Spirited Read Online Free

hunters are about to make their move.”
    He released the button and straightened, groaning at the ache in his lower back. He rubbed away the pain. Through the thick material of his suit coat, he massaged around the metal nubs fused to his spinal cord, making him a hybrid—part man, part machine.
    He’d been remiss of late. Another procedure would be required. Soon. Thank the gears, he no longer had to rely on Rumsay for routine maintenance.
    He wondered at what point the creation had begun to outshine his maker.
~*~*~
    “Amelia, wherever did you get to?” Nora’s tone was light, but her teeth chattered as she spoke, betraying her tension.
    “Oh, just ensuring you have your moment to shine, but I’ll join you now, if I may.” I took her arm in a show of support.
    The relieved smile she gave me went unnoticed by the gaggle of guests fawning around her, never meeting her eyes, seemingly bedazzled by the jewels around her neck, dangling from her delicate ears.
    And they thought me uncouth.
    “Mr. Clark has a fascinating theory of how my father was able to ensure that poor young woman’s fake death looked quite the thing,” Nora said, a hint of a waver in her voice.
    “If you’ll allow the speculations of skeptic, then I’ll continue,” Mr. Clark said with a superior smile. He did not give anyone enough time to voice an objection. “As I was saying, the girl is, of course, one of Rumsay’s clockwork creations, built to scale, lifelike indeed, but nothing more than another of our host’s servants.” He glanced around and, upon spying one of the automaton guards, called it over with a sharp gesture.
    “Do you require assistance?” the guard asked.
    “Yes, I do, point of fact, and yours specifically. That girl who was hung, she was like you, correct?”
    “How can I provide assistance?”
    Mr. Clark rolled his eyes, and the milling group of guests laughed. “You do so, my thick friend, by answering the question. Who made the girl who hangs over there? You see? The one who looks dead.”
    The guard bucked on its wheels, causing a gasp to ring out. Then it stilled and in its usual harsh tone said, “Who made the girl is unknown. Our master oversees all discontinuations.”
    A titter of nervous laughter rang out as the guard glided to meet the needs of another guest.
    Nora paled.
    I held my breath.
    Mr. Clark seemed unfazed, “There, you see,” he said, “she was one of them and merely discontinued.”
    As if to punctuate Mr. Clark’s ignorance, Rumsay addressed the crowd. He stood in the middle of the ballroom as guests formed a circle around the perimeter.
    “Friends, it is time to further entertain you with the artwork of Ben Knightly and a shadow play technique known as phantasmagoria. The images you will see are the result of light and shadow, not specters and magic. No hard feelings, eh, Knightly?” Rumsay called out to a gentleman in a threadbare tuxedo.
    Mr. Knightly gave a brief bow.
    My heart pounded. Rumsay was up to something. I scanned the faces of those in attendance, skimming over the mouths open with anticipation until I saw a familiar jaw clenched in concern. Warren met my gaze. He raised an eyebrow.
    I glanced at Nora.
    Warren nodded.
    Once I had Nora out of danger, we’d work together to see the fools safe, despite our mutual antagonism.
    “Many among us tonight seek out the supernatural and profess to understand its inner workings,” Rumsay continued. “I speak of my fellow members of the Ghost Club. For seven years I have attended their meetings and visited the sites of hauntings, attended séances, what have you. In all our dealings I have come to the conclusion that spiritualism is a hoax. Those who pursue it are blind to the scientific explanations readily available, if one is educated to look for them. Tonight I will prove it.”
    He waved again to Mr. Knightly. “On with the show.”
    At once the already dim gaslights died in a blackout. Faint cries of the startled guests