Viktor awoke on his back. He had barely moved during the night. A strange taste was in his mouth and his senses were alight. The silence was too loud and the darkness was tangible. The world tipped when he sat up. His shoes were still on, his trousers were open, and his suspenders were missing. Had he even worn them last night?
Last night.
Jacqueline.
Holding his head, he made it to the door, buckling his trousers as he went in search of his butler. Their clothes were gone from the foyer. He peeked into the study and saw a tea set steaming. A pitcher of water was beside it as well as a tiny glass of golden fluid. Lifting it, he grimaced at the smell of beer but swallowed it down. To his surprise, the soup in his stomach prickled but settled. Viktor used the next two hours to nurse the water and tea into his system.
A quiet knock rapped on the door. Jaq appeared in better shape than he did. “Do you want to eat something?”
“Should I dare?” he countered.
Jaq shrugged. “You didn’t vomit. That’s better than I did when I met Saara the first time.”
“That’s probably my problem,” he said, propping his elbow on the desk to hold his head up. Jaq came over and took the tea tray as well as the pitcher. When she returned, the latter was refilled and she brought a plate with sliced gherkins and a greasy sandwich of fried eggs, potatoes, and bacon. Viktor’s eyes flitted up, giving her a deadpan expression.
“If you dare,” she offered. He caught her smile right as she turned and left. Viktor lifted an eyebrow but ate a slice of pickle. He read about the fire demolishing the Times Radiant Theatre, but there was nothing about the bodies inside or the carrion infestation. With his first bite of the sandwich, he felt the mess in his stomach was dissolving.
He frowned when a knock sounded on the front door. Jaq passed through the foyer, opening the door, and Viktor’s headache redoubled with every footstep Owensby took. He slapped his own newspaper on his desk. “Have you read it?” he stormed and then read from memory, “ ‘Spontaneous combustion of a gas line in an abandoned theatre’? Who is writing these details?”
“Have you considered the journalist?” Viktor grated, rubbing between his brows.
Owensby scoffed. “I know the person responsible for the article and they are easier to buy off than it is to buy a shag on Fifth Street.”
He glanced at Viktor and Jaq staring at him. “Oh it’s not a secret!” he defended. “And did you notice the blatant advertisement for that gentlemen’s club?”
Viktor’s eyes darted to Jaq but her expression was unreadable.
Owensby continued, “I would like to have a word with the club’s owner.”
“You’re going to walk into a room full of men capable of turning into wolves and demand why they’re buying off the papers?” Viktor challenged.
Owensby was at a loss for words but Jaq filled the space. “There’s also an advertisement for a psychic,” she commented, scanning over the articles. She puffed her lower lip out inquisitively. “Might be a waste of time, or she could be as good as Isabelle.”
“Excellent,” Owensby huffed. “We will go see a charlatan and then the club. I wil see you both at nine o’clock once more.”
He left without an answer. Viktor’s body demanded proper sleep beforehand, but come nine o’clock, Owensby returned with Thomas in tow. He seemed anxious.
“Should I be a part of this?” Thomas wondered. “What with Isabelle’s reaction to me and all…”
“Mr. Cleaves, this will likely take a matter of twenty minutes,” Owensby stated. “No one cares what your selection of women is.”
“That is not my selection,” he defended haughtily before the carriage door opened. None of them had noticed the carriage stop.
“We’re here,” Jaq sidetracked.
The psychic was a feature in a hotel casino. The four of them strode between the colourful gambling tables and passed through a thick blue curtain into the lobby of the hotel. Beyond was another curtain, and beside it a podium where a slim teenager, dark as a roasted nut, stood looking at them. “Are you here for a reading?” he asked kindly.
“Send them in!” a strong voice commanded. The boy’s smile faltered, and he stepped over to hold the curtain for them all to enter.
A large, circular table with a glass surface was in the center of the room. On the far side of it was a woman who looked remarkably like the boy, with long black hair braided close to her scalp on one side so it could fall over the other half of her scalp. “Good evening,” she said, although it lacked real welcome.
“Hello. Is that your son?” Jaq asked cordially.
“Mm, perceptive, Jacqueline. Yes, he is.” She was shuffling a deck of cards. Her eyes were a strikingly dark shade, like twinkling onyx set in the eyes of nocturnal creatures; entirely unlike her son’s bright turquoise eyes. “I must say, I knew you would come, but I am still astonished. Isabelle is a very capable girl…I suppose her age and naivety hinder her understanding, but…I had to spend a small fortune in order to get your attention in the papers.”
“ ‘Is’ ?” Jaq repeated. “Isabelle’s dead.”
The woman looked at her, eyes unwavering, then she turned those glittering orbs to Viktor. “You have not been to her grave yet? Goodness, the poor girl must be starving…if she does not suffocate first.”
The four of them stood dumbfounded.
Jaq took off, Thomas right on her heels. The ghost of a smile formed on the woman’s lips. “Off like a shot. You have to admire gumption like that… Doctor Teagan. I suggest you retrieve your medical supplies and follow post haste. Worry not, Sir Owensby. I will be waiting right here.”
Owensby and Viktor arrived outside to find that two of his four horses gone from the carriage. The driver of his carriage appeared rather flustered but drove them to Viktor’s house so he could retrieve his black case before the driver was dismissed entirely. By the time he and Owensby arrived at the cemetery, Thomas and Jaq were halfway finished digging. They worked in the dark, to avoid the wrath of the cemetery’s caretaker.
Thud.
Together, they scraped away the soil and dug a small trench around the coffin before tilting the vessel on its side. Their shovels thrust into the seal and twisted. When the lid opened a crack, pale, slightly blue fingers emerged. They lifted and kicked the lid wide open, and Isabelle sucked in air, coughing and very much alive. Deep indigo circles were under her eyes and her lips were tinged blue. Viktor’s sutures on her chest could be seen vaguely through the white of her funeral dress.
Like the rustle of paper, she tried to speak but was unable as she dumbly scratched at Jaq’s arms. Thomas hoisted her out of the grave, handing her up to Viktor. Thomas climbed out and held his hands out to Jaq, and easily lifted her and set her feet on the grass.
Viktor was already inside the carriage when he heard gunfire.
“Who’s out there!” the caretaker yelled. His lantern swung creakily in the distance. “Fuckin’ grave robbers! Leave the dead to their peace!”
He fired again. Viktor spared a second from Isabelle to glance outside the carriage. Owensby was right behind him, climbing in to tend to the girl. Thomas and Jaq were running toward them, dodging gravestones and bullets. Thomas jumped into the driver’s seat and Jaq vaulted onto her horse’s back. She took the reins of hers and Thomas’s horses and galloped out of the cemetery with the carriage close behind.
“To my house!” Owensby yelled out the window. Jaq complied, galloping all the way there. Viktor jumped out and took Isabelle inside. Owensby had everything medically required and they laid her down on a chaise lounge.
Isabelle said nothing while they worked to stabilize her. Her eyelashes fluttered with consciousness and her complexion faded to white but it would be another several days before she was even remotely well again… If a formerly deceased person could be well.
Afterward, Viktor cleaned his transfusion tools in Owensby’s laboratory. He wiped his forehead, piling them back in his case. It was the only thing he could guess to help her breathe: supply her body with oxygenated blood while her lungs remembered how to function.
He heard the door of the cellar as Jaq came in and said behind him, “I don’t think you should put those away, yet.”
“I know,” he said, “but Owensby has more than I could possibly carry. Mrs. Wroll will be livid if she learns Isabelle is here—”
“Viktor.”
His head turned, and he stared at Jaq leaning against the stairwell wall with a hand to her side. She smiled apologetically. “I need stitches…and possibly a bullet removed.”
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