The Wrath of Wolves Read online

  That did not happen.

  He arrived yesterday morning like a storm, red-faced and furious that I would humiliate him by abandon the employment he’d secured for me. When I attempted to leave, he grabbed me, unaccustomed to being so blatantly ignored, and…well, the bruises are a testament to the ensuing scuffle.

  I see no reason to let Preston see the marks. They’ll only upset him, and surely they’ll heal in a few days so I needn’t worry about keeping them hidden long.

  Bringing along entire trunks to America would be nice, but also far too much of a hassle for the journey ahead. We take only what can be fit into a pair of large rucksacks. It equates to a meagre few days’ worth of clothing, toiletries, and the information Spencer gave to Preston regarding our client. Preston packed last night, but I find myself undoing most of it to re-pack it for him to make better use of the limited space.

  Mrs. Alexander has quite the spread laid out for us this morning, along with a small satchel of snacks to tide us over on the seven-hour train ride to Liverpool. Breakfast is as loud of an affair as it always is here, accented by a tinge of sadness that colours the room. Preston acts as though nothing is amiss, but I know him better than that. He may be excited at the prospect of travel, but he’s terribly attached to his family. Leaving them like this for weeks or months is likely one of the hardest things he’s ever done. It is not the same as going off to Whisperwood for a term where they were always a train ride or a letter away.

  I haven’t had much of an appetite as of late, but I do poke at my food and try to force myself to eat what I can. Melancholy pinches at my own insides. It’s been an ever-present ache for a while now, ever since I last returned home and found out my mother had died while I was away. I will have no one to miss me when I board our ship for America and that feeling is depressingly isolating.

  It isn’t even that so much as…any time I have ever left home—for Whisperwood, for Preston’s on holiday—I always knew Mother was there waiting for me. That she would be present at the station when I returned, ready with a smile and a hug and eager to hear all about my time away. She missed me fiercely, and I her, but she was always happy for me.

  Mrs. Alexander brings a hand to rest upon Preston’s arm and she smiles at her son. There’s a quiet sort of pride in her eyes even amidst the sadness that her eldest child is going so far away. I miss that look from my own mother. I miss it so horribly that it feels unbearable at times.

  As we prepare to leave, Mrs. Alexander and Preston’s sisters gather around us both, full of tearful hugs. Alice, at least, seems to be keeping in mind what I said to her last night—that I would look after Preston and see him brought back home in one piece, but that she needed to be strong so Preston remembered her smile and not her tears. She keeps a stiff upper lip and does not beg us to stay. She hugs me just as tightly as she hugs Preston and asks, “You have it, right?”

  I slide my fingers beneath the collar of my shirt and draw out the chain and crucifix she gave to me last night. A present from her Aunt Eleanor, she’d said, and insisted it would help to keep us safe. “I do.”

  Alice nods once, hugs me again, and manages not to weep as we depart.

  We load into the wagon along with Mr. Alexander and Emma, who insisted on seeing us off. She was the only one Mr. Alexander would permit because he didn’t want the theatrics of the younger girls at the station.

  When we arrive, Emma remains seated. She’s held it together thus far, but as we hop out of the wagon with our bags in tow, I notice how tightly her hands are clasped in her lap.

  Preston leans up, catching her chin in his hand. “I’ll be back before you know it, Emma.”

  She gives a bit of a sniff and stares at him, misty-eyed but still defying her urge to cry. “Please be safe, Preston. I have the most horrible feeling about all of this.”

  “You know Benji and I will look after each other.” He leans in and kisses her forehead. “You’re the oldest now, so it’s up to you to keep an eye on everyone. Think you can manage?”

  Emma scoffs. “I already manage it; you’re as much a child as the rest of them.”

  I bite back a laugh and she catches my eye with a pleased smile.

  Mr. Alexander is a quiet man. Dutiful, loyal, protective of his family, and impossibly kind. Still, I’ve never known him to be an overly affectionate sort, and Preston looks as surprised as I am when Mr. Alexander gathers us both up into his arms and squeezes tight.

  “You’ll do great. I’m proud of you both.”

  Tears prick my eyes and I blink them back, permitting myself to hug him in return. Perhaps I’ll be missed after all.

  When he draws back, he slips a few bills into Preston’s hand, waving him off when his son tries to protest. “If you don’t end up needing it, then get your mother something nice in America.”

  They depart, the wagon rumbling off down the street. Preston stares after them, mixed emotions playing across his face. No good thing comes without sacrifice and this trip is no different. I step up beside him, brushing my fingers against the back of his hand.

  “They’ll be all right, Preston.”

  He drags in a deep breath. “I know. Come on.”

  ◆◆◆

  “Where’s the farthest you’ve ever travelled before?” Preston asks.

  We’ve settled into a car—thankfully alone for the time being—with me closest to the window. Preston has pulled out the bag of treats from his mother, poking through it to see what she thought to pack for us. Pretzels, dried apple slices and berries, and some dried meat for Preston, seeing as I won’t eat it. Being a vegetarian wasn’t easy even back home. I suspect it’s going to be even more of a problem abroad where our food options will be limited, but I am determined. The idea of ingesting anything that once had a heartbeat does nothing but destroy my appetite.

  Preston offers one of the apple slices to me and I take it gratefully.

  “Paris,” I reply, chewing thoughtfully. “Mother took me to Berlin once when I was a baby, but I don’t remember anything about it.”

  Preston no doubt recalls my trip to Paris. A summer or two ago, Mother had brought me along when Father requested she join him while he was there for business. Preston and I had both sulked about it because it had cut into the summer holiday we liked to spend together. I’d written to him often. There was plenty of time for it, after all. I spent so much of the trip there wandering through the city alone when Mother was otherwise occupied with Father.

  Preston nods as though he suspected as much. “It was Whisperwood for me.”

  I smile. “Are you nervous to be going so far from home?”

  “Me? I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “I didn’t say anything about being afraid. Nervousness isn’t the same as fear.”

  His nose wrinkles. “Sounds about the same to me.”

  I tuck the rest of the apple ring into my mouth and chew thoughtfully, turning my attention out the window. “Well, I’m nervous. It’s a very long way from home. A whole new world to us, isn’t it?”

  “It’s exciting. I can’t think of anything worse than spending the rest of my years cooped up on a farm or someplace like London.”

  Not a sentiment I think I share, but, well. “It will certainly be an adventure,” I admit.

  And then I drop my head to his shoulder and close my eyes. We were up late and I’ve had a busy several days prior to showing up on Preston’s doorstep. I could use the sleep.

  I proceed to nap on and off for the remainder of the trip, using Preston as a pillow. In between catnaps, we chat and snack and watch the scenery pass by outside.

  The train rolls into Liverpool many hours later. It’s a leisurely fifteen-minute walk from the station before we spot the water and the ships and ferries lining the docks of the Mersey. This is my first trip to Liverpool, but the air has a familiar, overwhelming smell of fish and saltwater that reminds me of the docks in London.

  We stroll down the seemingly endless line of ships,
from sailboats to the massive passenger liners. The sheer size of them is a little overwhelming. As we stand there with our heads tilted back, taking one of them in, I ask, “Do you suppose one of these will be the one we take to America?”

  “Maybe.” Preston shields his eyes, squinting. “Huge hunks of metal out on the open sea… Looks like any one of them would sink like a rock.”

  I lean into him until our shoulders brush. An unconscious move, really, coming about due to my own nervousness, like I might somehow find safety in Preston’s shadow. “Thousands of people make this trip all the time. I’m sure it’s safe.”

  “People ride horses all the time, too. They can still kill you.”

  I bite my lower lip. My only real foray into swimming had been as a small child, still unsteady on my feet. It might very well be my first memory, toppling into the river and nearly drowning before a dock worker fished me out and returned me to my mother’s arms. “Well, then I hope you know how to swim because I certainly do not.”

  He grins. “Not a clue.”

  My laugh is a nervous one. “I suppose we’ll drown together, then.”

  His shoulder nudges mine. “No one else I’d rather drown with.”

  With a shake of my head, I continue down the road. We follow the instructions we received from Spencer about where to meet up with our client. The address leads us to a building not terribly far off and from the exterior, it looks to be nothing more than a standard small shipping and trading company.

  When we step inside, a clerk glances up from his desk. “May I help you, gentlemen?”

  “We’re looking for Mr. Wilkerson,” I say. “We’ve a letter from him. He should be expecting us.”

  Preston steps forward and offers out the initial letter sent to Miss Bennet, Spencer, and Esher. The clerk takes a look before recognition blossoms across his face. “Ah, yes, right this way.”

  We’re brought upstairs to an office, this one much more lavishly furnished than the ground floor, although there is no escaping the fishy smell from outside.

  “Mr. Wilkerson,” the clerk announces. “I’ve got Mr. Spencer and Mr. Esher here to see you.”

  Oh.

  I glance to Preston. Should we not correct him? He seems to be making no move to do so and I wonder if Spencer instructed him not to mention that we are, in fact, not who they think we are. Preston meets my gaze, looking just as uncertain as I feel, but then he shrugs.

  Right then.

  I feel guilty about the deception, but so long as the job gets done, what does it matter who completes it?

  “Gentlemen,” Mr. Wilkerson greets, rising to extend a hand. He’s quite handsome, and younger than I expected although already greying a bit at the temples. “Thank you so much for coming. I know this is a huge undertaking, so I was fully prepared for you to say no.”

  Preston takes his hand. “We try not to turn away people in need if we can help it. Our schedule happened to be clear.”

  Mr. Wilkerson smiles pleasantly then turns to offer a handshake to me as well, which I politely accept. “Please, have a seat. I know my letter was a bit…vague, but that is because I need this matter handled with the utmost discretion.”

  I sit in one of the chairs before his desk and Preston takes the one beside me. “Is there a reason for that?”

  Mr. Wilkerson steps back behind his desk and pauses. “The...peculiar nature of this item, yes. A few of the men who’ve handled it in the past reported odd occurrences. Seeing things, hearing things. Haunted, they say. Although I’ve not personally experienced anything out of the ordinary.”

  A haunted item. I wonder if Miss Bennett prepared Preston for the possibility of dealing with this.

  Preston asks, “Is there any reason why this particular object might be haunted? Any questionable history behind it?”

  Wilkerson holds up a finger. Then he turns and exits through a back door. When he returns a moment later, he carries a satchel in his hands. From inside it, he removes a box.

  Not a large box, really. Large enough to hold a small stack of books, perhaps. It's carved from a dark red wood, its iron fastenings covering every seam. It would make it quite difficult to even axe open if someone wanted to get into it. Though the oddest part, really, is the lock. No key is required. Instead, there is a small set of dials requiring a combination.

  The moment Mr. Wilkerson places the box upon his desk before us, my skin begins to prickle and my heart picks up speed.

  Something is most certainly wrong with this box. Or whatever is inside it, rather. A low buzz of whispers begins to fill my ears, the edges of my vision darkening. My hands clutch at the arms of the chair, knuckles whitening.

  “The contents need to remain a secret, I’m afraid,” Wilkerson says. “I’ve gone through great lengths to obtain this. It was stolen from its rightful owner some time ago and I’m sending it home.”

  Oh, because that isn’t suspicious. What would Spencer and Esher do? Insist on being told what the contents are? Does it ultimately matter?

  Preston’s smile is easy. “You can trust us to be discreet.”

  “It’s appreciated. There are people who would very much like this back, so discretion will make this entire endeavour run much more smoothly.” Wilkerson opens a drawer and removes a folder from inside, sliding it across the desk. “In here you will find everything you should need. A quarter of your payment upfront, as promised in my letter—the recipient of the box shall have the rest for you. Your boat tickets, a letter for an acquaintance in Boston to set you up with a good meal and a room when you arrive in America. I suspect you’ll want it. And instructions on how to get from there to your destination in California. Mr. Michael Carlton is your final destination. His address is listed there to telegram him when you arrive in San Francisco.”

  He pauses then, studying us both.

  “You are much younger than I thought you would be. I suspect neither of you have been across the Atlantic before?”

  Preston is not the least bit daunted, of course. If there’s anything he knows how to do, it’s how to look and sound confident no matter what he’s faced with. “No, sir. But in our line of work, we learn how to adapt to new situations quite quickly.”

  His demeanour most certainly puts Mr. Wilkerson at ease. “How about you?” he asks.

  His question startles me into looking up from the box. “Ah—right. Yes. As he said.” Wilkerson does not seem to notice the tight edge to my voice.

  “Glad to hear it. The ship departs at dawn. I’ve taken the liberty of securing you a room at the inn across the street. Nothing overly luxurious, I’m afraid; mostly used by mariners making port, but the hospitality can’t be beat.”

  “Thank you, sir. We should probably rest up before our journey.” Preston rises to his feet.

  I do the same. I take a small step toward the box, hands lifting, then hesitate. Why am I so frightened of touching it? Preston notes my reluctance and doesn’t seem to think twice about picking it up. He slips it back into the satchel it came in.

  Mr. Wilkerson sees us downstairs and outside, pointing to an inn across the road and a few doors down. Inside the inn, it smells even more strongly of fish than it did near the water. The attached tavern is alive and bustling with the noise of sailors and fishermen laughing and conversing and drinking. All I care about is fetching our room key from the desk clerk and heading upstairs.

  The room itself is small and unassuming. Two beds on either side, a table with a washbowl, jug of water, and mirror, and a small table and chairs near the window. It reminds me a bit of our room at Whisperwood.

  Preston heads to the table, removing the box from its bag and looking it over.

  “Well? What do you think is in it?”

  I hug myself, fending off a shiver. The whispers are still a hum in my ears. They grow louder when I step up beside Preston. “Nothing good.”

  Preston tips his head to look at me. “Hm?”

  “You don’t hear it? Feel it?”

&n
bsp; A frown tugs at his face. He lifts the box, pressing an ear to it, eyes closed. “…No?”

  I’m silent for a long moment, willing the anxious feeling in my gut to settle. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. He did say others had experiences with it. Why else would he reach out to people who work with spirits?”

  “A shame we don’t have the time to bring this back to Aunt Eleanor and have her get a read on it. But you’ve got a strong sense for the supernatural; I suspect we can handle whatever it is.” He grins. “Speaking of, which one am I, do you think? James or Esher?”

  I chuckle. “Hmm, if he knew anything about them, then he’d have thought you were Spencer. Lighter hair. Confident, outgoing, charming.”

  “Afraid I don’t know any poetry, though.”

  “I’m sure you could make some up. You’re creative enough.” I step over to the mirror atop the wash table, peering at my reflection. We could both use a wash after our train ride.

  Preston flops down onto one of the rickety beds. “Um… The rose is red, the violet is blue, you’ve got a sweet face, I’d like to hug you?”

  I pause, looking at him in the mirror’s reflection, and then laugh. “See? You’d give Spencer a run for his money with art like that.”

  His grin positively lights up his face. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen him smile like that. “Maybe I ought to alter my life goals then.”

  I make swift work of scrubbing my face clean, pushing my damp hands back through my hair. “We’ll have a good seven to ten days aboard the ship. Plenty of time to get started on your budding poetry career. For now, let’s see about nipping downstairs for some dinner.”

  CHAPTER 3 – PRESTON

  Dinner is a simple affair. Particularly for Benji, who won’t eat the meat pies or dried jerkies the pub has to offer. He nibbles at a small helping of tomatoes and celery and sweet potatoes. Still, it’s food and it fills our bellies well enough. We bring the chest along with us, deciding not to leave it unattended. If Wilkerson was right and people may be after it, well, it’s for the best that we keep an extra close eye on it.