Sky Pirates (3 page)

Elle blushed. “It was nothing.”

“Well, shall we go and find ourselves a cup of tea? I don’t know about you, but I am absolutely parched,” Dr. Bell said.

As if on cue, a young soldier appeared. He stood to attention, spine straight, arms held stiffly by his side. “Lady Greychester. Dr. Bell. The Lieutenant asks that you meet him in his office for debriefing and refreshments at your earliest convenience.” He punctuated his sentence by straightening up farther and adding “Ma’am” for good measure.

Elle smiled. “That is the best suggestion I’ve heard all day.” She turned to the archaeologist. “Shall we?”

Dr. Bell nodded, looking rather grateful. “Lead the way, my dear. Lead the way!”

VENICE

A huge moon rose over the city of Venice, transforming the canals to wide ribbons of silver. The velvety evenings had grown chilly and damp with the rising of the
acqua alta
—the relentless winter tides off the Adriatic Sea. Venice, the most beautiful of cities, was now more of an icy morass.

Patrice Chevalier did not mind the cold. He strode along through the narrow alleyways and over the damp-slicked little stone bridges. No, he did not mind it one bit.

The months since his return from London had brought about remarkable changes in his appearance. His new power had wrought his body, melting away the rotund flabbiness that had plagued him all his life until only chunky muscle remained. Gone also was the bristle-broom moustache. The new Patrice was lean and chiseled, and wore his bespoke fur-lined cloak with an air of svelte confidence. To the unacquainted, he was a picture of modern wealth and manliness. Men tipped their hats to him when he walked by, and women smiled at him from behind their open, fluttering fans.

In short, Patrice Chevalier had become the man he had always wanted to be, and he was savoring every moment of it.

His walk through the dark brought him to an old
wooden door just on the other side of the small footbridge. It was an unremarkable, unfashionable address hidden away in one of the oldest, most run-down parts of the city. He studied the door for a few moments. This was the right place, he was sure of it.

Carefully he rested his hand on the cool stone beside the door. The surface had been worn down to a fine patina from the many hands that had sought—and been denied—entry to this place; generations of warlocks had solicited admission only to be desisted and turned away.

The hex that had been placed on the door also fought Patrice, for it did not recognize his imprint, but he focused a fraction of his newfound power on it and the stone soon gave. In the wall above his fingers a faint symbol of a triangle with an apex eye had been carved into the stone. It started glowing bright blue as he easily unwound the protective spell which had been designed to keep outsiders away. He simply willed it so, and slowly the door rumbled as it opened.

He wasted no time in climbing the high, narrow stairs that greeted him and was secretly proud of the fact that he was hardly out of breath by the time he reached the top.

On the landing, he was met with the sound of muted voices. He smiled. He flicked his cloak over his shoulders, straightened the lapels of his jacket and stepped up to the barrier of power that covered the doorway. He had found the Meeting of the Council of Warlocks. It was time to make an entrance.

“Good evening, gentlemen. I’m sorry I’m late. My invitation must have gone missing in the post,” Patrice said with a small smile as he strode inside. Quite casually, he removed his cloak and top hat. No one offered to take his things so, unperturbed by the slight, he set them down on a small table by the door.

“Who goes there?” Grand Master Conrad de Montague
half rose from his seat. He sat at the head of an ancient table which stood in the middle of the room framed by large, gracefully curving windows. Also in attendance were eleven other warlocks—the most powerful in the known world.

Patrice noted that the thirteenth seat was still empty—until recently it had belonged to Hugh Marsh, his former associate.

“I am Lord Abercrombie,” Patrice said, relishing his newly purchased peerage. “But my friends call me Patrice Chevalier.”

“Mr. Chevalier,” de Montague said as he fought to regain his composure. “What an unexpected surprise. I see that the last year has treated you well. In more ways than one.”

“Grand Master.” Patrice inclined his head politely, ignoring de Montague’s refusal to acknowledge his new title. “I have indeed found my circumstances to be much improved in recent months.”

“While it is always a pleasure to see you, I regret to inform you that this is a private meeting,” de Montague said pointedly. “Perhaps you’d like to wait for us downstairs until we finish?”

“Actually, my business cannot wait. You see, I have come to apply for the role of the thirteenth,” Patrice said in a smooth voice, gesturing toward the empty seat.

“I’m sorry, but the Council is for warlocks only,” de Montague said, giving him a look of disdain.

“I don’t believe that to be a problem. As you said, my circumstances are improved in more ways than meet the eye. I think my evading your pathetic door hex is proof enough of my abilities.”

“How dare you?” de Montague said, narrowing his eyes.

“Would you have let me in otherwise?” Patrice shrugged.

“I am sorry to disappoint you, sir, but the thirteenth seat can only be filled by unanimous vote. The loss of Lord Greychester came as quite a shock to us. It may be some time before we have a list of candidates we can put to the vote.”

“Oh, I don’t think a list of candidates is necessary,” Patrice said. “I see no reason why I cannot put myself forward for consideration right now. Everyone is assembled, so you may as well vote on the matter.”

There was a gasp of surprise from the other warlocks at his brazen approach. A few of them started muttering in protest.

“My good man, that is quite impossible,” de Montague spluttered. “It takes more than a cheap touch of the Shadow. In fact, it takes years of training and devotion to become a warlock. You might have come into some money, but I can assure you that you lack the talents needed to ever become one of us.”

“I think, Grand Master, that you might find yourself sorely mistaken on more than one of those points,” Patrice said, matching de Montague’s tone. “You will hear my application now. I must insist upon it.”

De Montague snorted and looked disparagingly at Patrice. “Mr. Chevalier, your appeal is quite ridiculous. Request denied. Now please desist with this disruption for you are only embarrassing yourself. Good evening to you.” The Grand Master moved to the fireplace where he rang an ornate fringed bell to summon a servant. “Someone will see you out now.”

Patrice felt anger rise up inside him, hot and acrid like melted tar. How dare this snobbish weakling treat him as if he were nothing? “I would wait a moment if I were you,” Patrice said. Another, more sinister, smile played across his face.

“And why should I do that? You have wasted quite
enough of our time.” De Montague’s upper lip curled in disgust. “Now please leave, I will not ask you again.” Patrice laughed. He summoned a small amount of the dark energy inside him and channeled it downward, lifting himself off the floor. The light fittings and floorboards in the room began to tremble. Somewhere a small ornament crashed to the floor.

Patrice towered over the Grand Master.

“Prepare to be challenged by one of the most powerful warlocks that has ever lived,” he said quietly. “This is no cheap trick of the Shadow. I, my dear de Montague, am the Shadow Master.”

De Montague blanched as he stared up at Patrice. “You?” he whispered. “We had heard rumors that a Shadow Master had arisen. It cannot be.”

Patrice did not answer. Instead he threw his head back and inhaled as much of de Montague’s power as he could in one breath. He felt his lungs fill with the energy of the older warlock, before being absorbed by the ever-growing darkness within him.

De Montague stumbled and fell to his knees. His face had turned gray, and when he looked up at Patrice there was genuine fear in his eyes. “What have you done?” he said as he stared at his hands in horror, which had aged and curled up like claws.

“And how … how did you do that?” de Montague whispered. “The power of the warlocks is all but gone. Where did you find this new source of aether?”

“That took hardly any effort at all actually. Do you concede this battle or shall I finish you? I really don’t mind either way.” Patrice laughed. The low rumble of his voice expelled a vengeful satisfaction from deep within him. He looked up at the other members of the Council. “Gentlemen, a new age for warlocks has come. I have been to the darkest places in the Shadow realm. In death, the path to regaining our former power has
been shown to me.” The other members of the Council were staring at him in stunned silence. “Are you going to stay loyal to this weak old man while you slowly turn to dust, or will you join me so we may become strong and glorious again?”

“Potentia Mortis,”
de Montague whispered, using his chair to pull himself to his feet. “You have the darkness of the Underworld within you. It has turned you into an abomination too dangerous to be allowed to live!”

“Well done, Grand Master. I am pleased to see that at least you remember your lessons well,” Patrice said.

“The aether inside you is dark, Patrice. Listen to me when I tell you that you do not know with what you meddle.” De Montague raised his arms up as if to strike. “You cannot be allowed to wield such power. The dangers are too great. So I must accept your challenge!”

Patrice faced the Grand Master. “Very well, old man, your challenge is met. We shall battle to the death and the winner keeps what he conquers. As are the rules.”

“Do not underestimate me. You may be strong, but you are no match for my centuries of experience of the Craft. You do not have all of me,” de Montague said with a quaking voice.

“We’ll see about that.” Patrice raised his arms and struck out at de Montague. There was a flash of light as the two men clashed. They met with deafening force and began to swirl around the room.

De Montague lashed out at Patrice and knocked him back.

Patrice reeled and righted himself. A small trickle of blood ran out of his nose and across his lip. He pulled out a starched white handkerchief from his inside pocket and wiped his face. “Is that the best you can do?” he said. “A burst blood vessel in the nose? Grand Master, honestly.” Patrice was annoyed now. Instead of surrendering, the Grand Master had made him
ruin his handkerchief. And it was an expensive one too. He reached into the darkness that swirled within him to summon up enough power to strike. He did not like to admit it, but he was still a little unsure of his new gifts. And if he was completely honest with himself, the darkness within him scared him a little. But brute force would be enough to win him this challenge, and win he must, before the other warlocks recovered from their initial shock and came to de Montague’s aid. He had come here to exert his dominance; he could not afford to hesitate. No, the time to act was now.

In his mind, he imagined a large ball of swirling black flames, the very same flames that had almost consumed him at the edge of the vortex in Constantinople not so long ago. That day had changed him forever. It was the day he had lost Elle. As he raised his hands to strike out at de Montague, an image of her face flashed through his mind.

A blue bolt of energy flew across the room and struck the old warlock in the chest. De Montague gasped as he absorbed the impact. Patrice launched another blast at him. This time, bright sparks flew everywhere—de Montague was fighting back. The two men were locked in a deathly standoff for a few seconds.

De Montague’s face twisted in agony. Sweat turned his forehead shiny as he shook with the effort of holding Patrice at bay. But Patrice held firm, slowly increasing the outflow of power. He watched with satisfaction as the Grand Master’s power slowly started to wane. The light emanating from him grew fainter and fainter and then quietly went out. Bright flames appeared around him, catching his clothes, before finally enveloping him.

De Montague gave a cry of anguish and pain. The flames went out as life left him, and his body fell to the floor in a blackened heap.

Patrice watched on as the last remains of the Grand
Master—the supreme guardian of the barrier between the realms of Shadow and Light—turned to dust before his eyes.

The room fell into a shocked silence. No one moved—or even breathed.

Patrice stared at the sad little heap of dust before him with growing delight. He had never used his power with such unrestrained force on another human before, and the results were both frightening and wonderful. He would have to remember how he did that for next time.

The other warlocks continued to stare at him. De Montague had been the oldest and most powerful among them. Their terror and unease radiated from their very core.

“Well, gentlemen, can I have your answer or does anyone else wish to duel?” Patrice said.

“I vote to join,” Master Chen, the Chinese warlock, said without hesitation. “I pledge my loyalty to you, Shadow Master.” He bowed his head in reverence.

The others all started speaking at the same time and nodding in frightened agreement.

Patrice allowed himself to smile. Slowly and with deliberate enjoyment, he sat down in the chair which de Montague had occupied just minutes before. The seat was still warm.

“Winner keeps what he conquers,” he murmured in response to the shocked looks around him.

Master Obanwedya cleared his throat. He was a big man, dressed in the deep red ceremonial robes of the Shaman of Western Africa. “I think I speak for us all when I say we acknowledge you, Grand Master Chevalier, Keeper of the Realms of Light and Shadow.” The others all nodded in agreement.

All except one.

“What do you say, Master Lewis?” Patrice said as he met the gaze of the American. Lewis had been a good
friend of Hugh Marsh. It was very important to ensure that everyone knew where the American’s loyalties lay, for he could be trouble in the future.