Accursed (42 page)

Sounds of another skirmish drifted from the mist ahead, and he rushed along the street, invisible to the eyes of the living. Harsh, dissonant music rose from the cellar of a small inn as he passed, but all his attention was focused on the noise ahead, for there was a horrid, bestial snuffling that mingled with the groaning of a man in pain.

As he passed a row of shuttered shops, the wind shifted and the mist parted just long enough for him to get a glimpse of his quarry. The very essence of Nelson’s spirit shuddered at the sight of the malformed, reptilian creatures that had once been ordinary men. He thought of his feeling a moment earlier, that it would be better to be dead than to be one of the filthy lost souls in the alleys of Shadwell, and knew that even those wretches were better off than these, whose flesh—and perhaps even souls—had been so twisted by evil.

They shuffled along with that peculiar gait of theirs, something between a dart and a hop, and one of them bore a white-haired, copper-skinned figure over its shoulder. That could only have been Tipu Gupta. There was blood on the man’s face and spattered in his hair.

The devils!
Horatio thought.

But as he gave chase, the mist enveloped the creatures again. The ghost of Lord Nelson drew his spectral sword and raced after them, wishing that the fact of his death allowed him some special perception here in the world of the living. There were advantages to being dead, but that was not among them.

Only moments passed before the wind cleared the mist away again, but his quarry had disappeared. The ghost paused, frustrated, and stared along the street ahead. Off to his right lay the entry to a narrow alley. Behind what appeared to be a rooming house stood a warehouse so vast that it disappeared into the darkness and the fog. As he peered in that direction, there came a creaking noise and a thump of wood upon wood, followed by a clanging as of metal chains.

“It must be,” Nelson whispered to himself.

The air seemed to tremble around him, and even as another cloud of mist began to roll in he felt the presence of another ghost. Almost at the same moment, a voice reached him.

“Admiral,” it said.

Horatio spun around in alarm, sword at the ready, but he lowered the blade when he found the ghost of Colonel Dunstan materializing just behind him. Dunstan wore a grim, disapproving look on his face. Though the mist passed right through him, along with the sickly yellow light from the lanterns of Shadwell Street, still the ghost’s expression was clear.

“Two visits to the East End in one day. I’m pleased to see the so-called Protectors of Albion have finally taken an interest in what’s happening in the less savory corners of London,” Dunstan said.

Lord Nelson scoffed, and then added a scowl for good measure. When he spoke, it was a harsh whisper that came from him, though none of the living could have heard him unless he desired it.

“Now, see here, Colonel. I told you before that I do not appreciate your insinuations, and I’ll have an end to them now, or I shall take it as a personal insult. It may be unfortunate that the sinister goings-on in this neighborhood came so late to the attentions of the Protectors, but that is no blemish upon their honor or the purity of their intentions. Now that they are aware of the situation, they are acting to remedy it with alacrity.”

Dunstan hesitated. His handsome features were still cut into a frown, but after a moment he nodded. “I’ll allow I may have rushed to judgment, Admiral. And if the Swifts are acting as you say, I shall give them the benefit of the doubt. But I’m afraid Kali’s Children will not wait—”

“Kali’s . . . I’m sorry, who are—”

“The transformed men. They bear a curse made in the name of the goddess. Their lives and souls are hers now. Whoever commands them in Kali’s name, whatever master they serve, the monsters will slay the Protector of Bharath as soon as they have all gathered. And if that warehouse is their lair, the old bloke is as good as dead if we don’t stop them now. We cannot wait for your Miss Swift, I’m afraid.”

Nelson did not appreciate the colonel’s tone. Though he maintained that he was no longer truly an admiral himself, merely another soldier in the eternal war between the light and the darkness, he would not be ordered about by a man he had outranked. Dunstan wasn’t even a naval man!

Yet the logic was sound, and what truly mattered was the crisis at hand.

“You’re right, of course,” he said, turning the blade of his sword toward the narrow, dirty alley. “With me, then, Colonel. We must save Gupta, at all costs, for it seems certain our answers lie with him.”

“Lead on, Admiral,” Dunstan replied.

Their forms little more than mist within mist, they rushed across the street and down the alley.

The windows of the rooming house were open and shouting could be heard from an upper floor. Beneath that, the subtler, primal sounds of sexual congress came from a grime-encrusted basement window. They ignored all these signs of life, for it was death that concerned them now.

Horatio and Dunstan reached the warehouse and passed, insubstantial, through the outer wall.

Inside, the monsters were waiting.

T
HE CARRIAGE CLATTERED
along cobbled streets at dangerous speeds. As the horses galloped along Swain’s Lane through Highgate Cemetery, Tamara sat forward, hands clutching the edge of her seat.

Nigel was beside her, and she could feel the darkness and the power radiating from him. He wasn’t merely tense with anxiety and curiosity, but hungry in anticipation of violence. Nigel was darkly handsome, and his lusts for the pleasures of the flesh were eclipsed only by those of Byron himself. He had no trouble convincing the trollops in the pubs he frequented to let him suckle at their breasts or throats, and prick them with his teeth just enough to taste of their blood. He would not kill them, only take what was freely given.

And not always of trollops. Often enough, from what Tamara had heard and surmised, he was given such a gift from a lady or a maiden. Some of her own friends, upon meeting Nigel at Ludlow House, had spoken of their intense admiration for him, of the man’s magnetism.

But this night, a different kind of lust was upon him. Not carnal lust, or bloodlust, but the hunger for battle. Once upon a time Nigel Townsend had been touched by evil, and it had tainted him ever since. It had been the temptation that led to the death of the only woman he had ever loved, and forever stained his friendship with Ludlow Swift. Nigel hated what he was, and though he posed as a reluctant fighter—even a coward at times—he relished any opportunity to turn his hatred outward.

Tamara knew him better than anyone, but she was keenly aware that even she knew very little of his life before he had come to London. He rarely even hinted at his own past, and she dared not ask. Someday, she would have the courage, she would find the moment.

But this was not the time.

“Can’t the bloody horses go any faster?” Nigel called.

Farris was up on his seat at the front of the carriage, holding the reins. They could not see him, and he didn’t bother to slide open the wooden panel that would allow him to address them directly. He did not respond at all, in fact.

“I’m sure he’s driving them as fast as he dares,” Tamara said.

“Perhaps he ought to be more daring, then,” Nigel replied curtly.

She shot him a withering glare. “Farris is one of the bravest men I’ve ever encountered. And as he still must draw breath . . . as his heart must continue to beat for him to live . . . I’d say he has quite a bit more to lose than you do, Nigel. Caution should not be confused with stupidity.”

The vampire seemed about to argue. He had the telltale gleam in his eyes. But then he only smiled, and reached out to pat her hand.

“Of course, Tamara.”

“Don’t patronize me!” she snapped.

Nigel scowled. “I wouldn’t dare. I merely acquiesce to your greater wisdom.”

She wasn’t sure if he was mocking her, but before she could admonish him further, the horses whinnied loudly, and Farris shouted something she could not hear. The carriage swung to one side as they started to turn, and in that moment there came a melodious trill. A ghost began to coalesce in front of them.

Bodicea was meant to be guarding her father, so Tamara expected Horatio, or perhaps Byron. Instead it was the spirit of Colonel Dunstan who now manifested before her.

“Miss Swift,” the ghost began. “I bring dark tidings. Admiral Nelson and I located the lair of Kali’s Children . . . the cursed men who have been involved in such unpleasant deeds. But the creatures were waiting for us . . . not only they, but demons as well, Rakshasa summoned by the same master. I am . . .”

The ghost straightened up, as though reporting to a superior officer, but his expression was grim.

“I am sorry to report that in our effort to free the Protector of Bharath, Admiral Nelson has also been taken captive.”

“What?” Nigel snapped, eyes narrowing. His upper lip pulled back, revealing his fangs. “But Nelson’s a ghost! Those things could hardly keep hold of him for very long.”

Dunstan’s eyes darkened. “There are greater powers at work here, vampire, than you know. A ghost cannot die, but a soul can be ruined. Tainted. Destroyed.”

The words were like needles in Tamara’s heart. “Oh, no, Horatio,” she whispered. And then it was her turn to shout to Farris—to speed the horses, and caution be damned.

H
e could still smell her musk on his fingers.

As he slipped from the carriage and stepped out onto the street, he let his mind linger on the image of Sophia’s naked form pressed underneath him, the way her eyes widened in pleasure as he kissed her honeyed neck. He wished with all his heart that he were back in time, still being held in his love’s warm embrace.

“Will that be all, sir?” the stable boy said, his disdain barely held in check.

“Ten. I will expect you back then,” William replied curtly. He did not like the look of this fellow, and thought that when all the present insanity had passed, he would speak with Farris about it.

The boy shot William an annoyed glance—
as if he can read my mind,
William mused—then nodded and closed the carriage door before hopping back into the driver’s seat. He hadn’t wanted to put his boots back on after supper, and drive into London proper, but William had brooked no argument. They’d taken the open carriage, and the boy had sat for the whole of the trip in sullen silence.

Now William watched the carriage drive off, leaving him with no means of rapid departure, should the need arise. He just hoped the evening did not yield any surprises of that sort.

William pulled the bell at the front door to the Algernon Club, and waited. After only a moment, an old man in a black tie and short coat opened the door and stared at him, eyes narrowed.

“How may I help you, sir?”

“William Swift. I received an invitation to dinner.”

The servant nodded, and stepped back away from the door so that William could enter.

“Thank you,” he began, but the servant turned away from him and walked off. Not sure if he was meant to follow or not, William continued to stand in the hall, feeling stupid. The man paused and glanced back at him with an expression that suggested he thought William might be more than a little dim-witted.

“This way, sir,” the servant said, his voice like aged parchment, coarse and reedy. He did not wait for William to reply, but continued on down the hall.

William followed, wishing that the place didn’t make him so nervous. As he took in his surroundings, the rich brown paneled walls and the warm burgundy-leathered upholstery, he felt an undercurrent of power that belied the charm of the rooms. It was as though all the trappings of the place were a veneer that was meant to mask its true nature, but that the façade was made transparent by his newfound magical senses.

He decided to keep such thoughts to himself. He did not know these people—
supposed
friends of his grandfather—and did not want to offend them or, worse yet, place himself somehow in jeopardy.

The old servant made a left at the end of the entrance hall, and led William into a large, well-appointed library. There was a fire in the grate, and the gas lamps flickered like small fairies inside their glass sconces along the walls.