Renegade (21 page)

Taking out a handkerchief, Christina wiped her eyes. I had never seen her cry before. “He was so distraught when I last saw him. But he would not talk to me. And his drinking … he has never been like Gabriel in terms of addictions, but recently, he has been drinking too much. Far too much. He is hurt.” The she looked hard at me. “He loves you, Abbie.”

My emotions felt as if they would erupt inside of me. I suspected,
knew
, that he loved me. But did that make us compatible? Suitable? He had such a potential to wound me, and I wondered if the simple fact that we loved one another also meant that we would be good for one another. But I cut these thoughts short. In spite of William’s state of mind, my future with him was of no concern now. He was missing, and we needed to find him.

I peered into Christina’s distraught face, to her clenched hand where she held the crumpled handkerchief.

Trying not to allow my own feelings of panic to overwhelm me, I asked, “Have you contacted the police?”

“Yes, but … they were not very helpful. They treated me as if I were an overbearing mother.”

My mind raced. “Did you speak directly to Inspector Abberline?”

“No.”

“Perhaps,” I said bitterly, “he would be a bit more interested if he was reminded that William worked at Whitechapel Hospital. He’s still quite obsessed with the Ripper case. A physician’s disappearance from the place where all of the victims stayed or worked would seem suspicious.” Quickly, I told Christina about how Abberline knew of the Conclave’s symbol, about how he had sought me out after the Highgate Cemetery attacks for information.

Her face turned ghostly white. “We killed Max’s friends. Max will in turn torment us with fear, as he kills us one by one.”

“We needn’t despair,” I said, taking her hand and squeezing it. But my words sounded so foolish as they came out. Of course we were in danger. William had been missing for weeks. In spite of my words, both Christina and I were despairing.

“And you are here, safe,” I continued. “Simon and I are safe. We can’t simply assume, just yet, that Max had anything to do with William’s disappearance. Particularly if we consider William’s mood and unruly behaviors lately.”

Panic rose within me, but I didn’t speak my other, more terrible thought: that perhaps now that William and I had parted ways, Max might have already murdered him—as he would no longer need William alive to control me. If Max still wanted me alive for some reason, he might have believed that he only needed Simon alive to make me submit to him.

Christina remained quiet. I felt a terrible helplessness. We had to find William, but I didn’t know where to start.

I stood and walked to the fire, feeling the heat of the flames upon my skirt.

“He left me alive in that alley. Max is playing a game with us, Christina. But I can’t make sense of it. I don’t know what he’s doing.”

I drummed my fingers upon the mantelpiece, seeing the empty place where the china shepherdess, which I had flung at William, once stood. Richard had not been able to repair it.

“Tomorrow, I won’t go to New Hospital,” I said quickly, turning to face Christina. “We’ll begin looking everywhere. Do everything that we can to find him. We should go first to Scotland Yard, speak directly to Abberline. Because of his ongoing interest in the Ripper case, and particularly after the attack on him, I am certain that he will find it odd that one of Whitechapel Hospital’s physicians has disappeared.”

Christina said nothing. She simply looked at me, her eyes searching and luminous.

“We will find him,” I assured her.

I felt overwhelmed. I knew we both did at the moment. Christina soon left, promising me that she would try to sleep, although I knew that she would not.

By the time I left the parlor, I saw that Grandmother had retired to her bedroom on the first floor to read. I ascended the stairs wearily to my own bedroom. I didn’t even turn on my lamp, needing the quiet dark to think, to cool my frenzied thoughts. I sat on my bed, hearing nothing but the ticking of the Grandfather clock on the staircase landing and the sharp click of Ellen’s snuffers as she trimmed some wicks in the hallway, just outside of my bedroom.

I was too agitated to undress or to sleep, although I needed rest before Christina and I began our search the next day. And I felt bothered, chased by something. There was
something
that I wasn’t comprehending—something I was missing. I walked to the closet to look at Mother’s portrait again, and I stared at it in the darkness.

What are you trying to tell me?
I thought once again as I stared at her.
What do I need to know?
I would have given anything to have her with me, to enlighten me. As I stood there, I wondered if she had loved Gabriel even in spite of his instabilities. Yet unlike Gabriel, William had seemed to be faithful to me when we were together. Christina herself believed that his feelings for me were sincere. My heart felt painfully torn.

And then, the vision slammed over me, but this one felt frustratingly short. I saw her—the hazelnut-haired creature from my first vision. She was swimming, her movements wild, heedless, her webbed fingers and long claws stretched out far before her in the dark greenish waters. I saw the glint of a thick gold bracelet on her serpent wrist, tight against the scales. Then I gasped as the shroud of bubbles surrounding her cleared and I saw, across her back, the Conclave symbol. It was not small as theirs had been—the creature’s tattoo was larger, covering her entire back.

Then everything darkened.

No. No.
I struggled to retain the vision. I opened my eyes and saw my mother’s portrait.

Who is this creature?

Who is she?

What is Mother trying to tell me?

Then I was back, in the vision, and I saw him. William. He was dead, his bloodied corpse on a floor somewhere.

I panicked, felt dizzied. No, he wasn’t dead! I saw his chest heave very slightly with raspy breaths. My mind strained to see him—this vision was less clear than the others. My heart pounded.
No. No.
I tried to still my panic, the waves of helplessness that I felt.
Focus, Abbie.
William’s body lay on a marble floor somewhere, and the place was only dimly lit, resembling a grotto; I saw marble columns, torches, candlelight. I heard a great roar from somewhere. A hiss.

My mind reached, arched, to focus upon William—his face was bleeding. He had a gash, a terrible wound in his chest. His clothes were torn, ripped all over. And he had a chain tied around his neck, bolted into a marble column or wall behind him.

Where was he? I had never seen this strange place before.

William!
It sounded like a scream in my head. Then the vision was snatched from me. Taken away too soon, before I could get a good picture of his whereabouts. All I knew was that he was being held. And he was hurt badly.

Also, the lamia. Was she real? She had that tattoo on her back. Was she somehow a member of the Conclave? Max had lied to me about my mother—he never told me that he’d poisoned her, or that he’d saved my life so that I might someday replace her as their female member. What else did I not know of the Conclave? What other monstrosities had they committed? What other secrets had they harbored?

Max. What
did
Max have to do with all of this? I paced in my room. At this point, everyone in the house was asleep. I heard the grandfather clock chime eleven o’clock.

I needed more information—to re-enter the dream. If Max had sent me the vision, he wasn’t finished, and my mind was too distraught to summon it again myself. I tried, perspiring at the effort. I stared at the lamia portrait again and tried to lose myself in my thoughts, but my heart kept pounding. I was too worried for the psychic part of my mind to work.

What could I do? I couldn’t get that image of William out of my mind—wounded, seemingly close to death. I felt stricken. I needed to open my mind again.

Simon. An idea materialized in my mind, and I peeked out my bedroom door. The hall was dark and quiet. Richard was gone until morning; Ellen was probably asleep in the servant quarters, and she was so much less attentive than our butler.

Eighteen

W
hen I reached Simon’s house, I saw that most of the lights were out. Suspecting the Simon would be up late, studying or reading, I tossed rocks at the panes of his study window until I saw the drawn curtain ripple. When he opened the door, I saw even in the darkness that his eyes were bloodshot. And disapproving. But he was also still fully dressed, so I knew I had not woken him.

“Abbie, are you aware of how extraordinarily dangerous it is for you to be walking about at night? Particularly given our present circumstances.”

Indeed, I was very aware of the danger, and also of the impropriety of this—showing up at the St. John house so late at night. However, the idea that had come to me in my room … I couldn’t let it go.

Nonetheless, I must have looked stricken, because Simon’s disapproval melted as he ushered me through the door.

“What has happened, Abbie?” he asked quietly as we stood in the dark foyer and he took my coat and gloves.

“I’ll tell you momentarily. Your family is all away?” I whispered.

“Yes, and the servants are all asleep or gone for the night.”

In what seemed like one breath, I told him about Christina’s visit, about how she hadn’t seen William in three weeks.

Simon’s ice-blue eyes flickered, and he sighed. “I know you think highly of William, Abbie, but he’s probably—”

“He’s hurt. I just saw him.”

Simon looked bewildered.

“That’s why I came here to talk to you tonight, Simon. We need to get to him. Would you please help me?”

“Abbie … ” Simon began.

“Might we go to your study?” I asked quickly, already ahead of him on the stairs. Even with his family out of town, I felt more comfortable having this conversation in the privacy of his study.

When we entered, I sat down on a plain, wine-colored settee near his desk. After shutting the door, Simon seated himself beside me; he was patient, but unreadable as always. The light in the room, from a single reading lamp on his desk, shone dim and seemed to accentuate his handsome paleness. Remembering his bloodshot eyes, I thought about how many hours he must be working at the hospital daily, now, during William’s absence. I noticed several books on his desk, and pages and pages of notes. Simon must work or study every second of his life.

I told him about the vision—about how I had to get to William but I didn’t know where he was. And how, when I had focused and concentrated, I could not re-enter the vision. Then, summoning my strength, I looked Simon in the eyes and said, “Hypnotize me.”

“No.” His reply came out firm, without hesitation. This was what I had feared.

“But you must. It is the only way … ”

“I cannot do that to you, Abbie.”

“Simon, you know much about the mind, do you not? You never questioned my sanity when I began having the visions last year, when I felt uneasy discussing them with anyone other than you.” I lowered my voice, looked away. “Even with William.”

As he glanced down at the carpet, uneasy, I leveled my gaze at him. “You have hypnotized before,” I continued. “I have seen you do it in the hospital. You would not endanger any of our patients. I know that about you. Therefore, there cannot be a risk.”

“There could be.” Simon stood and began pacing, then walked behind his desk and looked at me in the glow of the lamplight. “That is why I refuse to perform the procedure upon you.”

I wasn’t about to give up. “But I sat in my bedroom only moments ago, perspiring, trying to force another vision. All my efforts were futile. I think I was too agitated. Hypnosis might be a way to open up my mind.”

Simon stopped pacing, but said nothing.

“Please, Simon.” I cringed as I heard my desperate whisper.

He leaned forward across his desk, his knuckles white upon the oak surface. “As you know, I use hypnosis as therapy. I have studied it. It puts the patient into a somnambulant state—essentially, the mind functions as if one is sleepwalking. Once there, the mental senses are heightened and the nervous system is suppressed. The mind is highly suggestible. Usually, physicians employing the method make suggestions to the patient—to stop drinking, or in a mental illness case such as monomania, to quit obsessing about an object or issue. I have used hypnosis to treat alcoholism, monomania, and even nymphomania. But most of the patients I treat are hysterical—not in control of their capacities, anyway. There is no risk of peeling away their conscious faculties because they’re so weakened anyway. You, on the other hand—”

“But I want this, Simon. Doesn’t my will matter at all?”

“It does help in the matter—a patient who believes in the process and submits to it is usually more successful, but I have worries.”

“What?” I asked. I was alarmed, hearing the clock tick away and knowing that every moment we debated this was another moment preventing me from finding William’s whereabouts.