Tomb of Ancients

by Madeleine Roux

  Whatever I had become, it gave Sparrow pause, but her gasp of surprise soon turned to a growl of determination. She and her followers fell upon us, a dozen or more hands slashing at us from every direction. I reached for a dull knife dropped by one of the guests and willed it into a sword, swinging it blindly to keep the shepherd’s followers at bay. The sword did not stop them, and so I imagined the little knife becoming a massive shield, one large enough to push the humans away and create some space. Nothing seemed to frighten them. I only wanted them to stop, to retreat, but something in Sparrow’s command had driven them mad.

  I heard the meaty thunk of Khent knocking one of the guests away, his body tumbling end over end as if he were no more than a child’s doll. Some of those knives and ragged bottles managed to aimlessly wound, and the floor around us became slick with blood, some of it mine, some of it Khent’s, but most of it Sparrow’s.

  I reached for her. My head filled with crimson smoke; my vision narrowed only to her gold, glowing form and the spear that punched toward me. Without even meaning to, my arm stretched and stretched, unnatural and ugly, but useful in its strangeness. I grabbed her by the neck, saw the sudden terror in her eyes as I crushed against the bandages and then against more. Her spear slashed at my side, finding a gap in my armor, but I hardly felt the sting. More followers of the shepherd raced into the ballroom, but they were too late. Father’s control had gripped me utterly, and his will dominated me as if I were merely a costume he had put on. I saw with his cruel eyes and struck with his cruel hand, slamming Sparrow down onto the floor, shaking the entire house once more. The chairs and tables around the edge of the room tumbled over, the entire ballroom in ruin. Candelabras spilled their candles onto the floor, small gouts of flame threatening to spread. A guest, thrown by Khent, sailed over my head. Roots as thick as a man thrust up from beneath, just as they had in the pavilion when we had all banded together against Father. Now those grasping black tendrils were on my side. Our side.

  “The ceiling!” Khent growled out through his pointed teeth. “Mahar!”

  Look.

  Khent leapt back, slashing his way through the throng of guests, and I had the good sense to follow. I glanced toward the ceiling, the great shuddering and shaking of the house cracking the ornate plaster. The chandelier swayed, creaking dangerously on loosening brackets. The final push it needed came as Mary and Justine threw open the ballroom doors. Their faces dropped in twin shock and horror, but Mary stepped forward, flinging her arms across Justine as the chandelier’s bolts gave, its gold and silver baubles plunging downward, candle wax splattering us as it fell. A faint ripple encased the two girls, Mary’s shielding magic emerging like a wave from her arms.

  I wanted to look away, but Father would not allow it. Khent cringed at my side as the chandelier smashed into the mess of roots and wood splinters and Sparrow below. She gave a weak, startled cry, but then came a long, eerie silence. I watched a candle pool into the ruined floor and reached for my side. It had begun to ache badly, and my hand came away drenched in blood.

  At last, I felt Father’s influence lessening, and I turned away, fully realizing then what I had done. Sparrow had attacked us, yes, but now she was grievously wounded. No, I thought with a shudder, dead. There were other bodies, too, and it turned my stomach to see them. My legs went weak, and I stumbled away, finding myself leaning against the buffet table, once beautiful and festive, now splashed with blood. Heaving, I chanced to see my reflection in a silver tray. What I saw there stole my breath away—smoking red eyes, charred skull face, a crown of twisting antlers . . .

  A monster. A monster. My own face began to emerge, the beast I had become receding until the reflection showed nothing but a scared girl, her face smeared with blood, a dull supper knife clutched in one shaking hand.

  Chapter Five

  The crash of the chandelier and Sparrow’s demise seemed to shake the followers from their mania. Those who could run from us did, streaming out of the ballroom, the white trains of their gowns flowing behind them like flags of surrender.

  My stomach remained in knots. Khent breathed hard beside me, his dark gray fur matted with all manner of gore. His clever canine eyes, a vibrant purple, followed as I walked slowly from the table toward Mary and Justine.

  I could not bring myself to look at the chandelier. At Sparrow. She had been a miserable thorn in my side since the moment of our meeting, but I refused to believe that she deserved such an end.

  “Goodness gracious, Louisa, what a disaster! Are you all right?” Mary breathed, closing the distance and throwing her arms around me. “We heard such awful noises. . . .”

  “We need to find somewhere safe to go,” I replied, disentangling quickly and marching for the door. Justine was frozen there, her hands covering her mouth. “Where is your guardian, Justine?”

  “S-She must be in the house somewhere,” Justine managed to stammer. “I did not see her among the crowd, and surely she is not among the . . . the . . .”

  “We must find her,” I said. Though I sounded clearheaded, I felt anything but. Muffled voices came from beyond the foyer and out the doors. Brushing past Justine, I motioned to Mary and Khent—now returned to his human form and wearing very tattered clothing—and then hurried toward the commotion.

  We found Justine’s guardian, Mrs. Langford, fanning herself in a sweaty panic on the lawn of the house, joined by the guests who had fled immediately and those who had survived the battle with us. The survivors looked dazed, bloodied, their fight gone out of them now that their leader, Sparrow, lay dead under a chandelier. They all appeared to be looking at something on the far side of the lawn, and we moved through the crowd with no trouble—nobody who did notice me wanted to be near the girl with the bloodstained gown and knife. An older woman in an orange satin dress swooned and collapsed on the grass when I passed.

  We found a lone man standing at the head of the crowd. He was young, hardly older than myself, and he had a ruddy complexion and bright ginger hair. His suit was very simple, patched in places, and a pale bandage was draped around his eyes, as if they were wounded. Even so, he appeared to see us plainly, and he shook his head at our approach.

  The young man took the measure of the crowd as a strong little hand grabbed my elbow.

  “Louisa! My God, Louisa, you were telling the truth!”

  It was Justine, her hair a snarl, her pretty eyes wide with fright. I turned to her fully, not knowing what to say or how to explain what she had just witnessed. In her, I had hoped to find a friend, some semblance of normalcy, but now, seeing what the truth had done to her, I regretted ever coming to the ball. Her hands shook so badly that I felt moved to cover them with one of my own and press. Father roared inside me, still heated from the battle, and he no doubt wanted more. More, of course, being the consumption of this daughter, despite her lack of Fae power.

  I had to remove myself from Justine and soon, before he could harm her through me. She wept, her chin tucked against her chest, and I sighed. The only difference between us was an accident of birth. Had things gone differently, she might be the one cursed with Father’s spirit, and I the privileged, happy-go-lucky lady about town. Mere chance had protected her from Father’s rampage, his path leading him to me before it ever reached Justine. And it cut at me, seeing her so undone. I decided perhaps it was better that I had been the one to shoulder the burden.

  “It will take time for you to really understand,” I said to her gently. “And—”

  But I could say no more, as the young man at the head of the crowd now addressed me.

  “I suppose this is your bloody mess?” He heaved a full-bodied sigh and swept the fringe off his forehead. He had more freckles even than Mary. “You are friends of Henry’s, so it figures.”

  “We are not his friends. We—” I began, but he pushed me aside, opening his arms wide to the assembled guests, who shivered in the fog under flimsy shawls. Justine continued crying into her gown.

  “Dear friends
, you are all so weary and confused, allow me to help.” He smiled a genuine smile and inhaled, and then a soft, yellow light emerged from his chest, growing out and out and then bathing the guests and followers as if a beam of sunlight had pierced the night and fallen gently on them all.

  Their eyes glazed; their mouths dropped open a little. Even Justine appeared utterly entranced. Then, just as suddenly as the light had come, it disappeared. The young man removed his jacket and draped it over me, hiding the scratches and blood.

  I let go of Justine’s hands. They had stopped shaking. She looked at me now as if I were a stranger. It hurt, but I let it go, knowing how gravely the knowledge and the carnage had disturbed her.

  “There now,” he said to the crowd gently, gazing at them with a serene expression. “What a scandalously bad party that was. You must all scold Lady Thrampton for her mediocre punch and talk endlessly of the flat cello in the quartet. And Lady Thrampton? You must remove your household to the country for a while, to recover from the shame of this sad little fete.”

  Lady Thrampton, whom I had not seen among the followers but now realized had been one of the attackers slashing at us, lifted a bloodied hand to her lips and frowned.

  “That should give me time to clean up your misadventure,” he said, then he gave a short, casual bow. “Dalton Spicer, the fool stupid enough to help you out this evening.”

  “Spicer,” I repeated, following him toward the gates that led away from the estate. It was my turn to feel as if I were in a haze. The crowd mingled for a moment behind us and then gradually began drifting away. Justine had found her guardian, but I had to wonder just how much of the evening she would remember. Our discussion in the library, for example . . . She would remember none of it, if fate were kind.

  “I know that name,” I added. “Why does it sound familiar?”

  “Because I’m an old chum of Henry’s,” he said lightly. “And an Adjudicator. The missing tine on the Sparrow and Finch trident.”

  At that, I froze, Khent and Mary flanking me. Dalton Spicer beckoned me along.

  “There’s no need for that. I’m not your enemy. I gave up judging and doing the shepherd’s bidding a long time ago. Thus—” And here he pointed to the bandage covering his eyes. He tugged the covering away, revealing empty pits where eyes might have been. “We begin to go Sightless when we turn away from him.”

  He replaced the covering and strode right out of the gates, continuing briskly in the opposite direction of our home.

  “Sightless?” I asked.

  “I could not Judge you if I wanted to. My talents now are limited . . . and growing lesser by the day. It’s worth it, though. I’d rather slowly turn into a hedgehog than become like Sparrow.”

  He fell silent, and so did I, both of us appreciating the weight of her passing. It felt impossible that someone as powerful and magical as she could just be gone. And gone because of me.

  “I wish you could’ve known her in a better time,” Dalton told us, as if reading my dark thoughts. “She changed after I left. If I had known my going would make her so angry, so cruel, I might have done things differently. Many things. But that and your relationship to Henry are discussions for another time. Right now we need to take you all to a safe house.”

  A modest carriage with two immaculate white horses waited down the street, well away from the revealing lamps and the crowded lawn of Lady Thrampton’s estate. He guided us to it with purpose, but I hesitated when we reached the door and he opened it. I noticed no driver.

  “Wait,” I said. “I appreciate your intervention, I think, but this is all rather sudden.”

  Khent nodded. “Mm. How can we trust you? You’re one of them. I do not like it.”

  He was right. Dalton gave me that icy sensation in my veins, though it was far less noticeable than the way Sparrow and Finch made me feel. I studied the young man closely, but his face was unreadable.

  “Sparrow and her followers know where we live,” Mary pointed out. “They were leaving dead things outside the door to warn us. I don’t like this, either, but I think we should avoid the house for now.”

  “At last,” Dalton snorted. “Sense. Look, I don’t need you to trust me yet, but I do need you to listen. Those followers will not remain confused forever. Sparrow was no doubt using them to her own ends, and with her gone, someone else will come to take her place and control them. Their sense will return and so will their loyalty, and their first inclination will be to follow whomever is sent, Finch most likely, or another of the shepherd’s minions. I bought you time, but only a little.”

  I fidgeted with the knife in my hands, passing it back and forth under the coat. “But all of our things! Agnes and Silvia will be concerned if we disappear completely. We shouldn’t let them stay in that house if it’s dangerous.”

  “I will go,” Khent said with a decisive nod. “Agnes and Silvia can be dismissed, and I will gather what I can of our things in the phaeton. Where do I meet you?”

  His forwardness seemed to please Dalton, who gave an approving grin and then jerked his head toward the carriage. “Deptford. It is not far. There’s a little church there for St. Nicholas. You’ll know it by the skull and bones on the gates outside.”

  That sounded ominous. But Khent simply touched both Mary and me on the shoulder, waiting for our responses.

  “Of course, of course,” I said hurriedly. “Go. I think tonight proved I can more than handle myself.”

  “I never doubted, eyachou.” Then, more seriously, he said to Mary, “But you watch over her all the same.”

  “Aye. We will watch over each other,” Mary told him. “I promise.”

  With that, Khent disappeared into the night. He was unbelievably fast when he wanted to be, and I wondered if perhaps he would transform into his other self in order to cut through the darkness at even greater speed. Dalton did not wait to watch him go but climbed into the carriage and hustled us in with an impatient sound.

  “We should make Deptford before dawn. The less this city sees of you, the better.”

  The fog clinging to London’s streets eased as we approached Deptford. I had never seen that part of town, and I let the orderly rows of homes and pockets of gardens distract me from the lingering unease in my heart. Mary, exhausted, fell asleep with her head on my shoulder. The carriage drove itself, the horses navigating through the city as if they had been trained for just that purpose.

  “I remember your name now,” I told Dalton Spicer softly, trying not to wake Mary. “At Coldthistle there was an old copy of Henry’s book. The inscription was made out to you.”

  “I’m sure he’s furious with me for leaving it behind.”

  His voice was tipped with regret.

  “You two were close,” I continued. “He spoke of you.”

  He shifted in the seat, leaning away from me and toward the window. “I won’t pretend to be interested in what he had to say. But yes, we were friends for a time. He was part of what made me leave the shepherd’s service in the beginning. He had all these grand ideas about fixing the state of things, ending the eternal bickering among the gods. It was all very radical and exciting. Now I see it for what it truly was,” he murmured. “A lie.”

  “He’s good at that,” I replied drily. “Lying.”

  “We’ve arrived.”

  I could tell he was grateful for that, as he all but jumped from the carriage while it was moving. The jerky halt startled Mary, but I soothed her with a hand on her arm. Outside, in the still gloom of the night, an owl watched us from the top of a stone skull sculpture. Just as Dalton had said, two skull-and-bones pillars marked the entrance to the chapel, a macabre addition to an otherwise quaint place. The chapel itself loomed above the gates, pale and square, a spindly tree swaying on the right side of the lawn.

  Dalton opened the door for us, and we climbed out into the cold. The carriage drove itself away, rounding a corner, the gentle clip-clop of hooves fading into the chill. I huddled down inside the borrowed
coat, still holding tight to the dull blade. There was no telling if I would need it, but I had been unwise enough to trust one of the shepherd’s folk before, and this time I would be prepared. Chijioke had warned me when the Upworlders first appeared that they would never be my friends, but I had stubbornly believed that the kinder ones, like Finch, would heed their consciences and not follow orders blindly. In the end, he had chosen the shepherd, horrified by what he had witnessed at Coldthistle House. Yet I believed Dalton Spicer, and my intuition told me he was a kind soul, or at least, well-meaning.

  Father, however, had a different idea.

  Murderer. Betrayer. Golden liar.

  “That’s enough of that, thanks very much,” I muttered.

  “Sorry?” Dalton turned toward me as we walked through the skull-marked gate.

  “Nothing,” I replied. “Are we to stay in the chapel?”

  We moved across the lawn toward the door, but veered away at the last moment, skulking instead around the side of the building. I reached out and touched the cool stones, a shiver transferring from chapel to skin. Looking up, I gazed at the windows above but noted no candles and no watchful eyes.

  “This has been a safe house for the wayward since . . . well, for a long, long time. Not just for my kind and your kind, but for humans, too. It has lasted through fires, through wars, through Tudors and Stuarts, through Williams and Georges . . .” Dalton vented a low laugh. “I suspect it will last long after Henry and the shepherd and you are forgotten.”