Gaslamp Gothic Box Set

by Kat Ross

  Alec cursed in Old Persian, the native tongue that still emerged in times of intense fear or frustration.

  There’d been no hesitation. Whoever they were, these men had iron discipline and their instructions clearly included not being taken alive.

  Alec went back inside. The giant lay dead on the black and white bathroom tiles amid a lake of blood, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Alec swore again, mainly at himself. He’d meant to keep at least one of them alive for questioning. He rummaged through the man’s clothes, finding only a wad of banknotes and a ticket stub from the ferry.

  He quickly searched the other rooms. There was nothing — not a single personal item. The men must have been staying elsewhere and using this room only for surveillance. Alec hurried out, retrieving the sheath to his cane from the corridor. Happily, it was still empty. He stopped in his own room just long enough to wash the blood from his hands and toss his belongings into a valise, then took the stairs down as fast as his bed leg would allow.

  He estimated six minutes had passed since the second man went over the balcony.

  Alec slowed to a walk once he reached the red-carpeted lobby. The Hotel Santa Catalina had just opened two months before and it still looked pristine, a luxe playground of crystal chandeliers, marble floors and Greco-Roman statues in niches. The hotel manager was trying to calm a hysterical woman dripping with jewels, leaving a junior clerk to handle the front desk. The people milling around had all gone outside to gawk and the lobby was almost empty. Alec stepped up to the gleaming desk.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “A terrible accident, señor,” the clerk said. He looked shaken and he kept glancing through the plate glass windows at the crowd gathered outside. “May I assist you with anything?”

  “I heard a disturbance in Room 511. It sounded like a violent argument. Who’s staying there?”

  The clerk frowned. “You must be mistaken, señor. That room is currently unoccupied.”

  “I’m certain I heard something. Would you mind double-checking?”

  The clerk opened the large guest book and ran his finger down the page, then spun it around it to face Alec. “Empty, you see?” He swallowed. “But you ought to tell the police. They’ll be here any minute.” He lowered his voice. “Someone fell.”

  “My God,” Alec said. “That’s terrible.”

  The clerk glanced at his suitcase.

  “Checking out, Señor Lawrence?”

  “Yes. And I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

  A flicker of suspicion crossed the clerk’s face as Alec settled the bill — he was starting to put two and two together — but the manager was still trying to soothe the loudly sobbing woman and he had been trained to treat guests with the utmost courtesy and delicacy.

  Alec slid a folded five-pound note across the counter.

  “Thank you for your help, I’d best go see if the police have arrived.”

  The clerk nodded and he limped across the lobby and down the front steps. Alec pushed his way through the crowd gathered in the street, ignoring the offended murmurs. The man lay on the paving stones, his head twisted at an impossible angle. It was clear he was dead. No one had approached the body.

  “He jumped,” someone said in the hushed voice of tragedy. “From the fifth floor. I saw it. Threw himself straight over the rail like the Devil himself was on his heels.”

  It was only a matter of time before they found the second body. They might think the two men fought, that one killed the other and then leapt to his death. It would all be quite neat except for the fact that Alec had stepped in the blood and tracked it into his own room. He’d been so preoccupied by the loss of his power, he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.

  I need to get the hell out of here, Alec thought, crouching down and rifling through the man’s pockets.

  Mutters of disapproval erupted.

  “Hey there!” someone called out. “What are you doing?”

  Alec ignored them. The pockets were empty save for a cigarette case with a strange symbol engraved on the lid. It looked vaguely familiar, though Alec couldn’t quite place where he’d seen it before. He thrust it into his own pocket.

  “You’ve got blood on you, Mr. Lawrence.”

  He looked up into the eyes of Miss Carlisle. They no longer danced with mischief. Now they were filled with confusion. Alec followed her gaze to his coat sleeve. The fabric was dark enough that it hadn’t been visible in the lobby, but beneath the bright sun a stain was visible. He touched it and his fingers came away red.

  “You’re hurt,” she said softly.

  Alec said nothing. It wasn’t his. She bit her lip.

  “Did you see it happen? Mrs. Mackenzie and I were on the lawn. I heard a scream….”

  Alec glanced over her shoulder. The elevator operator stood with the hotel manager in front of the pink façade. They were looking at him and whispering together, no doubt about the fact that he rode up to the top floor just minutes before the victim plunged to his death.

  “Farewell, Miss Carlisle,” Alec said. He rose and kissed her hand. “It was truly a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  She gave him a look that was both fearful and intrigued, and seemed about to say something more when Mrs. Mackenzie came charging out of the hotel. She bulled through the crowd and seized Miss Carlisle’s arm, pulling her away from the body.

  “It’s no fit sight for a young girl,” she exclaimed with a shudder. “What sort of hotel is this? I’ll have nightmares for the rest of my life! And where are the authorities? Are they planning to leave this poor creature to rot in the sun like a stray dog—”

  Right on cue, Alec heard the shrill blast of a police whistle.

  He grabbed his valise and limped away as fast as he dared into the tangle of streets off the corniche. As he turned the corner several policemen hurried past. He averted his face and stared into a shop window. As soon as they were gone, he started running for the pier where the passenger ferries to Cadiz departed. Date palms and red hibiscus trees lined the main thoroughfares, but Alec avoided the busiest routes, taking a path through the steep, narrow alleyways he’d spent weeks exploring.

  He reached the terminal just as one of the ferries took on the last passengers.

  Would Miss Carlisle tell them about the blood? Perhaps not, but it didn’t really matter. The police would be on the fifth floor by now.

  His knee throbbed like a rotten tooth as he staggered the last quarter mile to the pier, where a nearly full ferry sat at anchor. Alec bought a third-class ticket and went aboard. It was crowded with tourists just like himself, half of them red from the sun, hot and tired and with the glum look that signaled the end of a holiday. The berths were below and there was a scrum around the cramped staircases leading to the lower decks. Alec found a place at the bow and propped his elbows on the rail.

  Some enemy he’d forgotten about — or wasn’t aware of in the first place? It was more than possible. One didn’t live as long as Alec Lawrence had without leaving a trail of stepped-on toes.

  He watched grey gulls float on the air currents. Any minute, he expected to hear a police whistle. The ferry was the first place they’d look. Then he felt a vibration through the soles of his shoes as the great steam engine fired up. A ripple of excitement moved through the passengers. The crew tossed the mooring lines to the pier, where a handful of locals waved goodbyes. The ship chugged out of the harbor and met the swells of the Atlantic. Somewhere to the east lay the coast of Morocco, though it was too far to see. In two days, he’d be in Cadiz. With any luck, the Spanish police wouldn’t be waiting for him.

  Alec’s gaze turned northwest, following the pull of the bond. His fingers tightened around the silver falcon head of his cane.

  He wouldn’t be returning to London until he found Vivienne and he knew she wasn’t there.

  She was somewhere much farther away.

  If it meant diving over the rail of the ferry and swimming, Alec would do it in a
heartbeat, but for now…. At least he was moving in the right direction.

  16

  For two days, the snowfall didn’t cease. It blanketed Saint George’s monastery in a shroud of white, leaving the party from Mara Vardac stranded within the high walls.

  Father Cernat cared for Nathaniel himself, setting the broken bone and brewing poultices from the herbs in the infirmary to dull the pain and stave off infection. But they both knew his skills were not enough.

  “Lord Cumberland needs a hospital,” the priest whispered to Vivienne, who kept a vigil at his bedside. “He’s strong, but….” The look in his eyes made her afraid.

  She made sure the fire stayed lit and replaced Nathaniel’s blankets when he pushed them to the floor, burning with fever. When she did find snatches of sleep, she suffered from nightmares, though she never remembered them — only woke with a scream trapped in her throat.

  The children’s father, Cristian, came to check on Nathaniel’s condition each morning. No one knew who had fired the shot, but Vivienne could see he felt terrible. Yet when she asked him what Father Nicolae had told him, he refused to speak of it.

  Vivienne demanded another audience with the abbot. This was denied.

  And so she sat in the infirmary, listening to the monk’s voices rise and fall in the church, listening to the wind blow along the ramparts, and burning with a desperate need to find Alec. To see his face, touch his hand.

  Just once more before she lost him forever.

  And then, on the third day, dawn broke with clear skies and the reinforcements from Satinari finally arrived. A doctor, the constable, and a dozen other men, including the mayor of Mara Vardac and the innkeeper, Master Korzha.

  “The pass is open?” she asked, having thrown her cloak on and run out to the gates to meet them.

  Master Kozha nodded from his horse. “The snow is deep but the wind scoured it from the road.” Relief showed on his face. “We came in time then.”

  Vivienne didn’t reply. She hurried back to the infirmary while a group of monks saw to the new arrivals. Nathaniel’s eyes were open, though his handsome face was ghostly and tight with pain. She eased herself down to the edge of the bed and took his hand.

  “Vivienne,” he murmured.

  She helped him drink some water. “The doctor is here, my dear. He’ll see to you.”

  He gave a small nod. “Tell me again what happened. It’s all a fog….”

  “Gavra was no abbot. I still don’t understand, Nathaniel, but he has Anne. Florin and Constantin were his conspirators.” She drew a breath. “He claimed Anne is still alive.”

  “Thank God,” he muttered weakly.

  “They escaped, I’ve no idea how.” Vivienne paused. There was much Nathaniel didn’t know about her. She would tell him all of it someday, but not now.

  Yet she could make a beginning. “I have what’s called a bond with Alec Lawrence. The cuffs we wear … they’re not simply a symbol. They have power, Nathaniel. Magic. Do you understand?”

  “No, but that’s all right.” He searched her face. “Go to him. I’ll return to England as soon as I can. The doctor’s here now.”

  A tear ran down her cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Vivienne kissed Nathaniel softly on the mouth. He gripped her hand.

  She gave the constable her statement, impatient to leave. And then she was striding for the stables, calling for her horse.

  Vivienne galloped down to Mara Vardac, stopping only to pay Mistress Korzha for the mount and take the carvings of Innunu and Kavi, She of the Nine Flails who meted out vengeance. The rest of the luggage she abandoned.

  From Satinari, Vivienne caught a train heading east. She followed the bond where it led her, not eating or sleeping, through a succession of villages and towns and cities, hardly aware of where she was, only where she needed to go.

  With each hour, Alec drew closer.

  Vivienne understood he was doing the same thing she was, and it lent her strength.

  And then, after three days of hard travel, she found herself in a tiny train station somewhere in the mountains of Switzerland. Her hands shook as she heard a whistle shriek in the distance, saw a puff of smoke, and a minute later the train pulled in and she was running like a madwoman down the platform, searching the faces of the passengers as they stepped off.

  And here came Alec, levering down the steps with his cane, his face pale and drawn. Vivienne barreled into him, her cheek pressing against his coat collar, and he held her for a long moment as she sobbed uncontrollably.

  “I found you, Viv, don’t worry,” he whispered into her hair. “What’s happened?”

  She pulled away, trying to steady herself. Alec looked shocked. She knew he’d never seen her like this before. Not once, in all their long years together.

  “Is it Cyrus? Cassandane?”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks as she held up her naked wrist. “A man took it … not even a man. Something….” She was nearly incoherent. “He gave me a message.”

  Alec stilled.

  “He said to tell you D’Ange sends his regards.” Her voice broke again. “Who is he, Alec?”

  They caught a night train to Munich.

  Vivienne fell asleep with her head on Alec’s shoulder. He listened to her soft breathing, felt her heart beat in rhythm with his own.

  He knew she hadn’t rested in many days, so he hadn’t told her all of it. She wouldn’t have absorbed much anyway. Alec had simply said it was a man he’d hoped might be dead and that they needed to go to Cyrus Ashdown right away. She had nodded, compliant in a very un-Vivienne way. And then she had slept like a child in his arms, rousing only to change trains or eat the awful food he’d bought in the stations.

  Alec couldn’t think beyond getting to Ingress Abbey.

  Please, God, let Cyrus still have it.

  Alec understood now why he had suddenly lost control of his power. It was a queer side effect of the cuffs that the bond remained until the gold band touched the skin of another mortal, but if Vivienne wasn’t actually wearing hers, the daēva’s ability to use the Nexus would be trapped inside it.

  But Alec didn’t give a damn about that. What terrified him was that if their bond snapped, Vivienne would age and die, and he didn’t know if it would be gradual or all at once. Would all that borrowed time suddenly catch up with her?

  He rested his cheek against her forehead and watched his reflection in the dark forest speeding past the train window.

  If he hadn’t left her alone, this would never have happened.

  Now, four trains later, they were finally pulling into Greenhithe Station in the tiny English village of Dartford. Alec roused her and hired a cart to take them to Ingress Abbey. An enormous neo-Gothic manor on the banks of the Thames, it had been a convent before King Henry seized it to fund his ruinous wars with France.

  Vivienne seemed to revive as they rattled down the long driveway. She sat up straight, her hands tightly folded in her lap.

  Cyrus’s bonded daēva, Cassandane, must have seen them coming through a window. She threw the front door open and enclosed them both in a bear hug. A tall, broad-shouldered woman who kept her hair cropped short and preferred men’s clothing, she was one of their dearest friends — and half of the only other bonded pair remaining in the world.

  “No Anne?” she asked with an edge of worry … though not too much. It was Anne, after all.

  Vivienne shook her head. “Inside. We’ll tell you all of it.”

  They found Cyrus in his library, warming his slippered feet by a coal stove. Threads of silver wound through his hair and he looked much older than Vivienne, a man in his middle fifties. This was because he’d lost his bond with Cassandane for a period a long time ago, aging in the interim until they finally found each other again.

  Cyrus had penetrating eyes, a patrician nose and thin, harsh lips, but they formed a smile at the sight of his visitors. He rarely, if ever, left Ingress Abbey anymore.

  Alec s
trode across the room, his heart beating fast.

  “Do you still have it? The rose cross?”

  Cyrus raised shaggy brows. He gave a slow nod.

  Alec fell into an armchair. “Thank Christ.” He leaned over and handed Cyrus the cigarette case. “This was in the pocket of a man who followed me to Gran Canaria. Ring any bells?”

  Cyrus took the case and examined it. “Oh, dear,” he murmured.

  “Out with it,” Vivienne snapped, her old fire returning. “What does the symbol mean? Who is he?”

  Cyrus met her eyes. “The Archangel Gabriel. The messenger of God.”

  She stared blankly. “Who the hell are you talking about?”

  Alec answered. “His name is Gabriel D’Ange.”

  Vivienne sank down in a chair next to Alec. “Father Gavra,” she said softly.

  “That’s what he called himself?” Cyrus asked. “It’s Gabriel in Romanian.”

  “Give me that.” Cyrus handed her the case. She glanced at it, then took one of the cigarettes inside and lit it, her jaw tight. “Well, he has Anne.” She held up her wrist, pulling back the sleeve of her gown. “And my cuff. So let’s have the whole story and see if we can find a way out of this mess.”

  Cassandane drew a sharp breath. Cyrus made a noise of sympathy.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said gently.

  Vivienne glowered.

  Alec leaned back, stretching his achy leg. “It was a long time ago. I’d been hearing rumors of an angel of death, a vigilante who preyed on men of power who had escaped punishment due to their money or influence. He left dozens of bodies across Europe, all drained to husks.”

  “A necromancer?” Cassandane asked.

  “Clearly, but not the usual. This one had particular tastes. His own brand of rough justice.”