The feather bobbed off toward the infirmary. It had a mission to complete, and Beatrice trusted it would bring the appropriate parties together. It was his vendetta, after all—Phoenix’s, and that of his goddess. Her mind began to wander. Perhaps that’s how it was as a ghost; a mind grew restless. Before she knew it, Beatrice wandered the halls she’d strolled years prior, pining for Ibrahim a world away in Cairo while completing her duties in England. It was a bitter irony to return to such a state, still separated from her unlikely soul mate.
Pining felt all the keener as a shade. She had no concept how long she haunted the halls, but she looked out the window and it was dark. Time was different in death, and suddenly she empathized with the goddess, unable to quite grasp the rigours of mortal time—the reason the poor professor had been a bachelor for far longer, surely, than he’d have liked.
Beatrice floated out onto the square cobblestone courtyard near the wide-winged angel fountain dimly illuminated by perimeter gas lamps. Glancing up, she was alarmed to find that the sky had a split layer: the protection her Lady had put around Athens was cracked. “Your shield is broken! The guard dog might find you—Oh, why am I not at the chapel?” She batted at her head, trying to clear the fog of death from a cobwebbed mind.
The chapel at Athens appeared much like any other: a white room with stained-glass angels and a modest altar. Except, this chapel served as a portal to the London Guard’s secret meeting space. A black maw of a door currently floated where the altar should have been, a door that led past time and reality into a space where great things could be wrought.
Grim sounds erupted from within. The door belched out the sort of spirits The Guard was meant to fight. Restless and malevolent, they poured free like rioting prisoners. The pins were loose. The veil was lifting on Darkness’s terms, not theirs.
Beatrice flew into the portal, down the stairs and into utter chaos. The interior of this sacred space looked much like hers had in Cairo; for all she knew it was the same. The same as The Guard of Rome. Moscow. New Amsterdam; any locations previous Guard had known.
One difference: the current Guard was facing a horror they’d unwittingly invited into their nest, and they were dying. Six middle-aged Londoners who might have otherwise led ordinary lives were being strangled by elongated snakes attached to a Gorgon’s head; the woman’s beautiful face was now a nightmare. Fire licked the circular room. Insects crawled over petticoats and shirtsleeves. The powerful form of Alexi struggled most heartily against the monster. Patrolling the circle was a chimerical hellhound, the likes of which Beatrice had only seen in fable but was all too real, its gruesome head morphing from one into thirty, all with blood-drenched maws.
However ineffectual their powers, she recognized this Guard, or at least its respective energies: Healer, Memory, Heart, Artist, Intuition and Power—the Power manifesting in their Leader, who guided them all. She compared them to herself, her own power and her own Guard. Would her friends have fared any better? She trembled in fear. What could she do? Where was the essence of Phoenix she’d roused to help them? What would happen if this Guard was killed? What if the restless dead won free reign over the whole mortal world? She’d had a taste of that nightmare and wanted none of it.
Prophecy, as it was called, this daring plan to buck Darkness with mortality, was new territory. While planned to the best of their abilities, the venture was untried and unpredictable, particularly as the girl the goddess had become knew nothing about it. Perhaps they’d gone about it all wrong…What if the divinity fondest of the name Persephone had indeed failed, what if her mortal incarnation, this death white, sweet yet fragile Percy Parker, was no match for this fearsome calling?
The Gorgon spoke, taunting. “What a pity your lover never did find you! Maybe it was that unfortunate Miss Parker after all. I wish she were here. I’d have liked to show her this final end to your nauseating, epic drama once and for all. I did think that once I brought you to your knees she’d come running. Ah well. She’s a coward after all. Mortal arbiters between life and death, fool romantics, sorry remnants of a charred, dead god—your end has come! It’s time for you to cross the river!”
“NO.”
A voice boomed behind them, and an amazing, blinding white form burst from above. When her bare white feet stepped across the threshold, the altar door snapped shut with a thunderclap. Eyes blazing like stars, hair wild and raging, snowy arms outstretched and glistening with light as her thin white gown whipped in the wind of her own power, nineteen-year-old Persephone Parker descended through fire and entered the circle where the Gorgon stood staring, dumbstruck and quizzical. The spiders scattered and the hellhound squealed; tucking countless incorporeal tails.
Lifting a hand, every muscle taut with energy, Percy Parker spoke and her words cast a marvelous echo. “Demon, you’ll not destroy my world!”
No one had ever, including Beatrice, found themselves in such awe. The serpents retracted and The Guard fell limp upon the floor. Lucille scowled. Alexi gaped at Percy transformed by power. Beatrice could see in his eyes, in the way his stern face was lit with wonder, that no matter if he had been led astray, he clearly adored this strangely beautiful creature. Her panicked heart eased; their love was the key to victory. London’s Guard began to rouse to their tasks.
Percy considered the spirits madly careening about the space. She frowned. “Go home!” Her upraised hand closed into a firm fist. The pin between worlds, loosened and removed by the Gorgon’s call, now had a new mistress. That gritty stone cylinder ground loudly against the floor. It lifted, shedding debris as it began to screw itself back into place.
Everything reacted. The spirits shrieked, though the disquieting noise was audible only to Percy and the ghosts themselves. Beatrice winced. As if pulled by strings, the horde was drawn back through the black hole to the netherworld. Clawing and screaming, unable to shake London loose as they wished, all were absorbed. Beatrice, too, was unable to fight her new form. The eddying force would not be denied, and she like hundreds of others was cast back into the Whisper-world, back into the dank, eternal corridor.
The assembling dead were jostled by a blast—Miss Parker’s vanquishing blow. There was a terrible shriek and the stones before them exploded, the seal between worlds molten with power. Ash was everywhere. A squealing, hissing snake head rolled past Beatrice’s foot. She stepped on it, and it crunched sickeningly but satisfyingly beneath her boot. Then she took refuge in the anonymity of the mad horde and hoped to elude the grasp of Darkness.
It wasn’t long before Aodhan sought Beatrice out, his broad grey form sidling up beside her at the edge of the labyrinthine set of corridors. She answered him before he could even ask. “It’s done. She is with them and they are safe.”
“Good work,” the man said.
Beatrice nodded. “I hope the dear girl’s game for the next match.”
CHAPTER ONE
“He’s nearing,” Headmistress Rebecca Thompson said quietly, carefully setting down her teacup lest her trembling hands overturn the saucer. A flurry of action began around her.
The lights were trimmed at their highest, to banish the evening’s terrors. The best guest room, readied for their important charge, was again inspected. Private stores of clean clothing and toiletries were seized and prepared. A clatter from the kitchen below signaled that the maid rushed to prepare a fresh pot of tea.
Rebecca remained still, sitting stiff in a high-backed chair, her trembling hand stilled on the knee of a grey wool dress that was quite the worse for wear. Absently she reached up to touch the bruise around her throat where a snake from the head of a Gorgon had nearly choked her to death. In the sumptuous drawing room of the grand Withersby estate, where Lord Elijah held more sway than a second son of the marquess should, such a thing as a Gorgon seemed impossible. But those called The Guard knew better.
“He’s here,” announced the beauteous Josephine Belledoux, anxiety heightening her French accent. Only two shocking streaks of sil
ver hair might have indicated her age, had the frosty locks not been there since youth. Her typically immaculate coiffure was anything but—a barometer of the night’s difficulties. Olive skin flushed, dark eyes wide, she threw open the door. Lifting her torn, doubled skirts, she ran outside, leaving the entrance open in welcome behind her.
Beneath the sheltering stone arches of the portico, a striking figure descended from a carriage and gave Josephine a brief nod of greeting. He placed a finger to his lips. “Keep everyone quiet.” Professor Alexi Rychman’s rich, low murmur carried like thunder, preceding the storm of his presence. “She’s fast asleep, and I dare not wake her.”
The professor’s usual ensemble was smeared with ash. His finely tailored black frock coat and vest showed stress at the seams; one cuff of his white shirtsleeves was in tatters, his crimson cravat open and lopsided around his neck, the purpling bruise of the Gorgon’s embrace gruesomely offsetting his sharply elegant features. But his dark eyes were focused. He’d smoothed his hair into some semblance of order. His pale face, while weary, was relieved.
He reached carefully into the cab, lifting an unconscious woman into his arms. Her petite body wrapped tightly in the folds of his cloak, it was as if Alexi Rychman held the moon swaddled in black, and the warm affection with which he stared at the girl made Josephine gape before she recovered herself. “We’re overeager and filled with questions, desperate to know Miss Parker is well…and desperate for your forgiveness.”
Alexi pursed his lips. “What, must I bless you all with oil and take you into a confessional?”
“Perhaps,” Josephine murmured, guiding him up the walk. “I assume, since you’re not driven to utter distraction, that she’s resting?” He nodded. “And you’ve…made up?”
“As much as a few moments allowed.”
“I can only imagine how weary she must be.”
“God, yes—think of it,” Alexi muttered in awe. “The poor girl woke from fever to find the man who shunned her half strangled while the bowels of hell poured out, rescuing us with entirely foreign powers bursting from her body. Perhaps a trying evening for a heretofore meek young lady.”
“Bless her sweet, brave young heart.” Josephine held the door as Alexi edged through with the white body in his arms. “Speaking of which…how old is she, Alexi?”
“Nineteen,” Alexi replied. “Older than the other students at Athens by far,” he added carefully, trying to cast in a favourable light the fact that he had been her teacher. “She was only there because her convent didn’t know what to do with her.”
“Nineteen,” Josephine murmured, peering at the crease on Alexi’s oft-furrowed brow and the lines near his eyes that placed him at nearly twice that number. “Won’t you just be the envy of all?”
A smirk pulled the corner of his chiseled lips. He hesitated in the foyer, eyeing a small door to the right of him that was designed for a lady at a finer engagement, should she wish to dart upstairs and into a washroom to make herself presentable before descending the grand staircase for a perfect entrance. Tonight was no such engagement, but he did wish to bypass ceremony at the front door.
Josephine slipped off ahead. “I’ll hold them back,” she promised. “The best guest room has been made up; you may take her there directly. One moment.”
Alexi heard The Guard murmuring inquiries about Miss Parker’s health and his own state of mind. He waited while Josephine shuffled them into the withdrawing room and returned to open the interior door. Passing her without a word, he glanced at the pallid face of their prophecy fulfilled, the seventh member of their exclusive Guard of six and the longmissing piece of his lonely heart. With only the creak of his boots on the stairs, the slow breathing of his beloved and the pounding of his own heart to accompany him, Alexi allowed his mind to wander to the sensual delights that would await him in the coming days.
A vague uncertainty, a creeping shadow of inexperience damped his desire. What incredible power his dear Percy had shown and wielded, throwing herself into harm’s way to save him and his fellows. But had she, inadvertently, escalated the dangers of the Whisper-world? He knew that she didn’t understand the magic that burst from within her, or how to use it. He hoped this evening wasn’t a further call to arms. There was much of vagary about his calling, and it frustrated him to be so oft cast into the grey areas of divine mystery.
The guest room door was open, the lamps trimmed low, giving the gilt bedposts, fine tapestries and paneled mahogany wood a resonant warmth. The head of the bed was turned down, and Alexi slid Percy, cloak and all, under the covers. She stirred only slightly: a small, aching pout when released. Alexi nearly climbed in beside her to indulge her with a continuing embrace…But Percy remained in sleep’s hold, and Alexi reminded himself he was a gentleman. Tucking the covers to her bosom, he stepped back. A thousand sentiments were on his lips but he could only stare at her body, with hardly a distinction between the colour of her skin and the crisp white linens save the shadows the graceful lines of her face provided. How could she not think herself beautiful?
He sensed a presence and turned to see Vicar Michael Carroll just beyond the threshold. Bushy haired and ruddy cheeked, an affable man of the cloth, Michael had bright eyes and a smile Merlin would have coveted for its power; his capability for joy was The Guard’s most potent balm throughout the years. But even Michael had seen unprecedented strain these past days, noticeable in the deepening circles beneath his eyes.
Alexi walked to the door and closed it quietly behind him, curtly addressing the vicar. “Mr. Carroll?”
“I know.” Michael held up his hands in acquiescence. “I’ve been told to leave you alone, but I know you’ll never sleep at this rate, and you need to rest. Your heart’s been shut from my powers since our youth. Until now.” If it were any other hand placed on his shoulder, Alexi would have shirked it. “You’ve broken open, my good man. I feel your anxiety and confusion, fear that she’ll wake up and want nothing to do with this destiny. She might even question whether she loves you.”
Alexi opened his mouth to protest and found he couldn’t.
“Love makes a man mad. So allow me to perform a little magic. It’s the least I can do.” Michael’s eyes sparkled strangely.
Alexi stared at his friend, whose gift was knowing hearts, and a looming, burning question sprang to his lips. “What is she?”
Michael blinked. “Does it matter? She’s Prophecy.”
“But if she truly is her namesake, Persephone, then is she mortal at all? Will the Whisper-world keep coming to steal her away?” Mounting tension turned Alexi’s mouth into a grimace. “If she’s a goddess, is she doomed to watch me age and die while she lives on—?”
“Alexi. Whatever powers she may possess, I’m convinced Percy Parker is mortal, albeit a great channel for great deeds. Need I remind you she nearly died in your arms? If there’s something of a goddess in her, divinity was forsaken to live a mortal life. It wouldn’t be the first time in the history of mankind that—”
“Yes, thank you, Vicar, the comparison’s not lost on me,” Alexi muttered. His friend was staring at him with knowing amusement. Alexi found himself, to his chagrin, confessing. “I’m…addled. I feel…oddly full.”
“Welcome to emotions, Professor.” Michael grinned.
“I couldn’t…Before, I—”
“If you’ll permit me?” Michael held his hand up over Alexi’s heart, inhaled, exhaled and bestowed his gift. Alexi felt his tension ease. His careening thoughts calmed to love’s clarion focus: his desire to be by Percy’s side, to be the strength that she needed, to let her passionate nature delight him and ease his weary soul. Indeed, nothing else mattered. For now.
“Thank you,” Alexi said, furrowing his brow and puzzling over the complication that was Man.
“My pleasure.”
“Now, for the sake of safety, I shall spend the night in this room. But if I hear one word of gossip against Miss Parker’s honour—”
“You’ll
not be suspect, have no fear.” Michael moved to the stairs. He stopped, a wistful smile on his lips. “One last thing, Professor. She adores you. Don’t question that. The girl couldn’t close her heart to me if she tried. It’s too big, too radiant. A time may come for future worry, but for now, do enjoy true love. Not all of us can.” A melancholy look crossed his face before he descended.
Alexi turned back to open the door. His eyes sought Percy’s peaceful face, framed by its halo of shimmering spidersilk hair. She was as pale as the ghosts they both could see, yet more alive than anyone he’d known. And she made him feel alive. She was his. Not a god’s, not destiny’s, not The Guard’s, not England’s but his. He’d fight to death and beyond to keep it that way.
CHAPTER TWO
The Whisper-world was in a state of unprecedented chaos. Not that Darkness didn’t like a certain amount; he thrived in it, enjoyed creating it. But everything has a scale, and every scale must have a fulcrum. Darkness fancied chaos of his own making, carefully orchestrated and meticulously controlled, with crafted conflicts, builds and climaxes, a wellmade play that he, as director, could change at will. There was an art to chaos. Not this. This was not his, and this was not art.
The battle cries of his sworn enemies echoed down the endless halls, they having escaped their prison tower. He would, of course, round them all up again. But it was surely her fault.
He glided through the careening forms of once-human energy, spirits too agitated to obey him or offer appropriate deference. His shadow reached out as he passed, black phantom limbs that lengthened to shove spirits out of his way while his body remained gracefully still and erect, tossing spirits toward the river to drown, smashing their fragile heads against stone. His jaw ground with pleasure as he heard each satisfying crunch of bone and gorgeous keening that was the last of a humanity draining away, a pathetic cry of pain and dust, its owner never to plunge from these purgatorial shadows deeper into hell, or even to cross into the mysterious Beyond.
The Darkly Luminous Fight for Persephone Parker Page 2