her home overrun by a coven of striking, black-clad creatures positively dripping off her stairs and furniture, filling her halls and parlor, wide-eyed and trembling.

"Well, well," she murmured as she swept in her front foyer, shaking off apprehension so that her presence might command the room in nearly as impressive a manner as Veil. "I've an unexpected murder of crows to host, do I?"

Murder was an unfortunate word for a cluster of ravens, considering the circumstances. I doubt Poe would have written this scene; he'd surely find it distasteful and a bit much.

"The Lady of the Manor, I presume!" Veil cried, bowing, his ascot still cupped to his mouth, though that had no effect on his being heard. His voice could boom no matter what obstructed it. Mrs. Northe gaped slightly. He maintained his bow as he continued. "Nathaniel Veil at your service, madame."

He swept his hand about him, presenting his compatriots. "If you'll forgive us, Her Majesty's Association of Melancholy Bastards here needed to host a meeting for our collective safety…" Veil stood upright again, towering over the woman whose home he had overtaken as she looked up at him blankly. "But as you can see from the supine body of Mister George Fernstock there, our little soiree has been interrupted and compromised. And a damn shame, that, as I was putting on a right good show.

'"Tell me, my esteemed lady, do you advise we call the police on this matter or just hope for the best?" He gestured around him. "Oh, and do be aware of a red powder. It seems to be the culprit of madness. That's a very lovely embroidered shawl you have there, madame, I'd suggest breathing through it."

Mrs. Northe blinked, unable to look away from Veil as if he were a fascinating species of creature she'd never encountered up close. She'd seen him on stage, of course, but close and in person, his quality as force of nature was truly something to be reckoned with. After a moment she brought the shawl draped elegantly over her shoulders to her face. She searched the crowd, met my eyes, and her shoulders eased slightly. I gave her a look that hopefully read how glad I was to see her.

There was a questioning look in her eyes that made me uneasy. I never liked noting her in any attitude but firmly in control, cool and collected and exuding a confident plan. But I needed to remember she was human, not my guardian angel, not my fairy godmother of mythic quests. We were all just trying to stay one step ahead of madmen, to varying degrees of success. And something wasn't quite right—man lying unconscious at my feet aside.

"I do think at this point, Mister Veil," she replied finally to his query, "that the police will need to be involved. My associate in the clerk's office and I have gathered enough information about some of the Master's Society property to prompt proper scrutiny, and I'd rather leave that up to authorities. I am not a vigilante type, and I'd not suggest that course of action for any of your associates either."

The black-clad crowd shook their heads. Like most people I'd ever met, they simply wanted to be left in peace and given leave to be their own masters and mistresses.

Mrs. Northe approached me. She bent, and unceremoniously, she proceeded to draw me away from the body on the floor. Through her intervention I felt able to move, though I was oddly light-headed. The room spun a bit as I stood.

"Have you seen Jonathon?" she asked quietly. "He and I were supposed to investigate a site that may be the very crux of the Society's New York operations, but he didn't show. That isn't his style…" She trailed off, frowning as she stared at me. I didn't like her words, and I didn't like the look on her face even more so.

She wiped something off my lip. There was a bitter taste in my mouth. She brushed her fingertips over my face, and then over my collar. Her lace gloves came away red. I felt a dull sensation blossoming in my stomach becoming sharper as panic opened into full bloom.

"What?" My voice sounded far away to my own ear. "What did you say?"

"Jonathon," Mrs. Northe continued. "Not that you're his keeper, but I thought perhaps he was with you… It didn't seem like him to not turn up… I don't mean to worry you..."

"Jonathon," I murmured. "Jonathon." The sound of his name was an exotic spice upon my tongue. He was the whole of my heart, and he was absent. That was…unacceptable. I cocked my head to the side in an abrupt movement that felt foreign. My breath was heavy and strained against the stays of my corset that were suddenly violently tight against my rib cage.

Damn Jonathon Whitby. Damn his beauty. Damn his hold over me. Were there not greater things to be held in the clutches of?

I heard laughter, low and far away, deep and rumbling, like thunder. It was not mine, and it did not seem like the laughter of anyone in the room, which had dimmed significantly. Whispers coursed past my ear like wind.

Oh, that couldn't be a good sign. Whispers in my mind, unless they were warnings from my mother, were to be avoided. My mother was dead. This was not her whispers. It was a crowd. That meant something else entirely.

I closed my eyes. My body shuddered with strange sensations that were both seductive and vaguely disturbing in their sudden sweeping intensity, as if every inch of my skin were suddenly on fire and sensitive to suggestion. And pain. There was a deep, widening, vicious chasm of pain...

And then the curtain was drawn on rage. A pure, unchecked, heretofore unheard of rage took center stage.

"Where is Jonathon?!!" someone shrieked.

It took me a long moment to realize that someone shrieking was me. I think I tore at something. Or someone.

That's the last thing I remember before darkness overtook me in a swift and obliterating shot.

--

(End of Chapter 11 -- 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 10

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

Chapter 10:

There was a cluster of dark-clad persons shifting silently in the hall, moving slightly on their feet as if they were a feather on a breeze or a ghost not touching the floor. Others had quietly entered the parlor.

Two waifish, lovely women sat draped on either side of Lavinia, having entered silently while I'd been reading the letter. Their legs were tucked up on either side of the settee but fabrics trailed down to the floor. Lovely heads rested with a preternatural stillness on Lavinia's shoulders. One was raven-haired and the other was dark brown–haired. Their expressive eyes were kohl-rimmed and their lips were painted a dark red. And then I realized what was slightly scandalous about one of the women. She was in trousers. A fine riding suit coat and trousers. And I didn't think she was, like I had recently been, participating in espionage, and so this was simply her choice of evening wear rather than a choice of safety and subterfuge.

"Natalie, please meet my best friends, my kindred spirits," Lavinia said softly, gesturing to the compelling persons at her side. "Raven and Ether."

"Hello, Miss Stewart," Raven replied, in a voice that was a lower register than I'd expect of a rather consumptive-looking woman, and then it occurred to me that Raven and Ether weren't women at all. But young men. I took this in a moment.

They were the ones in my dream. These two were the women outside the White Horse Tavern. I looked at them, one to the other, trying not to stare, trying not to be rude, simply trying to take them in as they would wish to be considered.

I had lived most of my life with a disability. I knew the precise look I did not want to give them, a look of confusion or pity, a look that made them feel as if they were just as much the outsider as I'd always felt, a look that they were somehow wrong… No, I was better than that… This whole company was better than that.

As a child, all I'd wanted was simply to be accepted for who I was, without others' demands of what that might be. If I had never begun talking again, I would still want to live a full, whole life. Not a half-life. Not a cast-off life. Being my own person ran contrary to the idea and expectation that I was to give myself over entirely to the stronger sex and a more dominant will… Clearly these two didn't want to give themselves over to that idea either and instead were presenting quite an uncommon alterative. It was bold. It was something I had never encountered. But lately, the world saw fit to throw me new challenges.

Nathaniel Veil's Association was a safe haven for those who wished to buck society's expectations in an increasingly dramatic number of ways. Raven and Ether could surely see me puzzling through this, over them, and their choices in presenting to the world. They merely returned my gaze with a gentle patience that was admirable, considering that when people had given my inability to speak a similar baffled and pained, pitying expression, I was far quicker to scowl. Their gracious attitude made me want to be more generous in how I looked at others, most especially when surprised.

"Raven, Ether, a pleasure," I finally managed to reply, and smiled a genuine smile. Ether's sallow face suddenly transformed as he returned the smile, all without breaking the wistful pose against his friend's shoulders. Raven's darkly stained lips curled up in an engaging smirk.

"We saved each other's lives," Lavinia murmured. "We'd had a pact, all of us, that if we couldn't see the light, then we'd all die together in the dark."

"But he stopped us," Ether whispered lovingly, nodding toward Nathaniel, who was greeting Associates at the door with handshakes and kisses on cheeks to each and every one, filing them into rows and places.

"He was known as the Dark Angel around London," Lavinia explained. "He'd find out who in our social circles were at their wits end and try to rally them back, by his sheer force of will. Or, if they went ahead and attempted to take their life, if they were unsuccessful but injured, he brought them to Lord Denbury, who would dress the various wounds of the afflicted, and any other family members would be none the wiser, or none the poorer for the service. I came from wealth, but not many of our Association do, and your gracious Lord's clinic saved many a life that London could have cast aside without a second glance."

My heart swelled with pride at this, and I ached for my valiant Jonathon, who had done so much for this world in his young life thus far. I wished so dearly he was by my side, especially as our reconnection after our bit of espionage had been so...passionate. In this place, with these people, we could simply be ourselves and not worry about censure or propriety. We could simply be loving creatures who had become our own Dark Angels to one another.

It was inspiring, the emotions these quiet and sometimes awkward persons around me exhibited merely in their expressions, their choice of dress, tone of voice, movement, words, the interesting weight of their souls, some lighter, some heavier, depending on their inner burdens. We said so much to one another without even saying a word. From years without speaking, I could read bodies, expressions, attitudes and energies, gestures and physical quirks like I were reading books. The stories that these bodies and faces told were amazing novels in and of themselves. And every beautifully dressed person that entered, each with their own distinct style yet all adhering to the mourning dress as a unifying characteristic, was a new story.

But before I knew it, the room was utterly filled with eager-faced persons of dramatically different class, race, creed, and age. The binding factor was the fashion, and the figure before us, and his themes. And Veil, the master, was ready to put on a show.

"My Darling Ones," he boomed, accentuating a London upper-class accent when his own was slightly less defined. "We are gathered here today to reaffirm that we are the masters of our own destiny. You shall not give over that mastery to any other thing, person, rule, substance, or vice. You may only give it over to spirit, to love, to something vital, not something draining or cruel. You may only give over to that which makes you better. Never something that makes you less. My Dark Stars, take your place in the sky. Shall we begin?"

Applause, cries of happiness, gasps, and murmurs, the joy of anticipation launched him into his natural place: center stage of life.

He took stage in the front entrance foyer, visible by all those who had gathered in the parlor, and visible by those waiting on the stair, an impromptu gallery and balcony, concentric circles of dark colors and black crinolines, velvet bands and heaps of ribbons and bows, veils and cloaks.

The keening strain of a violin came from atop Mrs. Northe's grand staircase. From the chair where I sat I could see the musician at the top of the proscenium frame that the parlor pocket doors made. One of his associates, a tall, sturdy woman with skin nearly as dark as the clothing she wore, was playing, her dark limbs, swathed in black lace, moving the bow as if gently raising and closing wings. Her eyes were closed, but now and then when a note hit a resonance that vibrated in our bones, she would flash a slight smile, a bit of white teeth a glint against dark skin, lips, and fabric. That little twinge of joy was the ebbing and flowing crux of Veil's show, and we the audience were caught up in all the sparks of life amid talk of shadow and death.

Veil began to sing, soft and sweet; a melancholy Shakespearean sonnet on themes of pining love. With the violin wafting down to us as if it were from on high, it was like it breathed with Nathaniel's beautiful and resonant voice, vocal and strings equaled one living thing. Several of the audience members clutched at their hearts. Some reached out for Veil with trembling fingers as they knelt in pools of lace and tulle. Some leaned toward him from the banister as if tethered to him by invisible strings.

I must have been more sensitive, far more raw, than when I'd last seen Nathaniel's show, for it touched down deeply within in ways I hadn't allowed it to before. The Gothic themes of his shows, composite pieces of existing text, poetry, and popular fiction dealing with the natural, the unnatural, the supernatural, the veil between life and death, and all the great mysteries, it simply hit too close to home. I think it did for all present, everyone raw and on edge.

But it was just what we needed.

He coursed through his show. I'd never seen the same show twice; he plucked different texts from Walpole, Shelley, and Le Fanu, from the great romantic poets, and of course, a running threaded theme of Edgar Allan Poe, my personal favorite and that of this crowd. If I'd found this Association earlier in my life, perhaps I'd never have had such terrible nightmares, as all my darknesses could have found a healthier home in this circle.

But then again, we are granted the friends we need exactly when we need them. Mrs. Northe had instilled that particular confidence in me. I needed my loneliness; it was how I knew I could survive against other odds. It was how I knew I couldn't just wait for someone or something else to save me. But knowing that I could get by with little else but my own wits and company and then finding community; that was a long overdue comfort.

I could feel the group dynamic breathe and shift like a woman adjusting to the stays of her corset and arranging her skirts, sitting poised and on the edge of delight and discovery, all of us gazing at our captor, Nathaniel Veil, who paced the space at the center of the packed circle like a great and graceful wild animal, clutching us all by the throat with his captivating presence—at one point he did clutch a few people directly by the throat in one of his stints as Vampir—and making every one of us swoon, whether for him or for the gentleman or lady in our hearts, he brought out all the passions within us and exorcised them exquisitely.

And then suddenly the quiet, seductive, safe bliss of the show was shattered by the door flinging open and a flailing form tumbling into the foyer, blowing past Nathaniel, and nearly trampling a few of the youngest Associates who were clustered upon the floor.

A tall, round-cheeked man, marked as older than many of Nathaniel's Association by his graying hair, but similarly dressed in mourning finery, seemed in the throes of agony, droplets of red—blood, surely—staining his face and throat, shining stains upon his black waistcoat, the sight of him evoking gasps and screams from Associate members. He raged and snarled and made a move to overturn the fine table, vase, and mirror near the door, but Nathaniel, who was a head taller than the struggling man, charged up to him and clamped a hand on his shaking shoulder.

"George," Nathaniel said sternly. "This is not you. You've been affected by a toxin." The man, George, gurgled a cry.

"The city can't be safe," George snarled. "For the city is the toxin. Chaos the only cure."

George tried to struggle with Nathaniel, but the imperious actor was stronger than he looked, or he was channeling his presence into brute strength; perhaps seeing that he was the protectorate of this fascinating coven was its own enhancement.

George cried out in pain again before peering a head around Nathaniel's broad shoulder and eerily piercing me with a darkly reflective gaze.

He dropped to his knees, dust flying up, a red dust. Perhaps it wasn't blood all over him but powder that had mixed with his perspiration. I thought of Poe and the Red Death coming into the party...

And then the man spoke. But as he looked up at me with oddly reflective eyes, something green and violet shining in them, reflected in them, the light of my own aura and power, I knew he was no longer a mere man. But something terrible had taken him over.

George flung himself across the open space between us and crumpled before me in a heap of red powder. Before he lost consciousness, he spoke.

It was a voice I knew all too well. The voice of a demon. He pierced me with a phrase the demon had once used to address me:

"Hello, pretty..."

And then his eyes closed and his head struck the floorboards, unconscious or dead.

 

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(End of Chapter 10 -- 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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