Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(109)

I gave up on Emma. I had to.

Either she’d found a hiding spot, or she was gone—and either way, something had come inside. Something was here, even if she was not. If she was dead, there was nothing I could (or should) do for her. If she was alive, somewhere else, then I would do my best to keep her that way.

Wherever she was. Whatever had come inside.

I cut through the parlor, skidded into the kitchen, and saw the cellar door open. A damp, yellowish light spilled up into the first-floor space, gleaming on the linoleum—but everything was otherwise dark. I spent a moment confused . . . but how did it take me so long to notice the gas was off, or none of the lights were on? I don’t know, but everything was dark except for the flickering sky, and maybe that was it. It flickered with such great constancy that it almost felt like midmorning, between the hard cuts of night.

And down below in the cellar, something else gave off its own peculiar light.

Whatever the light was, it hummed. It buzzed. It shifted from a sickly lemon color to a putrid soft green, and back again.

I heard the low tones of Emma’s voice, too far away to pick out any of the words.

She was down there? In the laboratory? Having traversed all those steps? But how? The monster must have carried her there, or dragged her.





? ? ?


   (An ungenerous thought streaked through my head: Perhaps he only invited her, and helped her along. She’s always wanted to see the laboratory. I don’t think it would require much persuasion on his part, or anyone else’s.)





? ? ?


Another voice answered her.

Yes, there it was. A man’s voice. Deep and very smooth—an educated voice, persuasive and almost warm. It carried a New England accent, highborn enough to sound like Old England, almost. It hummed, like the light downstairs. He must have brought the light with him. It must have been part of him, part of the unnatural madness he courted and spread like a disease.

The stairs were sharp and steep, and the light glowing from below made them disappear.

I stepped forward down into a black pit. My foot found the second step by memory, and the rest by force. I shuffled down them, my skirts snagging on the splinters, my free hand running along the rail for guidance.

My feet tripped over themselves; I only remained upright by virtue of momentum and the counterbalance of the axe.

I gripped it for my life.

I reached the bottom with a sharp gasp. It was hard beneath my feet, which wore only the tatters of my house slippers; I don’t know how they’d even stayed on this long. Through the water and the running, it was nothing short of a miracle; but they were as wet and thin as old socks. They left damp footprints trailing behind me as I stepped forward into the grim yellow light . . . into my laboratory, where I was not alone.

Emma was there, and she was a terrible sight: covered in gore of her own making, spilled down her chin and matting her hair, staining her clothes. Her eyes were wild, and her body shook. She saw me. She tried to speak, but only coughed.

The man turned around, to see what she was looking at.

Oh, but he wasn’t a man at all. I could see that in an instant. A dark, awful instant that I’d prefer to forget.

The not-a-man was slender and dressed well enough, in clothes that didn’t quite fit him—he must have taken them from his victims, but he’d arranged them nicely. His shoulders were narrow, his hands long and delicate, like a pianist’s. I met his eyes because I could not refuse them . . . they were the color of a storm clashing with a setting sun. Gray and blue marbles, with amber threads—but that makes them sound alive, doesn’t it? And they weren’t. They were utterly lifeless, though his face lit up at the sight of me . . . like he was pleased to see an old friend, long lost and thought forgotten. It turned my stomach.

“Elizabeth,” he said.

“That’s not my name.”

“And your sister’s name is not Edward, nor Edwin. Not Edgar, Ethan, Ellis, or Emerson. Emma,” he said without looking at her. “You’re Emma and Elizabeth.”

“That has never been my name. Contrary to popular belief.”

He ignored me, as if I had no idea what I was talking about. He would hear only what he wished to hear. It might be to my advantage—or that’s what I told myself, even as the delirious slip and sweetness of his voice was confusing my brain. It was a spell of some kind, or if not a spell then something more scientific. But who cares about that? He was enchanting me, and I wanted to kill him for it.

“What do you want?” I asked him, knowing how little the answer meant. He would take what he wanted. He’d fight for it, or he’d charm it free. He stood and spoke and moved like a man (or something else) that knew he’d have his way eventually.

“I came here to visit my friend and colleague, the inestimable Doctor Jackson. Much to my sincere pleasure, I have found her . . . though I admit, I’m a bit stung. She could have told me the truth, and I would not have cared. Things might have gone differently, but by no means badly.” He returned his attention to her. He wasn’t really speaking to me when he continued.

“Once, I was a lonely man, and I looked forward to your letters. I might have appreciated them all the more, had I known they came from someone as beautiful . . .” He reached out and touched her tousled, bloodied hair, streaked with the wisps of silver. He caressed it almost lovingly. “And only a few years my senior . . . not more than a handful, I shouldn’t think. Not scandalous in the slightest.