Something Strange and Deadly

  I slouched back on the seat, trying to inhale deeply. “I’m just wondering why we’re here.” I stared out the window. Her words triggered a memory—the same memory of my father and his argument with the dark-haired man. With Clay.

  My heart jumped back into action. I spun to Allison. “What was your father’s name?”

  “Clarence.”

  I scooted closer. “Did they call him Clay?”

  “Yes.” She furrowed her brow, clearly confused by my questions.

  The names couldn’t be mere coincidence. But what did that mean? Why had our fathers fought? Had it been over this gas company?

  I leaned toward her. “When did your father join the Trustees? How long ago?”

  The lines on her forehead deepened. “Not long after the war, I think. I was only six or seven. He was in railroad something or other before that.”

  “And who are the other Trustees?”

  “I don’t know,” she whined.

  “Remember,” I snapped.

  She recoiled and pressed her back to the carriage wall. “Mr. Sutton, I think. And … and Mr. Sutherland and Mr. McManus.” She chewed her lower lip. “Oh, and Mr. Bradley and Mr. Weathers—but why do you care, Eleanor?”

  I didn’t answer. The three decapitated men weren’t only Germantown students, they were also connected to the Gas Trustees—as was Clarence. “Sutton, Weathers, and Bradley?” I asked.

  She nodded slowly, and I forced myself to slide away from her. My mind exploded with thoughts and memories and confusion. I knew there was something I was missing. Something important that I couldn’t see, something to do with this Gas Ring and my father and … and a game of intrigue that no one knew how to play.

  I groaned and massaged my forehead. Whatever the connections were, they hovered out of my reach.

  “Are you all right?” Allison asked. “Does your head hurt?”

  “Yes,” I lied. “I hope your brother hurries.” I pressed my face against the glass of the carriage window. I could see the nearest turnstiles, but no sign of Clarence.

  Allison sighed dramatically. “I’m bored. I wish I’d brought my book.”

  “What book is that?” The first raindrops splattered on the road outside.

  “The Quaker City,” she whispered, her tone conspiratorial. The Quaker City was famous for its lewd and horrifying tales.

  I twisted my face toward her. “Does your mother know you’re reading that?”

  “Pshaw.” She sniffed. “Of course Mother doesn’t know—and you’d better not tell! The original copy is here, you know.” She waved toward the Exhibition. “There’s an entire display of old books and manuscripts and scrolls and stuff.”

  “Really?” I squinted at her. “Have you seen it?”

  “Oh, yes.” She nodded rapidly, warming to the conversation. “Mother made me go so we could look at an old Bible from the Middle Ages—it’s in the Main Building. And that’s where I saw The Quaker City for the first time. You remember Mercy read it? There’s a little ogre on the title page, and it looked positively horrifying, so I went to the library …” She continued babbling excitedly, but I had stopped listening.

  An old book exhibit. That was intriguing. If they had Bibles, mightn’t they have other ancient texts? Ancient texts such as grimoires? It was possible, and an Exhibition guidebook would tell me.

  Exhibition guides such as the ones at the library.

  “I’ll be right back.” I shoved open the carriage door and clambered into the rain.

  “But Clarence—”

  “I’ll be right back!” I slammed the door shut and galloped through the crowds to the entrance. I didn’t actually need to go in. I just had to find someone selling guidebooks.

  Giant raindrops sliced through the air, cold and hard when they hit my skin. I found a covered stall selling, according to the hand-painted sign, “All Things Exhibition.” I squeezed between people who took cover from the storm, and within seconds I found stacks of International Exhibition, 1876: Official Catalogue. I scooped up a catalogue for each building—the Main Building, Machinery Hall, the Art Gallery, and so on. I emptied my pockets of all my change, and then I scrambled back into the wet.

  I hugged the flimsy papers to my chest and tried to keep my white skirts from the fresh mud. Now the rain was really coming down.

  Someone grabbed my arm and whirled me about. I inhaled, prepared to shout my alarm, but I promptly clapped my mouth shut.

  “Empress,” Daniel said. He dropped his hand from my arm. His cap was soaked through, and water dripped off the edge. He must have been standing in the rain since it started. He slid his brown coat off and draped it over my shoulders, speaking all the while.

  “Your beau—he’s back, and he’s lookin’ for me.”

  “What?” I huddled under the coat and hefted it over my head. The rain hadn’t sneaked through its sturdy wool. “Clarence?”

  “Him, yeah.” He nodded and tugged his cap low over his face. “You haven’t said anything, right?”

  “No, of course not. But your name must be in the newspapers, and I’ve seen him talking to Mr. Peger. It won’t be difficult—”

  He lifted a hand to cut me off. “That’s fine—I know all that. Just remember—”

  I mimicked his gesture and cut him off. “I won’t say your name. Don’t worry, Mr. Sheridan.”

  He wiped the rain from his face. “All right.” He reached for the coat but paused, his arms outstretched over my head and his eyes scanning my face as if to memorize me. “You may not be seeing me around for a while ’cause of all this. I’ll be lying low.”

  “Oh.” A maelstrom of feelings passed through me. Sadness, curiosity, anger, regret, and an aching hollowness in my chest. I didn’t want to not see him.

  “I learned something,” I rushed to say before he could run off. “The murdered men weren’t just schoolmates. They’re all connected to the Gas Trustees.”

  Daniel balked and let the coat drop back over me. “The Gas Trustees? What do you know about them?”

  “Nothing. I think they might be called the Gas Ring too, because Elijah mentioned it—”

  “Don’t mess with the Gas Ring.” He grabbed my chin and forced me to look into his eyes. “I can’t stop you from seein’ Wilcox, Empress, but stay the hell away from the Gas Ring.”

  “Why? What is it?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It ain’t your affair, so don’t dig your nose in any farther.”

  “What if it does matter? For the necromancer?”

  “I’ll deal with it.” He wrenched the coat from me. “Hurry. Your man’s back.”

  I needed no prodding. I pivoted toward the concourse and raced through the pounding rain. I could see Clarence at the carriage, and a derby-hatted, golden-locked reporter jogging away. I stuffed the catalogues in my pocket and threw a glance behind me.

  Daniel was gone. I scanned all about, but I saw no sign of his corn-blond hair or drenched flat cap. Only the lingering scent of metal and the earthy smell of summer rain proved I hadn’t imagined the entire thing.

  The sun sank in the western sky. Red rays peeked through the piling rain clouds. I scrambled from the Wilcox carriage to my house, fierce droplets falling on my skin.

  I rushed upstairs. My mind swirled with thoughts of Daniel and Clarence, and my body shivered from the wet. Clarence had clearly been annoyed at me for leaving the carriage at the Exhibition, but he’d refrained from expressing it. Likely he felt guilty over his earlier outburst.

  I shuffled into my room and fumbled with my hairpins. But then I stopped, frozen midstride. A letter lay on my dressing table. A grimy slip of paper—folded, wrinkled, and addressed to me. I threw myself forward and ripped at the fragile sheet.

  Dearest Sister,

  You must stop searching for me. You must stop seeing the Spirit-Hunters. You hurt me by being with them, and worse, you put yourself in danger.

  With all my love,

  Elijah

  It was like a
punch to my stomach. My breath flew out. My lungs heaved and clenched and heaved and clenched. I crumpled to the floor, ignoring my gown. Tears burned my eyes and then dropped down my cheeks.

  I made no sound and simply let the tears fall.

  I had wasted time worrying over Daniel and Clarence, playing on the croquet course, and arguing with Mama. I had neglected what was most important: Elijah. He was alive and he had been here, in my room. I had to find him.

  I squeezed the white folds of my dress, held my breath, and counted my heartbeats. One, two, three, four. I eased the air from my lungs and let my body relax. A final shudder, and I was in control once more.

  My brother was alive— thank God—but he was still in danger. The necromancer clearly still had him. But … I looked at the letter again, now stained with tears. I hurt Elijah by searching for him? Why? Because the necromancer felt threatened? Yes. That had to be it.

  The Spirit-Hunters and I were getting close to solving the mysteries of what the necromancer wanted at the Exhibition, of why he wanted the Germantown boys. The Spirit-Hunters were building devices to destroy the Dead, and now the necromancer was scared. He—or perhaps she or they, since we really did not know who this person was—must have forced Elijah to send this letter.

  Yes, this necromancer was scared, and that meant I had an advantage. Fear made people act irrationally, made them misstep and forget to cover their trails. Like at the library.

  I scrambled clumsily up and to the window, where some stormy light still came in. Then I pulled the Exhibition catalogues from my pocket.

  I started with the Main Hall since that was where Allison had seen the ancient texts. I flipped through and saw that it was organized by nation or state. I hadn’t a clue who displayed the old books, so I started on page one. I scanned for anything noteworthy; but after several pages, I realized the book was almost entirely advertisements. In fact, many exhibits weren’t listed or were given no detail at all.

  Official Catalogue? Humbug.

  I searched the pages anyway, until my eyes burned from straining. It felt like hours, but I finally found Allison’s book exhibit. There was nothing on display that sounded like a grimoire. All the same, I was certain my hunch was leading me in the right direction. If only I could sort through all these blasted advertisements!

  I tossed the catalogues aside in frustration. This must be why a corpse had gone to the library—to find more reliable inventories.

  I went to the window and pressed my face against the cool glass. The rain splattered in loud drops and filled my nose with its scent. I held my right hand against the window’s glass, and with my eyes screwed shut, I imagined Elijah’s letters.

  “Something took him to Cairo.” I nodded my head with each word as the lines formed in my mind, connecting clue to clue. “And he referenced Solomon … but he said pages were missing. So he traveled to New York because the pages were in a museum.”

  That’s what I needed, wasn’t it? Those pages.

  I raced back to the Exhibition catalogues and fell to one knee. I clawed at them, searching for any items listed from New York.

  Maybe Solomon’s pages had been moved. Maybe they were here, in Philadelphia, at the Centennial Exhibition. The necromancer had followed Elijah to find them!

  I found it on page seventy-seven of the United States Government Building’s book, listed under New York’s collection of museum novelties.

  Original pages of Le Dragon Noir, a scarce companion to the Grand Grimoire, supposedly from the pen of King Solomon. On loan from the New-York Historical Society.

  There it was—a book of magic at the Exhibition. That was what the necromancer wanted and possibly what the spirit wanted too.

  I laughed a shrill, panting laugh. I had to tell the Spirit-Hunters.

  And we had to find this grimoire.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  At nine o’clock the next morning and without Mama’s knowledge, I waited with a grim face for the Exhibition to open. I was the first through the turnstiles, and I fled instantly to the Spirit-Hunters’ door.

  “Bonjour.” Joseph waved me into the lab. I skidded to a stop at the sight of Jie wrapped in a blanket on the floor.

  “Is she asleep?” I whispered.

  “Wi, but do not worry. She worked on the railroad, so she can sleep through anything.”

  “Why is she here? Why not in your …” I furrowed my brow. “Well, wherever it is you sleep.”

  He chuckled and spread his hands. “This is where we sleep.” He tapped his foot on the floor. “This is our bed.”

  “You mean the city never gave you lodging? A house or a hotel to stay in?”

  His eyebrows rose. “Are you offering your own?”

  I opened and closed my mouth, my face flooding with heat. “I … um … No.”

  At that moment the door screamed on its hinges and banged into the table behind. Daniel stormed in.

  “They won’t give it to us.” He slammed the door shut. I flinched at the violent whack. Jie jerked awake.

  “I ran into one of the officials,” Daniel continued, “and he said the city can’t trust us with dynamite.” The muscles in his neck strained, and his body was tense with fury. He pounded his chest. “Us. The ones who’ve done nothing but risk our lives.”

  Joseph lifted his hands. “Calm yourself.”

  “How can I be calm?” Daniel shouted. “They treat us like a bunch of dogs, and we put up with it.”

  Jie stretched her arms overhead. “It’s true—” A jaw-cracking yawn overtook words, and she tapped at her mouth. “It’s true,” she tried again. “They want us to save them from the Dead, but then they don’t help us.” She drew herself gracefully to her feet.

  Daniel opened his mouth to speak, but Joseph laid a warning hand on his shoulder.

  “Settle down.”

  Daniel ground his teeth and stomped to the window. He pressed his hands against the glass and leaned, his gaze moving to some distant spot outside. Judging by his labored breath, he was trying to keep his temper under control.

  I gulped. The Spirit-Hunters needed dynamite? Why? I had to admit I’d be wary to hand over explosives to just anyone. Except the Spirit-Hunters weren’t just anyone.

  Jie shifted her head side to side, and her neck popped loudly. “We can’t fight the entire cemetery, you know.”

  “I know,” Joseph answered. “But if the city will not let us have dynamite, then there is nothing we can do.”

  She spoke her next words casually. “We can take it, Joseph. We just break into the factory and take what we need. It’d be fair enough to—”

  “No,” Joseph and Daniel snapped in unison.

  Daniel dropped his hands from the window and inched around to face Jie. “No stealing. Especially not that.”

  I spoke up, my voice breaking. “I-I know what the Dead want.”

  Three heads spun toward me.

  “It’s one of the grimoires—Le Dragon Noir—and it’s on display here. I saw it listed in the Exhibition catalogue.”

  Joseph sagged onto a stool. He rubbed his head and then he slung out another stool. “Sit. Tell me everything from the beginning. This … this is startling.”

  So I did as he asked. I began with Elijah’s most recent letter and ended with the New York listings in the Exhibition catalogue.

  Joseph stared at me, his whole body stiff and his lips pressed thin. “Le Dragon Noir,” he murmured. “This is very bad.” He jumped up, massaging his forehead.

  “What is it?” Jie asked.

  “I asked the Exhibition board about this title.” Joseph dropped his hands, and his eyes shone with anger and fear—something I’d never seen in him. He spoke faster, his voice rising. “When we first arrived here, I’d mentioned this title and many others. I thought perhaps the museums would display their valuable pieces. The board insisted there was nothing. Promised me. They must not realize what they have—not understand what someone with the proper training could do with a handful of
these pages.”

  He hung his head and stared at the floor. His hands trembled as he clenched and unfolded his fingers. When his head lifted, he met three sets of wide eyes. “The Black Dragon has spells that are especially seductive to a dark magician—to a necromancer. It teaches how to bring a soul from the dead to animate a body. It is like … well, imagine if the spirit, the one your mother let in, were able to take over a human form. Or if every corpse in the cemetery were given a new soul.”

  I shuddered. “So the spirit must want the grimoire too. That’s why it was at the library.”

  “Wi. That must be so—which is an even greater cause for concern.”

  I tipped my head to Daniel. “And now you need dynamite. Why?”

  “It’s an invention.” He reached under the worktable and slung out a metal canister the width and length of my forearm. It was fixed at an angle to a flattened piece of tin, giving it the look of a toy cannon. A copper wire coiled around the canister and glowed bright red in the morning light.

  “It’s a special explosive.” Daniel held up a metal rod the size of my fist and dropped it in the tube. It clunked at the end. “When this magnet shoots through this cylinder, it creates a pulse of electromagnetic energy. A big wave.” He spread his arms wide. “I call it a pulse bomb.”

  Joseph cleared his throat. “It would affect the Dead as I do, Miss Fitt. The explosion of electromagnetic energy would destroy spiritual energy. It would stop many corpses at once.”

  Daniel grunted and set the device on the table. “The problem is, the magnet has to be propelled somehow—like a bullet.”

  “Or a cannonball?” I asked.

  “Yep. But the magnet has to go almighty fast to make the electromagnetic pulse, and it won’t move without an explosion—a big explosion.”

  “Dynamite,” I murmured.

  “Yeah.” He pushed the miniature cannon toward me, and I ran a gloved finger down the copper wire. Clacking jaws and rabid hunger filled my mind. If there were more of those corpses or, heaven forbid, an entire cemetery of them, then no one in Philadelphia stood a chance.

  “And this is our only hope?” I held up the canister. “An invention that can’t be finished?”