The major’s gaze flicked to Conall. His expression grew pensive, and he craned his head toward the city to study something in the distance. “Mr. Billingsley also warned me against your involvement. He said unseemly business follows you wherever you go.”
The sergeant frowned. His stance stiffened. “Permission to speak, sir.”
“Denied,” said the major. “I know full well these creatures arrived before Mr. Murray and Miss Effie. I have also spoken with those rescued and set men to scouring the city, above and below, for the Unseily fey that fled.”
He knelt next to Effie and ran his gaze over her bandaged head. “But I will not have you running amok as you please. My soldiers are not for your personal indulgence, no matter the faith others place in you. You will give your word to leave Aberdeen once your interrogation is complete.”
Effie perked up. She’d bit her tongue, not wanting to provoke the man further, but now she blurted, “You will allow us to speak with Mr. Durand?”
“Yes,” said the major. “Afterwards, I will have Owens put you aboard a train.”
15
The steel door of the cell groaned as Samuel Harper pulled it open. Painted to match the whitewash of the brick walls, it swung into a long and narrow corridor. Similar doors lined the dank corridor’s length. The hay-strewn floors and stench of bodies reminded Effie of a stable. Muttering, weeping, and snoring echoed through the walls.
A single candle burned within the cell. It illuminated the small space. A straw mattress and blanket of coarse wool lay along the wall. A porcelain pot sat next to the bedding. The only other object was the stool on which a gaunt man perched. His suit had once been fine, but layers of soil and stain now marred it. His head had been shaved almost to the scalp. A thick nose dominated a face covered in whiskers.
“Mr. Jean-Nicolas Durand?” Effie asked. She stepped within the cell. Conall and Harper followed at her heels. Her head remained unsteady, and she leaned eagerly on her cane. They had come straightaway from the broad hill above the beach. Sand and grass still clung to her dress.
The man did not stir. He seemed transfixed on some distant object that none other could see. His lips were moist with spittle.
“We’ve come to discuss your dealings with Cyrus Reed,” she said.
At the name, the man flinched. His head swiveled about. “Reed?” He spoke with a thick accent from the continent. His jaw worked and brow pulled tight. He seemed befuddled until his gaze fixed on her. Fury replaced confusion. Leaping to his feet, he shouted. “Where is it?”
Harper stepped in front of Effie. Conall raised his cane above his head, ready to strike. His wounded arm still hung in its sling. But Durand approached no farther.
“A trick! A bloody trick!” Durand seized his head in both hands and wailed. The effort doubled him over at the waist, and he sank to the ground. “Cyrus Reed, yes, but the deceiver… Yes, that’s it. She chased. Hounded. Wolves at the ford! Howling!”
“The man is shattered,” said Conall. He lowered his cane.
“Tell us, Mr. Durand.” Effie begged, but felt her hope wilt. The ranting reminded her of Cyrus Reed—of a mind corrupted and left to rot. Conall was right. They had come too late to learn any direct information.
She pulled her shoulders back and stood straighter. She would not give up so easily. Even raving mad, the man might confess something vital. Reaching out, she felt through his aura. The withered branches and roots of the banshee’s touch crumbled to dust as she pushed against them. Yet underneath, only a sense of emptiness remained, like a vast rent in the earth plummeting into an abyss.
Effie felt a coldness spew from it and gasped.
Durand tumbled onto his side and whimpered. He kept his head tucked into his knees, muttering something in French Effie couldn’t understand.
“Mr. Durand,” she asked, “where did Reed come to you?” From his aura, she couldn’t help but think that even if the man had all of his faculties intact, he would no sooner tell her. There was nothing of warmth within the man.
He continued his muttering. She wasn’t sure he had heard her at all, the way his body tucked and head remained bent.
“The dead hunt the hills,” said Conall. “You cannot be saved. It will all crumble down.” He turned to Effie. “That is the best my French can make of it. He repeats himself with slight variations.”
“Variations?” she asked.
Conall nodded. He rolled his injured shoulder to stretch it, and grimaced. “You cannot be saved. I cannot be saved. We cannot be saved.”
Effie couldn’t help but snort. “The distinction seems rather important.” She tried again to call to Durand, but the Frenchman didn’t respond. She scoured his aura but could find no other trace of the banshee’s touch, nor any other manipulation.
The effort of concentration caused the room to sway, and she hugged to her cane. “We must let him rest and try again,” she said. She had witnessed before that the time of day, and whether a belly was full, could make a difference when conversing with an enfeebled mind.
She could use a hot cup of tea and some time with her feet up as well. They would just need to convince Owens not to report their delay to the major.
Another delay. Another lead that might fizzle into nothing, despite all they had done since their arrival in the city. Effie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She left Durand’s cell and eased her way down the corridor. Someone sobbed behind one of the doors. Another rattled as she passed it.
The sounds made her halt. Her eyes grew heavy with exhaustion. All that had kept her moving, that had kept her spirits eager, deflated. But she could not leave just yet. She could not abandon those she could still help.
Conall read her expression. “You mean to free them from the banshee’s touch?” he asked.
She nodded. “Those I can, before the madness can’t be reversed.”
“Rest first,” he said. “You have not slept, and they can wait another hour.” He pretended to peer at the welt on her temple. “Perhaps three.”
She didn’t have the energy to smile. Her mood had soured to his wit. His own grin faltered. He stood there as wounded as she—more so—but with no better answers. They had nothing to show for their efforts.
“Perhaps you could show me how, Miss Effie,” said Harper. “If I can, that is. If such a thing is possible.” He stood rigidly with his chest puffed out. It hid his embarrassment, she thought. “I only did recently learn of Fey Craft, and of fey things. But I have sensed things before that I…well, I…”
“You will make a wonderful student, Mr. Harper,” said Effie. “But I fear Mr. Murray is correct, as much as it discomforts me to admit it. I must rest first, or I will do all of us little good.”
Harper’s gaze dropped. From his expression, memories flooded her of not so very long ago. She had always known she held fey blood but had come to Fey Craft only recently herself. She remembered well the thirst for knowledge it instilled. She placed a reassuring hand on Harper’s arm. She was too exhausted to worry over propriety.
He relaxed at the touch. “Aye, miss,” he said. His tone sounded more eager than disappointed. He was not defined by his fey blood the way she had been, she realized.