In My Time of Dying Read online

  John pushed against the brazen doors and barely parted them. He squeezed through as someone caught at his cloak wrenching him against the door.

  “Leave me be,” he whispered with the Infernal voice, and the stunned Knight let go.

  John raced as fast as he could along a snowy parapet, hoping to find an egress to a mountain trail, a stable, something. But the view granted only snowy darkness above and below, broken occasionally with soaring peaks of white covered granite.

  Men shouted and came from multiple directions.

  Tearing off the armor as he ran, John glanced behind at the scores of Knights and ahead at the blocked gate. He could not persuade the doormen to open to him before the others and the Count could catch up. His own use of the Infernal voice would be countermanded by the Count, and sooner or later they would overpower him and toss him back into the dungeon with more wards of power cutting his link to the eternal powers.

  He went to the edge of the parapet and glanced over the frost covered stone edge where cliffs reeled into bottomless darkness.

  “Stay where you are, demon!” snarled the Count.

  “Stay back!” rasped John Infernally.

  An invisible wave caused the foremost wall of knights to fall back a pace, but the Count was unfazed. “We will not let you escape. Your kind will not be unleashed on the world again.”

  “My kind? Ha! Look in the mirror Edward!”

  “I’m just a man, but you—you’re a monster. You’re a devil that I will spare the world from ever enduring again!”

  “Monster? You’re the one who lied to me, you robbed everything from me!” John cried.

  “Do not listen to anything he says, my sons, anything he can do to dissuade you of your sworn duty,” called the Count.

  “I trusted you. You betrayed me and the angels,” said John.

  “You have only fooled yourself with these lies in the twisting of ages,” argued the Count. “You betrayed yourself and now I hold you prisoner for the good of the earth.”

  John looked over the edge to the nothing that awaited and back to the Count and all he had planned. There was no choice.

  “Take him!” commanded the Count.

  “I will not go back.”

  “You have no choice. The die of your fate was cast a long time ago. It cannot be undone.”

  “Liar! There is always a way.”

  “Take him!” shouted the Count as Knights rushed forward.

  John would not be shackled again, anything but that. He made his personal sign of power and leapt over the side of the parapet, momentarily borne aloft on the wings of dark rippling currents, airborne in the deep black gulfs, falling from the grim peaks of the Himalayas down into the impenetrable gloom of infinity.

  But, he was free.

  An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered. An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered. — G. K. Chesterton

  1. Going to California

  San Francisco, 1875

  An urgent knock at the door disturbed Elizabeth while reading about a lurid tragedy in the paper, and afterward yet another grave robbing. It was the twelfth or thirteenth reported this week, not to mention the murders of whomever happened to be near the soon to be interred caskets.

  The rapping at the door came louder.

  “Who is it Elizabeth?” called Father.

  Ignoring both, she gave thought to the paper, who would murder and steal the bones of the departed? Most of those looted coffins were Americans and a few English shipped over from the orient. Poor souls who succumbed to yellow fever or worse while doing missionary work. How odd. Such things shouldn’t be happening in this modern age, it was like a penny dreadful come to life.

  The knock persisted quite rudely. It was mid-afternoon and Elizabeth was not expecting anyone for tea. Father, in his study with his paper and pipe, obviously was not expecting company either. The knock was continuous and sharp. Who could it be, she wondered? The Marsongaille sisters would not interrupt her, not after yesterevening’s debacle over the Jones brothers.

  The paper’s alarming headline stole her attention back from even the trans-Atlantic airship flights and crashes. BONE MARAUDERS STRIKE AGAIN!!! Can the dead not rest in peace? Is anyone safe? The paper loved to play upon the idea of a body not being safe. Several of the stolen skulls had been prominent wealthy citizens and those of their bereaved family members attending their arrangements. Elizabeth imagined undertakers arguing over funeral parlor security and how they would take better care of the dead than their competitors. The paper itself had several wild guesses at the nefarious perpetrators, none involving a mortician’s plot, though nothing of any credible likelihood. As usual the Chinese were to blame for most of the jingoistic conjecture, everything from deranged addicts roused from opium dens to maniacal Daoist monks bent on bringing back Genghis Khan through occult forces. All of it absurd, of course. The only thing in common was that all of these desecrations had happened on coffins returning from the orient. The most likely explanation, Elizabeth decided, was that smugglers had misplaced something in the wrong coffin—but what?

  The knocking continued.

  Opening the curtains over the front door to take a look at the persistent caller, Elizabeth at the serendipity of a Chinese man waiting there with a small box under his arm. He wore a faded blue Tang jacket and had an unassuming look upon his face for as impatient as his knocking had been.

  “Who is it, Elizabeth?” called her father, sounding exasperated at not yet receiving an answer.

  “A Chinese gentleman with a package,” answered Elizabeth. She opened the door and said, “Ni hao.”

  “Hai hou,” he said, visibly surprised at her greeting. That a beautiful white girl with platinum blonde hair could speak even a simple greeting in Chinese was highly unusual.

  “I’m afraid my Mandarin doesn’t extend much farther than that yet,” she said. “I’m still learning.”

  He smiled ever so briefly and asked, hopefully, “Miss Erizabeth Dee?”

  Elizabeth nodded with a quizzical look.

  “I have been instructed to give you this,” the deliveryman said with a bow. “My master requests you to accept his humble and most gracious offer.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Meethrusarah,” he lisped.

  “Do I need to sign? I don’t believe I have ordered anything from whomever you just said. Do you need a tip?”

  He waved his hands in the negative and his long braid swung like a pendulum as he stammered, “No, no, no. I have been paid for the work and was to see that you receive package, offer, and address—to claim the rest of your property.” He handed her the letter and a crude scrap of paper marked from the pier front. “Is good? Yes?”

  “I suppose so. Wait, what other property?” she asked, staring back at the letter and package.

  “Is good? Good.” He smiled, bowed, and strode away, arms swinging wide as his braid kept time to a primal beat. He never looked back, and promptly disappeared into the crowded street.

  The box, stamped with a Hong Kong address, had been carefully wrapped. It was heavy for its size with a slight shifting of contents audible inside.

  Her father strode up beside her, his cane thumping the floor. He puffed on his pipe like Vulcan at his forge. “Who was that? You said some sort of damn coolie?” He took a drink from his perpetual glass of brandy. Since the illness had taken hold in his leg, he used spirits to ease the sorrowful pain. The sheer excess of alcohol was more than Elizabeth cared for, but she knew of no alternative to help her father.

  “I said no such thing. It was a deliveryman and, yes, he was Mandarin.”

  “Mandarin? How can you tell any of them apart? You didn’t pay him anything did you?” He finished his brandy.

  “No, I didn’t. Besides he would accept no tip, saying something about already being well paid to deliver the package.”

  Father harrumphed and puffed a great cloud of smoke. “What is it?” He looked about the parlor fruitlessly for more liquor. Several empty bottles belied the routine.

  Elizabeth shook her head, though the curiosity was eating her alive. She didn’t want Father laying his callous nature over her surprise, her mystery. “I don’t know what it is and frankly, after last night and the fight I had with the Marsongaille sisters, I don’t think I care to open it today. Perhaps tomorrow.”

  Father harrumphed once again. “Have it your own way. I just don’t want you getting caught up in any coolie nonsense.”

  “I highly doubt it has anything to do with them. He was just a deliveryman.”

  “It comes from Hong Kong. Who in the blazes do we know there?” asked Father, puffing in locomotive fashion.

  “There was Robert Deacon.”

  “He’s been dead for years. Mark my words, this nonsense will be nothing but trouble. Throw it, whatever it is, in the trash.”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “Perhaps I’ll open it tomorrow, perhaps I won’t. But it’s my choice to decide.”

  Father shook his head and laughed, saying, “Women and their secrets.” He hobbled back to his study, smoke trailing overhead as his cane rhythmically struck the floorboards.

  Elizabeth waited an awkward moment and took the package upstairs. She shut the door quietly and sat on her bed, surprised that she breathed heavily in anticipation. Father was probably right; this was trouble if it was anything at all. It was also very possible that it was a mistake and not meant for her at all. Surely there must be another Elizabeth Dee in San Francisco. Though she had to admit she had never met or heard of another.

  Waiting and staring a furious minute, she pounced, and rapidly tore open the letter.

  The letter attached to the packages was addressed to her specifically, even including her middle na
me, though she was sure she did not know anyone in the Orient, nor even anyone with the mysterious initials Mr. M. There was also a peculiar scrawl beside the initials that looked like a pair of glasses on a slanted stick.

  It was quite curious, a proposal of employment? And was that a warning or a threat at the end, along with a bizarre religious affirmation?

  San Francisco was quite the worldly city and Elizabeth had not been to church since her mother died when she was very young. Regardless, this was a mystery that Elizabeth wanted an answer to. Perhaps it was a trick, but the effort someone put into it deserved recognition.

  Glancing it over again, Elizabeth carefully considered the words, and the possible danger excited her. This would be much more than a night at the theater or another round of tea with Hattie and the Marsongaille’s.

  Salutations, My Dearest Elizabeth Jane Dee:

  I need your help. Forgive that we have never met but I am not a stranger to the family, I knew your great grandmother. I have never been this way before, and in my coming to California it is my sincerest wish to meet in person when I arrive. I am also sad to say, in need of someone of your rare skill and abilities. Should you agree to this proposal you will be well rewarded for services rendered in helping expedite my much needed and unusual transportation and lodging back to England from China and through these United States of America. It is my hope that you will accept this incognito offer and earnest money herein contained and arrange all of this as my personal secretary. We will discuss more details in person when we meet. My Boxer agent will leave you with the final address as I do not yet know what the safest meeting place shall be. I have many enemies and must be cautious.

  Your utmost discretion is required as well as advised. I have also taken the liberty of arranging some protection for yourself in these endeavors. His name is Orrin Porter Rockwell and he will be waiting for you at the Rising Sun Saloon by the time you receive this. Please retrieve him before coming to find me. Don’t use his name.

  Your sincere well-wisher in Christ

  Mr. Methuselah.

  What if the Marsongaille sisters were playing a trick on her? No, they didn’t have the imagination to route multiple packages through Hong Kong and back. Was she being foolish to pay it any mind at all? Who knows what this mysterious Mr. Methuselah was playing at?

  Attached to the handwritten letter was another note scrawled in a much less refined hand. Could it have been written by his Boxer agent? It read:

  Midnight: Brannan Wharf: Warehouse 42 sea level

  That last part seemed sinister. Brannan’s street alongside Chinatown was not an area she ever went to, let alone at midnight. But the allure of this mystery was too much. If they had never met, why on earth would he say he was not a stranger?

  She was so caught up in the letter that she almost forgot the box. Smaller than a hat box, it was heavy with a slight sliding inside that could be anything. Taking her pen knife in hand, she cut away at the multiple layers of colorful paper and Chinese glyphs she could not understand. Seems whomever had wrapped this had wanted it to hold together securely. The pile of paper on the floor grew to immense proportions and finally she reached the actual box.

  Opening the flaps, Elizabeth saw a small purple bag amidst yet more crumpled colorful paper. She took a hold of the velvet bag, amazed at its weight. Loosening the drawstring she could not withhold a surprised gasp.

  It was full of gold coins, stamped from many nations, some she had no idea of. One was English, another perhaps Indian or Tibetan? Most looked Asian of some kind.

  Father was at the door. “What is it?”

  She didn’t want to say but couldn’t hold back the look of shock.

  Enchanted, he hobbled closer and picked up the bag. “Who is this from?”

  “I don’t know.” She handed him the letter but kept back the scrawled address for the wharf.

  He read it several times, furrowing his brow before finally saying, “I forbid you have anything to do with this person. This must be the worst kind of joke or some nefarious plot. I will take the money to Sam and we will get to the bottom of this.”

  Elizabeth didn’t like the sound of that, she didn’t think very highly of Sam Brannan. “I don’t think that scoundrel is the best person to talk about gold with.”

  “Nonsense, he is the best person. No one knows more about how to use and make a fortune than a man who has made so many.”

  “He lost the Calistoga! Only last month, the bank foreclosed on him!” Elizabeth retorted.

  Father waved off her protests as he reread the letter. “I’ve solved the riddle! This Mr. M—it must mean a Mormon. They will do anything to get their money back from Sam and I! And this mention of a Porter Rockwell! That’s Brigham’s Destroying Angel. He has killed more men than—”

  “But this is my letter and my gold!”

  “You’re seventeen and under my roof young lady, and you’ll obey me while you’re here! Which apparently is going to be a very long time.”

  Elizabeth snatched at the bag, but he dodged away. “It’s mine,” she protested.

  “How dare you!” The liqueur spirits had taken hold in his eyes and red fury blazed there fueled by the brandy, and he made as if he might backhand her across the face.

  She had dealt with his drinking and curses for years, but this was the first time he had ever feigned violence. Elizabeth swore there would not be a second time. She stuck out her chin, ready for the blow.

  “Headstrong and belligerent as your mother, you are! I’ve been too soft on you and it will only cause grief. Can’t you see that? These tricks from wife stealers and cricket-crunchers will only bring trouble. I need to protect you from these predators until you can come to your senses.”

  “You have no right!”

  “It’s for your own good,” he countered. “Besides, I’m your father and if they think to lure you away from me with gold, I’m going to spend it!”

  He tore the letter up and regret instantly washed over his face. “Ugh! I shouldn’t have done that,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Acted like you might hit me?”

  “No, because I need it as evidence for Sam and the police. Foolish girl.”

  She shook her head and flinched away as he moved to touch her.

  He paused and instead picked up the tattered pieces and put them in his pocket. He stopped at the door. “I’m sorry. Sometimes you remind me of your mother too much.” And then he was gone.

  She buried her face in her pillow for a long moment and let it all out. When she was done, she went to the parlor. She kept a picture of Mother in the rolling desk because Father didn’t like it being visible. He said it had too many memories, but now Elizabeth wondered if that was true.

  She did look like her mother, long pale blonde hair, almost white in its brilliance, sharp features and a devil may care smile. She had always been pleased that she looked like mother, not that she could admit that to Father.

  Unable to have any more children after Elizabeth was born, her mother had been a dutiful wife, but there was a sadness that Elizabeth could only remember hints of. There was an aspect of her personality that was lost. That was a mystery. Her mother’s journals contained ideas but not deeds, it seemed she had always longed to see the world and never had.

  “I’ll see the world you never could,” said Elizabeth, staring at the picture.

  She decided then and there that she would not be satisfied unless she found out for herself about this mystery. Anything to take her far away and let her start over. She looked at the note regarding the time and place again. If she was going to the wharfs at midnight, she would need protection. Though she would decline the services of the man who would be waiting in the Rising Sun Saloon, instead she would be prepared for any occasion all on her own. No point in giving anyone warning of her intentions if this was not legitimate. Either way she had to look out for herself.

  It was a long wait for dusk, and Father’s snoring was a welcome release for this promising new adventure.

  Tiptoeing down the hall, she listened for a moment, sure Father was asleep, crossed the threshold silent as a cat’s shadow and went into his study.

  The drawstring of the purple bag teased from his coat pocket. Elizabeth deftly tried to reach in and scoop it out, but Father snorted and turned in his sleep, rolling over on top of the bag, almost trapping her hand.