Read Heart of Perdition Online
Authors: Selah March
Heart of Perdition
Heart of Perdition
By Selah March
As the nineteenth century draws to a close, James Weston, Earl of Falmouth, is dying along with it. Despite living in an age of airships and automatons, even London’s finest physicians cannot cure the young man’s ailing heart. His last hope lies in retrieving a powerful artifact from the remote island home of an eccentric scientist’s daughter.
Elspeth Shaw prefers her solitary life to the tragic results that come from mixing in society. Elspeth is cursed: every mortal being who forms an attachment to her dies a horrible death. Yet when the doomed Lord Falmouth arrives in search of the very artifact that blights her, she hasn’t the will to refuse. But the price for cheating death may be more than any human can pay…
22,000 words
Dear Reader,
It’s hard to get excited about the month of March. The weather in this part of the world isn’t quite spring, and if it’s still cold, can make a long winter feel even longer. There are no fun holidays to look forward to except the green beer, corned beef and cabbage of St. Patrick’s Day, and the school season is at a point where the kids are starting to whine about having to wake up in the morning and go.
That’s why I’m excited about our 2012 March releases at Carina Press. The variety and excellence of the stories give us a reason to anticipate and enjoy the month of March! The rich diversity of these books promises a fantastic reading month at Carina.
Kicking off the month is mystery author Shirley Wells, returning with her popular Dylan Scott Mystery series. Joining her book
Silent Witness
at the beginning of March is BDSM erotic romance
Forbidden Fantasies
by Jodie Griffin; Christine Danse’s paranormal romance
Beauty in the Beast;
and a romantic steampunk gothic horror that’s like no steampunk you’ve ever read,
Heart of Perdition
by Selah March.
Later in the month, fans of Cindy Spencer Pape will be glad to see her return with another paranormal romance installment,
Motor City Mage,
while Janis Susan May returns with another creepy gothic mystery,
Inheritance of Shadows.
Historical romance lovers will be more than pleased with
A Kiss in the Wind,
Jennifer Bray-Weber’s inaugural Carina Press release.
I expect new Carina Press authors Joan Kilby, Gillian Archer and Nicole Luiken will gain faithful followings with their books:
Gentlemen Prefer Nerds,
an entertaining contemporary romance;
Wicked Weekend,
a sexy and sweet BDSM erotic romance; and
Gate to Kandrith,
the first of a fantasy duology that features wonderful world-building. Meanwhile, returning Carina authors Robert Appleton and Carol Stephenson do what they do best: continue to capture readers’ imaginations. Grab a copy of science-fiction space opera
Alien Velocity
and hot romantic suspense
Her Dark Protector.
Rounding out the month, we have an entire week of releases from some of today’s hottest authors in m/m romance, as well as some newcomers to the genre. Ava March kicks off her entertaining and hot m/m historical romance trilogy with
Brook Street: Thief
. Look for the other two books in the trilogy,
Brook Street: Fortune Hunter
and
Brook Street: Rogue,
in April and May 2012. Erastes, who can always be counted on to deliver a compelling, well-researched historical, gives us m/m paranormal historical romance
A Brush with Darkness,
and science-fiction author Kim Knox makes her debut in the m/m genre with her sci-fi romance
Bitter Harvest.
KC Burn gives us the stunning m/m contemporary romance
First Time, Forever.
Joining them are new Carina Press authors Dev Bentham, with a sweet, heartfelt m/m romance,
Moving in Rhythm,
and Larry Benjamin with his terrific debut novel, m/m romance
What Binds Us.
As you can see, March comes in like a lion but will not go out like a lamb. All month long we offer powerful stories from our talented authors. I hope you enjoy them as much as we have!
We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.
Happy reading!
~Angela James
Executive Editor, Carina Press
www.carinapress.com
www.twitter.com/carinapress
www.facebook.com/carinapress
To Barbara, for never letting me cross the wrong lines, and to Jacob, for his unending patience and support.
22 September 1899
All through the final months of the century, Elspeth read signs and omens in the skies above the main island of St. Kilda.
Birds careened overhead in mad, unnatural patterns before dashing themselves against the cliffs and falling broken into the restless sea. Clouds spelled out warnings in ancient Greek, and hailstones sharp as darning needles forced the village folk into their houses and down to their knees in frantic prayer. In August, the crazed winds whipped an early fall of snow into a seething, crystalline god of wrath. The North Atlantic threw another of her prolonged fits of temper, and St. Kilda—situated some forty miles west of the Hebrides and a hundred miles from the Scottish mainland—bore the brunt of her rage. Conditions grew hostile to human survival.
Elspeth, who alone on the island possessed both an understanding of ancient Greek and the time to note the behavior of suicidal seabirds, knew she was somehow to blame.
“The ground’s froze solid,” said Mrs. MacGillvrey, her middle-aged peasant’s face a study in accusation, “and it’s only just September. The men don’t dare fish these rough waters, and hunting’s a lost cause. What few crops were saved won’t be enough to last the winter. There’s babes goin’ hungry—”
“I’ve already said yes, Mrs. MacGillvrey. By all means, take as much from the pantry as will fit in the handcart.” Elspeth refused to meet her housekeeper’s gaze, staring instead into the cold, empty fireplace on the other side of the library. Beyond the windows, the storm’s inhuman howl all but obliterated the tinkling of her father’s wind chimes.
“I’ll be gone ’til Friday next,” Mrs. MacGillvrey warned her. “How will ye feed yerself? And what will ye do if one o’ them blasted contraptions takes it into its head to murder ye in yer sleep?”
Elspeth shrugged, an unladylike mannerism she’d picked up from her father sometime in her first five years life and hadn’t ever been able to lose. “I am as able as you to brew tea, toast bread and simmer porridge, and I see no evidence that my life is in imminent peril. But I do thank you for your concern.”
She lifted her eyes in time to see her housekeeper make a sour face. Mrs. MacGillvrey had never liked her, not from the moment they’d met. It was why Elspeth had hired her in the first place. The woman’s instant antipathy made her the perfect candidate for the position—that and her ability to speak a decent version of the Queen’s English in addition to St. Kilda’s Gaelic dialect. Although it made for an exceedingly lonely existence, Elspeth knew it was better this way.
For both of us.
“Then I’ll take meself to bed, if ye don’t mind, and be up and out at first light.”
“Yes, of course,” Elspeth said. “And do take care, Mrs. MacGillvrey.”
A contemptuous sniff was the housekeeper’s only reply.
In the library of the great house built into the side of the highest hill on the island, Elspeth sat at her father’s abandoned desk, her white hands folded on the unblemished green blotter. In three quarters of an hour, the other servants—those Mrs. MacGillvrey called “blasted contraptions”—would assemble in the main hall for their daily maintenance, a necessity that never failed to remind Elspeth of her solitude here among her father’s creations. Nevertheless, she would wind their clockworks and pump their bellows and oil their joints, and keep her distaste for her charges to herself. She owed her father that much loyalty, at the very least.
Outside, the wind gnashed its teeth. Inside, Elspeth sat perfectly still. She breathed in and out to the muffled ticking of the clock on the otherwise empty mantel, and braced herself for whatever might come next.
* * *
Far away in London, September was turning out to be bad month for breathing altogether. At any rate, his lordship, James Henry Weston, fourth earl of Falmouth, had good cause think so.
“You’re certain there is no hope?” James addressed the question to his physician, a Dr. Colgrave.
Colgrave tugged at his beard in a mournful fashion. “I quite expect Mr. Shaw to expire before morning.”
James pulled the lever that forced a rush of compressed air to the engine of his wheelchair. The chair rolled forward several feet, bringing James to the great bank of windows. On the horizon, the late afternoon sunlight lit up a small squadron of dirigibles, making them glow like gold bullion. Beneath them, the London streets lay in shadow.
“Just ten days ago, Shaw insisted we were close to a breakthrough. Another fortnight at most, or so he said.” James shot a glance over his shoulder. “Without him, further progress is impossible. You’re absolutely certain…?”
“I am, my lord. The disease has destroyed Mr. Shaw’s kidneys. He will not rally this time.”
James sucked in a wheezing breath. His defective heart thudded irregularly in his chest. Beyond the windows, the dirigibles grew smaller as they set a course for the continent. They might as well have been receding forever, for James had been assured he would never fly in one. Even with the recent improvements in pressurizing the berths and cabins, his heart would not stand the strain, or so his team of doctors insisted.
But they are a passel of old mother hens. Perhaps I shall attempt the experiment in spite of them. If nothing else, it would be an original manner in which to die.
He let his gaze drop. Some forty feet below, a ragged boy of no more than six huddled in the window well in what was surely a vain attempt at keeping out the damp autumn air.
When I was that age, I was too busy climbing trees and making mischief to feel the cold.
Not so long ago, really. He’d celebrated his twentieth birthday before the flaw in his heart chose to make itself known. Ten years later, he was still better off than most of the citizenry of London. He afforded the beggar child one last glance and, stifling his regrettably human tendency toward self-pity, rang for his manservant.
“Is there anything I ought to be doing?” James asked the doctor, pivoting from the view of the now all-but-invisible airships as he spoke.
“Doing, my lord?”
“You tell me a man is about to meet his end in my home. Surely there must be some protocol. Shall I send for a vicar, perhaps? Or see about informing his next of kin?”
Colgrave frowned. “Shaw has made no such requests, although I believe he has a daughter—”
He was interrupted by the appearance of the servant. “You rang, m’lord?”
“Belkins,” James said, “please do something about the child in the front window well.”
“If you please, m’lord, what would you prefer?”
James paused in his progress toward the door to gaze bemusedly at his servant. “Whatever you deem the least bother, naturally.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And while you’re about it, see that the doctor gets his tea.” James continued toward the exit. “If you’ll excuse me, Colgrave, I’m going to squeeze what I can out of Shaw before he shuffles off this mortal coil.”
“I fear Mr. Shaw is beyond rational discourse,” replied the doctor. “The morphine will have put him out of his head.”
James grimaced. “I pity him, as I would any man in his circumstance, but I’ve spent far too much time and money on his wild promises to let him go without some small amount of satisfaction.”
“Of course, my lord.” Was that a hint of condescension in Colgrave’s voice?
Damn him to hell, then. Damn them all to hell, every quack and pill-monger who couldn’t help me.
James grasped the lever on the side of his chair, gave it a firm yank and shot forward into the corridor.
* * *
Colgrave was not incorrect in his prediction. Aurelius Shaw was in no state to discuss his experimental treatment for James’ infirmity, nor could he answer questions regarding the tests he’d been performing in the makeshift laboratory he’d created in James’ wine cellar.
In the end, James merely sat by the older man’s bedside and listened to him rave.
“It was Constantinople, you know. Georgiana didn’t want to go…didn’t want to have the baby abroad. She said an English child should be born in England. I told her she was being shockingly provincial. She surrendered in the end, of course. If only I hadn’t bullied her into it…”
Shaw shifted his bloated form on the mattress. He lifted a disfigured hand in James’ direction, and James flinched away. The leprosy—which, according to the several physicians they’d consulted, had attacked Shaw’s body with inexplicable and heretofore undocumented speed and ferocity—had not responded to standard treatment, or to any treatment at all. The result was the decimation of Shaw’s once distinguished face and form, rendering him unrecognizable from the man James had met only two short years ago.
“It’s not her fault, you know, it’s mine,” Shaw slurred. “She’s not to be blamed, not for any of it.”
“Who is not to be blamed, Shaw? Are you speaking of your late wife?”
“No, not my wife. My…my daughter, Elspeth.” Shaw winced, as if uttering the name caused him pain.
“Shall I send for her? Would you care to see her before…?” James let the last of the question trail away. No need to remind the poor man of his speedily approaching demise.
“No, she can’t come here. She mustn’t leave the island. It would be madness, I tell you.”
As Shaw struggled to pull himself upright in the bed, James attempted to soothe him. “There, there, old man. Don’t strain yourself. If you don’t want to see the unfortunate girl—”
“And she
is
an unfortunate girl,” Shaw gasped. “Wealthy as Midas since I’ve left her every penny, but cursed nonetheless. Though to be sure, if she’d been born a boy, I’d have raised her to resemble me in every detail, and we’d have suffered less. But as it is, it’s all my fault.”
“So you’ve said.” James sat back in his wheelchair, wishing he could cover the cloying scent of illness with the smoke of a good cigar. “Why don’t you settle yourself and tell me what you mean? You spoke of your daughter’s birth in Constantinople?”
Shaw nodded and flopped again onto the bed. His breathing had grown labored and his eyes glassy. James was no medical man, but even he could recognize the signs of imminent death.
“We were staying with a French family in the European part of the city. I’d heard of a certain Greek monastery on an island off the coast—
Halki,
it was called. There were rumors of an artifact, ancient in provenance. It was said to have an aura of power about it.” Shaw groaned, his agony evident in the way his body twisted on the mattress.
“And you wanted this artifact?” James asked, if only as a means of distracting Shaw from his torment. “Did you seek to purchase it?”
“I did, heaven help me. The monks were reluctant to part with it. Said a curse was attached to the thing. I offered a ridiculous sum.”
“They were willing to sell?”
“Not at first.” Shaw gulped for air. The misshapen stumps of his fingers twitched restlessly on the coverlet. “The head of the order, Brother Vasilios, refused. He said his conscience would not allow such an abomination to be released upon the world at any price.”
“But he relented?” Now James was genuinely curious.
“No,” Shaw said, “but another monk…damned if I can recall his name, or even his face…agreed to see me after evening prayers. I left Georgiana with our hosts and returned to the island by moonlight. The monk met me in a small garden at the back of the monastery. It was there that we made the transaction. I gave him a sack of coins, and he gave me a lifetime of guilt, shame and grief in a box carved from ebony and linden wood.”
Shaw sounded quite lucid for a man soaked to the gills in morphine and on his way out. James squinted at the older man and saw how the whites of his eyes had gone yellow, and the way his lips had shriveled away from his teeth like that of a corpse already many days dead. Had he been in such a state when James entered the room just an hour ago?
“The bastard ought to have been more convincing in the way he explained the curse,” Shaw spat. “How could I believe such an outlandish tale? He ought to have forced me to see how we’d suffer.”
“You and your wife?”
“My wife?” Shaw laughed, a dead-leaf rattle. “No, Georgiana was well out of it before I finally understood the truth of the matter.”
“Which was?”
Shaw shook his head. “You won’t believe it. But do believe this, my lord—when I returned to our hosts’ home, I found Georgiana about to give birth, though she was a full month from the expected time of her confinement. The baby came quickly, small as it was, but the damage was already done. Georgiana died not ten minutes after Elspeth drew her first breath.”
James cleared his throat. “A tragedy, no doubt, but hardly evidence of the supernatural.”
Instead of answering, Shaw groaned again and lay still, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. James counted to sixty, and counted again. Then he wheeled himself to the edge of the bed and leaned over it, intending to examine Shaw for signs of life. When he drew close enough to gag at the scent of putrefaction, Shaw reached up and grasped his neck with one claw-like hand.
James fought, but Shaw held him fast with the strength of a drowning man. “Don’t struggle so, my lord,” he croaked, “for however much you may regret the large sums of cash you’ve paid me to search out a cure for your ailment, you may yet find salvation at my hand.”
James stilled, his heart beating in an uneven patter against his chest wall. “You have my attention.”
Shaw’s face flexed with a cold smile that bespoke the flintlike hardness of his personality even now, in his final extremity. “Look through my writings on the subject of the artifact,” he said, his breath stinking of rot and poison. “You’ll find the necessary particulars beneath the heading ‘Xaphan.’”
“And then?”
“You must travel to the house I’ve built for my daughter on the main isle of St. Kilda. You’ll find the artifact there, in a hidden room adjacent to the basement laboratory. The notes will explain how to use it to save yourself.”
“Is there more?” James asked, eager to end the conversation and his too-close contact with the dying man.
“Only this,” Shaw slurred, his speech degenerating once again into the messy slush of consonants it had been when James first entered the room. “Do what you can to avoid my daughter. Spend as few moments in her presence as possible. Do not observe her too closely, nor converse with her at length. She’ll be the death of you, otherwise. Not her fault, you understand.”
