House of Furies Page 7

  Nothing.

  It was neither attic nor corridor, but what looked like one immense ballroom. There was no furniture, and there was nothing on the walls. The windows looking out onto the grounds were covered in a dusty film, and the moonlight penetrating that grime made the room glow an unearthly blue.

  The flame on my candle dipped. The wick would soon run out. I hurried deeper into the cavernous room, casting my eye about, desperate to find some clue as to what this place might have been or might still be. The dragging footsteps came again—distant, but there—and there was no telling whether they were below, above, or in front of me.

  Then I noted a small lump on the floor. It sat lonely and apart, the area around it free of dust. At a distance, I thought it might be a jewelry box of some kind. The thought piqued my interest. Again that unnerving song rose in my head, and I knew it was now guiding me toward this object. I grew closer, closer, and felt suddenly ill. It was like seasickness, but it arrived abruptly enough to steal my breath away. My vision blurred and my thoughts threaded into one another, tangled. Yet I could not stop my feet.

  My candle sputtered out, but I saw a little with the moonlight. It was not a lump on the floor or a jewelry box but a book—a huge black book. A simple drawing of a red eye with a cross through it glowed faintly on the cover. Certainly I could not trust my eyes, for it seemed to release an aura, thin wisps of purple rising from the cover like a dusky steam. I knelt and gently touched the cover. It was not warm to the touch but hot. Scalding.

  I pulled back with a yelp, shaking out my burned hand. And I stood, ready to flee, the book’s hold over me breaking a little after the shock of the burn. But before I could turn and run, a huge hand closed over my wrist. It felt like nothing, yet it crushed down on me hard enough to make my bones creak.

  A black hand, not human; too slender for that, too strong, and not quite corporeal.

  I had been discovered, and by no creature of flesh and blood.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gasping, I reared back, trying to fling off my attacker, but that only brought me face-to-face with the thing. A thing. My mind reeled. I had no words for this, no experience to match what I now saw bearing down on me. A creature of shadow, eight feet tall at least, and I could not tell where its body ended and the swirling black mist began. Yet certainly it touched me! There was no mistaking that, or the pain shooting up my arm.

  Its bulbous, round head neared me and suddenly split in the middle to reveal a too-wide set of teeth. Fangs. Every tooth was longer and sharper than the last.

  “Not for yoooooou,” it growled, and it spoke with a cold scrape of a voice pulled from the lowest pits of Hell.

  And it was not alone. The room, I saw now, was filled with these things.

  I screamed horribly, calling out for help, twisting myself this way and that until at last the demon creature released me. If only I could wake someone and rouse help. . . . This is what you get for trying to steal. My heart leapt with each bounding step I took, pushing my way through the crowd of shadowy things that seemed only to smirk down at me as I ran. The stairs! I had to reach the stairs! When I did, I took them two and then three at a time, holding on to the banister so as not to fly and break my neck.

  They were behind me. Scraping. Dragging. Pursuing.

  My fingers throbbed where the book had burned them and my wrist ached where the shadow creature had crushed it, but terror drove me on. I had no idea where to go. . . . Were these things all over the house? How could they be real? How could a nightmare not only touch me but bruise?

  Panicked, gulping for breath, I fled to the lower halls, to pound on doors until someone answered. But I ran too recklessly, and on the last few stairs before the second-floor landing I lost my footing, tumbling to the bottom and hitting the carpets with a thud. Sprawled out, candle lost, I tried to climb to my feet, wincing from the pain in my wrist.

  I did not need to turn and look to know the creatures were advancing. I could hear and sense them coming, their heavy, scraping footsteps growing nearer. Fear picked me up, put me on my feet, and I sprinted for my open door at the end of the hall. When I was inside, I spun and slammed the door, locking it, holding my weight against it as a brace.

  Not that it would matter. Those things were huge and uncannily strong. They would make short work of the door, I thought, if they even obeyed such obstructions. Perhaps they would simply walk right through and snatch me up, rip me limb from limb . . .

  My face was wet with tears as I pressed it to the wood. Nothing could be the same again, not after what I had just seen. By the moonlight filtering into the room I inspected my wrist. There were no marks. When I turned my hand, however, there were two angry red burns exactly where I had touched the book.

  Footsteps. They were light and soft, but that was assuredly some deception. I held my breath, shaking as a tiny knock came at the door.

  “Louisa? Louisa, are you quite all right? Bartholomew and I heard a commotion.”

  Poppy. I could barely make out her mouselike voice through the thick door.

  “Open up, please. There’s no reason to hide.”

  I slid down the door and squinted through the keyhole. It was just a girl there, waiting, in her prim, frilled nightgown.

  Had it been a nightmare after all? Why else would those shadow creatures not attack the girl? Carefully, gradually, I eased open the door. The hall behind Poppy was empty. She had retrieved my candle and lit it, the dancing flame illuminating her marked face and a sympathetic smile. Her eyes traveled from my tearstained face to my burned hand.

  “Were you wandering? You mustn’t wander. Mrs. Haylam should have told you it isn’t good to leave your room at night.”

  There was no use lying, not after she had noticed my hand. Did she know about the odd room with the scalding-hot book? Did she sense my true intentions? “I went to the top floor. There w-was a book and these . . . I . . . saw something startling and I ran. I stumbled on the steps.”

  That was all I could manage to whisper.

  Poppy nodded sagely, as if this all made perfect sense and was not in any way alarming. What on earth had I gotten myself into? Summoned by my screaming, Mrs. Haylam drifted down the hall toward us, her gray hair in a long braid. It made her look more like the crone I had met at Malton.

  She stopped behind Poppy, sighing as she inspected me.

  “Louisa saw the book and met the Residents. They gave her a shock and she tumbled down the steps.”

  It was so cold in the hall, and all I wanted to do was turn around and crawl into bed, yank the blankets over my head, and pretend this night was and continued to be nothing but a bad dream. But Mrs. Haylam pursed her lips and motioned for me to follow.

  “I see. Very well. She will need to speak with Mr. Morningside, then. It appears it’s time to explain.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “How can you be so cavalier about this? There was a giant creature crushing my wrist! It spoke. It’s completely unnatural!”

  Mrs. Haylam put up her hand, demanding silence. “Lower your voice, girl. Or have you not learned your lesson this night?”

  The threat of seeing those awful things again was more than enough to shut me up. And so I followed, numbed and stunned, afraid that she could somehow control those beasts of shadow and use them against me. But she’d spoken quietly and was now completely silent as she led me down toward the green door. Perhaps she feared rousing those things, too.

  I could tell by her quick pace and cold shoulder that she had lost her patience with me. And perhaps that was understandable—getting caught wandering the manor at night when I had been employed not even a week? A reasonable housekeeper might assume I was wandering the house for nefarious purposes, planning to steal from guests. Especially if that housekeeper had heard the maid called a thief in Malton just days ago. But I was not stupid enough to let her know that such assumptions were completely right.

  “You will have many questions for him, I imagine, but try n
ot to speak too much and simply listen,” she said, visibly irritated. She opened the green door for me and waited, examining me with cold slits for eyes. “Listen,” she repeated. “Listen carefully to him, and make your choices even more carefully.”

  I wiped impotently at the tear tracks on my cheeks. I required no mirror to know I looked a frightful mess.

  “My choices?” I replied. So she did suspect me. If they didn’t turn me out that night, I would have to be more careful going forward.

  Mrs. Haylam nodded exactly once. “I hope to see you again, Louisa Ditton. I think I am growing a little fond of you.”

  Mr. Morningside stood behind his desk with his back to me, a fanciful bird with a blue head and red bill perched on his wrist.

  My own wrist still throbbed. Hot blood pulsed behind the burns on my fingertips, and standing there, watching him coo at an exotic animal, was utter misery. If there was punishment to come, then I wanted to confront it now and be done with it. And if I was lucky, he might let me return to my room and sleep out the night before kicking me out in the morning. I shivered; the thought of sleeping even one more night in a house where those shadows prowled chilled me to my marrow.

  At least his study was warm, and fragrant with the tang of sunflower seeds and the earthiness of feathers.

  “Parrots are remarkable things,” he said at last. The riotously colored bird on his hand shifted, pecking at his sleeve. Mr. Morningside was fully dressed, and at this hour, I assumed it was only because he’d been forced to have a word with me. “So beautiful. Look at this one’s plumage. Indigo and scarlet, yellow and green as bright as summer grass. But such beauty can be deceptive.”

  Mr. Morningside turned and faced me, though he did not take his attention away from the parrot.

  “Did you know, Miss Louisa, that parrots will eat other animals? Oh yes; they do not simply gorge on fruits and seeds all day. They will eat meat, too, and I’ve heard tales of some that attacked full-grown sheep. All that loveliness, and it conceals savagery.” Finally he looked at me, and his golden eyes were unexpectedly gentle. Kind, even.

  I did not like it.

  “I was attacked in your house this evening,” I said. My voice trembled, the fright of the ordeal still coursing through me like lightning. Mrs. Haylam had demanded that I listen, but I could stay quiet no longer. “What manner of creature are you keeping here? Obviously not only the birds.”

  Smirking, he stroked one finger over the parrot’s breast. “I understand you’ve encountered the Residents. I admit, they can be an unsettling sight for the uninitiated.”

  I stammered. I fumbled. My wrist ached and ached and I glanced down at it, fancying I could still feel the iron grip of that monstrous shadow. “I understand all of those words separately, but not in the way you arranged them.”

  “Do try to keep up, Miss Louisa.”

  That tore at me, and so did his breezy tone. “I have been burned and chased and terrified, and now to face this condescension—”

  “Calm yourself,” he said. He took the parrot to a wooden stand and urged it to leave his hand, then he returned to the desk and poured tea for both of us from a waiting service. “Sit.”

  I had little desire to stay, but there were too many unanswered questions for my liking. I wanted to know what I had seen. The creatures, the book, even the singing door . . . The tea did help, though. It usually did. I sipped slowly, wincing when my burned fingers grazed the china.

  Mr. Morningside noticed, lowering his own cup and saucer and frowning at my injured hand. “You found the book.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you felt compelled to touch it?”

  “It . . . I know it sounds ludicrous, but I had no control over myself. So, yes, I supposed I was compelled.”

  He nodded through this response and opened one of the drawers on his desk, taking out a small glass pot of a snowy-white cream that looked like ointment. When he opened the lid on it, the scent of astringent cut through the air. “Your hand, please. It will do nothing for the marks, but it will at least ease your discomfort.”

  I hesitated, and he saw it, closing his eyes for a prolonged blink, as if taking a moment to choose his words carefully. It was clear my hesitation had offended him. He looked wounded. Probably no young lady had ever balked at giving him her hand.

  “Please.”

  Stubbornly, I waited a little longer and then thrust my arm across the desk toward him. I watched as he gently grasped my right wrist and dabbed a bit of the ointment on the livid, burning marks. Warmth blossomed at the point of contact, and I commanded my cheeks not to blush. This person lorded over a veritable circus of dark curiosities, and it did not matter that he had glossy black hair and golden eyes; I would not give him the luxury of my blushes. It helped to remember that I wanted to steal from him. He was an unsuspecting target to me and nothing more.

  The pain in my fingers was already gone.

  “Now then,” he said, breaking the spell. He closed up the ointment jar and shoved it back in the drawer. Then he tented his fingers and studied me intently, as if I were one of his newly acquired birds. “Did you see anything in the book?”

  I shook my head, cradling my tended hand in my lap and using the other to sip tea. “It scalded me. I closed it at once. What’s inside of it?”

  “More on that later, perhaps.”

  “But—”

  “What is your impression of our darling Italian countess, Mrs. Eames?”

  Mrs. Eames? How on earth was she relevant?

  “I . . . beg your pardon?”

  He took my confusion in stride, smiling benevolently. “Just trust me, please, for I am steering us toward the answer you seek, yes? What did you make of Mrs. Eames?”

  The woman had not crossed my thoughts in some time. After all, having a run-in with a living shadow and an accursed book rendered all other thoughts unimportant. But I scraped up my one memory of her, of serving tea and watching her nibble a biscuit and do her best social acrobatics to escape George Bremerton.

  “She’s a widow,” I said shakily. “And she’s extraordinarily beautiful. She’s here for the spa. George Bremerton fell all over himself to escort her to the gardens. I think she mentioned sons.”

  “All true.” He resumed drinking his tea, leaning back comfortably in his chair. “Did you know, the female of the praying mantis species will often decapitate her counterpart just before or after mating?”

  Now I really did blush. Never had a young man discussed anything so vulgar as mating rituals in my presence. But there had to be some purpose to the story; he did not strike me as the type to jettison all propriety at a moment’s notice.

  Mrs. Eames. Right.

  “Are you suggesting Mrs. Eames ate her dead husband?”

  Mr. Morningside snorted over his tea. “Actually, no, but she did decapitate him. I believe she called it an agricultural incident on their vineyard. Funny how scythes can just”—he slashed the flat of his hand across his throat—“fall from the sky.”

  I recoiled, nearly sloshing my tea everywhere. “That is a severe accusation. How do you know this?”

  “Not all of my employees work on the premises, Miss Louisa. Maids, valets, urchins, even the occasional priest . . .”

  He was being condescending again, and it made me feel very young, and made him by comparison seem so very old. But how many years could he have on me?

  “One of her sons died, too,” Mr. Morningside said lightly. “His boat destined for Italy sank . . .” He paused and consulted a small, leather-bound diary on the desk. “. . . two days ago.”

  “Good God,” I murmured. “You don’t think she’s responsible for that, too? An entire boat?”

  “When there’s a fortune at stake, the greedy are capable of anything.” He finished his tea and cocked his head to the side. “The world would be well rid of these vermin, don’t you agree?”

  I did, but it felt like I was stepping stupidly into a trap. “I suppose.”

&nb
sp; “And so I’ve instructed Poppy to do away with the lovely Mrs. Eames on the morrow.”

  Murder. Brazen, remorseless slaughter. Of a woman who killed her husband and child and stood to profit from it. Hadn’t I hated rich, haughty women like Mrs. Eames? Hadn’t I watched with disdain as ladies like her came to collect governesses from Pitney? Appraising us like farm animals. Choosing a human being like one would choose a pair of earrings or shoes? Why should I care that someone like her might be killed?

  But it mattered that it was Poppy doing the deed. She was just a girl like me. A child. Could she really be a killer?

  “Poppy . . . But she’s so . . . so . . .”

  “Sweet?” Mr. Morningside nodded toward the brilliantly plumed parrot.

  All that loveliness, and it conceals savagery.

  “Are you always this quick to murder your guests? That’s monstrous!” I stood, ready to hurl myself out the door, out of the house, and into the cold. I couldn’t stand to be there another minute.

  Mr. Morningside stood, too, but it didn’t quite seem like a threat. “Monstrous? Killing two innocent people is monstrous. I’m merely practical. Yes, I lured her. She may claim she came on her own terms to visit the spring, but that’s only half true. You said the book compelled you to touch it. No doubt you felt drawn to it, and no logic or reason or burst of foresight would keep you from doing so, correct?”

  I nodded, trying frantically to piece it all together. This was madness. I didn’t belong here. It was time to leave.

  “Ah. Well. That is how rats like Mrs. Eames feel, Louisa, only toward this place. They are drawn here. Compelled.” He leaned toward me and placed his palms on the desk, his smile crooked and cocksure. “They do not know why they come, but they do, and once they step through the doors, their fate is sealed. They come here because they are evil. Irredeemable. They come here to die.”

  Chapter Thirteen