by Kat Ross
Kaylock hadn’t wanted to tell them, that much was obvious, but felt he’d had no choice. Still, he’d forced them to sign a second confidentiality agreement, this one even more draconian than the last.
Harry thought she understood why Alec’s true nature was such a closely guarded secret. There were people who would call him witch—or worse—even in this day and age. She still didn’t fully understand what he was, only that he could do impressive things and shared a connection with Lady Cumberland through the gold bracelets they each wore.
Lady Vivienne Cumberland had the spark as well. It’s why she could wear the bracelet. If Harry put it on, she wouldn’t feel a thing. Kaylock had given the impression that both Lady Cumberland and Alec were older than they looked, although he was vague on precisely how much older.
When the jostling of the crowds became tiresome, they left the museum and walked east across Central Park. The weather had grown colder again. A chill wind swept through the bare branches of the trees. Harry kept one hand firmly on her new hat.
“Uncle Arthur wrote me a letter,” she said. “I sent him a copy of our report on the Sabelline case.”
“Kaylock didn’t mind?”
“Kaylock didn’t know.”
“Ah. Of course.”
“He says it just might inspire him to write a story about mummies and Egyptologists. He already has a title. The Ring of Thoth.”
“I’d hoped he might write another story with that detective and his sidekick.”
“Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?”
“Yes, them.” He grinned. “You don’t mind being the sidekick, do you?”
Harry swatted him with her hat.
“What else did your Uncle Arthur say?”
“He already knew about ghouls, of course, living in England. It’s a bit of an open secret, apparently.”
The Seventy-Ninth Street Transverse followed the edge of the Croton Reservoir. A few hardy souls were out walking their dogs, collars turned up against the wind that raised small whitecaps on the surface of the water.
“Arthur says we should come for a visit. There’s an open invitation from the London S.P.R. as well.”
John lit up. “I’d like to see England. There’s something called a lubber fiend that’s been sighted up around the Scottish border. We could conduct a little inquiry.”
“A lubber fiend?”
“Big hairy fellow with a tail. Bit like a brownie but uglier.”
Harry shook her head in fond resignation. “I suppose I should have expected you to have an aptitude for this sort of thing. If we do go to England, you can hunt lubber fiends all you like. I plan to visit Scotland Yard. There’s a brilliant surgeon there named Henry Faulds who claims every human finger mark is unique. Imagine the implications, John.”
They took one of the southern drives and exited through the Children’s Gate at Seventy-Second Street and Fifth Avenue. A few blocks later, they stood across the street from the townhouse of Count Balthazar Jozsef Habsburg-Koháry. The windows were all dark, the blinds drawn.
“It’s been put up for sale,” she said. “No one knows where he’s gone.”
“Do you think the man Lady Cumberland saw at the Tombs was really the count?” John asked.
“I don’t know, but the description certainly fits, right down to the crooked nose and white tie.” She frowned. “In fact, I thought I saw his servant outside the Sabelline house, when the fire trucks came. But then Lady Cumberland said something, and he seemed to disappear and I forgot all about it.”
“There you are. He must have had us followed. And here you thought you were pursuing him.” John chuckled. “I can’t believe we had tea with a necromancer.” He sounded inordinately pleased.
“They’re quite evil,” Harry admonished him. “They summon ghouls and use talismanic chains to suck the life from their victims in order to prolong their own.”
He blew out a slow breath. “Yes, that’s rather unpleasant. But this one saved their lives. He banished the daemon back to the underworld. Why would he do that if he’s the one who called it up?”
“I’ve no idea,” Harry admitted. “He must have had some reason.”
“Maybe he wasn’t a necromancer at all.”
“Then why did he have the chains?”
John had no answer for that. The mansion gave off a desolate air, with drifts of dead leaves skittering through the front garden.
“I was thinking, Harry. I might start keeping a record of our cases. For posterity.”
She gave him a sideways glance. “You know you can never publish it. Mr. Kaylock would sue us in an instant.”
“I know. But when I’m old and grey, I want to remember everything.”
Harry smiled. “And what would you call this one?”
John thought for a moment. “The Adventure of the Cursed Amulet.”
“How about The Adventure of the Thirteenth Gate?”
He frowned. “That does have a certain ring to it. Or simply, The Thirteenth Gate?”
“Too cryptic. It sounds like one of those gothic melodramas…”
Harry took his arm and they wandered down Fifth Avenue, leaving the deserted mansion and its secrets behind them.
Chapter 32
Sunday, January 13, 1889
Alec Lawrence rested his leg on a pile of cushions in the conservatory. Vivienne had done some damage when she stabbed him in the knee. The joint was already arthritic; now it felt like a live coal. The doctor had offered him morphine, but Alec declined. He didn’t like opiates. They dulled his ability to touch the elements and he’d had quite enough of that to last a lifetime.
Cyrus had come down on the train with Cassandane. It was the first time he’d left Ingress Abbey in three years. Cassandane had told Alec he’d have to get himself nearly killed more often.
“You’re lucky, you know,” Cyrus said, sipping a cup of black Assam tea.
It was a very un-English morning. Bright sun poured in through the wall of glass windows.
“I know.”
“It all puts rather a new spin on things.”
“What?”
“The fact that new gates can spontaneously appear in metropolitan areas.”
“Oh, that.”
“Vivienne says you remember nothing.”
“I don’t.”
Which was a lie. Vivienne wouldn’t tell him in any detail what had happened, but he had a fair idea. Both of them were pretending things were the same as before, and they were—but they weren’t too. Because Alec wasn’t the same. Not exactly. He had a kernel of something inside him, chafing like a pebble in his shoe. A darkness. An affinity. With what, he didn’t yet know.
Alec hadn’t sorted it out, but he knew he needed to get away from Vivienne. Not forever, just for a little while. It was impossible to think straight with her emotions clouding the bond. And he was afraid she would sense the change in him. Demand answers.
“I suppose that’s for the best.” Cyrus folded bearlike paws in his lap. He had the face of a scholar and the hands of a dockworker. “I’ve been looking into this Count Koháry. My guess is our boy is old, Alec. Very old. He’s been dying and leaving himself a fortune for hundreds of years.”
“How many hundreds?”
“My agents in Hungary have traced him back to the 13th century. The trail before that is cold but they’ll sniff it out. They’re good.”
“Is he one of the Duzakh?”
“I don’t think so. I know them all.”
“You just can’t find them.”
Cyrus made a noise of irritation.
“Well, whoever he is, I’m grateful for his intervention.” Alec laced his hands behind his head.
“He probably stole the Ptolemy maps.”
“They could have been lost in the flood.”
“They could have. But I have a feeling our count took them. He was a collector. If he’s connected with the Duzakh, we’ll have a world of trouble.”
“What makes you think the necroma
ncers don’t already know where all the gates are?”
Cyrus sighed. “They probably do.”
“So it makes no real difference. And Koháry will turn up eventually. Now that we’re looking. Personally, I hold no special ill will toward him. He saved my life.”
Cyrus frowned. “The bond saved your life.”
“So I gather.”
“Without it, your soul would have been driven out. But it worked like a tether, holding you in your body even though the daemon had taken possession.”
“Can we talk about something more pleasant?” His gaze fell on a pot of hot pink Phalaenopsis. “Orchids, perhaps? You should grow them, magus. Give that frigid old pile you call home a splash of color.”
Cyrus looked around, as if noticing the riot of flowers for the first time. “Cass would never remember to water them. What are you going to do now?”
“I might go to Wales. Just for a bit.”
“Holy Father, it’s like a frozen tundra this time of year.”
“The south of France then.”
Cyrus smiled. “That’s more like it.”
They talked of insubstantial things like food and weather and first-rate hotels on the Côte d’Azur. When late afternoon came, Cyrus went to take a nap. He said being in the City tired him out. Vivienne had gone out for a walk with Cass; they’d finally received word from Vivienne’s ward, Anne. She was still in the Carpathians. The villagers were reflexively superstitious, fanatically religious, and nursed an inborn distrust of outsiders, so it was rather slow going. But she’d hinted in her letter that strange things seemed to be afoot in this wild, isolated corner of Europe—stranger even than usual.
She hadn’t asked for their help; Anne wouldn’t. But he knew Vivienne was itching to go to her. As much as it tore him apart, Alec might let her handle this one alone.
Dusk arrived at the house at St. James, creeping on little cat feet. Alec bathed and shaved. He put on his best suit. He was on his way out the door when Vivienne appeared. Her left arm was in a sling. She’d refused healing from Alec, claiming she didn’t want to tire him out. He suspected her sense of honor wouldn’t permit him to suffer alone.
Tonight, she wore a shimmering gown of pale green silk that left her shoulders bare. A strand of pearls looped twice around her long neck. She looked beautiful and untouchable.
“Going to a party?” he asked.
“The new Lyric Theater. I’m in the mood for something light.”
“What’s playing?”
“Dorothy. It’s starring Ben Davies and Marie Tempest.”
“You should come with us, Alec.” The Marquess of Abervagenny came bounding down the stairs like a handsome blonde puppy.
Alec hesitated. “I’m rather tired.”
Nathaniel gave him a brisk once-over. “You look much too nice to be staying home. Confess.”
“Just going for a walk.”
“It’s too far,” Vivienne said decisively, as if she knew exactly what he intended. “I’ll have Henry bring the carriage round. Nathaniel and I can take a cab.”
He studied her but sensed no jealousy. Only a tinge of sadness. “All right. Enjoy the theater.”
“It’s a comic opera. Mistaken identity and silly plot twists.” She smiled. “How can we go wrong?”
Alec asked Henry to stop at Covent Garden, where he bought a bouquet of yellow and white moss-roses from a tattered little girl. Her eyes widened when he gave her eight silver pennies.
“Thank the kind gentleman!” she exclaimed.
Alec tipped his hat to her and she giggled.
The climb up to the front door took him a full minute. By the time he knocked, his leg was on fire. His heart beat slow and steady in his chest, but it picked up when he heard footsteps. The door swung open.
“Mr. Lawrence.”
“Miss de Mornay.”
She examined him, green eyes inscrutable. “You haven’t called me that since the first time we met.”
“I thought we were being formal.”
She wore a violet dress today, with thin grey pinstripes and a row of tiny buttons down the front.
“I got your note,” Catherine said.
Alec waited, trying not to lean too obviously on his cane. He badly needed to sit down.
“Splendid supple thighs indeed.”
“You said you liked Swinburne.”
“I do.” She smiled. “Very much. Do you want to come inside?”
Something loosened in his chest. “I wasn’t sure you’d have me, after last time.”
She held out a hand. “Give me the flowers first.”
Alec did. The knuckles of his right hand were white from gripping the cane. This did not escape Catherine’s notice. She frowned.
“What have you done to yourself now?”
“Fell off a horse.”
“Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “You’re very accident-prone, Mr. Lawrence.”
“I told you I was graceless.”
“Not the word I’d choose. You move like a dancer when you’re well.”
“You may have to carry me upstairs.”
She stepped onto the landing and put an arm around his waist. She smelled of that same lilac soap. “Come along now, poor invalid. I’ll make you some tea.”
“Only if you let me brush your hair, Catherine. It’s an absolute disaster.”
The door closed on her laughter.
Epilogue
The woman slept, her raven hair fanned out against the silken pillows. She didn’t look any older than she had an hour before, but her life had just been shortened by an indeterminate amount of time. It might have been hours or days. It might have been months or years.
He justified it by telling himself that he didn’t take too much from any one of them, but there was no way to objectively know if that was true. The ouroboros wasn't designed for precise measurement. It had a single purpose: to prolong the mortal life of its owner by stealing from others at the instant of sexual release.
He had tried to stop countless times. To simply let it end. Sometimes he was so weary of living, he almost didn’t care what waited for him after death. Almost.
But fear always dragged him back in the end.
Balthazar had done unspeakable things. It mattered not that they were in the distant past. The man he had been was beyond redemption. He knew because he had spent lifetimes trying to atone. To gather all the talismans he could find and hide them from the Duzakh. But the stains on his soul ran too deep. When he did die, he had no doubt the Pit would be waiting for him.
And so he bedded them, always a different one. The women sought him out. He knew he was attractive, but that wasn’t why they wanted him. Nor was it for his wealth, although that made things easier. No, they wanted him because they sensed his wounds. His self-hatred. And they thought they could fix him.
“Lucas.”
Balthazar stood at the balcony of his villa in San Sebastián. He’d pulled on a pair of trousers but left his shirt unbuttoned. The sun warmed his skin.
“Yes, my lord?”
Lucas Devereaux had spent his childhood at an elite boarding school in Switzerland. He spoke seven languages fluently and had impeccable manners. He was also a master swordsman and expert in various Eastern arts of hand-to-hand combat. Balthazar had known him since he was a small boy, orphaned and alone. Sometimes he felt more like Lucas’s father than his employer, although they looked only a handful of years apart.
“Pack our things and close up the house.”
“Very good, my lord. Where are we going?”
“London. I have some matters to settle there.”
Lucas’s expression didn’t change, but Balthazar knew he was surprised. They’d never once been to England, although Balthazar kept a townhouse in the City. In truth, he liked New York and was sorry to leave it.
No choice now. Even if they don’t know who I am yet, they’ll figure it out eventually.
“Saddle my horse. I’ll go on ahead and
meet you at the station.”
Lucas understood he didn’t wish to see Doña Higuera de Vargas when she woke up. The lady would be miffed at her abandonment, but she was married and unlikely to kick up much of a fuss.
Balthazar padded barefoot to a writing desk and removed a sheaf of papers, carefully rolled up and tied with string. He’d found them with Sister Emily’s corpse, which had drifted down the corridor until her foot caught between the bars of an empty cell. He’d nearly tripped over her on his way out of the Tombs.
It was only fair. If the S.P.R. intended to keep his amulet, he would keep their maps. The fragile pages had sustained water damage from the flooding, but most were still legible. Balthazar resolved to have copies made as soon as possible.
He had met Claudius Ptolemy in Alexandria, at a dinner party in honor of the Roman Emperor Antoninus Pius. At the time, he’d thought the man a bit of a bore. Balthazar laughed softly. And here the old astronomer had been consorting with daemons and secretly making maps of the twelve Greater Gates.
If they ever fell into the hands of the Duzakh….
Balthazar thrust the papers into a leather valise. He buttoned his shirt and let Lucas help him put on a coat. He buckled on his sword and went out to the stables. There were bandits in the mountains and he’d learned it was always better to be armed than not. One of the primary lessons of a long life.
She didn’t remember me, he thought, as he swung a leg into the stirrup and mounted his black stallion. But she hated me nonetheless. Understandably.
“May the Holy Father keep you, my lord,” Lucas said, fingers brushing forehead, lips and heart in the sign of the flame.
Good thoughts, good words, good deeds.
Balthazar repeated the gesture. “And you, Lucas.”
He paused for a moment under the scorching Basque sun. Insects buzzed in the cypress trees. He could smell the salt tang of the ocean. The Bay of Biscay lay just over the hills, a stretch of cobalt water notorious for its sudden, violent storms.
Through the open French doors, Balthazar heard the crash of something breaking. Doña Higuera de Vargas stalked out to the balcony wearing nothing but a sheet and unleashed a torrent of heated Spanish in his direction.