Accursed (48 page)

It was only after those hideous things, with their bulbous yellow eyes, had all disappeared that the first of the accursed men, the twisted creatures that had defiled those very women, tore themselves free of their blankets and bindings and leaped from their cots. Their caretakers screamed and attempted to flee, but to no avail. They were caught and gutted with scaly fingers tipped with ragged claws. The accursed men ate their fill of the human flesh, steaming in the cold night air. The creatures were hungry after such a long time spent waiting for the call.

When they had finished, they lingered with the corpses of the women who had died giving birth to their spawn, waiting patiently until a pair of Rakshasa came and led them away to the waiting water of the Thames and the call of their mistress, the Protector of Bharath.

A
s impressed as William had been with the elegantly appointed interior of the Algernon Club, he had not been prepared for the room Lord Blackheath had called their inner sanctum.

Though all club members had been able to attend the dinner for Sir Darius Strong, along with invited guests, only elite members were ever allowed into the inner sanctum. Haversham imparted to him in a whisper that it was the cause of a great deal of bitterness among the general membership. To those who were never invited into that room—accessible via a long hall that led into an adjacent building—the selection process seemed arbitrary.

Yet it was anything but.

Only true magicians—those with some skill in spellcasting and genuine knowledge of the occult—were invited to the inner sanctum. Most of the well-to-do members of the club were used to wielding the influence that came of age and wealth. But though there was a brotherhood that existed among those who practiced the art of illusion, they had no gift for real spellcraft. Thus, there were doors barred even to them.

The inner sanctum was a huge room whose architecture and decoration were reminiscent of some of the more extraordinary ballrooms William had seen. The floors were marble, but inlaid with tile patterns that suggested a Moorish influence. The ceilings were easily twenty feet high, and all around were wide archways that led into an arcade that circumscribed the chamber. The columns supporting the arches boasted delicately carved woodwork, painted a startling white, as were the walls and the intricate friezes that went around the room above the archways. Oil lamps made of crystal and iron hung down from the ceilings on thick chains.

William was amazed by the place, not merely because of the ostentatious quality of its décor, but because the combination of styles and influences should not have worked at all. An architect by inclination and training, he had a sense for such things, and it surprised him to find the room immensely appealing.

It was shortly after he and Lord Blackheath emerged from the man’s study that the party moved into the inner sanctum. The entirety of the situation was surreal. Men who had witnessed his succumbing to the embarrassing effects of the drug behaved as if nothing at all unusual had taken place.

All in all he was pleased. If they were keen to forget his embarrassment, he was all too willing to oblige, particularly now that he knew the reason for it all.

They meant him no harm—that much had become clear. Quite the contrary. In the space of hours he had been transformed from outsider to a true insider. Not merely a member of the club or its elite, but of its ruling council. More than once while he mingled with those influential men, sipping sherry, a smile came unbidden to his lips, while he thought what Tamara might say when she learned that she was about to become the first female member of the Algernon Club.

Her response would be something inappropriate. Of that he was certain.

He was also amazed, standing in that room and discussing politics and public affairs, by the number of members of the Algernon Club who
were
allowed into the sanctum. Granted, they had gathered from across the nation, but his experience with other magicians was limited, and to realize that there were so many . . . it was a bit daunting. Several times he caught gentlemen staring at him with looks that seemed to speak of disdain, and even anger. It unnerved him enough that he wanted to ask Haversham about it, and so he sought the man out.

William located him in a corner of the room, beneath one of those elegant archways. John was deep in conversation with a pair of men, one a seemingly ancient fellow with wispy white hair and a heavy cane, the other a broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced, fiftyish person who looked more like a dockworker or pugilist than a gentleman. Haversham gestured toward William as he spoke, and when he did, William caught his eye.

With a nod and a smile, Haversham said something to the two men, and all three began to work their way across the room. William met them halfway. The older man had skin like parchment and moved with the pain of age, but his eyes were alight with nimble intelligence that made his mind seem like a wild thing trapped in a cage of frailty.

“William, may I introduce you to Sir Horace Walpole and to the guest of honor tonight, Sir Darius Strong. Gentlemen, William Swift, Protector of Albion.”

“Ah, yes,” William said, turning first to Sir Darius. “I hadn’t had the opportunity to make your acquaintance yet, sir. Please accept my best wishes on the occasion. A very happy birthday to you.”

Sir Darius inclined his head in the slightest nod. “Thank you, Mr. Swift. It is an excellent birthday gift to learn that we will once again have the Protector as a member of the club.”

“
Protectors,
Sir Darius,” John Haversham reminded him.

The hulking man arched an eyebrow and lifted one corner of his mouth in the semblance of a smile. “Yes. That ought to be very interesting. Indeed, it will.”

His companion, Sir Horace, grunted in outright derision. “
Interesting
is a wickedly sharp blade of a word, sir. It cuts friend and foe alike.”

William flinched. “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning, sir.”

Sir Horace sniffed. “Ah, but I’m certain you do. Your grandfather did us a grand disservice, splitting the Protectorship this way. Shameful. Though I suppose he performed his duties to Albion ably enough. We may only hope that you and your sibling are half as effective.”

“Come now, Horace, don’t be so hard on the boy,” Sir Darius said jovially.

There was more to the conversation, but William began to drift. Despite his pique at the old man’s insult, his attention was drawn elsewhere. Even as Sir Horace had been speaking to him, William had caught sight of someone moving in the shadows of an arch off to his left, back in the arcade that ran along beyond it. The figure was vague and insubstantial, yet still it took him a moment to realize that he was looking at a ghost.

Attempting to be inconspicuous, he took another look. There, little more than an outline, a flitting image in the gloom, framed within an arch, was the ghost of Lord Byron.

The specter of the poet beckoned to him with an upraised finger, then darted from sight into the shadows of the arcade, flowing across the air as though carried by a gust of otherworldly wind.

William frowned. Whatever Byron’s purpose for showing himself there, it was obviously urgent.

“Gentlemen,” he said, interrupting something Sir Darius had been saying, and not caring a whit. He straightened his jacket, back stiff, allowing his annoyance at Sir Horace’s insinuations to show on his face. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve just seen an old acquaintance to whom I ought to say hello. It was a pleasure meeting you both.” He nodded at Haversham. “John.”

“Oh, yes, by all means,” Sir Darius said.

But Sir Horace only scowled, and John Haversham eyed him curiously. William ignored them both and strode away, going directly to the arch where he had seen Byron. He passed beneath it and into the shadows of the arcade.

There were lights there, but they were dim, pitiful things that cast little illumination. The arcade ran along the entire length of the sanctum’s outer wall. There were doors set into that wall at regular intervals, and within were rooms at whose purpose William did not take the time to wonder. He heard footsteps behind him, and the buzz of voices, and turned to see a man approaching as though to engage him in conversation. Beyond that, he saw Haversham talking animatedly with Lord Blackheath.

William ignored them all, turning again to search the shadows.

A spectral hand emerged suddenly through the carved wood of a closed door. Byron’s face pushed from the wood, and he looked at William, beckoning once again, then putting a finger to his lips to hush him. Though already the man who was approaching seemed about to speak, William strode quickly through the arcade and opened the door. He stepped through, quickly closing it behind him and turning the lock.

“Well, I say, that was terribly rude,” came a man’s voice from the other side.

William felt sorry for having closed the door in the man’s face like that, but only a very little. He might be a member of the club now, but these men had drugged him, after all. And he had been stung by Sir Horace’s snide comments. If they regarded the Protectorship so highly, they were going to have to make him feel a bit more welcome.

The room he had entered was a small, private office with a pair of high windows protected by heavy drapes. It was dark, save for the glimmer of a street lamp through a slit in the curtains. What little light it offered was muted by the drapes, but it saved him from complete darkness.

“Byron?” William whispered.

His pulse raced, and his skin prickled with the feeling that he was an intruder in this room. When the ghost materialized beside him, flickering with an ethereal glow, he started.

“Do not sneak up on me like that!” he rasped.

Normally Byron would have been amused to have upset him, but tonight the poet only executed a half bow in apology. “I’m sorry to disturb you, William, but you’re needed.”

“What’s happened? Is Tamara all right?”

“Quite. At least for the moment. This crisis seems to be building. We’ve located the Protector of Bharath. He is our ally, not our enemy. But trouble is brewing. Tamara has asked me to fetch you and return to the docks.”

William sighed and glanced down at his formal attire. “Wonderful. I don’t suppose I have time to change?”

Byron raised an eyebrow. “Shall I meet you outside, then?”

“Yes. I’ll be along in a moment, as soon as I can make my apologies.”

It was only after he’d left the room and was slipping through the arcade into the brightness of the inner sanctum that he realized the insouciant stable boy wasn’t due to return with his carriage for at least another hour. He would need to translocate to the docks, of course, but it wouldn’t have been acceptable for him to simply disappear from the midst of the party, and certainly not without bidding his host goodbye.

So he paused just inside the sanctum, glancing about. Several gentlemen stood in a group to his right, one holding a pipe whose smoke swirled and eddied above him. They nodded a greeting toward him, and William returned the gesture.

You’re a member now. Grandfather was a member. They’re here to help you,
he thought.

Yet what did he really know about any of these men? To enter this room they had to have some degree of skill at casting spells, at manipulating the magical energy that existed as an undercurrent to the entire world. But that did not necessarily make them his allies. Even if the Algernon Club itself had been founded with benevolent purpose, might there not be less altruistic men among them? No, William doubted he would be willing to invest unreserved confidence in the Algernon Club without first getting Tamara’s opinion of them. Her intuition was generally far better than his own.

Concerned for his sister’s welfare, and worried that the action might begin without him, he moved in among the men, some of them jocular enough, but others grim-faced and leaden. The drone of conversation and the clink of glasses filled the room and echoed up to the high ceiling. He pushed through a cloud of cigar smoke and soon found himself within arm’s reach of Haversham and Lord Blackheath.

“John,” he said.

“William. There you are, good fellow. I was about to set the dogs after you. Where have you . . . I say, is everything quite all right?” Haversham peered at him curiously.

“Not entirely,” he admitted, glancing at each of the men in turn. “I’m afraid I have to cut the evening short. I have a pressing engagement elsewhere.”

Lord Blackheath’s eyes narrowed. “Is there something brewing? We’re at your service, you know. Might we send some of our spellcasters along to aid you, in any—”

“No, no, that’s quite all right. It’s a small thing, really. My sister has asked me to have a look at some documents she’s found. Shouldn’t be any trouble at all.”

Haversham and Blackheath both looked dubious. William had never been a good liar. But he simply did not trust these men yet. He wanted to. It would be comforting to know they had such allies in the war against the darkness. But it would have been foolhardy to throw in with them without due consideration.