Page 2 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
His words were cut off by a cry that chilled his blood. It was like nothing human, an animal howling in pain. Obadiah whipped around, trying to still the pounding of his heart. What in the name of God had that been? Perhaps someone’s dog crunched under the wheels of a carriage?
But Obadiah saw no coach, no sign of a dog or beast of any kind. There was nothing—only the relentless mist.
Then a voice rang out. “Help! Sweet Jesus! Someone please help me!”
Obadiah froze, making no move to dash to the rescue. That had sounded too much like Mr. Glossop. Likely this was only another of Master Bertie’s tricks, Obadiah told himself. He was not about to go rushing forward simply to fall prey to a nasty bit of Glossop’s humor.
But there came another shriek too convincing to be faked. Sweat beaded on Obadiah’s brow despite the chill night air. Every instinct he possessed told him to flee in the opposite direction. But he forced himself to go forward, his lantern held high in his trembling hand. He had not taken many steps when a shadow rose from the pavement before him, melting out of the mist, a figure garbed all in black.
“You there! What are you about? Halt!” Obadiah attempted to shout, but his voice came in wheezing gasps. The hooded phantom paid him no heed. In a swirl of dark cloak, the man vaulted over a wrought iron fence and vanished behind the marquis of Mandell’s house. Obadiah fancied he heard a demonic laugh.
The Hook was the first thought that popped into the watchman’s panicked brain, but he babbled, reassuring himself, “No, no! Not here on Clarion Way.”
Perhaps he should seek to pursue the apparition. The marquis would not take kindly to a caped specter creeping about beneath his windows and laughing. But Obadiah convinced himself that it was more his duty to see who had been calling for help.
There was no evidence of any other living soul, but something had been left abandoned on the pavement, like a bundle of clothes. As Obadiah crept closer and the haze parted, he saw that it was the form of a man, crumpled upon the paving stones. A man wearing a peacock blue coat.
“Nay, Mr. Glossop,” Obadiah quavered, “Please don’t be playing any more jests upon me.”
He knew with desperate certainty that at any moment Bert Glossop was going to leap up, startling him out of his wits with a bloodcurdling cry or a box to his ear. Indeed, he prayed Master Bert would do just that, do anything but lie there, so still.
Standing over Glossop, Obadiah raised his lantern. He had to make himself glance down at the young man. Bert Glossop stared back at him, glassy eyed, his mouth hanging open.
It made him look rather stupid. It made him look dead. Obadiah’s knees buckled beneath him, but he managed to kneel. He had some vague notion he ought to check for a pulse. But when he got up enough nerve to touch the man, Obadiah’s hand came away sticky with blood oozing from a hole torn in Glossop’s throat.
Numb with shock, scarce knowing what he did, Obadiah tried to wipe his fingers off on the front of Glossop’s coat, but another pool of crimson splashed over the folds of peacock blue.
A moan escaped Obadiah. He staggered back. His stomach heaving, he was violently ill. But even with his scrawny frame wracked by spasms, he groped for the handle of his watchman’s rattle.
Obadiah sounded it harder than he ever had in his life.
One
Moonlight poured through the long windows and spilled over the four-poster bed where the marquis of Mandell lay entangled in the sheets with his mistress. Even sleep failed to soften the hauteur of his features, his face all hard angles from his high cheekbones to the sharp outline of his nose and jaw. Waves of rich ebony-colored hair tumbled over a lordly brow.
But as his dark head tossed upon the pillow, his lips were twisted with a torment he would never have revealed in his waking hours.
The dream had him in its grip again and once more he experienced that sensation of terror and helplessness. He could feel his tall, powerful frame dwindling into that of a sickly boy. He was back in the apartment in Paris and the police were hammering at the door.
Open! Open in the name of the tribunal of the revolution!
Mandell moaned, struggling against the sheets. He could feel himself being lifted from the bed into his mother’s arms. Her face seemed to be lost in mist, but he could see the sheen of her golden hair, sense her fear in the thudding of her heart.
She was thrusting him into the coffinlike narrowness of the cupboard. A sob tore from Mandell’s throat.
Hush! Hush, my little one. You must be very quiet.”
“Maman!”
He tried to clutch at her, but the door was already closing, locking him into the suffocating darkness, leaving him prey to the terrors of the distant sounds. Wood splintering, tromping boots, harsh voices, his mother’s scream.
The dream shifted and he was a full-grown man, a man burning with pain and frustrated rage. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword and he swung it wildly, hacking at the wood, breaking his way out of the cupboard.
But instead of the bedchamber, he emerged into the murky half-light of a street, crowded with faceless phantoms, the stench of their tattered, filthy clothes as rank as the scent of blood.
“You murdering bastards!” he screamed.
He charged at them, raising his sword, but they scattered like brittle leaves before a powerful wind, the street echoing with their mocking laughter.
