As her mother had instructed, she had not taken it off since.
She reached for it now, unable to contain her retching as a cough burst forth from her throat. She had no idea how the pendant could help her. As far as she knew, it was nothing more than an exotic piece of jewelry. But her mother had told her to light the way with it, and she had nothing else to trust save those instructions.
Grasping the necklace in her free hand, Helen waved it in the dark. There was no light, only a chilling cold that spread from her palm, up her arm, and to the outer reaches of her body, quelling even the heat from the quickly enclosing fire. Still, it was not the heat alone that was her enemy. The smoke stung her eyes and throat, and a series of hacking coughs burst too loudly into the small space around her. It was when she recovered her wits a moment later that she thought she could make out the floorboards beneath her feet and perhaps even the wall in front of her. Squinting into the darkness, she wondered if it was her imagination. If perhaps she was simply becoming used to the dark. But no, the room was becoming lighter, and when her eyes followed the light to its source, she understood why.
She had been holding it wrong. The pendant glowed from the translucent crystal held inside her fist. Once she flipped it around, holding it by the metal crown, the other end glowed like a tiny beacon, an eerie green light illuminating the wall in front of her and the ones to her right and left. Now she could see the smoke filling the room. It dipped and swirled in the light. She scooted away from the wall at her back, gagging and choking as the smoke filled her lungs and knowing the space behind her was the only hope for the stairs Mother had promised.
At first, it seemed only a wall—a solid span of timber that had sheltered her back as she listened to the footsteps of the man stalking her from within the bedchamber. But when she followed it with her eyes to the place where it should meet the other wall, she realized it didn’t quite connect. Crawling toward the gap while clutching her bag in one hand and her pendant in the other was neither easy nor quiet, but she had long since given up remaining silent, despite her mother’s warning. If the creaking and crackling of the fire were any indication, her scuffling across the floor of the hidden room was the very least of her concerns.
It took only seconds to reach the break in the wooden wall. The gap was larger than she first thought, and she leaned forward, peering around to the blackness on the other side.
The stairs were just as Mother said they would be. They descended in a tightly packed spiral into utter darkness below, but the burning in Helen’s eyes and lungs was a reminder that she had no choice. Mother had said they would come and they had. She had said the stairs would be here and they were. She had said Helen would escape—and she would.
She hesitated at the top of the stairs as the groaning of the house grew stronger, the smoke thicker. She saw the fear in her mother’s eyes in the moment before they had been separated. Helen retched, her lungs burning, even as the resolve to return for her parents solidified.
Leaving her mother and father to this dark fate was impossible.
She started back for the door to her hiding place but stopped short when her mother’s voice echoed through her mind.
“You will get out of here alive… Otherwise, it’s all for nothing.”
Something fell with a crash somewhere below, and the floorboards quaked under Helen’s feet. She didn’t know what was happening or why, but one thing was certain: Her parents wanted her out of the house alive, and they had been willing to sacrifice their own lives to see it done. If she went back now and was killed, her mother would be right: It would have been for nothing.
She would find Darius and Griffin and enlist their help. Then, she would come back for her parents.
Looping the valise’s handle over her shoulder, Helen scooted back to the stair, holding the pendant in front of her to illuminate the way. She wasted only seconds fumbling for a handrail before realizing that it was futile. There wasn’t one. The stairs were placed right up against the walls of the house. They would have to be her guide.
Wherever they led, it was the only way out, for the crashing of the house grew around her until she was certain the roof itself was falling. The heat and smoke was still overwhelming, and she was surprised every moment when the stairwell did not cave in on her completely.
Time lost all meaning in the blackness floating above, below, and around the staircase. She focused only on the next step, pushing aside the feeling that she was descending into hell itself. To a place where there was no comfort, no safety. A place where she would be alone, if she were to survive at all.
Then, all at once, a smooth expanse of floor stretched in front of her. She stepped onto it, relieved to find a stone wall to one side and a tunnel heading in the other direction. Whoever had made her escape route had made certain there would be no doubt which way she should go.
She had not noticed a decrease in the smoke and heat on her way down the stairs, but as she made her way through the tunnel, her head began to clear. The air was cold and damp. She sucked it greedily into her lungs while trying to blink the soot away from her eyes. For a time, she walked into the dark without a thought as to where she was going, relieved simply to be away from the smoke of the house.
It was only when she fell against the stone wall that she realized her exhaustion. It was a sudden, bone-deep fatigue that settled not only into her body but also into her consciousness. Her very will to go on. The pendant’s green light flickered in the darkness, and she stood straighter, worrying suddenly about being stuck in the tunnel with no light. It had never occurred to her that the light of the pendant might be limited, and she pushed off against the wall, continuing down the tunnel with as much speed as she could muster in her weakened state.
She almost ran into the wall before seeing it.
The tunnel ended abruptly, and she felt a surge of claustrophobic panic in the moments before she noticed the rough-hewn door set into the wall. Even with the pendant’s diminished light, she could see the simple iron handle, but tugging on it did no good. The door was locked.
Her legs buckled, and she slid to the ground, back against the cold stone of the wall. The light dimmed further and she clasped her hand more tightly around it, willing it to stay lit. As she tugged on the pendant, it was the chain, cool against her neck that reminded her of the key.
Forcing herself to stand, she reached inside her nightdress, pulling out the key her mother had used to open the hiding place in her wall. The key Helen had used to lock the door behind her.
However dim the remaining light of the pendant, it was enough to light the keyhole. She pushed the key into it and turned, feeling a bolt disengage from somewhere inside the door. Letting the key drop back against the bodice of her nightdress, she reached for the handle, then hesitated, wondering what was on the other side.
But she knew that she had no choice. She had to open the door and step through it. The only thing that awaited her at the other end of the tunnel was the surely burned ruins of her childhood home and the men who hunted her. She turned the handle and pushed.
THREE
She was well past surprise when the door swung wide, revealing another staircase. This one wound upward, a faint light coming from somewhere above. She allowed the pendant to fall back against her chest, relieved to have a free hand as she ascended the stairs. She didn’t stop climbing until the stairs abruptly ended, opening directly onto a rain-wet street, weak yellow light seeping from a streetlamp near the curb.
Daring a look back, she took note of the wall through which she had emerged. The door was gone, the brick wall at the bottom of the staircase unbroken. She blinked a couple of times to be certain and in the end could only add the disappearing door to the catalog of unexplainable things that had happened this night.
Turning her attention to the street, she glanced left and right, trying to get her bearings. The long descent from the house and the winding journey through the tunnel had been disorienting, but one l
ook at the elaborately lettered sign quickly clarified the matter.
Claridge Hotel.
The windows and door beneath the sign were familiar and lit from the inside. It gave her an odd sort of comfort. It could not be a coincidence that her escape route led to the hotel where she so often accompanied Father to high tea. It was some kind of message, some kind of sign, and this one led her to thoughts of others.
Leaning against the brick wall of the hotel, she opened the valise. She felt past the clothing and other personal items her mother had packed until her hand closed around the crumpled piece of paper. The ink was already faded, and she slanted the paper toward the light spilling from the hotel windows, trying to make out her mother’s script.
It was a name. Two names, to be exact, and an address.
Darius and Griffin Channing. 425 Oxford.
She knew the streets surrounding Claridge’s well. She and Father had often strolled the neighborhood after tea. Still, it was a different matter entirely to walk alone and unaccompanied in the dark of night. She hurried through the streets as fast as her bare feet would allow.
The gas lamps lit her way, smoke swirling eerily near the flames as it had before the light of the pendant. She felt a moment’s self-consciousness as the cold seeped through the fabric of her nightdress, but her soot and dirt-smudged arms were oddly comforting. With any luck, she would pass for a common street urchin with nothing to steal. Nothing to lose.
Of course, that was now truer than she was prepared to admit.
In any case, the streets were empty, save an occasional drunkard, and she made her way carefully over the wet cobblestones until she came to the right address. Her gaze traveled upward, taking in the imposing structure. It rose into the night sky, carved marble gargoyles and unnameable beasts flashing pale in the dark above her, as light flickered from behind the curtained windows. She stood for a moment, gathering her wits. Who were Darius and Griffin Channing? And why would Mother and Father send her to strangers for shelter? The questions found no answers. She was alone, and if ever anyone had been without answers, it was her. It was not courage but desperation that finally led her up the steps leading to the great front door.
There was simply nowhere else to go.
She had just reached the top of the steps and was lifting her hand to knock when the door opened. A young man about her age stood in the light of the porch lamp, blinking as if he was surprised to find her there, despite the fact that he had opened the door without prompting. Even in the faint light, she could see the flecks of yellow in his green eyes.
“G-good evening. I’m looking for…” She made a show of glancing down at the paper, just so he would know someone had sent her. “Darius and Griffin Channing.”
Something moved behind his eyes. She thought it was, perhaps, an understanding of the situation in which she found herself. A situation even she didn’t fully comprehend.
“You’re younger than I imagined,” he said.
Helen didn’t know how to respond. The very idea that he had imagined her of any age was so beyond her grasp that she didn’t even attempt to inquire about the particulars.
“I’m Griffin.” He stepped back from the doorway. “You must be cold. Please come in.”
She hesitated for a moment. It was more than unseemly to enter a gentleman’s home in the dark of night. Even she, with her limited social experience, was aware of such rules. Yet, Mother and Father had sent her here. And this was no ordinary night.
She stepped into the house. “I don’t know who you are or why my parents sent me to you, but I need your help. They’re in great danger. We must—”
“You can’t go back,” the man interrupted. “I’m sorry, but it’s impossible.”
His eyes were kind, but that did not prevent her frustration from bursting forth. “You don’t understand! If you just let me explain—”
He held up a hand to stop her. “I don’t know the details, but I imagine your parents’ lives were threatened, and they worked quite hard to see that you remained alive. Is that right?”
“Yes, yes. But they… that is, we…” She stumbled over the words, unable to distill everything that had happened to a few sentences that would make the man listen to her.
She flinched as he reached out, touching a hand gently to her arm. “I know you’re upset and frightened, but you must trust me; your parents sacrificed themselves to ensure your escape. If you go back now, their bravery will have been for nothing. Do you understand?”
His words were an echo of her mother’s. Helen could only nod around the lump in her throat.
“Good.” Griffin shut the door. His tawny hair fell across his forehead as he turned to face her. “May I take your bag?”
His words did not make sense until she followed his eyes to the valise in her arms. It was all she had left.
“No, thank you.”
He nodded. “This way. We need to see my brother, Darius.”
There was nothing to do but follow. She trailed after him as he made his way down the marble hall to a massive door on the left. He turned to her before entering the room. She breathed a little easier when she saw the compassion in his eyes.
“Listen, I’m sure you’d like to clean up and change, but Darius won’t allow you to stay until he has cleared you. All right?”
“Yes… No… I don’t know.” The nod of her head turned into a shake.
He smiled. “It will be fine, you’ll see.”
He turned without waiting for an answer, and she followed him into a darkly paneled library.
At first it seemed they were alone. Helen took advantage of the moment to reach up and smooth her disheveled hair. It was the first time all night that she had thought of her appearance, but it somehow seemed important to impress Darius, whomever he was and however impossible a task it might be, given her dirty nightdress, bare feet, and sooty skin.
“That cannot be her.” The voice, deep and low, came from a chair in a shadowed corner.
Griffin stopped in the middle of the plush carpet, very like the ones in her own home. She had an image of the rugs in her chamber burning, the carved bed aflame, the paint melting across the portrait of her mother in the parlor. A spasm of loss and grief almost brought her to her knees.
“It is,” Griffin answered. “At least, I believe it is.”
“Have you even prepared for the possibility that it’s not?” There was steel behind the question, though Helen had no idea what the man meant.
Griffin sighed. “She’s just a girl, Darius. And she’s cold and tired.”
“I should hope she is anything but a simple girl. Otherwise, you have let a stranger into the house at great risk to us both.” The shadow that was Darius continued without waiting for an answer. “Never mind. Bring her here.”
She saw the apology in Griffin’s eyes as he prompted her forward with a nod of his head.
Lifting her chin, Helen moved toward the chair. Dishevelment aside, she did not intend to be bullied.
“I have no idea who or what you think I am, but I can assure that I am, in fact, just a girl as your brother claims.” She was relieved to hear the anger in her voice. To feel it trickle through her bloodstream in place of the numbness she had felt since escaping her burning home.
The figure in the chair rose to his feet, his face still in shadow. She felt him survey her in the silence that followed. “She’s too young.”
The simple pronouncement fueled her annoyance. “If you have something to say about me, kindly afford me the respect of saying it to me, will you?”
Darius did not answer right away, and Helen wondered if she had gone too far. Anger seemed to flow outward from the shadow where he stood.
“Fair enough,” he said, his face directed toward hers. “You’re too young.”
She shook her head, feeling as if she had landed in some kind of alternate reality. “Too young for what?”
“Too young to be who you’re supposed to be and too young to be of
any use if you are.”
“And who exactly am I supposed to be?”
She saw the tip of his head, even in the shadows, as if he was considering his answer. When he stepped into the light of the desk lamp, she saw that he was taller than Griffin, with a fine scar running from his right temple nearly to his chin. She thought him striking, and not as old as he sounded when shrouded in darkness. His eyes, identical to Griffin’s, flashed yellow-green when he answered.
“One of us.”
FOUR
I’m not one of you.”
She had no idea what Darius was getting at. Still, she was certain that she was not anything approximating one of them.
“You’re getting too far ahead, Darius. You’ll frighten her.” Griffin’s voice came from her left, irritation evident in the look he shot Darius before turning to her. “Come. Sit down.”
Helen allowed Griffin to lead her to the sofa, scolding herself the whole way for cowering in the face of Darius’s questionable authority. Father always said that people only had the power you gave them. She had already given Darius too much.
She surveyed him from the sofa as he crossed to a cabinet against one of the walls. He poured clear liquid into a crystal tumbler, and she took in the sandy hair, cut too long for a gentleman. She saw the resemblance between brothers in the eyes and the strong set of their jaws, but in every other way, Griffin seemed a gentler version of his brother. He sat at the other end of the sofa, tipping his body toward her.
“Why don’t you start with your name?”
She was suddenly unsure about divulging her identity, despite the piece of paper that had led her to them. “Why don’t you tell me? You already seem to know who I am.”
She caught a trace of admiration in Griffin’s smile. “It doesn’t work that way. They didn’t tell us your name. And with good cause. We’ve been kept separate for a reason, though it doesn’t seem to have helped.”