by Amber Benson
“Are you feeling all right, Willy boy?”
Willy boy? Now that I hate, William thought as he looked up to find John Haversham staring at him. It was funny, but he had never noticed how much Haversham looked like a cow. He had such a long, protruding face, and those large, sad gray eyes.
“I do say, you look practically bovine, Haversham,” William said. He clapped a hand over his mouth, horrified that he had spoken so. He had probably offended his dinner companion irretrievably. Yet he had been unable to stop himself. His lips felt swollen, and there seemed a fog around his very thoughts.
And had he slurred his words?
Incredibly, Haversham didn’t seem in the least bit offended by William’s faux pas. He laughed as if William had made a joke at someone else’s expense, rather than his own.
“Bovine is fine. Yes, Willy boy, I must concur.”
William blinked rapidly, trying to clear his head. The room seemed to be spinning, and he could not make it stop. How much wine had he enjoyed at dinner? Surely no more than two glasses. Not an amount sufficient to make him feel so disoriented.
“I feel . . . strange, Haversham. Does the room seem to be . . . spinning to you?” William asked hesitantly. Maybe it is the room itself that is moving, and not my head, he thought hopefully.
“Spinning, Willy boy? No, I think not,” Haversham replied. William noticed for the first time how nicely Haversham’s dress coat fit him. He particularly liked the shiny metal buttons, because he could see his reflection in each one. Without a second thought, he leaned forward and grasped one of the buttons.
“I like . . . your buttons,” he said, a pronounced slur to his words. “I can see . . . myself.”
He leaned nearer so that he could view his reflection more clearly, and was startled by his appearance.
“Bloody Hell, where did I get these horns?” William said, rather more loudly than he intended. He hadn’t had horns this morning, he was positive of that. Would Sophia still love him, now that he was marked so? he wondered.
A middle-aged man with soft, dark hair and an aquiline nose came up behind Haversham. He gave William a confused look before turning to Haversham.
“Do we have a problem here?”
The man’s voice was firm. William stood up abruptly, the room spinning dangerously around him.
“Soft,” William said as he reached out and petted Sir Robert Peel’s hair before fainting dead away.
“NIGEL?” TAMARA CRIED, peering off into the darkness.
She could hear the curses and grunts of the vampire’s struggle with Dunstan’s ghost, and she comforted herself with the knowledge that they proved Nigel Townsend had not been destroyed.
She had to go to him, to rid the world of the traitorous fiend of a ghost who had pretended to be their ally, and then betrayed them. When Tamara got the chance, she would shred Dunstan’s very spirit.
But Nigel would have to fend for himself awhile longer.
Byron had disappeared deeper into the warehouse, scouting ahead for Horatio and Tipu Gupta. Tamara had sent him on that mission, hoping he would also ascertain how many of the fiends they faced, but now she wished she had not done so.
Farris was still on the floor of the warehouse, struggling to rise and clearly disoriented. When he’d crashed into the wall, he had struck his head, and now Tamara saw him reach up to the back of his skull and wince as he touched a tender spot. When he brought his hand down there was blood on his fingers, dark and glistening in the golden illumination of the magical light she had conjured.
The Rakshasa must have smelled the blood, for even as the four of them loped from the dark depths of the warehouse and into the glow of that conjured light, they all began to veer toward Farris. One of them hesitated, though, crouched a moment, then began to sprint toward Tamara instead, a second one following close behind.
Oh, I think not. I will not be eaten by a gaggle of small-brained demons. And neither will Farris.
Tamara screamed, raising her arms above her head as though in some macabre ballet, her fingers sizzling with bright blue flame. In one synchronized motion she thrust her arms out in different directions. Chilly gooseflesh rose on her left arm as the very air froze around her fingers, and a crackling sound filled the warehouse. The two Rakshasa lunging after her instantly went as rigid as statues, coated with blue ice, their momentum causing them to topple to the floor and shatter into hundreds of shards.
Simultaneously a second spell erupted from the fingers of her right hand and arced across the floor to envelop Farris in a sparkling cage of violet light, providing a ward against attack. It was one of the most powerful protection spells Tamara had mastered.
Never had she attempted two spells at once. Had anyone suggested it to her in calmer times, the mere idea would have left her skeptical. But these were desperate times, in the heat of battle, and she would tax her body, soul, and magic to the very limits to protect herself and her allies.
The two that had been about to attack Farris hesitated as they neared the cage of violet lightning surrounding him. One of them threw back its head and let loose a howl of frustration, but the other only growled, then emitted that high-pitched hyena laughter and turned away from Farris, eyes falling upon Tamara. Despite the scent of Farris’s blood, they knew he was no longer viable prey.
But Tamara . . .
They started toward her. She held out her left hand again, the blue fire still burning bright in sharp contrast with her pale white fingers.
“Try me,” she taunted the Rakshasa.
They moved toward her, their sharp claws making a clicking noise on the floor. Their fetid breath was staggering as they moved nearer, a miasmic cloud that was nearly enough to overpower her.
Then from the darkness behind the monsters came the ghostly form of Lord Byron. The specter came darting from the shadows and attacked one of the demons. He wrapped phantom fingers around the filthy matted fur at the back of the Rakshasa’s neck, and in one smooth motion plunged a fist through its skull. Though he was only spirit, pure ectoplasm, the penetration was devastating. The Rakshasa let out a high, keening wail unlike anything she had heard from the demons before, and crumbled to its knees, weakly batting at its head in an ill-fated attempt to reach for Byron, not realizing it had already been dealt a fatal blow.
“Good show, Byron!” Tamara cried.
“Tamara, look out!” the ghostly poet shouted.
The Protector of Albion spun, magic erupting from her fingers without as much as conscious thought, incinerating a pair of Rakshasa as they tried to attack her from behind.
“Well spotted!” she called, her hand still held aloft in front of her. The ghost, having disposed of a second demon himself, moved to join her.
AS TAMARA AND Byron held off the Rakshasa, Nigel engaged Colonel Dunstan in a battle of wills.
Though the ghost had assumed an early advantage over the vampire, Nigel had kept the colonel at bay thus far. Dunstan was a ghost, but he was capable of destroying a vampire if he could do enough damage to the body. Yet Nigel Townsend had been in combat with ghosts before, and from the wild look of desperation in Dunstan’s eyes, he thought perhaps the colonel had little experience with the undead.
Nigel gripped Dunstan’s spectral arm with such strength that his fingers punctured ectoplasmic flesh. With his free hand he grabbed the back of the ghost’s head and bared his fangs with a hiss. They were jutting from his mouth, elongated in the fury of battle, and his eyes gleamed a bright crimson. Nigel darted his jaws forward and tore a piece of Dunstan’s ghostly essence away.
“Let go, leech!” Dunstan cried, and he thrust himself upward, flying toward the ceiling.
Nigel’s grip slipped. That was the problem with ectoplasm: it ran like mercury through your hands if you weren’t careful. He snarled in frustration and leaped upward himself, jaws gnashing in blind, berserker rage.
“Coward!” he screamed. “You flee like a girl child! Come, fight me like a man. Like the soldier yo
u once were!”
“And let you tear me to ribbons? I think not!” Dunstan countered. High above Nigel, he raised his hand and manifested an ectoplasmic sword that seemed to grow from his palm and glowed with a pale, ugly green light.
Before Dunstan could launch another attack, however, the shadows around them exploded in shimmering blue fire, and a searing bolt of magic struck the ghost. The specter went rigid, letting out a cry of alarm that was cut short by the magical assault. The sword he had manifested dissipated, and the ghost simply hung there in the air like a fly trapped in amber.
Tamara appeared from the shadows, mystical blue energy still dancing around her fingers as though she had unleashed so much power this night that she could not stanch its flow. Even as she approached, the incapacitated Dunstan floated down within easy reach. Nigel grinned, baring his fangs.
“Well done, Tamara,” he snarled, even as he took hold of the trapped ghost and drove his fangs into Dunstan’s spectral throat, teeth pushing through ectoplasm as though the ghost’s flesh were overripe fruit.
“Nigel, no!” Tamara screamed.
But the vampire paid her no mind. With fang and claw he began to shred Dunstan’s spectral essence, and the ghost began to go flaccid, like a sail when the wind has suddenly died. Nigel might not be able to destroy the specter completely, but if the vampire tore him apart it would take time for Dunstan to reconstitute himself.
“Nigel, stop! We need him!” Tamara shouted again.
Staring at her right through the transparent, withering phantom held in his grip, Nigel continued to tear at the ghost. His brows knitted, and he tried to warn Tamara off with a simple glare.
With a flick of her hand, Tamara released Dunstan from her binding spell. Furious, Nigel pulled back from the ghost to upbraid her, and the wraith Dunstan had become slipped from his grasp. He disappeared into the ether, leaving only empty air.
“Bloody Hell, Tamara Swift! Do not interfere when you know nothing of the situation,” Nigel said, his voice low and menacing.
“Do not think to correct me, Nigel! I told you we needed him, but you were set upon destroying—”
“I was incapacitating him. There is a difference, girl! I’m well aware that none of our allies trust me because of my nature, but I thought I had at least earned the benefit of the doubt from you. Now because of your impetuousness, we’ve lost him!”
As Nigel took an angry step toward Tamara, Byron materialized between them.
“She did not know, Townsend. Use your head, man. Obviously she wasn’t aware what you were doing, and how could she have been? Their studies have touched only the surface,” the ghost said hotly. He was uncommonly belligerent, hands up as though he might shove Nigel backward if he attempted to get any closer to Tamara.
“You want the same, poet?” Nigel rasped, spitting the last word as though it were a slur.
Byron held his ground. “As you wish,” he said, keeping his gaze locked on Nigel’s.
For a long moment neither of them gave way. At last, Nigel shook his head sadly and turned from them. “I am tired of being treated like an enemy,” he said as he began to walk away, seeking the solace of shadows.
“Nigel, I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. I still don’t, really . . . ,” Tamara called after him, but he ignored her, choosing to prowl the perimeter of the warehouse rather than respond.
“Don’t let it bother you, my pet,” Nigel heard Byron say. “Vampires are notoriously moody.”
In the darkness, he sneered, but he did not rise to the bait. He needed time to let his anger go, to release the bloodlust and malice that had been nurtured by his fight with Dunstan’s ghost.
“What was I to think?” Tamara said again, her voice low as though she spoke only to Byron, though Nigel knew she was aware that with his vampiric senses he could easily hear her. “Oh, Byron, there is so much I’m still learning, and I am afraid that one day the things I don’t yet know about magic will be the death of me . . . or of those I love.”
Byron muttered something soft and kind, and Nigel felt a black guilt settle over him. He ought to go to Tamara, and soothe her, to help her master the power of the Protectorship.
And he would. He just needed a moment to settle his nerves.
Even as these thoughts played across his mind, he heard a moan coming from an open doorway. He glanced up, thinking they had found Tipu Gupta, but it was Farris, emerging from the room with one hand clapped to the back of his head.
“Farris, are you all right?” Tamara asked.
“Thanks to you, miss. If you hadn’t put that spell on me, I’d’ve been dinner for sure.”
The butler winced and drew his hand away from the back of his head. He’d been injured, and the smell of his blood made Nigel’s nostrils flare with hunger. He managed a smile.
“You fought admirably, my friend. You’ve a lion’s heart.”
The stout, barrel-chested Farris stood a bit taller, touched by this sentiment. “Thank you, sir. I do my best. Nothing special about old Farris, I’m afraid. No magic here, as you know. But I try to make up for that with my fists.” He hesitated a moment before going on. “I hope you’ll accept my apologies, sir. I was quite rude. Misjudged you, I did.”
Nigel sighed. “You’re far from the only one. It is in the past. Let’s neither of us speak of it again.”
Farris nodded gravely, and Nigel found himself pleased to have forged a new bond with that courageous man.
Tamara hurried over, Byron floating behind her, glaring balefully at Nigel. But all her attention was on the butler now. Nigel was pleased that Farris’s arrival had drained away the tension between them.
“How badly are you hurt, Farris?” Tamara asked.
He gave her a weak smile and shook his head. “I’ll have a knot on the back of my head for a few days to come, but I feel as hale as I was before those demons attacked.”
Tamara raised an eyebrow and stared at him doubtfully. “Farris?”
The stalwart butler nodded. “Right, well, I could use another of those spells of yours, mistress. That might fix me up right good and proper.”
Not for the first time, Tamara wondered at the healing properties of magic. She always felt stronger, better able to cope with intense situations after she had used a spell. Sometimes she pondered the idea that one could become quite addicted to the sensation. Or addict others to it. Nevertheless, she cast a minor spell, easing Farris’s pain.
“All right, what’s next?” she asked her friends. “We’ve got to assume that wherever Tipu Gupta is being held, Horatio is imprisoned, as well. Colonel Dunstan led us here to be slaughtered . . . a plan I’m pleased we thwarted. But I do not believe that our locator spell was incorrect. It worked perfectly, and it indicated Gupta’s presence in this very spot, or near enough. Otherwise we would have suspected Dunstan’s duplicity all the sooner. He must have brought us somewhere very near their actual location. We’ve got to search every alley, every building, in the area. And we’ve got to start now.”
WILLIAM AWOKE IN near darkness, to find himself propped up in a stiff leather armchair. He drew in a deep breath and found that his chest hurt.
As his eyes adjusted to the firelight, shapes began to come into focus. The first thing he saw was a huge hearth with a roaring fire, blazing away. He was in a small study. A large teak desk took up a good portion of the room, and two looming curio cases stood as sentries on either side of it. A stuffed lion’s head hung from the wall above the mantel, and at first William thought it was somehow attached to the robed figure that stood below it.
When he squinted, however, he saw that the lion and the man were indeed separate, but somehow that didn’t make him feel any better. There was something sinister about the robed man, his face obscured from William’s gaze. Something sinister about the room itself, and the Algernon Club in general, in fact. It wasn’t entirely unexpected, but it was a disappointment.
He had so enjoyed dinner.
He tried to sit up but
found that his body could not do what he asked of it. He was trapped here, probably trussed up like some sacrificial lamb for the slaughter. He knew now that he shouldn’t have come, that all the good food they had served should have been suspect.
Now I shan’t have a hope of getting the recipe for that treacle tart, he thought petulantly.
“What do you want?” William managed to ask. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and made the words hard to form. He was still slurring a bit, but it was better than before.
What exactly had happened? he wondered. He remembered dinner and John Haversham and . . .
Oh, no, William. You didn’t really pet the hair of Sir Robert Peel, as though he were some lapdog! He felt his cheeks flush crimson. How horrible. He would never live the embarrassment down.
He vaguely remembered the look of shock on the parliamentarian’s face. Here was the man who had brought about the formation of the Metropolitan Police—the peelers, for God’s sake—and William had petted him.
On the other hand, his mortification was likely for naught. If things continued the way they had been going, he would never be in Sir Robert’s company again. Perhaps there was a bright side to being murdered by a mysterious gang of occultists.
Then again, perhaps not.
“As you’ve no doubt surmised, Mr. Swift, your food was drugged. We required that your mind be dulled, to make it difficult for you to muster your magic, in the event this conversation goes . . . awry.”
That final word, so mundane, sounded so sinister now. William swallowed hard.
“It was the treacle tart, wasn’t it?” He sighed. “Villains.”
“Silence!” the robed man commanded.
“Right, fine. You said you wanted to have a conversation, but apparently what you meant to say was soliloquy. Go on, then. Have at it.”
The robed man stood beneath the lion’s head, ominous and still. William felt himself frozen, not merely by the drug in his blood, but by pure dread.
“The Algernon Club has existed in one form or another for centuries,” the robed man said. “At first it was an enclave of magicians, a place where information was exchanged, truces made, and alliances forged. Dark sorcerers were not welcome, though they managed to infiltrate the group from time to time.