Renegade (36 page)

“You are. The transfusion saved your life.”

“That must be precisely why I’m having strange urges to fall on my knees in prayer and to wear that beastly black suit and collar that he sports so frequently. Hopefully, these religious leanings will wear off soon.”

I smiled, brushing William’s curls away from his forehead. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” Then I kissed him. He started to pull me to him, but then pushed me away. “No, it’s too bloody strange.”

“What’s strange?” I asked, surprised.

“Kissing you as you wear St. John’s clothes.”

I laughed a bit.

“I think you should inspect the lady’s boudoir,” William said, nodding toward a small door set into the fireplace. “She has quite an array of finery in there … ”

Then his face convulsed a bit, and I felt alarmed.

“William … ”

“I’m fine. I’m fine. Simon said that I might feel some pain, some nausea during my recovery. Particularly as the venom works out of my system.”

“Do you need … ”

“I need you to change out of those clothes!” he barked, closing his eyes and settling into the pillow on the bed.

I smiled a bit as I opened the boudoir door. It made me feel better that William was acting like his old self—an ass.

The boudoir was indeed extravagant. Seraphina had a large vanity with combs, pearl earbobs, gold and diamond necklaces, and sapphire rings scattered over the entire surface. I surveyed the many gowns. These were no ordinary tea dresses, the type of prim dresses that Grandmother and I wore so often. I did not see any bustles, corsets, or crinolines. These gowns were imported from the Continent—loose and free-flowing dresses of taffeta and silk gauzes, with gold and silver threading the hems. They were low-necked, with ribbons around the waists. I saw kimono robes and other gowns, shockingly low, bohemian in style. The colors showed excellent taste—no dark brown or blacks, these were all pastels, mostly the colors of the sea—greenish or light blues. There were piles upon piles of slippers, lovely slippers in pale green and plum hues.

Did Max bring her all of these?

A lump formed in my throat—all of this jewelry, these gowns, reminded me of the woman she had been. Her crumbled form in that vision … it had been too sad, too terrible. She had also lived these years not only as a beast, but as a woman.

I washed my face and body in a porcelain tub. Then, choosing the least elaborate gown I could find, a plain rose-colored silk with red tassels falling about the waist, I put it on with a pair of her slippers. Feeling more like a china doll than myself, I left the boudoir.

When I entered the bedroom, I saw Simon standing by the bed and William asleep. Simon had turned down the lights.

“I’ve given him a sedative,” he said quietly to me, still looking at William’s face.

As I walked toward the bed, Simon’s expression concerned me. “What is it?” I asked.

“We can’t move him yet. Not while the venom is working out of his body. He needs to heal a bit before we return home.”

“How long will that take?” I asked.

Simon shrugged a little. “Hopefully not very long. I’m quite surprised he survived this ordeal at all.”

“But he’ll recover completely?”

“Undoubtedly.” But I saw a small shadow cross his expression.

While William slept, I sat with Simon in the library sipping brandy. Hugo slept at our feet. He would recover; his entire side had been stitched and bandaged by Simon. We discussed our plans. Apart from making the treacherous journey back to land and getting William safely returned to London, we needed to figure out what to do with all of the Conclave’s animals.

“We can’t just leave them here,” I said, as we stared wearily at the roaring fire.

Simon took another sip of brandy. “What to do with the animals will be a bit of a problem. Perhaps we could give some to the Zoological—”

“The photograph album!” I exclaimed, as my eye caught sight of a large album on a side table. In our concern over attending to William, Hugo, and the bodies, both Simon and I had forgotten Seraphina’s last words, directing me to the album.

As I opened it, I caught my breath.

There were photographs, rows and rows of photographs.

“Max must have recorded their travels, their discoveries,” Simon said as he peered over my shoulder at it. There were pictures of Julian Bartlett in Africa, of Robert Buck in India. I saw close-up photographs of Robert’s shrunken heads. There were also several photographs of Seraphina, both in her monster form and in her naked human form. In one particularly stunning photograph, she sat totally nude in front of her boudoir, her back to the camera. Her long hair was pulled over her shoulders, in front of her, so that her tattoo showed boldly and clearly.

I gasped when I came to the final photograph. It was my mother, painting in our garden in Dublin. She didn’t seem to know that she was being photographed, and I felt my heart freeze, wondering how many times Max had observed us there, monitored us throughout the years. He had been near us, those days before Mother’s death. I recalled again her transfixed gaze as she looked into the woods on that stormy night after she had fallen ill. The argument that had ensued between her and Max after he had saved me. She had known that he was lingering near, but to then see me in his arms—I could only imagine her fear.

Then a letter fell out of a pocket on the last page of the album. Quickly, I opened it. Most of the letter had been damaged by water. I couldn’t read any of the writing, even the date. I couldn’t even read the signature.

Was this the letter that Seraphina wanted me to see?

Simon and I took it over to the fire, to examine it better in the light, but my eyes were tired. The exhaustion was overtaking me and I had difficulty focusing.

“The letter is written to Max,” Simon said calmly.

I saw the faint shape of an “M” near the top of the page.

“There. There is one distinguishable line,” I said, peering closer. The letter was so damaged, I felt as if it would crumple at any moment in my hands. I read it out loud:
“Keep him alive. You must keep him alive.”

“Keep who alive?” I asked Simon. We both tried to read the signature at the bottom, but we could not. It was impossible. “Someone wrote to Max, insisting that he keep someone alive,” I concluded.

Simon drained his glass of brandy and stared hard into the fire. “Abbie, tell me again what happened to you, that night in Highgate Cemetery.”

Although perplexed by the question, I quickly recalled to Simon, as best as I could, everything about that awful experience.

Simon remained thoughtful, staring ahead.

“And you saw nothing after William arrived? No more strange figures threatened you once William was there?”

“Yes. That is correct.”

Simon said nothing.

Instinctively, I felt defensiveness rise within me. “William isn’t responsible for this. If you think he is somehow in league with Max—”

“That’s not at all what I am considering,” Simon said calmly. “I am simply making some connections in my head.”

My mind spun, confused.

“Are you thinking that William is the person whom the letter-writer wants Max to keep alive?”

“I’m considering it.”

Simon moved his gaze from the fireplace to my face. His mouth curved into a half-amused smile. I blushed. “When was the last time you slept, Abbie?”

“When we were on the train,” I said.

“Sleep now.”

“But … ”

“We do have more ahead of us to figure out. But nothing can be done now. William needs sleep. You need sleep.”

“But Max … ”

“I’ll remain awake.”

I started to argue, but he was already placing blankets upon the sofa.

“Shhh … ” Simon said as I made a weak attempt to argue. He turned the lamps down, hushing me, and I felt my body sink onto the sofa; in spite of my anxieties, I was dead to the world before Simon even left the room.

But my sleep did not go undisturbed.

I was underwater somewhere. In the waters near here. Sunlight broke through the surface. I swam without having to breathe. It was easy, dreamlike. The waters became cloudy, and then parted. She stood in front of me, a full lamia, but kind, not threatening. She reached out and touched my fingertips with her talons. As she did this, as her image wavered, she became my mother, her long red hair rippling out—my mother as the lamia.

I heard myself whimper under the water in longing. She brushed my cheek with her scaly palm, and then swam away into the watery darkness.

The dream melted away and I found myself in a shadowed room. The smell of rot around me assaulted my nose. Spoiled meat. Then my eyes adjusted as I saw human limbs, decomposing corpses strewn everywhere. I was in some sort of underground place—a basement or a charnel house. I saw a slab table in front of me … and some sort of saw nearby.

A light approached the doorway as someone came near this room where I found myself. Then I heard a chuckle from the darkened corridor. The Ripper chuckle, the chuckle of my nightmares.

I awoke, sweating. Shaking. The library fire had died down and I hugged myself, pulling the tassels about my waist tighter. What was happening? What was Max scheming?

In horror, I thought of the graveyard murders, of our follower. Whatever was happening, I felt certain that Max was no longer alone. Was he starting a new Conclave? And why had he felt so strongly about me slaying Seraphina?

I left the library and found Simon sitting in a chair near William’s bed, reading a book. William was still fast asleep. But he kept turning back and forth among his pillows.

“I think the laudanum is giving him strange dreams. He’s been muttering things … ” Simon said.

“What sort of things?” I asked, wondering briefly if William was having the same nightmare I had just had.

But Simon’s eyes veiled a bit. “He keeps uttering your name.”

I felt myself smile. In spite of everything behind and ahead of us, the fact that William and I were restored to one another was deeply gratifying to me.

“You are pale, Abbie.”

I shook my head. “I had another nightmare. But I don’t feel like talking about it now.” I said this quickly, imploringly.

“William’s fever is returning,” Simon said. “This is good; at this point it means his body is fighting the infection. Nonetheless, I don’t want it to get too high. We’ll need to sponge him again with cool water.” He stood. “But now he needs more laudanum. I’m afraid what I gave him last night will wear off soon; I will need to retrieve some more from the boat.”

I felt a sudden urge to escape this place. To go outside with the wind and water.

“I’ll go.”

Simon frowned at me, but I was already putting on my boots—I felt certain that I looked awkward wearing my mud-stained boots under the graceful gown.

“I don’t mind going upstairs,” I said. “I need the fresh air.”

Simon cocked his head.

“Oh truly, Simon, I just slayed a century-old lamia. I think I can take care of myself,” I snapped as I walked into the boudoir to retrieve my bowie knife from where I had left it on the pile of my dirty clothes. I put the kimono robe over my gown before going outside.

After ascending the stone steps to the beach, trying not to trip over the too-long kimono robe, I noticed that there was only a little sound now in the calm night. I heard only the soft slap of waters against the island’s rocks, and the small breath of wind in my ears. As I walked toward the boat, which Simon and I had checked after attending to the bodies, I was glad to see that it was still secured; fortunately it had been only a little damaged from our small crash onto the island. Carefully, I reached into the bottom of the dory and found the large laudanum bottle.

As I straightened up, I gazed out over the waters and felt a vague, prickly frustration. Seraphina’s death saddened me, and Max was still alive somewhere. I felt a bit as if I were in the same place that I’d been in immediately after killing the Conclave members. I thought of what Simon had said—about the Orkney Islands being one of the settings in
Frankenstein
—and I wondered, depressed and fearful, if my dream of being a physician might evaporate in the winds. I wondered if, like Victor Frankenstein pursuing his monster, I would spend the remainder of my life hunting Max, pursuing Max, for all of my days. I sighed.

A branch cracked in the darkness somewhere behind me.

I stiffened.
Max.
I whipped around, but saw nothing except rocks and moonlight. I turned to go back inside.

But my heart paused as I heard the slough of a foot in the wet sand.

Someone was certainly behind me.

I took one more step, still holding the bottle of laudanum. I tightened my grip on the knife. I estimated the follower to be at least three feet behind me.

When I felt him step closer, I dropped the bottle in the sand and, at the same moment, whipped around, kicking my pursuer hard in the ribs. He cried out as I twisted his arm behind him and put the bowie knife to his throat; my fear and rage coursed through me so that I didn’t even feel my wounded arm. But even as I surprised my follower, I knew that it was not Max; if it had been, I would not be able to subdue him so easily.