Accursed (43 page)

There must be real money among the members of this club,
William thought. Gas lamps were a relative oddity in London. The rich had them, but the rest of society was still subsisting on coal fires to cook, heat their homes, and give them light.

“Wait here,” the servant said, then turned and left William stranded in the doorway. There were three other occupants of the room, older men whom he did not recognize, though they all looked as if they recognized him. He nodded politely to them and moved to an empty settee in the corner. The three men stared at him as if he were a curio in a cabinet, then whispered quietly together.

The room was very warm, and the settee so comfortable that William found himself becoming drowsy. The past two days had been extremely exhausting. He sat up abruptly, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to remain alert. When he glanced again at the three men, he found himself focusing on the man who sat closest to the fire. He was well into middle age, and his eyes shone with a curious light. He caught William looking at him and smiled.

I do know that man,
William thought.
But from where?

The answer hit him suddenly, and he felt foolish.

It was none other than his grandfather’s friend John Dalton, the well-respected naturalist and chemist. William smiled back, acknowledging the connection and hoping Dalton had not been offended by his lack of recognition. The last time he had seen Dalton had been right before the Royal Society had awarded him the Gold Medal. Dalton had been in London on business, and dined at Ludlow House one evening before returning to Manchester.

William stood and was just about to offer his regards to the scientist when he felt a strong hand clap him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” William said as he turned around to see who was touching him. “But I was just about to—”

“I had no idea I’d find you here,” John Haversham said, a broad smile playing across his handsome face. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Yes, well, of course it’s . . . well—” William said, a stiff smile hiding the nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him the evening was just about to get
interesting.

From another room came the tinkling of the dinner bell.

“Shall we go in for dinner, Willy boy?” Haversham said, clapping him hard on the back again.

“Well, I—” William began.

“Excellent.”

Haversham put a friendly arm around William’s shoulder and led him deeper into the belly of the club. As they walked, John continued to talk at William without even waiting for a reply, moving rapidly from one topic to the next. They passed another doorway, through which William could see more than twenty men—all at least five-and-thirty, most much older than that—standing around holding tumblers of cognac and brandishing spicy-smelling cigars as they conversed loudly. They seemed not to have heard the first call of the dinner bell, and it wasn’t until it sounded again that they put away their pleasures and moved out into the hallway.

William lost his garrulous companion in the flood of other men from what he supposed was the drawing room. He did not know why he hadn’t been invited to attend there with the others, but decided that it must be for members only, and since he was merely a
guest . . .

He followed the other men down the hallway and into a massive room with two long tables. The men began to take their seats, and William realized that they must be assigned somehow. His stomach churned as he stood in the middle of the room, unsure where to sit.

“This way, Swift,” a voice said. William looked over to see Haversham standing beside him once again. He gave William a devilish smile.

“You’re sitting right next to me, old boy.”

T
HE DOCKYARD WAS
dark as pitch when they arrived. Tamara could not even discern the shapes of the buildings through the windows of the carriage, because her eyes could see no farther than an arm’s length in front of her.

“You are frightened.” An unruffled voice, smooth as cream, sounded in her ear. Normally, Nigel’s teeth being so close to her neck would have given her pause, but tonight she was so glad of his company that she did not even notice.

“Not frightened, Nigel. Worried.”

She hoped her lie wasn’t too transparent. Though she knew Nigel was concerned for her welfare, she preferred not to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her emotionally unbound. Not even him. There had been enough of that in recent days.

Tamara felt as though she was fighting a constant battle to win the regard of the men in her life, and that she had lost ground of late. She was determined, however, to regain that respect. They had come to rely upon her—with good reason, she believed—and it pained her to think that her emotional outbursts might have led them to think their confidence had been misplaced.

It was a constant struggle to help them rise above the usual presumptions about women. Now that she had left them room to doubt her, she feared that the moment she lost control again, and let her weakness show, they would ignore her opinions and make their own plans.

“Of course, my dear. Nevertheless, I’ve heard it said that worry is cousin to fear.”

Nigel’s condescending tone irked her. “A cousin far removed. I promise you that,” she replied curtly.

He smiled, and she could just see the white gleam of his incisors in the near darkness.

“Touché, my dear. Touché.”

The carriage came to a halt in front of a row of abandoned warehouses that abutted the water. The air stank of rotten fish and human garbage, filling Tamara’s nostrils with its putrescence and making her gag. She pulled a perfumed handkerchief from her pocket and placed the rose-infused fabric against her upper lip. The smell did not abate, but at least it was less overpowering.

“It smells like death,” Nigel offered, his lips curled in distaste.

“Aye, that it does,” Farris countered, slipping off the driver’s seat and coming to stand beside his mistress. Tamara was glad that Farris was with her this night. He was a capable fighter and a true friend whom she had no doubt would defend her with his life.

The horse was restless, pawing the ground with her sturdy hooves and whinnying softly. Farris put a hand on her flank and the mare instantly calmed.

“Even the horse senses it,” Nigel said, his eyebrow raised. He ignored the fact that the beast’s wild looks were at times cast in his direction. “This is a tainted place. You should not have come.”

“Nonsense. What choice do we have? This is where the Protector of Bharath has come, and now in pursuit of him, Horatio has somehow been captured. He may be beyond death, but there are still agonies that may be visited upon a ghost. He needs our help.”

There was a wavering in the ether around them and then Nelson’s comrade, Colonel Dunstan, appeared alongside them. He seemed calm, his brow unwrinkled by worry or fear. Tamara wished that she were a ghost so that she, too, could be impervious to the happenings around her. She had seen that same serene look on Bodicea’s face many a time, right before she flung herself into battle.

“He is being held in there,” the ghost said, pointing to one of the empty warehouses.

“Thank you, Colonel Dunstan,” Tamara answered gratefully. Their spell to locate Gupta would have led them to these buildings, but Dunstan’s guidance had shortened the time it would have taken to find the precise place where Horatio was also a captive.

When she glanced at Nigel, she saw that he was watching the ghost with an odd expression writ upon his face. “How was it that you escaped unharmed, Colonel?”

Dunstan looked offended for a moment, then shrugged. “It was not me they were after, vampire.”

Nigel hissed at the ghost, exposing his fangs.

“Please, Colonel, Mr. Townsend does not mean to be rude,” Tamara said. “He was merely curious. We are all on edge, I’m afraid.”

“No offense taken, milady,” the colonel replied drily, but the wary look in his eye gave lie to his words.

Tamara wished that William were here with her now. Instead he was having a fine time at the Algernon Club, no doubt, probably smoking cigars and talking politics with the rich and influential. She wished, not for the first time in her life, that she had been born the man, and William the woman. Really, he was much more interested in things of the female persuasion—gossiping, clothing, society affairs—than she was.

“Mistress Tamara?” Farris said, interrupting her reverie.

She nodded, leaving those thoughts for another day. “It may be that we need every available hand here. Byron! Come to us now! You are needed!”

It took only a moment. The ether rippled around them, and then Byron materialized beside her with an insouciant toss of his head.

“You called, my precious pet?” Byron asked, giving her a wink. “Hello, faithful Farris, and to you, Nigel.”

“Byron, please, now is not the time to be cavalier. Lord Nelson’s been captured.”

The spectral poet’s entire countenance changed. All the lightness went out of him, and a grim cast came over his features. The twinkle that so often danced in his eyes became a cruel spark.

“Time for a rescue, then,” he said grimly. “Shouldn’t we have Bodicea along, though? She is the warrior among us, after all.”

Tamara shook her head firmly. “She’s watching over Oblis. If he were to escape, there’s no telling what evil he might unleash. I won’t risk it unless there’s no other choice.”

Byron nodded. “Right, then. What are we waiting for?”

“He’s in there,” she said, pointing to the dilapidated warehouse. “Colonel Dunstan was with him when it happened.”

Byron turned to the other ghost, head cocked curiously.

“Dunstan? Have I not heard the name before?”

“Horatio has mentioned me, I’m sure,” the ghost of the colonel replied.

“I suppose,” Byron countered, but he studied the phantom soldier for a long moment before Tamara interrupted.

“You’ve been inside, Colonel Dunstan. What is our best approach?”

“I’m afraid the monsters will sense us the moment we enter, miss. As such, a frontal assault is as good a plan as any.”

Nigel replied, “Yes, well, thank the gods for your unique military expertise.”

B
ODICEA CHOSE NOT
to go into the room.

She hated Oblis with a pure, black rage, and made it clear to the Swifts that she could not be responsible for what happened if she was left too long as his keeper. Truly, she did not trust herself in his presence. Bodicea would kill him with the least enticement, even though it meant the murder of Tamara and William’s father, Henry, in the bargain.

So she stood guard outside his door instead, knowing he was much safer that way.

“Bodiceeeeea . . . Bodicea!”
the thing within screeched, taunting her, willing her to enter its prison and indulge in her hatred. Oblis knew that such conflict could end only with his death or freedom, and was willing to take that risk. But the spectral queen was determined to keep Oblis in check, and stay out of his way at the same time. She knew it was possible—she had managed the feat many times before—but tonight she felt the old rage stirring even more violently than usual.

“Bodicea! I can still hear their cries. Your daughters begged for their lives . . .”

She wished for silence, trying to ignore his words.
Oh, Ludlow, dear one, sweet magician, where are you now?

With grim purpose she let these thoughts linger in her mind, meditating upon bittersweet memories. She missed Ludlow, and though she cared deeply for his grandchildren, it was not the same. She wished with all her heart that he were here with her now. He would have made her suffering more endurable.

Instead she would have to satisfy herself with naught but his memory.