She's Coming
He came for the prawns.
The sea and solitude, too, although the latter mattered more, if he were being honest. Either way, Breakwind had them in spades: miles of sandy beach stippled with craggy coves and secret caves. Perfect for clandestine rituals, although he’d promised this wouldn’t be a working vacation (not after what happened in Flanders), and the privacy only a resort like the Beacon could provide.
Absolute sanctuary: no questions asked. Breakwind curated eccentrics like a corpse drew flies.
He wondered how much longer he could keep it up. The proprietors wouldn’t be so tolerant if they ever discovered his peculiar “eccentricity.” Tell fortunes or turn lead into gold, people praised you from the rooftops. But delve into darker forces, life—or in his case, death—and you’d be tarred and feathered faster than you could say necromancer.
No one ever got that part right! You’d think those wanting to make a meal of him could come up with something better than sorcerer, magician, or worse, “man-witch.”
Dorian tipped his hat over his eyes. At least here, there’d be no priests or hordes of pitchfork-wielding freaks. Fools! Didn’t they know the dead of night was ritual prime time? The dead weren’t morning people, and neither was he. During the last embuscade flambée, he’d left the sanctum in a rush, barely escaping with his life. Oh, he got out with his gold, alright, but his grimoire looked like a scorched palimpsest. He hated to think of the poor woman’s corpse, now a pile of cremains. Dust in the wind. Such a pity. Such a waste!
Ironic, too, considering she’d been Catholic.
Oh, well, nothing he could do about it now.
He settled deeper into his chair, buried his toes in the warm sand, then took a deep breath. Ah, nothing like the smell of Breakwind in the morning! Gulls circled overhead while a salty breeze teased the fringe on his beach umbrella. Dorian would have preferred a tasteful blue or black to the striped, red-and-yellow affair currently keeping an early morning sunburn at bay, but needs must. Even at the Beacon, you couldn’t have everything.
Dorian stroked his beard. To preserve anonymity, he’d conjured some bushy, mutton chop sideburns. While he thought they made him look like a raccoon, a former client had assured him they’d be all the rage soon enough. As would his current coif: tight on the sides, tamed with enough Bay Rum to drown Blackbeard’s fleet, and finished with a curlicue on top. All respectable men would be wearing their hair like this in the future, the spirit had said. Even someone named Prince, although no relation to the current queen.
Wondering now if all reanimated nuns were demons in disguise, Dorian sighed. He looked ridiculous! Although not quite as ridiculous as the former sister who’d traded her habit for a sheer, bright shift that barely covered her “Eve’s Curse.” While time worked differently for the dead, he was certain that no respectable shade would ever be caught undead in such a frock!
This thought mollified him a little. Ridiculous or not, this disguise had been the best he could do on short notice. Ditto for his new identity, right down to the stuffiest, most British name he could muster. At least the suit was nice. He flicked a bug from his white linen trousers.
Besides, he came for the prawns.
Metal clinked in his pocket as he reached for the frosted Collins glass.
Endless prawns. Steamed, potted, and drowned in sauce. The Beacon was famous for a buffet featuring succulent shellfish in every size, at every meal, and in every dish imaginable. No slouch, Dorian was determined to try them all. This morning, for instance, he’d chosen a little concoction called the “Bloody Mermaid,” made with spiced tomato juice, lemon, and a generous splash of vodka, garnished with a tiger prawn. What better way to begin the day than with a delicious seaside tipple?
Dorian brought the long glass to his lips. Was that horseradish he smelled? Simply divine! He plucked the shrimp from its spiked soup, downing it in a single gulp before realizing his mistake.
Mermaid. Tail. Throat!
He lurched upright, choking, dropping his glass and spattering crimson on his pristine suit. The impact loosened the blockage but didn’t free it. Dorian hammered his chest, each blow punctuated by a rasping cough. Still, it refused to budge.
Before him, the beach lay empty. Panicked, he waved his arms, wheezing pathetic cries for help. It wasn’t that early. He couldn’t be the only one here!
As it happened, he wasn’t.
A wave crashed against a nearby rock, releasing a skeletal form from its spray. Haggard and hollow-eyed, pipe dangling from its ruined mouth, a drowned sailor staggered toward him.
“That’s what ye get fer bein’ so greedy, son,” he said. “She remembers, she does.”
A rain of tiny silver fish flopped out of his mouth. Some bounced off the rock and swam away. Others tangled in his seaweed beard. Scales flashed as they struggled. But the ghost didn’t seem to notice.
“You can’t run this time.” The man started toward him, raining silt and starfish. “She’s coming, like it or not.”
“Not my time,” Dorian wheezed. “Bugger off, you old—”
“Professor Dallowmarsh?”
“She’ll wait, mark my words,” said the ghost, dissolving into the spray. “Got nothin’ but time!”
Dorian’s cheeks burned. His eyes bulged.
“Professor?” A woman said in a high, singsong voice. “Oh, goodness gracious! What’s happened to you?”
He turned to the familiar voice, now wishing he’d taken the sailor up on his proposal. This woman! Was she part bloodhound? He tried to wave her off—I’d rather die, thanks—but she was on him like a limpet, thumping his back with her palm.
So much for insouciance. His hat flew off and rolled to the water’s edge. Dorian’s eyes blurred as a wave swallowed it.
Damn it! I liked that hat, he thought, gagging. Now who’s greedy?
She hadn’t seen the spirit, however, and for that he was grateful. People like her couldn’t, after all.
Another back whack later, the crowning glory of his Bloody Mermaid joined his hat in the surf.
Dorian looked up, rubbing his chest. “Oh… Mrs. Fleiss… Thank—”
“Bitzy, dear. We agreed. Now, here. Have a sip. My darling Cedrick used to swear by this. Priming the pipe, he called it.” She handed him a glass of dark liquid. Her long skirt sighed as she settled beside him.
Refusing it would have been rude.
The first swallow went down like liquid fire. Dorian clutched his throat, screaming. Prime the pipes? More like corroding them from the inside out! Even worse than going down was the bitter, metallic taste it left behind.
His head shot up. “Brandy and… quinine?”
Bitzy laughed. “Strychnine, dear. Gives you an extra kick! My Cedrick swore by it.” Her face fell. “Well, until he didn’t. Tricky mix, strychnine.” She turned away, looking out at the sea.
“Unusual in a breakfast drink, too.”
“Not breakfast—a tonic. I thought I’d take a dip and needed something to brace myself.” She gestured further up the beach, where a cluster of brightly painted changing huts teetered on wooden pylons. Red and gold, just like the umbrellas. The sight of them would have made Baba Yaga weep.
Still, Dorian tried not to laugh. Bitzy, tall and sturdy, whose drive could have exhausted a Border Collie, was the last person who needed “bracing.”
“I’m glad I ran into you, though, Dorian. I have such exciting news!” She leaned in, beaming. “Lady Merkle is hosting one of her exclusive soirées—and guess who’s invited!”
“That’s wonderful, Bitzy. I’m so happy for you,” he said, patting her arm. Since he looked at least twice her age, he knew she wouldn’t mistake the gesture for overfamiliarity. “You’ve been wanting to attend one of those for so long.”
Wanting? Try, so desperate for inclusion, she’d have poisoned all the potted prawns within a ten-mile radius if she thought it’d get her an invitation. Still, Dorian was genuinely thrilled for her.
Thrilled it’s not me! I’d rather pull a week-old floater from the Scheldt than spend an evening with “Loopy Lavinia.”
“Oh, but there’s more, Dorian.” She wriggled on the chair arm, threatening to topple them both. “Lady Merkle said I could bring a friend—and I chose you!”
A cloud swallowed the sun. No, that was just his hope of a peaceful evening alone, dying a sad little death.
“I—I don’t know what to say, Bitzy.”
Oh, he could think of many things, but none of them included a sentence with no and Bitzy in it. Like it or not, she’d just saved his life. He’d have to go.
“A soirée?” he asked, hoping one of these didn’t involve dancing or worse, anything to do with opera. Most people didn’t know those fancy songs contained fragments of botched spells. Highly unstable ones, too. Under the right conditions—a deviation in pitch or slight mispronunciation—those stanzas could turn feral, volatile even.
Bitzy nodded. “Cocktails and a fabulous dinner, followed by entertainment. We’re in for such a treat, too! I don’t know how Lady Merkle managed it, either, but Madame Draga has agreed to conduct a séance! Isn’t that marvelous?”
“Madame who?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Dorian. Madame Sonya Draga is only the most famous medium in Europe—maybe even of all time.” She leapt from the chair. “You’ve really never heard of her?”
Had she heard of Etruscus or the Witch of Endor? He shrugged, doing his level best not to flinch. A medium? Great Caesar’s ghost! While most were just bad actors who relied on cheap trickery, what if Madame Draga was legitimate?
Dorian squirmed in his seat. He couldn’t go. Being unmasked was a risk he couldn’t take. But he couldn’t refuse either. If Bitzy hadn’t found him when she did, he’d be singing sea shanties in the afterlife.
“Oh, your students and research. Sorry, I’m just so excited, it must have slipped my mind. But you’ll go, won’t you?” Bitzy knelt beside him. “Oh, please, Dorian, say you will! Would the educator in you give up an opportunity to see a seventh-generation vessel in action?”
Dorian patted her hands, hoping no one would happen on them to witness this latest embarrassing display. Did the woman have no shame?
“Wait.” He leaned in. “What did you just say?”
“Seventh generation.” Bitzy nodded. “Madame Draga comes from a long line of mediums. It’s in her blood.”
A certain doctor in Vienna would disagree, but this gave him hope. Perhaps Draga’s talents were more performance than provenance. He looked at Bitzy’s sweet, heart-shaped face and her pleading, green eyes. Only a monster could say no to those, and while circumstances had forced Dorian to be many things in life, a monster wasn’t one of them.
“Of course, I’ll go,” he said. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”