Realms of Fire

by Sharon K Gilbert

  As a policeman, I appreciate the importance of careful documentation and recording of evidentiary fact, but the chronicling of feelings? How will subjective self-analysis help? If I wish to unburden my heart, I may speak to Beth and my inner circle friends: Paul, Henry, Baxter, James, Reid, to name but a few. Must I, also, record my thoughts and fears on paper?

  Despite my doubts, I love my wife and would never contend with her over something she clearly believes important. Thus, I find myself writing on a chilly December morn.

  Where to begin? A good policeman’s report begins with a summation of the facts: Though I’ve celebrated thirty-three birthdays, my true life began in early October, when I received a letter from Elizabeth, asking if I would call on her at Queen Anne House. To say this was a surprise is understatement. I’d not heard from her in four years, but never once in that time, had my thoughts strayed from her. I have loved Elizabeth since our serendipitous meeting at Paul Stuart’s home in June of ’84. That October letter is the key to my present happy state, and I thank God every day that he inspired her to send it. One day, I shall write a history of the miraculous weeks that led to my marriage, but for now, let me review the crimes and mysteries currently facing the inner circle.

  Strange, I had no knowledge (that I could remember) of this august group of warriors prior to October, but now I serve as their leader. The mission of the inner circle is simple: Protect a secret royal bloodline whilst battling the plans of Redwing. That dark assembly’s crimes litter mankind’s history like fields of rotting corpses. Of late, I believe them responsible for the so-called Jack the Ripper murders, as well as the 1879 Cricket Ground Killings, the recent Victoria Park deaths, the Embankment Murders, and many others; including a string of assaults on women and children in the East, where a ghost-like figure attempts to lure them to suicide in the Thames.

  Two known members of Redwing have been slain, and today we bury a man whom I suspect of having connexions to that horrid group. I pray I’m wrong about Lord Wychwright. His daughter, Cordelia, is fragile enough without hearing her late father participated in occult rituals. The newly formed Intelligence Branch (which I am honoured to oversee as Commissioner) has been tasked to unmask the killer or killers behind these Redwing deaths. Of course, the Home Office have no idea Lord Hemsfield and Lord Peter Andrews were members of this subversive collection of miscreants, but the prime minister knows it. It’s a blessing that I report directly to Salisbury, not Matthews.

  I cannot yet say if it is connected to Redwing, but our circle made a shocking discovery within two areas of my home. The ballroom, which appears to be inhabited by demonic forces; and the library, which leads to a secret passage and thence to a hidden chamber. Both the ballroom and library remain locked, with only Baxter and myself possessing keys. Martin Kepelheim is working with Dr. Edward MacPherson to clean the house of evil spirits, particularly the ballroom and hidden chamber (which Martin calls ‘the puzzle room’). Thankfully, Elizabeth shows no interest in investigating these closed rooms, nor does she press me for information. I endeavour to keep dark matters from my sensitive wife by steering our talks towards Christmas celebrations. Thus far, it’s working. Elizabeth’s health is uppermost in my mind, and I hope to support and protect her as she carries our children to delivery next June.

  Now, let me move to the true purpose of this journal: My own worries, thoughts, and dreams. As to my dreams, the content returns again and again to my parents and childhood days. Most are brief snatches of imperfect images, but a few have lucidity and even purpose to them; as though my sleeping brain tries to teach me some great lesson.

  I’m not sure why, but many of these dreams include dragons, though the precise features and physiognomy of these creatures remain obscured. It’s as though they speak to me from an intangible demi-monde; beyond the glittering veil of a darkling glass, casting their creeping shadows into my sleeping mind.

  In last night’s dream, I was here, in Haimsbury House. How often did I stay here as a boy? Though I’ve no memory of those visits, Martin says my family resided here every summer, which means I made hundreds of memories here—yet all remain obscured behind a thick veil. Kepelheim (whom I used to call Uncle Marty) once told me of a masked ball that my father hosted in April of 1860, and of that dance’s nightmarish ending. Apparently, I appeared in the doorway at the stroke of midnight, accompanied by some hideous creature with wings.

  Might that connect to these dragon dreams of mine?

  Since reopening the house in late October, I’ve walked through nearly every inch of this remarkable mansion, including the ballroom, and there is indeed something very dark within its mirrored walls; that I do know. Our good friend Henry MacAlpin sensed it, and it terrified even his strong heart. What does that mean?

  (MEMO: I must continue to keep the ballroom locked until Mac and Martin can evict these dark spirits through prayers and anointing oil. I will not risk our future children or Adele entering that hellish domain until it is safe!)

  Need I explain that my precious wife is with child? Or rather, ‘with children’? I’ve tasked our carpenters with redecorating the nursery in preparation for the twins’ arrival next summer (10th of June, according to Georgianna – I look forward to holding that delightful child in my arms!). When I first toured the nursery apartment, it felt oddly familiar, but I’ve no conscious memory of ever having slept there. Yet, I’m told that I laughed, played, and also dreamt in this house as a small boy. At present, the apartment contains three rooms and a play area. According to Martin and Victoria, my nanny slept in the smallest chamber, I slept in the largest, and the third is a delightful library of history books, atlases, and biographies, which Adele has already claimed as her own. Only yesterday, I caught her devouring one of my grandfather’s military campaign journals. I’d no idea our Della is interested in military history, but I shall try to find other memorabilia she might appreciate. I like to think she looks a little like me, as my paternal affections continue to grow. Tory mentioned how Della’s eye colour is taking on a turquoise shade, similar to my own. Since Paul’s father was my uncle, perhaps it is a heritable factor within the Stuart line. It touches my heart, when she hugs me and mentions being ‘part Sinclair’. I reply that our shared traits are merely Stuart ones and offer hugs in return. Adele Marie! I couldn’t love that child more if she were my own.

  I’ve diverted my thoughts again, but perhaps that is part of the exercise. To return to the topic, whilst walking through the nursery’s main bedchamber, I had an odd sense of déjà vu when touching the canopied bed. Though every window was shut, the blue silk curtains billowed without hint of breeze or human touch. There is a clock on the mantel which caused me an odd moment of dizziness. It may be that my head injury still plagues me, perhaps some lingering sensitivity caused by my coma. (The fact that I still cannot shave because of healing facial cuts is a constant reminder of that night’s explosion. Beth likes the beard and the longer hair. I may keep both.) The dizziness that day nearly caused me to fall, and it was a good thing Martin and Adele stood nearby. Our darling Della is indeed a bright little thing! After Martin helped me to a chair, she continued to worry about me for the following hour, dogging my every step and periodically checking my pulse or feeling my forehead for fever. If Paul will not claim her as daughter soon, I may ask for legal guardianship.

  But this clock haunts me. I cannot explain it, but the figural piece seemed to call to me; to whisper in a snarling sort of voice, speaking my name! Might I have played with the clock as a boy? It bears no maker’s mark, but a genius must have built the mechanised figures. Each is exquisitely crafted, and they’re designed to perform a meaningful scene each quarter hour. The players in this performance are King Arthur, mounted on a white horse, who challenges a terrifyingly realistic, fire-breathing dragon. The display is remarkable, and Martin tells me the clock was a gift from a foreign prince. Apparently, this Koshmar person gave me two of them on my christ
ening day as well as mirror. One clock for here; the other for Rose House.

  (MEMO: Be sure to investigate inner circle records of a ‘Prince Aleksandr Koshmar’, presumably from Russia.)

  The clock is broken, so I’ve sent it to Paul’s jeweller for repair. Martin believes this clock, when working, will jog my stubborn memories.

  Now, back to last night’s dream. It was exceedingly odd; as though I looked through a picture book of my forgotten past. In it, my father led me through a series of themed gardens. Father referred to them as ‘our own little Camelot’.

  (MEMO: I should ask Mr. Frame if Haimsbury House ever had such displays.)

  Afterwards, Father took me inside, and we surveyed the house’s many apartments. We toured dusty wine cellars and lofty attics. He pointed to specific areas in each of these, but I cannot recall just what he said. In the east wing attic, he showed me a tall black cabinet decorated with an undulating river. Beside this ribbon of blue, crouched a golden dragon, surrounded by seven hooded figures; each facing a tall man in armour carrying a great sword.

  “It’s called Lann Lasair,” Father told me. “The fire sword, and it was stolen on the day I died by the same man that killed me. This man serves the Dragon. Both are exceedingly powerful and will lay claim to your blood. Solve a riddle of the clocks to unseal the chamber. Time works against you, Charles. Do not let it run backwards.”

  I opened my mouth to ask for clarification of these vague commands, but we moved suddenly, without warning. As soon as he mentioned time—quick as a blink—I found myself standing inside the main library. It is the very one which I now keep locked for fear that Adele or Elizabeth might wander into the hidden chamber within its inner walls. When Paul discovered it, he found one of those horrid mirrors inside, and it’s my greatest fear that someone I love may unknowingly pass through that infernal black glass. I will not allow that to happen. I would sooner burn down the house first!

  As Father and I looked, the library’s concealed panel opened of its own accord, and we entered the passage. Using a small lantern, Father guided me through the twisting corridors and into the puzzle chamber. Once inside, Father pointed to the large marble pillar which stands at the centre of the room.

  He turned to me, his dark eyes serious. “When you decipher the clock riddle, Charles, this pillar will open.”

  “What then, sir?” I asked.

  “You’ll know, son. Trust me. You will know.”

  Just then, a series of whispers filled the room, and Father drew me close. “Keep away!” he shouted into the glittering mirror, opposite the pillar. “He is not yours!”

  I confess that, in the dream, my foolish curiosity overwhelmed all good sense, and I pulled away from my father’s embrace to confront the mirror. Within its fluid brightness, I saw a pair of fiery eyes, staring at me.

  Hello, boy, the voice whispered. Remember me?

  That booming voice passed through me like slithering smoke, and I fell to the floor. The last I recall is Father rushing towards me, but nothing more.

  I awoke in our bedchamber, confused and drenched in beads of sweat. The room felt cold as death, and my heart beat wildly from the dream’s effect. As I slowly realised I’d awoken to reality, I sensed a reassuring warmth beside me: Elizabeth sleeping soundly, her breathing sweetly soft, and her warm body conformed to mine. Her slender arm lay across my chest, and I kissed her hand, thanking God for His many blessings.

  It is the greatest joy of my life to awaken beside this remarkable woman each morning. Truly, all my happiness begins and ends in her eyes. Though I search for my past and sometimes worry about the future, I find an unimaginable, healing peace in my ‘little one’s’ sweet smile.

  As I conclude the opening Chapter of this journal, the mantel clock strikes six, and the dogs stir to go outdoors. I wouldn’t want them to waken Elizabeth; and besides, I must ready myself for the busy day ahead. Baron Wychwright is to be buried in St. Marylebone cemetery at eleven, and afterwards, meetings, meetings, meetings! If I leave early enough, I may find a quiet moment to spend at Albert’s grave.

  Tomorrow, Beth and I leave for Branham, which means today’s agenda is filled with extremes: the funeral and wake, a hundred police matters, and then an early Christmas celebration with friends and family before we leave London.

  It is a strange path my life has taken. Most whose only knowledge of me comes from reading the reports and opinions in London’s press probably think me the luckiest of men because of the material aspects to my life. I am, after all, a high-ranking peer (a duke, no less!) with a position of authority within government; a wealthy man, married to a high-ranking and very wealthy woman. I am friend and colleague to the prime minister and on a first-name basis with the queen. But titles, power, and wealth are but vain ornaments. I choose to define myself by the love of friends, a happy household, and most especially the love of my dear wife.

  It is for Beth and our children that I seek to unveil my hidden past, not myself; and to them that I dedicate all within these pages. If this book serves no other purpose, may it grant my children and grandchildren access to my heart. May they know that I rejoice in who I presently am, for my life is filled with God’s mercies and the love of family.

  However, because I hope to provide a FULL history to my beloved children and grandchildren, I must continue to search for who I once was; for the boy’s secrets within the man’s heart. If anything there threatens my family, then it’s imperative that I unearth it; no matter the danger to me. I pray this journal will aid in this, not merely amplify my deepest, unspoken fears.

  It is that line from Tennyson, which so haunts my thoughts. The one my father used to quote, and that was sent to me via messenger last month: I am but king amongst the dead.

  Whatever does it mean?

  No more writing! I must shut the book, for I hear Beth moving in the bed nearby, and the lark’s voice joins the nightingale in brief and joyous chorus. I must shake off the burden of self-doubt and face the land of the living.

  It was, after all, only a dream.

  Chapter Four

  Hammersmith Police Station

  As Charles Sinclair locked away the journal and began to dress for the day’s appointments, approximately five miles to the west of Haimsbury House, a man known only as Bleeding Jack Nobody was being booked into the police cells at T-Division, Hammersmith. The lunatic wore nary a stitch on his scrawny frame, and long tracks of red followed the veins of both arms and legs. Desk Sergeant Bill Black did his best to elicit information from the wailing madman, but the task proved nearly impossible.

  “Shall we send for Dr. MacAlpin, sir?” Black asked Detective Inspector Richard Ryan. “We done all we could to keep the fella here last time, Inspector, but he broke out o’ the maria takin’ him to Bedlam last night.”

  “The Dragon’s comin’!” Bleeding Jack screamed, his face upturned towards the ceiling. “He’s comin’! Risin’ up outa the ground like a whirlwind o’ fire! Time’s gonna stop, and the world’s gonna fall ta darkness. Ain’t none o’ you coppers gonna make a tinker’s difference, when them claws starts ta rakin’ flesh. Cause he’s a-comin’! Wif blood and fire, and he’ll unlock it all!”

  Black had seen madmen rave before and calmly ignored the frenzied gibbering. “Like I said, sir, he don’t make sense. Reckon he’s syphilitic, poor old sot.”

  “Have we a name for the sot?” asked Ryan.

  “No, sir; nor has anyone reported a man of this fellow’s peculiar description or behaviour missin’. He’s unique in his appearance, as you can see. Shall I put him down as a vagrant, presumed mad, Inspector? Consign him back to Bedlam—assumin’ he’s inclined ta go there, sir.”

  Ryan sighed. Hammersmith was generally a quiet section of West London, but lately, that pleasant peace was constantly broken by a growing sense of lawlessness: Thieving, housebreaks, assaults on innocent ladies and chil
dren; rumours of a ghostly figure that lured young girls into coaches and assaulted them (some said drinking their blood); tales of masked fiends claiming to be Ripper and threatening public house patrons; even rumours of wolf-like men roaming the streets at night and stealing infants from their cots. It was as though mass hysteria had overwhelmed the entire region. But no matter the true cause behind the crime spree, Ryan and his men were run off their feet. The inspector had no time to coddle a demented syphilitic.

  “Bedlam won’t do, Sergeant,” he declared, motioning towards a pair of constables. “This man would simply escape again. Place him in irons for now, and then send a runner to Dr. MacAlpin’s sanitorium. Let the viscount deal with our Mr. Nobody. It’s his cup of tea, I suppose; unravelling the scrambled minds of the mad.”

  Sergeant Black recorded the prisoner’s information as before: Name Unknown, booked as ‘Bleeding Jack Nobody’. Crime: Vagrancy, presumed mad due to syphilis. Remand to Dr. Henry MacAlpin.

  Jack’s wild eyes darted back and forth as a fresh-faced constable named Davey Gresham tried to place a warm blanket round his blood-streaked shoulders. The vagrant wanted no comfort. His gnarled fingers itched to hold a blade or razor; even a sharp rock would do. Anything sufficient to open a vein and release the fire demons that crawled inside him like hungry, stinging worms. They whispered of ancient kings and long-dead warriors. They sang of death and power and primordial seas. They crawled along his sagging skin and tunnelled through his feverish brain, hissing threats and derision and terrifying prophecies.

  They wanted something.

  No. They wanted someone. A human with special blood. A prince to lead the dead back to glory. A great and noble king.

  And this king would be given authority over the world of men.

  The authority of a mighty Dragon.