The Haunting of the Oceania Page 3

  The sailor turned around and hit the officer in the head with the shovel. The officer collapsed on the floor.

  Without thinking, Reese ran toward the sailor, intending to grab the shovel from him, but the man saw him and swung. Reese ducked just in time.

  “You aren’t going to stop me!” the man yelled, coming after Reese again. Reese twisted out of the way, finding himself backed up against a wall. He looked around. There was nothing he could use as a weapon. The man advanced on him. Reese braced himself, ready to grab at the shovel when the man swung it. Just as the man brought the shovel up, the ship rolled, throwing them both off balance. The shovel caught the side of Reese’s hand, and then he saw it coming toward his face a split second before he felt the pain crush through his temple.

  He didn’t know how long it was before he opened his eyes. It took him a moment to realize one eye either didn’t work or didn’t open. He couldn’t tell. The pain in his head beat a steady throb in time with the heaving he felt in his stomach. The one watery eye that did work watched as the crewman continued to shovel more coal into the firebox. The fire was so hot, sparks flew out of the box, hitting the floor. A burst of flames shot a piece of glowing red coal out. It hit the floor behind the sailor, but the man didn’t see it. Reese watched it as the red grew out from it, expanding on the floor. He wanted to speak, to tell the sailor to turn around, but his mouth wouldn’t work.

  The outer part of the growing red had turned to yellow and it was dancing. It was pretty to watch, like tiny figures around a bonfire. The distraction made him forget the pain for a moment, but it was so hot he started to wish the little bonfire would go away. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so sick if he could put it out. He knew without even trying that he wouldn’t be able to stand, so he pulled himself along the floor, not quite crawling. It seemed to take a long time, because one arm and leg didn’t cooperate, and he felt like he was dragging an extra person along. He had almost reached it when the sailor spotted him. Reese tried to point at the little fire, hoping the man would put it out for him. Instead, the man came forward, his shovel raised. The shovel was dangerous, Reese remembered. He put up the hand that worked. From beside him a piercing shriek sounded and he saw a small creature leap in front of him, a monkey who climbed up a pipe next to the boiler. The animal’s motion drew the attention of the sailor and Reese had a brief moment of lucidity. He grabbed the man’s leg and pulled. The sailor fell, hitting his head on the boiler before collapsing right on top of the burning floor. Reese closed his eyes.

  ***

  He woke feeling trapped, wrapped in something that prevented him from moving. The struggle to sit up and free himself brought on such pain in his head that he stopped, praying for it to go away.

  “Reese, please be still. Don’t try to get up.” It was a familiar voice.

  “Mr. Tretheway, you’ve been injured.” An unfamiliar voice. “Can you open your eyes?”

  His hand went to his head, which was swathed in bandages.

  “He may be confused for several days, and have some memory loss. That is very common with severe concussions.”

  “We’re here, Reese. It’s Aunt Tat. Can you hear me?”

  His eyes came open on their own. Wavering light and a face surrounded by fluffy white hair came into view. “Water,” he managed to say.

  The unfamiliar man helped him raise his head and Aunt Tat gave him a drink. The cool water made him feel better.

  Reese tried to recall why he was in bed wrapped in bandages. He saw images of waves, and remembered the motion of the ship. He had the image of a girl, her back to him, a girl with beautiful shining dark hair, but he just couldn’t recall her face. He could see the ship, and the name painted on the side as they boarded. “We were on the Oceania, and it was a very dull, cold voyage. What happened?”

  “Oh dear.” Aunt Tat looked to the doctor.

  “He may not ever remember all that happened.” the man said. “We see it in victims of extreme trauma. They even forget a day or several days before the event.”

  “What event?” Reese asked, trying to sit up, but it hurt so much he lay back.

  Tatiana explained and finished with, “I was so afraid for you! When they brought you to the infirmary, you lay as still as death for hours. You don’t remember any of it?”

  He tried to shake his head and discovered that was not a good idea. “No,” he said. Aunt Tat’s story baffled him. “What was I doing down in the boiler room?”

  “We were hoping you could tell us. If you hadn’t gone down there and stopped that poor demented sailor, the captain said the boiler might have exploded, and we all would have died.”

  “What happened to the sailor?” Reese asked.

  “Poor man. He was burned when he fell on a part of the floor that was on fire. His body put out the fire, but he died a day later of the burns.”

  There was a knock on the door and Aunt Tat disappeared from his view for a moment. When she came back she said, “I hope you don’t mind if the Duchess comes in to say hello. We’ve been having tea, and she would so much like to check your aura, just to make sure all the danger has passed.”

  “Duchess?” A series of images of elderly ladies flashed through his mind, but he couldn’t put names to any of them.

  “Oh, dear. You don’t remember her. She is a dear friend I met on board ship. Perhaps you will know her once you see her.”

  A woman in a vivid red dress swept into the room, a monkey of all things, clinging to her shoulder. The monkey was wearing a little red fez and a green vest. Reese had to open and close his eyes a few times to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. Yes, it actually was a monkey. Somehow, even though he didn’t recognize the woman, the monkey looked familiar. It watched him with bright black eyes.

  “I’m glad to see you looking better, Mr. Tretheway,” the woman said.

  “Thank you.” He was at a loss to know what to say to this Duchess, but he didn’t want to appear churlish. “It is kind of you to visit,” he managed to get out.

  She stared at him long enough for him to feel uncomfortable. “Ah, Tatiana,” she said, “I see he is fine now. A nice bright green aura surrounds him, green as the emerald grass of Ireland.” Reese thought he detected a bit of Irish brogue beneath the exaggerated Eastern European accent.

  “But is green good?” Tatiana asked. “I thought you said blue was the best.”

  “The best for the likes of you and me,” the Duchess replied. “Mr. Tretheway’s aura is green because he is going to continue to lead a very exciting life. It may very likely go to red occasionally, because I can tell he is the kind of young man who won’t shy away from danger, so he will have to take care. Oh, how I wish I were forty years younger, Mr. Tretheway.” She winked at him. “But now that I’ve seen you are fine, I’ll leave you to get some rest.”

  As she left, a maid carried in a vase of flowers. “Hothouse lilies from your cousins, Mr. Tretheway,” the girl said cheerfully. She put them on the bedside table and he caught the sweet scent of them. It reminded him of something, a girl in the summerhouse, her hair down around her shoulders, shining hair like the girl on the ship. Was it the same one? He couldn’t quite remember her name though, or see her face clearly. He could remember enough to know he wasn’t married or engaged. He wouldn’t forget that, would he?

  “Aunt Tat,” he said. “Do I know a girl with very beautiful dark hair, a girl who has been to the house?”

  “I wouldn’t know, dear. You do remember I don’t live at your house, don’t you?”

  Reese had to think about that.

  “You are rarely at your house yourself” She gave a little laugh. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you had trouble remembering it.”

  He thought about it for a moment, and he did remember. “It would be someone I’m….I’m quite fond of,” he said, thinking of running his hands through the girl’s hair.

  “I can’t recall anyone, Reese. Neither Alexandria or Beatrice have dark hair, and you are closest to th
em.”

  He found he could picture his cousins, both with bright red hair. “No, it wasn’t them. Perhaps it was only a dream.” As he said it, he knew the girl was real. When he recovered, perhaps he would remember and then he could see her again.

  The End

  If you enjoyed this story, you can read further adventures of Reese Tretheway when he meets up with the girl in black again in THE GARGOYLE IN THE SEINE:

  Art student Clary Ashton can’t imagine a more perfect spot to study painting than Paris in the spring of 1878, until she witnesses a body thrown into the Seine, the body of Liam Heaton, another art student whose claims to be without money or family never rang true. What Clary thinks is murder becomes much more as Liam’s secrets come to light and his identity is revealed. When Clary’s own brother falls under suspicion for Liam's death, she is desperate to clear him, but as she delves deeper into the murky underworld and the glittering salons of the city, she finds caught between two dangerous men- a political extremist days away from a royal assassination, and the young intrepid British secret agent, Reese Tretheway, who is determined to stop him.

  Clary, brought up like a gypsy in the wilds of America, finds her skills at roasting lizards and hunting rabbits little use in seeing behind the treacherous sophistication of both Reese and of those who hold the key to Liam’s death. Reese manages to hunt revolutionaries without ever wrinkling his evening clothes or revealing his own secrets, all of which Clary finds maddening. When Clary realizes she knows too much and has become a target of the revolutionaries, she and Reese have to find a way to tolerate each other long enough to save Clary’s brother and try to stop the assassination, or face the possibility of losing their own lives.

  Available as an ebook at online retailers and as a paperback at selected sites.

  Word count: 87,000, Reader’s guide included

  Read the first two chapters:

  One

  Very coarse red hair is a sign of propensities much too animal.

  “Nature’s Revelations of Character” by Joseph Simms

  PARIS, Monday, April 30, 1878

  Clary’s brother told her about the gargoyle brooding deep in the Seine, the gargoyle who was the guardian of the drowned and the hopeless. She didn’t believe him, of course, but she looked every time she was at the river. She couldn’t help herself. Sam claimed the creature fell off Notre Dame during the restoration of the church, the only one lost of the hundreds of gargoyles who perched there, the gargoyles who waited and watched the mortals below them.

  Now the superstitious, the old bargemen and laundresses whose lives were bound to the river, they believed the fallen creature crouched in the depths of the river, a one-horned demon with stricken eyes and grasping fingers who waited and watched for the drowned to come down.

  This morning Clary only glanced at the river, the murky water smothered in mist, muted like the cloudy green of absinthe. Clary could almost imagine she caught a whiff of the licorice scent of the drink the other art students seemed to crave.

  She didn’t hear the stranger approach. His breath announced him an instant before he grabbed her arm and tried to draw her close. Clary shoved away from him, dropped everything, and reached into the pocket in her boot for her knife.

  “Stay away,” Clary ordered, first in English and then remembering where she was, in French, as she held the knife in front of her. It was only a small bowie knife, but she hoped the sharpened tip and the gleam of the blade would discourage him. She was not about to give up the little money she possessed to a thief.

  The man stared at the knife as if he could not believe it was real, and then examined her face. “I only thought you might like a friend, girl,” he said in French. It took her a moment to decipher his French, spoken with both a strange accent and a jaw that had been pushed sideways at some point in his life. “I have a bit of business to take care of and then I will have more of this,” he continued, holding up a franc.

  She wondered what kind of business an unshaven man in much mended clothes could have.

  “I think we could have a nice time,” he added, waving the franc, “and I promise you won’t need your little knife. How much?”

  “No,” Clary replied, waving her knife back at him, deciding this was not the time for subtlety. “I don’t like you. I don’t like you at all. Go away before I decide to plunge my little knife into your stinking heart.” She thought it wouldn’t hurt to clarify her lack of interest to a man whose brain was the size of a possum. Only someone of limited intelligence would have mistaken her for a lady of the evening, or rather the morning, since it was just past six. Her clothes should have given him a clue. The plain navy blue walking dress was old, to be sure, but not overly tight, and it buttoned to her throat.

  He looked her up and down one more. “Please yourself. I’ll just find someone else who will appreciate my money. Besides, you are as scrawny as plucked chicken.” He spat on the ground to confirm his insult.

  “And you’re as ugly as a…as a poodle.” Her voice trailed off. She wanted to say “as ugly as a mangy cur” but didn’t know the French for either “mangy” or “cur.” The man walked away as if he hadn’t heard her, and Clary stamped her foot, furious at herself for not knowing any French curse words. She needed to find someone to teach her some as soon as possible. The man climbed up the steps to the next bridge downstream, the Pont Royal, disappearing from her view behind the stone walls that edged it.

  Clary tried to go back to her study of the Pont du Carrousel. She wanted to see the bridge in the dawn light before Quillan met her to go on to the studio. Wisps of mist rose and twined around the iron spirals supporting the bridge, obscuring the riverbanks, giving the illusion the bridge led not to the Louvre, but to some other world far from this one. This was what she would capture in her painting.

  “Miss Ashton, I need your help,” a raspy voice said from behind her. Clary whirled about, her knife in front of her again. “Miss Ashton, it’s just me, Liam, Liam Donovan, you remember, don’t you?”

  Liam Donovan was not a man one forgot. Even though it was at least six months since Monsieur Dupay ordered Liam to leave the studio, he was an oddity among the vast assortment of art students overrunning Paris. His glorious fiery red hair and beard made him stand out in a crowd, but it was his insistence on wearing a worn black velvet smoking hat with a long silvered tassel, all the time, even out of doors, that made him memorable, if slightly ridiculous.

  “Mr. Donovan, I’m sorry.” She let her hand drop. “You startled me. What are you doing here?”

  “I need your help, and I hoped I would find you here.” He moved closer, thrusting a tattered red leather folio at her.

  She didn’t take it. “How did you know where to find me?” she asked, bothered by his sudden appearance. Paris was too large a city to just happen upon someone, particularly on the riverbank early in the morning. Now that he was only a few feet from her, Clary was startled to see the changes in him, the changes the opium had wrought. When she knew him, Liam had been a husky man with a barrel chest, but his threadbare clothes hung on him now, and his hair under the smoking cap was matted and dull.

  “I used to hear you in the studio making arrangements to meet Quillan in the Tuileries. It didn’t seem to be a secret,” he said, wincing as he spoke as if he were in pain. “I need you to look at some of my drawings.” He held out the folio again and Clary noticed the bandage.

  “Your hand is bleeding,” she said, looking at the grimy scrap of linen wrapped around his right hand, blood seeping through the part covering his palm.

  He looked down at it and frowned, as if just noticing it. “It’s nothing. I am getting some money in a few minutes, and then I can talk to you. Things have gone wrong, very, very wrong. I need some help and I thought you could introduce me to your uncle. I tried to explain things to your brother, but he refused to listen, and he warned me not to go near your house. He has quite a strong left hook.” Liam rubbed a blue-black shadow on his jaw. �
�I don’t know where else to turn. Please, Miss Ashton.”

  “My uncle? My brother?” Now Clary was very confused. “How could my uncle help you?” Clary’s uncle, actually her great-uncle, Benjamin Thompson, was an elderly expatriate American who spent his days either pottering about his miniscule garden or reading in front of the fire. She didn’t see how he could help Liam with anything. And Sam? She didn’t realize Sam even knew Liam, though her brother certainly didn’t need to be formally introduced to someone to punch them.

  “Your uncle can help me find the right people to see. It is a long story.” Liam was pleading now.

  “How do you know my brother?”

  “I don’t have time to explain it all right now,” he said. “I’m late to meet someone. I saw the fellow go up on the bridge just a minute ago. Look at my drawings, please. I will tell you everything when I come back. There he is. Kirill!” Liam yelled toward the bridge, and Clary turned around, but didn’t see anyone. “Kirill!” Liam yelled again. “I have to go before he leaves. Please wait.”

  He sounded so desperate, Clary agreed. “All right, but I won’t be here long.”

  “Thank you.” Liam held out the folio to her and smiled.

  Clary froze at the bizarre sight. “What’s wrong with your mouth, your teeth, Liam?” she said, not believing what she saw.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They, they are all golden,” she stammered. It was hard to get the words out. Every single one of Liam’s teeth glimmered as if each were brushed with gold dust. They glowed with a strange luminance as the first rays of the sun hit them. It was grotesque, like watching a man turn into a gilded statue before her eyes.

  “Gold? What are you talking about? I’ve never needed any teeth capped with gold.”

  “Not that kind of gold. They look like they’ve been painted.” Clary wondered if someone played a joke on Liam while he was sleeping or passed out. Her fellow art students were notorious practical jokers, and she was spared only because she was female. This was too cruel to be amusing though, far beyond any of the standard jokes of brushes dipped in glue and pinholes put in paint bladders.