“Spell? If you think these phrases contain a spell, then it’s more than any record indicates. You should have engaged my son. His knowledge of the esoteric surpasses mine. Dash it all, if you weren’t holding my wife, I’d report the lot of you to the English Antiquarian Society, or perhaps the police!”
“Calm yourself,” cooed the solicitor. “We do not ‘hold’ your wife. She is my employer’s guest. The Prince Aleksandr has spared no expense to lavish hospitality upon her. As soon as the ceremony on the solstice is over, you may both return home.”
“Koshmar’s a devil, if you ask me,” answered Salter bitterly.
Flint grinned, that crooked line of the lip that always unsettled humans. “I thought you believed in material life only, Lord Salter. Are you now saying the ethereal and spiritual have merit?”
“Damned if I know any more!” shouted the earl, sitting at the table in resignation. “Look here, why are you so convinced these tablets are real?”
“All in good time, my lord. Once the ceremony is done, then I shall be happy to answer all your questions.”
“And what if this spell fails, eh? This so-called elixir of life may be a load of poppycock!”
The lawyer’s face turned dark. “Take care with your speech, Lord Salter. Are the words spoken by the First Intelligence a load of poppycock? Some call him God, but we do not. His words have power, and when used correctly, can open ancient paths and doorways and even transmute Time itself! The Tabula Smaradgina, or Emerald Tablets, are fragments of the Sefer Raziel, which we call the Book of First Words. The original was torn into thirteen pieces which are lost in other realms and sealed by wards.”
“What the devil are you rambling on about? Look here, the Blackstone Society describes itself as scientific, but it seems to me that you’re spouting alchemical gobbledygook! Dee may have been a bit mad, but I doubt he fell for such utter nonsense.”
“One man’s nonsense is another man’s religion, Lord Salter. You pronounce yourself a rationalist, but given the right evidence, even you would admit to the existence of a supernatural realm. Dee sought such knowledge, for he believed it explained hidden truths about the material world.”
Salter wiped sweat from his brow. Despite the cold temperature in the cavern, he suddenly felt feverish. “What truths?”
The solicitor began to smile, a decidedly evil grin revealing a hint of the birdlike man’s true face.
“You might call it the secret formula to Ordo ab Chao. If we recite the proper words on the winter solstice, then we can summon the Keeper of the fragment. He knows the locations of all the book’s other pieces. With his knowledge, we can find them and reassemble the Book of First Words. Don’t you see it? It is the end of the beginning! The true Omega to the Alpha! The snake shedding its accursed skin to regain its magnificent wings. The Golden Age returned! Surely, that is a laudable goal, is it not?”
“I suppose so; if by ‘golden age’ you mean an age of scientific reason,” the earl answered.
“It is precisely what I mean, Lord Salter,” lied the deceitful crow. “The Dark Ages quenched that early movement towards the light, but we can return that glimmering hope to the world. If all goes as planned, a new king will arise, and with him the first step towards utopian glory!”
Salter gulped, wishing he could be anywhere else—not here. Not involved in this mad enterprise. “And my wife? Will you release her once it’s done?”
“As I’ve told you many times, Lady Salter is free to leave our accommodations without encumbrance. But if you wish to see her well and happy, then use your skills to verify this scroll. But do so quickly. Friday’s setting sun provides the light required for our ritual, which gives us a very narrow window.”
“And this spell, as you call it, will unlock some doorway? Is that it?” asked Salter, his hands trembling.
“Not only a doorway, but a sealed portal. I shall speak the words, and the Stone King and his mighty Dragon will arise once more to set the world aflame.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
11:53 pm – Haimsbury House
The Sinclairs’ farewell-to-London party began at half ten, following the conclusion of a rather disappointing Lyceum play, bringing music and small talk to the fashionable drawing rooms of Haimsbury House. Charles returned home at eleven and was met by a very happy wife when he came through the front door. Paul Stuart joined them thirty minutes later after going home to change into the required evening clothes.
Victoria Stuart, who’d planned the gathering, assumed the role of primary hostess. The first guest to arrive was her dearest friend, Dolly Patterson-Smythe, who, along with her husband, Sir Richard (usually called ‘Dickie’), had come to London for the Christmas season. Nearly all the other guests came directly from the theatre, but a few stopped at their homes first, which meant the front bell continued to ring for over an hour.
Tory had promised to keep the guest list short, but as always happened with the popular Lady Victoria Stuart (who knew practically everyone in London society), many guests had sought permission to bring ‘just one more’, and these then took it upon themselves to invite a few others. Thus, a party which Charles assumed would host four-dozen at the most had swollen to the status of a major event with nearly a hundred well-heeled people to serve and entertain. Ever the perfect hostess, Elizabeth received all with good humour, and soon the attendees were calling it the best party of any holiday season.
As so often happens with Westminster soirées, government men and important peers migrated to the galleries and smoking parlours, whilst the ladies preferred the cheerful music room, Cumbria drawing room, or the grandly decorated ‘all-season’ conservatory. Here, two stone fireplaces kept the space cozy and inviting, and Dolly Patterson-Smythe’s favourite musicians, a husband and wife team famous for their Bach repertoire, provided a constant source of entertainment on the pianoforte and harp.
In addition to peers and Parliamentarians, the guests included musicians, writers, and actors; all eager to rub shoulders with the country’s bluest of bloods. Amongst these was Abraham Stoker. The handsome playwright arrived on his own that evening, explaining that his wife had taken the children to Ireland to visit their grandmother for Christmas. With his Ripper play still in the minds of Westminster’s patrons, the writer found no paucity of opportunities to discuss his work and theories on the crimes.
Aubrey never lacked for company either. The handsome earl was constantly surrounded by eyelash-fluttering ingenues in low-cut dresses, ready to cater to his every whim. Charles thought it quite amusing, but the sleep-deprived earl found the constant attention exhausting.
By half past one, the party began to wind down, and Sinclair noticed his cousin had been absent for a very long time. He left his wife in the care of Duke James, Victoria, Dolly, and several other stragglers in the Cumbria Room, and sought out the earl. Along the way, he ran into Henry MacAlpin, who was descending the staircase. One of the musicians had accidently spilled half a glass of claret on the viscount, and he’d changed into a fresh shirt, trousers, and waistcoat; courtesy of Sinclair’s stylish closet.
“That cut really suits you, Henry,” the duke told Salperton.
“And the fabric is soft as butter. Is this one of Martin’s designs?”
“Of course. I’ve no idea when he finds the time, but nearly every day, he brings by another item of clothing. If you want to place an order, I’ll warn you: Paul’s first in the queue. Have you seen him, by the way?”
“Paul? I believe he’s taking a nap somewhere, actually,” Henry replied as he fastened his watch chain to the white waistcoat. “I understand the poor fellow’s hardly slept in three days. Lovely party though. I’ve never seen so many unattached females in one place. Perhaps, it’s best Miss Stuart decided to remain at Montmore. The crush of chattering people might have put her off.”
“I can see how it would. Crowds often put me of
f. Baxter!” he called to the man with the magnificent eyebrows. The butler was just leaving the music room, carrying a tray of empty glasses.
“Your Grace?” his melodious voice replied. Charles wondered how the eminent Mr. Baxter managed to appear bandbox crisp after so many hours serving. In fact, he’d never seen the butler look anything but perfect.
“I wouldn’t want to interrupt whatever it is you’re doing, but I wonder if you’ve seen Lord Aubrey?” Sinclair asked.
The powerfully built butler pondered a moment, searching his memory. “I believe the last time I spoke with his lordship was an hour ago. He asked to be let into the locked library so he might find a bit of quiet. I offered him my key, which he used to lock it from the inside. I hope that was all right, sir.”
“Yes, of course. Aubrey should probably have his own key. Thank you. Oh, Baxter, as regards tomorrow’s plans, we hope to depart Victoria Station no later than five. I’ve several errands to run in the morning, but if I can keep to my schedule, I should be back here by three. Will you and Mrs. Alcorn be ready?”
“Everything is prepared, my lord. You’ve nothing to worry about. Leave everything to me.”
Sinclair smiled. “They are the four words by which I live, my friend. ‘Leave everything to Baxter.’” He searched his pockets. “I don’t seem to have the library key on me. Have you a second key?”
The butler set down the tray and searched his own pockets. “Yes, sir. I made a copy to keep two with me at all times, in case Mr. Kepelheim locks himself in. Now where is it?” The man’s greying brows pinched together, and then inched upwards along his high forehead, whilst his hands searched every pocket of the formal coat and trousers. “I cannot imagine where it could have gone, Your Grace! Perhaps, it’s in my office. It won’t take me a minute.”
Baxter left to fetch the key and returned five minutes later. “It would have been a shame to force the door, sir. Perhaps, we might have another copy made?”
“Another good idea, Baxter,” said the duke. “Have three more made. One for Miles next door, another for Mr. Kepelheim, and the third you may give to Lord Aubrey.”
As the door opened, Sinclair noticed the ambient temperature differed markedly from that of the main house, and the room stood in complete darkness. As no one planned to use the library that evening, the fire remained unlit but the room’s four radiators should have maintained a modest sense of warmth.
“Forgive the cold, Henry,” he told the viscount. “Some of these new radiators have been acting up. The plumbers are having a look at them tomorrow.”
The viscount put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I don’t think it’s the heaters, Charles. Stand still. We’re not alone.”
The duke could see his breath in the ambient light given off by the anteroom’s lamps, and a supernatural heaviness settled into his chest. “Paul?” he asked, stepping farther into the library. “Paul, are you in here?”
Baxter slowly followed, scanning the room for signs of life. “Do be careful, my lord,” he urged his master.
Henry had already advanced halfway across the shadowy carpet, and he turned back to the duke and whispered, “Charles, the hidden panel is open.”
Baxter switched on the electric sconces and chandelier. Sure enough, the spring-loaded panel stood ajar, leading into the secret maze of interior passageways. “Go tell my uncle what we’re doing, Baxter, but don’t alarm the duchess. Say we’re taking a walk, or something.”
“Of course, sir. Shall I return to offer assistance?”
“Just keep an eye on the door. If we’re not back in fifteen minutes, send Kepelheim and Duke James. Again, do not alarm my wife.”
Baxter left and shut the door, keeping the key just in case. Charles and Henry peered into the looming space before them. Sinclair had only been inside the puzzle chamber once, but even that short visit had led to a ghastly nightmare. He dreaded returning, but worried that his impetuous cousin had gone into the mystery room alone and accidentally passed through the obsidian mirror attached to the inner side of the chamber door.
“It’s like an ice house in here,” observed Salperton. “Charles, there’s a distinct feeling of oppression in the air. I really don’t think we’re alone.”
“Do you sense it or see it, Henry?”
“Neither and both. It’s more an intuition. Wait, I hear something now.”
Sinclair stopped to listen. “I can’t hear it.”
“No? It’s someone speaking, whispering. A woman’s voice.”
“A woman?”
“Yes, a woman. And she’s... It sounds like she’s singing.”
Ten minutes earlier
Paul Stuart had no idea how he’d arrived inside the puzzle chamber. His ears rang so loudly it hurt, and his body felt as though he had been dragged through Time itself.
“How...? Where is this? How did I get here?”
“A mere manipulation of matter. A party trick,” a woman answered. “It’s been ages since I last beheld this chamber. Did you know that I helped to construct it? The room’s design is my own, but the writing—well, another did that. I don’t care for any of it. This was once the heart of a magnificent temple, but that was long, long ago. Ages and ages. The writing ruins it,” she sighed. “Why must things change?”
Paul felt deathly cold. His heart still beat, but the atmosphere of the room was that of a tomb. All he could remember was falling asleep on the library sofa. Perhaps, he was dreaming.
The woman spoke from inside the mirror, her image ripping like water. She wore nothing at all, and the reflected light of the chamber’s gas sconces painted the curves of her naked body with undulating strokes of multi-coloured light. Her hair fell in rich, dark waves of such length that it pooled upon the floor. She was Lady Godiva come to life, but rather than use her hair to conceal her most intimate contours, the mirror nymph brazenly swept the wavy locks behind her shoulders, exposing every one of her ample curves.
Aubrey shut his eyes.
The seductive succubus drew close, trying to emerge from the mirror. “Don’t you remember me?” she whispered in a French accent.
Despite his fear, the earl opened one eye, and then the other. The woman’s appearance had changed completely, morphing from a raven-haired harlot into the perfect image of a long-dead love. Her golden hair fell along the contours of the creamy skin like a waterfall of amber light, and the turquoise eyes gazed upon him with adoration.
“Mon David,” she whispered in a French accent. “Come to me, mon cher.”
It was Cozette du Barroux, fully flesh and more voluptuous than ever; warm and sensual and impossibly real. She stepped closer, touching the obsidian from the other side of the portal. He could smell her perfume, feel her breath upon his face, hear her heartbeat as though she lay beside him.
“You cannot be here,” he choked, terrified to move. “You’re dead.”
“But I am alive, mon couer. Je t’aime, David. Je t’aime. Kiss me. Come to me, my beautiful one, and kiss me once more.”
He shivered, longing to embrace her, but fearing it. “You are a phantom. A lie.”
“I am as real as you want me to be,” she insisted, motioning for him to join her. “Remember when we would lie together and talk until the sun rose over the Seine? And then after, how we would sing and laugh and drink red wine? No one else loved me that way, David. No one!” Her smile then vanished, her eyes turning cruel. “But no, I must call you by the true name, mustn’t I? You are Paul. A man of wealth, who left me to die; all alone with a child. Your child. And then you stole her from me!”
“No! It wasn’t like that! I didn’t know,” he told her, stepping backwards in shock and regret. “If I’d known, then...”
“Then what? You would have taken me home to your mama? To your papa? No, mon coeur, you would not. You’d have paid me to kill it. You’d have seen her dead!”
“Never!” he wailed, falling to his knees. “Cozette, I loved you! I love our daughter! She is with me now, and she... She looks more like you each day.” He began to weep, anguish filling every corner of his being.
“Then, come to me, if you love me. Come to me, my beautiful Scotsman. How I love you, my beautiful Paul. Let us be together forever!”
He shut his eyes, consciousness fleeing, as he collapsed onto the floor. A curl of smoke emerged from the mirror as she sang a siren song. The smoke became an avatar, an extension of the witch within the mirror, and the spectral form bent over his body, her thick, smoky hair covering his cold face. She forced him to stand and then dragged him towards the mirror’s portal.
“Come to me, Paul,” she sang. “Join us!”
Stuart blinked as he neared the mirror’s face, but he had no will to resist. All strength had left. His fingers touched the obsidian surface, disappearing into the abyss beyond.
Just then, Sinclair and Salperton entered the room. Without a moment’s thought, Charles reacted. “In the name of Christ, I command you to stop!” he shouted.
The hideous phantom hissed, her teeth bared as she howled, “You are too late! He’s mine!”
Henry rushed towards Aubrey, but the she-devil pulled hard, and the earl’s arm sank into the black abyss.
“In the name of Christ, stop!” Sinclair commanded, pulling on his cousin’s arm with all his strength. “In the name of Jesus Christ, Son of the only true God, who offered himself freely, who died but lives again, and is coming to end your reign of terror, demon!”
“Use not that hated name with me, boy!” the entity screamed. Releasing its hold on Aubrey, the beautiful siren transformed into a scaly green dragon, its eyes burning with flames of crimson fire.
“I will use that name, because Christ is my salvation and my shield,” Charles declared in a commanding tone. “I do not fear you, hellion. Christ is your creator and only he rules, demon! I command you in his holy name to return to the pit! You have no right to this man!”
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