Accursed (4 page)

“Sophia, you must understand that Tamara is . . . difficult. She has a mind of her own. She always has. I could importune her to be more thoughtful about her choice of companions, but—”

A look of irritation swept across her features. “She was unconscionably rude to me. She had the gall to tell me that the only reason I had been invited this afternoon was because you had asked her to.”

William blanched. “Sophia, I . . .”

Sophia shook her head. “Your sister and I have never seen eye-to-eye, and we both know why. She is intolerably jealous of your love for me.”

There was some truth to what Sophia said, but William knew it was only a half-truth. Sophia was accusing Tamara of being stubborn and willful, and less than demure.
But you are more alike than either of you cares to admit,
William thought wryly. If only they realized how much more could be accomplished if they put their differences aside.

“I shall speak to Tamara tonight, my dear. I will let her know that such rudeness will not be tolerated.”

This seemed to satisfy Sophia.

“Thank you.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Shall I see you tonight? At the Wintertons’ dinner party?”

He nodded.

“Then, tonight, my William,” she whispered as she slid from the desk and straightened her skirts.

She offered him her hand and he took it, slowly leading her to the door. As he reached for the knob Sophia reached up for him, her soft lips pressing wantonly against his own. He was so surprised that at first he kept his mouth closed, but as the kiss continued, he opened his lips to her, feeling their soft fullness, enjoying the gentle play of tongue and lip.

He wrapped his arms around her thin shoulders and she melted into him, her soft body pressing against his own. He was sure he could feel her heart beating between them. After a few moments, he broke off the kiss and stared down into her eyes.

“You are the loveliest creature I have ever seen,” he rasped. She smiled shyly up at him, and then abruptly reached out and opened the door.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Swift,” she murmured.

Then she was gone, across the lobby and into the shawl her maid Elvira held waiting for her. She waved at William as he stood watching her from the doorway of his office.

“She truly is a woman to be reckoned with,” Harold said as he came from behind the tellers’ counter to stand beside his employer.

William could only nod. Every time they parted, it was only in the wake of her departure that he would realize she had stolen another piece of his heart.

“This just arrived for you,” Harold said as he handed William a sealed envelope.

“From whom?” William inquired.

Harold gave him a perplexed shrug. “That I cannot tell you. One moment my desk was clear, the next there was this envelope, addressed to you.”

William ran his fingers over the textured paper. Heavy, expensive stock.
Interesting,
he thought as he split the seal with his finger and opened it.

The Algernon Club cordially invites you to a dinner in honor of Sir Darius Strong . . .

William’s interest was instantly piqued. the Algernon Club was a very private, very secret gentlemen’s club whose members were all magicians, some of the stagecraft variety and others dabblers in actual spellcraft. His grandfather Ludlow Swift had been a member. Until recently, he had assumed that his grandfather had been a member because he enjoyed the company of other stage magicians. But then he had learned that Ludlow was the Protector of Albion, the mystical defender of England. Upon their grandfather’s death, William and Tamara had inherited the magical power and the duties of the office.

And now William wondered . . . old Ludlow had been in a different class not only from the stage magicians but also from the amateur spellcasters who belonged to that club. So what did his grandfather benefit from being a member?

Could it be as simple as companionship?
he wondered.
Was it merely that he had friends there?

He frowned as a darker thought capered across his mind.
Friends, and perhaps enemies, too.
It was possible that Ludlow had participated in the activities of the Algernon Club to keep an eye on those magical dabblers. If so, it was something William and Tamara ought to be doing, as well. And if some of the stage magicians there were old friends of his grandfather’s, well, it would be disrespectful of him not to accept their invitation.

He finished reading the invitation and sighed. It requested that he come alone.

This was not going to sit well with Tamara.

T
HE EARLY-EVENING
sky was turning from purple to gray and a chill was descending as the old man wound his way through the dirty labyrinthine streets of London’s East End. His path had taken him south from Fleet Street, nearly to Blackfriars Bridge, and then east along the Thames by Earl Street. The river was so thick with the repugnant outflow of the city’s sewers and the offal that spilled from fisheries and canneries upon its banks that the stink of it was staggering. The old man covered his mouth and nose with a scarf and breathed through it out of necessity, and even then through thinly parted lips, only sipping the filthy air.

If the wind was right, he had heard, the stench of the Thames could drive a man to his knees.

Soon he turned slightly northward once more and immersed himself in the crooked lanes making up the slums that had spilled over from the docks, not far away. Cargo was never left behind on those docks, but humans often were. Sailors with nowhere left to go, unable to find a ship that would hire them. Who would
choose
to live in this filth and stink, after all? Only those with no choice at all.

He wrapped his threadbare overcoat around gaunt shoulders, hoping to keep the worst of the cold away from his bones. Laughter erupted from a night-house, one of the taverns where only thieves and water rats dared to congregate. He kept his eyes pointed forward and walked on, his gait confident though his joints ached from too many years of overuse. It had been a lovely day, an unusual one in this gray, smoke-choked city, and the sun had brought warmth to the early spring. But now that night was falling, the echo of the waning winter only increased his pain.

He tried to imagine the warm sun of Calcutta shining on his face and arms, scalding him with warmth. The old man narrowed his eyes to slits; for a moment, it worked, then his foot caught on a raised cobblestone and he fell forward, only stopping himself from injury by catching hold of a man who had appeared suddenly beside him.

The man bent under his weight, but did not fall. When he began to offer his thanks, he saw that his savior wore the twist of dementia on his leathery face, and carried in his eyes such madness that he ought to have been at Bedlam Hospital. But the stink of alcohol and rot on the man suggested that he might not live long enough for it to matter whether or not he received treatment.

This was the duality of life, this idiot who knew nothing of the help he had given. It reminded the old man of the
siva ardha-nari
—the Shiva Half Female—who was the divine representation of the interconnection between the gods and humanity. The ultimate duality.

He sighed, wishing now more than ever that he were back home, released from the terrible burden that was his alone to bear. But such was not to be. The nightmare was his alone to prevent. So he tried not to breathe, and followed the snaking path his senses guided him along, deeper into a twisted knot of alleys where the streets were coated with filth and the structures seemed only moments away from crumbling in upon themselves.

Yet when he found the small building, a two-story structure only slightly less dilapidated than the rest, he knew immediately that this was the place. Magic emanated from it with such power that he could feel it, and he could see a corona of bruised purple light limning the doorway. What magic there was inside was darker than the night and filthier than the streets. His stomach churned with nausea, and bile burned up the back of his throat as he went up to the front of the place.

He put his hand to the door and pushed it open.

Inside, the smell of fear and death was palpable, overriding even the stench of the river. As he walked down a dark, garbage-strewn hallway, tired eyes gazed at him from half-open doorways, which led into shadowy flats. Some of the faces he saw were curious, others dull, and still others cruel. The aroma of spices from his homeland drifted from one open door, but he ignored this distraction and followed the other smell, the corrupt scent of death. At the end of the hallway there was a final door.

He found it locked. Without a word, he closed his eyes and lifted his right hand. A spark of green flame flew forward and the door crashed open, nearly tearing from its hinges.

The old man stepped through the doorway and out into a large courtyard. It was open to the night sky above, but there was no fresh air to be found here, not in the bowels of London town.

The courtyard had been turned into a makeshift hospital. Under a large tarpaulin were row upon row of cots, each one occupied by a horribly suffering man or woman. In the slums of the East End, death lingered constantly in the night, keeping a constant vigil, waiting to carry away the souls of those whose flesh had surrendered.

A woman’s cry cut through the moans of the afflicted, so piteous that the old man found himself inexorably drawn to her. His feet made no sound as he walked across the dirt. He found her resting on a small cot in the middle of the filthy courtyard. She had once been pretty, with aquiline features that would have rendered most men speechless. Now her face was taut with pain, her features gaunt, her lips drawn back in a grimace revealing brown, semi-rotten teeth.

When she saw the old man, she reached out toward him with one thin brown arm that was almost cadaverous. He could detect almost no flesh at all beneath the parchment skin. She moaned something, but her mouth was so dry that no true words passed between her lips.

He took the woman’s hand in his and squeezed, ever so gently. She tried to speak again, but he shook his head.

“I understand, my child, there is no need to explain,” he said in Hindi.

She was so weak that when she began to cry, the tears merely leaked from the corners of her eyes. The old man bent painfully over her and placed his other hand on her distended belly. She didn’t flinch, allowing him to rest his palm there without complaint.

He bowed his head and began to chant. The words were soft and unintelligible. As his lips moved in time with the words, the woman’s features began to soften.

She looked up at him, her brown eyes clear for the first time, and smiled.
Thank you,
she mouthed. Then her eyes closed and her breathing slowed. Finally, it stopped altogether.

The old man watched the woman’s abdomen deflate, her belly shrinking until it was as it had once been.

“What are you doing?” demanded a voice from behind him.

The old man turned slowly, one hand on his back where the muscles were complaining that he had bent so low. A young Indian man stood there glaring at him, demand etched across his face. A doctor, perhaps, or a man of some medical knowledge, administering to the poor and the lost.

“I come in the glorious name of Vishnu, the creator, to give what help I can,” answered the old man.

This seemed to calm the young doctor. He nodded and beckoned the old man to come with him, to the far side of the courtyard. There, the doctor turned and sighed.

“It’s safer here, and there’s a bit of a breeze. The air is cleaner. You can feel it when you breathe,” the doctor said.

The old man nodded. The air was still filthy, stinking of the city’s viscera, but the smell of fear and death was not as strong here.

“Was that woman a relative of yours?” the doctor asked.

The old man shook his head. “I came to help those who are beyond your expertise.” His Hindi words punctuated with emphasis, like a chisel on stone.

The doctor cleared his throat, and he eyed the old man carefully. “You are a fakir—”

“No,” the old man said strongly. “I am only a humble servant of the gods. Nothing more.”

“But I saw what you did in there, with that woman—”

Once again the old man cut him off, this time laying a hand on the young doctor’s shoulder. “I did nothing.”

The doctor’s eyelids fluttered drowsily and his flesh took on a jaundiced hue. When he focused on the old man again, his eyes were glazed with a white film, a sticky veneer that would dissipate in moments. As he spoke, he began to smile, as though he had just learned a wonderful secret.

“Of course,” the doctor said. “And we are grateful for your aid.”

The old man nodded gravely. “Tell me what you can of this plague, Doctor, this strange sickness.”

It took the doctor a moment to register what the old man was saying, then he smiled again. “I was a doctor in India. Here I am nothing but a friend to these unfortunates. My brother was a sailor for the East India Company, but they said he was difficult, that he did not follow orders, and so they hired more crewmen here, and left him behind. He wrote our family to tell us of the squalor so many of our people are living in, some by choice and others because they have no alternative. I came to do what I could to help.