This Cursed Line

Morgan Hubbard Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Acknowledgments About the Author To those who feel like they are beyond redemption. And to Cody, for never letting me give up. 1 It began with the witching winds. Outwardly, the people of Morville, Washington shrugged it away, reassuring themselves that the Devil didn’t care for quiet, little towns. Except he did care—does care—for quiet, little towns. Because quiet, little towns are the place to hide one’s secrets. Until those secrets ask to die. The first of November meant payday for Alexander Pike, which found him resting in a creaky wooden chair outside of the local coffee house, feet propped up on the low table and coffee next to his open journal. November 1, 1879 The job in Manhattan went as planned three days ago. I completed the poison job in New Jersey soon after with only a few hours to spare. That girl’s laugh will probably be burned into my memory, a fitting price to pay for the treachery I committed. Trust broken. I promised to carry her burdens and then became one myself. The boss won’t be too happy with my emotional involvement, but at least I finished the jobs this month. It’s been years since I’ve missed one or messed one up beyond help. For a moment, I didn’t think I’d hit my deadline for October. I thought for sure I’d have to pay the price come the first of November. Lydia’s death was also the first killing I’ve had to do in a while, making it a little worse, even if poison is hands off. I almost felt out of practice, but then hundreds of faces resurface, and I’m drowned once again in their tears. Eyes that cannot cry . . . Lips that cannot speak . . . Yet I feel them, see them, hear them. I can’t name the countless souls I’ve left in my path. Which is worse: committing the crime or paying for it myself? Pike’s hand stilled as silver flashed behind his eyelids, trying to squeeze out the painful memories. With a shaky breath, he resumed his journal entry. I hope to see Mother soon. It’s been a few weeks. I try to write to her when I can, but there’s not much in the vein of news that I could tell her. My life isn’t something I can share openly on a postcard. I wonder sometimes how long this debt will last. And if I refuse to have an heir, what happens then? If something happens to me, would my mother take over the debt? He paused and watched the funeral procession across the street pass, followed by a horse-pulled cart. On top of the cart, a bundle of marigolds were held by stiff, blue hands. The breeze around Pike sounded like laughter, her laughter. Pike sipped his coffee to swallow down his sorrow before he noticed an older man approaching him, red in the face. “You bastard!” the man shouted, spit flying off his lips. Two of the other patrons reclining outside of the coffee house stood and apprehended the grieving man. “You did this,” the man continued in a loud voice. “We trusted you. It’s your fault that Lydia is dead.” The man broke down in sobs with the last word. He crumpled into the arms of one of the men who’d apprehended him. Pike met the patron’s eyes. The sorrow that rested behind their eyes matched his own. The men slowly turned away and joined the funeral procession, continuing the slow trek to the cemetery at the edge of the city. Pike took another long sip of his coffee before resuming his journal entry. I think I’ll be kicked out of New Jersey if I don’t get picked up soon. Not that the boss would miss payday . . . He never misses. Draining the last of his coffee, he sighed and brushed back his tangled blonde hair. Exhaustion had caught up with him from the long month, but his jobs never ceased. Pike stood, stretching his arms wide, icy blue eyes constantly watching his surroundings. Leaving his empty cup on the table, he walked away from the funeral procession and into the dusk settling on the horizon. There was a chill in the air, maybe winter on the wind. Pike began to sing in a low voice, walking the lonely road. “‘Twas a November gale, the witching winds took my lass from me. No hope, no love, no joy I have, for none of which cost is free. I-diddle-I dee die dee doe. I-diddle-I dee do. No hope, no love, no joy you have when the witching winds come for you.” “That’s quite a song you’re singing, Alexander Pike.” The lilting voice came from the stretching shadows of the alley Pike had passed. “Silvertongue!” Pike turned, forcing a tight smile to his lips. “I wondered when I’d see you again.” “Alexander,” the man crooned, stepping partially into the light cast from the gas lamps on the cobbled streets. His sharp smirk glinted in the flickering, pale-yellow light. “It’s the first of the month. Did you not expect to see me? Or are you too emotional to even comprehend what day it is?” Pike stiffened. “Of course I know what day it is, Silvertongue.” “You should take heed calling me by that name here in the open,” the shadowy man cocked his head. “Would you prefer your given name from centuries ago? Or shall I call you fiendish devil like everyone else does? If I can’t call you by your name, you shouldn’t call me by my father’s name.” “But it is your given