Leanna Renee Hieber: Gothic Victorian Fantasy for old souls in a modern world

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 12

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Tue, 18 Jun 2013 10:00:00 +0000

(For previous chapters, see right side bar. If viewing by mobile, scroll down from http://leannareneebooks.blogspot.com for all chapters)

Chapter Twelve

Awake or dreaming?

I couldn't tell what state I was in, other than that it wasn't a good one.

All I could sense concretely was that there was pain, throbbing pain as if I were on fire. My mind swam.

I was laid out horizontally, in what I assumed was a bed, from what I could tell by the feel of my back, but I was not lying in comfort; everything was pins and needles. Every sensation felt raw and chafing. I was warm and perspiring, and yet my teeth chattered, and a constant, slow, undulating tremor went up and down my body as if I were my own tide, rolling in and out.

Trying to open my eyes was a gargantuan task I was not suited for. My eyelids would not respond, so I remained in a shallow darkness and tried to discern meaning.

There was the constant sound of screams. Whether the screams came from my mouth, my mind, from others, from nightmares…I was not at liberty to say, for I was not at liberty at all. My faculties were entirely compromised. I was not free. Something had taken over me. Some part of my mind was still my own, as I wondered if this was what it was like when a body was overtaken by a demon.

If I was entirely far gone, or entirely overtaken, perhaps I wouldn't have had a sense of self at all. It was said that people who were truly mad did not ask if they were mad. So perhaps, in this terrible state, there was hope for me.

The first thing I remembered as a product of true awareness, rather than swimming in a timeless sea of discomfort and confusion, was that I was laid out somewhere familiar, and there were voices. Outside of myself. But there remained many voices within myself too. I had to take a moment to sort out one versus the other.

After some time trying to pick apart the noises and distances, I began to recognize the exterior voices. Mrs. Northe. My father. The low, deep resonant voice repeating prayers. Reverend Blessing. He was praying over me. Was I being exorcised? What had happened? Had the demon, in speaking to me through that poor wretch who collapsed on Mrs. Northe's floor, transferred something unto me? Into me?

Was the pain I felt actually all those runes again carved onto my flesh? Was there any hope for me, or was this the beginning of the end? What had I done? Why did my wrists feel so sore?

A particular searing scream from my own mouth shook me fully alert, and I looked up into the dark-skinned face of Reverend Blessing, who was anointing my head with oil and murmuring scripture.

I renounce thee...

I tried to help him in my mind, to echo, to reiterate, to join in the scripture by my own renunciation of the evil that had clung to me, but only unintelligible noises were coming from my mouth. My cheeks burned in shame; it was like the ugly sounds I made when first regaining my atrophied voice...

That's when I noticed I was bound.

What had I done that required that I be restrained? A turn of my head revealed that my wrists were done up in long white strips. Ripped fabric from sheets or pillowcases were wound round my wrist and tied to the metal headboard in one of Mrs. Northe's pleasant guest rooms that at this moment felt very stifling and utterly unwelcoming.

My stomach churned in a sickening roil and clearly that nauseating sense of horror read on my face, for my father rushed to me with an awkward reassurance that was hardly reassuring...

"It's all right, Natalie. You didn't hurt anyone. Too badly." He chuckled nervously, miserably. "Just a...scratch or two, it was fine—"

I made some kind of sound of protest or shame, my blush further ignited by humiliation and frustration.

"Nathaniel and I held you back as you turned, before anyone was hurt," Mrs. Northe added. "You received the brunt of the toxin borne in on that poor fellow... And that stuff...changes people. It makes sane persons into animals."

I wanted again to retch at this, but something stopped me, something small and lovely. Even in my fevered state, I noticed Mrs. Northe take my father's trembling hand in hers, not in a measured gesture of comfort but a motion on instinct, a gentle act that was so natural and intuitive to her that wanted to join in that collective comfort, for us to be a family. Whatever fear and confusion raced inside my scattered mind, those same raw emotions were writ large directly on my father's face... I wanted to be well again for their sakes, for Jonathon's sake; all that was important to me bolstered me. I regained some sense of myself in my regard for my loved ones, as if I touched the foundations of some sacred site and the divine reached down to steady me in return.

I seemed not in a fit state to respond to them, so I merely bit back a sigh, a cry, a heaving and exasperated curse. I felt my body conspire against me and the whispers near my ears threaten to drag me back under into the murky depths once more. Before I lost consciousness again, I overheard Mrs. Northe say something about Jonathon.

His name was the one thing that could keep my eyes open.

"Where?" I managed. Mrs. Northe and my father exchanged a look. The nauseating feeling I was fighting returned in force, but now layered with a fresh terror. "What...what about Jonathon!"

"He's gone. We don't know where. It's been two days."

My eyes rolled back in my head, my whole sense of self and sensation pitching and roiling as if I were tempest-tossed in the worst of seasick throes. Before I lost myself again, I prayed with all my heart, then, that I could dream, and in that dream, find the man I loved and see where he'd gone and what he'd need of me if I could shake off these dreadful curses of ours...

--
(End of Chapter 12 -- Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends! Tweet it, FB, + it! The Magic Most Foul team really hopes the audience will continue to grow and it can only do so with YOUR help! If you haven't already, do pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and the sequel: The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause! Donations directly support the editorial staff.

Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 11

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Tue, 11 Jun 2013 10:00:00 +0000

(For previous chapters, see right side bar. If viewing by mobile, scroll down from http://leannareneebooks.blogspot.com for all chapters)

Chapter Eleven

The body remained too near to me as it fell flat, but even though I wanted to scramble away, shock and terror rooted me.

There was then, as one might imagine, panic in Mrs. Northe's fine home. A few screams pierced the suddenly fraught room, awash in murmurs and stirrings, our collective trance so rudely jarred into a living nightmare.

Lavinia rushed up to Nathaniel and murmured in his ear. He placed a protective hand upon the small of her back, nodding confidently as she shared something insistent. She drew the tulle veil that spread back from behind her feathered, beaded fascinator around her face and cupped the gathered fabric against her mouth with a lace-gloved hand.

"No one breathe freely," Nathaniel cried, putting his red silk cravat to his mouth, and others followed in his example. Lavinia made a move to withdraw, but he held her close and through the veil, I saw her fair cheeks redden.

"It's the powder to be careful of," Lavinia clarified for everyone's benefit, her usually soft and timid voice now carrying with the weight of necessity and authority. "Take care."

Everyone did as instructed; cravats and silk scarves, shawls and gloves, all created a shield. I did what I could with my sleeve, wishing I had some of the draping, flowing fabrics so many of the Association boasted.

"Stay here," Veil instructed to his crowd. He moved toward the front door in order to survey all of his crowd at once rather than having his back to anyone. "We must see if George was followed, if there were any others targeted. Were any of you approached? Have any of you been pressured by any 'doctors' or anything bearing the seal printed on that original leaflet?" His coterie shook their heads. "Then Lavinia has taken good care of you indeed since the first incident. We must remain vigilant."

"Is he dead? Georgie?" asked a mousy girl draped in black velvet, pointing a satin-gloved finger at the floor. I peered closer. There was a slight hitch of breath from the man's back, barely perceptible but there nonetheless.

"Not dead yet," I stated, hoping to help keep calm, as a death among us might trigger any number of unfortunate reactions. I wiped at my nose with the edge of my sleeve.

Veil gestured to a slender man in dark, embroidered silk whose black hair was slicked back and braided- Chinese, I assumed, though in the cultural fugue that is New York City, one should never assume. The intensely focused man nodded and slipped out the front door, his compact frame tensed. Perhaps he was Veil's bodyguard; this quiet man who I hadn't noticed until that very moment he was drawn out, as he'd blended with the more ostentatious crowd, a good safety measure.

Just then I heard a familiar voice of someone who was clearly surprised by a stranger at her front door.

"Excuse me, and you are? This happens to be my home. Did I summon for a party I forgot having thrown?" Mrs. Northe, key in hand, stood framed in her grand doorway of beveled glass, decorative ironwork, and carved wood.

Just as lovely as her home, she wore a deep green satin dress that was neither casual nor formal, the very definition of elegance in all she presented to the world. Her slightly off the shoulder dress was made more modest by a gray shawl that glimmered with silver beads. Her lace-gloved hands, the only part of her that showcased any tension, were fisted tightly about her keys, fan, and reticule. Were the situation not dire, the look on her face would have been pricelessly amusing as she took in her home overrun by a coven of striking, black-clad creatures positively dripping off her stairs and furniture, filling her halls and parlor, wide-eyed and trembling.

"Well, well," she murmured as she swept in her front foyer, shaking off apprehension so that her presence might command the room in nearly as impressive a manner as Veil. "I've an unexpected murder of crows to host, do I?"

Murder was an unfortunate word for a cluster of ravens, considering the circumstances. I doubt Poe would have written this scene; he'd surely find it distasteful and a bit much.

"The Lady of the Manor, I presume!" Veil cried, bowing, his ascot still cupped to his mouth, though that had no effect on his being heard. His voice could boom no matter what obstructed it. Mrs. Northe gaped slightly. He maintained his bow as he continued. "Nathaniel Veil at your service, madame."

He swept his hand about him, presenting his compatriots. "If you'll forgive us, Her Majesty's Association of Melancholy Bastards here needed to host a meeting for our collective safety…" Veil stood upright again, towering over the woman whose home he had overtaken as she looked up at him blankly. "But as you can see from the supine body of Mister George Fernstock there, our little soiree has been interrupted and compromised. And a damn shame, that, as I was putting on a right good show.

'"Tell me, my esteemed lady, do you advise we call the police on this matter or just hope for the best?" He gestured around him. "Oh, and do be aware of a red powder. It seems to be the culprit of madness. That's a very lovely embroidered shawl you have there, madame, I'd suggest breathing through it."

Mrs. Northe blinked, unable to look away from Veil as if he were a fascinating species of creature she'd never encountered up close. She'd seen him on stage, of course, but close and in person, his quality as force of nature was truly something to be reckoned with. After a moment she brought the shawl draped elegantly over her shoulders to her face. She searched the crowd, met my eyes, and her shoulders eased slightly. I gave her a look that hopefully read how glad I was to see her.

There was a questioning look in her eyes that made me uneasy. I never liked noting her in any attitude but firmly in control, cool and collected and exuding a confident plan. But I needed to remember she was human, not my guardian angel, not my fairy godmother of mythic quests. We were all just trying to stay one step ahead of madmen, to varying degrees of success. And something wasn't quite right—man lying unconscious at my feet aside.

"I do think at this point, Mister Veil," she replied finally to his query, "that the police will need to be involved. My associate in the clerk's office and I have gathered enough information about some of the Master's Society property to prompt proper scrutiny, and I'd rather leave that up to authorities. I am not a vigilante type, and I'd not suggest that course of action for any of your associates either."

The black-clad crowd shook their heads. Like most people I'd ever met, they simply wanted to be left in peace and given leave to be their own masters and mistresses.

Mrs. Northe approached me. She bent, and unceremoniously, she proceeded to draw me away from the body on the floor. Through her intervention I felt able to move, though I was oddly light-headed. The room spun a bit as I stood.

"Have you seen Jonathon?" she asked quietly. "He and I were supposed to investigate a site that may be the very crux of the Society's New York operations, but he didn't show. That isn't his style…" She trailed off, frowning as she stared at me. I didn't like her words, and I didn't like the look on her face even more so.

She wiped something off my lip. There was a bitter taste in my mouth. She brushed her fingertips over my face, and then over my collar. Her lace gloves came away red. I felt a dull sensation blossoming in my stomach becoming sharper as panic opened into full bloom.

"What?" My voice sounded far away to my own ear. "What did you say?"

"Jonathon," Mrs. Northe continued. "Not that you're his keeper, but I thought perhaps he was with you… It didn't seem like him to not turn up… I don't mean to worry you..."

"Jonathon," I murmured. "Jonathon." The sound of his name was an exotic spice upon my tongue. He was the whole of my heart, and he was absent. That was…unacceptable. I cocked my head to the side in an abrupt movement that felt foreign. My breath was heavy and strained against the stays of my corset that were suddenly violently tight against my rib cage.

Damn Jonathon Whitby. Damn his beauty. Damn his hold over me. Were there not greater things to be held in the clutches of?

I heard laughter, low and far away, deep and rumbling, like thunder. It was not mine, and it did not seem like the laughter of anyone in the room, which had dimmed significantly. Whispers coursed past my ear like wind.

Oh, that couldn't be a good sign. Whispers in my mind, unless they were warnings from my mother, were to be avoided. My mother was dead. This was not her whispers. It was a crowd. That meant something else entirely.

I closed my eyes. My body shuddered with strange sensations that were both seductive and vaguely disturbing in their sudden sweeping intensity, as if every inch of my skin were suddenly on fire and sensitive to suggestion. And pain. There was a deep, widening, vicious chasm of pain...

And then the curtain was drawn on rage. A pure, unchecked, heretofore unheard of rage took center stage.

"Where is Jonathon?!!" someone shrieked.

It took me a long moment to realize that someone shrieking was me. I think I tore at something. Or someone.

That's the last thing I remember before darkness overtook me in a swift and obliterating shot.

--

(End of Chapter 11 -- Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends! Tweet it, FB, + it! The Magic Most Foul team really hopes the audience will continue to grow and it can only do so with YOUR help! If you haven't already, do pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and the sequel: The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause! Donations directly support the editorial staff.

Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 10

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Tue, 04 Jun 2013 12:00:00 +0000

(For previous chapters, see right side bar. If viewing by mobile, scroll down from http://leannareneebooks.blogspot.com for all chapters)

Chapter 10:

There was a cluster of dark-clad persons shifting silently in the hall, moving slightly on their feet as if they were a feather on a breeze or a ghost not touching the floor. Others had quietly entered the parlor.

Two waifish, lovely women sat draped on either side of Lavinia, having entered silently while I'd been reading the letter. Their legs were tucked up on either side of the settee but fabrics trailed down to the floor. Lovely heads rested with a preternatural stillness on Lavinia's shoulders. One was raven-haired and the other was dark brown–haired. Their expressive eyes were kohl-rimmed and their lips were painted a dark red. And then I realized what was slightly scandalous about one of the women. She was in trousers. A fine riding suit coat and trousers. And I didn't think she was, like I had recently been, participating in espionage, and so this was simply her choice of evening wear rather than a choice of safety and subterfuge.

"Natalie, please meet my best friends, my kindred spirits," Lavinia said softly, gesturing to the compelling persons at her side. "Raven and Ether."

"Hello, Miss Stewart," Raven replied, in a voice that was a lower register than I'd expect of a rather consumptive-looking woman, and then it occurred to me that Raven and Ether weren't women at all. But young men. I took this in a moment.

They were the ones in my dream. These two were the women outside the White Horse Tavern. I looked at them, one to the other, trying not to stare, trying not to be rude, simply trying to take them in as they would wish to be considered.

I had lived most of my life with a disability. I knew the precise look I did not want to give them, a look of confusion or pity, a look that made them feel as if they were just as much the outsider as I'd always felt, a look that they were somehow wrong… No, I was better than that… This whole company was better than that.

As a child, all I'd wanted was simply to be accepted for who I was, without others' demands of what that might be. If I had never begun talking again, I would still want to live a full, whole life. Not a half-life. Not a cast-off life. Being my own person ran contrary to the idea and expectation that I was to give myself over entirely to the stronger sex and a more dominant will… Clearly these two didn't want to give themselves over to that idea either and instead were presenting quite an uncommon alterative. It was bold. It was something I had never encountered. But lately, the world saw fit to throw me new challenges.

Nathaniel Veil's Association was a safe haven for those who wished to buck society's expectations in an increasingly dramatic number of ways. Raven and Ether could surely see me puzzling through this, over them, and their choices in presenting to the world. They merely returned my gaze with a gentle patience that was admirable, considering that when people had given my inability to speak a similar baffled and pained, pitying expression, I was far quicker to scowl. Their gracious attitude made me want to be more generous in how I looked at others, most especially when surprised.

"Raven, Ether, a pleasure," I finally managed to reply, and smiled a genuine smile. Ether's sallow face suddenly transformed as he returned the smile, all without breaking the wistful pose against his friend's shoulders. Raven's darkly stained lips curled up in an engaging smirk.

"We saved each other's lives," Lavinia murmured. "We'd had a pact, all of us, that if we couldn't see the light, then we'd all die together in the dark."

"But he stopped us," Ether whispered lovingly, nodding toward Nathaniel, who was greeting Associates at the door with handshakes and kisses on cheeks to each and every one, filing them into rows and places.

"He was known as the Dark Angel around London," Lavinia explained. "He'd find out who in our social circles were at their wits end and try to rally them back, by his sheer force of will. Or, if they went ahead and attempted to take their life, if they were unsuccessful but injured, he brought them to Lord Denbury, who would dress the various wounds of the afflicted, and any other family members would be none the wiser, or none the poorer for the service. I came from wealth, but not many of our Association do, and your gracious Lord's clinic saved many a life that London could have cast aside without a second glance."

My heart swelled with pride at this, and I ached for my valiant Jonathon, who had done so much for this world in his young life thus far. I wished so dearly he was by my side, especially as our reconnection after our bit of espionage had been so...passionate. In this place, with these people, we could simply be ourselves and not worry about censure or propriety. We could simply be loving creatures who had become our own Dark Angels to one another.

It was inspiring, the emotions these quiet and sometimes awkward persons around me exhibited merely in their expressions, their choice of dress, tone of voice, movement, words, the interesting weight of their souls, some lighter, some heavier, depending on their inner burdens. We said so much to one another without even saying a word. From years without speaking, I could read bodies, expressions, attitudes and energies, gestures and physical quirks like I were reading books. The stories that these bodies and faces told were amazing novels in and of themselves. And every beautifully dressed person that entered, each with their own distinct style yet all adhering to the mourning dress as a unifying characteristic, was a new story.

But before I knew it, the room was utterly filled with eager-faced persons of dramatically different class, race, creed, and age. The binding factor was the fashion, and the figure before us, and his themes. And Veil, the master, was ready to put on a show.

"My Darling Ones," he boomed, accentuating a London upper-class accent when his own was slightly less defined. "We are gathered here today to reaffirm that we are the masters of our own destiny. You shall not give over that mastery to any other thing, person, rule, substance, or vice. You may only give it over to spirit, to love, to something vital, not something draining or cruel. You may only give over to that which makes you better. Never something that makes you less. My Dark Stars, take your place in the sky. Shall we begin?"

Applause, cries of happiness, gasps, and murmurs, the joy of anticipation launched him into his natural place: center stage of life.

He took stage in the front entrance foyer, visible by all those who had gathered in the parlor, and visible by those waiting on the stair, an impromptu gallery and balcony, concentric circles of dark colors and black crinolines, velvet bands and heaps of ribbons and bows, veils and cloaks.

The keening strain of a violin came from atop Mrs. Northe's grand staircase. From the chair where I sat I could see the musician at the top of the proscenium frame that the parlor pocket doors made. One of his associates, a tall, sturdy woman with skin nearly as dark as the clothing she wore, was playing, her dark limbs, swathed in black lace, moving the bow as if gently raising and closing wings. Her eyes were closed, but now and then when a note hit a resonance that vibrated in our bones, she would flash a slight smile, a bit of white teeth a glint against dark skin, lips, and fabric. That little twinge of joy was the ebbing and flowing crux of Veil's show, and we the audience were caught up in all the sparks of life amid talk of shadow and death.

Veil began to sing, soft and sweet; a melancholy Shakespearean sonnet on themes of pining love. With the violin wafting down to us as if it were from on high, it was like it breathed with Nathaniel's beautiful and resonant voice, vocal and strings equaled one living thing. Several of the audience members clutched at their hearts. Some reached out for Veil with trembling fingers as they knelt in pools of lace and tulle. Some leaned toward him from the banister as if tethered to him by invisible strings.

I must have been more sensitive, far more raw, than when I'd last seen Nathaniel's show, for it touched down deeply within in ways I hadn't allowed it to before. The Gothic themes of his shows, composite pieces of existing text, poetry, and popular fiction dealing with the natural, the unnatural, the supernatural, the veil between life and death, and all the great mysteries, it simply hit too close to home. I think it did for all present, everyone raw and on edge.

But it was just what we needed.

He coursed through his show. I'd never seen the same show twice; he plucked different texts from Walpole, Shelley, and Le Fanu, from the great romantic poets, and of course, a running threaded theme of Edgar Allan Poe, my personal favorite and that of this crowd. If I'd found this Association earlier in my life, perhaps I'd never have had such terrible nightmares, as all my darknesses could have found a healthier home in this circle.

But then again, we are granted the friends we need exactly when we need them. Mrs. Northe had instilled that particular confidence in me. I needed my loneliness; it was how I knew I could survive against other odds. It was how I knew I couldn't just wait for someone or something else to save me. But knowing that I could get by with little else but my own wits and company and then finding community; that was a long overdue comfort.

I could feel the group dynamic breathe and shift like a woman adjusting to the stays of her corset and arranging her skirts, sitting poised and on the edge of delight and discovery, all of us gazing at our captor, Nathaniel Veil, who paced the space at the center of the packed circle like a great and graceful wild animal, clutching us all by the throat with his captivating presence—at one point he did clutch a few people directly by the throat in one of his stints as Vampir—and making every one of us swoon, whether for him or for the gentleman or lady in our hearts, he brought out all the passions within us and exorcised them exquisitely.

And then suddenly the quiet, seductive, safe bliss of the show was shattered by the door flinging open and a flailing form tumbling into the foyer, blowing past Nathaniel, and nearly trampling a few of the youngest Associates who were clustered upon the floor.

A tall, round-cheeked man, marked as older than many of Nathaniel's Association by his graying hair, but similarly dressed in mourning finery, seemed in the throes of agony, droplets of red—blood, surely—staining his face and throat, shining stains upon his black waistcoat, the sight of him evoking gasps and screams from Associate members. He raged and snarled and made a move to overturn the fine table, vase, and mirror near the door, but Nathaniel, who was a head taller than the struggling man, charged up to him and clamped a hand on his shaking shoulder.

"George," Nathaniel said sternly. "This is not you. You've been affected by a toxin." The man, George, gurgled a cry.

"The city can't be safe," George snarled. "For the city is the toxin. Chaos the only cure."

George tried to struggle with Nathaniel, but the imperious actor was stronger than he looked, or he was channeling his presence into brute strength; perhaps seeing that he was the protectorate of this fascinating coven was its own enhancement.

George cried out in pain again before peering a head around Nathaniel's broad shoulder and eerily piercing me with a darkly reflective gaze.

He dropped to his knees, dust flying up, a red dust. Perhaps it wasn't blood all over him but powder that had mixed with his perspiration. I thought of Poe and the Red Death coming into the party...

And then the man spoke. But as he looked up at me with oddly reflective eyes, something green and violet shining in them, reflected in them, the light of my own aura and power, I knew he was no longer a mere man. But something terrible had taken him over.

George flung himself across the open space between us and crumpled before me in a heap of red powder. Before he lost consciousness, he spoke.

It was a voice I knew all too well. The voice of a demon. He pierced me with a phrase the demon had once used to address me:

"Hello, pretty..."

And then his eyes closed and his head struck the floorboards, unconscious or dead.

--

(End of Chapter 10 -- Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends! Tweet it, FB, + it! The Magic Most Foul team really hopes the audience will continue to grow and it can only do so with YOUR help! If you haven't already, do pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and the sequel: The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause! Donations directly support the editorial staff.

Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 9.2

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Tue, 28 May 2013 11:00:00 +0000

(For previous chapters, see right side bar. If viewing by mobile, scroll down from http://leannareneebooks.blogspot.com for all chapters)

Chapter 9.2

I blinked a moment, staring at this imperious man before me, and debated just how much cheek I'd give him.

"Neither Mrs. Northe nor Lord Denbury seem to be in at present, Mister Veil," I said in response to Nathaniel's insistent belief that I should know the whereabouts and goings-on of my suitor at all times. "So we'll just have to wait."

"Unless they ran away together," Nathaniel said dramatically. Lavinia snorted.

I didn't bother replying. Considering Mrs. Northe was the wisest woman I knew, I didn't think she was the type to run off with someone who could be her son, no matter how attractive he was. But then again, jealousy was a funny creature and flared up at the most inopportune moments. She had always been keenly interested in his welfare and well-being…

Before the green-eyed monster could entirely run away with my sensibilities, the maid I recognized as having been with Mrs. Northe for years, a thin woman who must have been hiding from all the commotion, bobbed her head at me before handing me an envelope. I could feel Nathaniel's keen, dark eyes upon me like a hawk.

"This place is full of secrets and missives!" he exclaimed. "I felt, from the moment I entered this fine house, caught up amid plots and espionage!"

Lavinia leaned forward from the settee, a fond smile on her face as she said in a stage whisper: "Everything, even the smallest thing, feeds his imagination."

"Oh, but it is espionage, Mister Veil," I replied with a wink and opened the note.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, seeming rather delighted. But my humor was short lived.

My heart faltered a bit. The letter was from Maggie. Nathaniel and Lavinia were lost to a bit of banter as I was lost to the words of the misguided young lady who was as much enemy as friend, yet a girl whose destiny I felt was awkwardly entwined with mine.

Dear Natalie,

I write this to you from Chicago, which is an odious place compared to New York City. It's crowded, loud, smelly. Not that New York doesn't have its foul districts, but this swine-butchering city seems so uncultured comparatively. But Karen is trying to endear Chicago to me, and day by day she wins a bit of it over to me.

I'm sure this letter sounds very frivolous thus far. That's probably what you think of me. Frivolous, shallow, with no idea what I've done.

But I do know. Please don't think the worst of me. I realize I nearly died. And I nearly dragged you with me into the madness.

I realize I nearly killed you.

I do not know what else to say but that I am sorry. And I am so very glad that you, Jonathon, and Rachel, and whatever forces were on your side, managed to save us. I owe you my life, misguided as it is. But seeing as I'm still alive I might as well make the best of it. Though the fashion here in Chicago is at least a year behind New York. Not that I've had much time for shopping.

Karen is teaching me myriad mysteries I don't even begin to know how to describe to you. Perhaps you will see them in person. I long to return to New York, but I am advised that the dark magic needs space and separation. Something you probably already knew.

But things are afoot here in Chicago, Natalie. There are other '"doctors'" doing other '"experiments'." Auntie was out here, having left us to our own devices, and her and Karen and the late Amelia did a bit of snooping, and it seems there's a subterranean racket of missing bodies and body parts, of possessions and soul-ripping. Karen said other recent instances might also be related to the collective trying to grab hold in the strangest ways.

But really, is what they're doing entirely evil? Is there not a point to experimentation? Asking questions? Seeing what the limits of the body, mind, and spirit may be?

I wonder these things, and then I wake with carvings on my arms and Karen has to bless me and wash my arms down with holy water. Karen says that Amelia is watching over me, she's sure of it.

I cannot help but wonder if Karen and Amelia were more than friends and were actually in one of those "Boston Marriages." Could you imagine? How scandalous. You should ask Auntie about it, though I doubt she'd tell me the truth. She never did like me being nosy in other peoples' business. I can't blame her. It has gotten me into trouble.

Karen said that Auntie told her that you suffered the same markings as I have. Runes? Some ancient language repurposed for something terrible? Perhaps you can share with me your thoughts and how the terror of it made you feel, for right now I am feeling rather put upon and wholly alone. I've never done well with solitude. Perhaps that's something I could learn from you too.

Not that you're alone, now, with Lord Denbury… I burn with shame. I don't know what else to say upon that count. That's another apology and contrite plea for forgiveness for another day. Though I doubt it would surprise you to hear I'm still rather jealous. What woman wouldn't be with such a catch as he?

Rachel has been by to check on me, not that we can communicate other than by notes we write one another. I can't imagine what it would be like not to be able to speak, and yet she is full of joy and hope, the sweetest soul. I can learn a lot from her about being grateful. That's another thing Auntie always said about me. Ungrateful. But not Rachel, who bears her burdens lightly and with grace.

Rachel says- well, she wrote, rather- when she came over for tea, that she's very busy putting all the souls to rest that were pulled to the reanimate body that a researcher here was working on. She says she feels a sense of purpose in fighting all this dark nonsense and that sense of purpose is something I'm trying to cling to.

What about voices? Do you hear voices, Natalie? Whatever you can tell me of your experiences with the forces that Karen refers to as "the Society's darkness," will likely be of great help.

Or, you might tear this letter up, wanting nothing to do with me ever again, and I could not blame you for that, even though I would be sad. I might not have ever been a good friend, but maybe, in the end, I can be.

With hope,

Margaret Hathorn

The letter shook a little in my hand as I gripped the paper and sat with these words, a ponderous weight upon my heart. I wasn't sure whether to be amused or appalled by Maggie's flippant, socialite tone shifting so effortlessly between gossip, deadly matters, and plaintive soul-searching. I went back and reread her previous paragraphs.

She was so close to what I would consider a redemptive tone, and yet she still justified the experimentation. Until she entirely denounced the Society's aims and actions, it was likely that the dark magic would still cling to her, call to her, and worse. It might still work through her.

I had denounced the demons entirely, and yet the runes had still managed to invade, carving their ways onto my arm as the dark magic sought me out. What was it doing to her, when she so clearly was still tainted?

I had been staring so intently at Maggie's words, as if I could somehow will further meaning, insight, and direction from the paper itself. Frankly I wasn't sure how much time had passed. But at the sound of rustling fabrics and soft murmurs, I looked up.

The number of persons in the room and milling in the halls and stairs beyond had increased dramatically, though the sound had not. Mister Veil's Association could be an eerily quiet bunch.

"Oh..." I murmured, my cheeks burning from the realization of sudden, further company. "I see it is time for a show..."

--

(End of Chapter 9.2 -- Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends! Tweet it, FB, + it! The Magic Most Foul team really hopes the audience will continue to grow and it can only do so with YOUR help! If you haven't already, do pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and the sequel: The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause! Donations directly support the editorial staff.

Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

The Ministry Initiative Kickstarter Blog Hop!

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Wed, 22 May 2013 12:00:00 +0000

Taking a break from serializing THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS to welcome you to Ministry Protocol: The Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences blog hop!

We're here raising awareness about the amazing project that is the brainchild of Tee Morris and Pip Ballantine, authors of the popular Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences series, who are putting together a RP game set in the world as well as a spectacular Ministry-based anthology that I'm thrilled to have a story in!My short story "The New Recruit" is ghostly and endearing and wins the honour of making Pip Ballantine cry. You have been warned.

About the initiative:

Galileo Games and Imagine That! Studios have teamed up to bring you an ambitious steampunk project! The Ministry Initiative is a two-part creative endeavor that will not only premiere new fiction from the steampunk world of the Ministry but also present a brand new role playing game from the makers of Bulldogs! and the ENnie Award winning game Shelter in Place. Thrill to the tales in Ministry Protocol anthology, or join in as an Agent in The Ministry Initiative RPG.

Find out more about this endeavor and support the Kickstarter here: http://bit.ly/ministry-initiative

PLEASE CHECK OUT THE KICKSTARTER AND CHIP IN TO THE AWESOMENESS!

Goodies for you as incentives to chipping in and spreading the word about this fabulous project, dear reader:

As we raise awareness for the kickstarter campaign, I'm offering up 2 goodies!

1: The prize of a free electronic copy of my short story in the anthology, this entry is open internationally.

2: I'm offering one signed copy of The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart, the most recent release in my Gaslamp Fantasy series, the Magic Most Foul saga, which is currently enjoying a serialized finale via this very blog! The signed copy of Twisted Tragedy is open to US residents only.

To enter: please leave a comment here with why you love Steampunk and/or Gaslamp Fantasy or if you don't know the genre, why you'd like to try it out, please include a Twitter handle or an email address so we can contact you if you're the winner. (Emails will not be added to a mailing list, but you're welcome to join Leanna's mailing list at http://leannareneehieber.com ! ) And please subscribe to this blog every Tuesday for the free serialization of THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS, the finale in the Magic Most Foul saga! Come join the adventure in Gothic Victorian Fantasy right here, serialized just like the Victorians did!

Cheers and happy haunting!

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 9.1

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Tue, 21 May 2013 10:00:00 +0000

(For previous chapters, see right side bar. If viewing by mobile, scroll down from http://leannareneebooks.blogspot.com for all chapters)

Chapter 9.1

Jonathon and I shared a hired carriage back to our respective residences. I doubted he’d have to sneak back into Mrs. Northe’s in the way I’d have to sneak back home; men did not have to answer to their whereabouts. Lord Denbury was lord of his own domain, and that would never be questioned. A young woman was not afforded such freedom of destiny.

But the particulars of freedom were lost to me the moment that Jonathon closed the cab door behind me, shutting us into the dark compartment. Somehow being truly alone together in full cover of night gave us permissions we hadn't allowed ourselves of late. The intense situation we had just shared brought us back to one another, to the partnership and perils we had become so familiar with. With those perils also had come passion. He and I must have been of a mind, for the moment I reached for his hand, he took the opportunity…

“Will you permit me a moment of not being entirely gentlemanly, Miss Stewart?” he asked in a hot murmur in my ear. "We've been trying to be so proper and behaved—"

“You're permitted,” I nearly gasped. He tore the cap from my head and entwined his fingers in my hair. Pulling me into his arms, he kissed me deeply, again and again, hands roving, until the carriage slowed its pace. East down the block stood my home, and I could not remain locked in his embrace indefinitely.

With a reluctant groan, he released me to catch my breath. I was just as woeful to be let go. But the driver wouldn't just sit there without question or further payment, and we did not dare to be suspect in our actions. Silent as I descended the carriage—I was afraid my voice would tell tales of me—I donned my cap once more, hoping no one was watching the front door of the divided townhouse, and that I could quietly ascend to our top floor rooms as undetected as I'd descended. I was in luck in returning to my bed unnoticed, though the eyes of Stevens still haunted me, as if I could see him hovering at my window like some creature in my beloved Gothic yarns. The sorts of tales that had once so titillated me left a far different taste in my mouth now that I was living what would only be believed as fiction.

That night came a nightmare, as if the night's victory was just a tease, as if I couldn't possibly be afforded a sensual dream of Jonathon's kisses alone, heaven forbid. Just as I was beginning to feel we were gaining ground as lovers and partners once more and winning against enemies in our waking hours, the dread fear and reality of his looming departure was writ large over my unconscious hours and the dread I could not entertain while awake had full reign while asleep.

This time the dream was shared with Jonathon, as we used to when our souls met in the painting and our consciousness was linked in dreams, a life-saving particular his curse could never have predicted. I was so glad to see him in my mind's eye, thrilled that he had returned to my resting self, but it seemed he didn't see me down the hallway from his striking silhouette. He was preoccupied on something before him, far, far away down the endless corridor that was such a continuing construct of these dreams. Always a corridor, with different particulars. This time it was the long hall of a house. A fine house. Perhaps his...

Something was calling him, voices, murmurs. From the empirical evidence of our horrors thus far, I knew that a swarm of murmurs in my mind meant that the dark magic of demons was amassing, building, coalescing, drawing him out and away from me...

This was the darkness gripping hold of him as he'd intimated to me at the tavern, and I called out:

"Jonathon, don't follow shadows..."

He looked over his shoulder, back at me. His bright eyes were at first pained, but then flashed oddly, like the demon's once did. He turned back, away from me once more, and kept walking. Ahead of him was a familiar old room, his study, in Greenwich, England. The study he had been painted into, a painted prison we had both become all too familiar with. I couldn't think he was walking back into it willingly... Forces would fight for him, yet, would he ever fully be free and could he ever regain his home? Could that place ever feel safe? What place could feel truly safe again when demons invaded with little care for doors or decorum, rejecting the sovereignty of soul? But thankfully, even though the devils wove their way into my dreams, so did the angels.

Jonathon cried out far ahead of me, there was a burst of light, the door to his study splintered. He cried angrily and ran off into the darkness, pursuing something as all the gas lamps around me suddenly lowered their flame.

They're coming for you... A warning whisper in my mind.

If the devils had anything to do with it, they would part us. Separate us and pick us off one by one because as a team, we were invincible. Or, at least, had been thus far, thanks in no small part to some divine intervention. In our separation would lie our downfall, I was sure of it. Why in the world had I turned down his proposal? It was just what the devils wanted. Maybe they were at work within us more than we knew.

The nightmare meant that in the morning I rose at the time my father rose. He always did take to the morning better than I. Before I could face anything or anyone, I jotted down the details of the dream in my diary; purging the images was cathartic, and yet I still had to log details of the dream as potential clues.

I'd been careful to take the time to be fond with Father, and with Bessie, our housekeeper who moved in after her Irish husband died building the foundations of the Brooklyn Bridge. A friend of my mother's from protestant civil liberties circles, Bessie had angered both her own family and her husband's by the sheer fact she was black and he was not. She hadn't had options, resources, or legal recompense when he died, and being a friend of the family, she filled a necessary void here, my widower father not knowing much what to do to keep the house when I'd been away at school learning Standard Sign.

"I assume you'll be going over to Mrs. Northe's today?" he asked, when I knew the question really meant if I would be seeing Jonathon.

"As one would only expect, and as she should," Bessie said matter-of-factly, shifting a piece of bread from her plate onto mine when she saw I'd taken to my food rather quickly. I caught her winking at me. I returned a wink when Father wasn't looking.

Bessie must have been encouraging Father not to be so worried about Lord Denbury's proposal, as he simply didn't press the issue further after her comment. She knew all too well the damage various familial pressures could do to true love across boundaries. Father shifted the conversation to acquisitions, and I mentioned what I thought the collection lacked, and then we were all off to our respective duties and errands.

I spent a little longer on my appearance, pinning up my hair with seed pearl pins Mrs. Northe had gifted me, sure to wear the nicer of my two lace-trimmed cream blouses, noting the slight tear in the sleeve had been repaired. Bless you, Bessie. I wore my best overskirt with its slight bustling at the back, a deep plum, my favorite color, with a little matching plum vest trimmed in mauve that made the piece seem like a whole ensemble. After the delicious kisses he gifted me the night prior, I wanted to be at my feminine best, though my best dresses were ball gowns I'd been given as gifts. A mere trip to Mrs. Northe's parlor did not necessitate a ball gown, fine as the parlor was.

The maid let me in, gesturing me into the parlor, and ran down the list of who was in, who had been in, and who was out. It was quite the rotating guest list. Mrs. Northe and Lord Denbury were both evidently out, but Lavinia was looking a bit lost in the parlor. The maid was quick to fetch us both tea. The black-clad girl, hair partly up and partly streaming down her back in a fetching deep red stream, looked like a Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood painting in mourning.

"Natalie, I'm very glad to see you. I wanted to tell you something I heard. One of my associates dropped this note for me." She referenced a small card in her lap. "He was out at the new White Horse Tavern, downtown, and he thinks he got a sense of the man who was behind the substance. And he said he thought someone looked familiar, someone who...interrupted the man in question, just as he was pressuring a group of lads. I don't suppose...Lord Denbury is on the trail of anyone, is he?" she asked hopefully, as if my Jonathon could be the hero she seemed to need.

I shrugged. I wasn't sure that we were letting on any word of our activities to anyone. It wasn't that I didn't trust Lavinia, there was something about her that compelled me, but I would let Jonathon be the one to share what he'd been up to. I assumed perhaps he was taking Mrs. Northe to the location in question, from whence he'd followed Stevens. Before Lavinia could press me further, there was some commotion at the front door.

Suddenly, I heard a familiar British accent crying out: “Darling, I’ve come for you!”

Lavinia looked up, wide-eyed, partly in ecstasy, partly in shock, as if she couldn’t believe her ears. And then her cheeks turned as red as her hair. We both knew exactly who that voice belonged to.

Nathaniel Veil had returned from England. And it would seem he was on a mission.

I could hear the maid protesting with him that he needed to be announced, but he charged right into the parlor in an imperious swoop of black fabric and flying locks of hair, not bothering to take off his cloak, tossing aside his top hat onto a nearby chair, and practically diving across the parlor and onto his knees before the divan where Lavinia perched so gracefully.

Enter Nathaniel Veil.

Tall and wild, the Gothic actor—all in the finest black, tailored vestments—did not leave his persona behind on the stage once he took his bow. Instead, he lived his theatricality in every moment, to the fullest, the energy and powerful presence entirely overtaking a room. I had to stop myself from laughing, not because I found him foolish, but merely because I was so entertained by his full commitment to being unquestionably dramatic. It was contagiously delightful.

And Lavinia’s expression was rather priceless. I could see the joy on her face, but as he took her hands in his and kissed them with flourish, a fierce pain took over, and her whole demeanor darkened.

“Ah, you finally pay attention to me now that I’ve gone and done something terrible?” she murmured. “You fly to the side of your injured toy?” He looked up at her in horror. “And you might want to be just a touch less rude, Mister Veil,” she added, “and say hello to Miss Stewart, who does happen to be in the room with us at present.”

“Hello, Mister Veil," I said gently from across the room. "It is so good of you to come. I am sure your Association will derive great comfort from your presence.”

Veil sprang up and instantly was across the room and back down on his knees again, taking up my hands in his this time. He did not kiss them, thankfully, for poor Lavinia’s sake, but he did hold them to his breast and spoke with absolute earnestness, his accent every bit as delectable to me as Jonathon's was. “Miss Stewart, I am so frightfully glad to see you, too, have you been taking good care of my dove here and my best, bosom friend? Where is that glorious cad Den, anyway?”

“I… You mean Lord Denbury?” I said, trying to hold back a chuckle, having forgotten Veil’s pet name for Jonathon, a name I was not allowed to utter under any circumstance. Ever.

“Yes. Where the devil is the man?” Veil jumped back to his feet again. A towering presence, he paced a few steps before throwing himself onto a pouf. I opened my mouth to answer, but he was onto another subject, addressing Miss Kent. “I’ve sent a call to round up my Association. We can’t have anyone trying to take advantage of them again, so we’ll rally the troops here. How are they, Vin?”

It seemed everyone important to Nathaniel had a pet name. I cringed at "Vin". He dared not call me "Nat"; he could save that nickname for himself, surely.

“They are all passable. Trying to mitigate any damage done,” Lavinia answered, her tone even. “As Miss Stewart said, your presence will do them good. However, I suggest setting a firm tone. We can’t have this seem like errant behavior will make you come running.” She stared into her teacup. “And before you ask or assume, I was not trying to do that to you. I was genuinely interested in…options.”

Veil crossed the room to her again in a mere step. Even though there wasn't room for him, he sat down beside Lavinia, edging her over, her own skirts spilling over his trousers, the two of them a streaming splay of black fabric. If his next words were an act, then he was a very good actor indeed, for he seemed utterly sincere. There was nothing he did by halves, but his truly contrite and earnest tone could not be denied.

“Promise me you’ll talk to me before you turn to anything else,” Veil said gently. “All of you. I want all of you to feel supported. Is that clear, Vin? I didn't start my Association out of ego. I started it to save lives. Do you remember how many near suicides we had our first year as acquaintances, all brought together by some old dark loneliness that was sown down deep in our bones?”

"I do remember," she whispered, barely audible.

"The point is we have each other, rather than substances, rather than drastic measures. In the Association, all are cared for," he murmured. Lavinia wouldn’t look at him, merely nodded. He took a black-gloved finger and placed it under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “And some are cared for more than others.”

“Nathaniel, please don’t,” she murmured, even though he had turned her face to him, her eyes still refused to meet his. Blushing furiously, she was surely uncomfortable that I was in the room still. This kind of intimacy was rather shocking to be shared with an acquaintance in the room, but Veil didn’t seem to care; he flaunted custom regularly, the whole of his life and his actions public and unapologetic. I was amenable to honest conversation between lovers, but Lavinia didn’t know me well enough to know I would not judge her for it.

“Where are you and your Association meeting, Mister Veil?” I asked, lest he try to press the intimacy issue further and publicly kiss her, a shock indeed.

“Why here, of course," Veil replied as if that were obvious. "Mrs. Northe did say I was welcome in her home when she wired me.”

“Ah. Yes." I smiled. "But does…Mrs. Northe know about potential…company?”

Veil blinked a moment. “You don’t think she’ll mind, do you?”

I took a moment to choose words carefully, stifling a surprised chuckle at his oblivious regard for anyone but himself and his own. “I’d think she’d appreciate a bit of an advanced notice, as would the staff, Mister Veil,” I finally replied.

Lavinia just stared at me with a wide, horrified stare, trying to mouth an apology. It only made me want to laugh again, until I imagined what it would be like if I were the staff. Maybe I’d go help them. I had benefited from Mrs. Northe’s acquaintance, learning how the upper echelon lived, but when one was as distinctly middle-class as I was, life could go either way and so would my empathy.

“Yes… I suppose you’ve a point there, Miss Stewart…” Veil murmured. "Did I mention you're looking lovely? Purple. Suits you. One of the rare colors I'm fond of."

He bounded up again and darted into the hall; it was impressive how quickly he moved, preternatural almost. It fit with his persona eerily well. I heard him call into the hall: “Lovely young miss who I entirely, rudely, bowled past at the door, would you do me the kind favor of preparing for guests?”

My jaw hung open at the sheer cheek of the man.

“How… many…” I heard the poor, beleaguered young maid reply.

“Oh, I’d say about forty,” he offered cheerfully. “Give or take a few.”

“For…ty…give or take…” came the frightened response. There was a scuffle down the stairs to the kitchens below, and I heard a clatter of a few pans and fire irons.

“Thank you, beautiful!” Veil cried after her, and bounded back again to Lavinia’s side. She had been able to do nothing but stare after him, helpless to stop the tumbling, sweeping force of nature that was the man she so clearly couldn’t help but adore. “So. Darling,” he said, edging back onto the seat, practically in her lap. “I think just a good meeting, all of us, among friends, would do a lot for morale, don't you think?”

Lavinia nodded.

Veil then looked over at me, remembering his earlier question that had gone unanswered. "I say. Where is that charmer of yours, Miss Stewart?”

"I appreciate that you think I'm the keeper of Lord Denbury's whereabouts, Mister Veil,” I said with a chuckle. "But I haven't a clue."

"Well, would you find a way to fetch him?" Veil said as if exasperated. "Otherwise, he'll miss a bloody good show! Impromptu parlor shows are my favorite."

--

(End of Chapter 9.1 -- Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends! Tweet it, FB, + it! The Magic Most Foul team really hopes the audience will continue to grow and it can only do so with YOUR help! If you haven't already, do pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and the sequel: The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause! Donations directly support the editorial staff.

Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 8

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Tue, 14 May 2013 10:00:00 +0000

(For previous chapters see right side bar, if viewing via mobile, visit http://leannareneebooks.blogspot.com and scroll for previous entries)

Chapter 8:

I'd done this before: dressing in men's clothing in order to investigate a scene.

Last time I'd ended up in a part opium den, part brothel in the Five Points, on the trail of a murderer, trying to protect innocent victims. It was certainly one of the braver things I'd done.

This time, simply donning men's clothes so as not to be questioned or accosted while I examined a mere tavern near Greenwich Village after dark seemed like far less dangerous quarry. Still, upending my gender and pretending to be something I'm not has its anxieties.

I stared at myself in the mirror, dressed in one of Father's plain brown cast-off suits that I'd had secretly tailored down to fit me during my first foray into subterfuge, back in the days when saving Lord Denbury's soul was a methodical process.

Looking at the youthful creature in the mirror, my auburn locks tucked and pinned up beneath a newsboy's cap, I felt far less certain about the exact right course of action. Though my instincts were strong, I now had experienced more trials and errors by which to second guess myself.

The fact that I'd survived against all odds with the help of God, mentorship, love, and some benevolent spirits didn't make me feel much better about tempting fate once again. At what point would God deem me foolish and stop watching out for me when I was obviously putting myself in situations where I might need divine intervention?

The danger of crying wolf seemed a distinct possibility here, and yet I didn't know any other way to confront the clues granted to me in my dreams but this. If I did nothing, I was a coward without a gift. This was a way of taking my knowledge into action without dragging anyone else along with it, in case my dream world was entirely wrong. I didn't want to make anyone else liable for my mind's unpredictable eye. Along with any sort of power, a great responsibility comes hand in hand. That was surely a certainty for the ages.

I stared at myself in the mirror in the same way I'd done when I'd first donned men's wardrobe for the sake of espionage; surprised at the young boy before me, I knew that I was me, and yet here I was certainly not as society would have me. It was a nice blending wardrobe, nothing too fine, nothing too shabby, brilliantly and forgettable in the middle-class range.

I snuck out of the house by ten, blessed by early and heavy sleepers on Father and Bessie's count. I was far more the night owl. Watching men's gaits to try to embody their strides, I went out to Lexington Avenue to hail a cab. My allowance for penny candies, ribbons, and newspapers had been increasingly co-opted for spy-craft. I corralled a downtown-bound hansom cab, and the small compartment clopped and bounced down cobblestone blocks until the streets went at odd angles, and old New York streets took over, donning family names and early histories, banishing the numbered grid to the uptown streets it had served since the beginning of the century.

The White Horse was as you'd expect of any tavern: loud, raucous, filled with liquor and men. I sidled up to the wooden bar and ordered a drink in a low voice, whatever I'd heard the man a few steps ahead of me order. I knew nothing of liquor or beer; I'd sip the glass and not drink it as I scouted for my target, not wanting any substance to make me any less sharp. It didn't take terribly long to find the man in question.

I nearly physically recoiled at the sight of him. Somehow my dreams had foretold enough about the man that even though the description hadn't been clear, my gut knew exactly who it was. The predatory nature about him, his stance, his eyes, the way he seemed to sniff more than breathe, all of it had the air of animal more than human that spoke of a possessed body. His behavior wasn't overtly so, otherwise no one would entertain his presence, but it was subtle enough for me to feel and see that something was a bit off. But obviously the man was targeting those with little to lose, easy prey, who tended to overlook such things as eyes that shined a bit too oddly and movement that was a little too much like a puppet.

He was holding court, it seemed, looming over a table of bleary-eyed young fellows who were considering the man's words, one with skepticism, another with hope, one with desperation, and one who seemed a bit too intoxicated to focus. I wondered if somehow I could distract them, break the spell this man seemed to be casting over them like a pall. But then directing the man's focus onto me seemed like a bad idea, considering the dream. I knew I was staring at all of them a bit too intently, rudely, but hopefully from the shadows I kept to, no one would notice.

And then I felt arms slide around me from behind, and just as I jumped, about to cry out, I heard a familiar, delectable British accent purr my name. The whisper in my ear stilled me immediately.

"Shh... Natalie. I know it's you," came Jonathon's murmur and the action of his arms and the murmur of my name made me weak in the knees. "The trouble with disguises," he continued with a bemused chuckle in my ear, "is that, when it comes to me...I can always see your light. You can't hide the vibrant color of your soul. Not from me."

I drank in his words. We'd had such awkwardness, such distance, I was afraid the kind of dreamlike words and intense passion our relationship had been built upon had been banished to the world of his painted prison, I feared our poetry was lost in the '"real'" world. It would seem he still had fine words for me. Perhaps it took a bit of unexpected espionage for them to return. Thankfully we had magic to bring us home. He could see the colors of my aura, the clue that had allowed his soul the agency to communicate with me even in his prison. And it would seem I was illuminated by magic still...

"I love it when you find me, Jonathon," I whispered back to him. "And I always want you to…"

He kissed my temple, breath hot against my ear as he murmured: "You ridiculous thing, you, what on earth are you doing here?" My body thrilled from head to toe. I relaxed in his hold and leaned against him.

It was good that we were wholly in the shadows, considering how I was dressed. The bohemian freedom championed by such circles as Nathaniel Veil's Association had no precedent here, and so two men embracing in this sort of intimate manner was simply not allowed in society at large.

Maybe someday it would be. For my part I didn't see anything wrong; love was love, a soul was a soul, I'd learned first hand that the spirit defines the person, not the body it was in. But society, I knew well enough from the disability that still cast its occasional silent shadow over my life, didn't like things to be anything but '"normal'," expected, traditional, unquestioned. But considering paranormal had become my normality, all things had to adjust accordingly. I could only consider my own spiritual, psychological, and physical well-being and say my own prayers, knowing I'd gotten this far by a faith that was larger than the time and the constraints in which I lived. I couldn't count on society to know how to adapt alongside me.

"How did you know to come here, Jonathon?" I murmured, turning my face to graze my nose against his fine cheekbone, warmed also by the fact that he wanted to touch and be close to me no matter the clothes I was in, a reassurance that reached across myriad boundaries.

"I asked you first," he countered.

"A dream. Foretold," I answered. "You?"

"I followed him." Jonathon indicated the man in question, who was ordering a round of drinks for his captive audience. "From one of Brinkman's addresses. He was coming around from the back of the building. I saw a sparkle of the red and gold of the demons' light bounce about him, the color flashing out of the corner of my eye. No other addresses seemed to wield anything of particular interest or note. I'd watched each for many hours. I didn't really think, I just came this way."

"Same, once I put the pieces of the dream together enough to evince the clues as leading to this location, I donned this disguise and made my move."

"Is this what you wore the last time you went someplace a lady shouldn't go on her own?"

I nodded. Jonathon held back a laugh. Whether I was or wasn't convincing, he didn't say, and I didn't get the chance to ask before the man we were watching pulled a few glass vials out from his long, pale coat pocket and put them on the table, where the youthful audience stared at them with a mixture of hunger and apprehension.

Jonathon seized my tall glass of stout and a second glass of ale that had been abandoned upon a nearby ledge. Gesturing for me to stay put, he then suddenly he stepped out from the shadows. I noticed he'd dressed down considerably, to mere shirtsleeves, suspenders, and trousers like a regular factory worker. A grubby cap with the brim pulled low concealed his fine black locks and a bit of soot was smudged over a chiseled cheekbone. It's true that his more lordly appearance might have given him away, and in this case he didn't seem to wish to play the demon to this Stevens fellow, just in case he was being sought as such. We both had come in covert costume, it would seem.

Jonathon stumbled artfully forward, careful not to tip the glasses, until he jostled toward the table. He ran right into Stevens, first spilling the dark stout onto the man's beige coat, then spilling the second glass over the glass vials, overturning them, sending a tiny puff of red powder near Jonathon's face. He batted the particles away with a faux drunken movement. I wasn't sure how potent or volatile the substance was, and I hoped there was no effect from his proximity to it.

Disrupting the whole scene rather brilliantly, causing far greater hubbub and commotion around him, Jonathon fumbled over an apology—in an impressive New York–styled accent—before stumbling on to say he'd go get someone to help clean it all up. Stevens barked after him not to bother, the man's dark and troubled eyes flashing, his drawn face scowling as the youths at the table blinked and reacted.

Jonathon circled round the tavern, I lost sight of him in a cluster of bodies for a moment, and suddenly he returned to me in the shadows. Upon his return, he was sans cap and wearing a dark black jacket, blending into the shadows with me.

"Where did you..." I gestured to the coat.

"Hung upon a coat tree in the back of the bar," he replied. "Brinkman wrote me a note with a few tips. Useful things, really." Before I could ask further about fresh communication from the spy, Jonathon continued. "Watch for any changes or anything to do with those vials or the content. I'm going to speak to the management about someone coming and trying to make sales of products that were not sold by the tavern itself, something that might keep Stevens watched, and hopefully reported to the authorities." He stalked off, and I watched the unfolding reactions at the table.

The four youths seemed to have broken from a trance. They stared at Stevens and at the dripping mess before them alternately, their brows furrowing. Three of them stood to clean themselves off and walked away as if they weren't exactly sure of themselves; one just turned from Stevens but remained sitting, using a kerchief to wipe down the surfaces directly around him, his shoulders hunched, either tired, drunk, miserable, or all three. Stevens clenched his jaw and turned to pace in the dim light of the tavern lanterns, thinking no one was watching.

Just as the group dispersed and the moment was foiled, I noticed two young black-clad women in short black cloaks and hats with net veils peering in through the tavern window from the street beyond, arm in arm. They waved at one of the young men within, and his visage brightened at the sight of them.

My heart pulled, as all of them reminded me of the characters in my dream. In my dream, there had been screaming as young men were turning into monsters, transformed by insidious means, dehumanized to wretched experiments meant to keep the victims in fear. Here, there were only smiles. I wanted to cry out in triumph. We changed the fate of the night...

Inside, Stevens turned, his sallow face hard and haunted. I wondered what drove that man. Was it as misguided as it had been with Doctor Preston, reanimating out of love? What made Stevens want to alter a person so? Or was he merely a possessed body, the actual original researcher having long ago been dispatched?

He stole a glass from a ledge where a few smart-looking fellows were hotly debating politics and downed the beverage. His fist clenched and his arm raised, seeming ready to throw the glass before he then thought better of it as one of the staff approached him. I overheard the manager gruffly ask about whether he'd been trying to sell products in their establishment. Stevens was immediately contrite and ordered more alcohol. I wished in that moment this '"doctor'" of questionable repute would have picked a fight so that a local police officer would have been called to take him in. I thought about throwing something to seek escalation, but escaping a bar brawl wasn't in my particular expertise.

Confident the doctor wasn't going anywhere as he sat back at the table now wholly abandoned, defeated, a glass of liquor in each hand, I took my eyes off the man and searched for Jonathon. Feeling so vindicated by Stevens's failure to incite another incident, I turned to Jonathon upon his return to the shadows surrounding us and nearly threw my arms around him. Instead, I merely stood very closely, hoping to regain the scorching intimacy we'd had from the moments our souls had first met within the magic of a canvas...

"Let's not be strangers, Natalie," he said, reassuring my foremost concern as if he'd read my mind.

"Let's not," I replied eagerly. "I've been so worried, can feel you withdrawing—"

"I've a lot on my mind," he interrupted, his voice hard. "Dark things, Natalie. I don't want to burden you—"

"I want—need—to know everything. I want to bear the weight of that burden with you, just like when your spirit kept darkening that painting."

He sighed heavily. "Home is calling me, Natalie. I'm going to have to return to the estate at some point. I can't avoid it any longer."

"I'm coming with you," I declared.

He just gave me a pained look.

"I don't want us to be apart," I insisted. "I want us to be together and for everything to be perfect, never pressured, never looking over our shoulders, but just perfect."

He stared at me, and I could see the flicker of doubt in his eyes. "So you will accept me? If I were to ask...again?"

My heart jumped at this, but it still had to be for the right reason. "If you ask for no other reason than for your own desire. Not because anyone forced you to. I've never wanted to say yes to anything more," I whispered, achingly. He nodded, biting back a smile, seeming in part placated, in part still nervous. "Besides," I added, "don't you think the forces at work would like to see us split apart? We can't give them that opportunity."

"True," he agreed. "Tonight, I do think a crisis may have been averted."

We had intervened before further victims had been ensnared for Stevens's experimental purposes, sowing seeds of chaos. I felt a proud surge flood my body. We were clever, resourceful, and gifted. We were more than the enemy would expect of us.

As we left, for we could not stay out into the night indefinitely, we had to step from the shadows and into the brighter gas-lit entryway. I cast one look back over my shoulder. The man, Stevens, was staring at me. Right at me. Through me. His eyes flashed oddly, unnaturally.

And suddenly I didn't feel so clever anymore.

--

(End of Chapter 8 -- Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends! Tweet it, FB, + it! The Magic Most Foul team really hopes the audience will continue to grow and it can only do so with YOUR help! If you haven't already, do pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and the sequel: The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause! Donations directly support the editorial staff.

Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 7

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Tue, 07 May 2013 10:30:00 +0000

(For previous chapters, please see the links on the right column or click http://leannareneebooks.blogspot.com and scroll down through previous chapters)

Chapter 7:

My curiosity about the letter overtook my propriety. Mrs. Northe knew me. Quite well. If that was lying out in plain sight, I was meant to see it. At least, that's how I justified sitting down to read it.

“My dear niece Maggie,

It’s up to you whether the devils will have you or not… Karen tells me that you seem detached from the reality that you are in, in that you are not taking responsibility for your actions but are blaming them on others. Me, for one. Natalie, another, Mr. Bentrop and that book still more...

Here is where I have failed you. I didn't know about that book until it was too late. But some part of you had to know it wasn't a good book, Maggie, didn't you? You've insisted on trying to get information out of me. Why wouldn't you have brought that book to me? Mr. Bentrop turned you against me? Over the course of a couple of dinner parties? He is not a nice man, Maggie, nor are his associates. They are trying to pave roadways for the type of terrible energy that nearly killed you, the kind you willingly brought into your own home, resurrected in an altar in your closet.

I beg you to see that I dissuaded you from the wrong types of paths; I encouraged you to sit with our simple, quiet séances. But they were not flashy enough for you. It was not exciting enough, it seemed, to merely set a soul to rest. Power was more entrancing for you, and parlor tricks to charm a crowd. There are plenty of charlatan spiritualists out there who can train you in the ways of the trick table to create knocks as if a spirit were corresponding. That isn't my brand, it isn't my way, and I'll not encourage mere theatrics. I've told you this countless times. But I want you to see these convictions of mine in print, on paper, here in this vulnerable hour, I want you to understand the difference between the type of evil you courted and the type of peace and light in which I strive to live. And, yes, of course, there is a harrowing gray area between.

I know that you are jealous of what Natalie and I shared. I am fond of Natalie, and I always will be. She was called by God to do something very specific. She had to be the one to rescue Lord Denbury's soul. You must accept that as fact and move on from it.

And now you, dear Maggie, are called to turn your life around.

In doing so, I daresay you might be far more powerful than you could ever have imagined. For you stared down the Devil, after inviting him in and now you have the chance to repent and say no. It is brave to recognize you made a mistake and to devote your life to a different path. There are two paths. Two walks in this life, and in the life of a soul beyond its body. This is the point at which you must choose.

You must take Karen's words deeply to heart. She and Amelia were the two brightest spots of my youth, and when all of us were beset with dark energies, we pulled each other through into the light. I have to believe Amelia is there as a guardian angel, willing you into that same better day; she was always powerful in spirit.

Please don't ever think you haven't been important to me. Your soul was crying out for attention, and I was fixated upon Natalie's particular dilemma. For that I apologize. But I did trust that you were strong enough to not be overcome by darker whims. Prove that to me now in showing me you know the difference between the darkness you courted and the light that your family and friends offer you. Don't worry about the retribution of your family, you leave that to me, I'll make them come around.

I hope you might be moved to write back. Natalie has asked after you; she wants you to be healthy and happy as much as I do. If she can forgive you, seeing as she almost died due to your lack of understanding, you are further along your path toward a greater power. Embrace it.

Your aunt,

Evelyn

I set down the letter and sat slowly upon the nearest settee, my heart very full. I prayed very hard for Maggie. For Mrs. Northe. For myself. I sat in silence until Mrs. Northe swept in, all grace, graciousness and grandeur.

Dinner was quiet and lovely. Lavinia had dinner sent to her room as she was tasked with correspondences to all of her Association, trying to make sure no further lambs were lost in the dark wood of chemical temptations offered by wolves. But my dream haunted me and I wondered if I should warn her. But what could she do? She was already trying to asses the damage done, and she was perhaps psychologically still at a critical juncture. Jonathon was again out. With no explanation as to where. The thought that he may be avoiding me made my stomach twist in a terror as gripping as my nightmares.

Home once the sun set, I returned immediately to my room. Diary in hand, I sat at my window, looking out at what I could of the city, the avenue beyond. It was all right that I was restless. So was New York. The city had always, in its own way, understood me. Then I looked down and examined the words I had written.

White Horse.

Tavern.

Chaos.

Stevens.

Bits of conversation came back to me as I stared at the first two lines of my notes. The new White Horse Tavern. I'd heard my father's friends at the Metropolitan talking about its recent opening. That would be the site of the next attack. And if I knew my dreams, the result would be within days of the dream. I had no time to lose; I had to investigate.

Tonight.

---

(End of Chapter 7 -- Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends! Tweet it, FB, + it! The Magic Most Foul team really hopes the audience will continue to grow and it can only do so with YOUR help! If you haven't already, do pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and the sequel: The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause! Donations directly support the editorial staff.

Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS Chapter 6

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 10:30:00 +0000

Chapter 6 (For previous chapters, please see column at right side of the blog or visit http://leannareneebooks.blogspot.com and keep scrolling down for previous posts)

A hallway again. Of course. The general palette of my nightmares, the backdrop against which terrible things would be painted. In this shadowy realm, I often saw things that would come to fruition. I didn't know that at first, suffering riotous nightmares during Jonathon's ordeal within the painting, but I'd soon found out as murders corresponded with names and terrible images I'd foreseen.

My subconscious had inextricably become riddled with clues, and rather than merely being assaulted with them, I was determined, this time, to utilize them as information that might keep us just one step ahead of the enemy. At least, that’s what I told myself when I woke. While dreaming, I was merely terrified, and the idea that this foresight was some kind of gift to fight our enemies was difficult to take comfort in.

The hallway wasn’t like that of a house; it was more like an alley, bricks and archways to either side of me, the shadows deep and shifting, the second life of a city once the sun descends. The myriad sounds of a thriving metropolis filtered through to my ear but as if from far away or as though I were hearing them through glass.

And then a horse nearly ran me down. I only heard the galloping at the last minute.

There was a flash of light, a seizure of fear, so many things collided in that moment as I felt a hand shove me against the hard brick wall at my back and a stern voice saying my name. My mother. Saying my name. Pushing me out of the way, just like she did to save my life at age four… Would I always need her to rescue me? Waking, dreaming, always rescuing me.

There were tears in my eyes, for the idea that Helen Stewart was strong enough in life and in death to continuously come to my aid, as her spirit had been forceful enough to do even outside my dream realm, made me feel as though she were not dead at all, really, just in a different place than my corporeal reality. But still, in her way, she was very much alive. We knew so little, really, of divine mystery and the Undiscovered Country. Those two worlds were closer in distance, perhaps, in dreams. But my mother's whisper crossing the boundaries of life and death to be with me was the stuff of happiness, not nightmare.

But then I heard screaming.

My nightmares liked to remind me what they were, lest I ever be lulled into something pleasant.

As the riderless, unbridled, unsaddled horse ran free, tearing ahead, clattering down cobblestones and its white form faded into the darkness ahead, I found myself walking inexorably forward, toward a building from whence the noise and commotion were coming.

A lantern swung in the wind of the horse's wake outside a wide-paneled glass window. Within, I saw a figure struggling, wild haired and wide-eyed as if his body were battling with itself, his black-clad form writhing against the wooden bar of what I assumed was a tavern. There were ledges where gentlemen stood with glasses around the perimeter of the bar, and tables of people, all of them looking on in horror.

Two young women, also in elegant mourning-wear, stood at the entrance to the tavern, looking on and screaming. I recognized them from the swaying, enchanted crowd thronging the orchestra pit of Nathaniel Veil's shows; they were members of his Association. I scanned the crowd; all were staring at the struggling gentleman, now a second one beside him in similar throes, a fine-looking man of business, not a youth of the Association. The patrons of the tavern were looking around wildly, as if anyone around them could be suspect. Across the room, leaning against a wall, was a somber-looking fellow, the only one who didn't seem surprised. He was in a long beige coat, the pale color standing out against all the dark din. He stood with a doctor's bag. Stevens. This was another instance of "The Cure" going horribly wrong.

And then the man turned to look at me. With dark, reflective eyes, shining like an animal's in the night. He smiled a sharp-toothed smile, and his visage flickered as if it were in a flip-book where static images simulate movement if turned in quick succession. In this dizzy shift, I no longer saw a man's face but the gargoyle-like, horrid, twisted features of the demon's pure form, the ungodly picture my mind had attached to the raw, dark energy that had twice physically attacked me. In terms of the demonic possession we had encountered in our ordeals thus far, the senses were not always to be trusted. The man, or creature, reached out a hand, staring at me through the glass, his still and static form so eerie in comparison to all the tumult around him...

A pressure around my throat, all too familiar, had me gasping and choking and bolting up straight into the blinding moonlight as white as the horse that nearly ran me down.

Puzzling over these things as I woke, I jotted down everything I could remember in the beautiful leather-bound diary that had been a gift from Mrs. Northe. I must have slept in past breakfast. Considering I was known to be a fitful sleeper, Father generally didn't wake me and simply let me sleep my fill. We'd not stood on much ceremony over meals through the years; my inability to speak had always made that time somewhat strained, and now, what was there to talk about but the pall cast over us until the evils of the Society were put to rest?

Still, Father and I had gained so much ground in love and trust, and I was determined not to lose it. I was also determined to carve out my niche at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, having been "apprenticed" to the Acquisitions department—which really wasn't an appointment so much as an appeasement of my stubborn spirit, which wanted something to do. Still, even though I'd not been given any real responsibility, I would show up as if I had .

But I arrived to find my father kept in a private meeting where it was obvious that a young woman's presence was not welcome. So I then wandered the museum itself, which had always been, since its recent opening, one of my very favorite places, very nearly as sacred to me as the park in which it was ensconced. I was determined not to let the horror that had happened within the building's basement rooms in the dead of night mar the whole of that beautiful institution. I strolled the halls, lost in the beautiful art, drinking in every corner, crevice, and open space of the grandeur of this building founded by all kinds of wealthy New Yorkers dying for this city to rival the great European metropolises. I steered clear of the basement vault rooms where memories lurked like spiders hanging from webs in dark spaces.

Once Father was free, he searched out my restless spirit until he found me in the exquisite company of the sculpture wing. Bidding us take tea in one of the meeting rooms, he excitedly shared the latest plans for funding and expansions at the museum and mentioned a horde of upcoming galas he would need to facilitate and attend. I nodded eagerly at the mention of his various events.

Father busy at the Metropolitan meant fewer eyes upon me and all that I may be called upon to do that he'd hardly approve of. He was sure to add that Mrs. Northe would see to my chaperoning, which he said with some trepidation. He probably realized at this point that the woman he was painstakingly courting—though he and I both faced the daunting class and wealth differential between our respective prospects—was as much an enabler as anything. Still, as long as we went through all the motions of propriety, in this there was some consolation for a man who had always struggled to know what to do with the headstrong girl so much like his late wife. A man who found himself again in the thrall of someone as imperious as Mrs. Northe. My father the mouse, my mother the hawk, Evelyn Northe the eagle... Perhaps the species could get along, like in the visions of God's kingdom...

"Evelyn has invited us for dinner this evening," Father added. "She might be out when we arrive, but she's instructed us to make ourselves comfortable in our various spheres."

My father did enjoy a fine cigar, and there were no shortage of those in the late Peter Northe's study, which was kept lively by the comings and goings through her home. I'd have no problem entertaining myself in her massive library, wondering if I could pick the locks on some of her glass cabinets of the rarer and potentially scandalous kinds of books a good girl was not supposed to read, like advanced physics and mechanical engineering and maybe the odd book on the occult. I would, of course, hope Jonathon would be there. He had yet to report on his scouting of the addresses. I had a great deal to share with him in turn. I would have to do my very best to make sure there was no awkwardness, to assure him that I wanted us to move forward as a team, a couple, betrothed...

I smiled and took Father's proffered arm, hoping warmth could offset the dark circles beneath my eyes from a sleep full of harrowing dreams. My quiet demeanor and pleasant expression seemed to placate him. I would do what I could to maintain that facade for the man who only wanted my happiness. Truly, I knew that was his foremost concern, hoping for a less paranormally augmented life for his daughter than had been granted by fate. He didn't ask about any news, evidence, or anything about Jonathon at all. I was sure he'd pressure the proposal still, but perhaps he was giving us a bit of breathing room, and for that I was grateful.

No one seemed to be home at the Northe residence but a new maid I didn't recognize—perhaps with all the entourages of various guests in her home, she'd hired more staff. The Irish woman, Sally, (who was surprised that I asked to address her by name) said she'd likely be home soon so I could wait for her in the parlor, as there were always "people that Mistress would be expecting," and I was one of them.

And so I did. At first I just sat, taking in all the fine things of the room, the brocades, the flocked wallpaper, and richly paneled wood, the fine curtains with tassel and trim, the marble fireplace with a mantel topped with stained-glass lamps and two dancing bronze sculptures, the fine curio full of delicate china and figurines, a lacquered harpsichord in the corner I wondered if she knew how to play, and of course, a lavish writing suite.

There was a letter laying out upon on her desk. I stood. I knew I shouldn’t spy or pry. But knowing you shouldn’t and actually stopping yourself from reading what’s lying out in the open… But the first sentence caught my eye:

“My dear niece Maggie,

It’s up to you whether the devils will have you or not…

And then I was absorbed in all that Mrs. Northe hadn’t wanted to tell me, but what she'd clearly left out for me to see…

---

(End of Chapter 6 -- Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends! Tweet it, FB, + it! The Magic Most Foul team really hopes the audience will continue to grow and it can only do so with YOUR help! If you haven't already, do pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and the sequel: The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause! Donations directly support the editorial staff.

Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 5.2

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Tue, 23 Apr 2013 10:00:00 +0000

Chapter 5.2 (For previous chapters please see links on the right column)

Crenfall kept counting the bugs on the sill of his cell.

It occurred to me after a while that it was in a sequence, and it didn’t necessarily match the creatures on the sill. I'd never been particularly gifted at mathematics, but I did take note of it, and Mrs. Northe seemed to as well. But I wished to write down the numbers.

That I hadn't traveled with a diary frustrated me. Mere months ago I'd have never been without paper, to write things down to communicate as my voice had been absent for so many years. What a strange thing to have taken for granted. How interesting that I'd so readily abandoned such an intrinsic tool of survival. We are adaptable creatures. Well, some of us. The man before me hadn't adapted. He'd broken in two...

Mrs. Northe repeated what she'd said, that she had questions, and the clouds of madness seemed to part and an eerie lucidity shone through like a jarring ray of sunlight.

"You've questions?" he said in wispy voice. "About why I'm here?"

"Yes, please. Tell us why you're here."

"You cannot beat the Majesties, you know. You'll fall under the Master in the end. Everyone will," he said matter-of-factly.

"I'm sure that's true," Mrs. Northe said softly, with a quiet conspiratorial air. "And I've been wanting to know why I've been chosen to see and know some of your secrets." Crenfall narrowed his eyes at her. "I brought Lord Denbury's portrait into the Metropolitan, Mister Crenfall. I've been trying to learn the ways of this society, but I cannot do that without a guide," she murmured, playing as though she were excited. Crenfall puffed up his chest proudly. "What we should expect and welcome from these Masters?"

"Expect that the gentlemen will want everything. You can welcome his taking of what is rightfully theirs. They are not hasty. Their revolution is quiet and dark. The minion and I were sent from London. Ahead of operations.”

"The minion. Lord Denbury, you mean?" Mrs. Northe clarified.

"No." Crenfall grinned. "But he looked an awful lot like him, didn't he..." The man's ugly, raspy laugh bounced about the dank stone space.

"What sort of operations?" I hissed through clenched teeth, balling my fist, wanting to lash out at his casual reference to what had been an experience of unmitigated hell for Jonathon.

"You know, business," Crenfall replied, turning a sick smile to me. "New business. Pretty business."

I shuddered. The demon had liked to use the word "pretty." A demon who had gotten far too close... I shoved the memories back.

"How many people were sent here?" Mrs. Northe continued.

"Just the inhabited young lord and I first. A Majesty will follow. And soon. A shadow has already been cast over doctors. More experiments, you know."

"Business...and experiments, these will be wholly in New York? Or more places?"

"To take preeminence anywhere, one must certainly have deep roots in New York City," Crenfall stated as if that were obvious. "Grand and central, all tracks will lead home."

The word home seemed to set him off, he winced and something darkened. "The abyss. We come from the abyss. We return to the abyss. In the end the dark will always take you so take it first and it will be kind, a soft touch, gentle decay, nothing to fear. The paths are worn deep with heavy tread, those we serve, those who have come before to do the dirty deeds. Such dirt. We are filthy creatures, mankind..."

It was hard to follow, his mental landscape a tangle. He repeated a few choice words, touching upon abysses and filth, eventually leaving his ode to pierce us again with wide, terrible eyes. He continued more lucidly: "Here the new world order shall unfold. The old order. The old shall be new again. The dead, alive. The peaceful, militant. The leaders restored. The striving, crushed. And the content, terrified."

And then suddenly, he rushed at us, shrieking. We scrambled backward, startled by the extreme outburst. The orderly was instantly upon Crenfall, who murmured apologies as he retreated back into his corner once more. "I get these fits, madame," Crenfall whined to Mrs. Northe, sweeping a terrified gaze to me, then to the orderly. "Please, I'm sorry. I'll be better..."

"It's all right sir, thank you." Mrs. Northe placed a calming hand on the orderly's forearm.

Crenfall begged again, cringing. "Please understand. I did not start this with the desire to hurt anyone. I only wanted to serve. For the world to be sorted properly. But once you choose a path and walk it a while...there is no turning back."

Mrs. Northe stood her ground and maintained her gentle but unequivocal tone. "Tell me where your associates meet. Names, if you can."

Crenfall looked at us helplessly, murmuring, wide-eyed, "They're all Majesties. We don't know their true names. Such power in names, you know. Their blood is the finest. And they will situate themselves among the grand and glorious, the central and the vital. Better to seize the heart of the city."

"He's raving, madame. I hope you've sense enough to see that," the orderly growled, his fist still threatening. Mrs. Northe offered the orderly a reassuring gesture.

"I'm trying... I'm trying to serve," Crenfall murmured, offering up a soft plea. "Please bestow your grace upon me...for I do grow scared of the dark..." And he was off again, counting the insects round his window bars, only with a few more tears on his cheek, and no other urging from Mrs. Northe garnered any response.

Mrs. Northe turned to me, and I saw a tired, old pain I was seeing more frequently. Or perhaps I was simply more insightful. She spoke softly as we left the cell. “I realize that this branch of doctors, scientists, and analysts are called Alienists because these people are alienated from society, from everything we think of as capable and compatible with our average existence. But their patients are still human. They are not so alien that I cannot still feel them, straining at my mind, their souls reaching out as their hands do. For something. Someone. For a shred of light, sunlight, quiet...anything to grasp.”

This was my thought as I walked away, the head Alienist waiting for us, having listened in, his face contorted in disapproval that he thankfully kept to himself.

We made our way back toward the entrance, past chambers of experimental operation, activity that appeared on all accounts to be somewhat medieval and torturous. If I strained to hear it, I wondered if I’d feel the heartbeat of misery. Surely Mrs. Northe did, for it seemed she could not help herself, lashing out at the attending Alienist. "As a rule, are you cruel?"

The man just stared at her as if he didn't understand her question.

As we made our exit, a young man in a black suit, with pale skin, dark eyes, and an arm held at an angle entered. Palpable sadness was writ wide within his dark eyes. The crash of water sounded nearby. Likely a man strapped to a chair plunged into a submersion tank, as I'd seen in passing. "Barbaric," he murmured.

"Yes, doctor, so you've said," came the weary reply from the warden at the door. "Do open your own institution then instead, will you?"

I couldn't help but turn to the slight man whose presence was magnetic, whose eyes were so fierce, and smile. He returned it, an action that transformed his face, removing his hat as he bowed his head to me and then Mrs. Northe before walking away, making us all passing strangers once more.

“I was about to decry that there were no persons of true feeling I’d yet seen in a place like this,” Mrs. Northe murmured, nodding after the man. “Perhaps there is hope for the hopeless. I always say that there is, as a general rule, but sometimes…those are just hollow words.”

Hope for the hopeless. That made me think of Maggie, and as we stepped outside those doors, straining toward that open lawn beyond, I blurted:

“Please tell me Maggie won’t be brought to a place like this. What happens when she’s well enough?”

Mrs. Northe sighed as we climbed again into the calash that she had instructed come back around for us to take us again to the small steam ferry that would chug gladly back to Manhattan. We sped away from the looming complex, and I did not look back. She turned to me with a withering stare that caused me to shrink back in the bouncing seat.

"Do you really think so little of me that I'd let Maggie, my niece, misguided as she is, be swept away into these terrible systems?" she asked, her voice pained. "These days a woman can get committed for reading a romance novel, let alone "witchcraft," and I swiftly put my sister's vain head out of that notion. It's no wonder Margaret was seeking something more meaningful out of life. Her mother seemed more concerned with the family reputation than whether or not her daughter was well. I'm sending her off to Chicago, to be looked after by one of my dearest friends in all the world, Miss Karen Sheldon. She and my dear Amelia, the one that died, are...were...bosom friends. Maggie will be in the best of care and company with Karen."

"And yet you opened your home to Lavinia Kent, but not your own niece—"

"My sister wanted Maggie sent away. This was the compromise. Please don't question me," Mrs. Northe snapped. "I would hope you know enough by now that my friends, to the last one of them, are incredible, I daresay magical people. Karen is...inconsolable in losing Amelia, they lived together since they were girls in school, and this mission might just save two souls at once. Karen is very gifted empath and will seek out the root of Maggie's trouble and return her to us well again."

Boarding the steamboat, sprawling Manhattan lay ahead of us, and as always I was stunned by the skyline, the looming towers of the mid-complete Brooklyn Bridge, a behemoth of gothic stone straining to the sky, the churning industry along the river, the bobbing masts of countless ships and the puffs of constant steam engines. Busy, churning, burning New York. A devil in your midst wants to eat you whole. But does it not underestimate you, grand city?

"So did we gain anything?" I asked, turning the subject away from Maggie. I was relieved by Mrs. Northe's assurances but still not sure what to think, wondering if Maggie would ever recover, if there was anything left for us as possible friends, even after all the stupid things she'd done.

I thought of what had struck me in Crenfall's words, words that may have meant something. I had grown accustomed to picking apart single words as clues; the magic that had imprisoned Denbury worked off specific words, a direct spell. Words had far more power than people gave them credit for. As a girl who'd spent a good bit of her life mute, I appreciated that fact more than most. "The grand and the central," I stated. "Do you think there's something going on near the Depot? Grand Central Depot?" I wanted to compare that area to the addresses Brinkman offered Jonathon and see if there was any rhyme or reason to them.

"I do, yes," Mrs. Northe said, nodding, her expression fixed in concentration. "And then there were the numbers. And then the reference to Majesties. High-born folk, which would explain the connection with the English, who have more stratifications that we'd like to think we have here, though they merely take different forms, and the discussion of what seemed to be a societal shift. And the ancient power of the name once more. If there are further spells afoot, we must keep that at the core. I ought to have written those numbers down. There is code in madness, and sense in code. Incredible works of scripture and art have been written in odd sequences and fantastical scenarios. But it was familiar to me. I think it may have been related to the golden ratio. But rearranged...”

I blinked at her, hoping she’d explain. She smiled. “I thought your father may have explained that one to you at some point. The golden ratio is a mathematical concept that can be applied to art. It’s thought to be divine, a ratio of composition and proportion that is thought to be most pleasing to the eye, a pattern that repeats in nature, something Godly. Ah. Yes, that’s why it was odd.”

“Crenfall was doing it backward, then,” I offered. “Inverted.”

“Precisely.” She chuckled mordantly. “At least these wretches are consistent in their disregard for the proper order of things. It would seem they’d prefer the world be inside out.”

“Just chaos?” I asked. I thought about what we knew so far, the demon’s insinuations of a new dawn. “Surely they want more than anarchy. What does mere chaos buy them, other than perhaps entertainment?”

“Oh, there is a greater agenda, but the true scope of it seems to elude me. All the paranormal experimentation has to be leading to something, but I’m just not sure exactly what. I believe they seek weapons of control and terror, the soul-splitting and the reanimation and the chemicals are part of that quest, but to what end they'll be used I’m still not sure.”

Having transferred to a trolley car and after a two block walk to her townhouse, Mrs. Northe brought me into her parlor, and I, of course, looked around and listened for any signs of Jonathon's presence, but there were none, to my great disappointment. I'd become used to catching him up on information immediately, and the thought that he was out and about without me was a fresh torture, the kind I'd only felt when he had gone to England to attempt to sort out his affairs.

When I'd first met him, our souls had communed through a painting, and with a flood of guilt, I realized I'd liked it—or at least felt more confident—when he was trapped, as it was a measure of control I'd had over the situation. I didn't like that at all; the realization looked ugly to me when I pondered it within me. I needed to allow him to affect his situation for the better on his own. I'd seen the sort of revitalization of his spirit that his own direct action had wrought. Being his savior had been delicious for me, a power like I'd never known. I craved that sensation again and empathized with the addict of some powerful drug.

Mrs. Northe waited for her maid to leave before she continued with her thoughts, proffering the tea that had been prepared for us. "I've been worried that Crenfall is a liability to us, that if a Master's Society member were to interrogate him it could jeopardize us. But it would appear Crenfall and the demon were lone operatives without a direct overseer. At least not one who could have foreseen the final business with the painting. Considering the timing, Crenfall couldn't have managed to see the portrait in pieces, so I doubt he could be an informant, though we might want to make your father aware that the Metropolitan might be a source of intrigue, if any of them still think Lord Denbury's painted prison still hangs there, and not in pieces."

I stared at my hands, the worn lace gloves I needed to mend a couple of fingertips of, and felt overwhelmed as how could we pick out Society operatives in a city thronged with people. Anyone, anywhere, on any street, could be looking for us. It was maddening. I picked up the teacup and forced myself not to shake; trembling was tedious to me at this point. I dearly did not want to appear as fragile as I felt. I felt Mrs. Northe's eyes upon me before she continued:

"I can't imagine it would have occurred to 'society operatives' that a mute girl would speak the counter-curse to set Lord Denbury free, so you may yet be safe while his cover may have to remain carefully in question. We don't know what could have gotten back to London. I made sure that Mr. Smith cleaned up everything around Preston's hospital wing. The staff there was informed of his suicide, and no one seemed very surprised, glad to have the wing reopen without his morbid presence and constant séances."

Well. His suicide wasn't entirely a lie; Preston had most certainly brought on his death himself. It was just a bit more complicated, with reanimate corpses and ghosts holding surgical scalpels. The thought of Mrs. Northe's personal guard Mr. Smith stalking about in his eerie, quiet way, tying up loose ends and settling matters with unsettling efficiency, brought a perverse smile to my face. He was the most inscrutable man I'd ever met, but I trusted him.

Mrs. Northe, seeing that there were no more queries or answers for the day, knowing we already had plenty to think about, had a carriage brought round to my home. I entered a quiet house with Father quiet in the study, went quietly to my room in the quiet way that was so often comfortable between us. Then, as I sat gingerly upon my bed, there came the terrible question of what to do with myself next.

My thoughts turned dark, and I knew, before I even closed my eyes, that a nightmare would come.

And I knew it would be one for the record books.

---

(End of Chapter 5.2 -- Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends! Tweet it, FB, + it! The Magic Most Foul team really hopes the audience will continue to grow and it can only do so with YOUR help! If you haven't already, do pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause! Donations directly support the editorial staff.

Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 5.1

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Tue, 16 Apr 2013 10:00:00 +0000

Chapter 5.1 (For previous chapters, please see links at right)

I watched from the window of my small upstairs room for Mrs. Northe's fine carriage and magnificent mare. When they came around the corner of my block, I darted out to the door. Bessie asked nothing of my business—Mrs. Northe's wealth and high social status offered us that privilege—so I hurried down to the street and hopped in as soon as she opened the door from inside. Before the driver could climb down to assist me, I had already clambered up in a swish of skirts far less fine than those opposite me. I threw myself into the seat a bit like Brinkman had the day prior. It was an impressive skill I wanted to practice.

She opened her mouth as if she were about to reprimand me, likely ready to remind me that wasn't how Lady Denbury should behave, yet she only chortled.

"This is the first moment we've had in a while to just catch up, you and I," I began. "I do hope you'll be less cryptic about Chicago and many other things you've been cagy about."

She chuckled again and looked out the window as the carriage sped downtown down an oddly clear Second Avenue. I could tell the chuckle masked grief. I could tell she didn't want me to see the pain in her expression. She kept her voice impressively steady. "My friend was dying, that was no lie. She was a woman of visions. When she bid me come see her onward onto the Undiscovered Country, she told me that she'd seen things I needed to know about. I confess, I wasn't eager to hear them."

There was a pause. The clatter of horse hooves and wheels upon cobblestones was a lulling pattern of sound for several blocks. I patiently waited, but I kept my eyes trained on her so that she knew I was expecting more out of her.

"Every mentor has to step out of the way, Natalie," she added finally. "And allow her protégés to fight their own battles."

I caught my breath, trying to let that declaration and all it may portend sink in. "That's why you went to Chicago, when Jonathon and I, with the help of friends, had to deal with Doctor Preston's reanimated madness on our own? I confess, I didn't like feeling abandoned."

"And I remain torn," she countered. "What my friend saw predicts dark futures ahead. I was hoping she'd reassure me that I would, as I like to do, play the role of guardian angel effortlessly, flawlessly. I can't promise that will be the case, Natalie. So look sharp. Stay safe. And don't look to me as the answer for everything," she said, her tone terribly sad. She kept her gaze trained out the window.

This wasn't something I wanted to hear out of a woman I'd once thought invincible, infallible. But she was human. Just like the rest of us imperfect creatures that fate had bound together against a dark force we still struggled to comprehend. I hope at least fate knew what it was doing even if we didn't.

I opened my mouth to ask about Maggie, for last I’d heard a doctor had been tending her at the Hathorne residence, but I doubted life would simply continue on for the misguided girl—a young woman who was my peer in age, though I was not her peer in wealth—without some sort of judgment, punishment, or internment. I wasn’t sure what stopped me this time. But the overwhelming task of what we were up against had me at a loss for words, my occasional difficulty with speech notwithstanding.

A lack of confidence is what had me often fall back into my old patterns of silence. I decided to focus on the task at hand. One task at a time, this day was for information gathering, else I'd lose my mind with worry and wondering. When we disembarked for the small steam ferry and I saw the dreary round island ahead, positioned amid the East River, a place I'd thankfully never had cause to go, there was nothing to do but wrestle with the pit of dread in my stomach. While boarding the small boat, we had to brace our hats—Mrs. Northe's feathered piece far more elaborate than my felt and tulle one—against the river winds, feeling the boat struggle against strong currents as if it didn't want to cross either...

Good God, what a miserable place. A long, sprawling castle of dark brick out on Wards Island that picked up the howls of patients upon the East River winds. I glanced at Mrs. Northe as I first spied the long, rounded edifice, curving in like a vast crescent. Any hope of getting honest information paled. I wondered if the man we sought would even be recognizable in this gargantuan estate of insanity.

Crenfall, the broker who had seen to the transfer of Lord Denbury’s portrait from England to New York—with his soul trapped inside—was an odious man, leering and unseemly. But I couldn’t imagine that even the most deserving of creatures would fare very well in this purgatory, just one step away from hell. I couldn't imagine that anyone with a shred of sanity would keep it in a place like this; from the cries and screams I heard the moment the scowling ferryman mounted a rickety calash to drive us up the long winding path to the front doors, it seemed no one had.

“I have to utterly shut down any of my heightened senses, any ability to pick up on another person's thoughts or emotions. It's too painful, scattered, and raw,” Mrs. Northe murmured to me as we stepped down from the creaking calash that was all too happy to tear away again, the driver not looking back. I stared up at the towering, formidable building before us as she continued: “I know that Crenfall was an accessory to murder and justice must be served. Still, I feel a pang of pity for those confined here.”

An attendant in a dreary gray uniform, a solemn-looking man strained around the eyes, opened the door before Mrs. Northe had even lifted the knocker. He stared past us, out into the wide, vacant lawn, as if ready to run. We stepped inside the daunting doors, and the sounds were far worse within than without. I could not blame the man for yearning for that free open space behind us, in such contrast from the overwhelming weight and gloom of the place.

The warden, a stern, broad man dressed in the same somber gray as everyone that could be seen anywhere in the vast open foyer and halls leading off in either direction, looked up in surprise at our arrival. A large ring of keys clinked at his side as he approached. "Can I...help you...ladies?"

"I seek an interview with one of your patients," Mrs. Northe said.

"An interview?" The man's eyebrows seemed ready to launch off his skull.

"Yes. Someone who was recently convicted and placed here in confinement, a Mr. Crenfall."

The warden chuckled. "You want information out of him? Because all you'll get is some babbling murmurs about a Master."

I fought back the urge to shudder at that word.

Mrs. Northe was swift to answer. "I'll take what I can get," she replied, her tone not to be trifled with. "It's to do with an investigation."

The man sneered, and I distinctly didn't like him. "Since when did the police let women do their work?"

"They don't," Mrs. Northe replied crisply. "And yet we do. Sir. Do their work. Every day. It just isn't our job. But we do, in our way. Now please be so kind as to do yours in turn and show me to the prisoner. An attendant guard would be kindly appreciated."

That I wanted to grow up to be just like the woman at my side was hardly lost on me in moments like this. I fought back a haughty look I wanted to give to the man.

"I've got to ask the boss. As this is hardly custom," he said with an exaggerated bow, flashing jagged teeth first at Mrs. Northe, then at me. I quelled another urge to shudder and had to keep it still at bay when I saw the Alienist in charge approach; he was a towering, sour-faced, balding man in an ill-fitting brown suit, the sort of character who looked more like someone the Master's Society would choose as a lackey than the kind I'd like to see tending the mentally ill. The warden was speaking to him quietly as they approached us, and then he walked off, leaving us there in the cold, drafty hall with the head of the place.

"You wish to...interrogate Crenfall?" the man asked with blatant skepticism.

"I realize his lucidity may be limited," Mrs. Northe replied, "but if he's speaking in puzzles, even they, sensible or not, may be of use."

"May I ask what you're working on, and why you've a young..." He turned to me and fumbled for words. "What are you, miss? An...apprentice?"

That the world seemed so baffled by a woman of agency such as Mrs. Northe was far more irritating to me than a man being baffled by my presence. I typically ought not to be in the situations I'd been finding myself since encountering Jonathon's haunted portrait, but with every new situation, I felt more and more entitled to my purposes and would stand strong, haughty, even, against the withering stare of the disapproving who wanted me to be seen and not heard, home and not out, soft and not strong.

"I wish I could explain our positions and duties, but I'm under orders not to say," Mrs. Northe said with a kindness to her voice that made her less threatening, a good tactic, one that appeared to placate but was unapologetic. "If you've any concerns, I've government contacts to vouch for me, men who will most certainly appreciate your efforts to both allow us to complete an interview whilst ensuring our safety."

I was fairly sure she meant Senator Bishop; he seemed a very useful man to know, and one that was on our paranormal side, a side few seemed brave or open-minded enough to entertain. The doctor shrugged and gestured we follow him into the heart of the gray maze laden with bars and wailing voices.

Dank halls, dirty linens... the men within the cells seemed creatures, not humans. It was a brick building of long, caged hallways. It was a prison, yet worse; they weren't merely being held, they were being worked on. Whatever efforts had gone forward since the Civil War to make sanitariums seem more amenable must not have affected this place for the better.

The doctor seemed to be deploying a host of new advancements, operations, serums, and "therapies" upon his patients that seemed more like abuse from the looks of it as I passed cell after cell of misery. One man was strapped to a chair while attendants dunked him face down into a vast basin of water. I opened my mouth to ask what the point there could possibly be in such treatment when the doctor supplied:

"One has to employ every possible tactic if one is to get anything out of the mad. One never knows what will break them open, what will lead us to another discovery in the great uncharted territory of the human mind. You never know what will lead to progress."

I could see both Mrs. Northe and myself fighting back the urge to argue with the man, but we truly couldn't afford to make any enemies in so miserable a place. Through a metal door was a small rectangular window, and through that smudged frame I saw Crenfall leaning up against the stone wall of his cell in a baggy gray shift, looking up to the tiny rectangular window that let in a sliver of wan light. The Alienist motioned an attendant to open the door and enter with us, standing to the side but between us and the madman. I noticed then that Crenfall was counting the flies hovering about the window, murmuring numbers.

Crenfall looked up sharply at the sound of the metal door, his beady eyes focusing right upon me, like an animal. A sudden, complicated rush of emotions hit me; if Jonathon hadn't been so strong, if he'd have been more weak-willed, more easily influenced and manipulated, I could be staring at him right now. Thinking of Jonathon, of his inherent worth, how strong he'd been through his own attack, internment, and onslaught of dark magic steeled me, calmed me, and allowed me to focus in on this tragic creature.

"Mister Crenfall, I've some questions for you," Mrs. Northe finally began.

---

(End of Chapter 5.1 -- Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends! Tweet it, FB, + it! The Magic Most Foul team really hopes the audience will continue to grow and it can only do so with YOUR help! If you haven't already, do pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause! Donations directly support the editorial staff.
Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 4

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Tue, 09 Apr 2013 10:00:00 +0000

Chapter 4 (For previous chapters, please see links on the right column)

The next morning I rose early, ate well, and read the paper, glad not to answer to anything. Bessie, a long-time friend of the family who had served as housekeeper since her husband died and our families bonded in grief, was out for the morning. My father and I had enjoyed comfortable silences for far too many years due to the Selective Mutism I had now nearly entirely overcome. But old habits and all... The silence was actually a bit of a comfort, a reminder of when times were simpler. A time before Jonathon.

However, I'd not go back to permanent silence ever again, nor would I ever regret the lord that overturned everything, curses in his wake. Times may have been simpler, but I baffled my father then just as much as I did now. Someday I'd make him proud, just never in the ways he'd imagined. I kissed my father's cheek as I saw him out the door to the Metropolitan, and the bright green eyes I inherited from him glittered. He might never have known what to do with me, and that was likely the same with Mother, but he loved us unconditionally, of that I was certain. Once he was off, I was then free to be consumed with one name, one mission.

Brinkman.

No, this English spy wouldn't be expecting me. But it was good to meet things unexpectedly. Often a person's true colors shone through in moments of surprise, and Jonathon might see a chink in Brinkman's armor if things didn't go to his plan.

I was glad to walk the many blocks to Mrs. Northe's home, hoping the activity could focus my nerves. Jonathon had been inspecting apartments in Greenwich Village for possible purchase, fancying a home in both Greenwich territories on either side of the “pond,” but nothing had been settled. So he remained with our most generous benefactor. I forced aside any jealousy that Lavinia and Jonathon would be under the same roof with one another. Lavinia was utterly preoccupied and over the moon about Jonathon’s best friend, Mister Veil. Still, the uncertainty of my relationship with my dear lord brought a heretofore unknown paranoia to my already industrious imagination.

The maid let me in, gesturing me to the parlor where I was relieved to see Jonathon awaiting me. He looked, as usual, dapper and stunning. Having procured finances from his trip to England, he must have gone to the very best in men's shops here in New York for fresh suits, nothing too flashy, everything dark and elegant. This was a charcoal suit with a black waistcoat and deep blue cravat, his blue accents always setting off those heart-stopping eyes. Maggie would've known the brand and store of his attire, surely. She had a nose for such things. I'd have to learn, if I wanted to truly understand Jonathon's world. So many daunting tasks, from the more mundane function of the ways of the elite to the gravest of hard work ahead: dismantling a deadly secret society. Surely the infamous and aristocratic "Majesty" that had been giving Jonathon orders as if he were still his demon-possessed self would know where Jonathon's suit came from too.

Upon my entrance, Jonathon bowed his head and said not a word as he rose, a walking stick in one hand, top hat in the other, and gestured toward the door. I saw no sign of Mrs. Northe or Miss Kent. Perhaps they were out bonding in the same ways she and I had done months prior. I tried not to fear for my favored place at the center of things, but jealousy has its ways.

“We’ll only volunteer vague answers to Brinkman’s questions," Jonathon instructed. "Wait for him to volunteer information first.” I nodded.

We took the elaborate route Brinkman had instructed in his note and kept silent the whole way. I'd seen Jonathon play his demon doppelganger eerily well and so was fully prepared for him to take the lead with his countryman. But I palmed the hilt of the small knife I stowed between the stays of my bodice and the corset beneath, accessible via a partly opened seam. This action steeled me. If the spy proved a turncoat, I'd draw and defend Jonathon in a heartbeat...

We were making the last turn of the particular route, the park ahead of us, when a flurry of action at the door to the carriage had us exclaim in alarm. My knife was out in the instant, but so was Brinkman inside in the same, with a cry of, "If you've weapons put them down, I'm on your side!"

The door yawned open as the man's hands were planted upon the roof of the cab and his feet were up and between Jonathon's and mine before a lanky body lithely followed. In another smooth motion, he threw his weight to the side, plopping next to Jonathon. He then bent to draw the flapping door shut once more and turned to both of us with a wide and winning smile, plucking a black wide-brimmed felt hat from his head.

He was dressed in a fine black suit and grey striped waistcoat and white cravat, all well-made and tailored but not ostentatious. His features were nearly weasel-like in their somewhat pinched quality, and yet somehow their arrangement was disturbingly attractive. His dark brown hair was slicked back, a few ends turning out in defiance, his eyes were a sky blue, a shade darker than Jonathon's strikingly pale ones, but that just didn't seem fair, as I found Denbury's so hard to look away from.

"Gabriel Brinkman at your service, Lord Denbury," he said in a gently refined accent that I guessed came from a London elite. Though I knew little about England and its regionalisms, I could tell upper class from common well enough. "And who might this feisty young lady be?" he asked, offering a dazzling smile that dimpled lean cheeks. "I saw a telling flash of silver." He bowed his head to me. "An impressively quick draw, miss." He then turned to Jonathon. "Hiring a female body guard? Very clever and very good cover, sir."

Jonathon offered a slight smile, but I could tell he wanted to laugh. I said nothing and tried to look menacing. I doubted it worked, but both gentlemen seemed to enjoy it. Jonathon introduced me only as "a colleague" and gave no name. If Brinkman was a good spy, he'd figure it out. Brinkman narrowed his bright eyes at me. And did.

"You must be Miss Stewart. I had a look through the files pertaining to your portrait, Lord Denbury, and the goings on surrounding it. Sergeant James Patt seemed all too glad to have your nonsense wrapped up and to have pinned the blame on someone, batty Mister Crenfall, eh?"

"Well, he was an accomplice," Jonathon replied. "He was the broker who facilitated the transfer of my portrait and...incapacitated body onto these shores. Justice was served in his arrest, certainly."

"Indeed." Brinkman nodded. "As for the rest of the justice... You've taken that upon yourselves, have you?" While his tone held no judgment, neither of us were sure how we should reply. Brinkman continued. "Patt gave me leave to peruse your diary, Miss Stewart. And am I to presume that it is true?"

I blushed. He'd have read all the kissing bits in that diary. That was so unfair.

"It is," I said through clenched teeth.

"I stake my life on it," Jonathon replied. "The life that is wholly in her debt, you'll know from having read her accounts."

Brinkman smiled at me again. That didn't help the blush. "You're a very good writer, Miss Stewart." Even worse. There went the heat of my cheeks a few degrees further. He released me from his stare and turned again to Jonathon. "My contact, Mister Knowles, tells me you met a certain 'Majesty,' and there has been correspondence." Jonathon nodded. "May I see it, please? Do you have it with you?"

Jonathon reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a letter with the familiar, insidious red and gold seal of The Master's Society, the one he’d withheld from me pertaining to the offices and looking in on Stevens. "They have three avenues of experimentation," Jonathon explained. "Splitting the soul from the body, I was the unfortunate test on that. Reanimation had us dealing with poor Doctor Preston. And now, pharmacology, with the chemical given to Veil's Associates." He lifted up the note and proffered it to Brinkman for perusal. "This may have come before what you assume was the undoing of my cover in Doctor Preston's death. How should I proceed with this Doctor Stevens? I went to the offices herein, but there is nothing there.”

“Are you entirely sure about that?” Brinkman asked.

“Indeed. I’ve a way of…seeing things," Jonathon replied carefully, keeping the particulars of his new gifts out of the discussion. "No living soul was present there.”

“Seeing things?”

“Keen eyes, Mister Brinkman,” I offered quietly. “I do hope you have them too.”

“Things are never exactly as they seem at first glance with the Society,” Brinkman replied cryptically.

“And you? Are you as you seem at first glance?" I queried. "What reason do we have to trust you?”

Jonathon flashed me a warning glance not to be too harsh and was quick to add: “I’ve my reasons for why I will trust you, Mister Brinkman. But I also have ways of knowing if you’ve betrayed me to my enemy, so I’d truly not suggest you do so. Are you saying I should try these addresses again?”

“I think you might find evidence there. Persons, no. The Master’s Society manages to operate with scant personnel that don't keep regular patterns, the bane of any spy.”

Brinkman held up the Master's Society letter to the light. He fished in his own breast pocket and produced a small vial with a sponge on the stopper. He uncorked the vial, brushed the damp sponge over the paper and something bloomed forth in response.

My mouth hung open a bit at this magic, and Brinkman smiled again as he explained: "Sympathetic stain. Terribly useful in espionage. Your American Revolutionary rings, that Culper set, were quite fond of it. Your troops gained many advantages passed through unsuspecting pages." He glanced down at what had been revealed, then passed it to Jonathon. It was a date. The following Tuesday. "It is likely Master's Society protocol, then, to encode something important within the letter. Something is obviously scheduled."

"Another experiment?" Jonathon posed. "Should we expect for another 'outbreak' like what happened with Nathaniel's Association?" He turned to his countryman. “We believe we need to find their center of operations to terminate the beast at its source. I hope you’ll help us in that quest, Mister Brinkman.”

“It changes, they’ve several offices. I’ve only pinpointed two, there may be four. They seem to like to commandeer grand spaces.”

At this, Jonathon's jaw clenched, and his crystalline eyes darkened. "I don't suppose you've any news of my Greenwich estate."

"The situation will have to be...addressed, Lord Denbury. I don't believe the tenants who overtook your manor are fully in control there; Knowles informed me that he thinks something is a bit off."

"Could that be a center of operations?" I asked.

"In part, perhaps, though their focus seems to zero in on a few cities, London, New York, Chicago. That your estate got swept into this is rather an outlier, my lord," Brinkman replied. Jonathon's leather-gloved hand clenched, and I resisted the urge to put my lace-gloved hand over his. There was no avoiding Jonathon's return to

England

. This time I wouldn't let him go without me.

“I’d like to know those addresses, and also, do elaborate on how you know someone is ‘coming for me’ as your note intimated,” Jonathon said carefully.

“The former? Intercepted mail. The latter? Let’s say instinct. And I was trying to get your attention.”

“Idle threats may get attention but not trust,” Jonathon countered.

“If I knew exactly who or what or when something was coming for you, my lord, I’d have left you an itinerary. But I do believe they’d rather kill you than wait to see if you bested them, especially without word from Doctor Preston directly. So be on the lookout for anything and everything. Where are you staying? I’m sure I could arrange for protection.”

“I am well protected,” Jonathon assured. I wondered if Mrs. Northe had increased guards around her home. If so, they weren’t visible. The woman was artfully subtle. Brinkman bowed his head. “How can I find you, Mister Brinkman, if I have information to give you or questions to ask?”

“Here is what I know of possible property in Master's Society hands," the spy replied. "And don’t worry where to find me, I’ll find you.” And with that, he was again out of the still-moving carriage, the door slamming behind him.

“Well,” Jonathon and I said at the same time.

“He didn’t have any aura of the demon about him, but then again, he didn’t have any light at all. Generally speaking, when people will be of particular help, they’ve a soft white light about them. You, of course, were colored in the exact inverse hues the demon sported; thusly, I knew you could stand in direct opposition to its magic. But this fellow, curiously nothing, and for him to be so involved, I’m not sure what it means.”

“Could he be a possessed body?” I asked.

“Generally, the possessed have a flicker of fire about them, that odd sulfuric haze. I saw none of that. What do you think, were the eyes off? Did they have that dog-like reflective quality?” Jonathon replied. I shook my head. He shrugged. “Perhaps it means he’s neutral.”

“You mean he won’t help but won’t harm?”

“That’s all I can think of it.”

“Well, that’s disappointing.” I folded my arms, elbow brushing the knife hilt I’d returned to the unconventional sheath of my corset.

“And troubling,” Jonathon added, “if his allegiances are easily swayed.” He unfolded the paper.

“You’re not going alone,” I cautioned. “That you went, with that note, and tried to find—”

“That I did anything without you truly disturbs you, I realize. But you cannot mother me through everything, Natalie,” he said, an edge to his tone.

“Mother you? No, I…” I felt sounds die in my throat. Come on, Natalie, words. Words to fight what isn’t fair.

He sighed. “I’m not ungrateful for anything, Natalie, but I also need to be able to do things for myself and on my own. Not only because I worry for your safety, but also because this is, at heart, my own personal vendetta and the only thing that sets my mind at ease is constantly thinking of the next step to best them. I will try to involve you if it seems plausible. Allow my independence, as you would wish I allow you yours, Miss Natalie,” he said, driving home the point of my femininity, of the world that sought to confine me and offer me no independence whatsoever. He didn’t say it with cruelty, but with a worldliness I could not deny. I had to tread carefully with him. I could lose him at any moment, and while I was not one to beg or plead for anything, I truly wanted him in my life.

His words were not to be argued. But I did take the paper from his hand to examine the addresses before he could yank it back away from me. One was on the Upper East Side, Park and 66, the other downtown, in an area I was fairly sure was industrial, off 14^th Street.

“Tomorrow?” Jonathon queried. “Shall we scout?”

“No, tomorrow I’m…busy.”

“Busy?”

I considered a moment whether or not I’d tell him, but there was no sense in secrets. It was all for his benefit; to set this madness to rest once and for all. “Mrs. Northe and I have a date with a madman. Crenfall. Mrs. Northe thinks she might glean some sort of clue from him about what to target in the city.”

Jonathon made a face and was silent. He helped me down from the carriage as it let me out near the red-brick Romanesque façade of the Metropolitan, a grand building quickly outgrowing itself, where I would go check in on Father so that he could feel as though he were checking in on me. It was now more important than ever that I keep my freedom by making Father think I were subject to his constraints as any good unmarried girl should be. Jonathon bowed his head to me before turning away. The gesture seemed too formal. If the forced intimacy of having met soul to soul receded into the cool detachment that supposedly came with “mature” sentiment, I couldn’t bear it. I was passionate, and I wanted to live, and love, passionately. Mutually.

“Do you want to come tomorrow?” I blurted, not wanting him to go, wishing we could replace our last day in the park with a better one, one where everything was said exactly so and unfolded as any girl might dream.

“I doubt a madhouse will do me good, Natalie. I will walk by the addresses Brinkman gave—” He put up his hand as I opened my mouth. “I’ll not make any attempts at entry or contact. Merely surveillance. Allow me this while you see what can be gleaned from that wretch who helped imprison me,” he muttered, grinding out words through clenched teeth. “We’ll be more productive if our team splits up.”

I prayed he didn’t mean that in terms of our relationship as well, and the fear of this had me blurting again. “I love you.”

His beautiful face, as world-weary as it had been in the painting when he feared all was lost, brightened a bit. He took my hand and kissed it softly. My entire body reacted in a sweeping thrill. And then he turned away, gave Mrs. Northe’s cross streets to the driver, and climbed in, disappearing behind the lace curtain of the carriage window. Perhaps his wounded pride still sought to punish me a bit, and so he did not return my words of love, but I would relive that kiss upon my hand until he could.

I watched the carriage turn town a side street, waiting for him to look out the window at me. He didn’t. I waved at the carriage anyway, biting my lip. I doubted a madhouse would do me good either, but I'd rather I suffer it than Jonathon. He was truly alone in the world save for me. The young man who had yet to grieve his murdered parents and all that had been taken from him was doing the very best he could in a land that was not his own, and I had to be the best I could be, for his sake. For our sake. Tomorrow might bring us one step closer to answers and closure.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day till the last syllable of recorded time… My Shakespearean life would yet unfold day by day, in an inexorable march toward the undiscovered country.

--

(End of Chapter 4 -- Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends! Tweet it, FB, + it! The Magic Most Foul team really hopes the audience will continue to grow and it can only do so with YOUR help! If you haven't already, do pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause via the donate button on the sidebar! Donations directly support the editorial staff. Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 3.2

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Tue, 02 Apr 2013 10:00:00 +0000

Chapter 3.2 (For previous chapters, please see the links on the right sidebar)

Maybe Jonathon felt it was only the little lady who should keep her head down while he was out playing double agent. I balled my hands into fists in the lap of my skirt, glad for the lovely lace tablecloth to hide my gesture. Perhaps he wanted revenge against my refusal of his proposal and was reasserting his own ability to take actions apart from me.

Would he go meet Brinkman on his own? No. I'd seen the route. I was not about to let him edge me out of this. I hadn't saved his life, risked my life, nearly died twice, and undergone a host of nightmares that would make Poe envious for their morbidity.

I realized my soup spoon was loud against the bowl, that I'd merely been turning it, not eating it, and thankfully it was cleared for some sort of poultry in a fine glaze that I'm sure would have smelled and seemed delicious were I in a mood to enjoy it.

"We'll have to face them eventually," Jonathon declared. "With what weaponry, I've no idea. But I feel the pall. I know their demonic forces are poisoning the city. I've seen flickers of red-gold fire across the jagged skyline, treetops, bridge spires. The city will fall to the whispers of demons if we're not careful."

"Yes, it will," Lavinia said, in a frightfully certain murmur.

"Only if you stop being vigilant will the city fall," Mrs. Northe countered. "You, yourselves, have always been the weaponry. Guns or blades may not help you. You know your best arsenal. You must be blindingly bright," she commanded. "Defiantly radiant."
I scowled. "How can I after all we've endured?"

Mrs. Northe's nostrils flared, and she pounded her gloved fist upon the table, rattling all her fine china settings. "Because now, right now, is when you need to shine the brightest! Now is when the enemy expects you to be dim, broken, helpless, and afraid!" Her passion was sudden, her words tremulous, eyes hard as she drove a rapier point home to its target.

"If you do not blaze like a dying star, my child, then you might as well be already dead, no longer glittering in the sky of promise God intends for you. You must be spectacularly luminous. Burn far hotter than you're able. Beam for your dear life, child. The world is nothing but shadow and dead ends. Only your own fire can light a way out of the maze."

"Amen," Reverend Blessing murmured.

The rest of our meal was spent mostly in silence, with a bit of small talk about art and a few amusing Washington anecdotes from Senator Bishop. He was savvy enough not to bring real political issues to the table.

But all I could think about was what lay ahead and if Jonathon and I could remain the solid team we'd been thus far in trying times. I was a woman of faith who was full of doubt. What could a ragtag band of Spiritualists, a senator, exorcist, a British Lord, a museum curator, and whatever I was—some Lutheran magnet for nightmares and the fancies of demons—do against a wealthy, resourced secret society who distributed murder and mayhem like a calling card to calling hours? I wanted to see a way out of the maze, but for the life of me, and maybe yet the death of me, I couldn't.

As per tradition in fine dinner parties, the men went off to the dark wood and leather of the late Mr. Northe’s study to smoke cigars and talk about being masters of their domain or some such masculine chatter, and the ladies went off to the soft, lace-filled parlor to do the same. From Jonathon’s reports, that male-driven room had been immaculately maintained and kept nearly overstocked with all kinds of fine liquor and exquisite cigars.

I wondered how often Mr. Bishop was over to partake of these treasures as well. Peter Northe had been gone for at least seven years if I remembered correctly, but it would seem his favorite supplies would be refilled in perpetuity. Perhaps his widow felt some part of him lingered on in the fine things enjoyed by the other interesting men who entertained at her home. I wondered if she heard his spirit speak, what he’d think of the growing closeness between my father and his widow, or just what the presence of Senator Bishop meant, as they too appeared far too familiar for mere friends. The energy between them seemed sibling in nature, but then again Mrs. Northe was a mystery. Just another question to add to my growing tally.

“You’ve a lot on your mind, Natalie,” Mrs. Northe murmured over her shoulder as she led Lavinia ahead of her to the parlor where the maid had set out tea and aperitifs. Lavina floated ahead as if she were a ghost, her thin frame alighting upon a divan, black layers splaying out, her eyes downcast, her expression lost in some reverie.

I set my jaw, wishing I could better hide things from her, as this was not the time, in a stranger’s company, to unload all that gnawed at me. “That I do.”

“Whatever you think I may have neglected, I hope you’ll do me some credit and believe that I have taken actions on all counts that require concern.”

I looked into her steely eyes, bright and powerful, and somehow I was sure she was talking about Maggie. I hoped she’d elaborate at the appropriate time. She then leaned close and murmured, “I’m going to interview the madman Crenfall to see if I can get a hint from him about the root of Society operations in the city. I don’t expect much, but any lead is better than none. Care to come with me?”

And in one swift rush, all my doubts and my frustrations were forgotten in the excitement that was being included in secret operations by this most compelling woman. I was under her thrall yet again.

“Yes, I’d like that very much.”

“No, you won’t like it at all. Asylums are horrid places, but—”

“But I can’t bear being useless.”

“Indeed, I figure you’d be less trouble if I took you with me. Tomorrow?”

“No, we’re…” I looked up in her eyes, and I felt my cheeks color. I was not a good at lying if I was quite sure my lie would be discovered. It was so hard to be artful around a clairvoyant. “Busy.”

“Indeed. Not tomorrow? The day after, then. I’ll tell your father we’re out for lunch. I’ll indeed feed you, though I’m not sure we’ll have much of an appetite after we’re done with the place.”

I just nodded, feeling a bit helpless and useless, wondering if, like the times before, the dark magic was just waiting around another corner I hadn't anticipated. But at least my next two days would prove eventful. It was true, I was less trouble if I was busy. After a moment I realized Lavinia was staring at me with an intense scrutiny that surpassed custom.

“You’re well intentioned, Miss Natalie. Worried you’ll fail, but well intentioned,” Lavinia said quietly, before turning to Mrs. Northe and elaborating. “It’s odd, ever since the incident, I smell things about persons, subtle scents, but suddenly I feel like I know the truth of their heart. You and the senator are powerful and inscrutable, but similarly well intentioned, though world-weary. I can sense it as if I were to taste the salt air of a long sea voyage.” She stopped herself as if she took a moment to truly listen to her own words, unsettled by their odd poetry.

“No, I don’t think you’re mad, before you ask,” Mrs. Northe reassured the girl before she could even think to mitigate her words. That sounded familiar. In the early days of our acquaintance, when I was convinced I was seeing the painting where Jonathon's soul was imprisoned move, Mrs. Northe had said the same thing to me, bless her.

“Jonathon sees that in auras," I offered. "The ability to judge character that you describe. Those of us who have been targeted by the Society end up, it would seem, coming away with more than we bargained for, but something that can be useful in the right circumstances, as long as you’re brave enough to use it. I look at it as God trying to give us an advantage, a weapon borne out of toil and pain.”

I'm not sure Mrs. Northe had ever given me such a proud look as she did just then. I suppose I sounded sort of like her.

Lavinia stared at me, seeming to gain the kind of strength and sense of purpose I felt when I was called to save Jonathon, me and me alone. I found myself liking this girl who seemed to wish to rise to the challenge, not hide from it in fear. But the struggle was there in her pale eyes. I knew that too.

Of course a thoughtful, complex girl like Lavinia Kent would be Mrs. Northe’s new project instead of her entitled, narrow-minded niece. Still, I’d have to see if there was something I could do to help Maggie, even if Mrs. Northe wouldn’t. The idiot girl had nearly gotten me killed, but I had the sense that I owed her some sympathy and aid. Maggie was a product of her age, her family. When I lost my ability to speak as a child, I'd become an outcast, I had to think of life differently, fend for myself differently. Miss

Kent

chose an outsider's perspective due to her interests. Maggie was the sort of girl society expected her to be, until she toyed too close to the fires of dark magic and got us burned. But I was stronger than Maggie. I had to earn Lavinia’s sense that I was well intentioned. Not only for myself, but for others.

We sipped some sort of sugary liqueur, and Lavinia drank in Mrs. Northe’s next instructions as if they were gospel. “Now, my dear girl, you must reach out to the rest of the members of your association and make sure none of them are trying to get ahold of the substance again, and if they are, we need to intercept those channels. Can you do this?”

Lavinia nodded. “I’ll make my rounds tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Day by day, fate unfolded. Carefully, wrought with the terrible dread that hell would suddenly open before us. I feared the Master’s Society had been busy creating pitfalls for us, traps for us to walk into… My morbid imagination had been given such fodder in the past months that anything was possible and all I could do was pray. But even prayer felt like flimsy comfort against a widening net that sought to catch us up and feed…

Before long we parted our ways with pleasantries I hardly remembered; they all felt a bit forced, all of us sensitive and aware enough that we sat in the eye of the storm, a maelstrom underground, swirling around us, ready to drag us under like Hades did Persephone.

That night I wondered if I’d dream, all sorts of things having been stirred up. For the past two weeks, my nightmares had been dormant, meaning we did at least have some effect on pushing the dark magic back from whence it came. There were flashes in my dreams, nothing concrete, just vague shadows and the back of Jonathon. Walking away from me…and the hollowness that remained in his absence...

--

(End of Chapter 3.2 -- Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends, Tweet it, FB, + it! Please pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause via the donate button on the sidebar! Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 3.1

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Tue, 26 Mar 2013 10:00:00 +0000

Chapter Three, Part 1:

I looked up at Mrs. Northe, wide-eyed. "Should I...be in finer dress for dinner?" Suddenly the knee-buckling certainty that I could never suitably fill the role of Lady Denbury nearly caused me to stumble against my mentor and substitute mother. I'd turned the poor man down anyway. I'd be lucky if he had the patience to ask me again. My throat felt dry, and I tried to recover myself.

"If you'd like to dress, I've kept something for you upstairs." She chuckled. "But the company here is hardly the kind for that sort of ceremony."

"Did I ruin everything?" I whispered, seeing that Jonathon was eagerly responding to my father's awkward prompt about something museum related.

"I don't know, did you?" she whispered back, flashing a maddeningly mischievous grin.

"Maybe." I sighed. "I'm so sorry about dinner, I didn't know you planned anything—"

"Oh, this is hardly for you. Toasting your engagement would have been a delightful distraction. But with the papers being the way they are—"

"You saw about the Association, they're being targeted, just like Jonathon was—"

"Of course and I've already taken action, which is why this dinner is more important than when, exactly, you accept that dear boy's hand. Come along, let's make introductions." She gestured me forward down the entrance foyer and into the lavish dining room, and I was reminded of all the reasons why I was eternally grateful for her. Though being indebted to anyone chafed at my "woeful sense of independence," as my father called it.

All the best and finest was laid out, glittering and appetizing. The room was as rich and lush in carpeting and drapery as it was in the spread of food before us in crystal, silver, and gold-trimmed china with peacock feather patterns.

I wondered about the elegant silver-haired man in a fine navy suit near the head of the table, but it was the sight of Reverend Blessing, who had helped lead the charge in our recent battle against demons, that had me beaming a smile. And then I recognized another face at the table, a haunted red-headed woman I'd last seen backstage at Nathaniel Veil's show.

"Many of you are acquainted, save for this fine chap here to my right," Mrs. Northe began, brushing a satin-gloved hand that spoke of great familiarity across the gentleman’s shoulder. My father's jaw clenched imperceptibly. No one but me would have seen it, but after spending much of my life mute, I read body language as if it were spoken. "This is Senator Rupert Bishop," Mrs. Northe went on, "nobly representing our state in Washington. Rupert and I were childhood friends and attended our first séance together, when was that..."

"Good God," the silver-haired man exclaimed, the chiseled angles of his face curving into a gamesome expression. "Nearly thirty years ago."

Mrs. Northe made a face and batted a hand. "Why did I ask? To be clear, we were children when we called our first ghost. Rupert's hair turned to winter at twenty, so let's just not speculate about our ages." Everyone chuckled. Mrs. Northe turned her charming presence to my father, and his jaw eased. "This is Gareth Stewart of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and his daughter Miss Natalie." I offered what felt like a somewhat awkward smile. She did not introduce Jonathon. He hadn't entered the room and was perhaps still lingering in the hall.

My father bowed his head to the assembled company and addressed Mr. Bishop. "Pleasure to meet you, Senator. My late wife was grateful for your support of her causes. You may have met her, she was always out and about..." he said with soft fondness that made me ache for the woman I'd never known, save for the fact she saved my life twice, once from the grave. She died for me when I was four, pushing me out of the way of a reckless carriage, and her spirit returned to save me yet again, from a demon's grip.

"Helen Stewart, you must mean, what a loss," the senator said quietly. That my mother had made an impact a senator could recall more than a decade after her death caused a lump to rise in my throat. My father nodded briefly, by now steeled to the loss but never unaffected by the mention of her name in public.

"She was the toast of our ASPCA benefits," Reverend Blessing piped in with his sonorous voice, a brilliant smile flashing a white crescent across his brown skin.

"Yes, she was," Senator Bishop added. "As passionate against animal cruelty as she was to cruelty to any creature!" Bishop shared in the reverend's warm smile before turning kind, gray-green eyes to my father and then to me. "Mister and Miss Stewart, I'm sorry to say I've been in Washington when your Metropolitan soirees grace the upper echelon of the town. Let's coordinate, as I'd love to attend one in the future."

"We'd be honored to have you, sir," my father replied.

Jonathon entered. I hoped he hadn't been out there pouting. Whatever his mood, he was

the picture of calm stoicism as he bowed his head to the assembled company and spoke with crisp softness that could hold a room in thrall. "Reverend Blessing, sir, good to see you, and why, Miss Kent," Jonathon murmured, turning to the redhead who was sitting a seat apart from everyone, dressed all in black as was the custom of Mister Veil's Association. "I..."

"Didn't expect to see me here?" Her tone was clipped with a fine London accent made more pointed by her anxiety. She set her pretty lips into a prim line, her eyes glittering with tears that she held back. "Yes. I couldn't have predicted it either. But as you well know Mrs. Northe is a godsend."

"Miss Lavinia

Kent

." Mrs. Northe gestured, presenting the poor, haunted girl before shooing us all into our places at the table.

"I'm afraid I still don't entirely understand what occurred, Miss Kent," Senator Bishop began gently, leaning his tall form closer across the table in a way that was engaged but nonthreatening. "Papers never tell the full story, nor an unbiased one. Could I ask you to elaborate?"

Lavinia stared into her soup as she spoke, seasoning the broth with an occasional tear, her British accent lighter for her years in New York. "We had seen the leaflet for a "cure for melancholy" at Nathaniel's show, in the program. I know he"—she looked up guiltily at Jonathon—"and you, Lord Denbury, had asked me to go take them all out. And I did, but I kept one. It haunted me, called to me. I wanted to know what it was about, and I wasn't the only one who had kept one of those papers. Curiosity is such a temptation. I inquired after the address, and a package was simply sent to my home in reply, a few vials and testimonial tracts. We distributed the drug and awaited bliss. For those of us who've attempted suicide, we hoped for salvation. It was instead an invitation to hell. True, the serum had an amazing effect. Opposite what it promised. Intense euphoria became torture. There was nothing to stop us, least of all ourselves."

Her bright eyes were reddened by tears, her mouth twisted with shame and pain as she continued. "And that's the horror of it. See, we've learned to combat our demons; we were just looking for a bit of help. But this hurt instead, the cut direct. What's the worst insult to weary people who valiantly manage to control their demons? Take away their control and make them the demon. There's nothing more cruel."

There was a quiet silence. Not tense, but merely empathetic. Her words paralleled Jonathon's experience eerily. I looked over and saw the same haunted visage I recognized from the days when his soul was trapped in a painting while a demon ran around in his likeness. Mrs. Northe broke the quiet gently by prompting. "Miss

Kent

's family was going to—"

"Send me off to a histrionic ward," Lavinia finished harshly what Mrs. Northe had begun delicately.

"But the senator and I told them there was no need for that, and I offered to take her in," Mrs. Northe replied.

"We've seen too many delicate souls, gifted souls, ruined by a world that doesn't understand," the elegant Senator Bishop added. "You remind me so much of my ward, Clara, gifted and sensitive. If I hadn't taken her in after her parents' death, I don't know what would've become of her. Some souls simply aren't for this earth. And yet, we are put here for a reason. To help those who are here understand that life is so much more than the limited dimensions of a first glance."

Lavinia clung to the senator's words as if they were a rope leading her out of a dark tunnel. I liked this man. I agreed with his words heartily and was compelled by his demeanor, his effortless magnetism, but something ate at me. Something that wasn't the senator's fault at all, but Mrs. Northe's...

What about Margaret Hathorn? Poor, misled, and maddening Maggie, who had stupidly gone and unwittingly cracked open dark matters she had no business in, all because Mrs. Northe didn't seem to want to bother with her. All because Mrs. Northe had ignored Maggie for me. Maggie was Mrs. Northe's niece, family; I'd just been a poor mute girl wrapped up in a magical curse, and I'd swiftly become Mrs. Northe's cause celebre. Maggie ended up courting evil into her own home, evil that nearly killed us both, because Mrs. Northe hadn't taken her seriously enough to intervene before the girl was too far gone. And yet, Miss

Kent

was worthy of salvation?

Where was Maggie? Had she been left to rot in some histrionic ward instead? Maggie was an idiot, certainly, but all she'd ever wanted was to be included, though she didn't understand the first thing about Spiritualism and what she did know was wrong. Mrs. Northe had no patience for Maggie's constant sensationalism, a trait I'd never allowed myself. I hadn't had the luxury of romanticizing dark magic. It had always been trying to kill me. I wanted to raise this issue, to demand an answer about why Mrs. Northe continued to fail her, but Lavinia continued and so I held my tongue. Though I caught Mrs. Northe's eye, looking at my hand to the side of the fine china where I'd clutched a finely pressed napkin too tightly, my knuckles white. I stared at the fine table setting and tried to remember which silverware setting went with which course and felt sick to my stomach again.

"My family never understood me," Lavinia replied to the senator, "but after this, they have no wish to see me, ever again. They're back to

England

out of embarrassment, it would seem. I hope they don't try to get Nathaniel arrested—"

"I won't have it," Jonathon exclaimed. "We'll bring the Master's Society to heel—"

"With care," Mrs. Northe cautioned. "With evidence. That is what we need. Evidence. Now more than ever, you mustn't be headstrong but measured." She turned to Lavinia. "Do you think being in

England

will cause Mr. Veil more trouble than here?"

"If he returns to New York, I can try to offer some measure of protection. I've...resources," the senator said mysteriously.

Lavinia lit up. "Whatever your advice may be, my friends, I'll take. And however I can help, I am in your debt."

"We'll find a way you can be useful and find ways to put your talents to work," the senator said, with the sort of assurance that made you believe in God, that everything had its time and its season.

"And we'll find those responsible," Jonathon murmured. Lavinia just looked over at him with wide, aquamarine eyes and nodded. Sometimes the idea of a vengeful God was a comfort too.

"The appropriate authorities will," my father added, giving Jonathon a warning glance. There would be no discussion of Mister Brinkman the British spy at the table, clearly.

"I pray daily for resolution of all your affairs, Lord Denbury," Reverend Blessing said, clasping his dark hands together.

"Thank you," Jonathon replied. "I'll have to return to

England

at some point and settle the last of it, and I'll need all the prayers I can get."

I hadn't thought about his needing to return home again, but of course. What if he went and never came back? I'd given him nothing to tether him here, to me. New York was not his home. He'd been kidnapped here. I suddenly had no appetite whatsoever, feeling whatever I'd gained might truly be lost thanks to nerves, youth, and stubbornness.

The revered led us in a brief and prosaic grace, and we then took to our first course, a golden broth soup. After a moment, the reverend added, "Do let me know, Lord Denbury, if there is anything I can do in the meantime."

"Can I visit those greyhounds of yours?" Jonathon asked with a small smile. "Those two girls could brighten any man's spirit. Good thing about dogs, so loyal, so forgiving, don't really care about any of your particulars, just take to you in good faith," he said gamesomely, but every word was a stab at me. I became fascinated by turning the spoon in the broth so that I wouldn't look at him or blurt out something pleading, silly, or defensive. I'd been silent for so many years, and in that time, my thoughts had no reins, as there was no danger of them finding voice. I had to be careful I didn't let something fly from my mental stable that would do more damage than good.

The reverend erupted in a low, endearing chuckle as Jonathon referenced his hounds rescued from a coursing run where they'd been mistreated. "Bunny and Blue were just as fond of you, my lord," the reverend replied. "Let's plan a day in the park; they're a sight to see out there. Appreciate them while you can, our rescuer found a permanent home for them. A Bronx farm." Blessing's deep brown eyes misted over. "It'll kill me to see them go, but I watch them strain toward any open door. Every living thing must be allowed to let run in the space that suits them..." His attachment to the veritable zoo of his house was one of the reasons I'd so instantly trusted him with my life. That and he was a damn good exorcist when called to be one. He looked up with a sudden grin. "But Mrs. Dawn has a new commission for me, a smaller pup who needs nothing but care. Little Sallie isn't seeing well these days, so being inside would be a blessing, with someone to dote on her a bit. That I can do."

"On the feast of Saint Francis, reverend, I'm coming to your house. That Assisi fellow would be well pleased with you," Senator Bishop said with a chuckle, making the reverend beam even brighter.

Mrs. Northe sat at the head of the table like a queen, she fit the regal role so well. She must have felt my gaze upon her for she turned to me, and in that moment I saw how truly tired she was. Not old. But tired. An old soul who was done. Ready to retire. Not from this world, but from the battles this world threw at her. Adding to the list of my many questions, I wondered just what all had happened during her recent escape to Chicago. When she spoke, I wondered if she'd read my mind. Likely she had. She could do that sometimes. At least get the sense of things.

"Friends, I have gathered you here because it should surprise no one to hear that there is still unfinished business. What happened to Lord Denbury and his portrait was one thing. The business at the hospital with the reanimate creature was another. The chemicals given to the Association is another. Master's Society resources are growing, and that's the clock we must turn back. All the assets they've gained we must reclaim. My visit to Chicago was as harrowing and challenging. The experiments that we've been seeing are going on in other cities too. Chicago I know for certain. Possibly others in the East. Industrial towns. The Master's Society has been looking to harness industry. I can only imagine they'd like to do so for their terrible inversion of life, taking the isolated incidents we've seen and mass producing them. Manufacturing horror. There's a deeper agenda at work, that of controlling through fear, but they'll have no stage upon which to play if we gain control of the means of their production."

"How do you know all this? That's quite the sweeping vision," my father asked wearily.

"Yes, Gareth," she replied sadly. It was still odd to hear anyone refer to him with such familiarity. He'd never let anyone so close. "It's the vision my best friend had upon her deathbed. It's why I had to go out to Chicago to be at her side. She needed to tell me what she was seeing. What the possibilities could be if we don't nip this Society in the bud."

Everyone at the table swallowed hard and I felt light-headed with recollection. The murmur of demons echoing in my mind was all too easy to bring back. My father's hands were clenched, white-knuckled. He didn't want to be wrapped up in this. But the woman he was courting was forcing him to confront what we'd been dealing with for months, and better it come from her than from me. Mrs. Northe continued:

"Spiritualist friends of mine in three major cities have begun to seek out the weed at its heart and rip it from the ground. There is much work to be done. We must pinpoint the epicenter of the Master's Society's New York operation, confiscate any paperwork, and track down the source, laboratory, and masterminds of the latest assault."

Jonathon chimed in, directing all his words to Mrs. Northe, a heavy weight about his generally powerful carriage. "Last week, I received a missive from the London 'Master' with instructions to look in on Doctor Stevens, purveyor of the chemical in Miss Kent's incident, and report back, just as I was instructed to do with Doctor Preston. This is presumably before any news of what happened to Preston reached them, though I'm not sure by what channels it could have; Preston's operation was small and his demonic aide was bested.” Jonathon gave Reverend Blessing a small, grateful smile. “However, the address of Stevens and the address of the supposed 'New York Office' were both vacant. Either I was being fooled, or the events surrounding Preston made Stevens disappear. So I've no longer the lead I hoped I had."

I stared at Jonathon. This was news to me, both the missive and his having inspected the premises on his own. I felt betrayed. He knew I wanted to be involved, for him to never undertake playing a demon doppelganger on his own. That a demon had once worn his face was enough to set anyone on edge, but his hiding things only undermined the type of partnership I thought we'd been building. He did not meet my gaze, and I wondered just how much he hadn't been telling me in our past weeks of laying low.

--
(End of Chapter 3.1 -- Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends, Tweet it, FB, + it! Pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul saga books 1 and 2: Darker Still and The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or please consider donating to the cause via the donate button on the sidebar! Donations go directly to support the editorial staff and future production costs, please note the two nifty prize levels. Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 2

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Tue, 19 Mar 2013 10:00:00 +0000

Chapter Two

There is nothing so beautiful in all the world as Central Park in autumn. I've been known to make bold and declarative statements that I will later temper if I'm in less dramatic of a mood. But this is a statement I can put my full weight behind no matter my state of mind. Central Park is heaven. And even more so if you're in love.

I've been nearly killed several times in the past few months. There's nothing that gives a person perspective as much as facing death, and nothing that gives as much liberty to speak dramatically as having survived. I have not known Jonathon Whitby, Lord Denbury, for long. And yet, we have saved each other's lives several times now. Nothing shows truth of character or purity of heart more than saving another soul. I daresay Jonathon and I know more of one another in a mere few months than those who have spent untroubled years side by side. We have seen death side by side and our mere survival has shed a deal of light on love.

Descending the stoop and drawing onward toward the grand expanse of the park ahead of us, I had hopes in my heart, as any young romantic might. My father had his pressures and concerns. Denbury's lineage had still further strictures. I was a nervous wreck, wondering if this might be the day that he would ask for my hand or if some heretofore unknown obstacle would yet keep us apart. He was eighteen, as I would be within a few months, and we were no longer children. Society placed demands upon a man and woman who enjoyed each other's company in the way that we did.

My preoccupation was overtaken, as it always was, by the charm of the park. My racing thoughts calmed once surrounded by lush green, over eight hundred acres worth, in winding vistas and charming expanses. The park has been over thirty years in its construction, with improvements yearly. It is a man-made Eden sculpted and curated to present myriad poetic compositions and countless breathtaking views, built to be like a living salon of landscape portraits. A thousand different parks live within one long central rectangle. Eden lives at the heart of Metropolitan chaos. In any and all directions, the view is beautiful. And the park brings out the beauty in people; wanting to wear their Sunday best even on a Tuesday, the park remains an event in and of itself. Not barred or gated like royal gardens of old, this was built as, and will remain, a park of the people. And the people are devoted to that which is theirs.

We entered the park from one of the transverse open gates; many of them had begun to have names etched in stone, but this open mouth had yet to be named. Jonathon and I strolled arm in arm, my light yellow lace parasol cocked at an angle to block as much of the hazy autumn sun as possible. My father hung back many paces, pretending not to be looking at us, a newspaper tucked under his elbow. I felt strained and scrutinized, and my natural urge to relax against Jonathon's hand that so often liked to wander freely over my back was held in check. My muscles were rigid against my corset boning, Jonathon's hand stiff upon the stays; all the effortless ease of our relationship felt stifled by all that was expected of us.

Once we were inside the park Jonathon looked to me to guide him, and I gestured forward, curving slightly downtown along a winding path, one I knew well.

Jonathon took in the surroundings. "Lovely place. It looks like the English countryside."

"I believe that was rather the point," I replied.

Jonathon shook his head. "Americans. You child imitators."

I scowled. "Don't tease my favorite place. You just wait until you see her..."

Ahead of us lay my patron saint, my Angel, the crux of the park's magic.

The Bethesda Terrace was the park's new crown jewel, an enormous arched stone terrace with finely hewn stairs and elaborate stone carvings on vast rails leading in a grand descent to a brick courtyard below stretching generously out towards a still pool of water where gentlemen rowed parasol-bedecked ladies in rowboats about a curving inlet, a more thickly forested patch of the park beyond.

At the center of this grand plaza was the Angel of the Waters, tall and gloriously presiding atop her fountain; a vast circular basin and uplifting cherubim lay below her. She represented that biblical story of fresh spring bubbling up from the rock she touched, her step bringing forth life and renewal, her wings outstretched, the folds of her skirt billowing, her form of powerful grace serving as a memorial for the Union dead. The fountain poured water from a basin at the angel's feet towards a larger basin below, and then dropped further unto a vast wide circular pool, its basin at knee level.

"This is admittedly spectacular," Jonathon murmured.

This got a smile out of me and I squeezed his hand before breaking away. Bending to touch my fingers into the water, I instinctively brought my wet finger to my forehead and made the sign of the cross as if in renewal of baptism. The Angel had become, from the moment I first laid eyes upon her, my patron saint. I brought all my troubles and joys unto her. Today I had brought her my greatest joy, this man at my side. Despite all the troubles he'd inadvertently laid at my feet. I begged the Angel's blessing as if she were my mother, and I hoped that my mother indeed was watching now, as she'd been present in my last battle. I could only hope she was with me now when life was so gloriously alive, not only when death was so perilously close.

"We've been through so much, you and I," Jonathon began hesitantly, taking a seat upon the rounded basin ledge of the fountain. "I don't know where to begin. How could I capture the last few months?" He spoke as if he weren't sure he were in the right tense or even language. A decisive conversationalist in normal circumstances, this was an odd departure.

"My diary helped frame my thoughts. At first. But then, in gaining my voice, I no longer needed a diary in the same way. Then I had you to talk to... So just...talk to me," I offered with a little smile. Jonathon stared into the water, his handsome reflection looking up at him with wide eyes. He didn't seem able to look at me so I looked at all the glory around him.

Behind Jonathon marched the beautiful Romanesque arches of the terrace platform where painted tiles graced the ceiling and led couples promenading , children running, contemplative souls wandering on their own, underneath the transverse road and toward another grand staircase beyond that led up unto the Great Mall where trees arched in one long avenue toward Manhattan's bustle once more. The clop of horse hooves atop the terrace, beyond its grand balcony, was a gentle, lulling rhythm as fine carriages, open calashes, and carts rolled past in steady streams.

Jonathon was oddly still, but the park around him burst with life and activity. Boys ran about in clusters on the grass, couples reclined upon blankets in the shade of the rolling hills that sloped up beyond the terrace walls, the occasional bird fluttered about from tree to tree, a few notes of music were carried on the breeze from a balladeer or from a boat passengers serenading on the water.

"There is so much expected of me," he murmured. "So much I'm afraid I've failed at, because of everything that's happened to me. I don't know if I can fix it, Natalie. Can I be the lord I'm meant to be in this lifetime anymore?" He pierced me with a wide, panicked stare that unsettled me. I wasn't sure what answer he wanted out of me, and his nerves were affecting my own confidence.

"I believe," I said, trying to keep my voice calm. This was not helped by the sight of my father. He stood far beyond on the terrace balcony and looked away when I looked up. "That you, Jonathon Whitby, can do and be anything you wish."

"All that's been taken from me, Natalie. It's maddening. Every day the anger and injustice of what's been done builds. I've had no resolution. No justice. I don't want to be driven by revenge." He looked up at the beautiful surroundings, and I kept hoping he would take comfort in them as I did, but he looked back into the water again, and I could see the expression of his reflection darken. "I hate when hate consumes me... That's not who I want to be."

These were hardly the words of affection, promises, or question I was hoping he'd ask.

"No, hateful isn't who you are," I said, trying to be soothing. I understood his pain, his loss, never allowed to grieve his parents, his estate, all that had been stolen for no comprehensible reason. But I couldn't change what had been done to him. "Look around you, at this beautiful space, none of what happened to you matters here—"

"But it's here, in me, and I can't just ignore it," he hissed, hitting his chest with a fist and standing suddenly. He began to walk away. I followed, forward, toward the inlet of the reservoir beyond, where a path veered off along thick bushes. "I don't want to rise to all the challenges I'm being put to. Right now, I'm not sure I want to be the better person, not toward my enemies." He whirled to me, grabbing me by the arms then dragging me farther into a copse of underbrush. "But you, I do want to be better to you..." he murmured, a desperate edge to his voice that I hadn't heard since his soul's trapped days in the painting. "And your father insists I do what's right. Of course. But I just... I'm forced to do so much..."

I blushed, feeling awkward. "I don't want to be the reason you're forced into anything." I couldn't be sure about where my father had shifted to; for the moment the foliage blocked us from the above road. I'm sure our disappearance had him wondering too.

"Well, like it or not, Natalie, you are," Jonathon responded. His clipped words were not comforting. "I have to do many things that defy convention. My life has seen to that now. You're not of my class, not of my world, but I must do right by you."

I stared at him, wondering if I'd just been insulted while he was trying to be "noble."

"I know I'm not of your station," I murmured, kicking at a pebble on the uneven path with my boot that, next to his, was hardly as fine. "Not of your world. I already feel awkward about that, Jonathon, you don't need to make it worse—"

"Natalie, I don't mean—"

"I don't see how else that could be interpreted, it's true…"

This path wasn't as kempt or populated, and perhaps it was this that emboldened Jonathon. Clumsily, he dived in to kiss me, which I allowed for a moment because I was too disoriented to stop him, though an inelegant pawing wasn't his usual method and I was debating on whether or not to be insulted. The upper class often dismissed the rest of the world with ease. I could not tolerate that for myself; it would hurt too much to be thought "lesser" when I didn't believe that to be true. I drew back and stared at him. He stared back with wide eyes, a flash of panic in those ice-blue spheres.

And then, suddenly, he dropped to his knee, one hand fumbling in his pocket for something, a branch whacking me in the leg as he did so. My eyes went wide. No, no. After that troubled outburst? And here? In the shrubbery?

"Marry me—" he began but was stopped by my fingertips as they pressed fully upon his mouth.

"No, Jonathon, you're doing it wrong."

He blinked up at me for a long moment before ducking to the side of my hasty, shushing fingers, abandoning whatever had been in his pocket. "Beg your pardon?"

"Jonathon, the way you're talking? No. You're unsure, sweating and stammering—"

"Proposals make men nervous—"

"And vaguely rude. You need to be absolutely sure about this, pressured by nothing else but your own heart." I looked around at the unkempt underbrush we were surrounded by, frustrated. Did I not deserve some grand place where if his noble offer was seen by others, it would merely be applauded? Was I some secret to be kept? Hidden? Yet another of his burdens, rushed into legitimacy? "And we're in the middle of the bushes, Jonathon," I added, hurt in my tone. "Try again with a...better vista. Darling."

He stared up at me from his knee, baffled, speaking as if he could not believe his own words. "You, Miss Natalie Stewart, just turned down a British Lord."

I blushed, partly in embarrassment, partly in frustration. "I did not turn you down, though considered your entitled position, I bet you aren't used to that."

"All that's happened to me of late hasn't felt very entitled, Natalie," he said, deep pain in his voice.

I stared up at him with wide eyes, willing him to see both the overwhelming love in my heart and my fear that he wasn't ready. "I want to marry you," I exclaimed and said his title achingly, "Lord Denbury, and be a lady to you, like none other could ever be. But only if you sound like you really mean it." I stared at the ground. "Ask me because you don't think class matters. As if my father doesn't matter. You ask because you want to—"

"For the love of God, Natalie, I want to marry you!" he exclaimed, exasperated.

I looked into his eyes a moment, my stomach churning. "Here? In a tangle of briars? Here it's like I'm some rushed secret you're afraid to share, like you're hiding me—"

"That isn't true, and that isn't fair," he muttered, standing finally, brushing off his slightly mud-besmirched knee.

"Maybe it isn't. But this isn't the place. And you're not in a state of mind that should make this promise. Not right now."

"You are something else, Miss Natalie Stewart," Jonathon said with a chuckle, shaking his head. His chuckle lightened the admittedly awkward moment, and I dived in to kiss him softly upon the cheek.

"My father often uses the word 'particular,'" I offered.

"I may add 'difficult,'" Jonathon muttered, stalking away and back to the path. I followed after him. It wasn't as though I could argue that point. But I wouldn't apologize either. Facing death, it would seem, only solidified my stubborn self. I had to believe there would be a better moment ahead for a proposal.

At the head of the path, I could see my father pretending to be engrossed in a newspaper he wasn't holding right side up. I could see his gaze zero in on my hand. He wasn't the best with subtlety. When he did not see a ring there, he frowned and tried to wipe the disappointed expression off his face when he saw us looking at him, but it was too late. He knew there had been no progress toward propriety today, and I'm sure he assumed it was somehow my fault. There was an exchange between my father and Jonathon—perhaps an eye roll or an exasperate shrug—but I missed it, needing to focus on lifting my skirts enough to not trip up the walk. I caught the swing of my father's head as if he'd been shaking it wearily.

We all walked in silence to Mrs. Northe's home where we had planned on eating dinner together. As Mary let us in the front door, I noticed extra top hats on the pegs beside the great foyer armoire and heard voices in the parlor beyond.

The widowed Mrs. Northe appeared to greet us, statuesque and stately as ever, blonde hair with streaks of silver swept up in artful, stunning filigree clasps that were nothing compared to the finery of her plum gown and the elegant jewels glittering about her smiling face.

She approached us with a fond chuckle, kissing my father on both cheeks first, a different fondness in her blue eyes for him than the affection she had for me, something I was still getting used to. Thankfully their courtship was unfolding far slower than mine, a likely case with a widower and a widow. I couldn't say I entirely understood the draw. I adored my father but he just didn't seem nearly as interesting as Evelyn Northe. I knew that was horribly unfair of me to think. It would seem Mother and Evelyn were very similar. Maybe my quiet father's gentle, steady hand and sensitive heart were just the sort of thing for inimitable, imperious women.

Taking up my hands in hers, she glanced at them briefly. She was dressed to the nines; finer than a mere dinner with friends required. A subtle exchange of expressions between her and Lord Denbury, her raised brow and his shrug told me something was a bit off. It then hit me like a swift punch to my gut. There had likely been a celebration planned for the evening. To celebrate our engagement. My stomach dropped even further as I looked up into Mrs. Northe's eyes and watched as she masked any presumption and beamed implacably, utterly unruffled.

"I've quite the dinner party lined up tonight, friends," she said in the sisterly, conspiring tone I was accustomed to, "but we've very serious business to discuss, and so it's best that we save our celebratory airs for another day," she stated, absolving me of my mishap. I tried to give Jonathon a look of apology, but he was actively avoiding my gaze.

Maybe I was too particular. But I couldn't have said "yes" being that uneasy. In the shrubbery. What's done was done and I hoped there'd be a picture-perfect opportunity in the future. In the meantime, we had company. Mrs. Northe's tone indicated she had gathered out-of-the ordinary company. For that respite, in this case, I was grateful.

--

(End of Chapter Two. Chapter Three: 3/26 -- Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends, Tweet it, FB, + it! Pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause via the donate button on the sidebar! Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 1.2

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Tue, 12 Mar 2013 12:00:00 +0000

Chapter 1.2 (Read 1.1)

"It's begun," I finally managed to reply quietly, sliding the paper across the lacquered console table behind the sofa toward Jonathon's reach. "Another phase. They've gone after the Association. And the papers will vilify those poor dears, every last one of them. Jonathon, the demons won't give up..."

I rose nervously, going to the lace-covered window of Mrs. Evelyn Northe's fine parlor so I might watch New York City's richest and finest parade about Fifth Avenue, Central Park their magnificent backdrop, while Jonathon read the article that had so upset me.

Once he finished he looked up, tossing the paper onto a nearby writing desk. "Indeed. The demons seem hell bent on making everyone else as miserable as they must be. Well then, let's find that laboratory where that damnable concoction was brewed then." His upper-class British accent made his words crisp and biting, his tone laced with a bitter undercurrent; a man ready to go to war. "Shall we?"

I turned to him as a trolley car rumbled downtown, the rattle of the long cab matching my nerves. Jonathon was across the room, sitting tall and composed in a blue armchair upholstered in a fabric as expensive as his black suit. The blue of the chair magnified the shocking ice-blue of his eyes. Waves of onyx locks framed his handsome face and completed the elegant symphony of blue and black. I wondered if there would ever come a time when he wouldn't take my breath away when I turned to look at him. Or if I'd ever stop being terrified of losing him.

"Jonathon, no, we can't go," I finally replied. "You've been compromised. You can't play the demon. Remember the note?"

"Ah yes." He smiled, a bit too confidently. "This note?"

He dipped a hand to an interior pocket and pulled out two items, a folded paper and an envelope. He opened the first folded paper, showcasing one line of neat black script that had chilled me to the bone. Even from across the room the words hissed: "They're coming for you."

The phrase had become a recent feature in my nightmares. "Yes, that note," I said through clenched teeth.

He smiled again. "But I received this in yesterday's mail. A new development. Have a look."

He slid the small, neat envelope across the console as I'd done with the newspaper. We had to sit across the room from one another, being unmarried. It was the moral thing to do. The fact that no chaperone was present was a testament to the fact that any who knew us had given up on the idea that Lord Denbury and I could ever have a normal courtship. Still, we tried to be proper.

The envelope was addressed to Lord Denbury in the same neat, flourished script as the warning note had been, the paper of a finer weave than had ever passed over my gloved fingertips. There was a small black seal on the back, with a crest that looked important. But I suppose all crests look like they carry weight. If our family had a crest, I'd no idea, I was descended of middle-class academics.

I opened the note Jonathon had already unsealed and read:

My dear Lord Denbury,

Your situation has made itself known to me. First, let me say I am very glad to learn you're not dead. Secondly, I'm glad you're no longer a demon. Thirdly, I'm terribly sorry about all your wretched luck.

I followed the course of your portrait with some interest, and have been in contact with a friend, a solicitor who I understand assisted you. Mr. Knowles informs me you made contact with the "Majesty", one of three heads of a group known as the Master's Society. Ears we have employed inside that very office in Earl's Court you visited tell us a lackey could be en route to look in on you. I doubt kindly, so don't prepare tea. Take care. But know you are not alone.

I was assigned to New York City five years ago, employed in most secret investigation, by orders from the highest and most precious in the land. I wish to meet with you. To do so, please hire a southbound carriage at the intersection of 75th and Lexington this coming Friday at 1:25 in the afternoon. Instruct the carriage to turn right at 74th, continue south down Madison, right on 72nd and then westward; we shall meet at the Park entrance. Don't worry, I'll find you. Keep your faith and your head, you'll need them both.

Your friend,

Sir G. Brinkman,
Secret Investigator
Employed by Her Royal Majesty, Empress Queen Victoria
PS Please burn after reading
-

I looked up at Jonathon, frowning. Secret investigator? "You've spies? Here? Spying on us? Why?"

"British spies span the world, my dear. We've an Empire, remember."

I wrinkled my nose. "Last time I checked, this country fought a revolution and threw you out."

"All the more reason for spies." Jonathon grinned. He glanced around to see if we might be seen, jumped to his feet and rushed to lock one strong arm about my waist. "We must keep a watchful eye on our wayward cousins here in our former colony." He pressed his forehead to mine. "Who knows what they might get up to? We have to make sure they're on their...best behavior..." His hand wandered down my body.

I giggled as I gasped. His ability to set me afire remained overwhelming. Leaning in to him I murmured with my lips so very near his. "Are we really the ones who need watching? I'd beware all those entitled lords thinking they can just come over here and have their way with any American girl..."

Jonathon blinked. His hands slid down my waist and clapped about my bustle. "Can't we?" He grinned as I laughed, diving in to kiss my neck. It was true. He could have his way with me if I wasn't careful. But before that happened... There was a little business of engagement. One could not play loosely with virtue. Not a woman with any pride or decency. Not a lady. "Ah but you're not just any American girl," he murmured, his breath hot upon the hollow of my throat. "You were the inimitable girl heaven sent to save me. The only girl to see my plight. The only one brave enough risk your life for mine." He pulled back to gaze into my eyes, his playful seduction transformed into deathly earnest. "And I'll not lose sight for one moment of the fact I'll never be able to repay the debt."

I kissed him softly on the lips, wanting to indulge more, but painfully aware that at any moment meant Father or Mrs. Northe could come around the hall and in through the open pocket doors. "You mustn't live in debt to me," I murmured.

"Then I'll live a life in love with you," he replied.

There he went again, with words to make me weak in the knees. Such words meant I threw myself at him for another kiss, this one longer. We heard a step on the stair. He broke away with a moan and stepped back a few paces. We looked but no one approached the pocket doors of the parlor so he didn't cross the room entirely.

"I must meet Brinkman. Straightaway. Just as he's said," Jonathon said brightly, fishing in another pocket for a box of matches. He'd been enjoying Mr. Northe's den of fine cigars a bit too often, it would seem, to have matches so easily on hand.

I raised an eyebrow. "You seem rather cheerful about it."

"Help, Natalie my love. We finally have help."

"We've always had Mrs. Northe."

"And bless her for all that she's done. But remember, we've not always had her. She ran off to Chicago in the hour of our need--"

"And in doing so saved your friend, and who knows what else she got up to out there, she was up to something--"

"Natalie, we'll need all the help we can get. And if it's from Her Majesty herself? Well then, color me a bit patriotic and proud!" Jonathon cried and if I wasn't mistaken he almost puffed out his chest a bit. He struck a match and suddenly the note from Brinkman was in flames per the agent's request.

"How will you know Brinkman, Jonathon? An elaborate path to the park hardly helps you identify him. How do you know he's not one of theirs?"

Jonathon tapped between his eyes. "If nothing else, the curse gave me second sight. It has proven true that I see auras of brimstone, like hell-fire, upon sight of a Society operative. But around Knowles there is a faint pale light. Mrs. Northe too. And you? Simply angelic. I'll get one look at Brinkman and friend or foe will be immediately evident."

"Just... take your pistol." I folded my arms. "And I'm going with you. I hope you memorized those instructions because I don't remember the details of what you just burned."

Jonathon sighed. "I copied them down, Natalie. Do you think me a dullard? Now. Will it do me any good to say that I don't want you to come with me or be placed in any possible danger--"

"Teams work together and that's final."

"I supposed as much--"

"But what do we tell Father?" I asked earnestly. The ongoing question that would plague us until we could make our relationship more permanent was what to tell my father. The truth? Or a pleasant lie that would harm no one and keep him from worrying? But considering we were unable to shield Father from the horrors that had befallen me on Denbury's account, I was not sure what he'd accept or reject. Before I could wonder further, Jonathon answered.

"That it's a lovely day for a walk," Jonathon said with even brighter cheer, this time forced, moving to stand a further pace apart from me, looking towards the open pocket doors.

"Indeed," my Father said, startling me with his entrance behind me. "It's a lovely day for you, Natalie, to show your lord here your precious Central Park!"

I had wanted to celebrate our recent victory over the demon by spending days luxuriating in my beloved park, sharing my favorite place on earth with the incredible man who had fought with me, through hell and back, to be by my side. But fear of "they're coming for you" had us keeping more indoors, with Mrs. Northe's private guards on the watch. We hadn't told my father about that note. We were scared he'd forbid me from seeing Jonathon again, as he'd done just before I nearly died. My throat still bore the faint traces of the demons' bruises.

"Don't you think so, Lord Denbury?" my father said, his eyes bright. "A beautiful day in the park to set things on the proper course?"

"Yes, Mr. Stewart," Jonathon said. I could have sworn a nervous shudder rippled through him.

I had grown intimately accustomed to body language during my many years suffering from Selective Mutism due to the trauma of my mother's death. Years of silence meant I could read physical cues like a book and I read Jonathon uncannily well. And while I had only perused a part of that particular library and I wanted to pore over every page, something about his nervousness had butterflies launching into flight within me too. Something about my father's phrase and tone kindled a little spark of hope...

Jonathon fidgeted with his coat-sleeves. He never fidgeted. I bit my lip.

Father at long last broke the tense silence. "Evelyn has excused herself I know not where," he said mournfully. "I was hoping to promenade with her. Alas, I must leave it to the young." He wagged his finger. "Though I shan't be too far behind..."

"Ah. Yes." Jonathon said, patted his breast pocket, moved crisply into the entrance hall, checked his reflection in the tall wardrobe mirror, and turned to me with his most winning smile. "Miss Stewart?" He held out his arm.

"My lord." I smiled, my heart hammering, and we set off, Jonathon suddenly acting as though he'd seen a ghost...

(End of Chapter One. Chapter Two: 3/19 -- Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends, Tweet it, FB, + it! Pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul saga books 1 and 2: Darker Still and The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause via the donate button on the sidebar! Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 1.1

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Tue, 05 Mar 2013 06:30:00 +0000

SERIALIZATION BEGINS HERE, BEGINS NOW.

New segments EVERY TUESDAY.

Cheers and happy haunting!

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS

The Finale of Magic Most Foul

---

"There are some qualities - some incorporate things,

That have a double life, which thus is made

A type of that twin entity which springs

From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade."

- Edgar Allan Poe

October, 1880

THE NEW YORK HERALD:

MADISON MADNESS - "MOURNING" HOOLIGANS WAGE RAMPAGE ON CITY

Saturday night, a hoard of black-clad youths, men and women in an altered state, recklessly endangered themselves and others in a sprawling public fit following a "wake" at the home of the British Emissary's daughter Lavinia Kent. The Kents have lived in New York City for nearly six years. While her family was out of town, it seems Miss Kent threw a soiree that Poe in all his ridiculous dark abandon would have envied for one of his tall tales. Even Miss Kent's poor chaperone was persuaded to partake in "The Cure": a chemical concoction promised to obliterate melancholy and despair.

Miss Kent chairs the group known as "Her Majesty's Association for Melancholy Bastards", a group affiliated with British actor Nathaniel Veil. When asked why they were all dressed in funereal attire, one girl known only as Raven- presumably in honor of Mr. Poe- said she'd come not only to partake of the cure but for a wake. (Though no one had died.) They were, it was said, in "mourning for their life."

Those who took the substance, which could be inhaled as a powder or mixed into a fluid and consumed, were then purportedly changed mentally and physically. An hour after imbibing the concoction, the party charged up Madison Avenue, howling and tossing aside anything or anyone in their paths. Witnesses described super-human strength, mesmerism and suggestion. Those who encountered the mob said the youths held onlookers in thrall, even as they were rough-housed and bullied.

After a while, horrified onlookers said the crowd simply collapsed, silk frocks and coat-tails ruined, mourning veils shredded. Strewn on lawns and street corners, the youth had to be roused by various officers of the peace. Most, once roused, fainted dead away again or began weeping. "We're not animals," Raven insisted. "We don't lose our heads like this. Nathaniel will be so angry with us." Miss Kent herself declined to comment.

Whether Nathaniel Veil had any hand in this mess is unclear save for the association with his Association. The fact that this could be a mere publicity stunt has escaped no one. Veil recently returned to England to continue his run of ACROSS THE VEIL, a show on Gothic themes, musings on life, death and dramatic explorations of the paranormal. (A show, this newspaper might add, that did not receive a favorable review within these pages.) After this little interlude he may want to be wary of his welcome back as he is slated to return for another run at the Astor by the end of next month.

Participants in the incident were charged with disrupting the peace and public drunkenness. A search for the provider of said "cure" is being launched by police, albeit with skepticism. Is there really a drug at work here or was this an excuse to lash out? Surely its merely sheer, overdramatic hooliganism at its morbidly-dressed worst.

-----

I set the paper down slowly enough to see the thin edges shake as the full, personal impact of the newspaper article hit me.

"Natalie, what is it?" Jonathon asked, staring at me with those eviscerating blue eyes of his. I opened my mouth but no sound came out. Damn my unpredictable, inconstant voice.

For the past many months now, I'd been pummeled by one strange event after another, pulled into the center of a paranormal whirlpool. At least in this case, we had an inkling, some sense of the next onslaught. Still, a foreshadow was hardly a comfort. We couldn't have guessed the scope.

Now it wasn't just myself or Jonathon Whitby, Lord Denbury in danger, with the occasional collateral victim. Now it was a crowd. I knew the Association. I adored them. They weren't hooligans or criminals, they were gentle souls, artistic and individual. Overdramatic, yes, but a threat? Hardly. This maligning was the work of The Master's Society, turning lambs into lions in ungodly experiments, leaving them for fodder in sensational, indelicate journalism. It could only get worse. Exponentially worse.

"It's begun," I finally managed to reply quietly, sliding the paper across the lacquered console table behind the sofa toward Jonathon's reach. "Another phase. They've gone after the Association. And the papers will vilify those poor dears, every last one of them. Jonathon, the demons won't give up..."

(End of Chapter 1.1

Chapter 1.2

Chapter 2
Chapter 3.1
Chapter 3.2
Chapter 4
Chapter 5.1
Chapter 5.2
Chapter 6
Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9.1
Chapter 9.2
Chapter 10
Chapter 11

Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends! Tweet it, FB, + it! The Magic Most Foul team really hopes the audience will continue to grow and it can only do so with YOUR help! If you haven't already, pick up a copy of the Magic Most Foul books: Darker Still and the sequel: The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause! Donations directly support the editorial staff.

Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

March Madness Blog Hop + Giveaway!

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Sun, 03 Mar 2013 08:42:00 +0000

SPRING!

What am I, Leanna Renee Hieber, looking forward to most about spring? Why, spending time in my favourite place in all the world: Central Park! At the capstone vista of 19th Century romantic imagination, The Bethesda Terrace.

As you can see from my blog title I write Gothic Victorian novels with fantastical, magical paranormal elements. If any of you have visited Manhattan's incredible 843 acre slice of heaven in the center of the big city, you might recognize that gorgeous expanse pictured atop my blog. That's the Bethesda Terrace in the 1880s, the time period in which my Magic Most Foul saga (Now Available) and upcoming ETERNA FILES saga (2014 from Tor / Macmillan) are set.

The park was always a bold venture representing an idealistic, imaginative city as ambitious and interesting as it is populated. It is a park for the people, entirely man-made and sculpted to beautiful perfection by visionary minds of Frederick Law Olmstead and Calvert Vaux. The land was set aside by the city in the 1840s and construction on the park lasted for the next many decades with an ongoing maintenance budget that numbers in the millions of dollars. There were countless obstacles along the way to what much of the world considers to be landscaping engineering perfection but the park exceeded all its challenges, silenced any of its early critics, and has become a national treasure. It is impossible not to find its hundreds of varying vistas beautiful. It is the most valuable piece of real estate in the world, both financially and as a New Yorker, spiritually too. And I believe the Bethesda Terrace to be the park's crown jewel.

I've just launched my serialization of the finale in the Magic Most Foul saga, THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS, a Gothic paranormal adventure in 1880 New York City featuring two young lovers trying to escape a demonic conspiracy that has threatened not only their own lives multiple times and in elaborate measures but has destroyed their families, targeted their friends and if the ugly dark magic is not stopped, the entire city could plunge into chaos. And in the second chapter of THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS, I send my hero and heroine to that very Bethesda Terrace, giving some historical detail and context along the way. Stop by to catch the free serialization continuing every Tuesday!

TO ENTER TO WIN A COPY OF MY NOVEL DARKER STILL: comment below on your favourite spring activity or share your favorite historical haven for a chance to win a copy of DARKER STILL, book one in the Magic Most Foul saga! Please leave an email or Twitter handle so I can get in touch with the winner which will be chosen via randomizer on 3/31!

TO ENTER TO WIN THE SLEW OF AMAZING GRAND PRIZE STUFF: FILL OUT THE RAFFLECOPTER here, but please comment below for DARKER STILL, as a separate giveaway: a Rafflecopter giveaway

HUZZAH! Come back every Tuesday for the first installment of THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS - Serializing just like the Victorians did, RIGHT HERE! Read 1.1 now!

Spotlight on Kelley Hensing and Magic Most Foul themed art!

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Sun, 24 Feb 2013 18:20:00 +0000

Today I want to introduce you to fabulously talented, multi-published fantasy illustrator Kelley Hensing, a graduate of Rhode Island School of Design and the School of Visual Arts in Manhattan, she was the recipient of the "Movado Future Legends" art award for 2010. Her artwork has graced countless gaming books, murals, card designs, scultpures, art shows and events across the country and has appeared in such prestigous outlets as Spectrum 18. I am so proud of her.

Kelley and I go way back, to the Goth clubs of Cincinnati in our youth, to sitting dreaming in coffee shops of the days we'd be in New York writing and making art. Those days are here, we remain treasured friends and I'm so excited to be teaming up with this gifted woman as I prepare to launch the Magic Most Foul finale, THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS, 3/5 right here on this blog.

For our $50.00 sponsors, Kelley will be creating a limited edition 5x7 Magic Most Foul themed print that will be included with a signed, completed copy of THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS. Donations will help cover the many and multi-layered editorial and production costs of serialzing the novel for free throughout this year and then making it available fully in print and digital this November. $20.00 sponsors will received signed copies of the book along with a sponsor token, but of course any donations are welcome towards the cause as the first serial prepares to launch 3/5!

Cheers and blessings!

BIG NEWS: The Magic Most Foul finale serializes HERE next month!

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Wed, 20 Feb 2013 13:00:00 +0000

Magic Most Foul fans! You don't have to wait until November to get your fix on the next Gothic, Victorian, fantastical and paranormal adventures of Lord Denbury and Natalie Stewart! You can start NEXT MONTH! March 5th I am embarking on a new venture that is a very old venture indeed: serialization. Most Victorian era novelists serialized their fiction at some point into small pieces released in a number of weeks and months in various 19th century magazines. Charles Dickens' "Household Words" was home to many a famous story and novel serializing from one issue to the next. So what better to honour my Victorian tales but to serialize one?

Beginning next month, THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS, A Finale of Magic Most Foul will begin its first segment right here! For free! The goal is to have all segments released by November when the novel will then be available for sale in print and across digital platforms. If you think this is nifty, please consider donating to the cause. Donations will directly support this project; me, my editorial staff and the production staff that will be designing and formatting the electronic and print novels for sale. It takes a village to make a book. Any contributions at or above $20 will automatically receive a signed print copy of the novel in November, contributions of $50 or more will receive a signed novel and a limited edition 5 x 7 Magic Most Foul themed print by award-winning, multi-published fantasy illustrator Kelley Hensing. Just use the "Donate" button on the upper right sidebar and you'll automatically be added to the sponsor list at whatever level you choose, donations of any amount are appreciated to help the series reach as far as it can.

Think this is a nifty idea worth sharing? Tell your friends! We need as big of an audience as possible for the finale of Magic Most Foul! But don't let the word "finale" make you sad, this book is a launch cannon onto the next series! You'll see familiar faces and meet new ones who will be served up directly into my new saga THE ETERNA FILES releasing in 2014 from Tor / Macmillan! All my Victorian-set series are parallel worlds and they've only just begun entwining! More news about the second life of my STRANGELY BEAUTIFUL saga coming soon as well!

Happy haunting and we'll see you very soon to tell a harrowing tale!

NEW RELEASE! The World of Tomorrow Is Sadly Outdated

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Sun, 17 Feb 2013 03:34:00 +0000

THE WORLD OF TOMORROW IS SADLY OUTDATED - Across all digital platforms for $2.99

A STEAMPUNK / FUTURISTIC / DYSTOPIAN NOVELLA (20,000 words)

New York City: The Year is 1889.

New York City: The year is the future.

In 1889 a group of bold pseudo-scientists discover the "temporal current" and begin to view the distant futures that await the Empire City. In the future, all life as we know it has crumbled, leaving New York City a ghost town with a populous scrabbling to survive underground. In the past it's up to an unlikely group of Victorian heroines and heroes to preserve something of their world to save their future generations. In the future it's up to an unlikely group of survivors to take a leap of faith; discovering what their ancestors left for them with no more guarantees than love and hope.

Don't have an e-reader? Don't worry, all platforms have an app / ability to download onto your PC or phone.
Download now from:
Barnes and Noble / Nook -- Amazon / Kindle -- Kobo -- SmashWords (Includes compatible iPad / Mac formats!)

HER MAJESTY'S ASSOCIATION OF MELANCHOLY BASTARDS - Membership Cards!

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Fri, 01 Feb 2013 03:22:00 +0000

Fans of The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and the illustrious Mister Veil, I present to you the membership cars for Veil's ASSOCIATION OF MELANCHOLY BASTARDS!

Want one? Send an SASE to Leanna Renee Hieber, PO Box 5532, New York, NY 10185 - And if you don't understand what any of this is about, read THE TWISTED TRAGEDY OF MISS NATALIE STEWART! Happy Haunting!

Reader Art and Queen Victoria's Book of Spells' STARRED Reviews!

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Tue, 22 Jan 2013 09:15:00 +0000

You know what I love? When readers are inspired by my books or stories and make art. There is no finer compliment in the world. It makes my heart soar and validates why I do what I do. It brings my beloved characters to life in a whole new way. Take a look at this particular beauty from artist Nancy Lee. Here's a take on Miss Percy Parker from the Strangely Beautiful saga (which remains currently out of print but I promise I'll have updates on that front soon). In the meantime, enjoy Miss Parker:

And enjoy this good news:

QUEEN VICTORIA'S BOOK OF SPELLS: An Anthology of Gaslamp Fantasy (Tor 3/13), the upcoming anthology features my short story "Charged" that stars an Eterna Files character, received a STARRED REVIEW in both Publishers' Weekly AND in Kirkus Reviews! I am so honoured to be in this anthology with such great writers I've admired for years. So thrilling! Here's the full text of the Kirkus review:

QUEEN VICTORIA ' S BOOK OF SPELLS [STARRED REVIEW!] - KIRKUS REVIEWS
Editor: Ellen Datlow
Editor: Terri Windling

Eighteen tales of Gaslamp Fantasy, that is, historical fantasy set in an alternate 19th century where magic worked or supernatural events occurred, together with an extensive and informative introduction from editor Windling tracing historical roots and adding context. A majority of the tales here use historical events or biography as their foundation. Delia Sherman, then, portrays Queen Victoria as a highly effective wizard. Genevieve Valentine probes a highly unsavory aspect of London ’s 1851 Great Exhibition. Elizabeth Wein spins a tale of writer-designer William Morris and artist Edward Burne-Jones. Kaaron Warren writes movingly of a house where unwanted women are confined and how they gain revenge. Dale Bailey takes an actual case of spiritualism and fakery and demonstrates how it is not always clear which is which. Veronica Schanoes strikes sparks both real and figurative in her account of the unionization of the all-female workforce at a lucifer-match factory. And Jane Yolen reimagines the relationship between Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli and Queen Victoria. Other tales take their inspiration from Victorian literature. Catherynne M. Valente, for instance, revisits the fantasies of the Brontë children. Tanith Lee offers a steampunk variant on the Frankenstein’s Monster theme. In Gregory Maguire’s continuation of A Christmas Carol, Scrooge marries and has children, and Tiny Tim’s life takes an unexpected turn. And Theodora Goss offers up an existential literary-games scenario à la Jasper Fforde. Elsewhere (via Jeffrey Ford, Ellen Kushner and Caroline Stevermer , Maureen McHugh, Kathe Koja, Elizabeth Bear, James P. Blaylock and Leanna Renee Hieber), the fiction is purer, the surprises no less welcome. Splendid tales that illuminate a bygone era’s darker corners. - Kirkus

You can pre-order a Hardcover copy at a pre-order sale price, or a paperback copy at a pre-order sale price, or pre-order the book to your Nook or Kindle! Barnes & Noble is linked here, and Amazon here.

Booklist has lovely words for Twisted Tragedy!

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Wed, 02 Jan 2013 21:22:00 +0000

It's always exciting when the major publishing industry publications weigh in on your novel. 2013 is starting off with some lovely gems!

Booklist gives The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart a lovely review!

The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart

By Leanna Renee Hieber, 2012. 336p. Sourcebooks, paper, $8.99 (9781402262036)

"In this second Magic Most Foul novel (Darker Still, 2011), Natalie Stewart has gained her voice and Jonathon Denbury is alive, his soul rescued from a painting by Natalie's newly discovered magical powers. Escaping to Minnesota upon Mrs. Northe's advice, the young couple experiences a few days of happiness before Jonathon decides to avoid the ominous Dr. Preston by returning to London, where he dons the visage of his doppelganger to solve the mystery of his murdered family. Hieber's second YA novel is filled with bizarre evil: a resurrectionist doctor who collects severed hands; a dark, foreboding actor who inserts himself between Natalie and Jonathon in her nightmares; and a deaf-mute friend who hears the tormented spirits of the dismembered dead. Readers, who will benefit from a prior reading of the first book in the series, will enjoy not only the dark, supernatural mystery and then-daring romance but also the Victorian setting of elegant houses, beautiful gowns, and historical yet surprisingly contemporary New York City." - Frances Bradburn

RELEASE DAY! "Song of Saire" featured in THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF FUTURISTIC ROMANCE

noreply@blogger.com (Leanna Renee Hieber) — Wed, 02 Jan 2013 09:43:00 +0000

2013 is starting off just how I want it! With a new release!

Happy Release Day "SONG OF SAIRE"!

My story "Song of Saire" is featured in this anthology edited by Trisha Telep, available in paperback and digital. Set in the world of my DARK NEST novellas, the Matriarch of a psychic community persecuted by their homeworld risks everything to save her students. Her only hope lies in her great star-crossed love that has spanned decades, but he's thousands of miles away.

Leanna Renee Hieber: Gothic Victorian Fantasy for old souls in a modern world

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 12

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 11

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 10

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 9.2

The Ministry Initiative Kickstarter Blog Hop!

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 9.1

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 8

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 7

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS Chapter 6

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 5.2

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 5.1

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 4

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 3.2

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 3.1

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 2

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 1.2

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF INCORPORATE THINGS: Chapter 1.1

March Madness Blog Hop + Giveaway!

Spotlight on Kelley Hensing and Magic Most Foul themed art!

BIG NEWS: The Magic Most Foul finale serializes HERE next month!

NEW RELEASE! The World of Tomorrow Is Sadly Outdated

HER MAJESTY'S ASSOCIATION OF MELANCHOLY BASTARDS - Membership Cards!

Fans of The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and the illustrious Mister Veil, I present to you the membership cars for Veil's ASSOCIATION OF MELANCHOLY BASTARDS!

Reader Art and Queen Victoria's Book of Spells' STARRED Reviews!

You can pre-order a Hardcover copy at a pre-order sale price, or a paperback copy at a pre-order sale price, or pre-order the book to your Nook or Kindle! Barnes & Noble is linked here, and Amazon here.

Booklist has lovely words for Twisted Tragedy!

RELEASE DAY! "Song of Saire" featured in THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF FUTURISTIC ROMANCE

For more about Leanna's DARK NEST novellas, click here.