Cusp of night, p.24
Cusp of Night, page 24
The bell tinkled.
Maya’s breathing quickened. She’d experienced far worse phenomena since moving into the brownstone yet couldn’t deny the cold clutch of fear twisting her stomach.
“Do you have a message for us?” Dante asked.
The bell tinkled again, louder this time. It inched forward in bursts of jerky movement.
“Dear God,” Althea breathed.
Dante shook his head, warning her silent. He waited a few seconds, his gaze steady on the hand bell. “You’ve been trying to tell Maya Sinclair something. A message important enough to reach through the Aether.”
Maya tensed involuntarily. Her thoughts spun back to a rain-slick road and the flash of emergency lights.
Pain smothered by a buffer of air. Weightlessness. Floating.
Something with her. Not someone, but some thing.
She tightened her fingers around Collin’s, squeezing so hard he snapped her a worried glance.
“Can you help us understand?” Dante said.
The bell rose several inches into the air. To Maya it seemed as if the entire group held a collective breath.
Cold spots bloomed, sudden and fierce. In the corner, the bread basket shot into the air, scattering lilies and baguettes over the floor. The bell clattered to the table with the hollow clang of brass on wood. Ivy jerked on her hand and shrieked.
“Stay still, stay still!” Brook warned.
Lucinda’s spirit trumpet soared over their heads as a chill gust extinguished the candles. Only those below Lucinda’s poster remained lit. In the diminished glow, her eyes were pinpricks of frost.
Colorless like a demon’s. Frederick Brundage’s account of the Fiend swirled in Maya’s head. “…lithe as a cat. It scurried up a drainpipe and took to the rooftops.”
Acid curdled her stomach. She remembered Dr. Foley’s take on Lucinda in his book on nineteenth century culture.
“Petite and agile, Philadelphia’s illustrious medium once soared wire to wire with the effortless grace of the lissome spirits she summoned.”
“Oh, dear God. It’s her.”
A tempest exploded upward from the floor, blowing the circle of lamps backward, toppling them like sheaves of wheat.
“Break the circle,” Dante yelled.
Maya was barely conscious when Collin’s hand fell from hers and Dante triggered the spotlight. Her eyes rolled into her head as Lucinda pulled her into the past.
Lucinda walks beside the river, heart breaking with the knowledge she’s surrendered her baby. Henry has deserted her, his crime worse than Simon’s. He’s taken the most precious gift in her life and given her child to another woman. Charlotte doesn’t deserve William. She’s even changed his name, filched away every bit of his identity.
It’s foolishness to be out so late, alone in the city, but she doesn’t care. Crying as she wanders the bank of the Chinkwe, she’s made a mess of her makeup, her mascara streaked by tears, her lipstick smeared. The sound of laughter distracts her.
Two women blunder into her path. Harlots by their appearance, drunk by the unsteadiness of their gait. The first spies her and sways to a halt. Thrusting a bony chin close, she fists a hand against her hip.
“Lookee ’ere, Molly. What kind of blue-skinned freak is this?”
“Ugly thing.” Molly paws hair from her eyes. “Painted face, too. Like a monster, ain’t it, Tilda?”
“Right nasty, fiend, I’d say.” With a cackle, Tilda saunters ahead. Molly follows, sharing her laughter.
Lucinda says nothing but watches the backs of the retreating women. They are twenty feet away when she sprints after them with a savage burst of speed. She is silent, only her breath betraying a ripple of exertion when she knots her fingers in Molly’s hair. The whore’s eyes round in shock. She hasn’t time to utter a sound before Lucinda chops a hand against her throat. Molly is dead before she hits the ground.
Screaming, Tilda stumbles in her haste to flee. She doesn’t die as swiftly, but her neck is broken when Lucinda drops her on the riverbank.
The bodies are discovered at dawn, the murders barely causing a ripple in the town. It is common knowledge prostitutes, by the nature of their trade, often meet a violent end.
Lucinda recalls the night, the heady rush of intoxicating darkness. Alive in a manner she hasn’t felt since defying death in the circus, she spends the next day altering Simon’s black clothing to fit her smaller frame. When she takes to the street after midnight, face paint and a cloak help conceal her blue skin and identity. Her skill with performance makeup has transformed her into a demon. She revels in frightening the feeble-minded, more in her dangerous escapes across rooftops.
The newspapers label her “the Fiend.” Men with dogs take to the streets to hunt her down. Over the next several weeks she has several close calls, but the narrow escapes heighten her excitement. When Emma discovers her secret and chastises her for such foolishness, she turns a deaf ear. The malevolence lodged in her soul is too strong. Sometimes she feels she is two individuals, one who clings to right and wrong, the other fueled by madness.
Charlotte Hode wishes to see her. She could produce more automatic writings for the girl and placate her with lies, but remorse over the loss of her baby has fueled her hatred for the woman pretending to be his mother. Not wishing to be seen visiting the Blue Lady, Charlotte will agree to meeting at night. Unlike the whores by the river, Lucinda will ensure her death is not swift.
When the hour arrives, she instructs Emma to say she is unwell. With the housekeeper engaged, she slips out the rear door, immediately comfortable in the clotted fog. Random thoughts fire through her brain, flashes of conscience and psychosis. Her step is fleet and silent when she trails Charlotte down the alley, a knife feather-light in her hand. Knowing she must overtake the girl before she reaches her carriage, Lucinda breaks into a run. The damp air chills her, and a steady drizzle melts on her cheeks. She feels as if she is flying.
Charlotte is a bundle of clothes and bones, her pathetic screams cut short when the blade plunges into her abdomen. Lucinda’s hair has fallen free of her cloak, much of the devil makeup washed away by the rain. She lets Charlotte fold to her knees, perturbed there isn’t more blood. The girl’s thin fingers coil around her wrist as recognition dawns on her face. There is no horror in her eyes, only profound sadness and betrayal.
“Why,” she pleads. “Please…tell me why.”
Infuriated by her grief, Lucinda slashes her throat. Expecting to feel vindicated, she is left hollow inside.
A broad brick of a man, Charlotte’s coachman suddenly materializes from the fog. He bellows as he storms toward her, bleating curses and threats. Lucinda flees to the rooftops. Flight normally stimulates her, cousin to soaring from carnival trapeze to carnival trapeze, but she feels hunted tonight, terror a clinging companion.
An hour later, Emma finds her in her room, dripping with blood.
“What have you done?” Her friend’s face is slack with horror.
Lucinda has no words. The hysteria of her mind bubbles over, and she breaks down in tears. The older woman takes charge with brisk efficiency, stripping her and washing her. Lucinda has no idea what becomes of the bloodied clothes. Emma tucks her into bed and she falls into an exhausted sleep.
In the morning, she finds Hode’s Hill buzzing with news of Charlotte’s death. Emma demands to know if she is responsible, and her stony silence serves as her confession.
“I will give you until this evening to declare your crime to the constable,” Emma tells her. “If you do not, I will.”
There is such sorrow in her gaze, Lucinda’s stomach rolls over. She spends the remainder of the day in bed, trapped between anguish and aggression. When night falls, she dresses methodically, applying the devil makeup with care. There is no longer a question of what must be done. She finds Emma in the room off the kitchen drinking tea.
At the sight of her dressed as the Fiend, Emma rises to her feet. Her gaze falls to the knife in Lucinda’s hand.
“If you do this, you will regret the deed for as long as you live.” Her back is stiff, but fear makes her voice tremble.
“I do not expect that will be long.” Lucinda smiles sadly. “I hope you understand it isn’t truly me.”
Emma nods, tears streaking her face. “I see her in your eyes. She’s destroyed you, as she destroyed Simon and everything she touches. You called her, didn’t you?”
“I called him and she answered.” Lucinda fights back tears. “She is too strong for me.”
“She is a demon.”
“No.” Lucinda cries freely. Hefting the knife above her head, she lunges forward. “She is a Fiend.”
Chapter 16
“Maya.”
Someone tapped her cheek. Twisting her head to the side, she fought her way back to consciousness. Collin bent over her, his face etched with concern. It took a moment to realize she wasn’t in the séance room, but lying on her bed. Collin sat beside her on the mattress, her left hand clasped in his.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Thank God.” Closing his eyes, he exhaled palpable tension.
“I told you she’d be okay.” Dante stalked close. She hadn’t noticed him in the room.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t wake up.” Collin said.
“Where is everyone else?” Maya scrunched up on the bed. She looked between the two, trying to remember what happened.
“Brook and Ivy are cleaning up the séance room,” Dante said. “Althea went downstairs to get ice. She was afraid you hit your head when you passed out.”
“No, I’m okay.” Maya fingered her hair. Bits and pieces of the séance were starting to re-emerge. The violent crash of the lamps…the savage manifestation of cold…the abrupt extinguishing snuff of the candles. “Can we regroup in the séance room? I need to explain what happened while I was unconscious.” The difficulty of what she had to share left her queasy. “Make sure there’s plenty of light.”
* * * *
This time there was no incense or candles, no bowls with bread or welcoming message to the spirits. The lamps had been repositioned, standing at various spots on the floor. The resulting flood of light helped banish the chill that had plagued Maya since awakening from her trance. She had no other word to describe what she’d experienced, dream falling short of the sensations she’d felt—the icy touch of the rain as she’d trailed Charlotte, the hot sear of blood on her hands, the wretched melancholy on Emma’s face as she died in her arms. It had all seemed so real. Too real.
“Maya. Are you okay?” Collin touched her arm.
Nodding, she smiled wanly. They’d regrouped around the table to discuss what had happened. Brook and Ivy sipped canned sodas while Althea nursed a bottle of water. Maya had started by sharing her accident, including the fateful two minutes and twenty-two seconds she’d spent in the Aether.
“Lucinda was there, but she wasn’t alone.” She’d always thought there were others, now she understood why. The pieces had come together in her head before the spiritualist drew her into a trance. “According to her journal, Lucinda tried to contact Simon after Henry took her baby. Unlike the fraud séances she’d conducted in the past, she actually broke through to Summerland. Simon wasn’t waiting for her, but Josette was.”
“That’s not entirely surprising. Malevolent spirits often highjack a summoning call.” Dante fiddled with his audio recorder, running a thumb over the buttons.
“That’s an interesting way of putting it.” Collin’s smile was tight as if he appreciated the interpretation. “From what little I know of Josette, she was psychotic.”
“And vindictive,” Maya said. “Josette suffered from delusions when she was alive, but after she died, her spirit fed off the misery of others. Lucinda was already broken by her love for Simon and the loss of her baby. She never stood a chance.”
“What do you mean?” Althea asked.
“Whatever happened during Lucinda’s contact with Josette, it twisted her mind.” Maya spread her hands. “In essence, she became two people—her original, weaker self, and the stronger, more controlling, Josette.” Her glance slid sideways to the poster hanging in the wall niche. “When I was researching the Fiend, I kept stumbling over things that bothered me, but I couldn’t identify why until tonight.”
Dante frowned. “What does Lucinda Glass have to do with the Fiend?”
“Think about it.” Maya hated admitting the truth. “She was lithe and agile, a former circus performer. The buildings in the city are close, especially in the older sections. Leaping rooftops was probably a cinch for a skilled aerialist.”
Brook’s mouth dropped.
“She knew how to apply performance makeup, and her eyes were nearly colorless. Ice-white like the Fiend’s.” Maya nodded to the image of the beautiful blue-skinned woman. “The Fiend was never a man. The people of the day just naturally assumed a woman could never commit such heinous crimes.”
“You mean she killed Charlotte Hode?” Brook asked.
“All Josette had to do was twist her anger at losing her baby into fury.”
“She was possessed.” Dante snapped his mouth shut. Standing, he moved closer to study the poster. “I felt cold-blooded anger in this room tonight. Extreme hostility.”
“That was Josette.” Maya was coming to hate the name. “She was in the Aether after my accident, and she was here tonight. She’s been trying to stop Lucinda from showing me the truth.”
Ivy looked confused. “The truth being that she turned Lucinda into the Fiend?”
“Yes. The sad part is, I don’t think Lucinda fully realized she suffered from a split personality. She was heartbroken by Emma’s death. When she wrote about the Fiend in her journal, she referred to it as the creature or the monster.”
“So, she killed my ancestor and her housekeeper?” Collin drummed his fingers against the table. “And she showed you this in a trance?”
Maya nodded.
“I always thought the creature killed Lucinda,” Dante said. “Most people assumed she died with Emma, but the Fiend hauled her body off.” He walked back to the table and dragged the recorder to the edge. “This is probably a good place to share what I found. I rewound the audio earlier. You need to hear this.” He pressed the playback button.
The tape started after his invitation for Lucinda to join them. There were a few seconds of silence interrupted by a strange staticky sound that pimpled goose flesh on Maya’s arms. That noise couldn’t be manmade. She barely heard the tinkle of the bell, but Ivy’s shriek and Brook’s warning to stay still came through loud and clear. Seconds later, she heard her own voice.
“Oh, dear God. It’s her.”
There was a blast, followed by a forcible clatter as the lamps blew backward.
“Break the circle!” Dante yelled. A sound of scrambling as everyone rushed to trigger lights. Almost simultaneously, a high-pitched voice screeched out a single word: TRUSS.
Dante killed the tape.
“Wow!” Brook fell back in her chair.
“That’s just too creepy.” Ivy’s face had paled.
“I don’t understand what it means.” Althea looked confused.
Dante fingered the recorder. “It depends on whether the word is being used in the physical sense or an abstract manner. Trusses are used for support. Is the ghost saying she supports our attempts to reach her and wants us to try again, or is she offering a leading word we should understand?”
“I think I know what it means.” Maya looked past Dante to the window. Tucked down the river, the remains of the Old Orchard Truss Bridge loomed in the darkness, its central pillar jutting from the water like an altar. Thirty feet across at a minimum, sides eroding with decay, it stood as a marker to another century. It was the location where Tina had disappeared and Graham had been found.
She looked to Collin. “Do you remember Lucinda’s previous message to me—find him?”
He nodded.
“This is the second half. She’s told us where to look.”
“Find who? What are you talking about?” Brook’s brows knitted above her eyes.
“Nothing important.” Collin stood. “But I’d say this séance is over.”
* * * *
“This is against my better judgment.” Collin dropped the mooring rope. Sinking into the captain’s chair, he opened the throttle on the Seahawk and eased the boat from the dock.
Maya sat beside him. “After everything I’ve been through, I’m not about to let you do this alone.” Earlier, she’d grabbed a hoodie and deck shoes, knotting the arms of the sweatshirt around her waist. Mayflies flitted in the darkness and pond skaters skimmed the surface of the water. Hidden in the darkness, tree frogs kept up a steady serenade backed by crickets.
Once clear of the dock, Collin wound out the motor. The boat streaked ahead, green LED strips secured to the hull illuminating a small ribbon of water on either side. The skyline of Hode’s Hill glittered to her left, the shoreline on the right pitch-black. Amethyst Hall fell away behind them.
“I hope you’re right about this.” Collin spun the wheel to the left. “It’s a long shot, but after everything that’s happened, worth a try.”
“Thank you for that.” Maya knew her idea was far-fetched, but she’d stopped believing in the impossible ages ago. It hadn’t taken long to convince Collin to give her notion a try. After the séance ended, he’d driven his mother home, then changed out his jeans for swim trunks at the boathouse. Althea had been ready to climb onboard the Seahawk until he pointed out the importance of having someone on shore.
“We may need help. I’ll contact you if we find Ford.” He showed her how to operate the radio and how to signal for help.
“Ford will recognize me,” she’d protested.
He shook his head. “Not in the dark. Not in his present state.”
