Christmas Yet To Come (The Ghosts of Christmas) Read online

  “Tell me something,” she said as he refilled their glasses. A look at the clock earlier had warned her time was running out faster than she had expected—on the single night she was actually enjoying herself, too—but she needed to settle one final matter before her last hour was done. “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who prefers being completely by himself. I mean, you like your work, but you…seem to enjoy talking to me as well.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted in a quiet, almost private smile. “You could say that.”

  “So why do nothing at all for Christmas?” She didn’t want to harp on it, especially if it didn’t make any difference to his life, but she was curious about him. “I don’t mean you should have crackers overflowing from the chimney, but going to the other extreme isn’t much better. It seems…bleak to be alone, working at your books and eating a cold supper before you go to bed as you do on any other day.”

  Justin set the sherry bottle down with a little thud and looked at her as though she had asked him for a very large loan. “Is that any of your concern?”

  “No. But I’m asking anyway.”

  He didn’t seem to know how to retort to that. Instead, he drained half his glass at once and looked away from her into the fire.

  Oh, well done, Laura thought in annoyance, mostly at herself. She debated changing the subject, but decided against it. If this was her last night on earth as a human, she didn’t want to waste it in a quarrel, but at the same time, she could never again talk to another person. She would go on to witness the deaths of dozens more people, but never their lives.

  “Justin, I’ve seen some of the worst things people can do to each other—and to themselves,” she said. “I wouldn’t think less of you.”

  He glanced at her, a quick evaluating look, and set his glass down. Leaning forward, he picked up a pine cone that had rolled away from the hearth and turned it over in his hands as if examining it.

  “It’s nothing dramatic.” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “My father left me some money when he died, and a friend persuaded me to invest in the High Weald Railway company. He was putting an equal amount of his savings into it, branch lines would be built all the way out to Hawkhurst and we would see a significant return on our investment. Unfortunately, my partner proved himself a great deal less loyal than the counterfeiter’s. Though they were both on a par regarding honesty.”

  “He robbed you.”

  “He embezzled nearly two thousand pounds in funds.” Even recounting that, she thought, he had to be accurate. “If it had been my loss alone, that would have been bad enough, but there were other shareholders, and I’d advised some of them to invest in the company. I couldn’t let them suffer for my poor choice in partners.”

  “What did you do?” Laura hoped she would meet his former partner one day, because that was one encounter she would look forward to.

  “Made up the loss any way I could. Got loans, arranged lines of credit, sold whatever I didn’t need. It took years. I even worked at copying out documents late into the night, which didn’t help my eyes any. But finally it was done, the books balanced—and I sold off the High Weald Railway to the South Eastern Railway.”

  She stared at him. “You didn’t want it any more?”

  “I didn’t want to bear that responsibility any longer.” He looked straight at her, as though he finally had nothing to hide. “And my feelings towards it had changed. I’d been proud of the High Weald Railway, but after I’d worked myself half to death to save it, just thinking of it made me tired. I’d discharged my duty to the best of my ability and beyond, and now I only wanted to walk away. Like how you felt, I suppose.”

  She nodded. “So that was why you never indulged yourself over the Christmas season.”

  “Because I couldn’t afford to indulge myself at any other time of the year either. I can now. I have a position at the Bank of England. But it’s difficult to shake a habit of squeezing pennies out of farthings, and I’d be a poor host if I asked people here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He spread a hand as if indicating everything around them. “Well, look at the house.”

  Oh. She’d seen far more unpleasant places—with roofs leaking onto bare stone floors, because whoever owned them hadn’t wanted to pay for repairs—but while Justin’s house was comfortable enough, it also had a certain bare, utilitarian quality. She guessed silver plate or even china figurines had been sold off long ago, but that didn’t change his home’s appearance.

  On the other hand, when she looked at the paper flowers glowing red in the firelight, and breathed in the scent of apples, she thought if he could make one room welcoming, given a single evening and hardly any money…

  “Like I said, a lavish party would be too much,” she said. “One step at a time. You decorated the parlor and had a guest to visit this Christmas. Maybe next year, you’ll have some crackers and mince pies and friends to share them with.”

  “No.” Justin’s voice was uncompromising, his face hard. “I’ve already decided what I’m going to do. I plan to work even harder and call in loans from everyone I can. I won’t give the servants so much as an extra sixpence as a bonus.”

  Laura stared at him, because she had no idea what to say. In all her existence, she had never pushed anyone into becoming more set in their ways.

  He smiled. “Then maybe you’ll visit me again.”

  All the tension left her in a laugh she couldn’t suppress, though as she calmed down, she realized he’d been serious about the last part. She wondered how he would feel if he saw her as a wraith—faceless and silent, looming over him, the embodiment of not so much terror as a merciless inevitability. No, even if she came back, he wouldn’t look at her as he looked at her now, his gaze soft and warm, the smile curving up one corner of his mouth.

  “You know,” he said quietly, “you look even better when you laugh.”

  A fluttery sensation filled her chest and descended to her stomach. Her mouth was dry despite the sherry she’d drunk. He wanted her, she knew it, but the few feet between their two armchairs might as well have been a chasm.

  And there was a rueful twist to his smile, as though he knew it and wasn’t going to prolong something that couldn’t last beyond that night. Perhaps not even beyond the twenty minutes that remained of Christmas Eve. He tossed the pine cone into the flames and glanced up.

  “Pity I couldn’t find any mistletoe,” he said.

  Given the depth of snow, she was relieved he hadn’t dug his way through it searching for more greenery. She also knew he’d left her that way out—she could say something polite like perhaps next time and they could talk about something safer until it was time to leave.

  No. “We don’t need mistletoe.”

  She got up. Her knees were about to start trembling, so she crossed the distance to his chair before that could happen. All right, what now? Perching herself a little awkwardly on the arm of his chair, she kept one hand on the back of it, and leaned down to him.

  His arm slid around her waist and he pulled her into his lap. She gasped, clutching at him for balance, but he only slipped his free hand beneath her jaw, cradling it. His thumb touched the corner of her mouth.

  That time, when his arm tightened, she didn’t try to pull away, and her eyes closed involuntarily as his mouth came down on hers.

  His fingers tilted her head to fit his mouth even closer against hers, and he parted her lips with his tongue. Heat and dampness, the shocking intimacy of flesh on flesh, the sense of being opened for something deeper, a slow searching that made her shudder. A strange tightness coiled down through her belly, and her arms rose of their own volition, holding him close. Her fingers sank into his hair. She whimpered, the sound muffled against his mouth as he kissed her hungrily, and she responded with a need that made her forget everything else.

  A sharp rat-tat-tat mad
e her jolt. Justin lifted his head. For a moment she was disoriented, but then she knew where the sound had come from—the front door.

  “Damn.” His gaze was still hazy with desire where it rested on her, but he blinked and shook his head a little, brown eyes sharpening to their usual alertness. She was only too aware of the strength of his arm behind her, his thighs beneath her, but he was already lifting her off gently. “Of all the times to—”

  “Don’t open it.”

  The words came without conscious thought, but Laura knew at once what was behind them—an intuition fueled by the warning she’d seen in the mirror. Whoever was knocking on the door wasn’t there for a benevolent purpose.

  Justin got to his feet. “What do you mean? It could be someone lost and needing help, like you—”

  A crack of splitting wood echoed through the hall. He spun around and the sound rang out again—a heavy weight smashing against the front door. Something flew across the floor outside with a clang. It was the lock of the door, battered away from the wood.

  “Hide.” His voice was no more than a released breath.

  “I’m not leaving you,” she whispered. The door crashed open.

  “They don’t need to know there’s two people here!”

  Without wasting any more time, she bolted for the only place of concealment. The sideboard was beside the parlor door, and she crouched on its farther side, pressed against it. Anyone who had come for her would not have been dissuaded by that—but anyone who had come for her would not have needed to break through the front door.

  Justin caught up the poker, but even as he did so, heavy footsteps stopped outside the parlor door. More than one of them, she realized.

  She looked through the small gap between the back of the sideboard and the wall, but all she saw was a man’s hand—with a gun in it. A thumb pressed down a tiny, jutting part of the weapon with a metallic click-snap.

  “Put that down,” the man said. The poker clattered to the hearth, and Justin raised his hands slowly.

  The temperature was falling fast, but it wasn’t why she shivered. She wondered if anyone would see the open front door and realize something was wrong, but the clock showed a quarter to midnight. No chance anyone would simply be passing by at that hour—and anyone who was, and who intervened, might be killed too.

  “What do you want?” Justin didn’t look away from whoever stood in the doorway. She pressed her nails into her palms. There were two glasses and two plates on the table.

  “We don’t like doing this, but times are hard,” a second man said. “You keep enough scratch to go around?”

  Laura wasn’t sure what that meant, but Justin nodded as if he’d heard it before. “There’s a safe upstairs,” he said. “Would you two gentlemen care to wait?”

  The first voice chuckled, without humor. “No, guv’nor. We’ll be coming up, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “By all means,” Justin said. There was a soft scraping sound, as if something had been dragged along the surface of the sideboard, and Justin walked out. Laura breathed a little easier. Intent on the robbery, the strangers hadn’t noticed the table, and now she knew how many of them there were. Justin’s invitation to stay downstairs had probably made them that much more intent on following him, away from her. But what could she do?

  No point in sneaking out and trying to get help—not at that hour, and she’d never be back in time, before the robbers murdered Justin. And she knew they would do so, after he opened the safe which had to be in his bedroom.

  Sooner than let that happen, she would do anything.

  She slipped her shoes off, ignoring the cold floor against her bare feet. Her hand closed around the handle of the poker, warm from Justin’s grip, and she stole to the parlor door.

  Justin was halfway up the stairs. The two robbers were only a few steps behind, and the one directly behind Justin held a candelabrum he’d clearly taken off the sideboard. The three candles flickered with the draught that swept through the house, and threw distorted shadows against the wall. She saw the barrel of the gun.

  Just as she’d thought, the man behind Justin held the weapon in his free hand, so he wouldn’t risk accidentally shooting his friend if Justin tried to run. She wasn’t sure if the second man was armed as well.

  But it didn’t matter. Picking up her skirts with one hand so they wouldn’t rustle, she slipped out and reached the foot of the stairs. She glided up them as fast as she could.

  A chilling breeze swept through the hall. One of the candles flickered out.

  The second man turned. Whether he’d heard her or seen the edge of her shadow, he spun around and his hand came up, clutching a hammer. But the poker gave her more of a reach. She swung it in a swift arc that ended at the man’s kneecap.

  There was a sharp crack. He screamed, reeled sideways and caught at the banister. Shadows wheeled as the man holding the candelabrum jerked out of the way, putting his back to the wall. The injured man caught at the poker, but before he could yank it out of her hand, Justin sprang down two steps and slammed a fist into the side of his jaw.

  The grip on the other end of the poker went nerveless. The man crumpled, tumbling down the length of the staircase until he landed in a heap on the floor.

  Thunder cracked, magnified as it echoed from the walls. Justin staggered and fell across the stairs. Smoke clouded the air, but she still saw the barrel of the pistol turn in her direction.

  Another flame blew out as if cold unseen fingers had closed on it.

  Laura swung the poker out with all her strength. The man swept the candelabrum down to block, and iron rang off brass so hard it made her stagger. The impact sent vibrations racing up her arms.

  A glowing light whirred at her. The candelabrum smashed into the arm she flung up, and the world went white. Laura stumbled back, almost losing her balance. She dropped the poker—which clattered down the steps—and caught the banister just in time.

  Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, she blinked the tears of pain from her eyes. The man came at her again, swinging the candelabrum like a club, and the last flame winked out. She ducked. In the darkness, the candelabrum whished over her head. Then she was scrambling up the steps on hands and knees.

  The man cursed and spun around. All but blind in the dark, she bolted up and ran for her room. The shroud, if she could get to the shroud—

  Footfalls raced behind her. She flung the door open and dashed in—straight into an unyielding solidity that hit her hard across the face and sent her sprawling to the floor. The bedpost, she guessed through a daze as she rolled away, trying to collect her senses.

  If the robber had run in, they might both have ended up on the floor. Instead he stopped in the doorway, and she heard a soft rattle followed by a scratch. A match flared. He’d set the candelabrum down on her dresser, and now he lit a single candle before he slipped the matchbox back into a pocket. He clicked back the hammer on his pistol, but rather than pointing it at her and firing, he pulled a steel flask from a pocket and pushed the flask’s spout into the barrel.

  Reloading, she realized as her heart slammed against her ribs.

  “You know how to open the safe?” he said. A handful of round bullets fell and went skittering over the floor, and he cursed again.

  Laura held the bedpost with her good arm and pulled herself up. She had never felt so much pain, but the raw ache in her chest was worse. He wouldn’t have asked her that if Justin had been alive.

  “Yes,” she managed to say. She thought of grabbing up anything she could and attacking him, but even without a reloaded gun, he was bigger and taller than she was.

  Instead she turned and made a dive for the wardrobe door.

  The man shouted wordlessly and came after her. She threw the door open, and her hands closed on worn cloth the color of smoke over snow. As she spun towards the wall, she wrenched the
shroud off its nail. It ripped, but one more tear made no difference. She flung it over her head, and it slithered down like a second skin an instant before she hit the wall.

  She went through brick and plaster as if those had been eggshells, and caught herself just before she could hit the floor again. Moonlight streamed in through the open curtains, and at first all she registered was a figure leaning against the wall nearby. She heard hoarse breathing.

  Then her eyes adapted and she saw Justin.

  She was at his side at once, and he leaned against her for a moment before he clutched at the wall again. Even that brief contact was enough for blood to soak through the shroud.

  “I thought you were dead,” she whispered.

  “Oh good, I hoped that was convincing.” But each word was raw and hoarse, spoken with an effort. “Laura—gun. Lowest drawer. Oh, damn.” His voice caught. “It’s not loaded.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” It would take too long for him to explain how, and the man might finish reloading his. She yanked the drawer open and felt with her good arm, tossing out any clothes in the way. Her fingers closed around the cool hard grip.

  “Laura.” Her name was almost drowned in his quick breathing. “What are you—”

  She was out of his bedroom at once, padding barefoot to the next door. Carefully she pushed it open. The first thing she saw was the man, gun in one hand, passing the palm of his other hand over the blank wall.

  “Put that down,” she said.

  He whirled around, but as she had guessed, he hadn’t had time to reload. Not with trying to figure out how she had disappeared. His gaze dropped—whether to her gun or the blood spreading over the shroud, she wasn’t sure, except he looked even more shaken.

  “All right,” he said. “No need to panic. We can settle this nicely.” Knees bending, he set his gun on the floor beside him. “But how did you—”

  “Take off your clothes.”

  He started to smile. “Well, if it’s that you want—”