by Amber Benson
William stood straighter. “Right, then. If that’s how it is.”
The fog thickened and swirled around them, a cloak of stinking gray in the dark of the night. The air was heavy with the weight of the evil they faced, and the grim determination lodged in their hearts.
TAMARA AND HER brother sent the ghosts on ahead to survey the palace, and see if there was any sign that Priya Gupta’s scheme was already unfolding. The Swifts could have translocated there as quickly as the ghosts traveled through the ether, but Nigel and Farris were incapable of journeying in that manner, so they retrieved the carriage. And though once it would have been a simple matter for the Protector of Bharath, too much of Tipu Gupta’s innate magic had been leached from him.
Tamara was concerned for the old man, and wondered how well he would hold up in the battle to come. Gupta had been pale and unsteady getting into the carriage, so much so that William had had to give him a hand up. When the time came, she doubted they would be able to count on the old man.
Particularly if they had to kill his daughter.
They made their way west toward Buckingham Palace, and she watched him carefully. Though it was quite late, there were still a few people out and about on that cold, foggy night. Couples walked arm in arm, though most were likely illicit pairings. A pair of peelers argued with a well-dressed gentleman in front of the Temple Bar. They all seemed like wraiths in the mist.
As the carriage rattled along cobblestones, they saw fewer and fewer people. Long stretches were so solemn as to be almost funereal.
What had first seemed to be an ordinary mist coming off the river was proving to be far more. London fog was often thick and gray, choking off light and breath with equal devastation. Smoke from a thousand thousand chimneys had lingered all through the early evening in a heavy blanket over London until it was taken by winds that shifted direction from moment to moment, and swirled into a terrible stew with the stench of the marshlands of Kent and Essex and the rancid, strangling odor of human waste that floated off the river.
Tamara felt as if it were the stink of Hell itself. There was a hint of orange to the gray that only added to the effect.
At first the fog had crept along low to the ground, but by the time they reached the palace that had changed. That crawling mist had become heavy clouds that shrouded entire buildings, giving only brief glimpses of the dark, carved faces of the architecture they passed. It wrapped around lampposts as if hungry for the flames within, muffling and dimming the lights.
None of them spoke of the fog, even in jest. Yet Tamara was sure their thoughts must echo hers: this was no ordinary fog. In the silence of their journey, she contemplated asking William about his evening at the Algernon Club, but such questions seemed trivial at the moment, and Tamara felt that would be worse than no talk at all.
Almost on the heels of this thought, her brother spoke up, just loud enough to be heard over the rattle of the carriage.
“Do you think that in splitting the Protectorship between us, Ludlow did us a disservice?”
Tamara frowned, shifting uncomfortably on the seat of the carriage.
“What do you mean?”
William reached up and removed his tie, opening the collar of his shirt. One of the wheels hit a hole, and the carriage jounced. A moment went by before he continued.
“All due respect to Mr. Gupta, but his daughter’s got most of the power of the Protector of Bharath now. Does that make her more powerful than you or me individually? Are we halves of a whole, or each whole unto ourselves?”
The questions troubled her, and she reached for her brother’s hand, squeezing tightly.
“Don’t turn to me on this. I’ve no idea. If there’s some rule book concerning Protectors and their powers, I’ve never seen it, and I don’t think Ludlow ever did, either.”
The carriage seat creaked as Tipu Gupta leaned forward, his gaze taking in the both of them. “You protect the soul of Albion, my friends. I was charged with the protection of the soul of Bharath, and failed. There are Protectors in every region of the world. Though they may be part of a whole, part of an effort by the spirit and nature of this entire world to protect itself from evil, the attentions of the Protectors are nearly always turned inward. Where there is collected lore, I have found it is almost always about the legacy of the Protectorship of the region, not of the world.”
It took Tamara a moment to digest what he had said. Then she frowned. “All of which is to say, you don’t have an answer for me, either.”
The old man smiled softly, copper skin crinkling around his eyes. “I do not. But I feel certain your grandfather would not have chosen both of you if he thought doing so might place you in danger.”
“Well, that’s a comfort,” Nigel scoffed, trying to peer out the window into the fog, which had begun to seep into the carriage. “Looks like it’s trial by fire once again. You’ll have to find out the answers in the midst of battle.”
Normally there would have been some muttered protest or attempt at humor from William, then, but the situation seemed to have drained him of any such temptations.
Tamara understood. The Crown was at stake. Blood would flow this night, and their only hope was to determine whose blood. She felt pity for those who had been victimized by the imperial aspirations of Britain, those who felt that they had been trammeled upon by the march of colonialism.
Yet no matter what offenses her own nation had committed, she could not stand by and allow the sort of retribution that Priya Gupta planned. The girl dreamed of slaughter and conquest, and whatever goddess she prayed to, whatever dark thing influenced her, Tamara felt certain it was no longer merely about vengeance. Inevitably, bloodlust became its own reason and reward.
“Here we are,” Nigel rasped in that throaty growl that always filled his voice when there was blood to be shed.
They rattled to a stop. The fog muffled Farris’s call to the horses, then the carriage tilted to one side as he climbed down from his seat. A moment later, the door opened and he stood aside to let them exit. Nigel did not bother to wait, but popped open the opposite door and leaped to the ground with a clack of leather soles on stone, landing like a cat. There was a spring in his step that made Tamara tremble, though whether from dread or anticipation she was unsure.
The city was like a dream now. A terrible dream. The orange-gray fog enshrouded everything, crawling along the street like the current of a lazy river, while an upper layer seemed not to move at all. Even when the wind picked up, the mass only danced and eddied, but did not drift away. To the west Buckingham Palace emerged, a mythical fortress floating in the clouds. That meant St. James’s Park was just south, so close they must have been a stone’s throw away, but Tamara could make out not a single tree. High windows in the palace gazed down upon them balefully, as though it had been waiting for them.
Foolish girl, Tamara thought, shaking herself. Here she was ascribing sinister intent to the palace itself, as though it had already been lost to the enemy. It may have stood sentinel above them, jutting from the fog, but ominous as it seemed, the palace was the stronghold of their allies, not their enemies.
For now.
“Farris, is there any sign of the creatures?” William asked, rubbing his hands together for warmth as he glanced around, trying to get his bearings. His face was wreathed in fog. “Rakshasa? Those reptile fellows?”
“Children of Kali,” Nigel said, his deep voice riding the fog.
Tamara turned toward him, and saw only his eyes gleaming red in the mist. Then he stepped forward and without hesitation she reached for his hand and drew him closer. Watching her every move, Farris, William, and Tipu Gupta moved nearer, as well. It was better that way, she thought. There was no telling what lurked in the fog.
“They are not Kali’s children,” Gupta said, punctuating the words with a cough. “They bear her curse, but not her blessing.”
“Call ’em what you like, sir, I saw neither hide nor hair. Nothing moving in the fog
at all, in fact, the last half mile or so. Even with this dreadful soup, that’s a surprise. Normally a fog like this’ll bring out the thieves and scavengers. But not tonight.”
“At least not this close to the palace,” William said.
Tamara shivered. Stray locks of her hair had fallen into her face and were stuck there by the moisture from the air. “Horatio. Byron,” she whispered into the fog.
William and Gupta looked up expectantly, but Nigel circled them all, prowling the edges of their little gathering, on guard for an attack from the tainted mist.
The ghosts appeared a moment later, shimmering into existence side by side, first Nelson and then Byron.
“Admiral Nelson reporting for duty,” the spirit intoned with utmost gravity. “No sign of any disturbance ’round the palace. That’s got me a bit worried, though. There’s no one at all, you see. Not even guards at the gate.”
Tamara gnawed her lower lip. “What do you suppose that means? Are we too late? Are the guards dead, the demons already within the palace walls?”
Nelson shook his head. “I think not. The gates are locked up tight. I spied not a single broken window. The doors beyond the outer walls are all closed, presumably locked as well.”
“So where are the guards?” William asked.
“I haven’t a clue,” Nelson replied.
Byron glanced worriedly back toward the palace. “A mystery for another day, I should think. We’ve got work to do.”
Their spectral forms seemed oddly substantial there in the fog, but it took Tamara a moment to understand why. This particular fog wasn’t passing through them, as it should, but around them, as though they were beings of flesh and blood. William was the first to mention it.
“Yes. We had noticed,” Byron told him, glancing down at his form. “If only I could muster such substance at other times. In any case, it’s mostly illusion. We’re no more solid than ever. Except where this fog is concerned.”
None of them commented further. The supernatural origin of the fog had gone unremarked earlier because they were all certain of it. This confirmation was interesting, but utterly unsurprising.
“Right, then,” Farris said, crossing his arms in defiance of the eerie mist and the air of malevolence that surrounded them. “What’s the plan?”
As one, they looked to Tamara. She blinked in surprise as she surveyed their faces.
William.
The ghosts.
Farris.
Nigel.
Even the rightful Protector of Bharath. They all waited for her to determine their course of action.
She nodded solemnly, thinking a moment, and then pointed toward the palace. “Priya’s behavior thus far has been full of arrogance. It would not astonish me at all if she strode right up to the gates. But we must try to cover as many approaches as possible. I shall take Nigel and Byron with me and go up Constitution Hill, moving around to the corner, in view of the gardens. William, keep Farris and Mr. Gupta with you. I suggest the southeast corner, just there, where you can keep a view of the gates, as well as the buildings to the south.”
All their eyes were upon her, and she sensed their uncertainty. Tipu Gupta was still burdened by the weight of his guilt and shame.
“Do not hestitate,” Tamara said. “The Rakshasa are nothing more than vermin. Wipe them out. As for the Children of Kali . . . they were men once, but no more. They have been altered irrevocably, and there is nothing human remaining. Slay them all, and send your prayers to Heaven for their families if you wish. But give no quarter.”
“Well said,” Nelson declared, drifting nearer to her. His good eye was narrowed with determination, the false one gleaming wetly in the mist. “But what of me, Tamara? Your battle plan has no role in it for me?”
“Indeed it does,” she replied. “William was correct. We need reinforcements, but only those we know we can trust. My brother and I have only begun to access the community of ghosts who linger with this land, but Dunstan has made it obvious that not all of them are our allies. If we use the ability of the Protector to speak into the ethereal realm and summon them all, we may call up enemies as well as friends. I leave it to you, then, Horatio. Go into the shadows where only ghosts may walk, and sound the call. Send word along from spirit to spirit. The Protectors of Albion require the aid of any who are willing to fight for the soul of this land.”
Horatio bowed. “Just so. What of Bodicea? Shall I fetch her as well?”
Tamara frowned. “Only as a last resort. It would mean leaving Sophia and the servants at Ludlow House with Oblis. The thought troubles me.”
“All right,” Horatio agreed. “I’m off and shall return with all due speed.”
And he vanished.
The company remained together several moments longer, until William stepped nearer his sister and kissed her softly on the cheek. She saw something in his eyes, and thought he would speak, but instead he only gave her a reassuring smile and then turned to the others.
“Come, Farris, Mr. Gupta. While Nelson is marshaling our forces, we must see to it that Priya’s monsters do not breach the palace walls.”
“Pardon me a moment, sir,” Farris replied. He went quickly to the carriage and reached under the seat, drawing out a large leather pouch. He lifted the flap on the pouch and withdrew, one after the other, a pair of guns that Tamara had never seen before. There were no flintlocks at all, and the barrels seemed immense.
“What on Earth have you got there?” she asked.
Farris smiled grimly. “A gift from my brother. They’re revolvers, six shots each. Allen’s pepperbox, they’re called. Beauties, aren’t they?”
Tamara only nodded as she watched Farris check both guns and slip them into the large pockets of his coat, then reach back under the seat. He withdrew a belt and scabbard, which he tied around his waist. The barrel-chested man did not draw the blade, only patted it where it hung at his hip.
“This, though, this was a gift from me dad. His own Pattern saber from his cavalry days.”
“Excellent, Farris. Glad to have you at my back,” William told him.
Then they moved off toward the palace, disappearing in the fog. Though Tipu Gupta still had his walking stick, Tamara thought the man leaned on it less than he had earlier. She imagined he was mustering the reserves of his strength—physical, magical, and emotional—for the confrontation with his daughter.
“All right, then,” she said, turning to Nigel and Byron. “It’s us. Stay close.”
As she darted into the fog, keeping an eye on the palace, Tamara felt vulnerable. She envied the weight of the weapons that Farris had brought, and wished for even a walking stick as solid as the one Gupta carried to hold in her hands. But she knew that she was her own weapon; she was connected to the very soul of Albion, and its magic burned in her veins.
The knowledge propelled her faster. Byron kept pace, the fog caressing him as though it were urging him on, maintaining the illusion of solidity though he rushed over the ground without once setting foot upon it.
Nigel ran in a kind of crouch, almost loping, and when he glanced at her she saw that his eyes were even more scarlet, and his teeth had elongated to jagged fangs. Her heart staggered at the sight. He was a frightening creature, no matter that he was her friend.
Tamara could barely see the palace gates as they moved in haste toward Constitution Hill. They turned and kept pace along the northern wall, not slowing until they had reached the rear corner. The fog churned around them, and she could feel it flowing by her ankles.
“Hold here,” she said, catching her breath and peering into the night, into the fog.
Nigel backtracked their steps half a dozen feet to see if they had been followed, then rejoined them. His eyes were like embers in the dark. Then he started toward the gardens to the west of their position.
“What are you doing?” Byron inquired, almost casually. “Get back here.”
The vampire turned and glared at him. “I can smell them. The Raksh
asa. I’d like to see if I can get a sense of how many there are out there.”
Tamara considered for a moment, glancing around again. There seemed no trouble at the rear of the palace as best she could tell. And she saw no one in the fog to the north, up Constitution Hill.
“All right,” she said. “But go quickly, and do not attack. To the edge of the gardens and no farther, then return.”
Nigel grinned, baring his fangs. “I’m going to drink an entire barrel of whiskey after this.” He slipped into the fog, and was gone.
Tamara had thought she would hear him moving out there, but ought to have known better. Vampires were stealthy creatures. She hugged herself, allowing a low hum to rise in her throat and a flicker of golden light to dance across the backs of her hands.
“I don’t like this,” Byron said, his voice barely a whisper.
The ghost started off the same way Nigel had gone, not bothering to pretend to walk. His dark, curly hair was like a puncture in the fog, his burgundy velvet waistcoat far paler than even his phantom nature would account for.
“Stay with me,” Tamara said. “We cannot all separate.”
“But—” Byron began.
The night was rent by loud hyena laughter. The voices of Rakshasa. It carried up toward the palace from the gardens, echoing within the fog.
Tamara stiffened, eyes searching the shrouded landscape for Nigel. Something shifted in the fog behind her, then, and she spun, those golden sparks blossoming into balls of lightning that seared the air, dispelling the mist around her.
The girl was beautiful, wrapped in white silk, her hair a cloak of raven black, her skin like smooth caramel. But the look in her eyes and the sneering lift of her upper lip made her ugly.
“For Kali,” she said.
The magic that burst from her fingers in long, snaking ribbons was bloodred. They flowed, those crimson ribbons, and they were tipped with dagger points that whipped through the air and darted straight at Tamara.
“Contego!” Tamara snapped, and the balls of lightning in her hands exploded, that golden magic leaping upward to form a mystical shield in front of her.