by Kim Lenox
“Blasted weather for February,” he gritted out.
“Ah, for February it would be, sir,” Leeson agreed softly. “But it is May. The twenty-ninth of May, 1889.”
Shock shot through Mark, numbing his lips and tingling along his scalp. Everything around him—the temperature of the air, the sunlight and activity—proved Leeson’s statement to be true. Three months of missing time. Though he kept the revelation—his internal thoughts—to himself, his features must have slackened or even paled, for the jovial smile faded from Leeson’s gray-whiskered lips.
Mark whispered, “The Thais . . .”
Leeson tipped his head and redirected his one-eyed gaze just above Mark. “It’s over there.”
Mark shifted, flinching as heat tore along his muscles, and turned to look. A generous length of rope snaked over the water to ascend to the prow of his nine-hundred-ton steam yacht, which drifted, disturbingly unmanned. Mustering his strength, Mark hoisted himself onto the wood bench and fished the line from the water.
Leeson scrambled forth, ever nimble. “Allow me to do that, your lordship.”
Mark ignored him, pulling the rope, closing the distance between the skiff and the yacht. His muscles roared to life, awakened by use and tension. Three months. Three damn months. The implications were astounding. He maneuvered beneath the dangling rope ladder. Grasping the sides, he hooked his sodden boot into the lowest rung.
“Did Black send you?” he demanded.
Behind him, the boat bobbed as Leeson lowered himself to the bench.
He answered quietly, “I remain in his service.”
“But he’s not yet returned to this side?”
“No, sir . . .” Leeson’s voice drifted away. He looked off into the distance. “But soon, I think.”
Swinging against the hull, Mark climbed until he came to the polished wood rail. Unlatching the hinged half door, he gritted his teeth and climbed onto the deck. Below, Leeson balanced and reached for the ladder.
Mark peered down. “Don’t bother, old man.”
As far as practicalities went, he didn’t require Leeson’s or anyone else’s assistance to sail the vessel, though he preferred to keep the Thais fully manned for appearance’s sake. Leeson further disqualified himself on the basis of trustworthiness. His loyalty belonged to Archer, Lord Black, Mark’s former mentor within the immortal Shadow Guard. Black was also the Reclaimer most likely to be dispatched by the ruling Primordial Council as Mark’s assassin.
He drew up the ladder, hand over fist. “Just tell him I’ll be ready for him.”
Dropping the weighty mass of rope to the deck, Mark turned on his heel and peeled his shirt from his shoulders and arms. He seethed with displeasure. God only knew where the professor was now. He could return directly to the open sea and begin the hunt anew, but he needed to regain his bearings and resupply. Closing his eyes, he envisioned the vessel’s rudder. The boat responded, slowly altering its course along a westerly line.
He paused, his fingertips poised over the buttons of his trousers. Through two glass portals he viewed the interior cabin. Framed artwork hung on the walls at odd angles. Elegant curtains sagged, torn to ribbons. Trunks were upended and open, their contents strewn everywhere. Anything not nailed down had been thrown into disarray, as if the yacht had sailed through a typhoon. Yet a cautious relief trickled through him. There were no bodies, no blood, no sign of his mortal crewmen. He prayed they were alive somewhere, and that their murders by his hand or otherwise were not hidden in the dark vault of his mind.
He might be losing his sanity bit by fragmented bit, but he wasn’t an idiot. Not yet, anyway. Clearly he’d been dragged to London over ocean and time for a specific purpose. But by whom? Until recently, because he was a member of the elite Shadow Guard, Mark’s every move had been governed by the Primordial Council.
From their stronghold inside the protected Inner Realm, which existed on a parallel plane to that of Earth’s mortal population, the three Ancients—Aitha, Hydros and Khaos—dispatched Guards to all corners of the globe for the purpose of protecting the interests of the Amaranthine race. The foremost of the Guards’ responsibilities was the hunting, or “Reclamation,” of mankind’s most dangerous souls, souls so morally corrupt that they achieved a powerful, supernatural state known as Transcension. Such exceedingly depraved souls were capable of crossing into the Inner Realm and wreaking destruction and death on immortals. Jack the Ripper had been such a soul.
It was during the hunt for Jack—who had not only Transcended, but had also quickly become a matchless force of evil known as a brotoi after being recruited by the Dark Ancient, Tantalus—that Mark’s immortal destiny had taken a dangerous turn, albeit by his own decision.
Mark, the immortal son of Cleopatra and her Roman triumvirate lover, Marcus Antonius, had fought for centuries to break free from his parents’ tragic legacy of passion and death. Determined to define himself by his history—by his victories—he’d undertaken a daring act of heroism and crossed over into the state of Transcension. His sacrifice had leveled the Shadow Guard’s playing field against Jack and had guaranteed Archer’s Reclamation of the rampant, vicious brotoi, whom Tantalus had chosen as his Messenger on Earth—one who would awaken a sleeping brotoi army, and assist in freeing Tantalus from his underworld prison.
No, he wasn’t the first Shadow Guard to offer himself to Transcension to ensure the defeat of a powerful opponent, but he would not follow the same path as the others who had gone before him: namely, banishment from the Guard, eventual madness and ultimately death by capture and execution. The Primordials, after all, could not allow such a dangerous threat to the Inner Realm to go unchecked, valiant sacrifice or no.
Mark had only a brief window of time to save his immortal existence and regain his place amongst the Guard, a feat that would ensure his unparalleled legend in the history of the immortals. That window grew smaller with each heartbeat and each passing breath. Sometimes voices whispered, inviting him to succumb, but thus far he had remained strong and had kept them behind a thick, mut ing wall inside his head.
Ah, but blast his cursed luck. He had now lost three months of precious time. Had the insidious madness within him been delayed—or had it grown more powerful? More powerful than his strength to contain it? The coming days would tell.
They are here in London, you know.
Leeson’s voice echoed inside his head.
The ones you seek.
An object was hurtled over the railing to land beside his boot. A newspaper, wound into a tight cylinder. He bent, taking the bundle in hand. Tugging off the string, he unrolled the paper, which had been folded to display the obituaries page. One announcement had been circled in black ink.
William Demerest Limpett, Professor of Ancient
Languages and History
Born: Egremont, Cheshire
Died: February 12, 1889, Kolkata
Interment at Highgate Cemetery; Thursday,
May 30, 6:00 p.m.
Mark returned to the rail and looked over. In the shadow of the yacht, the empty rowboat bobbed on the waves.
“Aren’t you going to thank me?” said a voice beside him.
Mark ground his teeth. “Why are you doing this? In case you’ve forgotten, I’m an outcast. Banished. I’m slowly losing my mind. Who knows when I will turn slavering fiend and rip your head off.”
Leeson chuckled. “I’d recover. I have before.” He shrugged. “You made your decision for noble reasons. To save the others. To save Archer and Miss Elena. I am indebted to you for that.”
Mark winced at the rosy, inaccurate picture he painted. “Let’s be clear with each other, Leeson, or you leave now and don’t return. What instructions have you received from the Primordials—or from Archer—with regard to me?
An extended pause ruled the space between them.
Finally Leeson said, “I have received no instructions from the Inner Realm. Not in regard to you or anything else.”
Mar
k’s eyes narrowed at that. The very purpose of Leeson’s existence, as secretary to Lord Black, was communication. He was the man with the answers, the one who relayed pertinent information from the Inner Realm. “Why the hell not?”
Leeson’s response tumbled out. “Because the portals are closed.”
“What do you mean, they are closed? All of them?”
Leeson nodded slowly.
“For how long?” Mark demanded.
The little man hesitated.
Mark spat, “As I said, either you tell me everything or you go.”
Leeson blurted, “Since shortly after his lordship carried Miss Elena through. We received word she’d survived the passage and then . . . nothing.”
Never in the history of the earth had the portals closed for more than a few days’ time. Perhaps they had while a particularly nasty Transcended soul was on the loose, in order to protect the Inner Realm, but once the deteriorated soul was successfully Reclaimed and dispatched to the eternal prison of Tantalus, the portals were reopened.
“Why have they been sealed for so long?”
His companion stared at him levelly. “From the reports I’ve heard on this side, there has been a proliferation of deteriorated souls bearing the particular symptoms of brotoism . They appear to be organizing. Our Shadow Guards, at all locations about the world, have their hands full.”
“But the Guard has been able to contain them?”
Leeson nodded. “But I assume the portals will remain sealed until they determine what’s going on down below—whether just rumblings or a full-scale rebellion. Nasty bastard, that Tantalus. I hope they smite him and remind him who’s in charge.” He clenched his fists, but his attention quickly returned to Mark. “Needless to say, sir, without specific orders, I’m rather adrift.”
Mark suggested darkly, “Why don’t you join up with my sister? She’s always looking for someone to order about.”
Leeson sniffed. “She does not inform me of her assignments or activities, and I do not inform her of mine.” His cheeks puffed out. “Do you know that after you left us in October, she ate my entire collection of penny novelettes?”
Mark could not help but grin. “She didn’t.”
His sister had an uncommon fetish for devouring the written word—literally. And though she had exceedingly good taste in eating material, when she was angry or frustrated, she’d rip into anything within reach.
Leeson continued. “Not only was she distraught over your decision to Transcend, but she’s furious over her failure thus far to Reclaim her Thames killer.”
Mark’s gaze skimmed over the metropolis. Months before, when they’d all been embroiled in the hunt for the Ripper, Selene had mentioned that her present assignment—finding a killer who dismembered his female victims and deposited their body parts around London—was proving difficult.
Selene was here then, still in the city.
“She’s on her own as far as I’m concerned.” Leeson shrugged. “That girl’s always been a bit high-strung for my liking—with no offense intended toward you and your illustrious forebears, sir.”
“None taken. But why have you chosen to assist me? I wouldn’t be surprised if the Primordials punished you for it.”
“I’ve always been a bit of a gambler, your lordship. And regardless of what you say, I believe you chose this path for the right reasons—to save the others. My money’s on you, that you’ll beat this. I’m proud to stand by you . . . until . . . until . . .” He propped a fist against his waist and added earnestly, “You understand, if his lordship returns with the assignment to assassinate you, I’ve got to assist him in carrying out that order.”
“Certainly,” Mark answered flatly.
Mina missed her father dreadfully, but despite her best efforts, she could summon no tears for his funeral. Rather, the urge to sneeze teased the insides of her nostrils with maddening intensity, a result of the pungent incense that clouded the small Anglican chapel, and the large sprays of fragrant white flowers. She brought a handkerchief to her nose.
“There, there,” the Countess of Trafford consoled.
Her aunt Lucinda, fair as sunshine, was only a year or two older than she, and was the second wife of Mi-na’s widower uncle, the distinguished Lord Trafford. The beautiful young woman wrapped a slender arm around Mina’s shoulders. “You’re safe here with us now. No need to be afraid, ever again.”
Lucinda’s deeply floral perfume enveloped her. Mina nodded, feeling nauseated. The Gothic chapel. The smells. The coffin. Her ridiculously tight corset. Really, it was all just a bit too much. She was suffocating in black silk.
“Trafford,” the countess said, urging her husband, “fetch a chair. I do believe Miss Limpett might faint.”
Fabric rustled. Voices murmured, low with pity. Although the actual service had concluded moments before, Mina allowed herself to be eased into an armchair. She’d never fainted in her life—never even come close—but it wasn’t so terrible a feeling to be fussed over. Reluctantly her gaze returned to the long rosewood coffin, displayed on a velvet-skirted bier. Light from the floor candelabrum glinted off the silver handles. The lid was closed, of course, as the necessary documents placed her father’s death in Kolkata as taking place some three months before.
It would have galled the professor to know that none of his associates from the British Museum or the university had come to pay their final respects, but in truth they had abandoned him long ago, even before the allegations of improper borrowings.
An orderly queue of black-garbed guests passed before Mina, offering their sympathies, all acquaintances of Lord and Lady Trafford and strangers to her. No doubt they would have been strangers to her father as well. After another few moments, her uncle peered down his narrow, hooked nose, and offered his arm. “Are you well enough, dear?”
Mina nodded and rose, accepting his escort. He led her past Lucinda and his two daughters. Astrid, blond and resplendent even in her detested mourning costume, stood arm in arm with her blander sister, Evangeline, who, dreadfully nearsighted, had a tendency to squint. The two young women, separated in age by less than a year, wore identical bored expressions. She knew they held her father’s death against her, and she could not really fault them. He was a man they had never met, and his funeral proceedings had interrupted the festivities of their debut Season. She hoped the three of them might grow closer in subsequent days.
Crossing the threshold, Mina inhaled deeply of the late-spring air. Highgate Cemetery sprawled in lush splendor against the side of the steep hill. In the distance, stone angels prayed. Crosses, some draped in ivy, towered over flat stone slabs. A sudden grate of metal sounded from behind, startling her. Lucinda gasped, turning to look over her shoulder. Mina did the same and observed her father’s coffin being lowered bit by jerky bit into a gaping hole in the ground. She closed her eyes, nearly overcome by . . .
Relief.
The coffin, once lowered to the level below, would be transported by cemetery workers to the catacombs, where finally, the casket would be placed behind a locked, iron door.
Forever.
When she opened her eyes again, she found the countess glaring up at her husband. “Could they not have waited a few more moments?”
“It’s late.” Her uncle touched the brim of his top hat and glanced to the sky. “I’m sure they’d prefer to . . . ah, inter dear William before sunset.”
Dear William.
Mina smothered a smile. If only her father could have overheard the polite endearment. He had not enjoyed the best of relationships with his wife’s elder brother. Lord Trafford had believed, as had the rest of society, the academic scholar to be far below his sister’s status. But thankfully, Lord and Lady Trafford had been nothing but kind and accepting of her. Without them, she would have nowhere else to go. Her father’s pursuit of all things related to immortality, and their extensive travels, had left Mina nothing short of penniless. Lord and Lady Trafford had already expressed their intent
to present her next Season, once she’d emerged from mourning. At the present moment, Mina could think of nothing finer than immersing herself in parties, romance, piles of dresses and all the other female frivolities and anchors of permanence she’d thus far been denied in life.
She assured them, “It’s all very well. Please don’t be appalled on my behalf.”
The Nonconformists’ chapel lay just across the way. There as well, another funeral appeared to be ending. Guests spilled out the door, a sudden black surge.
Astrid gave a low purr. “Who is that?”
Mina’s gaze snagged on one gentleman in particular. He hadn’t come out with the other mourners. He’d been standing in the shadows beside one of the small oriel windows as if waiting for someone. Tall and broad of shoulders, he closed and folded a newspaper he’d apparently been reading. He wore a high top hat. Blue-lensed spectacles hid his eyes, but did nothing to conceal the sensual purse of his lips or the taut set of his jaw.
“Where?” Evangeline demanded, squinting. “Who?”
Folding the newspaper once more, he tucked the narrow parcel beneath his arm. Even at this distance, Mina could feel the intensity of his gaze. His unsmiling attention appeared to be focused intently . . . stunningly . . . on her.
“Is that not Lord Alexander?” her uncle mused.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” Lucinda responded in a hushed voice.
The countess’s cheeks filled with a deep, rich stain. Of course, Mina realized, the handsome gentleman had not been staring at her with such intensity, but at the beautiful Lucinda.
“He’s not been seen in months,” her uncle mused, chuckling. “Some of the chaps at the club even jested—”
His words broke off abruptly. His brows drew in, his smile faded and he appeared instantly contrite.
“Suggested what?” Lucinda demanded, her voice a strangled whisper.