So Still The Night

by Kim Lenox

  “Child, who brought you here?”

  “Trafford and Mr. Matthews.”

  “Your uncle? And Matthews?” he repeated incredulously.

  “They abducted me. I’m certain they’re part of the group that’s been pursuing you.”

  His narrow frame stiffened within her arms. “God forgive me, I sent you right into danger.”

  “It’s not your fault. How could you have known?” She moaned softly. “What are they going to do to us?”

  And what would happen to Mark?

  From the shadow of the House of Commons, Mark peered up at Big Ben’s illuminated face.

  He hissed, “What do you mean, you can’t scale the walls?”

  Elena interjected, “Stop bickering, gentlemen. We’re all here for the same purpose.”

  Archer scowled, then exhaled sharply. “The tower’s emitting some sort of repellant energy. You know as well as I that even in shadow we don’t have the ability to simply shoot up straight into the sky and through the windows. We’ve got to have some sort of traction or grip. Even the door is barricaded with the same stuff—I can’t even shadow through. Likely they’ll allow only you inside.”

  “Damn it,” Mark cursed.

  “I suspect that just as the Primordials are exerting their power tonight in support of this battle, so too is Tantalus.”

  “It’s five minutes until midnight. I’m going to have to go in alone.”

  Archer stared into the darkness. “Do you know if Leeson still has that balloon?”

  “That’s a stupid idea.”

  Archer’s brow slashed up, the only indication of a flare in temper.

  Mark muttered, “But it’s better than any idea I’ve got, and we’ve no more time for strategizing.”

  “The warehouse isn’t far.”

  “All right.” Mark nodded. “But I’m going on up. I’ll try to delay things as well as I can, a half hour at best.”

  “What’s going to happen once you’re up there? What did that third scroll say?”

  Mark stretched his neck, attempting to ease the tension in his muscles. “That any use of the Eye is a bloody one-shot deal. For instance, the conduit couldn’t be used repeatedly by one person to move back and forth between mortal and immortal states.”

  “So what is your plan?”

  Mark laughed darkly. “I don’t have one. But I’ve got to place my hands on the Eye in order to reverse my Transcension. Once I manage that, I’ll Reclaim the Dark Bride before she has any opportunity to transform herself into an immortal. I’m sure the bitch is waiting to do the hon ors during the ceremony.” Mark paced a few steps. He didn’t mention the worst-case scenario; he didn’t want to acknowledge its possibility himself. “I need you up there, Archer. Do whatever you must to get Mina out.”

  “Trust me, Mark. I’ll be there. Anything else I need to know?”

  “You know the order of things. If things go bad . . . if I go bad, do what you have to do. Slay me if you must.”

  Mark closed his eyes and thought of Mina. Please God. Let her still be alive. He’d do anything to save her. Give anything.

  Archer reached out a hand. “Well then, it seems as if we do, indeed, have a plan.”

  Mark accepted, and they clasped hands. “Whatever happens to me tonight, take care of her.”

  “We will,” responded Elena.

  He left them, two shadows in the darkness, and rushed toward the tower. No sentries stood watch. Though he heard the clatter of carriages on the nearby streets, the tower and the adjacent Parliament buildings appeared deserted. Abandoned. Dead. The observation filled him with foreboding.

  He pushed through the doors. Warmth, heat from the furnace in the basement, touched his skin. He traveled through the various apartments, and at the shadowed doorway to the staircase, he paused to listen. He heard no sound.

  Was this all a trap? Most certainly.

  He delved up the oblong shaft. At the top of the first flight, he rounded the corner to ascend the next.

  He froze. Faces met him, gray and leering, their eyes whirling. There were costermongers and prostitutes, and gentlemen and ladies. They lined the stairs on either side, the Dark Bride’s toadies. His heart raced. There were more than he’d ever imagined.

  “Relinquish the sword,” the nearest one commanded.

  “Part with your blade,” said another.

  God, their whispers . . . their fetid breath filled the staircase. He could slay them all, but the Dark Bride certainly held Mina in the belfry above. He could not endanger her life with so reckless a reaction. With no other choice, he flung open his palm. His sword lashed out, a searing flash of metallic white. Shouts of admiration echoed off the walls, almost sensual in fervor. With reverence he lowered the weapon to the stairs. A smile curved his lips as he plunged up the narrow space between the crush of toadies.

  The horde gestured, laughed, goaded and cursed. Hands reached out to touch him. In his wake he heard hissing sounds, and yowls of pain from those who’d dared touch the Amaranthine silver. He climbed. Two hundred ninety-two bloody steps in all. At last, he reached the final stair and stepped out onto the platform. The four great faces of the clock hung like enormous opals, illuminated by gas burners and segmented by cast-iron framing. A pianoforte had been placed at the base of the northern dial. Here the air seemed heavier. A foul odor clouded his nostrils—sulfur and decay, the distinctive stench of a brotoi.

  A quiet tick broke the silence, and repeated every other second.

  Tick.

  “I am here,” he bellowed. “Let’s get this wedding under way.”

  Tick.

  From the shadowy corners, five men in head-to-toe shrouds appeared. He glimpsed their faces. Matthews. Trafford. The others he did not recognize.

  And then he saw her . . . the Dark Bride.

  Not one woman, but two.

  Evangeline. Astrid. They smiled mischievously, wickedly, and drew impenetrable black veils down to cover their faces. Unease scratched down his spine. But there was only one Dark Bride. Their footsteps clipped against the wood floor.

  “Lover. Husband. You’ve come, as I knew you would.” The two girls spoke in unison, their voices twined in an eerie dual-toned harmony. They joined their black-gloved hands and circled each other. The hiss of their dark skirts filled the shadowed chamber. Before his very eyes the two merged and blended into one.

  Mark had seen many strange things . . . but at this, his eyes widened in amazement.

  Of course. It was why he hadn’t sensed their deterioration at Hurlingham or Trafford’s house. They were brotoi only when joined together.

  The Dark Bride slid onto the pianoforte bench and ran her fingers over the keys. The discordant notes echoed through the cavernous space.

  “I always like a bit of music to set the tone of an evening, don’t you?” she asked.

  But after only a few stanzas, she leapt from the bench and strode between him and the men in the shrouds.

  With a dip of her head, she flung back her veil. She wore the same white mask as before, but she’d applied cosmetics: a slash of greasy red across the mouth; kohl, in dark scribbles, around the eyes.

  “Let’s go to the belfry.” She pointed toward an incline of steps. “The lighting is better up there. Perfect for a wedding.”

  She scampered up. Her shoes clattered against the metal. “Hurry now,” she urged in a low, seductive voice. “Don’t linger overlong.”

  Mark followed her, eager to see Mina, to confirm she was alive. The five men came up behind. Darkness claimed the belfry. If not for his Amaranthine sight, he’d not have been able to see even the colossal bell at its center. One of the latticed window coverings had been removed to provide a clear view of the Thames. There, on a wooden stand, lay the Eye, a flat, circular mirror the size of a barrel lid. Moonlight illuminated its surface. Mark spied something else. Through the window, at a distance, he saw the tip of Cleopatra’s Needle in perfect alignment with the Eye.

  It
’s like a game of chess, played out over the surface of the earth, but with people and powerful artifacts.

  A blur of movement drew his attention. In the opposite corner, a cluster of toadies appeared, dragging Mina and shoving her father.

  “Mark,” cried Mina.

  The Bride whispered, “Her sacrifice will be your wedding gift to me.”

  Mark clenched his teeth down on a shout. He could not chance displeasing the brotoi. Not until Mina was safe.

  “Come now, darling.” The painted, expressionless face tilted and considered him. “It’s not really a sacrifice unless it hurts, now, is it? As a show of my commitment to you, I’ll sacrifice someone too.”

  She flung an arm toward the row of men. Trafford coughed and issued a series of strangled noises. More toadies appeared from the shadows to capture him. He struggled. The shroud slipped from his head.

  “I was promised immortality,” he shouted as they dragged him past. “Matthews demanded I give up the girls for the cause. This has all got out of hand.”

  Someone cackled. Matthews. The toadies abandoned Trafford and backed away.

  The Dark Bride twirled around the earl in a circle. He stood frozen, as if paralyzed by fear. She chuckled, a dark, wicked sound.

  “I’m your father,” he whispered.

  “But, Papa,” she cooed, “you gave us to Tantalus for the creation of a Bride for his Messenger.”

  He trembled and wrapped his arms around his waist.

  “Surprise!” she snarled. “The girls don’t live here anymore.”

  She flung her arms over her head. A blast of wind shot through the belfry. Trafford groaned and doubled over. He collapsed to the floor. Thud. Mina screamed.

  Mark strode forward and bent over the earl, pressing a hand to his throat. His lordship was dead. The dark realization occurred that if the Bride could kill him with such ease, she could kill Mina as well if he displeased her.

  A chime sounded loudly, and then another—the quarter chimes at each corner of the belfry. The familiar song drifted upward and dark birds fluttered on the rafters above. A moment of silence passed, and then Big Ben’s enormous hammer lifted and dropped hard against the bell, tolling midnight. Wind and sound crashed through the belfry.

  “Come forward, my love. It’s time for us to be joined. Time for us to be married. We’ll continue the sacrifices afterward.” The Bride approached the Eye. “Give me your hand.”

  Her intention to enact his worst-case scenario became clear. She wanted a joining, a true joining, so their souls—her brotoism and his Transcension—would become intermingled. They’d both become more wickedly powerful from the sharing.

  With a tug, she pulled the glove from her hand, revealing gnarled fingers and knotted joints. She spread her palm above the surface of the Eye, not yet touching the glass. Once she touched the mirror, the conduit would be filled with her evil, and as long as she remained enjoined, he could not reverse his Transcension—he could only draw evil from the Bride and share his own deterioration. His heart felt ripped in half.

  Either he could back away and refuse to touch the Eye, risking Mina’s instant death—and likely the deaths of thousands if the artifact were some sort of weapon of mass destruction when aligned with the Needle—or he could use his energy, his stronger energy, to take all of the Bride’s evil within him, effectively bleeding her of power. He would remain in control of himself long enough to die by Archer’s Amaranthine sword.

  He looked at Mina—his beautiful Mina, his wife—and realized there was no choice at all. He’d do anything to save her. He loved her, far more than he’d ever loved his damn arrogant self.

  Walking toward the mirror, Mark stared at Mina. I love you, sweetheart, he told her in silence, wishing he could shout the words, wishing he could say them, just one time, with his lips pressed to hers.

  “No, Mark. Don’t.” She sobbed into her hands.

  The Bride grasped his wrist. “No turning back now.”

  She was stronger than he’d expected. She pulled his hand closer . . . closer. . . .

  With the proximity of their touch, the mirror emitted a bright green, hypnotic glow. He no longer tried to break free.

  A different noise filled the air, a repetitive, deep whoosh . . . whoosh . . . whoosh. Closer . . . and louder. Shadows rippled over them both, and across the surface of the mirror. All along the perimeter, toadies shrieked and shouted. Footsteps sounded on the platform. Matthews bellowed in obvious agony. Yet Mark couldn’t look away from the mirror. The light mesmerized him.

  “I am here, Brother.” A woman’s voice.

  The Dark Bride shoved his wrist. Contact. At the same moment, a hand thrust between them to press against the mirror. With a scream, the Bride flew backward, disappearing from view.

  Selene, his twin, had taken her place. Mark stared into her eyes, and for a moment was returned to a time when they were ten years old again, with no one left but each other.

  Her lashes fluttered and her eyes rolled . . . then again focused on his. “Go now. Save your girl.”

  Before he could react, she shoved him free. He staggered backward as she collapsed to the floor. What had she done? Light. Light moved under his skin. Warmth. Awakening. He stared at his hands, knowing . . . feeling that something was different, that the deterioration of his mind and his soul had ceased and reversed. But there was something else.

  The Bride whirled, lunged for him—reaching. Furious that his sister had sacrificed herself, Mark planted his boot against the center of the brotoi’s chest. She flew back and crashed into the wall. The mask fell. He flinched at the sight of her misshapen head, mottled skin and sight-less, black-hole eyes. She roared, revealing row upon row of jagged yellow teeth. She jumped up, over Selene, and wrenched the mirror free from the stand.

  “Stop!” Mark lunged, but too late. She hurtled the Eye into the night. The glowing disc flew . . . flew . . . and descended over the river. The surface of the Thames flashed as bright as lightning, before instantly fading.

  “Mark!” Archer’s voice.

  He pivoted. Through the narrow belfry window, Mark glimpsed the balloon, manned by Leeson and Elena. Archer leapt onto the platform.

  “Reclaim her.” The Guard cast him a long, gleaming dagger; and on its heels, a second. Mark caught them by the hilts. Heat ripped through his palms. The sensation bewildered him. He hissed and clenched them harder.

  The Bride flew at him, a purple-faced cloud of black. He plunged the blades deep into her chest. She screamed—a wretched sound. Archer lunged forward, sword leveled. Mark ducked. The Bride’s head hurtled across the belfry, over a tall, dark-winged warrior clad in black leather, who wrenched a sword out of Matthews’s chest and stepped out from within a circle of slain toadies. The Ravenmaster. Mark now understood how Selene had arrived in the belfry.

  The Bride staggered a few steps, a walking, headless corpse, and disintegrated into a heap of black sand—volcanic sand, the final demise of a brotoi.

  Mark dropped the blades and stared down at his palms. Welts blistered his skin—his mortal skin. His sister had taken his Transcension upon herself, leaving him immortal. The conduit had instantly perceived immortality as his existent state—and turned him mortal.

  “Mark!” Mina threw herself into his arms. He wrapped his arms around her, torn between euphoria and grief. He had prepared himself to say good-bye.

  The Ravenmaster crouched on the floor, his dark wings spread wide. He held Selene in his arms. He leveled a cold, green-eyed stare at Mark.

  Mark drew Mina along with him, and they knelt beside her.

  “Reclaim me,” she whispered. “Reclaim me too.”

  “Why did you do this, Selene?” Mark demanded, raw with grief.

  “Go, Avenage.” She shoved at the Raven’s arms until finally he gently released her to the floor and backed away.

  She lifted her head, and gritted, “Because the Bride was my target. My assignment. It must be I who makes the sacrifice.” Her n
ostrils flared. “And Mark . . . oh, Mark, you’ve got something to live for. You and your girl.” Her glance slid to Mina. “A mortal lifetime of love is better than no love at all. Our mother knew that. You know it too.”

  He felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder. Elena’s face, serene and luminous, smiled down at him. She too knelt beside Selene, her dark skirts pooling on the floor around her.

  “Can you save her?” he asked.

  “No. But I can protect her until we learn how.”

  Hope. It was all he could wish for.

  “Elena,” Selene whispered, grasping the Intervenor’s hand. “Friend.”

  Elena’s palm moved over his sister’s wide, dark eyes, and soon the tension in Selene’s limbs eased. Her head rolled to the side.

  Mark joined Archer at the window overlooking the Thames.

  A circle of water glowed . . . and faded.

  Three days later, Mark and Archer sat in the Alexander drawing room. Leeson entered the room, a large silver tray and tea service suspended in his arms.

  Mark held a newspaper. He read the front page headline aloud. “Lord Trafford and two daughters go missing.”

  “And they shall remain missing. Forever.” Archer stood and went to the front window. “What are the ladies up to? There’s a wagon. And Mr. D’Oyly Carte is here.”

  Mark joined him. “It’s a delivery from the Savoy.”

  “What is it?” Archer squinted.

  “Ah . . . well, a piece of furniture from our suite at the Savoy.” Mark shrugged. “Mina liked the piece. So . . . I had it sent here.”

  “You seem very happy, Mark.” Archer gripped his shoulder. “Very content at the prospect of life as a mortal.”

  Mark smiled. Truth be told, he was happier than he’d ever been. He’d always thought himself a hopeless puzzle—one that only glory and recognition would complete. But Mina was his missing piece. His sweetheart. His girl.

  Life would be perfect once they recovered the Eye from the Thames, and determined how to save Selene. He’d insisted on watching over her, but the wishes of a queen had superseded those of a brother. After hearing of Selene’s sacrifice, and of the pivotal role she played in protecting the citizens of London, Victoria had insisted his twin remain under constant protection in the Tower of London. At present, his sister was being guarded at all times by not only the Ravenmaster himself, but by all eight Raven warriors.