The Death of Jane Lawrence(34)

Magic. It sounded like magic.

Reaching the end of the second chapter, Jane paused to rub her eyes. Tendrils of sleep were beginning to tug at her shoulders, but she knew herself; if she went back down now, she’d just be wide awake again after a few minutes. Still, the words were starting to dance before her eyes. Sighing, she looked up and gazed out the darkened windows.

Something was there.

Her breath caught, and she stared, willing the shadow to resolve. “Augustine?” she called, but her voice was barely above a whisper. Her pulse racing, she rose from her chair and picked up the candelabra.

Whatever it was moved. As it turned its head, she made out a fall of golden hair—not her own, for she was perfectly still. And then she saw the terrible red eyes. She fell back a step, a cry beginning to build in her throat. The empty shelves surrounding her seemed to grow in size, to loom and pen her in.

Elodie.

No. No, it wasn’t Elodie, couldn’t be Elodie. And yet who else could it be? She pinched at her fingertips, as if that would dispel the illusion, but Elodie remained. Her features were indistinct, her face seeming to warp and blur around those red eyes, but her gaze stayed fixed on Jane.

She had to get to Augustine. Had to get somewhere safe, where she could realize what an anxious fool she was being. It took all her willpower, but at last she tore her eyes from the ghostly figure to look toward the well-lit hallway. She took one step, then stopped, a half-formed cry leaking from her mouth.

Shapes moved against the far wall.

There were three of them, and they were tall, taller than any man. They had elongated heads, downturned, shallow crescents. In the gas lighting, those crescents looked like some kind of headdress, with the wearers veiled and robed beneath them, almost hiding their strange proportions.

But she could see. She could see how their shoulders sloped unnaturally, how long their limbs were as one lifted what might have been a hand. From the headdress, there was an unbroken line curving out to the shoulders, masking any hint of face or throat.

All three turned toward her.

She staggered back into one of the shelves, breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. Her hands were shaking, the wax from the candelabra splattering and stinging her bare feet. The flames guttered as she sank to the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees as if that would offer any protection.

One of the figures in the doorway turned toward the windows, and Jane helplessly followed its gaze back to Elodie. But Elodie was gone, and the three figures were static only a moment more before proceeding down the hall.

Toward the stairs.

Toward Augustine.

Outside, distant thrums of thunder shivered through the night. The beat of raindrops on glass was cacophonous, out of sync with her pulse, out of sync with everything.

They’re headed toward Augustine.

She had to move. She had to go to him. But fear had locked her joints up tight, and her shoulders shook with reflexive, silent sobs. She’d never believed in spirits, not even as a child, but what else could Elodie be? The monstrous statues? And if they were spirits, they were beyond her understanding. They were beyond her power. She was helpless.

Augustine was helpless.

And then she realized: he had known. He knew about these things. This was why he’d tried to keep her away, why he sent the servants home at night. It wasn’t baseless superstition. It wasn’t war-bred nerves. It was real danger.

She had to get to him, and she had to get him out.

When she reached the doorway, she watched as, one by one, the gaslights leading down the hall were snuffed out by an unseen hand.

She felt her way to the stairs. Ahead of her, the figures descended in single file, barely visible in the gloom. They didn’t walk as she did, but seemed to flow downward. Heaving for breath, she grabbed the doorframe she stood in with both hands, knuckles white and nails straining. Her bravado faltered, then rebounded as they reached the second-floor landing and turned into the darkened mouth of the hallway leading to the bedroom.

If she shouted Augustine’s name, would he wake up? Would they disappear? But her voice still refused to work, refused to come out as more than a hitching, whimpering sob, and she was too far away. She stumbled down and into the second-floor hallway, the lights ahead of her guttering out as the creatures passed by. Moving slower now, terrified to catch up to them and see them turn once more to her, she crept along the carpeted floor in their wake.

They passed the bedroom without a moment’s hesitation. Jane stopped, not daring to breathe. Had she been wrong? Did the things not care about him, either?

But then she saw the barest shadow of them turning the corner, and she knew. He’s not asleep. He’s in the study.

Desperate, she opened the bedroom door and peered into the darkness. The bed was empty.

She raced down the hallway and around the corner, the way ahead pitch-dark save for the faint light below the study door. She stumbled to a halt before it, the hallway empty; she had not seen the door open for the creatures. But it gave under her barest touch.

Augustine stared at her from across the room.

His hair was mussed from sleep, but he didn’t look any different from usual. And then, as he took in her wild expression, his own turned grave. “Jane,” he said, and crossed the room to her, taking her still-trembling hands. “Jane, what is it?”

She couldn’t find the words. Her throat was closed as though a fist were tight around it. But they were alone. They were safe. Those creatures, whatever they were, hadn’t come to him.