Black and Deep Desires

Prologue

His abode was secret, known only to a very few. When the first footstep whispered on the stair, he knew who sought him.

Why do you come, Etienne? His voice rang in the silence.

Salem, I had to speak to you. I⁠—

The visitor had brought no lamp—he did not need one. Even so, he stumbled over the obstruction at the foot of the chamber’s entrance.

Did you never build any bookshelves for this hoard, Salem? Etienne stared in dismay at the stacks of books that lurched around the room.

I like it this way.

Etienne’s colorless gaze found him in the armchair in the corner, and his eyes widened in horror. "Merde, how old are those clothes? Don’t you know what year it is?"

Etienne had always been a dandy, and Salem had not expected him to change. His friend wore a suit of an unfamiliar cut, and oddly, a pair of spectacles that Salem knew he didn’t need perched on his thin nose. Other than that, Etienne looked exactly the same—lean, blond curling hair, and marble-like eyes.

Salem rolled his eyes and stuck his finger in the page of the book to mark his place. No, I don’t know what year it is, and don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Time marches on in a long unending train of sameness and I don’t care. He laughed. The sound echoed strangely with another person in the chamber. Salem was attuned to the rhythms of his home, accustomed to the aloneness. Etienne’s intrusion upset his usual silences.

They never tell you how insufferable time itself becomes— ‘tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!’

The lone taper by his elbow, the room’s sole source of light, wavered accommodatingly.

Etienne stared at him, flabbergasted.

Salem stood and snapped the book shut. Macbeth, he said flatly.

His friend gazed around the room. Is that what you’ve been doing all this time? Reading Shakespeare, camped in this hole in the ground?

And why not? What else is there?

"Mon Dieu, Etienne said, ignoring that, what do you do for sustenance?"

It’s sheep country, Salem said in an extremely dry voice. I make do.

Etienne stared. You’ve heard absolutely nothing about the world? he said in tones of pure horror.

Exactly. I’ve been moldering in my cellar and growing out my fingernails since 1860. Salem rolled his eyes. "No, I noticed when the rail roads went out this way. And I do read a newspaper once in a while."

Still eyeing the chamber’s furnishings, Etienne said, We call them railways now.

Does it matter? Silly question. It doesn’t; nothing matters. At Etienne’s shocked look, he continued, I don’t know why you look so scandalized. ‘Meaningless! Meaningless! Everything is meaningless!’

They stared at each other.

Etienne blinked first. Er, Shakespeare again?

Salem sighed. No. That was Ecclesiastes.

At Etienne’s even odder look, he said stiffly, It’s comforting. Now please get to the point and tell me why you’re here so you can leave.

Etienne’s expression grew serious. We need your help, Salem.

His answer was flat, uncompromising. No.

Etienne said defensively, "I have not come from him."

I do not care.

"Our people are…disappearing. I can find no trail, no explanation. And he does nothing, offers no protection. You are stronger than he, Etienne pleaded. You have to help us."

I renounced the lot of them, came the firm reply. "You all know it. I don’t have to do anything ever again."

"If you won’t help us, then help me!"

Ask Kendrick for help if you need it.

"Kendrick has been on the continent for the last twenty years; he left just after you did. There is no one else I trust who can stand against those in power."

Etienne, I fought long and hard for my freedom, and now I have it. I will not go back, Salem said.

Free to do what, Etienne said incredulously, rot in a hole in the ground?

It’s hardly that, he thought defensively. If I like, he sneered. As I understand it, that’s what freedom is. Salem resumed his seat and found his stopping place in the book. Go away, Etienne.

Salem, Etienne whispered. "It is Addie."

His fingers tightened on the book.

Seeing this opening, Etienne pressed his advantage. "She is missing. No one has seen her. He refuses to look for her. He claims that it is not his responsibility to keep track of all his wayward children."

Between one blink and the next, Salem was across the room, his hand around his friend’s neck. Salem’s lips pulled back in a snarl. "You lost her?"

She disappeared between one night and the next! Etienne protested. "I tried to convince her to stay with me, but you know her. She’s stubborn. And now no one else can counteract his orders or do anything to investigate—he made it a direct order. I’m not you; I can’t do this alone. I need help. You are the only one I know of not blood-bound to him. This is my last loophole. Salem, please."

Salem stared, unseeing, down at the book in his other hand. He had thought to spend the rest of his days here—however long he decided that span would stretch. He deserved it here, had sworn he’d never go back.

But his obligation to Addie was one he could never repay.

Very well, he said at last, releasing Etienne. For Addie.

Etienne clasped his hand. "Merci, cher ami. I have seen the train schedules—we can make the departing train if we run. But we need to get you a haircut." He eyed the black hair brushing Salem’s shoulders.

You’re not touching my hair, Salem said automatically. It was an old argument between them. That was inches of hair he would never get back—and too much had already been taken from him.

Then perhaps new clothes? No one wears fashions twenty years out of date, his friend said in longsuffering tones.

Salem stared at the empty glass decanter gathering dust in the corner. In the glass, the reflection shivered, changing to the old phantasm that haunted him.

What can you do for Addie, besides cause her pain? The old foe sneered at him.

Salem felt the old hunger rise to do battle with him again, clawing at his throat, never quenched, never sated. Clothes are the least of my worries, Etienne.

Chapter One

ENGLAND, OCTOBER 1880.

I s it selfish? asked Ophelia as they stepped out into the sunlight.

But of course not, Marie-Claire assured her, patting her last nephew on the head as he scampered past. They both waved goodbye to Marie-Claire’s sister and the rest of her brood as they left the village church.

I did pray about it, Ophelia said, casting a glance back into the nave where the rest of the congregation filed out. Most of the sermon, actually.

It was on First John chapter four, Marie-Claire said. ‘Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.’ There, I have summed it up for you.

I wrote again a fortnight ago, asking, Ophelia admitted, and smoothed the front of her navy skirt.

And you’ve heard nothing?

Ophelia shook her head.

Marie-Claire’s brown face made a sympathetic moue. It is not selfish to want a London season, she said. It is your father’s obligation to take you. How else will you find a husband? The pickings, as Owen says, are slim this far out in Yorkshire. I set my cap for the last eligible bachelor in Hartley, and that was five years ago. She smoothed her gown over her rounded waist. If I had known your father would put off his duties so shamefully, I would have taken you last year and sponsored you, but this year….

Of course, you must focus on the baby, Ophelia assured her. And you must make sure Owen does not worry himself to a shade.

Marie-Claire’s smile warmed. He does hover, does he not.

Owen had ordered them not to stir a step while he brought the gig around to the churchyard. The village was small enough that the Glenwoods could have walked—if Marie-Claire was not in an interesting condition. But it also allowed them to take Ophelia home, so the coach would not have to come back for her.

Have you thought of names? Ophelia asked.

Owen says he is happy with my choice.

All men should become so agreeable when their wife is with child.

Marie-Claire flashed her an impish smile. "Mais oui. I had thought, maybe something French, to carry on the tradition. Although I shall be quite put out at Cecily for stealing Mémère’s name for Claudette for at least another month." Marie-Claire’s grandmother had been a French emigree, and her mother was from Haiti, or Saint-Domingue, as it had been called, and the French names had continued down the line.

Lovely, Ophelia said as Owen pulled the gig as close to the steps as he could. You know, there is a French version of Ophelia….

Marie-Claire threw back her head and laughed.

Owen leaped down from the gig to assist Marie-Claire, then solicitously helped Ophelia up as well. Ophelia clambered in, ignoring the twinge from her lame leg. It always pained her when it was going to rain, and there were grey clouds on the horizon. She sat with a sigh, thankful for the narrow skirts and small bustle pad. Marie-Claire had told her large bustles might be returning to fashion, but she heartily hoped it was not true. She did not want to manage half a bird cage under her clothes. Plus, the exorbitant expense of altering her whole wardrobe to accommodate a larger skirt or buying all new clothes made her wince.

What were you ladies discussing? Owen Glenwood asked as he resumed his seat and clucked to the horse to walk on.

Baby names. Before that, Ophelia and whether her father will launch her upon the marriage mart this year, said Marie-Claire. She does not have high hopes.

Ah, Owen said tactfully.

I even wrote to Ben, Ophelia said, her melancholic mood returning. I told him that if he would just let me come to London, I could keep house for him.

You could not live with an unmarried brother without a chaperone, Marie-Claire said with a start.

I don’t see why not; he’s family.

It isn’t done, her friend said firmly. Perhaps if you had a companion⁠—

There would have to be money for a companion. It wasn’t done to speak of money and expense in front of others, either, but Marie-Claire knew her situation—and what Marie-Claire knew, Owen knew too.

It’s shameful, Marie-Claire announced. The way your father behaves. He gets paid for his scientific work and lecturing, does he not? He has no excuse not to look after you.

Ophelia stared at the oncoming rainclouds in the east and didn’t respond. Her father, Doctor Isaiah Shaw, was a very busy man. So busy that she had not seen him or her brothers in nearly a year. He sent precious little funds, and when he did, they paid the servants’ wages, with almost nothing left over for the upkeep for Renwick Hall or Ophelia.

She glanced down guiltily at her dress. In fact, Marie-Claire had been the one to take her to the dressmaker when she remained in short skirts far longer than proper or practical. Marie-Claire had waved away her protestations, saying she would take care of Ophelia’s wardrobe and send the bill to her father. Ophelia did not know if the bill had ever been paid—or even sent. She did not like to ask.

I suppose he thinks it a waste of time, since I cannot dance, Ophelia finally said.

There is so much to do during a season besides dancing. You need to meet and converse with gentlemen, go driving in the park, get ices, see operas and plays. Marie-Claire waved her hand. "And you can dance."

Not well, Ophelia said glumly. She had been to one of the village assemblies last year, and Owen had kindly stood up with her. A few other men had, but looked plainly embarrassed as she moved with her funny gait. As Owen’s American friend Mr. Faber had said to her several years ago at Owen and Marie-Claire’s wedding, after asking if she had injured her foot and needed to sit down: You’ve got a hitch in your giddyup.

She smiled at the memory, her mouth twisting up wryly against her will. That’s it, exactly—I’ve got a hitch in my giddyup. She surreptitiously stretched her bad leg.

She had not always. As a small child there had been nothing wrong with her legs. But when she was nearly five, something had happened. She couldn’t remember—her memories were not clear from that time—but she had been ill and fevered and her mother had cried, and Ophelia had been kept in bed for a long, long time. And when she got up and tried to walk again, it had been there—a curious weakness in her right knee and lower leg. When she walked, she limped.

Owen turned down the lane towards Renwick Hall and entered the Dimsely Wood, or as Ophelia privately thought of it, the Dismal Wood. The great oaks closed in overhead, making the path gloomy and dim.

Ophelia sighed. Renwick Hall inspired gloominess. It was their ancestral family home dating back to what felt like William the Conqueror, though it was probably more like the Cavaliers and Roundheads.

Renwick Hall’s original structure had been a standard Tudor construction based on the historical medieval precedent—a long rectangle with the great hall being the focus of the house and life, with family living areas and bedchambers to one side and the kitchen and servants’ domain to the other side of the hall. However, an ancestor in possession of a great many children and dependents, a fervor for the Italianate renaissance style of architecture, and far too much optimism had extended both sides of the house into long wings, changing the shape into a ‘U’. The entrance and original portion of the house faced north and the east and west wings trailed back towards the south.

However, Renwick never again achieved the family size of that ancestor, nor the visitors he hoped to attract. For one, the house was situated not on a picturesque parkland where one could perambulate and ride while taking in the scenery, but in the middle of a wood, and what cleared ground had been available to the house, the wings had absorbed the majority. What was left went to the flower and kitchen gardens, and then became the wood. The wood encroached closer every year, it seemed.

Over the years, as funds depleted and the cost of upkeep rose, Ophelia’s grandfather and then her father had repurposed most of the north and east portions of the house to serve as the functional sections of Renwick. The west wing had slowly fallen into disuse and disrepair, and now was nearly unsound in many places. The east wing was mostly livable, but the wood shrouded it from much of the sun it would’ve received.

Renwick was the sort of house in which you’d expect to find ghosts or a dungeon. But it had neither priest hole nor oubliette, and no ghosts as far as Ophelia could tell. There was a secret passage of sorts—but Ophelia thought it likely some ancestor had just disguised the entrances to a servants’ hallway and it had fallen into disuse over the years, and so had become secret.

The gardens were as overgrown as the wood, but that was because Ophelia’s mother and grandmother had been the ones with the green thumb, and now there was no money for gardeners. Ophelia didn’t mind that as much—the gardens provided Blaze, her collie, with much opportunity to ramble and explore, and the herbs like mint and thyme and all the varieties of rosebushes seemed to thrive as they outgrew their beds.

As the gig emerged from the wood, Ophelia straightened at the sight of Renwick Hall’s imposing, ruinous exterior—and the coach and wagon in front of it.

Has he come? She hardly dared to breathe as her heart leaped in her chest.

Renwick’s two footmen and a group of what looked like hired men were unloading something from the wagon.

Gently, gent—be careful, you clod! her father, Doctor Isaiah Shaw, barked as one of the men nearly lost his grip on the huge wooden box. It took six men to lift, giving the unsettling impression of a casket with pallbearers, though the box was the wrong shape.

Take it to the west wing. Where have you been? he snapped, turning an eagle-eyed glare on Ophelia just as Owen helped her down from the gig. Her father looked very much the same as the last time she had seen him, a year ago—same dark hair and beard, same perpetually irritated expression when he looked at her.

Church, Father, she said, taken aback. It’s Sunday.

Her father snorted derisively.

Ophelia’s oldest brother Absalom, who strongly resembled their father in appearance, emerged from the hall in time to hear this exchange. He did not bother to hide his snide smile.

Ophelia’s stomach sank, and she clenched her teeth. She would have to collect the cats directly.

Normally her cats had the run of the house, coming and going between Renwick and the stables via the kitchen door under Mrs. Lowell’s sufferance. The cats would hate being corralled in her room and forced to use a sandbox, but Ophelia did not trust Absalom within ten feet of them.

As complicated as her feelings were towards her oft-absent family, Ophelia thought she might hate Absalom. She felt vaguely guilty for it, since the sermon on loving one another still rang in her ears, but she had grounds for the enmity. He had been a mean-spirited boy who delighted in the pain of others. There was teasing, and then there was deep-rooted cruelty, and Absalom had always leaned far towards the latter, especially since he was eight years older than she. All her childhood torments at his hands held a decidedly malicious edge. She had distinct memories of him pulling the wings off flies and insects just for the fun of it, not to mention what he had done to poor Tibby.

Ophelia chose not to greet him, saving her smile for Benjamin, who followed him from the hall.

Ben was closer to her in age, though the gap was still significant at six years, but he had taken the time to tell her stories and read to her from gothic novels. The tales had given her nightmares since their rambling home was remarkably akin to the spooky castles and haunted abodes that littered those books, but she had never told him. She had craved that closeness and found it so rarely after their mother died when she was ten.

It’s wonderful to see you, she told Ben.

Good to see you too, sister, Ben said. And you as well, Mr. and Mrs. Glenwood.

Owen and Marie-Claire greeted him and the rest of her relatives, and Owen tipped his hat.

Absalom’s greeting sounded utterly bored. Her father ignored her friends entirely, and Ophelia swallowed the oily feeling of shame.

Thank you for the ride home, Ophelia told Marie-Claire and Owen. I will see you tomorrow.

Marie-Claire cast dark glares at her father and Absalom as Owen turned the gig towards their home.

Ophelia stared at the workers struggling to shoulder the strange box once more. How long will you be here?

It depends on how long our experiments last, her father said shortly, watching the box’s progress into the house.

As the men carried it up the steps, she heard a thump.

The box rocked in their grasp, and the men had to scramble to keep their grip.

Pay it no mind, the doctor barked to them. The west wing’s cellar. Double quick.

Ophelia stared after them, a cold, sinking feeling filling her chest.

Don’t wait dinner for us, we’ll be working. We don’t wish to be disturbed. Oh, and girl, her father said, fixing his cold gaze on her, keep away from the laboratory. He disappeared into the house.

Chapter Two

From a young age, Ophelia loved collecting pets. She would create terrariums for lizards and butterflies, she would put mice in a shoebox, she fed all the homeless cats and dogs she could find and put them all on her bed at night to sleep.

But her number of pets never remained constant. The homeless cats and dogs might’ve moved on or run away. The lizards and mice could’ve escaped the homes she had painstakingly crafted for them. It always worried and saddened her when something she had named and loved disappeared, but her mother told her that was sometimes just the nature of animals.

But when Ophelia was eight, she found a mutt she named Sparky, and Sparky was especially dear to her because he had a paw that was curled up by his chest, and he limped about on three legs. And with this dog, she felt a deep kinship. They had similar struggles, but Sparky gamboled about freely, uncaring about how he looked, which encouraged her to stretch her own legs to play with him. She grew stronger and more confident instead of sitting quietly and worrying that her weak leg might give way under her without warning. And Sparky loved her, would sleep on her bed, and wake her up by licking her face every morning. They were almost inseparable.

But one morning Ophelia woke, and Sparky wasn’t there. She was confused but thought perhaps a maid had perhaps taken him out for his morning constitution in the garden if he had needed to go earlier than usual. She dressed and went outside and called for him. But he did not come. Ophelia spent every minute before breakfast calling him, but she had to come in when it started to rain. Her mother had tried to comfort her, saying perhaps he was on a ramble. But it’s cold and wet! Ophelia had cried. He always comes home! She waited all that day, but he did not appear.

After crying herself to sleep, the next morning she resolved to search the house. Perhaps he had gotten stuck in a room, or some unstable part of the house had trapped him or hurt him. She took herself up to the east wing attics and worked her way down, limping through unused bedroom and closed off parlors, calling for Sparky. She finally searched the whole east wing.

Then she turned with trepidation towards the west.

Even at that time, it was not well kept, and what was worse, her father’s laboratories resided in the cellar.

Ophelia did not like her father. He stared at her and her auburn hair like she was a bug or a puzzle to solve, when her brothers had brown hair like his and her mother’s hair was blond. He thundered when he did not get his way and was grimly triumphant when he did, and he made her mother cry.

So Ophelia left his domain for last as she tiptoed through dark and silent rooms of water stained wallpaper and motheaten carpets, furniture shrouded like ghosts. She found several spots where the floor was not sound, rooms with doors jammed shut from the damp, but no Sparky.

So, she finally descended to her father’s laboratory, as apprehension and dread swelled within her.

And when Ophelia saw the half-assembled dog skeleton with a deformed leg, she screamed the house down.

She had been so upset that her mother had had to dose her with laudanum to get her to sleep. She had had opium-tinged nightmares of Sparky dying over and over again scored to the absolute battle royal her parents had waged as she screamed and cried.

How dare you? her mother had shrieked. "Your daughter’s pet! You know how much she loved that dog! How could you be such an unfeeling beast?"

It’s just a dog, Cornelia, he had said coldly.

The dog belonged to Ophelia!

She’ll find another.

Will you kill that one, too? What’s happened to the others—the ones that have gone missing, lost, run away? Was it just you, a horrible grim reaper?

Science demands⁠—

"Oh, the dark god science demands a sacrifice every full moon? No. This is you! No more!"

Ophelia’s mother had wrung a concession from him that he would leave Ophelia’s pets alone. But after that, Ophelia had limited her animals to the mammalian variety and capped their number to those she could keep safe. Her father had no scruples when it came to science. He forged ahead no matter the hurt or the cost.

And that’s why Ophelia knew she was going to have to venture back into the west wing.

Chapter Three

When the strangers entered the house, Blaze arrived in a flurry of growls and barks, alerting all and sundry that strangers were invading. The workers cursed and kicked as Blaze danced in between them, but they missed him. They scrambled to keep a hold of their heavy load.

Someone catch that dog! her father commanded over the barking.

Before Ophelia could reach him, Thomas, the footman, grabbed his collar and pulled him back. Ophelia smiled at him gratefully. Thomas slipped her a small wink as she made her way to them and took hold of Blaze’s collar.

Sit! Hush, Blaze, she scolded. Blaze sat and hushed.

In the relative quiet as the workers readjusted their hold on the box, Ophelia heard it again. Something hitting wood with a dull echo distinctly audible in the great hall. A thump.

Blaze growled, plastering himself protectively against her weak leg as the workers disappeared down the hallway towards the west wing.

May I take your coat, Miss? Thomas asked.

No, I believe I’ll take Blaze out for a moment, Ophelia said, and proceeded to do so.

As Blaze foraged in the bushes along the drive, she took a deep breath of the bracing air and stared up into the dark, twisted trees that loomed around Renwick Hall. Their tangle of boughs always cast the house in deep shadow, encouraging Cimmerian mists to linger in the late evenings and early mornings until the Hall itself seemed cut off from the sunlit world of the village. Ophelia shivered.

The box had made a noise. Twice.

Something was in that box.

Something alive.

Ophelia corralled Blaze and brought him inside. The main entrance led directly into what used to be the long rectangular great hall, with the grand stair between it and the east wing, and a massive fireplace and many ugly ancestral portraits along the south wall. A medieval broadsword also hung over the fireplace, hidden in the shadows. Ophelia never knew what ancestor it had belonged to. She had spent many childhood days peering up at it, imagining what hand had swung it and for what cause before hanging it above the mantle. To her knowledge, no one had ever taken it down since.

Appropriate. Renwick’s masters were not much known for their application of justice these days.

With the curtains drawn and the fireplace unlit, the great hall was full of shadow. As Ophelia directed Blaze to wipe his paws on the mat by the door, her father emerged from the righthand hallway and made his way to the grand stair. Ophelia silently moved herself and Blaze out of the way.

He instructed Ben in passing, Pay the men, and tell them if the buyer finds any more specimens, to let us know directly.

Ben counted out the coin to the workers who had followed them and then mounted the stairs towards his own room. He hadn’t seen her in the shadows. Ophelia didn’t know where Absalom had gone.

Rivers, the butler, ushered the hired men out of the house, his back poker-stiff that they had been admitted via the front door. The rest of the limited staff clustered together in the doorway to the east wing, which led to the dining room and kitchens. They whispered as they stared across the great hall.

What has he got in that awful crate?

It made a noise; I heard it!

Unnatural experiments. No God-fearing….

That’s enough! Rivers said with a voice like a razor. There’ll be no disrespectful talk about the Master. He cast a