Accursed (26 page)

William stood in the midst of the flat, trying not to feel as though he had botched the job. He shook his head, not letting the negative thoughts overtake him. There were many other names on Carstairs’s list he had yet to visit, and there was not a second to spare. Not only did he need to stop the spread of this horror, but it seemed he now had competition for possession of the accursed artifacts.

Steeling himself, he muttered the words to the translocation spell and quickly vanished into the ether.

S
AVAGE AS SHE
was in battle, Bodicea was not heartless. The spectral queen had empathy for those who had been mistreated in life, but she could summon not an ounce of compassion for the malformed creature that lay before her. David Carstairs was not some poor unfortunate soul. He was a criminal by trade—a liar, a thief, and a robber of other people’s history and culture—and that was unforgivable. Others—even other ghosts—might have been appalled at remaining in the company of the accursed amphibian monstrosity, but Bodicea found his presence all the more distasteful because of what Carstairs
had been,
rather than what he had become.

“Water—” croaked the thing that had once been David Carstairs.

Bodicea scowled.

“I think not.”

“Water, please . . . ,” the thing croaked again. It was pathetic.

She stared at the creature, truly studying its deformities for the first time. Its head had grown too large for its spindly neck, its chin so weighted down that it almost touched its throat. It had bulging yellow eyes that protruded unevenly from the sides of its face, and its mouth was a gash of razor-sharp teeth.

“Water,” it pleaded, in a thinner voice now.

Sick of its mewling, Bodicea laid aside her spear and approached it cautiously. The thing was bound, and lay on its side on the bed. As an ethereal being, it was easier for her to move the creature to the water than to bring water to the bed. It required focus and effort for a ghost to make physical contact with solid objects, and even more concentration for her to touch a human being, but she could easily grip the flesh of a supernatural. And as weakened as the scaly beast seemed now, she doubted it would put up any fight.

Bodicea picked up the thing, slinging it easily over her shoulder, then started toward the jug of water that stood on a table by the window.

She had taken only a few steps when the thing grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked. The ghost howled in rage, dropping Carstairs onto the floor. William had cast his binding spell too quickly and inexpertly, and as the monstrosity thrashed against those magical bonds, they fell to ribbons of shimmering energy and then disappeared altogether.

Bodicea snarled and tensed for the attack, the pain in her scalp feeling all too physical, though she had been without flesh for centuries. Phantoms could inflict pain upon creatures of the supernatural, yes, but the converse was all too true, as well. She and William would have a talk about this.

The thing crouched, leering at her, then sprang with blinding speed. It collided with her, claws sinking into her spectral form, tearing at her spiritual essence and dragging her down to the floor.

“You bitch—” it snarled, dragging her across the floor.

Her ghostly essence sank partway into the floor. For a moment she slipped from its grasp and began to crawl away, but it caught her foot and pulled her back. Her naked body fell in and out of the wooden floor as she was dragged back toward the bed. The thing didn’t seem to understand that Bodicea was a ghost. All she had to do was to dissolve this form and slip into the ethereal realm.

But her rage got the better of her. Bodicea reached out and grabbed her spear. Just as the thing pushed itself back on top of her and began rutting against her leg, she punched the tip of the spear through the creature’s skull.

It let out a terrible scream, then abruptly ceased to move altogether, its body becoming deadweight.

She pushed its carcass away and spat on the thing that had been David Carstairs. Memories of the rape and murder of her daughters, and her own ill use at the hands of the demon Oblis, were fresh again in her mind, as though the crimes had taken place that very morning. Such was the reality of her daily existence. The constant presence of the demon in the home of the Swifts had wreaked havoc upon her emotions, and this creature had reignited all her grief and rage.

Queen Bodicea dropped to her knees, reached out a spectral hand, and ripped the monster’s genitals from between its legs with a wet, tearing noise and a splash of brackish, stinking blood.

“No one takes liberties with me,” she whispered. “Never again.”

Bodicea let the fiend’s manhood drop to the floor, where it lay limp and shriveled. Then, with no prisoner left to guard, she vanished into the ether.

T
he night air refreshed Tamara as she let Farris lead her out of the Egyptian Hall and onto the sidewalk.

Looking back at the building, she marveled at how anachronistic the hall’s façade was compared with the rest of modern London. Large columns that stood like sentries guarding the front doors clashed with the honeyed brick and stone of its neighbors. She couldn’t help wondering if Egypt really looked that way, or if she was only seeing an English bastardization of the genuine article.

“Miss, you’re shivering,” Farris said crossly. “We should wait inside, where it’s a bit warmer.” Even stocky Farris in his overcoat looked chilly in the London night, his breath wafting like dragon smoke around his mouth and nostrils.

Tamara shook her head, pulling her wrap more tightly around her shoulders. She would much rather weather the cold than go back inside where the atmosphere itself was stifling. The exhibit had been sparsely attended, but she was not in the proper frame of mind this evening. Its resemblance to a temple did not extend to the interior of the place, but still it had felt like a tomb to her. Mixed with the odor of paint and the dusty smell of ancient things, the air was entirely too oppressive.

Tamara found herself grateful for the crisp night air. The tension that had been knotted in her shoulders and neck seemed to evaporate as the cold raised gooseflesh on her skin.

“I feel better outside where I can see the stars, Farris,” she said. “It’s cold, indeed, but it’s early spring in London town, and for once the wind is just right and the air is fresh.”

Farris shook his head, tutting. “For a lass with such a keen mind, you’ve no common sense a’tall.”

Tamara laughed, her thoughts clearer than they had been all day. She was grateful for Farris and his mothering, felt safer knowing he was looking after her. John must have thought it unorthodox to have her butler chaperoning their evening, as opposed to some widowed aunt or a proper maid, as was most common. But Tamara genuinely enjoyed contradicting society’s conventions. Sophia was the sort of girl who wore one face in public, another in private. Tamara was only herself.

Truth be told, she was torn between despising Sophia for her duality and envying her the ability to adapt that way. Tamara possessed a great deal of passion, and it often caused her trouble. She spoke her mind far too often and too vociferously for most men’s preference, and even then she preferred not to taint her family name overmuch.

It had occurred to her that writing penny dreadfuls under the pseudonym of T. L. Fleet placed her in the same sort of dichotomy as that Sophia practiced. Yet her own secret didn’t feel nearly so duplicitous as the two faces worn by her brother’s intended. This ought to have made her feel better, but somehow, the heiress’s indiscretion left her somehow freer, and seemed more honest than any of Tamara’s passionate declarations. For Tamara had never truly let go of her inhibitions. No matter how independent a girl she thought herself to be, she had never given her emotions free rein.

John appeared at her side. He had hired a cab for the evening, but the driver hadn’t expected them to leave this soon, so John had been forced to search him out in one of the nearby free houses. The driver lit the lantern that hung on a hook at the front of the carriage, then climbed up onto the high seat at the front.

“Your chariot awaits, milady,” John said with a smile that was halfway between rogue and fool, but entirely charming. Still, there was concern in his eyes.

Tamara smiled as he started to offer her his hand, but Farris beat him to it, helping Tamara into the carriage. Then he made his way to the front of the carriage, to climb up beside the driver. Tamara flashed John an apologetic smile. He just shrugged, taking the seat beside her and closing the door.

“I’m sorry for Farris,” she offered. “He looks to me more as a daughter than as a charge.”

“Then I’m grateful to him. You
should
be looked after, Tamara.”

John’s face was deep in shadows as the carriage began its journey back to Ludlow House. She wished that she could see him, that she could discern from his expression what he really meant by those words. In her mind, they were tantamount to a proposal of some sort, but without enough light to reveal his eyes, she couldn’t tell for certain. And the lantern that rocked on its hook outside the window was not bright enough to dispel the darkness within.

“You’re sweet,” she said quietly. Her cheeks felt warm with her awareness of how close they were, of the fact that they were alone in the back of the carriage. They were out of the chilly wind now, but she did not try to tell herself the lie that this was the sole cause of the warmth she felt. The butterflies that she had hoped for earlier in the evening had finally made their appearance—
better late than never,
she supposed.

“Whether you like it or not, Tamara Swift, you are a very delicate creature.” John turned with these words, facing her so that she could see his eyes now in the dimness, and his gray eyes were almost black in the darkness.

She suppressed the urge to laugh, to tell him that she was far—very far indeed—from the fragile English Rose he thought her to be. She opened her mouth to say as much, but John wasn’t finished.

“When you fainted in my arms like that—”

Tamara felt her face flush with embarrassment, and she decided to hold her tongue. She was appalled at herself. Fainting like that . . . it was so entirely unlike her. And now she had given John reason to think she
was
just another demure female. A delicate girl, like a hundred others he had met and wooed.

“John, I—” she started, marshaling herself again, but he shushed her.

“Tamara, please.” His smile, visible even in the gloom, made her catch her breath, and the heat from her cheeks spread quickly downward. “I know you’re an outspoken girl, and I admire that, truly I do. But just for a moment, hush.”

He took her hand in his, and she weakened at his touch. Tamara bit her lower lip to withhold the tiny cry that begged to be uttered, and cursed herself for entertaining the urge. This closeness, the warmth of his flesh, the glint of his eyes in the near dark, seemed to erase her hesitations about him, leaving only the powerful allure of the man himself. A fire licked across her belly, radiating downward. Like a flower turning to the sun, she felt herself yearning for him.

Tamara knew well enough how to ease the simplest aspects of the yearning, how to put her hand between her legs and move her fingers against the smooth wet flesh until her body jerked spasmodically against her bedclothes and she had to bite her pillow to keep from crying out. But she had never felt
lust
like this before, so that her entire body seemed afire, nor had she imagined what heat the touch of a man could elicit.

Caught in a cascade of conflicting emotions and influences, Tamara was at war with herself.

“I—” she began, but once again he silenced her, this time putting his finger softly to her lips.

Not only did she allow him to do so, but on impulse, Tamara took his finger into her mouth. He blinked in astonishment, then stared at her as the slick wetness of her tongue eased the friction so that his finger slipped back and forth against her lips, in and out of the warmth of her mouth. John let her continue for a moment, his eyes dark, with need, she assumed. She closed her eyes, enjoying the taste of his skin.