Resurrected Hearts Read online

  RESURRECTED HEART

  by

  Jade Astor

  Published by Jade Astor at Kindle Direct Publishing

  Copyright 2020 Jade Astor

  First edition

  Cover by 3 Rusted Spoons

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is strictly coincidental.

  Other titles by Jade Astor:

  Snow Bite, Blood Red

  Bachelor and the Beast

  Pete and His Werewolf

  The Werewolf Tutor

  Night of the Satyr

  Ebb Tide

  The Baron’s Gargoyle

  Artemis Gardens

  Passionate Lessons

  Passion Unmasked

  The House on the Cliff

  Kiss of the Dark Prince

  The Birchwood Academy Files

  Knowing that the kind of relationship his heart longs for is forbidden by the laws of Victorian England, college student Gray Langley fights his loneliness by throwing himself into his studies and his artwork. One gloomy afternoon, he is out sketching a graveyard when he meets Dr. Arthur Striker, a man who seems to share Gray’s scandalous desires. Though Gray is encouraged when Arthur seems to return his feelings, he is unnerved by the scientific experiments Arthur seems to be conducting in his home. Even more frightening is the strange and violent madman who appears and tries to kill him whenever he and Arthur get close. And why does his attacker look exactly like Arthur?

  Chapter 1

  Bluish mist drifted over the low stone wall, weaving ribbon-like between the weathered tombstones. Gray Langley felt a chill as a tendril of fog curled over his wrist like a grotesquely elongated hand. Next he heard a fluttering sound as a plump black crow settled atop the grave marker he’d spent the last hour attempting to capture on paper. Lowering his head, Gray hastened to incorporate the bird into his drawing before it decided to disappear back into the late afternoon shadows.

  He’d started the sketch with the highest expectations and enthusiasm. The chipped rectangle of slate, protruding from the craggy ground at a disorderly angle, had seemed the perfect subject for a meaningful work of art. Gray could no longer read much of the name inscribed there by the dead man’s loved ones. Aside from a string of worn letters that might have once said “Thomas,” all that remained was a portion of a date from the late 18th century, some hundred years before. What better way to symbolize the vagaries of time and the fleeting nature of human life? Eagerly he’d whittled his pencil to a point and propped his sketchbook on his knees.

  Then came the typical and perhaps inevitable disappointment. As usual, the images that teemed in his mind, so sleek and artistic, the key to long-lasting fame and admiration, would not flow all the way to his fingertips. The lines he drew came out jumbled, awkward. The message he’d intended to convey through his picture disappeared in a tangle of smudges and splotches. Even the crow, tilting its head and flapping its wings at him, seemed to mock his lack of talent. The final insult came when the pencil point he’d chiseled with his pocket knife snapped off and left a jagged line on the paper.

  Sighing, Gray tucked the pencil against the spine of the sketchbook and pulled his watch from his waistcoat. Dinner at his college was just over an hour away, which gave him the perfect excuse to abandon his artistic pursuits and begin his long walk back to the city. Though normally he preferred the solitude of this quiet country lane to streets crowded with scholars, vendors, and carriages, he was frustrated enough by his failed endeavors to look forward to an evening of study. A good meal and the camaraderie of his fellow students would ease his mind. And he could sketch again another day.

  Standing, he brushed the dust from his trousers and dark frock coat before he started toward the iron gate that separated the small cemetery from the gravel path that led to the road. Just as he was about to reach for the latch, he paused and then drew back in shock.

  A man stood on the other side of the bars—and a most horrifying sight he made. The skin on his face was as pale as milk, his cheeks looked hollow and bloodless, and his matted brown hair stuck up in the middle as if he’d been raking both hands through it. Even his posture seemed odd, almost otherworldly. He leaned to one side, as though his spine were inflexible, and his head lolled on his shoulders at an awkward angle.

  Perhaps most shockingly, the fellow was shuffling around in a state of near-undress—he wore no hat, coat, or cravat of any sort, and his dirty white shirt hung untucked from his breeches. A wrinkled waistcoat drooped, unbuttoned, from his contorted frame.

  When his glassy blue eyes fixed on Gray’s face without expression, he wondered if the poor sod might be sightless. Then, slowly, those dark pupils enlarged with fear. The stiff jaw dropped open with a visible effort, and a drawn-out, almost bestial wail assaulted Gray’s ears.

  With that, he turned and fled. He ran with a strange half-shuffling, half- loping gait that carried him off into the fog. Gray blinked after him, too stunned and shocked to do anything at first. Gradually, though, he began to regret his behavior.

  What if the man had been taken ill, perhaps having some sort of fit, and had been seeking his help? Perhaps he was in a disheveled state not because he had imbibed too freely at a nearby alehouse, but because he had been robbed and assaulted. Such occurrences were not common among the genteel population of academics Gray was used to, but on the other hand, violent crimes were not unknown in the back streets surrounding the institutions of higher learning. Either way, Gray should have attempted to render assistance, even if his medical knowledge was woefully scant. His father, a vicar devoted to helping the downtrodden in any way he could, would have been mortified by his indifference to a suffering soul in need.

  With no alternative but to try and make amends for his error, he pulled open the gate and rushed headlong into the fog, carrying his sketchbook at his side. “I say, sir!” he called out, though he saw no one about. “Wait! I’m here to help you!”

  He hurried on for some time, calling out now and again. Finding no sign of anyone else in the vicinity, he slowed his pace to a walk and settled for looking around in a more casual manner. That was how he came upon the two stone griffins standing sentry in front of a short gravel drive.

  Pausing, he scanned the immediate area for any sign of an ill person staggering around, though this time he didn’t call out. The fog had lifted enough that Gray could see a medium-sized brick house at the end of the path, standing at an angle to the main road. Clearly the house belonged to someone well-to-do, and a second glance at the griffins revealed a polished brass nameplate affixed beneath one of them.

  Dr. Arthur Striker

  Private Physician

  At last, things began to make sense. The man he had seen had been in search of the doctor—in the fog, he had lost his way and stumbled to the graveyard instead. Since there was no sign of him now, Gray could only hope he had located the griffins, just as he had, and gone ahead to the house for treatment.

  Satisfied at having solved the mystery, Gray started to walk on. He got only a few steps away before guilt overcame him. It was his duty, he decided, to make sure the prospective patient had made it safely to the house. It would have been less than gentlemanly for him to do any less—especially if the fellow had collapsed on the road or in t
he doctor’s garden somewhere.

  Squaring his shoulders, Gray walked up the gravel path and stepped up to the door, where he rapped the brass knocker three times, briskly. Presently he heard footsteps and the click of the knob turning from inside. Then the door opened and an attractive man, perhaps thirty years of age—hardly much older than Gray himself—appeared on the threshold.

  “Yes?” he asked pleasantly, but Gray could only gape in shock. Though this man was a bit pale, his hair lay neatly combed and his shirt, cravat, and striped frock coat appeared to be in perfect order. In every other way, he presented an exact replica of the unkempt ruffian Gray had discovered by the graveyard. His blue eyes, tall frame, and strong features were without any doubt the same. Yet now he appeared perfectly fit and healthy.

  When Gray said nothing, he frowned in concern.

  “May I be of assistance? I am a physician—are you in need of medical attention?”

  Gray blushed. “I—uh, no, not for myself,” he stammered. “It was a man I passed on the road. I…ah…I thought he might be ill.”

  “Indeed? Well, sir, as I mentioned, I am in fact a doctor, so he would be in the right place.” A wry smile played about the doctor’s lips. They were attractive lips, Gray thought despite the bewildered state he found himself in. Full and pink, yet undeniably masculine. “Therefore there can be no cause for alarm.”

  “I…suppose so. It’s just that…well, I lost sight of him before I could offer assistance. I wanted to be certain he reached your premises safely.”

  Dr. Striker said nothing, and Gray touched his hat brim self-consciously. He could not figure out what had happened. Gray could see no way he could have dashed inside the house and straightened up his clothing so quickly. However, there could be no other explanation. Dr. Striker seemed in no mood to offer one.

  “Well, in any case, sir, I won’t take up more of your time. Clearly I have bene laboring under some misapprehension. Please excuse me.”

  He was about to turn away when Dr. Striker’s gaze dropped to the sketchbook under his arm. “You are an artist?” he asked with obvious interest.

  “Of sorts. Or should I say, I aspire to call myself one eventually. That day is far away, I fear.”

  “I am a man of science, but I am not immune to the charms of art. I would be delighted to see your work.”

  Gray laughed bitterly. “No—most assuredly you would not. I am a dilettante at best.”

  “I doubt that. In my experience, poor artists are all too eager to show off their scratchings.” Smiling, he put out his hand. “Let me introduce myself properly. Dr. Arthur Striker.”

  “My pleasure, sir. Gray Langley.”

  “ Gray? An unusual name.”

  Gray smiled. “So people tell me. I was named for my father’s favorite poet.”

  “Ah, yes. ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard,’ I assume? A daunting legacy to live up to.”

  “And I fear I have not managed very well. Not a poetic bone in my body—not even when I plant myself in a cemetery. My namesake was more open to morbid inspiration.”

  “You are up at college?”

  “How did you know?”

  “A guess based on observation. Not too many young gentlemen wander past my house carrying sketchbooks. What else could you be? Are you a don or an undergraduate?”

  “An undergraduate. This is my second year.”

  “I have fond memories of my second year. I won’t bore you with them, though.”

  “I doubt they would be in the least boring.” Gray bit back a smile, suddenly feeling foolish and almost giddy in Arthur’s presence. He was charming, that much was certain. Gray still had no idea how to reconcile Dr. Striker with the frightening madman he had followed from the graveyard, though. He could only assume his eyes were playing tricks on him—or Dr. Striker was. “Nevertheless, I will bid you good evening and let you get on with your work.”

  Dr. Striker nodded and continued to smile, but made no attempt to stop him. Gray paused at the bottom of the steps and heard the key turn in the lock.

  When he reached the stone griffins, Gray heard a horrible noise from inside the house that made his blood run cold for a moment. It was half-shriek, half moan, so loud it seemed to stab at his ears. Whirling, he ran a startled gaze past Dr. Striker’s windows and garden. Again he saw nothing. He almost went back to the house to inquire if everything were in order, but soon thought better of it. It was getting late, and he had already intruded once too often. He quickened his pace back to the college.

  At dinner, he discussed the matter with some of his fellow students. No one at his table had heard of a Dr. Arthur Striker. He did not seem to be affiliated with any academic offices they were aware of.

  “You said he called himself a private physician,” Lucien Rowe, an upperclassman who seemed to know everything about both the college and the outside world, observed. “You know what that generally means. Deals with the secret ailments of lords and their ladies, and I don’t necessarily mean their wives, if you catch my meaning.”

  Gray blushed. “But what do you make of the strange fellow I saw by the graveyard? He resembled Dr. Striker down to the smallest detail.”

  “A few possibilities. One, he is treating a madman or an addict who simply bore a resemblance to him, or at least you perceived that to be the case. As you said, it was foggy and you were startled. You may have thought you saw something you didn’t. Two, it was in fact Striker, having a fit or indulging in a dose of recreational laudanum. When he knew you had spotted him he pulled himself together. Perhaps he had just returned from…shall we say…an adventure in town.”

  Gray considered this. Lucien was far more worldly than he. Gray’s father was a vicar, but Lucien’s served as a diplomat in the service of Her Majesty Queen Victoria and thus knew of the ways of men. No doubt one of his theories was correct. Anyway, what did it matter? The encounter was nothing more than a curious event that had provided some dinnertime entertainment. Most likely he would never see Dr. Striker again.

  It surprised Gray how much disappointment that thought caused him.

  Chapter 2

  Over the next few days, Gray forced himself not to think about Arthur Striker and the mystery at the graveyard. Or, at least, he attempted to do so. At odd moments, like during lectures or when he was attempting to study or write, his thoughts drifted back to that same topic. He couldn’t stop wondering how it had all turned out. Had Arthur managed to cure the madman of whatever ailment made him flail about the way he had? Or was Arthur himself the madman, as Lucien had suggested?

  As soon as he had a free afternoon, Gray returned to the cemetery with his sketchbook and pencil. This time, he made better progress—especially once he gave drawing the crumbling stones, malevolent-looking birds, and other unpleasant things. Instead he closed his eyes and imagined he saw Arthur there, strolling among the puffs of light fog swirling after an afternoon rainshower, resplendent in a well-cut topcoat with a tall hat and gleaming black walking stick. What resulted was, in his opinion, the best work he had ever done, even if it was far from fit for the Royal Academy just yet.

  With his sketch complete, he debated returning to the college. He had intended to attend a late lecture on Descartes. But soon his steps pulled him back to Arthur’s house. Perhaps Gray could snatch a glimpse of him or even meet him strolling from the house on some errand. Under his breath, Gray rehearsed a few plausible excuses for his presence. He was torn between not wanting Arthur to catch him spying and longing to see and speak to him again.

  As he approached the house, a muffled plinking noise reached his ears. A few more steps and he realized it was a piano being played in one of the downstairs rooms. Feeling a bit embarrassed at his intrusiveness, yet overcome with curiosity about the exact source of the music, Gray left the main road and made his way to the side of the house, following the sound. As it grew louder, he thought he recognized the tune—a piece by Mendelssohn, though he could not identify it by name. Even from a di
stance, the artistry in the playing seemed evident. Each note sounded clear and decisive, flowing together seamlessly under an experienced touch.

  By angling his body and head just right, Gray was able to peer into one of the ground floor rooms without making himself too obvious should anyone happen to look out. He spotted Arthur in the corner of a small parlor, seated on a stool with his back to the window. He was in his shirt sleeves again with his collar open, which of course was perfectly appropriate in the privacy of his own home. He seemed transported by the music as he played—his posture was rigid, his head tilted back as though he did not even need to glance at the keys, hands moving by rote. On and on he went, never varying his tempo and never making the slightest mistake.

  Before long, a woman’s gruff voice began shouting something in a foreign language. The door to the parlor began to open as someone started into the room. Quickly Gray withdrew from the vicinity of the window, hurried around the side of the house, and got to the front door just as Arthur opened it and peered outside. He was wearing his coat again, with his blue cravat neatly arranged against a crisp white shirt. Gray wondered how he had managed to tie it so fast, but perhaps he had been wearing it all along and Gray had not seen it form the back. A tiny woman stood behind him—middle-aged and dark-skinned, with foreign-looking clothing and a colorful shawl draped around her thin shoulders. She stared almost belligerently at Gray and said something to Arthur, who pressed his lips together and shook his head. The language sounded a bit like French, which Gray had studied a bit, but the dialect didn’t resemble anything he was accustomed to.

  The woman spoke again and Arthur answered her curtly in the same unintelligible syllables. With a sniff, she whirled and stormed off down the hall. Gray heard her boot heels clattering up an unseen flight of stairs.

  “Hello, Dr. Striker.” Gray struggled to keep the heat from suffusing his cheeks. He was sure the woman had caught him peeking inside the house like a common thief and had reported it to Arthur. Gray knew he should have simply knocked like any normal gentleman. “I’m…uh…sorry if I interrupted anything.” He lifted his arm to show that he was carrying his sketchbook. “I was just passing by, and…uh…I didn’t mean to displease the lady.”