The Intuition: Part 19, Calm Before Storm
A Horror Story
Navigation Page
The women turned their backs to Will and glided away over the snow, through the forest and toward the mountain. Soon they vanished in the glittering snowmist. Mary stayed behind.
“Why are you here, William Dovedale? You’ve not crossed, I can see that. Did you think to peep on what awaits like that other who comes with the girl?” She nodded toward Elke who waited near the meadow’s edge. “He keeps her from coming to us, poor lass. But you … there is no place for you here.”
Before his eyes, her form shivered and shrank until all that lay at his feet was the butchered husk she’d left behind in her lodgings in Miller’s Court. Will stared at it in horror as it continued to speak to him, the voice drifting on the air, for the mutilated face could form no words.
“This lies at your door, William. Payment is due.”
The phantom vanished, curling on the breeze like smoke. Will found his paralysis lifted and turned to stride toward Elke. He would not run, though a young boy within him urged him to fly from this place, to find his mother’s arms.
“Where is she,” he asked Elke, his voice hoarse. “Is she in this place? For the love of God, can you not persuade her to speak?”
“The love of God? A strange phrase from your lips, Willsome. Your mother watches. When it is time, she will visit you. You must listen to her carefully and with all your courage.”
In a heartbeat, Will found himself thrust into his abandoned skin. He lay on the furs, his bones aching as though he’d been through a proper mill. Elke squatted over him, her eyes as black as porcelain marbles. He rolled away from her to the edge of the bed and hung his head between his knees. Neither he nor Elke spoke, and the silence slid over him like syrup, thick and sweet. He was alive and glad of it.
“Billy, you in there?” Tom’s voice, along with the hollow rapping of his fingers on the stiffened tent flap, broke the quiet. “You’d best come quick. Falke’s off his nut and scrapping with the locals.”
Will groaned and lurched to his feet. He glanced at Elke who only blinked at him like a cat. He rolled his head on his neck and crossed the tent to duck outside.
“What’s all this? Where’s Falke?”
Tom pointed toward the stables. “Back there at that chapel where they got the prince bottled. A coupla blokes are sittin’ on him. Marcu’s fit to give him some pepper, but I said I’d bring you.”
“Hell’s bloody bells,” Will snarled, the East End rising through his strained veneer of patrician civility.
As they approached the chapel, Will took in the tableau of Falke sat on a bundle of straw in the snow, a Romanian hanging on each arm, and Marcu standing wide-legged and cross-armed in the doorway of the little church.
“What barney have you been kicking up, Doctor? There is no need of you here, as I’m sure Monsieur Borja has told you.”
Will glanced at Marcu’s impassive face where the drooping moustache sketched a permanent frown. Falke sat with as much upright dignity as he could manage between his handlers. With his mussed hair and clothing, his clenched jaw and wary glare, he presented the same irascible appearance as he’d shown in Adler’s hospital.
“I wished to examine our host. I am a physician, after all. I hoped to offer some aid and perhaps further my own research, as well. I can only assume that this … person mistook my intentions.” He nodded toward Marcu.
“There has been no mistake, Lord Dovedale, nor any offer of aid. Your friend sneaked into the chapel and attempted to inject the voievod with some poison.”
Falke staggered to his feet even under the press of his captors. “That is a lie! I never had the slightest idea of injecting Prince Grigore with anything, and certainly not with poison.”
Marcu only settled further into his stance. “I saw with my own eyes.”
Falke was forced to sit again, his chest heaving. Will stared at him until the doctor dropped his gaze to the stones of the courtyard.
“If you will allow me, I will take charge of Doctor Falke and see him to his tent. He is prone to bouts of mania. I apologize for the disturbance and trust the prince is safe. The doctor will cause no more trouble.” Will met Marcu’s outraged gaze with his own stony one. Falke, though his mouth twisted into a disgusted sneer, made no attempt to defend himself against the charge of madness.
“Take him, then. But, Lord Dovedale, if he comes here again, the punishment will be severe.” Marcu turned and entered the chapel, closing the door with a firm thud.
Will walked to Falke, nodding at the stern men to release him. He reached down and pulled the doctor to his feet. Falke shook him off and Will gave him a shove in the direction of the camp.
“Walk, Doctor. We shall have a little talk, you and I.”
In Falke’s tent, Will placed a heavy hand on the doctor’s shoulder and pushed him onto a stool.
“What were you up to, Falke? And spare me your pitiful lies. I’ve a mind to twist your neck and be done with you.”
“I told you why I was there, Dovedale. That Marcu fellow is the mad one. He threw me out into the snow, and I really think I would have been in some danger if Cooper hadn’t heard the noise and come to smooth things over. Now, if you don’t mind—”
Will interrupted by brushing open the lapel of Falke’s coat with the back of his hand. The steel topped plunger of a syringe stood up from a patch pocket sewn there with neat suture-like stitches. He plucked it from the pocket as Falke tried to rise and grasp it.
“What have we here?”
Will held the glass cylinder aloft. The substance inside it was dark, but it was not blood or any fluid. Instead, it swirled in sluggish coils as the vapor in Falke’s hookah pipe on the Express had done. It looked like a lively bit of shadow.
“Give that to me.” Falke snatched it from Will’s hand. The men stared at one another, violence simmering between them. Falke turned away and eased himself onto the stool as if he had grown suddenly old and weak. “I should think you could understand what this might mean to my work. It is an unbelievable treasure, a gift so random and unlooked for that I can only thank God for bringing me to this place.”
“So, it was true that you did not try to inject Corbinescu with anything. You drew that from him, didn’t you?”
Falke nodded. He laid the syringe on the table before him and put his head in his hands.
“I went out of curiosity. Why did the prince not walk among his men, I wondered. I watched you and Cooper go into the chapel. Later, I saw Marcu and an old man enter. The old man came out again looking pale as wax. This …” He put a finger on the syringe. “I always have one about me. Exceedingly fortunate.
“Corbinescu lay in the stall nearest the altar. I thought he was dead, that the whole story about a prince striving for recognition was a ruse. He lay like one dead. I could not discern even the slightest breath. There were candles everywhere as though at a wake. I crept close. Corbinescu was draped to the neck in a great golden altar cloth with gems sewn into it in the shape of the cross. When I was very near, I could see his eyes moving beneath the closed lids. He did not awake, but his mouth opened.”
Falke scrubbed at his face and looked at Will, who had seated himself across the table to hear the tale.
“He is fanged like a beast. His tongue convulsed within his mouth, long and lashing like a serpent’s. He is demon-ridden. I understand now why he lies in the chapel and why Marcu guards him so carefully. If I had not seen him myself, I would not have believed it. I was close enough now to touch him, and the syringe was between my fingers before I thought twice.
“I drew from his neck. He did not stir, but his mouth opened wider with a hiss and a frightful growl. It was that sound, I believe, that drew Marcu from the little cell behind the altar where he must have been at his prayers. I had just time to tuck the syringe away safely before he was upon me, thundering in Latin. He bore me from the chapel as an eagle carries off a rabbit, and then I was rolling on the stones and men were running to pummel and restrain me. Cooper was among them, for which I am grateful. He persuaded them to hold me until he could bring you there.”
Falke huffed. “I need a drink. Can I offer you brandy?”
He rose without waiting for Will’s response and gathered tin cups and a flask in a leather sling.
“You took quite a risk,” Will said, impressed despite his ire. “More than you know. You are reckless, Doctor, and quite lucky.” He accepted a tot of brandy and pointed at the syringe. “What do you propose to do with this prize?”
Falke tossed back his brandy and poured another slug into each of their cups. “I don’t know just yet. I only know it is of interest.”
As the night wore on, the men let the bonfire collapse upon its bed of ash and embers. The wine and spirits had been drunk, and such courage as it had given them ran thin in their veins. They slunk to their beds, two and three men to a tent for the illusion of security such fraternity provided. Will slept without concern, deep in a dreamless abyss. If death were to visit in the darkest hours, it would not visit him. Not yet.
Outside the chapel, Elisabeta pressed with yearning against the door. This place was barred against her, but such wards would not hold for long. She dragged a nail along the ancient wood, scoring it. Grigore, she whispered. Within, she heard him moaning as his heart knocked in his ribs. She heard the droplets of holy water cast upon the floor like a hail of stones, and the seething prayers of Marcu spreading toward her like flame on oil. With a nightbird’s cry, she withdrew, stretching like a shadow up the face of the building until she took wing over the steeple. The current of her passing roused the iron bell, and though it did not ring, it vibrated with a sullen hum deep in its mighty throat.
Tom dozed fitfully and finally sat at the end of his bunk near the murmuring brazier and smoked a pipe of fragrant tobacco. His gaze roamed the tent, noting the red shadows cast on the canvas by the glowing coals, wondering what might be stirring on the other side. Will was a muzzy shape rolled in a thick quilt in his bunk, peaceful in sleep as he seldom was in waking life.
Like living with a devil, it is, Tom thought. A proper Spring-Heeled Jack, and no mistake, but that’s no matter.
He puffed at the pipe, drew in smoke and blew wavering rings into the dark.
Chummied up since we was nippers, you and me, Billy. Old Tom’s your mate, tight as meat and gravy. You’re set to get us in a right mess this time, boyo, but Tom’s here to keep you from going arse over tit.
He settled back against the cold canvas and puffed, nodding in agreement with his thoughts. Will was his chosen brother, and there was no blood thicker than that for Tom Cooper.
This really is a wonderful story Liz. It may be because I was at the movies seeing Dracula last night, but I can see all these scenes in my minds eye, they are painted so perfectly with your words. It’s very cinematic. Hopefully this will be getting published in paperback as I would love to own it 👍🏼
Wonderful chapter. The supernatural confrontation between Elisabeta and Marcu captured my imagination. I loved your descriptions, in that paragraph especially. The prayer, like flame on oil; Elisabeta's shadow and flight; the hum of the bell. Gothic and beautiful.