Viscount Eckley, however, had other ideas. As she sipped her drink Hecate became aware he was watching her. The polite conversation around the table continued but he was silent, his attention entirely upon her. She lifted her eyes to meet his, intending to present a calm, unruffled expression. What she saw challenged her ability not to react in horror. The viscount’s skin tone altered as she watched, quickly becoming deathly pale, his eyes darkened as he glared at her. And then he smiled. It was the most unnatural, mirthless grin she had ever seen, his mouth widening to an impossible stretch, so that his face appeared almost split in two as he revealed far more teeth—sharp and white—than were normal. Teeth which he slowly, deliberately licked with a deep red, unnaturally long tongue. She looked away, wishing to see if her father or John were aware of their host’s repulsive transformation. Her glance told her it was invisible to them, but as Mrs. Fletcher came into her line of vision she saw that the woman was similarly grotesquely altered. The Embodied Spirit dipped her head almost coyly, raising her glass of lemonade in a toast as if acknowledging Hecate’s horror, her own mouth as wide and revolting as that of Viscount Eckley’s. Hecate turned to the earl. His own face was unaltered, save for the knowing look he gave her as he witnessed her reaction to the revelation. It was, Hecate knew, a direct challenge. There was to be no more pretense between them. They might present their acceptable selves to the rest of the world, but to her they revealed their true, terrifying selves. This display, directed only at her but in the presence of those dear to her, sent a clear message.
We have no fear of you, but you should fear for your very life.
She refused to let them see her frightened. Keeping her hand steady she picked up her drink.
“A toast to our hosts,” she said, ignoring her father’s somewhat surprised expression. She got to her feet, raising her glass. “May you both find the futures you deserve,” she said, earning a muttered “hear hear” from the viscount, baffled silence from John and her father, and sweet smiles from the earl and his mistress. She made a point of directing her words to Lord Brocket. “I shall take a personal interest in seeing that you do,” she promised him, challenge accepted!
She gave her father a look which he correctly interpreted as a signal to take their leave. With farewells exchanged, the three of them walked toward the carriage, which had been waiting in the stables.
“Well,” John said beneath his breath, taking her arm, “that was the most uncomfortable visit I have endured in quite some time. That woman! In fact, all three exude a dreadful coldheartedness, a cruelty, even … Hecate?”
She was not listening. Her attention was, suddenly, elsewhere. She had noticed a man crossing the yard. He was dressed in the clothes of a laborer, with a flat cap pulled low over his eyes, and yet there was something about him that did not fit. He was familiar, and yet out of place. As she watched him, he looked up, and though he was still at some distance, for an instant their eyes met. And in that instant she recognized him. A shiver traveled the length of her spine. The man turned away and as he did so the driver steered the carriage out from the stables. All four horses snorted and shook their heads, refusing to move closer to the stranger. Despite the driver’s best efforts, they bounded forward, ignoring his shouts, pulling the carriage away from the stranger as quickly as they were able, united in a desire to flee from him. John ran forward to help, taking hold of the bridle of the lead horse. The stranger dived into the entrance to the stables. As the Twyford-Harris horses calmed down, Hecate heard the commotion of those in their stalls, reacting to the presence of the unknown man.
Except that she did know him. She recalled where she had seen him before. It was in the crypt, when she had taken tea to the inspector and his men. This was one of those very constables. It was also the same one who had gone missing. Not only was Hecate certain of his identity, she was equally certain that the hapless policeman, who had had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, was now host to the spirit who had fled the dying Joe Colwall and found itself a new home.
The discussion on the carriage ride home from Brockhampton was filled with urgency. When Hecate confirmed that there were three Embodied Spirits there, Edward revealed he had noticed something unnatural about the viscount and Mrs. Fletcher, but without his prior knowledge would not have known what to make of it. John had confessed he felt a bad presence that put him in mind of exorcisms he had been called upon to perform. When pressed he had described this as a coldness in their company and a deadness in their eyes. The news of the constable’s transformation was deeply troubling and brought on a heated debate regarding the danger of pursuing the Embodied Spirits and how best a person might avoid becoming a host.
When at last they fell to silence Hecate retreated into her thoughts. She was disappointed not to have found any evidence of the de Furches connection, but the portrait of Habington was proof of a century-old link between Brockhampton and Piedmont Abbey. And now the Embodied Spirits had revealed themselves to her. She sat back in her seat, determined to be alert to their characteristics should they present themselves in anyone else, forcing herself to remember every vile detail of what they had revealed themselves to be.
25
A moonless night saw the street lit only by the few lamps set between the pollarded trees along it. The large, handsome houses were not so close as to shed any illumination from their lit windows, which in any case were few, so late was the hour. There were no pedestrians to disturb those who waited in the shadows. Waited and watched. Sounds of the city were fading as most of the good people of Hereford went to their beds. No hawkers’ cries broke the quiet, no carriage wheels or ironshod hooves rattled over cobbles, no revellers sang their way home. The night was deepening into sleeping silence.
The watchers crept forward, emboldened by this hush, confident there was no one to detect them. The boldest of them knew they could not be seen, not even if they should carelessly move into one of the meager pools of light thrown down by the lamps. All that would be visible to the innocent passerby would be a subtle alteration in that light; a lessening in its purity; a blurring at its edges. One of the watchers, however, had reason to be more cautious, for his mundane form was, in this instance, unhelpfully solid. Unimpressively shabby. Unmistakably human.
They looked up at the redbrick house in front of them, scouring for signs of the one they hunted, agitated and eager. They began to whisper to each other with increasing urgency.
She knows! She knows us!
Where is she?
Where is she?
Where is she?!
The man among them risked another pace forward, taking care to use the laurel hedge to mask his presence should anyone look out from the house. He noted that all the downstairs windows were in darkness, shutters closed or curtains drawn. The servants’ quarters in the attic were similarly dark save for a single candle on the small stairwell window ledge. On the first floor, however, two rooms were illuminated, their curtains open.
She is a danger to us!
A danger!
Where is she?
For a short while no movement could be detected at those carelessly unguarded windows. The watchers bobbed and fidgeted, restless and driven. At last their fractured patience was rewarded. A figure appeared, a woman, slim and small. For a moment she stood as if looking out, her fiery red hair glowing even brighter beneath the gaslight, and then she turned back into the room as if called, pausing to pull closed the curtains.
In the street the formless beings whined and keened, and from the man there came a low, rumbling growl.
As Hecate closed the curtains she could not rid herself of the sensation that she was being watched. She had thought, fleetingly, that she had seen something in the street below, but the night was too dark and she could make nothing out. Charlie had called for her, and she quickly crossed the few strides from the window to his bed.
“I am here,” she said, sitting beside him, taking hold of his hand.
“Is it summer?” he asked. “Have I slept so long the holidays have come? Let’s ask Father if he will take us to the sea again? I should love to swim in the sea right now,” he said, beads of sweat forming at his hairline, his eyes without clear focus.
Hecate picked up a damp cloth and mopped his brow.
“Hush now. A trip to the sea is a splendid idea, but first you must get well,” she told him, resolutely keeping her anxiety out of her voice. Her brother’s condition had worsened over the past two days. Her mother had maintained a near constant vigil, refusing to leave his bedside unless another family member took her place, and even then only for short breaks. Now that Hecate was home to witness the tension in the household she worried that she herself should not leave again until her brother recovered.
Charlie fidgeted and she rearranged his pillows, doing her best to make him more comfortable.
“Mother says you went to Brockhampton Manor,” he said, dipping back into a moment of lucidity as the fever waxed and waned. “You know of course that it is haunted.”
“Of course,” she agreed, smiling.
“Everyone says there is a soldier buried in the ruined chapel and on nights when there is a full moon he marches up and down. When you were there, did you see any ghosts?”
She thought about what she had seen, about what she had felt, about how dangerous she now knew the place to be. She shook her head. “It was a bright sunny day,” she explained, not wishing to tell an outright lie.
Charlie looked as if he might say something else but then frowned and began muttering. Hecate lifted his head a little and encouraged him to sip some more of the beef tea Cook had prepared for him. He did so, grimacing as it went down, before lying back on the pillows and closing his eyes. Soon he was sleeping. She touched his forehead again and found it to be dry.
At that moment the door opened and her mother, dark circles beneath her eyes from lack of sleep, came into the room. Her expression asked the question she did not quite dare voice.
“He is sleeping, look,” Hecate told her. “He seems a tiny bit better now, don’t you think?”
Beatrice felt his hand and touched his cheek. “Has he spoken with you? Spoken … clearly?”
“A little, yes. And his fever seems reduced.”
“It comes and goes. That he is cooler now does not mean it is certain he will not worsen later. He is always more fretful at night.”
