Gaslamp Gothic Box Set

by Kat Ross

  She gazed at him fondly. “Indeed we are.” She glanced at the empty chair. “Where is Anne, anyhow?”

  Alec shrugged. “She said she was going for a walk in the park.”

  Balthazar dragged the comb through his raven hair, parting it on the left and smoothing it down with a palm. He was freshly shaven and wore an elegant grey morning coat. He leaned into the oval mirror.

  Save for the faint line at the corner of his mouth, he looked perfectly presentable for a little afternoon romp.

  He’d been a very good boy since the Picatrix Club, but he was starting to feel … tired.

  A fair number of the Duzakh had perished that night, but not all. And the ones who had escaped were the most dangerous. The old, clever ones. Like Balthazar.

  He’d only caught a quick glimpse of Alec’s sister on the tower before she vanished. A lovely woman.

  And D’Ange…. Well, Balthazar had been relieved he was already gone.

  If not, they might all have ended up like the Calico Cat and the Gingham Dog, he thought with amusement.

  It was a silly little limerick called The Duel Balthazar had often recited to Lucas when he was a young child. The words returned to him now.

  The gingham dog and the calico cat

  Side by side on the table sat;

  ’Twas half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)

  Nor one nor t’ other had slept a wink!

  The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate

  Appeared to know as sure as fate

  There was going to be a terrible spat.

  (I wasn’t there; I simply state

  What was told to me by the Chinese plate!)

  The gingham dog went “Bow-wow-wow!”

  And the calico cat replied “Mee-ow!”

  The air was littered, an hour or so,

  With bits of gingham and calico,

  While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place

  Up with its hands before its face,

  For it always dreaded a family row!

  (Now mind: I’m only telling you

  What the old Dutch clock declares is true!)

  The Chinese plate looked very blue,

  And wailed, “Oh, dear! what shall we do!”

  But the gingham dog and the calico cat

  Wallowed this way and tumbled that,

  Employing every tooth and claw

  In the awfullest way you ever saw—

  And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!

  (Don’t fancy I exaggerate—

  I got my news from the Chinese plate!)

  Next morning, where the two had sat

  They found no trace of dog or cat;

  And some folks think unto this day

  That burglars stole that pair away!

  But the truth about the cat and pup

  Is this: they ate each other up!

  “Now what do you really think of that?” he finished softly.

  Balthazar turned as Lucas appeared in the doorway.

  “Are you going out, my Lord?”

  Balthazar finished buttoning his shirt. “I have a luncheon appointment. It’s not far. I’ll walk.”

  Lady Tottenham’s husband was a Member of Parliament who was rarely home. They’d met at the theater three nights previous.

  “I’ve contacted the estate agent,” Lucas said, trailing his master down the staircase. “He found a potential buyer for the house.”

  Balthazar paused at the door, one hand resting on his silver-tipped walking stick.

  In truth, he should have left a month ago. Gabriel knew where he lived. Yet he happened to like the teeming metropolis of London. The restaurants, the clubs, the parties — high and low.

  The women.

  Balthazar was suddenly weary of hiding in the shadows like vermin. If D’Ange decided to carry out his threat sooner rather than later… What was it the French said?

  “C’est la vie,” he murmured.

  “My lord?”

  “Cancel the contract.” Balthazar put his hat on and smiled. “I think I’ll stay for a while after all.”

  30

  Anne strolled through Saint James Park, her parasol folded. It was one of those rare, fine mornings, the sky as blue as a robin’s egg and flowers blooming brightly in their beds.

  The spring weather had attracted Londoners from all quarters, some having picnics in the grass, others letting their children run and shout in the open parkland. She chose a path around the lake, searching for a vacant place to sit in solitude.

  And for an instant she saw a man in a black coat through the trees, his back to her. Her pulse quickened, but when he turned his face … Anne gripped her parasol and continued walking.

  She’d never spoken a word to anyone of the Beast of Gévaudan, but she kept a guilty eye on the newspapers, scanning their pages for reports of animal attacks on the French coast.

  There were none. She thought perhaps the Beast had grown accustomed to its diet of deer and rabbits and no longer hungered for the flesh of men. She only hoped that would remain the case.

  And on sleepless nights, of which there were many, she found solace in imagining him running through the ancient forests with the mate Gabriel had tried unsuccessfully to capture. If his she-wolf still lived, Anne knew the Beast would find her.

  She’d lingered at Park Place, needing be to near those she loved. Vivienne and Alec had tried to distract her, each in their own way, her brother with his laboratory and Vivienne by dragging her out to parties.

  They had such passion for each other. Too much, perhaps, to become lovers. Yet Anne sensed a new tenderness between them, as though old walls had cracked — if not tumbled down.

  Neither would admit this, of course.

  Henry Sidgwick had offered her an assignment in Brazil following up on sightings of a curupira, little fairies with orange hair and backwards feet. Anne turned it down.

  She was starting to feel the old restlessness, but she had stayed in London.

  Just one more week, she’d told herself the day before. Then I’ll go.

  Now she found an empty bench beneath the willows and sat down, her heart beating a little faster as took the letter from her pocket.

  It had arrived in the early morning post and she’d been sure to get to it before anyone saw. In fact, she’d been keeping a close eye on the post.

  She studied the exquisite penmanship, the exotic postmark.

  It was the second letter to arrive at Park Place, although the first been addressed to Mr. Alec Lawrence and was delivered three days after Gabriel leapt from the tower. It was dated the day of her birthday, just as he had promised her.

  The language was curt, but in essence it said exactly what Gabriel had claimed. That he would trade Vivienne’s cuff for the rose cross and set Anne free. Further instructions would follow. The signature was a harsh scrawl.

  This letter was different. It was addressed to her and the script had been formed with care, with many flourishes. She raised the envelope to her nose and fancied she could smell coffee and flowers and a hint of him.

  Anne had waited to read it until she was alone. She glanced around, half expecting Gabriel to be watching, although she knew in her heart he was far away.

  The page contained three lines.

  Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these wonderful regions, seems still to have the power of elevating his soul from earth.

  La vie est un sommeil, l’amour en est le rêve, Anne.

  Yours always, La Belle

  She recognized the first passage. A quote from Frankenstein, the last book she’d read aloud to him. It was her favorite for the scientific bits and his for the terrible pathos of the monster.

  As for the second, the words were simple enough to translate, even with Anne’s rusty French.

  Life is a long sleep and love is its dream.

  Something sweet and deep
stirred in her as she watched the young mothers pushing prams and couples strolling arm in arm.

  It didn’t feel like a final parting.

  It felt more like … an invitation.

  Anne examined the stamp. She smiled and tucked the letter in her pocket.

  About the Author

  Kat Ross worked as a journalist at the United Nations for ten years before happily falling back into what she likes best: making stuff up. She's the author of the Fourth Element and Fourth Talisman fantasy series, the Gaslamp Gothic mysteries, and the dystopian thriller Some Fine Day. She loves myths, monsters and doomsday scenarios. Check out Kat’s Pinterest page for the people, places and things that inspire her books.

  Take a moment to sign up for her newsletter so you don’t miss any new releases!

  www.katrossbooks.com

  kat@katrossbooks.com

  The Necromancer’s Bride

  Book #4 Summary

  Forgiveness is not Gabriel D’Ange’s strong suit.

  A self-appointed soldier of God with a penchant for ruthlessly punishing his enemies, he vanished after Anne Lawrence stabbed him with his own dagger.

  The smart thing would be to let him go.

  Unfortunately, Anne’s life isn’t just lonely without Gabriel. It’s insufferably boring.

  Determined to heal the rift between them, she goes in search of her tempestuous former lover, black parasol in hand and daeva magic crackling at her fingertips. But Gabriel has his own plans afoot and Anne finds herself drawn into one of his tangled webs, much against her better judgment.

  Gabriel’s nemesis has reappeared in Brussels, a vile slaver who’s plundering the Congo Free State with the blessing of King Leopold. Gabriel might be willing to give Anne a second chance, but not until Jorin Bekker’s head is lying at his feet.

  Back in London, the quasi-reformed necromancer Balthazar sets his sights on the same quarry. He holds a very personal grudge against Bekker — and killing him might be the only way to keep Gabriel D’Ange from Balthazar’s own throat. When the hunters collide at a lavish gala thrown by the king, Anne learns just how far she’ll go to save the man she loves.

  The Necromancer’s Bride

  First Edition

  Copyright © 2019 by Kat Ross

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This story is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  ISBN: 978-0-9997621-3-4

  Created with Vellum

  Part I

  “Mad, bad and dangerous to know.”

  —Lady Caroline Lamb on her former lover, Lord Byron

  1

  The Lothair sliced through the swells of the Atlantic, her three square-rigged sails bellying out with a steady wind. An iron-hulled merchant clipper, she carried a cargo of tea and whiskey – the staples of life in the British colonies – and one passenger named Anne Lawrence.

  The Lothair had departed from Liverpool two weeks before. Save for a brief squall or two, the weather had been surprisingly fair and the crew joked that the mysterious woman with the black parasol brought them luck, which was true, though not in the way they thought.

  Anne knew how to speak to the wind and water, to coax them to obey her will, and she had need for haste. So she’d worked a bit of magic — discreetly, of course. She knew all too well the superstitious panic that would erupt if anyone noticed. Even in this relatively enlightened era, mortals feared anything that smacked of the supernatural. Magic was the Devil’s domain.

  Still, something about her made them keep a respectful distance, even the captain, who looked relieved when she politely declined his invitations to dine in his cabin. Anne was quick to smile, yet there was a seriousness about her that made her seem older than she appeared. Even those who fancied themselves ladies’ men found themselves stammering like schoolboys whenever her gaze turned their way.

  Anne had auburn hair and freckles and ears that stuck out. She favored funereal black dresses that accentuated her pale skin. It was not a matter of ravishing beauty, rather of an elusive quality that bordered on witchiness — and that was much closer to the truth.

  Now she sat on a coil of thick mooring rope, a wide-brimmed hat on her head and a book open in her lap. It was called In a Glass Darkly and featured five short tales of occult horror, presented as true accounts drawn from the posthumous case files of one Dr. Martin Hesselius. Anne’s fondness for sensational stories stemmed from her time at a ruined castle on the coast of Normandy, when she had little to do but read the books her captor gave her. He was an ardent fan of Edgar Allen Poe and Horace Walpole and other pioneers of gothic literature. At first she’d regarded the novels with condescending disdain, but the tales of supernatural afflictions and doomed love proved addicting.

  In a Glass Darkly had evil dwarves and vengeful spirits, premature burials and beautiful, abused countesses — in short, all one could hope for — but Anne’s attention kept wandering from the page. As the Lothair drew closer to its destination, anxious thoughts filled her head.

  She’d spent her life tracking things that didn’t want to be found. Things that lived in the shadows, beyond the edges of the firelight. But Gabriel D’Ange did want to be found.

  She hoped.

  Her keen eyes detected the dark smudge on the horizon a few moments before the sailor, up in the crow’s nest.

  “Land ho!" he cried.

  Anne rose to stand at the port rail as the crew scrambled to shorten the sails and await the arrival of a pilot vessel to guide them safely through to port. The shallow waters surrounding the island of Bermuda were a graveyard of wrecks. French, Spanish, Dutch, Portuguese and English ships had all met violent ends on the reefs and the captain of the Lothair was taking no chances.

  Several pilot gigs raced toward them under sail. Listening to the bantering of the crew, Anne gathered that it was a highly competitive business and the first to reach the Lothair would earn the fee. The small boats had been lurking offshore and it was only a matter of minutes before the swiftest gig reached them. It was long and narrow, crewed by six oarsmen, a coxswain and a pilot, all of them dark-skinned Bermudians, freemen descended from the Africans who had been brought as slaves by the British.

  An agreement was struck, the losers tacked away, and the Lothair set a course in the wake of the pilot boat. The crew seemed to have great respect for the gigs, which often came to the rescue of distressed ships caught up on the reefs at great risk to themselves. But the seas were calm today, and Anne watched the water turn from cobalt to a crystalline emerald color as they neared the shoreline. A few fishing vessels dotted Saint George’s Port, but it was dominated by the great steamers of the British Navy, which had an extensive dockyard there.

  Anne had packed only one valise and she carried it ashore herself. After Bermuda, the Lothair would sail on for Canada. Customs officials waited on the dock to inspect the captain’s papers. They asked a few cursory questions, but Anne said she was a British citizen visiting as a tourist and they waved her through.

  Not so long before, a woman traveling alone would be an extreme oddity. In her journeys around the world, Anne had often dressed as a man to avoid unwanted scrutiny. But times were changing. More women were starting to venture out on their own and Bermuda was a popular destination, though mostly for Americans.

  The captain recommended the Globe Hotel, which had a colorful history. Beginning as Government House in 1699, it became a private residence and then a hotbed of Confederate agents during the War Between the States. Anne asked for directions and st
rolled through the town, sheltering from the midday sun under her black parasol. Bright flowers bloomed along the narrow lanes of houses. She was glad to have solid ground under her feet after so long at sea. She didn’t mind the pitching of the ship, but the confinement had started to chafe.

  The hotel was modest but clean and airy. Anne secured a room with a veranda on the second floor. She opened her valise and took out a cedarwood box. A very old cross nestled in the velvet lining. She idly traced the rose carved at its center, recalling the last conversation she’d had with her brother Alec in London.

  He’d been stretched out on a couch in the conservatory at Park Place, drinking a cup of tea and reading A Study in Scarlet, which had been sent to him by a young occult investigator in New York named Harrison Fearing Pell. She sounded interesting and Anne hoped to meet her one day, but at the moment, all she’d wanted to know was where Alec kept the cross he’d stolen from Gabriel D’Ange.

  He’d raised an eyebrow when she asked. “Why?”

  “Because I wish to return it to its rightful owner.”

  Alec said nothing for a long moment. He laid the book down, his voice flat. “You know where he is.”

  “I might.”

  “You should stay away from him.”

  “I’m not asking for your advice. I’m asking for the cross.”

  Alec refilled his cup from the teapot, but set it down untouched. “You never told me what happened in Normandy.”

  “Because it’s none of your business.”

  “I’m your brother—”

  “Then tell me all the things you share with Vivienne. Tell me how you truly feel about her. Since we have no secrets from each other.”