by James Somers
Not a day had gone by since that I had not pondered how that night might have gone differently. I still had no idea how we might have rid the world of Black without Oliver’s sacrifice. And I still had no idea how he might be rescued.
In addition to this, we had learned too late of Black’s plan to trap the vampire warriors, known as the Breed, within their icy realm of Greystone. They had been there all this time without the ability to feed upon the blood of mortals, a condition that would drive them insane with thirst. Should they ever be freed from this imprisonment, the Breed would create anarchy, killing without prejudice, feeding their madness with the life blood of countless innocents.
Even worse was the fact that Tom was trapped with them in Greystone. During his attempt to rescue Charlotte, Black had tricked him into going for the help of her father, Tiberius, the Lord of the Vampires. Charlotte held out little hope that Tom would survive long without being discovered. I still hoped, but this hope waned with every day that passed.
Had I been more powerful, I could have created a new portal. However, I had been informed by Lycean that few had the kind of power it would take. He had hoped to spare my disappointment, but there was little that could be done for that. Worse still was the fact that even though my power grew exponentially, so did the danger of creating that portal and inadvertently releasing the Breed upon an unsuspecting mortal world.
To look out over Hampstead Heath, one might suppose that all was right with the world. The reality, however, was shockingly different. War was brewing among the Descendant clans. Even with Black gone, trouble was on the horizon.
In recent months, a new problem had arisen. A young English lord had emerged as one purporting to his own heritage among the Descendants of the Fallen. He made grandiose speeches before various clans about days of power still to come for the Descendants. As with Black’s promises, many heeded the call.
Already, the cannibalistic pixie clans had gone after this self-proclaimed messiah. And many others might soon follow. A meeting of the clan chiefs had been called to take place in less than a week. At that time, Lord Grayson Stone would present his case to the council members and their advisors. Lycean had informed me of the meeting and asked that I stand in Oliver’s stead. However, I was to have an even earlier opportunity to size up Lord Stone.
Sensing another presence in the room, I addressed my servant. “Uriah?”
“My lord,” he said. “I took the liberty of having Cook prepare your lunch, since you have arrived early from school.”
“Thank you,” I answered. I had given up months ago, trying to assure Uriah that I was not an English lord. His reply had always been to point out that, as the brother and heir to Oliver James, I had also inherited his title and its privileges. Over the past year, I had learned not only of Uriah’s position as Oliver’s trusted servant and executor of his affairs, but also that it was quite futile to argue with him. He tended to always be right.
“I’ve laid out your attire for this evening, sir,” Uriah said.
I turned to him, acknowledging his efforts with a smile. “I appreciate that, Uriah. Please tell Cook that I’ll come down and eat in a few minutes.”
Uriah reached just outside the doorway and pulled a little cart inside. On the cart sat a covered silver platter. “I took the liberty of bringing it to you, sir.”
To others, Uriah appeared to be a very tall middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair. He possessed a muscular build and would have seemed imposing to most. However, to those who saw beyond the glamour to his real appearance, Uriah was a troll of considerable ferocity.
He stood approximately seven feet tall, and had several horns protruding like a small crown upon his otherwise bald head. Uriah’s skin held a faintly green hue and was tougher than leather. He possessed a hulking frame and teeth as sharp as any predator, yet he spoke like a gentleman of the finest breeding. I had never seen Uriah fight, but Sophia had assured me that he was quite terrible to behold.
Even as a troll he still wore his butler’s finery, perhaps making him seem all the more strange. Still, I had gotten used to him by now. When I had first met Uriah, he had expressed his condolences to me, though I felt like I owed him mine more. After all, he had served many years as Oliver’s right hand man and bodyguard.
Uriah had been in China conducting business matters for Oliver during our troubles with the Breed and Mr. Black. He had only learned of his master’s terrible fate upon arriving back in London. And though he never expressed any such emotions to me, I felt like Uriah grieved for his longtime friend to this day.
After settling matters concerning Oliver’s estate, as executor, Uriah had informed me privately that he would very much like to continue in my service, since I was Oliver’s brother and heir. I cannot convey how strange it seemed to me. To meet such a uniquely mammoth individual and have him making such a request was astonishing.
I was barely more than a boy. Nevertheless, I assured him that nothing would please me more than to have Oliver’s most trusted servant as my own. Upon my reply, Uriah had actually smiled a little, and that was that.
Since then, we had gotten along very well, and I found him to be just as much of a father figure as Lycean. He ran the business end of things, allowing me to rest secure and focus upon my studies both at Oxford, for a formal degree, and with Master Helios in Tidus for practical matters. I was meant to occupy a notable position in the governmental affairs of London, just as Oliver had previously. For that I needed a formal education. But my training with Master Helios would serve me among the Descendants, especially with the present danger.
“Thank you, Uriah,” I said. “I’ll be ready on time. I was just thinking.”
“About Lord James, sir?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Very good, sir,” he said. “I shall leave you to your thoughts.” He walked out of the room, leaving behind a roast beef sandwich on the platter that Cook had prepared.
Truth be told, Uriah still held on to the hope that I would somehow come up with a way to free Oliver from Tartarus. I hoped as well, but so long a time with no success had me discouraged. I didn’t even know how to enter Tartarus, though I had tried many times already.
I strolled from the window past the serving cart, picking up my sandwich. I took a bite, savoring the roast beef and the gravy that Cook covered it with. One thing about Cook: she knew my tastes.
Walking on towards the library shelves that lined the walls, I examined the titles. Each one seemed to expand in my vision, as though a magnifying glass were being passed before my eyes. It was magic, of course—another trick that Oliver had established so that he could find the volumes he was looking for no matter how high on the shelves they were placed.
I moved on from titles that would have taken me to the very places they described. It was quite a unique library, in fact. Many titles needed only to be placed upon the mantle in order to create a portal through the fireplace to those locations. I had already visited Tidus in this way and many other places, both in Faerie and the mortal world.
However, it was the many journals that Oliver had kept that piqued my interest the most. Oliver James’s life had been inscribed within the pages of these leather-bound volumes. Literally, it seemed that the man had kept track of nearly everything he ever did, writing with uncanny detail even the sounds and smells around him.
When I wanted to see him, I only had to call for a journal title and it flew down from the shelf into my waiting hand. No wonder Oliver didn’t have any ladders in his library. Upon opening the journals, I found the writing, of course, but I had had no idea how much more awaited until Sophia saw me reading one.
She had asked me if I ever ventured into Oliver’s memories to see what his life had been like, since I missed him so much. I had no idea what she was talking about and said as much.
“I doubt that I could do it,” she had said. “But you have the same abilities he has. Surely you can do it.”
I had not the fa
intest notion of where to start. However, Master Helios had been able to instruct me, though he himself could not make the memories come alive. I had focused upon the writing that day and felt it open up to me. The words had begun to glow upon the page. The next thing I knew, I was standing in downtown London with Oliver beside me.
He walked beside a man I did not recognize, speaking about Black’s infiltration into the House of Lords at Parliament. I attempted to speak to Oliver, smiling when I first realized I was there with him. However, since the memory written on the page had not included my presence, these ghosts of the past did not acknowledge me either.
“Craven, he is poised to undo the very Empire itself, if we don’t stop this madness,” Oliver had said.
I was able to walk with them as a shadow and see what Oliver had seen, feel what he had felt, and so on. The memory I was experiencing seemed just as real to me as it had to Oliver when he lived it. However, I quickly learned its limitations.
Upon our approach to Whitehall, I stopped to look around me at the various government buildings. Taking in the view on that beautiful spring day and marveling at the vivid detail of the vision, I had allowed Oliver and his companion to get out of sight. At that same moment, the memory cast me out. I found myself seated back in the home of Master Helios.
Startled, I asked, “What happened? Why did I come back?”
Master Helios smiled. “You must have allowed Oliver to get away from you,” he explained. “The memories these pages contain are only what Oliver could immediately experience.”
“So when he rounded a corner, that part of the city no longer existed in his memory,” I surmised.
Master Helios nodded. “You’ll just have to remember to always be where he is while you walk in his memories.”
“One other question, Master.”
“Yes?”
“Do you know a man named Craven? Oliver was speaking to him about Black’s intrigues.”
“Craven is the head of an order of magicians in London,” he said. “They are a fraternal organization devoted to the practice of magic…the dark arts.”
“Magic meaning the abilities the Descendants possess?”
“Not the same at all,” he explained. “You and I, as well as all Descendants of the Fallen, are Superomancers. Our power is born into us and is a heavenly power—the same that was created in the angels when God made them. Though the term magic is commonly used, it actually doesn’t define our abilities. These magicians call upon dark spirits to lend their power, or to inhabit their bodies for brief periods of time.”
“Fallen angels?”
“That must be the case,” Helios said. “However, Oliver was unsure if these spirits were those imprisoned within Tartarus, or those Fallen who still roam free.”
“Sounds very much like practices forbidden by the Holy Scriptures,” I noted.
“They are the very same,” Helios confirmed. “As a matter of fact, Oliver had thought to use Craven and his order, despite their limited powers, in aid against Black. But he became increasingly uncomfortable with the idea. To my knowledge, he had not had contact with Craven’s order for many months by the time he brought you to Tidus for the first time.”
Now, as I scanned the titles inscribed by date and place upon the journal spines, I noticed one that did not possess any inscription. Despite having no title to summon it by, I tried anyway. “Journal? Journal without a title?”
It was no use. Instead, I used my own power to seize the book and bring it down from the high shelf where it resided. The journal floated down to me obediently. When I opened it, my eyes fell upon many blank pages. I turned back the pages until I found an extraordinary thing. Here was a set of pages that were currently being written by an invisible hand. I suddenly realized that the spell Oliver had created to keep these journals writing down his memories was still in operation. This journal was chronicling Oliver’s experiences in Tartarus at that very moment.
Lycean
Lycean toyed with the letter of invitation that had been delivered to him two days ago. He did not care for being summoned like some lackey. In fact, had the invitation to this private meeting come from anyone else, Lycean would have tossed it in the fire. But Grayson Stone was not just anyone. He had become a very dangerous threat among the Descendant clans in a short period of time.
Black had made many promises during his time in London, stirring the pot of rebellion among the Descendants. In his absence, the hope in those promises had not waned. Rather, Grayson Stone had taken up the banner, fomenting rebellion and fanning the flames between groups that were already near war to begin with.
Had he merely been some self-proclaimed prophet, Lycean would have dismissed him out of hand. But Grayson Stone had grown powerful over the past year. His family was quite wealthy by mortal standards, and he was a rising star among the politicians that administered the affairs of the British Empire. But it was more than that.
Grayson Stone was a Descendant whose lineage was unknown to anyone else. He had apparently come from nowhere to rise in popularity and prestige among the clans. No one among the Descendants had even noticed the man until he walked through a portal into Wolf’s Bane. There, he managed to charm the cannibalistic pixies. After that, people wanted to hear what he had to say. Certainly, if he could persuade the pixies of anything, he must be worth hearing.
Lycean had no idea of Stone’s particular talents or abilities and no way to find out. He had questioned several people who had heard the man, but they never seemed to be able to recall exactly the words he had said, or give any indication as to how he was different from mortals. They only knew this one thing: he was to be trusted and he was going to lead the Descendants into a new age of power and glory.
The more testimonies like this that Lycean heard, the more concerned he became. Despite his mortal appearance, something was not right about Grayson Stone. The ability to sway the minds of men with one’s words and lead them at your will was perhaps a far greater power than any other known in the world. And it was plain that the direction Grayson Stone would lead was any way but good.
The designated time and meeting place was surprisingly public, a café in Paris at noon. There were only a few others sitting outdoors on the patio with him. He had taken a table as far from the mortals as possible.
He reached for his tea and took a sip. When he set the cup back onto the table, Grayson Stone was seated across from him. Lycean did not react to his sudden appearance. It was probably meant as a display of his power. Materializing and dematerializing unnoticed was a fine art among capable Descendants, but Lycean had seen others, like Oliver, do it just as well. Even Brody, whose control of his power had increased a hundred fold over the past year could manage as much.
“Lycean,” Grayson said by way of introduction.
“Only my friends are allowed to address me so casually,” Lycean said coldly.
“I see,” Grayson replied.
“Do you?”
“More than you realize,” Grayson said.
“Then you already know that I have no intentions of following in your call to war against the mortals,” Lycean said. “You probably also realize that I’m not going to be so easily taken in by your great swelling words and fairy tale promises.”
Grayson held his gaze steady, unblinking.
“I’ve heard your sort of pie in the sky speeches before under the angel, Black. I know what war with the mortals could bring upon my people.”
Grayson grinned mischievously. “What could it bring?”
“Heavenly wrath,” Lycean said.
“So you would side with our enemy?”
“I want peace for my people,” Lycean said. “I would not think to take by force what has not been offered to us.”
“You would allow your people to remain oppressed?” Grayson asked.
“I know a losing battle when I see it,” Lycean answered. “You cannot wage war on the humans and hope to win.”
“And why is th
at?” Grayson asked amused.
Lycean sat back in his chair, a smile of his own playing upon his lips. “I’ve read the book, Stone,” he said. “I’ve joined the winning side, and that is the direction I intend to lead my people.”
Grayson stopped smiling. “The words of a coward.”
“The words of the wise,” Lycean countered.
“You don’t know the power I possess,” Grayson said.
“Perhaps, I just understand the power that possesses you,” Lycean answered.
Grayson stood up from his seat, turning to where a man was sitting reading a newspaper several tables away. He turned back to Lycean with a smile. “I wonder if all of your people feel the same way you do.”
Lycean did not have a chance to reply.
Grayson had disappeared. No one around them seemed to have noticed that he had ever been there. The man at the table folded his paper, leaving it on the table as he came to stand next to Lycean.
“What did he say?” Kron asked.
“Nothing of any consequence, my friend,” Lycean said. “We should return to our own place.”
Kron surveyed Paris around them. “A beautiful city,” he said. “It is a shame that we must cower from the mortal world. These creatures do not deserve what they have been given.”
Lycean regarded him with concern. “We have our own place, and they have theirs. We should be content.”
Kron turned to Lycean after a moment. “Yes, my lord.”
The two men left the café, walking down the street, a cool breeze at their backs. At the appropriate place, they deviated down toward the wall of a bank building. Lycean and his general passed through the wall of the building, exiting the mortal world by the same portal that had delivered them. Pedestrians passed on without regard.