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Chapter 1:
In Which Tom Is Accused of Murder

 

Now I’m fairly good at being discreet when I want to be, but I’ve also got a bit of a gift when it comes to making noise. I kicked open the door of our hotel suite, and this time had the pleasure of causing Helene and Grimoire to squeak and Lucien to jump in his seat and swear quite colorfully in English. A bit of plaster trickled from the ceiling, and when I shut the door I was happily surprised to see the dent the doorknob had made in the wallpaper behind the door. Blarney mewed her approval.

“Well, I don’t see what’s so bloody funny,” Lucien said snippishly, glaring at me over his novel.

“No, you wouldn’t,” I said cheerily, flashing him a broad grin as I dropped the grease-spotted paper bag I’d been carting about onto the small table in front of him.

Lucien was especially crabby today—that’s what being locked up in the hotel for a whole day and a half had done for him. As for me, I was full of a good lot of pent-up energy and had been driving me coven half-mad the day before, what with me whistling, slamming doors open and closed, and poking through everything. The morning of the second day, Helene had sent me out with money to fetch lunch just to get me out of the rooms, and I’d made sure to enjoy my freedom and hadn’t come back till past noon with lunch.

“And even somethin’ for you to stuff your ugly beak with,” I said to Misére, tugging his tail and making him squawk. The jar of kippers I held out made him clamp his beak shut mid-squawk.

Helene was sitting cross-legged on the couch, knitting Grimoire a wee sweater. “You did not steal anything, did you, Tom?”

“Not the food. Nor this.” I produced a flower out of thin air and held it out to her.

“An Easter lily!” Helene dropped her knitting and took the flower. “Merci, Tom!”

“I’ll take that as a ‘thanks’.” I tossed a folded newspaper in Lucien’s direction. “For you. You’ll like the paper today, Luce—it’s stuffy and boring. Not a bit of thrill or violence.”

Lucien caught the paper clumsily before it hit the floor. “It’s a newspaper, not a penny dreadful.”

“Penny dreadfuls themselves have been going down a bit lately too,” I said, producing a small book from my coat as I pulled it off and plopped down on the couch next to Helene. “Lots of words and lots of romance in a good deal of them. With less pictures, and a hell of a lot less gore.”

“Don’t tell me you wasted our money on that trash,” Lucien sniffed, opening the newspaper.

“Actually I nicked it,” I said, deciding not to bother with another argument about how all ‘our money’ was actually my hard-earned savings. “You not too fond of these then?”

“They belong in the bin. They’re just sensational nonsense peddled by shoddy writers and pored over by boys. I’m surprised you read anything at all, but I can’t say I’m surprised at the quality of your preferred choice of literature.”

“Bloke can learn a lot from a penny dreadful,” I declared, holding up my book. “Always go about doing your shavin’ yourself—barbers are trouble. Never invite a vampire inside. Watching out for madmen on the highway. All sorts of practical stuff. Aye, the stories are mostly a bloody lot of nonsense, but they’re half a sight better than that sentimental trash you like.”

“I’ve seen some fairly sentimental penny dreadfuls—”

“I skip that. I only like ‘em when they’ve got lots of blood and gore. Same with the newspaper. Most news lately is plain boring.”

“What about that Jack the Ripper? If I remember correctly, a few weeks ago you were following that story with a good deal of disturbing interest.”

“Oh, aye, and you would get all green at the sight of the paper…But, no, there’s been a lull in that. Which is all jolly for everyone, but means that the biggest headline news is some rot about the Queen buyin’ new knickers.”

Lucien rolled his eyes and turned a page. “I look forward to the day you grow up, Thomas.”

“Don’t know that you’ll live to see it. You are a good deal older than me. Ain’t you over thirty?”

“Not quite. Are you over twelve?”

“Told you before I was nineteen. Forgetting a bit in your old age?”

“Hm, no, I meant twelve inches, actually….”

“Very funny. Why don’t you—”

“You know what I love?” Helene was standing between us, her hands clapped together. “When someone I know is in the newspaper. Have either of you had friends who were in the newspaper?”

“Unfortunately. Some thieves are right proud of being mentioned in the paper; think it makes ‘em publicly infamous or notorious or what have you.” I snorted loudly. “Idiots. ‘Shamed to know ‘em. Me, I do my best to stay out of all that.”

“Aristocrats get in the papers often,” Lucien said, in a tone I didn’t recognize.

“Well, my papa was in the newspaper once,” Helene said proudly, holding up an album. “Let me show you.” She sat beside me, opening the big album on her lap and turning to the middle. “See? Lucien, look.”

Lucien rose up obediently and peered at the article.

“What’s it say?” I asked, after a moment.

Helene looked up at me, startled. “Oh! I forgot you do not know French. I am sorry.”

“Sorry that I don’t know French?”

“Shall I translate?” Lucien glanced up at me, amused for some reason. “It seems Helene’s father is a lawyer.”

“I know.”

“A wealthy lawyer—”

“Of course.”

“But not through his own means. His grandfather—Helene’s great-grandfather—was a famous lawyer who shared a firm with a Monsieur Bourdeille—Prideux and Bourdeille. These lawyers defended mostly the wealthy—”

“Many times, they defended very bad criminals who had money,” Helene added, wrinkling her nose.

“Well, the article doesn’t mention that. But it goes on to say that Helene’s grandfather followed in his father’s footsteps, but Helene’s father did not. The most recent Monsieur Prideux started his own firm, and when his father died, he sold his shares in the business to Monsieur Bourdeille. Monsieur Prideux defends a good deal of poorer folk, and apparently will take a case even when the client can’t afford to pay him. The remainder of the article goes on to mock him further for being so compassionate.”

“Why’d you save the article, if it’s poking fun at your da?” I asked Helene.

“Papa clipped it out of the newspaper and told me to save it. Maman did not like the article at all, but Papa said that they did not say anything that was untrue, though they left out some of the story. He said that they told the story and saw it as silly, but he saw it differently, and was proud of it.” Helene smiled a small smile. “I was proud of him too.”

“Well, it’s not so much of a sacrifice to defend fellows for free, if he’s got a fortune still from his da now, is it? Not like he needs the extra money.”

Lucien glared at me over Helene’s head, but I was fairly sure he’d been thinking the same thing.

“It is not about it being a sacrifice,” Helene said stiffly, closing her album. “It is about it being a good thing to do. It is about being noble.”

“Oh, yes, it’s very noble,” Lucien agreed, ever the kiss-up. “May I see the rest of your album?”

“Oui, Lucien.” She opened up her album again, this time from the beginning. “This is my parents’ wedding picture.” It was a photograph of a light-haired couple decked out in wedding gear. Helene’s mam was a tiny lady, with Helene’s big eyes, and her da shared Helene’s small nose and mouth.

“Your mother is very beautiful,” Lucien said, but I wasn’t sure if he was being polite or honest. Helene’s mam was a bit too waifish-looking to be Lucien’s type.

“Are those their familiars?” I pointed to the small white bird perched on her mam’s shoulder, and the small white rodent perched on her dad’s.

“Thank you, Lucien. And yes, Tom; that is Sorcellerie—she is a swallow—and Mystère—he is a gerbil.”

“Poor Mystère. Bet he don’t ever get much to eat when that fat rat of yours is about—ouch!” Grimoire looked smug, as I rubbed the tiny bite on my hand, and Helene giggled.

Helene turned the page. “My baby pictures.”

“You were a small baby,” I said, looking at a picture where baby Helene was being held by her mam. Helene was tiny even compared to her waifish mam.

“All babies are small,” said Lucien snobbishly.

“What, you’ve first-hand experience? I knew you must have a passel of bastards hidden away somewhere—”

“I was a small baby,” Helene interrupted. “I am still small for my age. Were you a small baby, Tom?”

“Not sure he could get much smaller,” Lucien muttered.

“Oh, ain’t you just full of clever talk today.” I crossed my arms. “I was born prematurely, so yes, I was born small.”

“How about you, Lucien?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I was ever too small, or even too big.”

Helene turned past several pages of her as a very little kid to more recent pictures, which there were more of. “This is from my eighth birthday.”

Helene was a little bit smaller in the picture, wearing a frilly dress, and sitting on her nurse’s lap. The nurse looked much the same as I remembered her; pretty, with a pile of blonde hair; a long neck; and kind eyes. The ruby brooch was nowhere to be seen.

“That was before the Baron proposed to her,” Helene said softly.

Lucien shifted in his seat, likely uncomfortable. I felt a bit awkward meself, and avoided looking at Helene’s face. Blimey, what if she was getting teary-eyed? I was making a serious study of my hands, when Lucien cleared his throat.

“He was a baron? You never told us that.”

I looked up, and Helene did too. “Oh!” she said, looking sheepish. “I remembered it this morning. I had forgotten. She only said he was a baron one time, when she first told me of the engagement.” She closed the album and it vanished. “I meant to tell you, but I forgot.”

“I was thinking about him this morning,” Lucien began, knitting his eyebrows together. “What kept him from coming to the train station that day? Maybe he was late, maybe someone delayed him even…but what if he didn’t come on purpose? Here we’ve been assuming he’s on our side, when none of us know him at all. Even your parents hardly trusted him.”

“They trusted that he was on our side,” Helene said slowly. I could see her face getting set in that way of hers, but Lucien kept pushing.

“He might’ve been using Sabine in the first place—”

“Non! That is not fair to say!”

“But we can’t pretend that it isn’t strange! And we can’t trust anyone! These…mad…people after you—they go to parties and, and chat or flirt like normal people, when they’re killers! What makes you think that Sabine’s fiancée—who you never knew—is any different?”

“Because he loved Sabine! Because…because…” Helene trailed off. She was standing now, her wee fists clenched at her sides. Grimoire peeked out of her pocket, his eyes narrowed.

“I’m not trying to be mean,” Lucien said, after a moment. “But…seriously, Tom, don’t you think we should at least face the possibility that—”

“Oh no, no, no!” I stood up so suddenly that Blarney nearly fell off me shoulders. “Don’t drag me into this!”

“We’ve already made the mistake of trusting the wrong people—”

“Your mistake. Not mine, nor hers.”

Lucien shut his mouth, and I couldn’t help feeling guilty, just a wee bit, for using what I knew to be a low blow.

“I am going to my room,” Helene said stiffly.

She didn’t slam the door behind her, just shut it very gently. We both heard the lock click.

I lit a cigarette, and sat down on the low table. “Sabine’s fiancé is our last hope, y’know. We can’t hide out at the Astbury forever. This Baron bloke is the only one who knows what’s really going on. He knows where this safe place in America is. We don’t trust him, and we just have to keep running.”

“I know that. But I don’t want to be giving Helene up to some man who’s planning to turn her directly over to the Council.”

“Neither do I. When we find the bloke, or he finds us, or what have you—we don’t just give her over and shake hands. We get to know him, figure him out. If he’s a double-crosser, then we…”

“Kill him?” Lucien looked uncertain.

I shrugged. “If you feel comfortable doing it. I’ve never killed nobody, and I don’t mean to change that unless I really have to. I was going to say we run like hell. We’re damn good at it.”

He laughed. “That’s all we can do.” There was a short silence, then: “We haven’t done the best job, taking care of Helene. Maybe it’ll be better for her to be with the Baron.”

“We both know that.”

The conversation was getting awkward. I was fairly sure we were both mulling over how much had changed after Halloween—it wasn’t easy to imagine life without Helene or a coven. Going back to everything seemed bloody dull now, actually. But I wasn’t about to say so. I wasn’t never a big lover of tender moments, especially with another bloke. I crushed my cigarette into an ashtray, and busied myself with re-tying my shoe.

“I should talk to her.” Lucien stood up, with one of his typical heavy sighs. “I didn’t mean to make her upset. Feels as if I’m always apologizing.”

“Don’t always be such a prat then,” I said cheerfully, elbowing him out the way and rapping on Helene’s door.

The door swung open on its own, and I waved Lucien inside, preferring to watch from where I stood, leaning against the doorframe.

Helene was sitting on her bed, a big storybook with lots of pictures open in front of her, and her fancy doll on her lap. Grimoire had his fat arse settled onto a page of the book and he hissed when Lucien came closer to the bed.

“Helene, I am dreadfully sorry,” Lucien said, wringing his hands. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I simply—”

“No, you were right.” Helene looked up, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. “We cannot know the nature of this Baron. He might easily be tricky and a liar like the Duchess and her sisters, or those bad Fairfax men. In truth…I too have been lying…a little bit.”

Lucien sat down on the bed next to her, and looked at me. I could tell he was nervous, though he didn’t have half as much reason to be nervous as I did. I remembered what Malphas had said to me on Halloween—that the reason the Council wanted Helene was not simply because they feared the fact that she was already so powerful at nine years old (as she had told us), but that Helene had within her the power to destroy the entire world, the ability to wipe out the population of London in less than one month. I had argued that she would never do any of that, but Malphas had said that she could do it all just by a mistake. Was this what she was about to tell us? The real reason why the Council wanted her dead? I’d never pressed her about it, and I still hadn’t told Lucien. I still wasn’t sure if I believed it—same as I didn’t believe that Malphas had once been some handsome lad from some silly witch legend.

Helene looked up at me nervously. “Do not be very mad, please, Tom!”

I raised an eyebrow. “Depends what you kept from us. Looks like I was the only one who wasn’t holdin’ back the truth on Halloween.” I sounded pretty easy about it, but I had a sickening feeling in my gut. How could you even destroy the world with magic? Could it be done with a single thought?

“It is about the Baron.” Helene bit down hard on her lip and looked at us both in turn. “I lied, when I said I knew nothing about him. I knew he was a baron, but I do not where in Europe he is from. I did not lie when I said that mostly everybody told me very little about him. But Sabine…she told me one thing…she said before we got off the train, that if the Baron was half an hour late, we would take a cab to a hotel. When I asked how the Baron would find us then, she said that he would wait each day at London Zoo, and we would meet him there.”

I had an even worse sickening feeling in my gut now. “London Zoo? Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Helene said timidly, twisting her hands together. “I am sorry.”

“But why would you keep that from us? He’s your guardian, and he’s the only one who knows where that safe place in America is. Without him, you’ll be stuck with us forever!”

“I know.” She started to cry, much to mine and Luce’s discomfort. Lucien hesitated, then handed her his handkerchief. I started forward and sat down on Helene’s other side, my thoughts far too scrambled for me to say anything.

“I did not want to go with the Baron!” Helene wiped at her tears, and looked up at us desperately. “You are my coven. You are my family. I want to be with you. Even if you fight a lot, and you snore and smell like whiskey, and you wear too much cologne and spend too many hours in the bath. I do not want to go away to America and stay with some strange coven.”

“But we have to find the Baron,” Lucien said, in his most practical voice. “He’s probably very worried, Helene. If you had told us about this before, you could be in America by now.”

“You two can take me to America, can you not?” Helene pleaded, tugging on Lucien’s sleeve. “If we find the Baron, and he tells you where to go, you two can do it.”

“We’ll have to see,” said Lucien, looking at me curiously, most likely because I hadn’t said anything since I’d heard about the zoo.

“The German,” I said suddenly, gripping my hands together. “The German is Sabine’s baron.”

“What? Why?” Lucien stared at me.

“But he wants to kill you!” Helene shook her head.

“Aye, he wants to kill me. I mean, he sent me to Lady Willoughby’s to fetch that box, when an old warlock like him must’ve known that there was a hell of a lot of magical security on it.”

“I still do not understand how Lady Willoughby would have a magical object like the box in her house, when she is not a witch,” Helene murmured.

“Is the box itself really magical?” Lucien asked.

“Aye. I can’t feel its history when I touch it. Just this weird lavender smell and this feel of this girl’s cold hair…” I shuddered involuntarily.

“The box is carved out of alder wood,” Helene said, as if that was supposed to be important. “Alder wood has a lot of magical properties…Some people call it ‘sorcières du bois’, or ‘witches’ wood’. I was reading some books earlier so as to understand the box better…There must be something inside, but I would guess that only that witch who placed the magic on it would be able to open it. Do you think maybe the German made it? Then he could open it.”

“Maybe…But then who placed the security on it? I ain’t never seen ghosts do what they did there. Some bloody powerful bastard worked that magic.”

Lucien cleared his throat. “Well, you did say that the German might be able to scry, which was how he learned you had Helene. So he must be somewhat powerful.”

“Lots of witches use some kind of divination,” said Helene. “But I am not sure how any of this proves that the Baron and the German are the same man.”

“The German loves the zoo,” I said grimly. “It’s where we had our first meeting, and the crazy bastard gave me a speech about how it was unfair to cage an animal. He set the whole zoo loose to distract anyone who might see us talking—there were baboons and giraffes all over the place. He’s been waiting there every evening for me to come meet him.”

“Lots of people like London Zoo,” Lucien began.

“Tall, dark-haired, foreign nobles don’t. It’s too much a coincidence.”

“The Baron was a lot older than Sabine, I think…” Helene looked thoughtful. “This German is an older man, yes?”

“Aye, mid-forties. Damned creepy face though, with those scars.” I traced a line from the corner of my mouth to my ear.

“But Madame Ruby said he was handsome, remember? They cannot be so very bad.” Helene grinned, then looked thoughtful. “I wish I had been able to see the Baron’s miniature that one time. Then I would know.”

“I’m sure it’s him,” I said.

“Then that would mean Lucien was right, and the Baron is with the Council,” Helene said, frowning. “How horrible for him to turn against Sabine like so!”

There weren’t nothing to say to that, so Lucien and me mumbled our agreement, before Lucien made an attempt at brightness and suggested we have lunch. Helene sprang up, and we all talked cheerfully, but I couldn’t help saying gaily to Helene over lunch, “So are we truly finished with secrets then?”

Helene flushed. “Yes, of course.”

“I’m glad.” But I dropped my eyes down to the meat pie I held in my hands, because I didn’t want her to see in my eyes what I was a good deal disturbed to see in meself—that I didn’t believe her.

Seeing Cormac, and getting from him the German’s response to my last letter, was hugely important. I made off in the late afternoon, cap pulled low, and Blarney in my arms, as she hated the cold. I walked fast, and quickly reached the pawnshop door.

The little bell rang as I opened the door and I started when the first thing I saw was Shauna Kelly, her face as grim as ever, with her hair in its usual severe bun, and in a plain black dress.

“Hello, ma’am,” I said, looking past her over at the empty counter. “Where’s your old man?”

“Dead,” she said, her voice unusually harsh.

That was the last thing I expected her to say, and her one word struck me into silence. He’d been an old bloke, but to imagine him dead was a bit mad, and something I hadn’t never thought of happening.

“I’m sorry, Shauna….” I wasn’t sure what people said to comfort those whose loved ones had just passed on. People had said all sorts of silly, trite nonsense to me when me mam had died, but I couldn’t think of anything to say to Shauna. Blarney had nothing to offer me, and she thought the best we could do was leave.

“Don’t be sorry,” Shauna snarled, and I drew back, even more surprised. I had known Shauna was a harsh woman, but so far she had always been fair to me.

“It’s your damn fault he’s dead,” she spat, jabbing a bony finger at me.

“My…fault?” I shook my head, not sure I’d heard her right.

The door behind the counter creaked open, and I looked over, half-expecting to see Cormac. But it was Kathleen, broom in hand and staring at me as if I were a ghost.

“Kathleen, is it true? Your grandda…?”

Kathleen nodded, but didn’t look at me; she was staring with absurd intensity at the floor. I felt an uncomfortable prickle spread up the back of my neck, as I remembered the last time I’d seen Kathleen.

“How dare you tramp in here when it’s you who’s put him in his grave!” Shauna’s voice was at screeching level now, and I stared at her, still at a loss for words. This was not the Shauna Kelly I knew.

“I think we’ve got some wee bit of a misunderstanding,” I tried to say, but Shauna waved her hand dismissively in my face.

“You as good as killed him yourself! Sent him to deliver a message to one of your criminal friends and he’s found dead yesterday morning! Suppose you were too much of a coward to risk your own worthless life!” She stepped forward and I backed up until I bumped into the door.

“Grandma, it’s not worth it,” Kathleen whispered, in a small voice. I dared a glance at her, and for a moment she met my eyes, but then looked down, her face red.

“Quiet, lassie,” Shauna huffed. “I knew nothing good comes of doing favors for thieving drunks like you—”

“Well, I never heard you complaining when I sold you stolen goods for cheaper than they were worth—or when your husband sold them for high amounts to folks who come here,” I growled, suddenly angry and tired of being blamed. “If you weren’t a woman I’d knock you for that, Shauna.”

“Grandma, please,” Kathleen pleaded, coming up behind Shauna and taking her arm.

The old woman shook the girl off. “What, now you’re an honorable gentleman? I don’t know what trouble you’re involved in, but I don’t need any more of it in my house. Get out of here, Tom MacKenna.”

“Cormac was my friend,” I said seriously and with an effort at being calm. “I need to know what happened to him!”

“I told you!” Shauna began to weep, and I looked away. “He left that night with your letter, and he never came back! The police found him in the morning and they came here….”

“Grandma, the kettle is boiling in the kitchen. Go get your tea and I’ll sweep.” I’d never seen Kathleen look so pathetic, not even when I’d told her I didn’t love her. She looked small and pale, but somehow older. I felt sorrier for her than I ever had before. Cormac had been like a parent to her, and I knew how hard it was to lose a parent.

Shauna allowed herself to be ushered out, and then it was just me and Kathleen in the pawnshop, which looked much the same as ever, but felt strangely empty.

Kathleen swept the floor busily, and I stood by the door, feeling unusually awkward. I had to leave, go home, and think about what had happened, but my feet felt rooted to the floor. Blarney dug her claws into my shoulder; she wanted to leave.

“Kathleen,” I found myself saying, though I hadn’t the slightest idea of what I was planning to say.

“Please, don’t,” Kathleen burst out, choking back a sob. She looked up from her sweeping, then looked back down, a tear dripping down her long nose.

“Your grandma’s right,” I found myself blathering. My throat was scratchy, and I tried to clear it, but my voice sounded wrong and husky. “Truth is, I’m in a hell of a lot of trouble—bad trouble. People’ve been tryin’ to kill me a lot lately—more than usual—and I should’ve known they wouldn’t balk at killing an innocent friend o’mine. But I didn’t think…and now you’re payin’ for it. I’m sorry.”

Kathleen had stopped sweeping, but she still wasn’t looking at me. Her arms were crossed tightly around herself, and even her springy red hair seemed limp in its braid.

My mouth kept on, for some reason. “But…I’m not sorry for what I said to you last time and—blimey, you must be glad for it now too. I’m not a bloke on the look-out for a wife…I mean, you know what people say about me. We both know. I’m a drunk, I’m a liar, I’m a thief…I sold my soul to the devil.” I laughed, but my laugh sounded shaky, and not half as cocky as it should’ve. “Well, it’s all true. I’m trouble, and my trouble spreads. People die around me. I’m no good. I’m…” I stopped talking then, because there was something in my throat, and I couldn’t say anything.

“You should go, Thomas.” Her voice was firm, and she didn’t sound like she was crying anymore.

“I know…I just want to say…” But I didn’t know what the hell I even wanted to say anymore.

“I think you’ve said everything.” She looked up, her head held high, and I realized she was a bit taller than me. Her face was set, and cold, her eyes dry, though her cheeks were still tear-stained. There was a look in her eyes, though, that I didn’t understand. Her eyes were so green, a really bright green—like Ireland, I thought a bit madly—but she was looking at me with a look that I knew, but had never seen from her…I recognized it in an instant. Dislike, disappointment, contempt.

I realized that I had come closer to her, and my hand was reached out. I clenched my hand into a fist, and dropped it. “You’re right.”

“Please. Go.”

I nodded, and went to the door. My hand was on the doorknob, when I looked back at her. She was looking at me, but she stood so tall and stiff that I looked away and dashed out the door.

Walking briskly away from the pawnshop for the last time, the wind was harsh and I wiped at my stinging eyes. Blarney mewed in my ear, telling me that Cormac’s death wasn’t my fault, really…

But I couldn’t shake the fact that it was. And as much I wanted to, I also couldn’t shake the unfamiliar ache in my chest, or the feeling that somehow I’d lost something that had been important to me.