The Missing: The Curious Cases of Will Winchester and the Black Cross by Lenk Jerico

Author:Lenk, Jerico [Lenk, Jerico]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: teen, young adult, LGBT, paranormal, fantasy, historical, ghosts
ISBN: 9781945107238
Publisher: Month9Books
Published: 2017-09-19T04:00:00+00:00

On the stoop of the tiny Stygian Society shop, Cain waved out a match and puffed twice on the cigarette Clement had so graciously donated, then passed it to me. Tentatively, I took a turn with it as we sat together in the damp night air, watching Fleet Street keep busy around us.

With a shuffle on the step, Quinn ducked out of the shop to join us, standing there like a guard dog with his spectacles in his coat pocket.

“Was Miss Maude the only spirit you encountered?” he asked, looking down at Cain from the corner of his dark eye. He was worried, always so attentive to the wellbeing of our team.

Wearily, Cain took a long pull from our shared cigarette. “I don’t know,” he murmured, meeting Quinn’s eyes without lifting his head. “You tell me. Was it?”

Laughter echoed from inside Mr. Zayne’s warm, dully-lit shop.

Quinn nodded. “It seems as though you made contact with an unrelated entity.”

“How uncomfortable for you all,” Cain said thinly. “I apologise.” For some reason, I got the feeling he didn’t truly care. But how could he not be deeply frightened by an unbidden and unknown spirit invading him like that, especially without his knowledge?

“It spoke in unrecognisable tongue,” Quinn went on. “I recorded it best I could. The linguists at the Natural History Museum should assess the phonetics before we submit to the daemonology department.”

“Oh—” Cain looked up at him quickly. “I don’t believe that’s necessary! It did not feel like a daemon. Perhaps an elemental, if anything. It’s all right, Quinn. I’m all right. Undue fuss. It happens sometimes. I’m not technically a medium, after all.”

Quinn’s face settled in a deep frown, unyielding and unconvinced. But he said nothing by way of agreement or disagreement.

We left not long after, piling into a coach with very sleepy-looking horses and a sleepier-looking driver. As our ride lugged itself forwards from the shop, going even more slowly as foot-passengers parted for it, I watched from the window a turtle-chinned fellow who’d been loitering near an alley slip into the now-empty Stygian Society with Mr. Zayne’s littlest man, Marius.

The turtle-chinned fellow didn’t look like the type to frequent Fleet Street alleys, all tweed and expensive topper, fine fur-lined Ulster coat. Wait … those beady eyes and that dissatisfied lip were familiar …

Dorland.

What was he doing there? He was an Officer; Officers were scarcely assigned fieldwork. His accompanying us to the girls’ school had been an exception, and as far as I’d observed, only field inspectors associated regularly with the resurrectionists.

“Look,” I said, elbowing Cain as we were off. “Dorland’s with Marius.”

Cain nodded, distracted but far less agitated now. “Research for a case, perhaps.”

I settled back into my seat. That made sense. I couldn’t vilify a man just because he seemed the perfect villain, anyway.

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