The Curse of the Brimstone Contract Page 9

  We are all safe now so perhaps the dread was simply missing my daughter, and my husband’s death was only misadventure. Perhaps not. But it is never good to simply dismiss something that you do not understand. And there are still many days where I wish I had stayed in my home to find whatever killed him. I valued survival over answers. Likely my husband would have had it so. Still, it is a grief I carry.

  Joan shook her head, her eyes misting unexpectedly at the careful words of devotion for her long-dead great-grandfather. She dabbed the moisture from her eyes as she went back over the text.

  She smiled, amused that in one breath her great-grandmother dismissed as nonsense the legend of the golem. The golem was a monster created to avenge the deaths of those dear to his master. Instead, the golem broke from those controlling it and became a soulless thing of dread and destruction.

  Yet, in the next paragraph, her great-grandmother clearly seemed to believe there was something different and wonderful about the pendant. And she gave credence to a legend of why the pendant had been created. Not exactly consistent.

  Still, Great-Grandmother Ruth had been ahead of her time. Magic was indeed in the world. It was too bad that this entry didn’t separate fact from legend.

  Until Sherringford’s brief words, Joan had only a vague idea of how magic worked, which was that a mage would release energy and create mage coal. That mage coal powered what the newspapers termed “the steam revolution”. She well remembered the day they had set up the sewing room boiler and steam pipes. Suddenly, they went from being able to produce ten petticoats per day to one hundred, if needed.

  But other mage powers? Obviously, they could cause great destruction. Witness the brown scar in the park. Sir August wanted to marry her to protect her from any accusations of using illegal magic.

  Perhaps if Sherringford trained her, instead of Joan fearing for her own safety, those who threatened her would fear for theirs.

  Which begged the question: if the pendant was a magical totem, why had her grandmother given it to her instead of her mother?

  Obviously, Great-Grandmother Ruth had given it to her daughter. Yet Joan’s grandmother had skipped a generation and given it directly to her granddaughter. That could be because Joan had the mage gift and her mother did not. That seemed the simplest explanation. But as Joan was finding out, very few things in her life were simple.

  Joan frowned, trying to remember Nana ever talking about magic. It is meant to be yours, Nana had said when giving her the pendant. But that could mean so many things. Joan flipped ahead in the journal to find out how Great-Grandmother Ruth had passed on the pendant. Many pages dealt with daily family life. She could find nothing of interest in a quick perusal. There was a short note in a shaky hand at the end.

  It seems only yesterday that I wrote the beginning of this and now I write the end, or, more accurately, the end of my own story. So it is done. I spent the day putting my affairs, such as they are, in order. I feel I can go peacefully as Hans has made good on his boasts and Sims is thriving as he and my daughter Rebecca work in concert. I worry about the far future, as they have only had one child, and I fear that child is a bit spoiled.

  Joan stifled a giggle as she realized that it was her mother—nearly a full adult at the time of the writing—being referred to as a spoiled child.

  But I have done my duty. The history of the Cohens is here. And I was right about some legends being real as well, because the news carries hints of people called mages who have discovered a new type of stone that burns so much better than coal. I hear the whispers that this will change the world, that it will bring a better life. I am uncertain, as unless people change, the tools they use to hurt each other will be the only difference in this brave new world.

  As for me, I have already changed my life twice, once when my husband died, once when I moved to this city. It is well this new change will happen after I am gone. I am done with change. I wish the next generation well. I hope Rebecca keeps the pendant close to her. I can sense that it might be needed in the coming years. With these rumors of mages, perhaps the legends surrounding our family heirloom may have some truth to them after all. It is a most comforting thought. And a most frightening thought.

  Ah, Kurt, my love, I miss you still. If this is a just existence, I will see you soon. Either way, the end is inescapable, and at least my words will live on for Rebecca and her daughter and the generation after that. I hope there will be more daughters. That would please me.

  With a lump in her throat, Joan closed the book. She had found only more questions but felt oddly comforted nonetheless. She wished the full history that Ruth referred to had been in this volume. It must be in the others. Tomorrow, she would ask her mother about looking through the rest.

  She extinguished the gaslight in her room and settled down to sleep, her hand curled around the pendant. As she was falling into slumber, she heard a noise, just a whisper of sound. It was so slight that she would never have paid any attention if she had not been listening so intently.

  There was someone in her room.

  Chapter Nine

  “Miss Krieger?”

  The low, resonant voice belonged to Gregor Sherringford. Joan took a deep breath and let it out. He was here, as promised. But she had not imagined his arrival like this.

  “Mr. Sherringford, why are you in my chambers?” she whispered. If she hadn’t feared discovery, she would have shouted the question. “And why are you so late in coming?”

  “You have excellent hearing, Miss Krieger.”

  Just like him, she decided, not to answer her question. “How did you get in here?”

  “My job requires certain skills.”

  “Such as sneaking into a woman’s bedchamber?”

  “That part is a bonus.”

  She snorted because that quick answer sounded so unlike anything else he had said previously. The world was upside down. What had been familiar was now terrifying, and what would have been strange, such as Sherringford arriving in the middle of the night, was comforting. He had kept his word, after all. She was not forgotten.

  “Where are you?” She sat up and the quilt slid to her waist. She pulled it back around her chest because she realized her robe lay over a chair on the other side of the room. How good was his night vision? “And why are you here at this hour?”

  “I am here.” The voice was at her bedside. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see his silhouette only a few feet away, holding out something to her. “We need to do this while everyone is out of the way. Put this on, we don’t have much time. And bring whatever keys you have to your father’s office.”

  She reached out and took what he held in his hand. It turned out to be her robe. She stood and quickly tied the sash around her. How much had he seen in the darkness? Best not to dwell on that question. It should scare her. It excited her instead. Again, best to not dwell on that. “What did you find out with my gloves? And why would you want my keys?”

  “It is easier to break into an office when you have the keys. Quiet.” He closed his hand around her forearm, above her bruises. His touch was light through his leather gloves, almost a caress. “No more questions now, unless you want to wake someone and be discovered.”

  If no questions now, then when?

  But she grabbed the keys she kept in her nightstand and followed him. It was obviously not the time to make a scene. Sherringford made absolutely no sound as he opened her door and led her downstairs. The seasoned wood on the stairs always creaked but she heard no noise tonight. Even stranger, she could not hear the keys jingle in her robe pocket.

  Perhaps, despite his demurrals, Sherringford possessed magic after all.

  Whether it was magic or skill, they reached the main office of Krieger & Sims without encountering anyone. She grabbed Sherringford’s arm and pressed a key into his gloved hand.

  He patted her on the shoulder. What was she, a good dog? She shook her head as he opened the door. Though the hinges always
made an audible squeak, they were as silent tonight as the wood on the stairs had been.

  They stepped into the office. He closed the door behind them.

  “What can you possibly expect to find here?” she whispered.

  “Clues to the real cause of your problem,” Sherringford said. “Before confronting our villain we need to know who and what they are.”

  “What clues? What did the gloves tell you?”

  “The gloves gave enough of a hint to set me on the scent.” Sherringford pulled a cylindrical device from inside his dark coat and tapped it. She heard gears whir into place, and, a second later, the device emitted a beam of light that cut through the dark of the office.

  “That’s amazing.” She spoke in a whisper, but surprise pushed her voice louder than she’d intended.

  Sherringford did not tell her to be quiet, as she would have expected. “Yes, well, I am quite proud of it. I call it an artificial torch. Not magic, but engineering, a filament glowing in a tube. Unfortunately, it has a short life span. Search the desk. I will try the file cabinets.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Anything locked that you cannot access.”

  That was vague. She wondered if Sherringford did not know exactly what he was looking for and was covering for it with overconfidence. She rather liked the idea of him being out of his depth and confused, until she realized that meant he would be less able to help her.

  She would endure smug and mysterious if it solved her problem.

  Her own smugness vanished as she realized that searching this office meant he suspected a family member—her father—or one of their trusted employees—Roylott or Emily—of being involved in the murder. Sir August must suspect the same, as he had been afraid she might become a suspect if her mage gift was known.

  No, this was no adventure.

  She started on the desk. She had read enough magazine mystery stories to guess she should look for hidden compartments. She opened each drawer and felt around the sides, bottom and top. She even resorted to polite taps. Nothing sounded hollow.

  “Here,” Sherringford whispered, and she rushed to his side. He had his light shining on a blank spot on the side of the tall wooden file cabinet set in the back corner of the office.

  “There?” she frowned. Nothing was there. “Nothing could be here. This is only our old receipts and orders.”

  Sherringford placed his palm on the side of the cabinet. “This space is unaccounted for inside the filing cabinet. The drawer only goes back halfway. Something is hidden in this empty space.”

  She tilted her head. That made sense. “How do we open it? Do we pull out the drawer?” That would be noisy.

  “That would be the easy way, which is not open to us.” He sighed. “I can sense that it is sealed with a spell, the same way I could sense magic in your pendant. I can break it but I need your help.”

  “Whatever you need.”

  “Ah, be careful what you offer, Joan Krieger. You don’t know your value,” he whispered as he took her hand yet again. “I need to prick your finger and draw blood.”

  “Blood?”

  They were so close that she felt his breath caress her cheek. He looked strange and fey, so unlike the detached scientist of earlier in the day or the earthy workman he had played.

  As Sir August’s smile and touch made her recoil, Sherringford’s touch made her hum inside.

  Simple biology, she scolded herself. He was young, attractive and intelligent. Two things, perhaps even three, that Sir August was not.

  “Yes, blood,” he said. “This is a blood seal, and we’ll need blood to break it.”

  “Why not yours?”

  “This place is more yours than mine. Your blood has a better chance of working.”

  “Oh.” She cleared her throat. “Is this magic?”

  “There’s no time to explain,” he said. “Are you afraid to prick your finger, girl?”

  And just like that, her temporary enchantment with him vanished. “I have pricked my fingers with needles many times, sir. That holds no terror for me.”

  “Give me your palm.”

  He encircled her wrist with his fingers. She swallowed, almost shivering. It was not his touch. Now that she was close to the cabinet, she sensed something wrong and dangerous in the room. Now, why had she not sensed that before? Was it because she usually was focused on placating her father while in his office? She tended to linger at the doorway, in case a quick escape was needed.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Sherringford tapped her finger with something sharp. She barely felt it. That finger had plenty of sewing calluses. Still keeping a light hold on her wrist, he eased her hand to the blank space on the cabinet. She let out a deep breath as he tapped the space with the bloody tip of her finger. He chanted something under his breath. Not English, not German, not Hebrew. It was in a language completely unfamiliar to her.

  Something grabbed at her hand, as if icy claws fought to skewer it. Agony stabbed into her palm. She stiffened and bit back a scream.

  “Courage, Joan. Trust me.”

  The urge to run screaming into the night increased as her hand felt as if it were being turned to stone, finger by finger. Her head began pounding, and her throat grew thick, rendering her incapable of words. She could not scream. Words could not escape.

  She closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of Sherringford’s hands on her. The icy claws couldn’t be real. She was afraid…she had had many shocks this week…she was imagining a threat where there was none.

  Or, this was magic, not illusion. But Sherringford was her protector and he would handle this. Yes. Focus. Think of the pendant and how it would keep her safe.

  Sherringford chanted again.

  The cold and the pain that seemed ready to slash her hand to ribbons vanished.

  Sherringford cursed. “Damn. ‘Too eager, boy,’ as my mother would say. I have done you a horrible disservice, Miss Krieger.”

  “Does that mean the cold grip on my hand was real? And that my ordeal was for nothing?”

  “Real. A magical trap.” He pried her hand off the file cabinet.

  She flexed her fingers, assuring herself she was whole and uninjured.

  “The hidden door is carefully warded,” he said.

  “If by warded, you mean it tries to injure or kill anyone trying to get in, I would agree, sir. What now?”

  “You go back to your bed. I have more research to do, obviously, before trying this again.”

  “You aren’t leaving without further explanation, Mr. Sherringford.”

  Sherringford grabbed her elbow. “Down!” He pulled her underneath the desk with him.

  They squashed together under the desk. She heard the footsteps coming down the hall. She clutched Sherringford tighter. This was a ridiculous hiding place. Surely, whoever had been clever enough to put a hidden magical compartment in the file cabinet would see them cowering under the desk. Not to mention the fact that it had been a mage who had booby-trapped it. And now a desk was somehow protection against a mage?

  But Sherringford seemed unconcerned. His breathing was deep and even. His arms were tight around her and his mouth was right next to her ear, close enough that she heard him whisper something in the same strange language as when he had tried to open the invisible door.

  Again, his odd words had the sound of a chant or prayer.

  Inky darkness began to surround them.

  Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light in the room but now there was nothing to be seen at all. It was pitch-black. It was almost is if they were the only ones who existed in this void. No desk, no floor, just…nothing.

  She controlled a gasp but could not stop her heartbeat’s sudden increase. She wanted to scream. The world was gone…it was gone…how could it be gone?

  Sherringford put a finger over her mouth. The contact pulled her back from the edge. He was here. She was not alone. If Sherringford could stand this, so could she.


  Stand this? She realized then he must be the cause of it. He had used the same sort of magic to keep all the sounds quiet as they crept down the stairs.

  And now she was trapped in a void, caught in the act of trying to rob her own offices, with the arms of man she’d just met today holding her tight.

  She set her jaw and gave a slight nod to show she understood him. His fingers lingered on her lips. Did he not trust her to remain silent?

  He caressed her cheek for a second, then tapped her palm with his fingers. She nearly gasped as the small touch fired her blood. Silly girl. It was more reassurance, she guessed, nothing more, nothing less. He touched her to prove to her they were still alive.

  She closed her eyes and began to silently pray, internally reciting prayers from her studies as a child. She curled her hand tight around the pendant and focused her prayers on it.

  Sherringford’s arms drew her into a deeper embrace. How long had they been in this place together? There was no method in which to track time, save the growing stiffness in her knees and back.

  That contrasted with the most pleasant feeling of his body against hers, especially since his fingers still lingered on her palm.

  Keys jangled, the lock turned and the office door opened.

  She frowned. The person behind all this had a key. It was someone she knew very well.

  The footsteps stopped in front of the desk. Her panic rose. Surely, the intruder would see them now. Just like Lady Grey, they could die.

  Sherringford hugged her tight against him. He clasped her hand. His breath tickled her neck. She felt the stubble of his chin against her cheek.

  The footsteps came closer still, perhaps inches from their hiding place. She steeled herself for discovery, but the intruder walked right past the desk and to the file cabinet with the hidden door.