Willing (23 page)

“Now each of you, stop breathing my air and get the hell out of my house.”

Several of them surged toward him, entreating him. Jenkins instead kept his eyes on her.

“What will you do to us?”

Alisdair shook his head. “Nothing. It will be up to the Gods to decide.”

Jane reached for his hand again. He let her take it. “Please!”

He took a moment, nodded, and gestured toward Constance, then towards Thomas, who still bustled around the room with Heidi and Theresa, trying to tend to the murderous mess that lay at the center of the room. “My friends, I owe my very existence to these two people, here. Ms. Tully currently earns very poor wages at her place of employment, and Thomas Reed is a footman in my employ. That is going to change, isn’t it?”

They all turned to look at her and Thomas. She glanced to Thomas, catching a confused expression to match her own.

“Each of you will hereby be held responsible for their fortunes. They will have want of nothing, am I understood?”

The crowd nodded in unison, all seemingly ecstatic to have such wards.

“Good. Now get out of my house.”

A tall fellow stepped out of the small crowd first, bowing to Alisdair as he passed. Alisdair returned the bow. “Good night, Your Majesty.”

Constance gasped.

The crowd shuffled through the open doors, each person either reaching for him to entreat him further and being ignored, or surging past him, denying his existence as they stormed out.

Watching these monsters leave unpunished was burning in her gut. Yet, she would not argue with Alisdair in his home, not in front of the monsters.

Constance took a step toward the door. “Mr. Jenkins.”

The detective stopped in the doorway, turning to the sound of his name being called.

Constance nodded at him. “Berty Grisholm. Madam at the Keg and Barrel, you know her?”

He swallowed. “I do, miss.”

“How long has she been involved?”

He set his jaw. “It was Mr. Grisholm. She’s only been involved since he died. Made an agreement to keep the Keg and Barrel girls safe.”

Constance took a deep breath. She couldn’t call the authorities, this man was one of them. Though Jenkins was one man, would his department punish him for his dealings, or would they cover it up, hoping to save face?

Constance held her head high as she spoke. “She killed my friend, Mr. Jenkins.”

“Yes, I know. She wasn’t the first.”

Alisdair set his jaw and stepped toward him, taking hold of his robe as though fixing a lapel. “Go back to the city, go back to your job, and destroy her.”

Jenkins’ eyes went wide, and he glanced from her to Alisdair and back. Then he chewed his lower lip and nodded. “Yes, m’lord. First thing.”

With that, he turned into the dark hallway and hustled to catch up to the disbanding crowd. Constance listened to the nervous chatter in the distance as they all disappeared, leaving her alone in the grand ballroom with Alisdair, two young maids, a bloodied footman, and a corpse.

They all remained there in silence a moment, the servants bundling up the bloodied carriage driver between them.

Finally, Thomas rose from the floor. “What shall I do with ‘im, then?”

“Burn him.”

They all turned to look at Alisdair, their mouths agape.

Thomas nodded and Heidi rushed out into the hallway to retrieve a broom. She returned quickly, keeping her eyes to the floor as she began to sweep up the thousands of glass shards that peppered the perimeter of the room. Thomas hoisted the bloody bundle from the floor and with labored huffs, marched out of the ballroom toward the back of the house. Constance watched him go, silent.

She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cool air from the open windows.

“Ladies, will you leave us a moment, please?”

Heidi and Theresa both chirped their agreement and hustled out of the ballroom, following Thomas.

She stood with him in that cold space for a moment. Finally, she broke the quiet.

“You just let them leave,” she said.

Alisdair crossed the room, making his way with slow steps. He approached her, reaching for her face. He stopped, running a thumb over the still pink stains on her skin.

“Believe me, they will pay.”

She shook her head. “They should pay. They should rot in a cell for the rest of their lives”

“Believe me, love. We will give them far worse.” He lifted her chin, making her look into his dark eyes. “I promise you.”

She wanted to protest, to know with all certainty that these wealthy men and women would be held accountable, that like any other monster they would be punished. Yet somehow, in those few words of calm assurance, she knew he meant it.

A moment of silent touch passed, channeling more than words could say between them. Finally, he gave her a strange look, his brow furrowed.

“It worked?”

Constance gave a half laugh, shaking her head. “Are you really asking that now? You know it did.”

Alisdair smiled. “Thank god.”

“Thank god? I thought you would be angry.”

His brows drew together. “Why on earth would I be angry? Had you not done as you did, it would be my blood on the floor here.” He smiled. “Truth be told, I believe you deserved it far more than I.”

She went to protest, but he simply pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“Shall we perform it again, then? We know how – we know it works.”

Alisdair kissed her forehead. “I’ll never welcome those people into my home again, and without them, I have no circle.”

“You don’t need a circle.”

“I know that better now than I ever could express.” He beamed at her, a dreamy affection that made her worry about that bump on his head.

“Are you feeling well, Ali?”

He smiled. “I am. I have you.”

She stopped, staring up at him.

He faltered a moment. “Well, if you’ll have me, I s’pose.”

Two figures appeared at the doors, tapping a broom handle against the doorjamb. Alisdair nodded their way.

“Yes, thank you ladies. Let us retire to our quarters. Theresa, would you ask Margaret to bring some water for Constance’s bath?”

She curtsied and rushed from the room with an urgent air.

Alisdair walked out into the hallway, but Constance took a moment. She glanced around the room – at the candle wax, the blood still pooled on the floor, and at the glass shards glinting in the candlelight. Finally she stared at the basin of bloody water on the table, the athame still soaking in the water, now so thick with red that only its handle was visible. She went to follow Alisdair, but something near the table caught her eye. Constance crossed back to the gleaming object on the floor. She lifted it carefully, making sure not to spill the contents that still pooled in its recesses.

Constance followed Alisdair out into the hall, keeping pace as they made their way toward the bedrooms. She followed him to the wash room, coming to stand by the small window that faced the gardens behind the house. Though the glass was textured for privacy, she could see the dancing of orange and yellow lights in the dark – something was being burned in the distance. Constance watched the flames, holding the object tight in her hands, keeping it from Alisdair’s sight.

“Look.”

Alisdair came to look over her shoulder, saw the flames rising from where Thomas was burning Gregory’s body, and kissed the top of her head before returning to the bath. She turned and watched him sit on the edge of the bath tub, fumbling with the faucet.

He filled the basin with enough cool water to bathe, and let Margaret enter with a large basin of steaming water. She topped off the bath, then left. Finally, he stood, untying his robe and tossing it into a corner of the room. Constance stared at his long frame, beautiful in his nakedness.

He shot her a sheepish glance. “Will you let me join you?”

“I will, if you do one thing for me first.”

Alisdair raised an eyebrow. “Anything, my love.”

She lifted her hands from behind her back, offering up the chalice to him.

“It seems there is some left.”

Alisdair’s brow shot up and he swallowed. “What will it do?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure. The moving the world at will is there - those same gifts as before, but…” She paused. “There seems to be more this time.”

“More how?”

“I think it gives you whatever it is you need or want most at the time. I spent the entire night wishing I could protect you or share my thoughts with you so you could protect yourself. Now I can peek into others’ minds it seems, hear inside as plain as though the person spoke to me. I’m not sure what it is it will give you.”

“And you burn, don’t you?”

She snorted. “I must’ve been cold.”

He looked at her for a long, silent moment. Then he took the cup from her hands, and brought it to his lips. Constance lunged forward to catch him as the pain set it.

Chapter Fifteen

Constance stood by the window, watching the breeze flit through the garden, lifting and tussling the leaves of the rose bushes. She stared from her quiet window. The place where Gregory’s body burned was just visible in the distance. The place seemed to carry a mark of the deed, as time seemed to have no impact on the scorched state of the earth there. There was a small ring of sage planted there now, offered to the soil to help cleanse it of the darkness destroyed upon it. She stared at the circle and sighed.

Suddenly a tension in her stomach nearly knocked the wind out of her, and she pressed her hands to her distended belly. The movement returned as the baby kicked inside her, rallying strength after a long nap. Constance smiled.

She could hear the creature growing inside her sometimes, hear the blind thoughts of a tiny thing, still ignorant to the meanings of her infant complaints and desires, but feeling them nonetheless. Constance rubbed a hand over her belly. This little person would be born like her - like her father - able to move the world at will, bend it to her desires. They’d each taken on a unique gift from their ritual. She’d been blessed with a gift of slipping into another’s mind, to pluck tiny pieces whenever she needed. Alisdair’s blessing came in the form of strength, of health, a power to heal from any ailment with unnerving speed. She wondered what special gift her little girl would have. The thought of that mystery both excited and terrified her as she rubbed her belly, overwhelmed with blind affection for the demanding little girl inside her.

“Good afternoon, sleepy bones.”

Constance smiled, but didn’t turn to greet her husband as he entered the room. He slipped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her middle, touching her stomach with intimate warmth, mirroring her own hands as he rubbed the bucking infant inside.

“She’s in a rare mood today, isn’t she?”

Constance smiled. “She’s hungry. Demands I eat raspberries and sardines, but if I do, she’ll protest the cramped quarters afterward. Fickle thing.”

Alisdair slumped down in the chair beside her, tossing a folded copy of The Star onto the table. “Thought you might like to read that.”

Constance turned to face him, glancing down at the paper. She pressed it flat on the table with one hand, reading the front page.

Alberta ‘Berty’ Grisholm of Spitalfields, sentenced to hang for the murders of Octavia Porter and Roger Tims, was declared dead at 9:07 am on the morning of…

Constance stopped reading and closed her eyes.

“Thank you.”

Alisdair moved forward in his chair as Constance lowered herself carefully into her own. Her belly was becoming too big to maneuver without assistance, and Alisdair moved in his seat, as though ready to pounce on her.

She waved him away, smiling. “Don’t fret. Don’t fret.”

She settled into her chair, folding the newspaper and setting it on the table. She took a deep breath, quickly drawing ire from her demanding tenant. She whispered down to her belly. “Enough, you pushy thing.”

Alisdair stared at her belly, smiling with his chin resting in his hand. Constance stared back at him, waiting for him to notice she was watching. He met her gaze, returned his eyes to her belly just as it moved again, the baby dragging a foot across the front of her. He beamed at the sight.

“Serves me right for sleeping through lunch.”

He laughed. “It certainly does.”

Alisdair dropped to his knees and crossed to her, pressing his ear to her belly, intimately. “What does she have to say today?”

“Feed me. Don’t sit like that. Stop breathing.”

Alisdair chuckled softly. “God, I love this child.”

Constance ran her fingers into Alisdair’s hair, feeling the texture of his pomade, brittle to the touch. She scratched his scalp, drawing a soft hum from deep in his throat. The creature in her belly kicked him in the face as reward for the sound.

“I think she’s ready.”

Constance shook her head. “Please. She’s too content to want to give up her comfy spot yet.”

“I’m telling you, woman. My daughter has her mind set. She’s coming whether you like it or not.”

“Don’t you curse me, Mr. Newington.”

“That’s Sir Newington, thank you very much.” He leaned down to her, planting a warm and forceful kiss on her lips with a loud smacking sound. “Shall I have Heidi bring your tea in here this evening, or will you join me in the conservatory?”

“Oh, I’ll join you. I think I’d like a walk in the garden as well.”

“It is a lovely day for it.”

Alisdair leaned down to her, offering his arm as she hoisted herself from the chair. He retrieved the paper from the table, then hooked his arm with hers, leading her out of the White Parlor. Constance moved at a snail’s pace, but she moved, her ankles swelling in this late stage of her pregnancy. They sat together, enjoying a light dinner in the bright space, something she’d preferred since first coming to the estate as his guest. The only time she’d willingly taken her dinner in the dining room was on the eve of their wedding, surrounded by his family and friends.

As Constance took the last possible bite she could of a chocolate pastry, Alisdair turned his attention to the paper. He reread the headline, giving the words ‘Bloody Berty’ some extra flavor, then turned the pages to read on, commenting on the recent developments around London. Constance slumped back in her seat, groaning in protest at her distended belly as Margaret hustled over to adjust her seat pillow and offer a footstool.

“Connie, my love.”

She smiled, shooting Alisdair a sideways look. He only called her Connie when he wanted something, or was in trouble. “Yes, dear Alisdair?”

He didn’t smile back, but instead turned the newspaper toward her, tapping his thumb against a small column along the side of page eight.

Jane Fitzsimmons was found dead in the attic of her three story home on Persimmon Terrace. The remains of her husband, Mr. Robert Fitzsimmons, were found the next day, being stored in the wine cellar of the house. Neighbors claim to have heard loud altercations within the home, but given Mrs. Fitzsimmons recent time spent in and out of Hanwell Asylum, no one reported the disturbance.

Authorities believe Mr. Fitzsimmons died several days before Mrs. Fitzsimmons body was found. They are ruling the death a Murder/Suicide.

Constance took a deep breath and closed her eyes. It was eleven months since she last laid eyes on the Fitzsimmons, when Alisdair promised her justice. Archibald Fairmont had gone first, found drowned in his bathtub, his fingers broken and bloody from signs of struggle, though he’d been home in an empty house at the time. Another member of the circle had died in a horse riding accident, impaled on an iron fence when his horse became spooked.  These deaths relieved some of her frustration at hearing the news the royal member of the circle had simply perished from an unexpected case of pneumonia.

That’s too good for him, she’d said. Alisdair didn’t disagree.

Yet here, hearing of Jane and Robert’s demise, she found it strangely satisfying. Suffer, she thought. Suffer for every single one of the girls you let die.

“Are you content, my love?”

She looked up at him. He stared at her with his dark eyes, his brows high in wait of her answer. She swelled with affection for him. “You know I am.”

He smiled. “I shall go choose the next name.”

She stared at him. “Berty’s dead.”

“I know.”

The stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, she nodded. “I want to perform this one.”

Alisdair moved toward her, trying to stop her rising to her feet. “Sweetheart, you’re ready to burst. Let me go, and you sit and rest. Keep your feet up.”

She slumped back down a moment, and glared up at him. “No. I’ve been waiting a long time for this name. Now, help me up.”

He did as he was told, but continued to protest. “It’s a long walk, my love. Let me. You needn’t worry.”

Constance settled on her swollen feet and glared at him. He instantly stopped his protests and smirked at her, gesturing to her belly. “And you wonder where she gets it?”

Alisdair hustled into the house, gathering her shawl and collecting a small bundle from the library. Then, without further complaint, he wrapped the shawl around her shoulders and walked her outside into the gardens.

The day was cool and crisp, foretelling of the coming autumn. They moved slowly, promenading past the fading roses and the browning leaves of various vegetables in the root garden. Constance clung to his arm, letting the warmth and solid shape of him shield her from the chill in the air.

They walked a hundred yards past the conservatory to the small herb garden Thomas had planted in the spring. The sage grew there in a great circle, thriving in the summer months, then fading with the fall. Soon, they would burn it, letting the sage purge any residue that may be left of the darkness Thomas once burned in that very spot.

Alisdair squeezed her arm, then pulled the small bundle from his pocket and handed it to her. Constance unwrapped it, pulling the athame from within. She let go of Alisdair’s arm and took three steps into the center of the circle. She closed her eyes and silently chanted ancient words over the marred patch of earth, listening as Alisdair joined her in his own silent chant. Then with a steady hand, Constance gouged the tip of the blade into her middle finger. She held the wounded fingertip over the still blackened earth and let her blood fall into the dirt. They’d called five names at this marker; five demands for justice that had each been met in turn. Yet, this was the name she’d waited so patiently to call. She closed her eyes and spoke the familiar words.

“I now demand the life Kevin Jenkins. May he know when his time has come, and may he know why.”

Constance let one more drop of blood fall into the soil, and turned to face Alisdair. He offered his arm and she took it, letting him wrap the athame back into its bundle. They sauntered back toward the house as though they’d ventured out to pick flowers. Constance took four slow steps holding onto her husband’s arm, then startled. She grabbed hold of her belly as a rush of fluid poured down the inside of her thighs. She held her breath, listening intently for the usual chatter of the spirit that thrived inside her. The baby was at peace there, calm and content, but she’d made one fact very clear.

Constance looked toward the house and the long trek they would have to take back. She turned her eyes up to the concerned face of her husband, and forced a smile.

He searched her face and his eyes went wide. Then he gave her an exasperated, but loving glare. “I told you so.”