She Returns From War (4 page)

"My parents no doubt wish I'd paid such matters more heed. They would have liked to see me married off before their deaths, but I would have no part of it."

"No need to torture yourself over it," James said, patting her hand. "What's past is past."

"Had I just listened to them, we may never have gone on that drive." The words tumbled unbidden out of her mouth. "All they talked about was the offer of marriage I had received earlier that week. I intended to refuse it, more out of spite than anything else, I suppose, but they kept trying to persuade me otherwise. I don't suppose it would have been all that bad, really. He wasn't a bad sort, I'd certainly been propositioned by worse men, but I still felt hesitant. I've never liked the thought of marriage, but I should have tried harder."

Realizing what she was saying, Victoria clapped her hand over her mouth. She felt herself turning crimson and looked away. Tears crept into the corners of her eyes, and she brushed them away. She'd gone and made a fool of herself, showing that she still was just a feeble-minded woman after all. James would never help her now.

"I'm sorry," she managed, her voice quiet. She started to stand when she felt a hand on her arm.

"No need to apologize," James said. "Please, sit."

She settled back into the chair with all the dignity she could gather. "I didn't mean to say all that."

"I don't imagine you did," he said, "but sometimes our emotions do get the better of us." He pulled his hand back into his lap, where it began worrying a corner of the open page. "I do think you're being dreadfully hard on yourself. It wasn't your fault, you know."

Victoria nodded, managing a small smile. She knew it was, but it would be best not to argue with the only man who could help her.

"Right. Now, then." His voice slid back into a lecture tone. "As I was saying...ah yes, these creatures appear along roads most frequently, so that in itself would explain your encounter well enough. From your account, I assume they made no noise? No howling or snarling or such?" Victoria shook her head. "Right, so then we know it wasn't a skriker. They're supposed to make a dreadful din, hence the name."

"Would that have made any difference?"

"Not in the long run, I suppose, but it's always a good idea to place these sorts of encounters in as accurate a context as possible. Generalizations can be dangerous, you see. It wouldn't do to mix up a black shuck with, say, a werewolf. Quite different creatures with quite different methods for handling them, and mistaking one for the other could very well be deadly."

"So these black shucks can be killed, then?" Victoria asked, hoping to redirect his focus back to the purpose of her visit.

"This text is unclear in that regard, I'm afraid," James said. "Quite informative on the nature of their appearance and behavior, even bits on how to ward against them, but not a word on their mortality. Being spirit creatures, I suppose it's rather a moot point. It isn't as though they have physical bodies."

Victoria's shoulders slumped. "So they're invincible?"

"I wouldn't go that far." James looked at her over his glasses. "Why? Are you hoping to hunt them for sport?"

"Not sport," she said. "Vengeance. I said as much in my letter."

"Did you?" James asked absently, returning to his book. "Perhaps you did. In any case, one thing I've found in this line of study is that very few creatures on this earth are truly indestructible."

"But you just said the black shuck is immortal because it hasn't a body."

"Mortality works differently on the spiritual plane, my dear. I almost hesitate to even use the word. It's sort of like asking how the color green would taste, if you follow me. It isn't really applicable in such cases, but we must use what limited mortal language can provide to discuss these higher matters."

Victoria bit back her reply. She wished he would simply get to answering her question, but she couldn't just say it. After a moment's consideration, she settled on a more acceptable response. "What word might be more appropriate in this case?"

The scholar's eyes explored the ceiling as he considered his answer. "Banishment, perhaps?" he said at length. "Sealing? It really depends on what your aim is. Spirit creatures may be influenced by humans, as we are part spirit ourselves. Indeed, the more unlucky ones - humans, I mean - end up as spirit creatures in many cases. Surely you've heard of ghosts and hauntings?"

"Of course," Victoria said, "but how does one deal with such encounters?"

"Via spiritual medium, most frequently," James replied. "A medium establishes contact with the spirit of the deceased and discovers why it chose to linger on the earth instead of departing for the afterlife. Should the spirit prove hostile or dangerous, a medium can work with a member of the clergy to consecrate the building against further intrusion."

"But the spirit doesn't actually die?" Victoria felt hope slipping through her fingers.

"Not in the strictest sense, perhaps, but really, what is death? Simply a change in state. If you'll pardon the example, consider your parents. When they perished in that horrible accident, their spirits were not snuffed out. They merely transitioned beyond the physical plane into a spirit realm, which most refer to as Heaven or paradise. The precise nature of that plane is not clear, though many hypothesize that it embodies an entire range of dwellings - for lack of a better term - rather than a binary system of paradise or punishment.

"When interacting with the spirit plane, therefore, it is entirely possible to prevent entities from crossing over back into this world. Just as a physical death typically signifies the cessation of exchange with the physical plane, so too does this banishment act as a sort of 'death' in that it prevents an entity from interacting with one tier of existence."

"So it would be possible to kill these creatures, then?" Victoria asked, leaning forward again.

"As much as one is able to, yes," James replied, "although you would need someone highly skilled in such things, especially in your case. This padfoot creature isn't your run-of-the-mill ghost."

Victoria's brow creased in confusion. "Can't you help me?"

"Oh, my word, no," James replied, flustered. He gestured at the mountains of books surrounding them. "As you can see, my interest is primarily scholarly."

"But I thought you said-"

"That I had practical experience in these matters, and so I do." The scholar's face distorted, unable to settle on a look of pride or sheepishness. "First-hand experience, as a matter of fact. While I was in the employ of Lord Alberick Harcourt, I had the opportunity to assist in the vanquishing of a rogue 
nosferatu
, what you might call a king vampire. It was that very encounter that earned me my place at Oxford, if you want to know the truth. The other Occult scholars here felt that having one in their number who had first-hand knowledge of the 
nosferatu
 would be invaluable to their studies."

"Could one of them help me, then?"

James took a breath and looked down at the book in his lap. "I'm afraid that is highly unlikely."

"Why?"

The scholar didn't answer for a moment. His fingers toyed with the book's pages. "Frankly, my dear," he finally said, looking up at her, "because you are a woman."

Victoria's cheeks colored. "I don't see what that has to do with it."

James shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable. "Yes, well, these are traditional sorts of men. Their scholarship is excellent, but their views are very conservative. They were among the opposition when the founding of St. Hugh's College was first proposed, and I daresay they refuse even now to acknowledge it as an institution."

"And because of my sex, they would refuse to assist me?"

"In essence," James said, looking unhappy.

For the second time since she entered the office, Victoria felt tears burning in her eyes. This time, however, they made her want to scream at the man sitting across from her, to take his precious books and throw them into the fireplace, to shatter his ridiculous bottle of cider across his desk. Her revenge was so close, and James Townsend's colleagues could help her realize it, but they wouldn't. Not because she was too young, too stupid, or too poor, but simply because she hadn't been born a man. Her fingers clutched helplessly at the folds of her dress. Was she really to just give up and return to her home, awaiting the day when she would marry some witless buffoon more interested in her estate than in her person? Could she live with herself after that, having failed her parents in the promise made over their bodies?

James was still looking at her.

"I'm sorry," she said, unable to meet his eyes. "I appreciate your hospitality and your assistance. That just wasn't the answer I was hoping to hear." James opened his mouth, but she held up her hand. "No, really, it's all right. I will figure out a way to avenge my parents on my own. Your information about spirit mediums will be very useful, I'm sure. There must be someone in this country that isn't opposed to working with a woman."

Standing, she dropped James a perfunctory curtsey and turned to leave. Her hand was on the doorknob when his voice stopped her.

"I may know someone."

She paused, not turning. "Another of your scholars?"

"Quite the opposite, in fact."

Did she hear a hint of laughter in his voice? It was enough to make her turn and look at him. "Who, then?"

Instead of replying, James stood and crossed over to his desk. Refilling his glass from the bottle, he raised a silent toast in the direction of the afternoon sun. The golden liquid disappeared down his throat, and he turned back to her. "Another woman."

THREE

The young girl looked up in confusion. Her mother stood over her, gently shaking her awake. The girl blinked sleep from her eyes. She smiled sleepily, but the hard look on her mother's face did not soften. Her mother's hair fell in black waves over her shoulders, its glossy sheen catching the soft light peeking through the door.

The girl sat up, confused and frightened. Her mother should be smiling. She always smiled in the morning while they were still warm, before they had to go out into the cold. She would always wake the girl with a smile and a piece of corn-meal bread. That day, her mother had no bread and no smile. She was serious and sad, and that made the girl afraid.

Sunlight filled the small room as the blanket covering the door was pulled to one side. The girl's father stepped up beside her mother and looked down. The girl held her breath, clutching at her blanket with small, strong fingers. She knew something was different. The faces her parents wore told her. But what could upset them? They were the biggest and smartest people she knew. Her father was a singer, a man of the spirits; he knew a lot and told her about things when she asked. Her mother was strong and kind and pretty, a source of comfort when the boys in the village told stories of monsters to scare her. Her mother didn't fear the witches they spoke of, so why was she afraid now?

"Come," her father said. "We must go."

"Where?" the girl asked.

"I do not know," her father said. Beside him, her mother was making a face like she was trying not to cry. It was enough to bring out the young girl's tears.

"Hush," her mother said. "No need for that. Be brave for us."

The girl sniffed back her tears and bit her lip. She could be brave like her mother. To show it, she lifted her arms, and her mother picked her up. The girl's father bent to retrieve the blanket, and the girl grabbed at it greedily. He smiled then, but he didn't look happy.

Stepping over to the entrance, he pulled the blanket aside and walked through. The girl's mother followed, carrying her securely. The girl kept one arm curled around her mother's neck and the other around her blanket as they left the warmth of their home and stepped into the cold winter air.

There were a lot of men outside. Some of them she knew, men from her tribe, but most of them were strangers. They wore funny clothes and had skin the color of the soft fur on a rabbit's belly. They carried metal sticks that they pointed at the people from her village. She saw her friend's mother throwing some corn cakes into a basket. Other women were wrapping clothes in blankets. Men loaded bundles onto fuzzy grey donkeys.

One of the new men came riding up on a horse. He yelled something that the girl didn't understand, and the other pale men began moving toward the villagers.

The girl felt her mother's arms squeeze her tightly. "He says we must leave now," her father said.

Victoria clasped her handbag in front of her, gloved fingers absently working their way back and forth over the top. Behind her, the city of Denver carried on its daily life with fervor. Horses clipped and clopped along the cobblestone streets, carrying riders or drawing carriages and buggies behind them. Around their massive hooves, dogs barked and scurried in motley packs. Mothers hung out of secondstory windows, calling to their children in the streets to wash up and be careful and don't forget to pick up an extra loaf of bread for their visiting cousins. In the distance, the harsh call of a locomotive echoed into the blue sky. Underscoring the other sounds was the steady patter of feet in shoes and feet in boots and feet in nothing at all.

The city had taken her by surprise when she'd first arrived. Arranging the train from New York had been a simple enough affair, and the coach had been comfortable despite James Townsend's warnings. She changed trains twice, once in Cincinnati and once in Kansas City, her luggage cared for by pairs of young bag boys who kept stealing glances at her as they worked. She gave them each a smile and a tip when they finished, their faces telling her that they would have just as easily taken a kiss in place of her money.

When the locomotive had finally pulled into Denver, she had stepped out of the train car and sucked in her breath. In the distance, marching beyond the quaint city skyline like an army of blue giants, a line of mountains glowered at her. Beneath their proud peaks, curving slopes of green and brown ended abruptly in jagged cliffs, sheared and cauterized like an amputee's limbs. They sprawled across the western horizon from end to end, fading into the haze hundreds of miles away. She had never seen anything so frightening or magnificent in her life.

Now the city hid them from sight, but she could feel them lurking somewhere beyond the quaint buildings. She imagined the ground beneath her feet suddenly losing its balance and tilting upward, sending her tumbling toward the mountains like a pebble on a drawbridge. The entire city would slide downward, the screams and crashes drowned out by the horrible rumbling of the earth as it came undone.

Victoria shook her head. She had to get a grip on herself. No use adding to her real worries with imagined ones. Taking a breath, she focused her gaze on the golden cross that crowned the church in front of her. It was modest, perhaps three yards tall, but had its own understated appeal. The gold shone brightly in the morning sun, throwing shafts of light on the buildings across the street. Beneath it, saints watched the world with solemn eyes, their windows set into walls of brown stone. Such a modest church might have suited a small town in England, but it seemed at home among the crude buildings that surrounded it.

She walked up to the front door and pulled. The slab of wood, richly stained, refused to budge. Planting her feet, she wrapped both hands around the handle and leaned back. A breath of incense swirled around her as the door finally opened.

Once inside, the darkness of the foyer blinded her for a moment. She stood still, breathing in the scents of tallow and incense and candle smoke while her eyes adjusted. Carpet the color of wine spread out beneath her feet. Ahead of her, an arch opened into the small sanctuary. She took a few tentative steps through it, careful not to let her feet make any noise on the carpet. The room beyond was still and dark, but the saints still watched her from their windows. Candles flickered like stars along the rows of pews and around the altar. At the far end, a crucifix hung from the ceiling, the savior watching over this house of saints. A purple sash hung down from his arms, adding an air of royalty to the man carved in eternal agony.

"Welcome, child," came a voice near the altar. "Please, come in."

A nun robed in black and white stepped down from the dais and stood at the end of the aisle, her hands clasped in front of her. Victoria crept toward her, a sudden shyness slowing her steps. Having been raised Protestant, she felt out of place in this church, as though her mere presence angered the faces in the windows. The nun's face was kind and wrinkled, and she focused on that. She even offered the older woman a smile as she came nearer.

"I am Sister Alice," the nun said.

"Victoria Dawes," Victoria replied, dropping a curtsey.

"You're from England?" Sister Alice asked.

Victoria nodded. "I've only just arrived in Denver. I'm from Oxford, originally."

"What brings you to the house of God?"

How to answer that? Victoria looked down at her hands for a moment, biting back the first answer that appeared on her tongue. Catholics and their pride. She swallowed before looking back up. "Well, I'm looking for someone, and I was instructed to begin my search here."

Confusion deepened Sister Alice's wrinkles. "A member of the clergy?"

"Not exactly," Victoria said, "although I believe this person has worked closely with the priesthood in years past. Her name is Cora Oglesby."

"Can't say I've heard of her," Sister Alice replied. "What work did she do?"

Doubt began creeping into Victoria's thoughts. Had James Townsend been mistaken? "Well," she said, "as I understand it, she is a sort of bounty hunter. One of those rough-and-tumble gunfighters that populate the American frontier."

"That's strange. I don't know what need the Church would have of a bounty hunter. You said she worked for our parish?"

"To be honest, I'm not sure." Victoria watched the nun's confusion with a sinking feeling. "I'm working on information I received from an Oxford scholar who claims to have worked with this woman in the past. I have very urgent business with her, and he advised me to ask the Catholic clergy to help me find her."

Sister Alice gave her an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, child. Can't say I've ever heard of any bounty hunter working for the Church, especially not one who's a woman."

"Is there anyone you might ask?" Victoria said.

"Father Baez may know," Sister Alice said, "but he's probably still asleep."

"I know it's terribly rude to ask, but could you see if he would speak with me?" Victoria unconsciously twisted her fingers together. "It really is dreadfully important."

Sister Alice looked off to her right for a moment. Victoria could almost see the scales balancing in the nun's head as she weighed the request. If Sister Alice refused to help her, Victoria would chain herself to one of the pews until this Father Baez appeared. If he couldn't help her, she would just have to move on to the next city.

"Well," Sister Alice said, turning back to her, "I don't normally like to bother him, but since you've come all this way, I suppose I can go check on him. Don't expect much, though."

"Thank you so much," Victoria said.

The nun nodded. "Have yourself a seat," she said, pointing to a pew. "I'll be back soon."

Victoria sat, the wood creaking slightly under her. Sister Alice disappeared through a door on one side of the altar, her habit vanishing into the shadows beyond.

Leaning back into the pew, Victoria folded her hands in her lap. She tried to imagine what her father or mother would say if they found her in such a place, waiting to hear whether or not a Catholic priest knew where to find an American bounty hunter. She shook her head and smiled. It really did sound absurd, and that she was traveling alone made it all the more so.

Still, she had reason to believe she could follow through with what she'd started. After all, she'd managed the trip across the Atlantic with little difficulty. It had taken the 
Jewel of Scotland
 just over two weeks to make the passage. Victoria spent much of her time aboard in her cabin, searching histories from her father's collection for any references to black shucks. When her eyes grew tired, she would venture above deck to watch the ocean swell beneath the ship. Spring storms blossomed on the horizon, dark and menacing, but the 
Jewel
 slid by them without incident.

When she'd made port in New York City, she gave the immigrations office slight pause. They were unused to a woman traveling alone, but in the end they'd waved her through. One of their officers had pointed her in the direction of the rail station, and she'd easily found a coach to take her through the maze of streets. Grand Central Station had been grand indeed, and the endless press of bodies took her breath away. Once she'd regained her head, she found a train bound for Denver and bought herself a ticket. Indeed, the hardest part of her journey had been adjusting to the coarse way Americans had of speaking.

Echoing footsteps pulled her back into the present. Looking up, she saw Sister Alice emerge from the doorway. A man entered with her, clutching her arm in one hand and the head of a cane in the other. Victoria rose to her feet as they approached.

"Victoria Dawes," Sister Alice said, "may I present Father Emmanuel Baez."

"The honor is mine," Victoria said, extending her hand.

The priest released his hold on Sister Alice's arm and kissed the young woman's hand. Drawing himself up as straight as he could, he looked at her and smiled. "A pleasure, my dear."

Sister Alice guided him to the pew and helped him to sit. Victoria took a seat nearby, careful to maintain what she considered a respectful distance. The priest leaned back against the pew, his white hair and beard seeming to shine above his robes. He looked at her again, and she could see a spark in his dark eyes. "Now, then," he said, "Sister Alice tells me you have some business with me."

"Yes," Victoria said. "I don't want to waste your time, so I'll come straight to it. I'm looking for a woman named Cora Oglesby."

Father Baez's eyes went wide, and he drew in a deep breath. "There's a name I haven't heard in years." He smiled then, a thin line beneath his beard.

"So you know of her?"

"Of course." The priest cleared his throat and sat upright. "She and I have a history. Not a very happy one, but a good one."

"Do you know where I might find her?" Victoria asked.

Father Baez started to answer, then paused. "Might I ask why you want to find her?"

"I have urgent business with her," Victoria answered, trying to sound as harmless as she could.

The priest considered that, then turned to Sister Alice. "Would you excuse us for a moment, sister?" Taken aback, the nun stood to her feet, nodded, and stalked across the dais. Once she disappeared through the side door, Father Baez turned back to Victoria. "Cora Oglesby deals in some very dark business, young lady. I pray you'll forgive my reluctance, but not everyone who knows about her has benevolent intentions."