Free Possession by C. J. Archer Page B

dove
into the cabin, landing on the seat beside me.
    I might have
emitted a small scream—very well, a large one—and slid across the seat into the
far corner. Not far enough. Arbuthnot grinned that horrible grin again. "Good.
Entertainment for the journey." He punched the roof of the cabin. "Drive
on!" he shouted.
    Silence.
    "Miss?"
The panicky voice of the footman came from near the door. I couldn't see him
past Arbuthnot's massive frame.
    I opened my
mouth to warn him, but Wallace moved fast. All of a sudden something cold and
sharp pressed against my throat. A blade. Arbuthnot's breath, reeking of ale
and tobacco, was hot on my cheek.
    "Drive
on," he snarled, "or I gut her."
    I tried to lean
away from the knife, but Arbuthnot—or rather, the spirit possessing him—grabbed
the back of my hair and held me against his reeking, filthy body. I winced but
remained silent. I dared not make a sound, dared not breathe.
    "Move this growler
now, or I rip her apart!" he shouted again.
    The coach rolled
forward and the vein in my neck throbbed against the cold metal. An unladylike
drop of moisture trickled down my spine. I closed my eyes to block out Arbuthnot's
wild glare and tried to still my racing heartbeat. Calm. Be calm. Think.
    "Faster!"
he roared over the clip clop of hooves and the rumble of wheels. "Get
me to Victoria Station, you dog, or this pretty neck gets sliced!"
    The coach sped
up. I wondered if the other footman was still on board, or if he too had jumped
off to alert George. Of course he wouldn't be much use in rescuing me but Jacob
might, or Theo.
    Arbuthnot
circled his arm around my shoulders. He hooked the knife under my chin and
pressed his thigh against mine. He stank and his white shirt and silk waistcoat
were stained beyond repair. The real Wallace Arbuthnot would be appalled. The
possessed one pushed the blade harder into the skin beneath my chin and
chuckled when I cried out.
    "Very
pretty neck." His voice, while essentially the same as Arbuthnot's,
sounded quite different. More raw somehow, and heavy with drink. He laughed
again. Then he licked me below the earlobe. Everything inside me constricted
into a tight ball, but on the outside I remained passive. At least, I hoped
that's how I appeared.
    I dug my fingers
into the leather of the seat. "Mr. Arbuthnot," I whispered. "Wallace,
can you hear me?"
    "Shut it!"
    I steeled myself
and tried again. "Mr. Arbuthnot, fight him. Please, Mr. Arbuthnot." I
yelped as the knife bit into my flesh.
    "My name is
Mortlock. Jim Mortlock."
    I shivered at
the cold, dead tone. He must have felt it because he said, "You're afraid
of me, ain't you? You should be. Some of the things I done when I was alive
would make you sick. Things a good little girl like you never hears about. Bad
things. Wicked." His throaty chuckle made my scalp crawl. I didn't want to
hear his story, but I had to. Knowing more about the spirit might reveal
something about the people who'd summoned him and why.
    "Tell
me," I whispered. "I want to know."
    That horrible
laugh again. "When I died, they said 'good riddance.' Said I got no conscience
to do the things I done. I'm good with a knife, see." He stroked the blade
down my throat to my collar and dipped the point inside the bodice. I tensed
and squeezed my eyes shut. "Decorated my Ma with a blade just like this
one. Drew a pretty pattern from here," he pressed the point against one
ear, "to here." The cool metal traced across my throat to my other
ear, not hard enough to pierce the skin, but it may have left a red mark. I
prayed the coach didn't go over any bumps.
    "Why are
you here now?" I asked. "What do you want?"
    "I want
some fun." He licked my throat near the knife point. Bile rose and I
gagged. That produced another rasping chuckle from Mortlock. "I'm legend,
see. They remember me after I'm gone as the one with no conscience. That man
and that girl, they called me here and I came. Better than Hell or whatever's
waiting for me beyond."
    He