by Lee Welch
He started down the passage. It seemed darker than usual, and narrower. Strange smells kept assailing him: old perfume and dusty stone overlaying some sickly carrion stench. The air seemed to be pressing down on him so he could barely draw breath.
He’d reached the bottom of the stairs when darkness descended as if it were pitch black night. He clung to the banister. There was a peculiar rushing in his ears. Was it his own blood surging around? His knees were giving. He was sure he had not let go of the banister, but could no longer feel it under his hand. He was lying on some cold, uneven surface that was not the stairs or the hall floor. It was so cold, so dark. And, somehow, it had always been cold and dark. He twisted his head, trying to find a whisper of fresh air, or a glimmer of light. But there was none, and there never had been. He tried to rally—of course there was sunlight and fresh autumn air. But these things didn’t seem real. All his life, he had been stuck here in this terrible cold, this terrible dark. Always confined. Always.
***
John got outside to see Lord Dalton arriving back at the house at a gallop on his big chestnut thoroughbred. He tried to follow the horse’s trail, but it led towards the village, and the way was so muddy it was difficult to make it out. How long had it taken Soren to get to him? How long to cast the sigil, get dressed and get outside? Ten minutes? To be safe, he must suppose the token could be anywhere within a fifteen-minute radius. How fast could Dalton’s horse gallop? Pretty fast—it was a fine creature.
He’d set the sigil to find Lord Dalton. But what if his lordship had sent someone else to do the dirty work? What if Lord Dalton had simply been enjoying an innocent early morning ride? John examined the idea. It smelled like horse-shit, so it probably was. Chances were that Dalton had done it himself. John felt a pang of guilt; he couldn’t help but wonder if this was somehow revenge. For a moment, last night, Lord Dalton had seen his dead wife in his son. Perhaps he realised his appetites had been manipulated. Was this vicious act some kind of retribution?
But at least they now knew that the token was in the park, somewhere within a fifteen-minute gallop. They were closing in. Where would Dalton hide it out of doors? It could be buried, or tucked into a niche in a stone wall, or perhaps in a hollow tree. John looked up from the muddy track, considering the old oaks and elms and the gentle green curves of the park.
He wanted to keep searching, but there’d been something wrong with Soren beyond those nasty-looking cuts. When he’d touched Soren’s shoulder, a jolt of that uncanny otherness had pulsed through him, and it had been screaming—the mad, magical scream of something pushed beyond its limits. Something was breaking. Would Soren break with it?
John turned and ran back to the house. He came in Raskelf’s wide front door to a cluster of people, all with their backs to him, all looking down at something on the Great Stair. The Greys were there, all five of them. A flustered-looking housemaid with a dust-pan ran away from the group.
John pushed to the front to find Soren lying on the stairs. He was dressed in his usual black Regency breeches and coat, but he was dishevelled, and ashen-pale with a bloody handprint on his face. His eyes were open, but unfocused. He was gasping for breath. Mr Grey was trying to help him to his feet.
“Oh, Mr Blake, Lord Thornby is ill!” He wasn’t sure which of the ladies had spoken. One of the girls was crying.
“Ah, Mr Blake! Your assistance, please,” said Mr Grey, and then, to his wife, “My dear, make sure that girl fetches a doctor. Good lord! The staff here!”
They got Soren up and began to carry him to his room. He wasn’t walking; his feet trailed behind him, and his head lolled.
“What happened?” John said. The magical screaming had stopped, but he could still sense that terrible wrongness. Had Dalton done too much? What if Soren never came back to himself?
“We saw him on the stairs. Looked like he was seeing a ghost! I’ve never seen a fellow look so. Then he collapsed. I think he’s bleeding from the chest. I don’t understand it.” Mr Grey’s round face was red with effort and alarm.
Soren’s arm was limp around John’s shoulders, his hand like ice. They got him to his room and put him on the bed, which was in disarray with blood on the sheets. John took his hand. “Soren? Soren!”
“Mr Blake, does Lord Thornby have some trouble I should know about? Consumption, maybe?” said Mr Grey.
Soren’s fingers suddenly tightened on his own, but his eyes didn’t focus. “John?”
Relief flooded him. “Yes, I’m here. And Mr Grey.”
“You didn’t find it, did you?” Soren said.
John glanced at Mr Grey. “I can manage, Mr Grey. Thank you for your help.”
“I’ll stay till the doctor comes, eh?” Mr Grey said.
“We’ll never find it, will we? John, I—I don’t think I can bear it—” Soren began to cry.
“Soren! Of course we’ll find it!” Watching him weep had been bad enough that night in the hazel thicket. Now John felt as if his heart was caught in a vice.
“Why does he hate me so much? It was him, wasn’t it, who burnt my foot? And now—”
“What’s he on about?” Mr Grey said. “Feverish, I think.”
“Mr Grey, perhaps you could make sure someone brings brandy? And smelling salts? And bandages and water and towels and so on?” He made the list as long as he could, hoping to give Soren time to recover. “The bells don’t always seem to work here. It might be best to go down to the kitchen yourself.”
“Yes, all right. I must say I don’t think much of the staff here. Lord Dalton must be a saint; I wouldn’t tolerate it.” Mr Grey left the room.
“Soren, what happened?”
“I thought I’d died. It was so cold. And dark. I couldn’t remember the light. I couldn’t remember the sun.”
“Can you see me, now?”
“Nearly.” He touched John’s cheek. His fingers were so cold they almost burned. “John. I wish I’d met you in London.”
“Soren—”
“Actually, no. You’d have hated me.”
“Of course I wouldn’t.”
“You would. I was horrible. A stuck-up little snob. You might’ve fucked me though.”
“You can’t talk like that. Mr Grey could come back any moment. And they’ve sent for a doctor.”
“A doctor!” He lurched up, nearly knocking their heads together. “I’m not seeing any doctors! I don’t need a damned doctor! You’re the one I need. You have to get me out! I don’t care how. Do whatever you like. Use that sigil the spancel told you. You wouldn’t experiment before. But it’s going to get worse and worse.”
“Don’t ask me to do that.”
“But I am. I’m begging. John, can’t you see I can’t take it any more? It’s not the cuts, it’s afterwards. That—that choking dark. I can’t take that again. If I stay any longer I shall go mad.”
They stared at each other.
“Please,” Soren whispered, voice trembling.
Finally, John said, “You do as I tell you. If I say we’re stopping, we stop. And if I tell you to run, you run.”
“Yes, of course.” His voice was still a whisper.
“All right. We can’t stay here. Someone could be back any minute. Can you walk?”
For answer, Soren stood up and tried to limp across the room. His knees nearly gave way. John took his arm and put it over his own shoulders. He led Soren to his own room, instinctively heading to his materials. But once there, he realised that when the doctor came, this was one of the first places they might look.
John sat Soren on the edge of the bed while he recovered his salt, then put an arm around him again. He considered the things in the trunk. What might he need? There’d been something missing from the sigil the spancel had given him. It was something potent. But what? He could hardly take the whole trunk. He had the basics in his pockets—he never went anywhere without them. He sat there, his arm around Soren’s shoulders, Soren’s cold hand in his. He could feel the salt puls
ing in his pocket. The spancel seemed to be slithering around in there too, like a live snake. Impossible. It was imagination. Nerves.
Or was it?
He could feel something emanating from the materials in his pockets, some kind of message. A warm tension was growing the pit of his stomach, almost a sexual thing, as if Soren might kiss him at any moment. He wouldn’t of course; he was white as a sheet, with his eyes closed, and was clearly concentrating on staying upright. But the feeling gave John heart; there was potential here somewhere. The materials knew it. Best to go somewhere close by, but deserted; the west wing.
“Come then,” John said, and they left his room, left his trunk, and made their way along the passage to one of the many empty rooms.
***
Thornby half-lay in a dust-sheeted easy chair, watching John, who was kneeling on the floor a few feet away, his materials arrayed in front of him. A long, listening silence filled the spare room. It was so profound, Thornby could almost see it thickening the air, swirling like turpentine; he could almost feel it, soft against his skin. John began to arrange things; the spancel in a large circle, the glass eye there. He began to lay the salt in one of those odd patterns of lines and circles, then half-way through he stopped, and there was another long pause.
In the past, when John had done magic, Thornby had watched him interestedly enough. It wasn’t every day one saw a magician at work, but he’d felt nothing more than a natural curiosity. This time was different. This time there was a strange smell in the air. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant, but it was pungent, sharp and sweet at the same time, like vinegar shot with vanilla. There was something bracing about it. His head began to clear. He leaned forward in the chair, feeling more alert.
It wasn’t just the smell; John looked different too. Shadows seemed to be gathering around him, as though he was sucking the light out of the air and putting it into his salt pattern. But the strangest thing was how everything in the room seemed to be aware of John. Somehow the door, the walls, the window, the rolled-back carpet, the bed and all the holland-sheeted furniture seemed to be listening to John the way a crowd listens to a fire and brimstone preacher.
John was adding more loops and lines to his pattern. Then he took out his pocketbook and removed from its pages the single gold-brown hair they’d found in the secret compartment in the trunk. He put the hair in the middle of one of the circles of salt. Thornby remembered what had happened to the cigar cutter. They had one chance. If John got it wrong they’d lose their single clue.
Thornby found he’d risen unconsciously from the chair and backed away. Of course, he’d asked John to do this. Of course, he trusted John. What choice did he have? Anything would be better than staying trapped here at Father’s mercy. Or being sent to a lunatic asylum. But he could not stop his teeth chattering, nor his legs trembling, nor his breath stuttering in his throat.
John looked up, eyes unfocused, mouth grim, the way it went when he was concentrating. “Something’s missing,” he said. “What? What is it?”
Thornby knew the question wasn’t being asked of him. But it was unnerving to know there was a silent conversation going on, right in front of him. John was staring at nothing, fingertips touching the spancel and the salt, that intent, listening look on his face. After what felt like forever, John blinked. Then he looked at Thornby with a strange, speculative expression, as if he’d been told some shocking rumour about him, and couldn’t quite believe it.
“I see,” John said. Then he smiled and held out his hand. “Come here.”
His voice had the tone he used during sex—brooking no refusal, but intimate, subtly acknowledging the game.
Thornby stepped carefully inside the spancel and knelt in front of him. John put his arms around him, and Thornby almost sobbed with relief, because although everything else was terrifyingly different, John felt just the same. He had the same warm solidity, he gave the same sense of reassurance. And underlying that vinegar and vanilla pungency, he smelled the same as well.
All the same, when John began to kiss him, undoing Thornby’s breeches as he did so, Thornby was so surprised he froze. Now? At a time like this? John undid his own fly, took Thornby’s hand, limp but unresisting, and put it on his cock, which was already hard. Thornby did not take his hand away, but neither did he wrap it around John’s stand. His own cock was entirely soft, balls shrivelled with fear and pain. He wanted to say, “Are you serious?” but his voice seemed to have deserted him.
John was murmuring in his ear, “Come on, now. This is part of it. This is what was missing: you and me.”
Soren found his voice. “John, I don’t think I can.”
“The magic’s calling for it. Can’t you feel it? It’s some sort of hybrid; human magic, with that hair, and you and me mixed in. It’s bloody strong. It’s affecting me.”
“Yes, I feel that, thank you.”
“Mmm. So? Can you feel it?”
“I can feel the walls watching us, if that’s what you mean. And the bed and that horrible old carpet. All gawking like boys at a dog fight. Is it like this for you all the time? How do you stand it?”
“Don’t think about them. They don’t judge; it’s the magic that draws them. In every way that matters, we’re alone. I promise.”
“All right, well, give me a moment, will you? It’s not often one’s called upon to perform under such circumstances. This morning has hardly been conducive. My chest stings.” And my own father did it to me.
“I know. I’d see to it, but there’s hardly been time. I’ve got an anodyne necklace but that’d put you to sleep. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” Soren let his forehead rest on John’s shoulder. He could still sense the room and everything in it, now hushed like a crowd before the opera begins. “God, I wish we were anywhere but here.”
Into his ear, John said, “Ah, Soren. My dear. I wish the same.”
Soren’s breath caught. John was physically affectionate in bed; he liked to kiss and caress and embrace. And he knew how to give a compliment, and of course how to tease in that delightful, playful, candid way. But this was the first time he had said anything so intimate. In London, men in Soren’s set had called him “my dear” all the time, but it had been nothing but a kind of flippant, friendly punctuation. From John, it was profoundly moving. One could tell that he meant it, that he did not say things like it often, or lightly. Soren was used to people wanting him. John actually liked him.
John was stroking his back, hands occasionally venturing lower to his arse. Soren could feel John’s breath, warm in his hair. If one did not allow oneself to think beyond this moment, it was, actually, very nice. The fear had not gone, but it was lurking further and further away. He felt John’s lips at his jaw and turned his head.
John kissed him, slow and soft, then pulled away, looking at him, considering. He smiled—not a reassuring smile, more the private, devilish smile of someone trying not to smile—and reached, very slowly, for one of the inside pockets of his jacket. What was he reaching for? What did that smile mean? Thornby watched him the way a mouse watches a cat, but suddenly his heart was pounding for a different reason, and his cock was beginning to stir.
John brought out a small vial of pale gold oil. Thornby recognised it; John had used it before. Now John undid the cap with his teeth, and poured some oil onto his right hand. He let it spread, rolling his wrist to allow it to trickle around. Then he held his hand up, fingers and thumb moving, glistening in the light.
“Hmm?” John said, raising an eyebrow.
Thornby made a noise in his throat. His chest still hurt, but that seemed not to matter now. All he could think about was that golden, glistening hand. In fact, he was trembling with anticipation.
John gave him another of those secret smiles. “Stand up.”
He obeyed, breathlessly waiting for John to reach up and take his cock in that slick hand. The oil would be warm. It would feel—
But, still watching him, John reached d
eliberately down and began to stroke his own cock, covering it in shining oil. John groaned as he touched himself, and closed his eyes.
Thornby watched him, mouth open.
John opened one eye, smiled at the expression on his face, then closed the eye again, letting his head fall back. “Ah, God, that’s good. Sorry, did you think it was for you? Fuck—no, this would be wasted on you. It’s almond oil, but I’ve—Christ—charmed it—my God—so it remembers my touch, so it’s like having about five hands—fucking hell—down there.”
Thornby made a noise of protest. He couldn’t quite believe it was happening. Part of him was genuinely outraged that John should tease him so. Although, John was clearly putting on a show for him, and watching John pleasure himself was almost as good as having that warm, golden, oily hand on his own cock.
Almost.
John opened his eyes again and looked up, grinning, still frigging himself with long slow strokes. “Well, my lord, how about something to think about while you watch?”
He closed his mouth over Thornby’s cock.
Just before he came, Thornby realised, with a tail end of awareness, that something else was different. His gaze had happened to trail away from John’s hand and cock and mouth, and across John’s iron pins—which were not standing up on their points as usual, but lying prone and dead-looking on the floor outside the spancel.
If he’d been a little less close to the crisis, he might have said something, but John was sucking him now as if his life depended on it, cheeks hollowed. And a moment later Thornby was grabbing John’s hair, thrusting helplessly into his mouth, crying out, and John was making stifled, desperate noises too, somewhat muffled by Thornby’s cock. There was one of those pure, silent moments that comes after sex, and then—
—there was an explosion of power so strong, it knocked Thornby off his feet. He was flung sideways across the shrouded bed. John was thrown onto the floor, landing with his shoulder against the door. Thornby staggered to his feet. He’d intended to help John up, but instead stood staring, hands at his sides, mouth and breeches hanging open.