Burning Lamp

by Amanda Quick

  Griffin shook his head. “If I didn’t fully believe in the family curse, I most certainly do now. Congratulations, Adelaide. You have very likely succeeded in accomplishing what none of my many enemies have managed to achieve in twenty years. You have greatly increased the chances that I will be a dead man within the month.”

  “Surely you are dramatizing the situation. Winters is a common enough surname.”

  He shot her a scathing glance. “Like Jones?”

  “Be reasonable, sir. To all outward appearances, you are a respectable gentleman living in a quiet, respectable neighborhood. You have evidently taken great pains to conceal your identity. Why, I have been told that very few people have ever seen your face clearly and, ah—” She stopped.

  He glared at her. “And, ah what, Adelaide?”

  “And lived to tell about it,” she concluded hurriedly. “I realize that is a gross exaggeration but, then, you are something of a legend on the streets.”

  “Your point?” he said grimly.

  She drew a steadying breath. “My point is that there is no reason why Mrs. Jones would have suspected that you are anything other than what you appear to be, a somewhat reclusive gentleman named Winters.”

  “We are talking about the Arcane Society Joneses,” he said.

  “I’m quite sure that they move in social circles very different from yours,” Adelaide said.

  He turned away from her and stood looking out the window into the garden. “I will allow that the Joneses move in far more elevated circles.”

  It dawned on her that she had offended him.

  “I was only trying to explain why it is unlikely that Mrs. Jones would know who you are,” she said quickly.

  He ignored that. “What in blazes made you summon her here to the Abbey?”

  “Well, as it happens, Mrs. Trevelyan recommended that I consult her. I was concerned about possible infection, you see.”

  “Your housekeeper advised you to send for her?”

  “Mrs. Trevelyan is an old acquaintance of Mrs. Jones’s housekeeper. Evidently they met when they went into service years ago.”

  “Good lord. I survived life on the streets and more enemies than I can recall and it comes to this. I have been undone by a couple of housekeepers and a social reformer.”

  Adelaide started to lose her temper. “You have not been undone by anyone, sir. But there is something I would very much like to know.”

  “What?”

  “If the entire Jones family is forbidden to enter the Abbey, why on earth didn’t one of your men speak up and mention the fact when I sent for Mrs. Jones?”

  He gripped the edge of the window frame. “None of my men know about my family’s connection to Arcane. I have kept the secret ever since . . . Never mind. What’s done is done. Please do not tell me that Caleb Jones was also here in my house as well.”

  She coughed discreetly. “I believe he waited outside in the carriage.”

  “If it weren’t for the fact that I may well be doomed, this might almost be an amusing comedy of errors.”

  “Damnation, Griffin, I have apologized.”

  “That certainly solves all my problems.”

  “I had no way of knowing that you were at odds with the Joneses. Really, sir, it has been two hundred years since the altercation between Sylvester Jones and your ancestor. That is a rather long time to carry on a feud.”

  “It’s not a feud,” he shot back. “It’s considerably more complicated.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nicholas Winters intended that one of his descendants would use the lamp not just to acquire enhanced talents but also to destroy the entire Jones bloodline. He even inserted a special crystal into the damn thing that is supposed to be infused with a psychical command that will ensure that outcome. The Midnight Crystal.”

  She frowned. “Do you really believe that is possible?”

  “How the hell should I know? What matters is that the Joneses believe it. The question now is, does Caleb Jones suspect that I have found the lamp and a talent who can work it? Given the peculiar nature of his own talent, I must assume that he is already suspicious.”

  “But it was just a coincidence that I summoned Mrs. Jones to this household,” Adelaide insisted.

  “I’m told that Jones does not believe in coincidences, not when it comes to the old Arcane legends. For that matter, now that I have found you and the lamp, neither do I.”

  “But according to what you told me, the process of transformation can be reversed with the lamp.”

  “Yes.”

  “Surely Mr. Jones will assume that you will want to save yourself. He must realize that no sane man would take the risk of trying to become a Cerberus.”

  He looked back at her. “The promise of power is very seductive. Just ask any crime lord. Or any Jones, for that matter. That family has controlled Arcane for two hundred years.”

  “That is not amusing, sir. We both know that your objective is to save yourself and your sanity, not risk losing both. Mr. Jones is surely a logical man. He will assume that is your plan.”

  “Not bloody likely. Jones will believe that a man of my nature and profession will stop at nothing to acquire the full powers of the lamp.”

  “What makes you so certain of that?” she asked.

  “In his place, it is what I would assume.”

  “Wouldn’t you at least give your opponent the opportunity to reverse the process?”

  Griffin did not answer immediately. A chill went through her.

  “I’m not certain,” he said finally. “I suppose it would depend on what I knew of the character of the man who possessed the lamp. Caleb Jones and I are not personally acquainted. He knows nothing about me except what he may have picked up from rumors on the streets.”

  “You never met when you were boys?”

  “My family always took great care not to come in contact with the Jones clan. But now I must assume that Caleb Jones is aware of who I am and how I have made my living all these years.” Griffin’s mouth twisted coldly. “The particulars of my profession are not in my favor.”

  “No offense, sir, but you are allowing yourself to be overcome with suspicions. Are you hallucinating again?”

  “Trust me, Adelaide. I would give a great deal to wake up and discover that this has all been a bad dream.”

  She told herself she had no grounds for feeling so crushed, but the memory of the kiss upstairs in the bedroom still burned. Evidently for Griffin the heated embrace was now just another scene in his ongoing nightmare.

  One of the large dogs lumbered to his feet and padded across the room. He rested his massive head on her lap and waited patiently. She stroked him behind one ear. Dogs, she reflected, like other animals, had their own kind of paranormal senses. They were more acutely aware of psychical disturbances in the atmosphere than most humans.

  She patted the beast for a moment. A thought struck her.

  “There is one thing you might want to take into account, Griffin,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Mrs. Jones has a psychical talent for botany. Indeed, the sensation press has portrayed her as a notorious poisoner. You say she would have known your identity before she stepped foot in this house.”

  “Given the current trend in my luck, almost certainly.”

  “If that was the case, and if Jones and Jones had wanted you dead, she had the perfect opportunity to poison you with the balm that she gave me to put on your wound or the tisane. Yet you are recovering remarkably well.”

  Griffin went very still for a few seconds. Then he nodded once.

  “Do you know,” he said, sounding suddenly intrigued, “that is a very interesting observation.”

  Encouraged, she hurried on. “Consider the matter closely, sir. The Joneses are either not nearly as well informed concerning your identity as you fear, or else they are not convinced that you are destined to become a Cerberus.”

  “There is one other pos
sibility,” Griffin said. “It should have occurred to me sooner.”

  She did not like the cold, calculating edge in his voice.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “I know the history of Arcane almost as well as the Joneses know it. My father made certain that I was acquainted with the old legends, just in case the Curse struck me or one of my offspring.”

  “Well?”

  Griffin resumed his prowl of the library. “Two hundred years ago Sylvester Jones was as obsessed with his psychical enhancement formula as Nicholas was with his Burning Lamp.”

  “So?”

  “My father told me that, according to the old tales, Sylvester was partially successful in his attempts to expand his talent. But the formula was said to be fatally flawed. Ultimately every version of it becomes a slow-acting poison.”

  “Where are you going with this, Griffin?”

  He halted again, this time in front of the hearth. “Perhaps the Joneses are deliberately holding back, waiting to see if Nicholas was, indeed, the more successful alchemist.”

  “Good heavens,” she said, floored by his conclusion. “You can’t be serious.”

  “My father told me that the members of the Jones family dare not use the founder’s formula because it is so dangerous. But they might be very curious to learn if the lamp can safely be employed to enhance talents.”

  “Do you actually believe that they have decided to let you run an experiment on yourself?”

  “Why not? After all, if the lamp turns me into a human monster they still have the option of destroying me. But if it actually works, if I become a stable multitalent, they can still destroy me, seize the lamp and try to use it on themselves. I doubt if they will have any trouble finding a dreamlight reader. They’ve got access to all of the Arcane membership records.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake. You really should have gone on the stage, sir. Your suspicious nature is nothing if not high drama. Very well, then, for the sake of argument, let us assume you are right. Where does your reasoning leave us?”

  “For the moment, I’m afraid it leaves you something of a prisoner in this house.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  14

  THE TERRIBLE DREAM BEGAN AS IT ALWAYS DID . . .

  He stands at the foot of the staircase looking up into the dark shadows above. The house is as still and silent as a tomb.

  He knows that he will be too late but he has No choice. He starts up the stairs, dread and despair icing his blood. The ghostly scene that awaits him will shatter his world.

  He will be too late to save them . . .

  “Wake up, Griffin. You are dreaming again.”

  Adelaide’s voice pulled him out of the nightmare. He opened his eyes and found her bending over him. In the pale light he could see that she was dressed in a chintz dressing gown and a lacy little nightcap. Tendrils of hair danced around her shoulders just as they had earlier that afternoon when he had kissed her. She held a candle in an iron stand in her left hand.

  “Well, if it isn’t Florence Nightingale.” He pushed himself up against the pillows. He knew he sounded surly. He could not help it. He was perspiring, as though with fever, and his heart was still pounding. He hated having her see him this way again. An alarming thought struck. “Did I yell or cry out?”

  “No,” she assured him.

  “Then how did you know that I was dreaming?”

  “There is a connecting door between our bedrooms,” she reminded him. “I sensed some of your dreamlight energy.”

  “Damnation. There is no privacy in this household anymore.”

  She touched his shoulder. “You are shivering but your skin is hot. Was the nightmare one of the sort that you associate with the onset of the second talent?”

  “It is actually an old dream. I was plagued with it often when I was younger. But it faded with time. I thought that I was free of it. But since the onset of my new power it has returned with a vengeance.”

  “I can assure you that such psychical stress is not good for the healing process. Stop grumbling and allow me to give you some peaceful sleep.”

  “No.”

  “Please,” she coaxed. “You want to recover as swiftly as possible. I can help you.”

  “I said no.”

  “Griffin, you are being ridiculously hardheaded about this and you know it.”

  “You think that my refusal to let you put me under again is the result of sheer stubbornness, but that’s not the case,” he said wearily. “I swear it.”

  “Then why won’t you let me help you?”

  “Because when I sleep that deeply, all of my senses sleep as well.”

  “I understand.” Her voice softened. “You feel that you are not in control. You’re afraid that if something happens you will not awaken in time to deal with it.”

  “I am not accustomed to sleeping so soundly, Adelaide. It is as if I am unconscious.”

  “Well, you are in a sense,” she admitted. “But I have a solution to your concerns.”

  He eyed her warily. “What is that?”

  “You only require a couple of hours of the deep, healing sleep each night to promote your recovery. If you allow me to put you under I promise that I will come back in precisely two hours to awaken you. Will that satisfy you?”

  He thought about it. “This deep sleep, it really does promote healing?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need my strength,” he said.

  “You’ll recover it in half the time if you let me put you into the healing state for a couple of hours a day.” She paused. “But I do understand that allowing such a therapy requires trust.”

  He made his decision. He lay back down on the pillows.

  “Put me under,” he said.

  She touched her fingertips to his forehead. He felt her energy whisper across his senses.

  He slept.

  15

  THE DOOR OF THE LABORATORY OPENED JUST AS BASIL HULSEY clipped a small frond off the Ameliopteris amazonensis. Luttrell and one of his enforcers, a heavily muscled man who moved like a beast of prey, walked into the room.

  “Good morning, Dr. Hulsey,” Luttrell said. “How goes the dream research?”

  Hulsey gathered his shaken composure. The enforcer made him nervous but it was Luttrell who truly frightened him.

  From a distance, one would never guess that the man was a powerful crime lord who, if the rumors were anywhere near accurate, controlled a string of brothels, opium dens and other disreputable enterprises. He certainly did not look like anyone’s mental image of a master criminal.

  Luttrell was in his late thirties, a handsome, well-built figure of a man who was always elegantly dressed. It was not until he opened his mouth that one caught the faint traces of the streets in his voice.

  There was a chilling aura of power in the atmosphere around him. It was there in his ice-cold gaze, as well, Hulsey thought. Luttrell’s eyes would have looked entirely appropriate in a viper, assuming snakes had blue eyes.

  “The work is going very well, sir,” Hulsey said. “Thanks to your great generosity and your keen appreciation for the complex nature of scientific investigation. I believe that we will be ready to run the first experiment on a human subject within a few days.”

  He put the frond down very carefully on the laboratory table. Thus far the experiments on the lacy fern that he had stolen had proved frustratingly inconclusive. He had developed one or two intriguing chemical concoctions from it, but his intuition told him that there was something vastly more important to be learned from the plant.

  “I’m pleased to hear that,” Luttrell said, clearly bored by the subject. “Meanwhile, I have come to see if the new devices are ready. You did say that they would be finished soon.”

  “Yes, of course, sir,” Hulsey murmured.

  He suppressed a sigh. A new month, a new employer. Lately he and Bertram seemed to be changing financial patrons more often than they changed thei
r socks. It was becoming quite tiresome but there was little alternative. When one dedicated oneself to science one required money, a great deal of it. Money came from men such as Luttrell.

  All in all, Hulsey thought, a crime lord was an improvement over his last patrons. At least Luttrell was honest about his profession and social status. The men of the Seventh Circle, on the other hand, had considered themselves gentlemen but had proved to be no better than the lowest sort of street criminals.

  He looked toward the open doorway at the far end of the laboratory.

  “Bertram,” he called, “bring out the machines, if you would. Mr. Luttrell has come to collect them.”

  Bertram appeared. He gripped a large canvas bag in each hand. “I was able to prepare a half-dozen. I hope that will be sufficient.”

  Bertram, Hulsey thought, was a mirror image of himself at twenty-three: a scholarly- looking young man with spectacles and a receding hairline. But it was Bertram’s talent that invoked a flush of paternal pride. His son’s psychical abilities were not precisely the same as his own. No two talents were ever identical. But Bertram was as strong, if not stronger, than himself.

  Together they would make vast strides in the field of dream research, assuming they could continue to obtain financing. And after he was gone, Hulsey thought, Bertram would not only carry on the Great Work but produce offspring who would inherit the Hulsey psychical gifts for scientific inquiry. Their bloodline would have an untold influence on future generations. It was an intoxicating notion.

  “I’m sure six of the machines will be enough for what I have in mind,” Luttrell said. “If they achieve the desired effects, I shall no doubt be in the market for several more, however.”

  “Certainly, sir,” Bertram said politely. He hoisted the canvas bags onto the workbench.

  Luttrell’s face lit up with a disturbing air of excitement.

  So far as Hulsey and Bertram were concerned, the vapor contained in the small machines was merely an accidental by- product of an experiment on the fern. But when Luttrell had viewed the results on a cage full of rats he had immediately seen the potential for creating weapons.