House of Corruption (16 page)

“I can assure you I had nothing to do with this,” she said quickly. “I had no intention to harm anyone. I am as helpless as you, sir, abandoned by my—”

“Leave my property at once,” Reynard said.

“Please, just listen—”

“—
Or I will toss you out myself!
”

Many things happened all at once. Reynard’s cries brought Eleanor back into the foyer and her husband Gordon racing from around the side of the house; Reynard commanded
escort this bloody woman off my property
as Kiria stormed off the porch, hot tears in her eyes as she fled to the buggy. Savoy turned to stop her and dropped his notebook, spilling papers and clippings across the doormat. Then came the eye of the storm, the silence that falls after feelings are hot, filled with the
ding ding
of the foyer clock as it chimed the hour.

Reynard wordlessly encouraged Eleanor and Gordon back to their duties. Gordon led his wife back inside. When they had left, Reynard knelt to catch some of Savoy’s papers threatening to blow away in the breeze, taking care to organize what he gathered: photographs, clippings, letters, envelopes. Savoy took them with silent appreciation. He did not know what to think, what to say. As far as he knew, a manifestation of lycanthropy lasted for days. To suffer such a violent transformation, only to be restored within a day?

Unprecedented.

He glanced at Reynard’s wrists, hoping to see the scarring, the raw flesh where his bonds had left such terrible marks. Reynard caught him looking. He buried his hands in his pockets.

“Why is Lasha going to Boston?” he asked.

“What Miss Carlovec says is true,” Savoy replied. “We are dealing with forces, believe it or not, far worse than your current predicament.”

“Is she alive?”

“Yes.”

“Have they harmed her?”

“I do not know.”

“Then tell me everything,” Reynard said, “on our way to the train station. You can start by explaining this business about Freddie Burlington.”

15

“
We have missed you, Lasha
.”

“Where have I been?”

“
You are with friends, those who love you. You are returning home, the place you missed so terribly
.”

“I...I do miss it.”

“
Where the water is warm and the air is fresh
?”

“Yes.”

“
You will sit still and dream
?”

She strains to push the whispers aside and focus on another voice from her memories. How can she feel the cold air on her face and smell the coal smoke past her window? How can she read books the woman gives her to read, of jungles and tall mountains and primitive men and women who walk as brazen as if among the fruit-bedecked halls of Eden?

“I do not want to go,” she says.

“
You will go
,” the voice replies. “
You will sit still and dream
.”

“No.”

“
Be still
.”

“Yes.”

A hand caresses Lasha’s shoulder, lingering, and she stares into the face of the woman sitting by her side. It seems she is always by her side. Why can she not see her reflection in her eyes? Why does she speak of trees when her eyes are ripe with rage and bleached bones?

“
You are a good girl
.”

She leaves Lasha alone—blind, examining the drapes and buttoned leather benches and the gentle sway of the train as the world drains away. She considers the broken window, sad, not knowing why. She remembers a tall man with a handsome moustache and she wants to cry. There is a man with a sad face and she wants him near, to tell her she is safe. Does he even know she is gone?

Then she remembers an animal, snarling, spitting, crying. She wants to scream. She wants to scream and hold him and beg him to tell her it isn’t true.

“I want to go home.”

“
Be still
.”

She obeys. She is a good girl.

So why do tears drain down her cheeks?  

VENATIO

…
More bitter than death the woman,

whose heart is snares and nets, and her hands as bands:

whoso pleaseth God shall escape from her;

but the sinner shall be taken by her.

-
Ecclesiastes

16

Reynard LaCroix’s Journal —

Tuesday, October 14, Mississippi

I sit in the Southern-Atlantic meal car with dinnerware jingling, the horizon blurring past my window. Normalcy during abnormal times.

I am accompanied by Artémius, a Mister Mahonri Grant (gunslinger from the Salt Lake of Utah) and—against all better judgment—Miss Kiria Carlovec. Who would have thought the man accused of the very crimes Arté first attributed to me now rides in our custody, courtesy of a delay of extradition? My lawyer could haggle Judas out of Hell.

As for Miss Carlovec, she travels in the first-class car and rarely makes an appearance. I am not convinced of her innocence. Savoy has taken her at her word, but that old man is apt to believe first and disprove later. Such a philosophy will never be mine.

We will apprehend my sister’s abductor and Miss Carlovec’s valet, Edward Tukebote, before they reach Boston—or are we dealing with a woman, the one Mister Grant encountered in Chalmette? Both Arté and Mister Grant claim he (or she) is a supernatural creature manifested as a vampiric head that employs multiple bodies as hosts. I, for one, cannot fathom such an outlandish bit of hogwash.

Of course, who am I to judge?

In Lasha’s abduction I feel less a participant and more an observer, drawn close by grief. I am not a man of distant feeling (on the contrary, I fear I care too much), but in my self-centeredness I hardly noticed my brotherly attachment. I cannot adequately express my torment.

Thursday, October 16 — Kentucky

Traced Miss Carlovec’s Pullman to Louisville. We are at least four days behind. Kiria claims contractual obligations will keep her steamship, the
Kalabakang
, in Boston Harbor until the thirtieth of this month. Having wired Boston authorities of Lasha’s abduction, that ship will be barred from leaving the country. Once Lasha is safe, perhaps I can convince her she did not see what she saw in Metairie.

I have not been good company. I am a different man. My metabolism is extraordinary during my transitions, leading to both advanced healing and ravenous appetite, but I cannot explain the speed in which I found myself again. I do not understand it. I do not know how I feel about it.

The remains of the bullet once in my chest, fished from Mister Tukebote’s discarded pocket, now lies in my own. It pains me to touch it, its sting of memory rather than chemistry, yet I cannot set it aside. Sometimes I want to stare at it, move it between my fingers, memorize every detail.

Addendum

It is waiting.

Saturday, October 18 — Boston Harbor

The
Kalabakang
is gone!

There is no official record of the ship’s departure. There is no record of anyone having received our wire. No one seems to know that the ship even existed. After railing on the harbormaster and whoever else would listen, I could not get a straight answer. How did a large steamer slip away undetected? Especially when we wired local police to have the ship detained? Where is the copy of the manifest? Custom papers? Did it even exist?

Miss Carlovec insists it was there, that she has a copy of the contract to prove it, and she pleaded her case nearly to the point of tears. Her dramatics are impressive. She almost makes me believe she had no knowledge of this plot.

Addendum (3:07 a.m.)

Private courier delivered letter, addressed to me, to Arté’s Boston residence. Postmarked from New York City:

Dearest Reynard:

I am safe and in good spirits. Once I learned of

Sir Wilhem Carlovec’s urgent need, I agreed to

spare both his (and our) descendants from future

contagion. Why did you refuse such a cause?

Please do not be angry, darling brother. I

have come to terms with this decision. Please

respect my wishes.

I would have expressed my complicity to Mister

Grant had he been of sound mind. As a lunatic

he was ushered off our train before he could do

me harm. I hope you do not associate with that

troubled man.

I am on a swift ship, and I will send word when

I arrive at my final destination.

God bless you,

Lasha

Her letter is a forgery. She would never write “God bless you” or “darling brother” or some other insipid phrase. She would have written “damn well your fault I am in this mess” or something in that vein. What sort of lies or threats might our adversary used to coerce her?

This is a clever creature that means to lure, or dissuade me, for reasons I cannot fathom. I sense arrogance, a personal message directed at me alone:

“I have her...and you cannot catch me!”

Sunday, October 19 — Boston

Arté maintains his spacious residence in the North End, his American base of operations when England does not hold him. I still wonder how he manages on an adjunct’s salary, but I suspect he employs his intellectual talents toward a broad base of investments. We are spared the expense of a hotel, though Miss Carlovec lodges in an opulent monstrosity of an apartment along the bayside. My opinion of her degrades every day. 

We have little to go on, other than her word that the
Kalabakang
does exist, that it left, and that it held a scheduled itinerary. With this in mind I chartered passage on the steam turbine
Kaiser Friedrich
, due to debark Boston for New York, and then Liverpool, in two days.

Miss Carlovec claims the
Kalabakang
must make mandatory stops in Marseille, Port Said, and Singapore, though most everything she has claimed in the last week has proven false. Arté tells me passage on the ‘
Friedrich
is a sign of providence and, from its description, I am inclined to agree. This steamer’s built by the same company that won last year's Blue Riband. Perhaps it can overtake them?

Savoy’s examination of Lasha’s letter revealed a trace of the acrid liquid we associate with Mister Tukebote, a substance found both on Bill Tourney’s remains and in that glass coffin in Miss Kiria’s storage. It is vinegar derived from the thatch palm, apparently designed to preserve flesh, but it leaves a telling scent. I always thought Mister Tukebote wore too much cologne.

Addendum (4:35 a.m.)

Cannot rest. Could lose mind this way.

Thursday, October 23 — Atlantic Crossing

Aboard the
Kaiser Friedrich
. Two days out from New York. Spoke with a yeoman about this ship and its pace across the Atlantic; he said the firm of Harland & Wolff boasted building an even larger fleet in the near future. I may look into transatlantic opportunities when I return home. Might be a lucrative venture.

Arté provided a silver crucifix to wear around my neck for reasons that are his own. I agreed to placate him. I barely notice its presence. The silver no longer vexes when it touches my skin. I wonder why?

Friday, October 24

Arté and I had time to ourselves this evening on the port deck. Awkward at first, considering. Our conversation soon focused on the subject at hand.