Accursed (46 page)

“Nigel, I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. I still don’t, really . . . ,” Tamara called after him, but he ignored her, choosing to prowl the perimeter of the warehouse rather than respond.

“Don’t let it bother you, my pet,” Nigel heard Byron say. “Vampires are notoriously moody.”

In the darkness, he sneered, but he did not rise to the bait. He needed time to let his anger go, to release the bloodlust and malice that had been nurtured by his fight with Dunstan’s ghost.

“What was I to think?” Tamara said again, her voice low as though she spoke only to Byron, though Nigel knew she was aware that with his vampiric senses he could easily hear her. “Oh, Byron, there is so much I’m still learning, and I am afraid that one day the things I don’t yet know about magic will be the death of me . . . or of those I love.”

Byron muttered something soft and kind, and Nigel felt a black guilt settle over him. He ought to go to Tamara, and soothe her, to help her master the power of the Protectorship.

And he would. He just needed a moment to settle his nerves.

Even as these thoughts played across his mind, he heard a moan coming from an open doorway. He glanced up, thinking they had found Tipu Gupta, but it was Farris, emerging from the room with one hand clapped to the back of his head.

“Farris, are you all right?” Tamara asked.

“Thanks to you, miss. If you hadn’t put that spell on me, I’d’ve been dinner for sure.”

The butler winced and drew his hand away from the back of his head. He’d been injured, and the smell of his blood made Nigel’s nostrils flare with hunger. He managed a smile.

“You fought admirably, my friend. You’ve a lion’s heart.”

The stout, barrel-chested Farris stood a bit taller, touched by this sentiment. “Thank you, sir. I do my best. Nothing special about old Farris, I’m afraid. No magic here, as you know. But I try to make up for that with my fists.” He hesitated a moment before going on. “I hope you’ll accept my apologies, sir. I was quite rude. Misjudged you, I did.”

Nigel sighed. “You’re far from the only one. It is in the past. Let’s neither of us speak of it again.”

Farris nodded gravely, and Nigel found himself pleased to have forged a new bond with that courageous man.

Tamara hurried over, Byron floating behind her, glaring balefully at Nigel. But all her attention was on the butler now. Nigel was pleased that Farris’s arrival had drained away the tension between them.

“How badly are you hurt, Farris?” Tamara asked.

He gave her a weak smile and shook his head. “I’ll have a knot on the back of my head for a few days to come, but I feel as hale as I was before those demons attacked.”

Tamara raised an eyebrow and stared at him doubtfully. “Farris?”

The stalwart butler nodded. “Right, well, I could use another of those spells of yours, mistress. That might fix me up right good and proper.”

Not for the first time, Tamara wondered at the healing properties of magic. She always felt stronger, better able to cope with intense situations after she had used a spell. Sometimes she pondered the idea that one could become quite addicted to the sensation. Or addict others to it. Nevertheless, she cast a minor spell, easing Farris’s pain.

“All right, what’s next?” she asked her friends. “We’ve got to assume that wherever Tipu Gupta is being held, Horatio is imprisoned, as well. Colonel Dunstan led us here to be slaughtered . . . a plan I’m pleased we thwarted. But I do not believe that our locator spell was incorrect. It worked perfectly, and it indicated Gupta’s presence in this very spot, or near enough. Otherwise we would have suspected Dunstan’s duplicity all the sooner. He must have brought us somewhere very near their actual location. We’ve got to search every alley, every building, in the area. And we’ve got to start now.”

W
ILLIAM AWOKE IN
near darkness, to find himself propped up in a stiff leather armchair. He drew in a deep breath and found that his chest hurt.

As his eyes adjusted to the firelight, shapes began to come into focus. The first thing he saw was a huge hearth with a roaring fire, blazing away. He was in a small study. A large teak desk took up a good portion of the room, and two looming curio cases stood as sentries on either side of it. A stuffed lion’s head hung from the wall above the mantel, and at first William thought it was somehow attached to the robed figure that stood below it.

When he squinted, however, he saw that the lion and the man were indeed separate, but somehow that didn’t make him feel any better. There was something sinister about the robed man, his face obscured from William’s gaze. Something sinister about the room itself, and the Algernon Club in general, in fact. It wasn’t entirely unexpected, but it was a disappointment.

He had so enjoyed dinner.

He tried to sit up but found that his body could not do what he asked of it. He was trapped here, probably trussed up like some sacrificial lamb for the slaughter. He knew now that he shouldn’t have come, that all the good food they had served should have been suspect.

Now I shan’t have a hope of getting the recipe for that treacle tart,
he thought petulantly.

“What do you want?” William managed to ask. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and made the words hard to form. He was still slurring a bit, but it was better than before.

What exactly
had
happened? he wondered. He remembered dinner and John Haversham and . . .

Oh, no, William. You didn’t really pet the hair of Sir Robert Peel, as though he were some lapdog!
He felt his cheeks flush crimson. How horrible. He would never live the embarrassment down.

He vaguely remembered the look of shock on the parliamentarian’s face. Here was the man who had brought about the formation of the Metropolitan Police—the
peelers,
for God’s sake—and William had
petted
him.

On the other hand, his mortification was likely for naught. If things continued the way they had been going, he would never be in Sir Robert’s company again. Perhaps there was a bright side to being murdered by a mysterious gang of occultists.

Then again, perhaps not.

“As you’ve no doubt surmised, Mr. Swift, your food was drugged. We required that your mind be dulled, to make it difficult for you to muster your magic, in the event this conversation goes . . .
awry.
”

That final word, so mundane, sounded so sinister now. William swallowed hard.

“It was the treacle tart, wasn’t it?” He sighed. “Villains.”

“Silence!” the robed man commanded.

“Right, fine. You said you wanted to have a conversation, but apparently what you meant to say was soliloquy. Go on, then. Have at it.”

The robed man stood beneath the lion’s head, ominous and still. William felt himself frozen, not merely by the drug in his blood, but by pure dread.

“The Algernon Club has existed in one form or another for centuries,” the robed man said. “At first it was an enclave of magicians, a place where information was exchanged, truces made, and alliances forged. Dark sorcerers were not welcome, though they managed to infiltrate the group from time to time.

“Over the years we acquired a public face, that of the gentlemen’s club, so popular in London in this new era. An interest in magic, and a certain position in society, were all that would be required to make an application, and soon enough the Algernon Club became known for its amusing eccentricity. We are well known now as a collection of sleight-of-hand artists and illusionists, tricksters, and stage mystics.

“Or so the world believes.

“Among the entertainers, however, there remains a core membership, including the directors of the club, who are true to its founders’ wishes. There is real magic here, William, as I’m sure you know well.

“From its inception, the club was aware of the existence of the Protector of Albion. In the earliest days, the Protector was a sailor, a ship’s mate named Harry Curtis. It was an unwanted anchor to him, curtailing his ability to pursue his love of the sea. His mother had been Protector before him, and had passed the mantle to Harry. He despised her for it. They were both commoners. Harry Curtis took his own life without naming an heir to the legacy, but the soul of Albion would not be denied, and soon a new Protector was chosen, and the legacy restored. In time—more than ninety years and three Protectors later—the legacy fell to Maurice Ludlow.

“In all the history of the Protectorship of Albion, Maurice was the first to accept an invitation to become a member of the Algernon Club. The directors of the club did as they had always done, attempting to share secrets and spells to better our fellowship of magicians, as well as safeguard the people of this great land. It was an honor to have the Protector among us.

“Upon his death, Maurice passed the duties and power of the Protector to his grandnephew, Ludlow Swift. Your grandfather, William. He was also a member of our club. Now, though, Sir Ludlow is dead, and we would like to know if the mantle has passed . . . to you.”

The robed man stopped speaking and walked over to one of the curio cabinets. William held his breath as the man unlocked the case and pulled open the door.

Inside were three of the stolen Indian idols.

“Don’t touch them. They are not safe—” William began, but he did not finish as the man lifted his hand and began a protection spell. A blue flash of light formed over the stone creatures, and William gasped.

“Your concern is understandable, but not necessary, William. The club became aware some days ago of the curse that had been laid upon these idols, and the plague of evil they were spreading. In the time since, we have had agents working ceaselessly to locate and recover as many of them as possible, doing our best to halt the spread of this horror. We have purchased them when possible, and stolen them when we had no other choice. Those in our possession have been made safe, counterspells cast upon them so that they are harmless, as long as they reside within our walls.

“In the time since your grandfather’s death, we have been attempting to determine the identity of the new Protector. The disappearance of your father deepened the mystery. It would have been preferable for us to undertake this recent action with the Protector’s approval, but under the circumstances we had no choice but to proceed upon our own instincts. We hope, now, to remedy that situation, and to once again have the Protector of Albion counted among our number.”

“Who
are
you?” William asked.

The man reached up and lowered the hood of his robe, revealing handsome, regal features and dark hair peppered with gray. “Lord Simon Blackheath. The director of the Algernon Club. At your service.”

William stared. His head had begun to clear, the effects of the drug wearing off, and now he felt his pulse racing. He so wanted to believe Lord Blackheath. The idea that he and Tamara might have such allies to aid them in their cause was one that would make him rejoice . . . if it turned out to be true.

Of course they had been aware for some time now that there were other magicians in England, and that some of them belonged to various secret societies. According to Ludlow’s journals, however, most of them were apparently black magicians, devoted to dark deeds and enslaved to evil masters.

“There is no mention of the club in my grandfather’s journals,” William stated flatly, climbing to his feet and brushing off the seat of his trousers.

“Of course not. The true nature of the Algernon Club is cloaked in utter secrecy. Ludlow would never have betrayed our trust in that way.”

Lord Blackheath respectfully lowered his head and waited for a response.

William studied the man. Blackheath could have killed him while he was unconscious, yet he had not. There was also the matter of the stolen idols, which explained many of the errant mysteries connected to the present crisis. It all seemed too good to be true. Which meant it probably was.

As he considered it, though, William decided that the only way to discover whether or not the man could be trusted was to see the conversation through to its natural conclusion. He could not find any reason not to confirm for Lord Blackheath what the man already seemed to know.

“You are offering me membership in the Algernon Club?”

Lord Blackheath smiled, his dark eyes ringed with tiny wrinkles. “Not only in the club, but on the council. The Protector has held a seat on the council for more than a century.”

“All right, then. I accept.” William grinned then, and raised an eyebrow. “But I should inform you, my lord, that you will need two empty chairs, not one.”

Storm clouds passed across Lord Blackheath’s eyes as he frowned at William. “I beg your pardon. Two?”

“I have inherited the Protectorship of Albion, just as you thought,” William went on, straightening his jacket and feeling the magic of his inheritance surging up within him, sparkling just beneath his skin. “But I share that legacy. My grandfather chose two heirs, myself, and my sister, Tamara. I accept your invitation on her behalf, as well.”

The older man’s eyes went wide and he paled, his jaw working for several moments during which he seemed incapable of forming words.