SHADOW HUNTER: Chapter One, Newly Dead

by KJ Fieler and Harrison Kayne

If you only own one dress but need to go unnoticed, pitch-black moire is the ticket. Innocuous, somber, off-putting, such a dress could pass as mourning attire, even without the veil. The wearer, an embodiment of grief, a shade sheathed in shadow and silky black trim. And no one wants to talk to a grieving woman, especially one they don’t know. Comforting the bereaved: that’s what relatives are for. Only, Ada didn’t have any family—not officially—for which circumstance she was oddly grateful.

In her inky ensemble, she strolled the smoggy stone-set streets of London unmolested, even at night. Her shoes whispered over the ground as she passed the gothic gray house where she was born. Its windows, dark vacant eyes, peered behind ivy covered garden walls, occasionally casting critical glances at the festive walkway–Mum’s touch, still there. Her favorite flowers, gleaming in the moonlight like delicate gems in a dragon’s lair, led the way to the front door: a parade of magenta heliotropes, sunset dahlias, and purple larkspur. The air was so thick with scent that Ada could almost taste it on her tongue, and an unexpected smile touched her lips. Past the house, in the park, under the majestic arch of a pink-blossomed cherry tree, was the cast iron bench with polished mahogany seat where Ada sat with Mum, and later with Nadine… the very spot where she was told that Papa sold her into servitude.

Ada still remembered the feel of the warm cast iron beneath her hands as she followed the twisting designs and the taste of metal when she touched her fingers to her tongue before Mum scolded her gently. An archway of purple wisteria stood not too far from the bench and Nadine used to love the smell. She’d close her eyes sometimes, when she thought Ada wasn’t looking, and breathe in the scent, the hardness in her face softening.

Each scene reminded Ada that she was exactly where she had chosen to be; that people had died to buy her independence. She was free at last… But, to do what? She'd never thought to get this far. Her goal was to escape. Now, she had to figure out what society would allow a free woman. Not much, so far.

The widow’s getup simplified her wardrobe, assured her anonymity, and sometimes got her temporary leeway to do business without a husband or father.

Unable to purchase a house without a male representative, she commissioned a burial chamber and above ground structure in an obscure little graveyard. To the casual eye, the tomb appeared to do what most did: protect ostensibly dead occupants from body snatchers. Another clever manipulation, playing on people’s expectations of a grieving relative. If only the usual suspects knew, things much more valuable than a body for dissection lay below.

She paid cash directly to the vicar who, to her good fortune, was routinely tipsy. She bought his ongoing blind eye with a weekly stipend of whiskey. In case he wasn’t sufficiently indebted–and because a chimney might be difficult to explain on a mausoleum–she purchased a coal fueled steam boiler to heat his cottage and hired gravediggers to pipe half the steam to her unusual quarters.

“For the days when I visit,” she told the foreman, chin held high so she might look down her nose at him. He struck her as the kind of man who liked a woman with a spine. “I like to sit and pray, but you know how cold the stones get.”

“Want us ta drop the casket, too? For a small fee...”

“No, thank you. We have a family crew doing that. Just the mausoleum and crypt. And your discretion in the matter, of course. I paid the pub on the market street for one pint a week for you and your men. It’s in your name but I’ll pay the tab in advance. As long as I’m alive.”

The man practically swooned. He pulled his hat over his heart and held up his hand as if to hail God. “Bless you, Miss! If ever you need a thing!”

Beer, brass, and batting lashes. Very effective.

If only the vicar could conduct financial transactions on her behalf. He was in her pocket all the way up to his receding hairline, but a man of the cloth had no plausible excuse to buy dresses or townhomes.

Other than the traditional Greek columns, Ada’s new covert home was an unassuming stone structure. It said here-in-lies the dead, really, swear to God. But it gave no indication as to the identity or status of the owner: no hands holding hands, typical of a memorial to a married couple; no hand pointing up, an indication of ascension to Heaven; no carved roses, or thistles, or even doves. Sturdy, modest, a somber building of gray stone, the front door a black maw kept tightly barred. It sat like a fortress, a vow of silence made manifest.

No mind. However humble, Ada's new home was gently appointed. The main level contained a leather library chair with fluted legs, one hand-carved Windsor side table, and a green leather footstool, all pilfered from the attic of her former family.

A small butler’s pantry, complete with a tiny iron stove for heating water, served as a makeshift kitchen. The larder held a single loaf of bread, tins of dried fruit, and a supply of water. Currently, the aroma of sweet buttery cinnamon combined with the floral and orange scent of bergamot, sparked rumors of a lavish tea just finished: Chelsea buns and Earl Grey.

The child-size horsehair mattress and six gray wool blankets were for her lone servant, an orphaned boy of about nine. He served as general laborer, guard, and porter. He alone, besides Ada, knew of the secret tunnel that connected the faux house to the basement hideaway on the other side of the road. He’d dug it for her in the months after the gravediggers left, distributing the dirt from the job a bit at a time in the wee hours, spreading it around the grounds and dumping buckets onto the graves of freshly buried residents.

The new quarters were quite a perk for a street waif. Less comfortable than a house, but he was no consumer. As he described it, his birth home was a third floor flat: a single room with no water or heat; shared by mother, father, siblings; with a rough-hewn table, one ladder back chair for father, and a single bed where the whole family slept.

Ada had found the urchin huddled against the cold in an arched brick doorway near the factories. Someone had tried to make a small fire on the stone stoop earlier but had been chased away. The boy was nursing the heat still radiating from the masonry, just days from his last crust of bread but still meaty enough to work. His once-white muslin shirt was more patches than fabric, roughly mended with whatever fiber had been on hand when his mum took to darning. His flat cap shouted hand-me-down, and it was either inherited from an older sibling or stolen from a local clothesline. His too-big boots were held to his feet by several layers of wool socks. He smelled of sweat, and night soil, and hunger.

A mysterious woman in a hooded cloak and goggles was offering him a meal if he went with her. Ada knew what she was and why she was there, and she was determined to spare him that fate. Her anger overcame fear of discovery as she hurried toward the doorway.

“Hello, stranger,” she said, muddling her accent to hide her upbringing. “Why are you talking to my son?”

The woman stepped aside and regarded her with suspicion. “Some mother you are. He’s been here a week. Besides, he’s a bit undernourished and underdressed.”

“I ain’t your son,” said the boy as he flinched from Ada.

“Quiet,” Ada snapped. “I’ll deal with you in a minute.”

“But…”

Ada snagged his collar and pulled him to his feet, hoping her hard look would encourage him to keep his mouth shut, then turned to the woman. “It’s none of your affair. If anyone needs reporting to the Bobbies, it’s you.”

The woman retreated several steps, hands in the air. “Oy! No call to get coppers involved! Just thought he was on his own is all.”

Ada grabbed the boy by the ear. Over his wailing, she said, “Well, he’s not.”

With narrowed eyes, the hooded figure slipped around the corner of the building and disappeared. Ada released her breath. Her employers must still believe her dead. She swallowed the relief. Letting her guard down wouldn’t keep her safe.

The child wrenched free and held his ear, now red from her grip. Sapphire blue eyes played hide and seek amid a tussle of chestnut curls, yet his stare was keen. “What come over you, Miss? I ain’t yourn.”

Ada wanted to comfort him but was afraid the woman might still be nearby, watching. She was, no doubt, a Shadow. The boy was just old enough to be recruited to the tortuous life and inevitably violent death of a disciple. She wanted to tell him but was afraid he’d ask how she knew.

With a practiced smile she said, “How would you like to come and work for me? There’s a warm bed and meals in it if you do.”

He continued rubbing his ear while he summed her up.

Please say yes, she thought. I need you. And, although you don’t know it, you need me. She’ll be back. They always come back.

He backed away a few steps and crossed his arms. “The other ‘n offered me the same, but she ain’t yanked me ear. Why should I go with you?”

Ada remembered the fear well, the loneliness, the vulnerability of a child without a parent. “Did you look at her eyes?”

“Couldn’t see ‘em through the ‘ead gear.”

“Right. Who wears goggles, except auto carriage drivers or pilots?”

The boy tried to hide the realization, but his voice faltered even as he tried to sound careless. “Got me there. I guess… She were a bit off now that you mention it.”

“So, do you want the job? I could use a porter. I’ll pay for your keep and perhaps a bit of pocket money.”

“I could do worse,” he said. “Better ‘n the slag heaps. Sure, I’ll be yer boy if you like.”

Today, they stood together admiring their shared secret behind the faux pantry door: a newly completed tunnel to the underground vault on the other side of the street.

“Looks good,” said the boy. “I’d never know if I hadn’t dug it me-self.” He brushed the dirt off his trousers with both hands.

“It’ll do,” said Ada. “Don’t track dirt into the house. Remember, we live here.”

“Oh, right. Sorry Mistress.” He squatted and swept the dirt into a little pile with his hands, then shooed it out the door. “Why do you live in a graveyard? A lady like yourself could have a house on the main, with a husband and a garden.”

“The grounds are beautiful here,” she said. “And I don’t have to pay for a gardener.” She tossed a few tea leaves on the floor near the radiator, then crushed them to a fine powder beneath her heel.

“You just told me to sweep up, Miss. Why did you do that?” He frowned slightly, his eyes growing wary as he watched her.

Maybe I’ve been coddling him too much, Ada thought. Too many questions. “It’s an old trick a parlor maid once showed me. Crushing tea leaves freshens the air. Smells better than soil, anyway."

He closed the door, lit the oil lamp in the corner, and held his hands up in front of the steam vent to warm them. “Seems odd though. I ain’t sure what to make of you.”

She eyed him sharply, now wary herself. “We had an agreement.”

He shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. “We did. I ain’t goin’ back on me word. Just curious.”

“Care killed the Cat.”

He nodded. “I keep me thoughts to me-self. You be the only one I says anything to.”

She scrutinized him for a few seconds. He shoved a tangle of hair from his eyes and met her stare with a blue-eyed steady gaze. Satisfied he was sincere, she said, “From now on, keep them entirely to yourself.”

“Yes, ‘ma'am.”

“This arrangement isn’t forever. If you remain loyal, you’ll have a room of your own one day. In a real house. With its own fireplace and a bed.”

The boy hugged himself. “Wouldn’t that be glorious! Not that I’m complainin’ now.”

Her gaze softened. She imagined someone tousling his curly brown hair. Another woman might do that. “You’re a good lad,” she said at last.

He beamed at the unusual praise, his toothy grin wide and lopsided, rounding his cheeks. He looked every bit his age and Ada’s thoughts turned to her half-brother, baby William, before she could stop them.

“You need a name,” said Ada, focusing on the boy in front of her. “Is there one in particular that you fancy?”

“I’ve got a name. I told ya. Me mum called me Tom.”

“Tom’s dead. We talked about this. You and I were reborn when our partnership went into effect.”

The boy wrung his hands and worried the hem of his shirt. “Please, ma’am. Please. It’s all I have left of me mum. I’d like to keep it if it’s all the same.”

Ada’s heart skipped a beat, and her hand went to the locket she always wore. Inside were tiny portraits of her mother and grandmother, her last connection to her birth family.

“Fair enough. How about we call you Thomas? It’s probably your given name anyway. Your mother would have shortened it.”

“Thomas! I quite like that.” His shoulders relaxed and he smiled again.

“Master Thomas,” said Ada.

He blushed. “I ain’t born high enough to be a master.”

Ada took off her cloak and draped it over the chair, setting the goggles and gloves on the seat. “You will be. I’m recreating you. That’s what the ciphers and reading lessons are all about. You’ll brush elbows with aristocrats before you die. What's more, they’ll count you as one of their own.”

“Aw, go on!” He toed the ground in front of his feet.

“But remember who put you there. I’ll set you up for a good life, Thomas, but the price is your undying allegiance.”

He nodded. “I'll always remember ya. I know which side of my bread is buttered. Besides, you been right nice to me since you left off boxin’ me ears." A grin spread, bit by bit across his face.

She smirked, then bent at the waist and straightened his neckerchief. She immediately regretted the gesture, snatching her hands away too quickly. He's not a son, she thought. He's a means to an end. Don't get attached.

“Who were Nadine?” Thomas pointed at the lid to the sarcophagus. “I know nobody’s in there, but the name. Were she real?”

Ada was surprised he could read the inscription. She’d been buying penny dreadfuls as primers and teaching him to read. She hoped to pass him off as a son or nephew, to serve as her male representative when he was old enough. She hadn’t realized how quick he was. Better keep an eye on him. Maybe up his salary. Snitches sometimes play both sides.

“She was my everything.” Ada wanted to clap her hand over her own mouth. Why had she said that? Out loud? Must be feeling nostalgic. But secrets are secrets for a reason.

Thomas removed his hat and bowed his head. “Yer mum?”

“Something like that.” Ada tried to ignore the soft knot of grief twisting in her throat as she thought of Nadine. Her captor, her guardian, caring for Ada when her own father failed to. The woman who gave her life so Ada could be free of the Shadows.

“I lost me mum too. Me da put me on the street the minute she were cold. But I done alright. Got a job pickin’ buttons and coal from the heaps ‘afore you came along.”

Ada traced the newly carved letters with an index finger.

Nadine Draven

1801 - 1847

Mother by deed if not by birth.

Nadine would have disapproved. Waste of money. Why spend coin on stone if there’s no corpse? Anyway, strip and ditch, that’s what really happened to her. All dead Shadows ended up in the Thames, even if clergy could be paid to overlook their unholy deeds. Under normal circumstances a Shadow had no kin, or at least none with money enough to pay for a plot.

Truth be told, Ada was independently wealthy. The secret basement held Nadine’s little ill-gotten vault of treasures—riches beyond counting—accumulated over a lifetime of embezzling from their shared employer. And, as if that wasn’t enough, Ada had potential assets from the birthright she refused to claim. Her pedigree came with privileges—such as never having to worry about a home or money—but there was a tradeoff. She’d be forced to marry a man her father chose, regardless of whether he was pleasant to look at and live with, or not. Moreover, her husband would oversee everything: her property, her person, her very life.

Ada had already thought this out and, to her mind, it was better to employ the boy and live in a graveyard than declare her birthright and become someone’s chattel.

No thank you, she thought. I’m free at last. Not about to trade one prison for another. Besides, Thomas needs a mum.

“Wash up and put the kettle on, Thomas,” said Ada. “We could both do with another cup of tea.”