Gaslamp Gothic Box Set Read online

  Gaslamp Gothic Box Set

  Kat Ross

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  The Daemoniac

  Book #1 Summary

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  The Thirteenth Gate

  Book #2 Summary

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part II

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part III

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  A Bad Breed

  Book #3 Summary

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Part II

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Part III

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Part IV

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Part V

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  About the Author

  The Necromancer’s Bride

  Book #4 Summary

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part II

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part III

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Part IV

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Dead Ringer

  Book #5 Summary

  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

  Book #6: Balthazar’s Bane

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Kat Ross

  Author’s Note

  The stories in this set are roughly sequential, but can also be read out of order if you’re a rebellious type. That said, A Bad Breed and The Necromancer’s Bride are a duology, while Dead Ringer and The Thirteenth Gate take up story threads from The Daemoniac. You can find each book description after the title in the Table of Contents.

  The series is still ongoing, with the next book devoted to my all-time favorite character, Balthazar. You’ll meet him in The Thirteenth Gate. For now . . . happy reading! —Kat

  The Daemoniac

  Gaslamp Gothic #1

  Book #1 Summary

  It's August 1888, just three weeks before Jack the Ripper will terrorize Whitechapel, and another murderer is stalking the streets of New York. His handiwork bears the hallmarks of a demonic possession—but amateur sleuth Harrison Fearing Pell is certain her quarry is a man of flesh and blood. And she hopes to make her reputation by solving the bizarre case before the man the press has dubbed Mr. Hyde strikes again.

  From the squalor of the Five Points to the high-class gambling dens of the Tenderloin and the glittering mansions of Fifth Avenue, Harry follows the trail of a remorseless killer, uncovering a few embarrassing secrets of New York's richest High Society families along the way. Are the murders a case of black magic—or simple blackmail? And will the trail lead closer to home than she ever imagined?

  The Daemoniac

  Copyright © 2016 by Kat Ross

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design by Damonza

  ISBN: 978-0-9972362-5-5

  New York is a great secret, not only to those who have never seen it, but to the majority of its own citizens.

  —James D. McCabe Jr., 1868

  1

  When I think back on the grisly events of that summer, the first thing I remember is the heat. Spring was late and short, following on the heels of the worst blizzard New York City had ever seen. What began as a blustery March thunderstorm turned overnight to two feet of snow. The papers called it the Great White Hurricane. By the time we dug out, more than two hundred souls had perished, some with their frozen fingers sticking up pathetically from the mountainous drifts.

  In typical New York fashion, just a few months later, we did nothing but complain of the humidity. By mid-June, the mercury had soared up to the nineties and lingered there, like a fat dowager in her favorite armchair. It was an evil sort of heat, driving men to beat their children and carriage horses to drop dead in their traces. We kept waiting for a rip-roaring thunderstorm that never arrived. The wealthy fled to mansions in Newport or Long Island’s North Shore, while the thousands of wretchedly poor tenement dwellers resorted to sleeping on rooftops or even in the filthy streets in hopes of catching a stray breeze.

  Being somewhere in the middle of those two extremes, I opted for an iced tea and open window. Which is how, on Thursday the ninth of August, 1888, just three weeks before the Ripper began his reign of terror in London, I came to see a young couple walking slowly down West Tenth Street, eyeing the house numbers as they went. The woman looked wilted in a long-sleeved
striped gown over petticoat, knickers, chemise and bustle. Her husband was blonde and clean-shaven, with hair neatly parted on the side and the erect bearing of a military man.

  “New clients,” I said.

  “Really…”

  “You’re not listening, John.”

  “Sorry!” He looked up from a thick medical textbook and grinned. “Clients. New ones. Too bad Myrtle isn’t home. You’ll have to send them on their way.”

  “It was the wife’s idea to come,” I said, following their progress with interest. They had paused in front of number fifty-one, better known as the Tenth Street Studios, a sprawling work and exhibition space that had helped turn once sleepy Greenwich Village into a mecca of the city’s art world. “He’s reluctant. In fact, he’s very close to scrapping the whole idea. They’re arguing about it now. Let’s see…He was definitely in the army at some point, but he’s in civilian clothing with a respectable paunch so most likely discharged. Far too young to have been in the war. Aha! They’re crossing the street now.”

  The townhouse where I lived with my sister Myrtle was situated at 40 West Tenth Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. Myrtle was seven years my senior, and our parents had left her in charge while they gallivanted around Europe on an extended tour. Their trust was well-intentioned, if misplaced. Within a fortnight, Myrtle had gone haring off on a mysterious assignment for the Pinkerton detective agency, and life since then had been very dull.

  Normally, I relied on John Weston, my closest friend since we were both children, to keep me company. But he had just enrolled at Columbia’s College of Physicians and Surgeons, and now his nose was stuck in a book more often than not. Frankly, I was bored silly.

  “Let’s just hear them out,” I suggested.

  John looked up, a lock of straight brown hair falling across his forehead in a way that certain girls of our acquaintance seemed to find irresistible. Not that the attention went to John’s head. Overly.

  “What do you mean?” he said, eyes glinting with mischief. “Why, Harry, are you suggesting we lie—”

  “Of course not,” I replied primly. “It’s probably some trifling matter anyhow. But I can at least do them the courtesy of relaying the facts of the case to Myrtle when she returns.” I sighed. “Whenever that is.”

  John shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Alright,” he said, laying aside a well-thumbed copy of Gray’s Anatomy. “I suppose I could use a break. It’s like learning a foreign language.” He squinted at me. “Now you, Harry, have a lovely skull. Phenomenal supra-orbital development—”

  “And there’s the front doorbell.”

  I jumped to my feet, pulse quickening. Moments later, a knock came on the parlor door. I hastily arranged myself in an armchair near the cold hearth and rested my chin on one hand.

  “Come in!”

  The door flew open, revealing Mrs. Rivers, our housekeeper, and just behind her, the man and woman from the street. He looked flushed and uncertain, she grim and determined.

  “Are you Miss Fearing Pell?” the man asked doubtfully.

  “Oh yes, she most certainly is,” Mrs. Rivers said, beaming.

  It’s one of the reasons I loved the dear, dotty old creature. She never seemed to realize that when callers asked for Miss Pell, it was never, ever me they wanted.

  “Please make yourselves comfortable,” I said, gesturing to the sofa. John gathered up his textbooks and piled them on an end table as Mrs. Rivers retreated back downstairs, shutting the door discreetly behind her. “This is my associate, Mr. Weston. I can assure you, anything you say will be held in the strictest confidence. Although I should explain that—”

  “Yes, yes, I know, your services are in great demand. But we have nowhere else to turn.” An edge of desperation crept into the man’s voice. “Nowhere.”

  “You misunderstand,” I said firmly. “What I mean is that—”

  “Your fee is not an issue,” he cut in, taking a handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket and mopping his forehead. He had pale blue eyes and prominent ears that made him look boyish, though I placed his age somewhere in the late twenties. “But I must be assured of complete discretion. Miss Pell, the story I wish to tell you could destroy a man’s reputation if it ever got out. Two men, since I ought to include myself.”

  This was the point at which I should have stated plainly that I was not, in fact, Myrtle Fearing Pell, the Great Detective, but her nineteen-year-old sister. I’m still not sure what possessed me. But I was intrigued. And they seemed like good people in dire need of aid. I didn’t have the heart to send them away empty-handed. What happened next was impulsive and foolish, but then I’ve never been lacking in either of those qualities.

  “You have my word,” I said, looking at John.

  “Mine as well,” my friend added, and he had such an open and honest face that I could see our visitors relax their guard a little. “And actually, it’s Doctor Weston.”

  He flashed a bland smile that dared me to contradict this claim. Well, if I was getting a promotion, I guess John deserved one too.

  I walked to the sideboard and started pouring glasses of iced tea. “Doctor?” I inquired sweetly, holding one up.

  John demurred.

  “Please,” I said, pressing refreshments into the hands of our guests. “The heat’s enough to drive one mad.”

  The wife looked at me sharply at this, but she accepted and took a tiny sip. “Tell them, Leland,” she murmured.

  Her husband seemed to gird himself for a very unpleasant task. He drew in a deep breath, eyes darting around the room as if searching for some kind of deliverance. He opened his mouth, then closed it again without speaking.

  “Just start from the beginning,” I said gently.

  He nodded once. Cleared his throat and placed the tea on the table. “My name is Leland Brady. For the last two years, I’ve worked as a real estate agent at the firm of Harding & White on Maiden Lane. My wife Elizabeth and I live in Hastings-on-Hudson.”

  “The village in Westchester?”

  “Yes. We grew up there.” He glanced at Elizabeth. “Along with our dear friend, Robert Aaron Straker.” He paused. “It is Robert that brings me here, you see. He has vanished.”

  “Please go on,” I said, steepling my fingers the way I’d seen Myrtle do it.

  “Pardon me,” Brady suddenly exclaimed, “but you look awfully young! Are you really twenty-six years old? They say you’ve solved cases the police deemed hopeless. The mad chemist who poisoned those schoolchildren…the Bowery bank robberies…I’d never fathom such a thing, a little girl—” He seemed to catch himself and had the decency to look slightly abashed.

  I swallowed and dropped my eyelids to half-mast. I supposed there was no turning back now. “Indeed, Mr. Brady. I have consulted with the police force on occasion when they were hard-pressed to cope with crimes beyond the scope of mundane experience. But I remain an independent consultant, at liberty to pick and choose those cases that offer unique or outré features that interest me.” I could do Myrtle in my sleep. “Perhaps you would best be served by filing a report at the Bureau for the Recovery of Lost Persons.”

  Located at Police Headquarters on Mulberry Street, the Bureau handled some seven hundred missing persons cases a year. Each day, the descriptions of the lost would be checked against the returns of the morgue. It was a sad catalogue of suicides, murder victims and, in even greater numbers, those whose fates would forever remain a mystery.

  But Brady shook his head vehemently at this suggestion. “No, I don’t wish to involve the authorities, not yet. That is absolutely essential. Not until all other avenues are exhausted. And if it is outré that you seek, then what occurred four days ago will certainly fit the bill!”