Accursed (57 page)

Bodicea ran her through with her spear and brought her sword down, shearing off one of Kurukulla’s arms. “You might have had the power to stand against us before, demon!” she shouted. “But no longer!”

Then Nelson was there, and others joined him, moving so quickly that in seconds the demon-goddess was only barely visible among the semi-transparent forms of the ghosts, who tore and hacked at her, ripping apart that deep blue flesh, plucking out eyes and snapping bones.

A specter William did not recognize took up the ceremonial dagger with which Priya would have killed him, and drove it through the center of her head, into the hollow, bleeding socket of her third eye.

Despite all the demon-goddess had done, Tamara turned to William and buried her face in his shoulder, so as not to see. But only for a moment. Then she took a long breath and forced herself to look, to bear the horror of the war she was so much a part of.

At that moment, the scattered few of Kali’s Children still alive let out a chorus of shrieks. They contorted in pain and began to wither, and in seconds they began to die. One by one they crumbled to the ground, leaving little more than ash and a few scattered scales.

All but John Haversham, who was frozen with Farris in some kind of magical stasis just a dozen feet away, trapped between human and monster.

Byron stayed out of the massacre of Kurukulla, and his expression was troubled. Just when it seemed he was about to call a halt to it, Nelson was the one who drew back from the remains of their enemy.

“Enough!” he cried. “She is dead. We are not barbarians.”

Bodicea swung around, war paint still streaking her face and naked flesh, and glared at him.

“Well, not all of us, at least,” Byron noted.

The ghosts began to disperse. All save Horatio, Bodicea, and Byron.

William began to walk toward the corpse of Kurukulla. Tamara fell into step beside him and Nigel followed along, his eyes dark and his nostrils flaring with either distaste or hunger, William was not sure which. Beyond the corpse was another, the broken, bleeding form of Tipu Gupta, the true Protector of Bharath. Nothing remained of his face that would allow them to recognize him, but William had seen him die. The old man was gone, and somewhere in India, another had risen to bear the burden and receive the gift of Protectorship.

All their enemies had been destroyed, so they were startled by the wet, shifting sound that arose from the remains of Kurukulla. Her followers were gone or dead, the fog dispersed. The ghosts had torn her apart. How could she have survived? William stared in shock at her corpse.

A low moan came from beneath the gore and shattered bone.

It shifted.

A hand worked its way up through ravaged flesh, and then a second. Long, slender hands.

Priya Gupta tore her way out of the remains of Kurukulla.

“Careful,” Nigel warned.

Byron scoffed. “Careful, really? Look at her eyes.”

William did look, and he saw what Byron already had. The girl gazed around at the ghosts with wide eyes, lost and afraid. She did not know where she was, that much was clear.

“What’s happened to her?” Nelson asked, his spectral essence shimmering in the night beside them.

“Something in her mind has snapped,” William replied.

Tamara hugged herself and shivered as she stared at the girl. “I don’t think so. I think her mind snapped a very long time ago. And I think she was more powerful than her father ever knew. I confess, I’m not sure there ever really was a goddess . . . except that Priya wanted there to be.”

William gaped at her. “You don’t think she did all this herself? The curse and the Children of Kali, summoning the Rakshasa to serve her . . . why, look what she became! The goddess transformed her from within, warped her flesh, and—”

“Did she? I wonder,” Tamara said.

Then she strode away, back toward Farris and Haversham, arms still crossed, and shivering as though she was so cold she feared she might never be warm.

Nigel was beside William then, and he also watched Tamara go. Then the two turned to stare at Priya Gupta, who gazed around at the ghosts with wide and fearful eyes.

“If she’s right—” Nigel began in a dark rumble.

He never completed the sentence.

A jangling discordant sound filled the night, and the space between Priya and her father’s corpse wavered, then split open. There was only blackness beyond, a liquid dark that William had seen before.

“Tamara!” he shouted. “The Rakshasa!” For that tear in the fabric of reality was a portal to the realm of those vicious, bestial demons.

“Will, get back!” Tamara shouted as she ran to aid them.

Nigel shouted something to the ghosts. Bodicea and Nelson took to the air, floating above the Protectors. The vampire dropped into a crouch and bared his fangs, eyes gleaming red in the dark.

A pair of Rakshasa leaped from the breach with a sound like paper tearing. They did not so much as glance at William, Tamara, and their allies. With terrible speed they fell upon Priya Gupta. One grabbed her legs, claws puncturing her flesh, and the other took her by an arm and a fistful of her hair, and even as William and Tamara began to react, they hauled her back through that rippling black portal.

That jangling noise came again and the portal collapsed in upon itself, leaving only a small eddying breeze in its wake.

C
olonel Dunstan bore witness to it all.

William Swift had bound his spirit to that spot in front of the gates of Buckingham Palace, and thus captured he could only watch as the Children of Kali were destroyed by the ghosts of Albion, could only stare in abject despair as Priya Gupta’s grand plan unraveled.

He had lived his life as a faithful subject of the British Crown, largely ignoring his Indian heritage. After his death he had come to realize the injustice done to his mother’s people, not merely as a minority in British society, but as a conquered nation under the rule of British generals.

His soul had seethed with the injustice, and when he had learned of Priya’s dark deeds he had sworn allegiance to her cause. He had loved his father and he loved England, had served her in war . . . but he felt with all his heart that something had to be done to make the people see that British imperialism was unjust.

Instead he watched in astonishment as Priya Gupta was transformed, as something emerged from within her. The colonel understood that the thing was a representation of some facet of Kali, but not one he recognized. Yet how it had come about was a mystery to him. Priya had claimed to serve the goddess, but he had not given much thought to that.

Then, the moment the dark goddess killed the Protector of Bharath, it all came crashing to a halt.

The Children of Kali crumbled to dust. The last of the Rakshasa had been destroyed. The ghosts of Albion rallied around the Protectors and tore the goddess apart . . .

And so it ended, leaving Colonel Dunstan a prisoner of war, years after his own death.

Hours passed, the horizon began to lighten, and by then the Protectors had done their work all too well. The corpse of Tipu Gupta was removed, the ashen remains of the Children of Kali were scattered on the breeze, and the dead Rakshasa were burned with magical flame that reduced the monsters to little more than char upon the ground. Only the buckled street remained, as a mystery that would never be solved.

By the time the sun rose on a spectacular spring day, there was no trace of the war that had taken place overnight. No trace, save for the ghost held captive at the gates of Buckingham Palace.

For hours, Dunstan watched people come and go at the palace, saw couples strolling through St. James’s Park, and watched carriages rattling by. But of course, they could not see him. Colonel Dunstan was a silent phantom, sentenced to the anguish of watching the very people he had betrayed, unaware that anything at all had happened, unaware that they were party to prejudice and oppression.

He was in Hell.

All that long day, he was left to suffer in defeat. It was just after dark when he sensed the presence of another ghost, and turned to find the specter of Admiral Nelson staring at him with his one good eye.

“Oh, let me guess,” Dunstan’s ghost said, each word filled with bitterness. “You’re here to tell me that I’m a traitor to Albion and the queen, that I’m a disgrace, that as a military man you’re appalled by my behavior, and if I weren’t already dead—”

Nelson raised his chin, back straight. “Actually, no.”

The colonel faltered. He felt the weight of the magic that bound him, and a strange tiredness that he knew must be of the soul, since he had flesh no longer. He stared at Nelson expectantly.

“Go on, then,” he said finally.

“You are a disgrace to the uniform you wore in life,” Nelson said, his tone matter-of-fact. “There’s no doubt of that. And aside from all else, you betrayed me, Colonel. I’d thought us friends. Perhaps, though, it will surprise you to learn that I don’t believe you were entirely wrong. It may be that our control of India is oppressive. And I’ll allow that if the Protectors had been more vigilant they might have learned of the plague spreading through the East End sooner.

“But I have watched them, sir. They are learning, and meanwhile, they struggle to do their best. As for the empire . . . well, that is a war for others to fight now. For the living. I can only hope that those representing our interests abroad behave honorably. If they do not, they bring shame upon us all.”

Dunstan had no reply to that. He was indeed surprised to hear a patriot like Nelson speak so, but he would not give the admiral the satisfaction of admitting it.

“And now?” he asked. “What’s to become of me?”

Nelson floated toward him so that only a few inches separated the two ghosts. His expression was grave. “Now, Colonel, you will be given your fondest wish. You will no longer have to suffer the cruelties of Albion. In fact, you will no longer be welcome here at all. You were a son of Albion, Dunstan, and you spat in her face. There were other ways to accomplish your ends, and you chose the vilest path imaginable. A few minutes from now, William Swift shall be along to free you from your bonds, and to cast the appropriate spell to banish you from this place forever.”

“Banished?” the colonel asked, his spectral essence recoiling at the word.

“From the only home you have ever known,” Horatio confirmed. “Yes. Forever. I haven’t the magic to do it myself, but I wanted to make sure that I delivered the news to you personally.

“Goodbye, Colonel. May your soul wander for eternity without rest.”

Then the ghost of Admiral Nelson shimmered and was gone.

When a carriage arrived with the Swifts’ man Farris on its high seat, and William stepped out onto the road, Colonel Dunstan did not say a word. He only glared at them until the spell had been cast, and then his essence was shunted into the spirit world and he felt himself dragged away . . . away from Albion . . . until he was deposited out in the ether somewhere, to find his own way.

S
EVERAL NIGHTS LATER,
Tamara Swift stood alone just outside the door of the observatory, looking out over the grounds of Ludlow House and listening to the breeze rustling through the gardens. The darkness was alive with the songs of night birds and redolent with the scents of the thousands of flowers that had bloomed in the past few weeks. Spring had brought rebirth, as it always did, the seasons turning around again.

It had been a chilly spring thus far but tonight, for the first time, it was warm. Even the breeze carried with it a comfortable warmth. And yet still she shuddered out there alone in the dark, cold on the inside.

The memory of the recent tragedies in London—the plague, the madness of Priya Gupta, and the murder of the girl’s father—was too fresh in her mind for the warmth to reach her. From what she and William had been able to discover through gossip and through the spying of their ghosts, there was no trace of the plague remaining. Hundreds had died and were being mourned, but even the members of Parliament who had succumbed were said to have died of “sudden illness” or “accident.”