“Twenty years of nonsense, Michael Carroll. Upon my dead body, I swear to you, you’ll have a very merry Christmas if it’s the last thing I do.”
Chapter One
Vicar Michael Carroll turned the ladle in his pot of mulled wine and let the scented steam rise to his nostrils, unlocking emotion, memory and all those forces that such smells do around the Christmas holiday. He glanced out the window of the kitchen in his small Bloomsbury flat, which looked unflatteringly down upon an alley, and was pleased to witness a solitary flake of snow brush the thick, uneven glass before vanishing. It would be the first of many firsts this season, if the fates allowed.
Drawing himself a heaping tankard of Josephine’s favourite cabernet, procured from the stores of her café and heated with bobbing chunks of cinnamon, fruit and cloves, he moved into his small dining room. The corners of the chamber were plastered at uneven angles, having settled awkwardly at the beginning of the century when the building was new. The window here only gave half a view of the avenue beyond, but he could see lamplighters plying their trade and nearing his street. It was not yet dark, and a purple sky reigned over parapets and smokestacks that grew ever higher and higher, the churning wheels of industry cranking them upward to challenge twilight’s celestial throne.
He sat at a rough-hewn wooden table worn smooth by use, by company and the press of his own hands. Sliding his palms forward onto it, he eased into his chair, bracing himself and his heart, connecting with something solid and simple. The odd powers that had coursed through his body had once made his fingers twitch. Those powers were no more. Nonetheless, holding his palms firmly down, rooting himself to the table and to humanity, was one of his usual exercises. It brought him peace.
Michael, unlike his five compatriots in The Guard who had until very recently been charged with the Grand Work, had never cursed it. Theirs was a strenuous and at times lonely responsibility—though it didn’t have to be—but it was ultimately rewarding. The Guard had been the law of the land, spectrally speaking. Though they’d left benign spirits well enough alone, each of their coterie had been granted a specific, beautiful power to arraign evil spirits and keep them from harassing the unwitting mortal populace. The Guard had controlled traffic of the unfettered and malignant dead all throughout London for twenty some years. They’d done the world a great supernatural deal of what Michael would consider Christian charity.
But he had to admit that his role in the Grand Work had held some irony. Literally the Heart of the group, he could open locked doors, touch a breastbone and flood someone’s veins with joy, change the emotional contents of a room, shifting energy and intent like metals processed by alchemy. And yet he’d never gained happiness of his own, or the heart of the woman he’d loved for those twenty some years.
In the beginning they’d been simple teenaged youths, arraigned by a goddesslike force and called to duty. They’d been universally awkward and unlikely companions from disparate backgrounds and classes; they’d suspected little of their lives ahead. Michael hadn’t known anything when he began seeing ghosts, when he began learning how his respective gift augmented their group. He hadn’t known how long it would take for their prophesied seventh member to join their ranks—or that one of their beloved number would fall in recent battle. What he did know was that, from the very first moment he laid eyes on her, he loved the young and spindly brunette who would be their second in command. He’d loved Rebecca Thompson since Westminster Bridge in the summer of 1867.
She, in turn, likely from that very same moment, had loved the young man who would become their leader. Alexi. The battle with Darkness and the Whisper-world, in retrospect, seemed the easy part.
Michael pressed his hands harder against the table, slid them farther from his body, stretching his taut muscles and wrestling with his nerves like Jacob did the angel. He’d not seen Rebecca since they laid Jane in the tomb three days prior; she had gone to her apartments and locked herself in. She blamed herself, he could tell, wished God had taken her instead. Michael thought the sentiment might kill him. Nothing felt familiar. He’d lost his powers, Jane, and now he was losing Rebecca. His heart, so full of joy and love, was suffering a tumbling withdrawal from its preternaturally augmented height. It was a terrifying, dizzying fall.
“Pull yourself together, man,” he murmured. “It’s nearly Christmas.”
His front door burst open, making him jump and splash warm wine onto his hand. Pursing his lips, knowing just who it was without even a glance, he finally looked up to behold the stern and striking figure upon his threshold. All in black stood his dear friend and unintentional rival, Alexi Rychman, former leader of the London Guard.
“Dear God, Professor. I truly thought, now that the weight of the known world is no longer entirely on your shoulders, you might at least allow yourself the more socially preferred custom of knocking upon a friend’s door before entering.”
“Old habits,” Alexi intoned, his voice rich, low and commanding. It would always be thus, even though he had no group to lead any longer.
Behind Alexi, a moonbeam of a young woman stood with an apologetic look on her face. Michael grinned and forgot his irritation. “Ah, well, Mrs. Rychman . . . with you at his side, all debts are erased.”
Alexi turned proudly to his entering bride. She was certainly the youth among them, Alexi not quite twice her age, but then again, where ancient prophecies were concerned, when gods were fiddling with mortal lives and taking their bodies as their own, age hardly mattered. Her fine taffeta skirts, in her favourite shade of rich blue, brushed the coarse wood of the door and rustled as she closed it.
She received Michael’s warm expression with a radiant smile that transformed her death white face into a ray of magical starlight. There was nothing about her that was ordinary. The whole of Mrs. Persephone Rychman remained white as a spectre, even the hair piled atop her head in an elegant coif. But the light here was diffuse enough that she did not have to wear the dark blue tinted glasses that shielded her eerie, breathtaking, ice blue eyes from any harshness.
“My husband never allows me to get to a door first, Vicar Carroll, otherwise I might abate his most startling tradition,” she said sweetly.
“Since we’ve lost so many traditions, I suppose we’d best keep the ones remaining,” Michael chuckled in reply.
While he had wanted an evening alone—to plan, to ruminate, to dream—he could not deny that Persephone made all disappointments bearable. She had saved them all from spectral Armageddon, and her mere presence reminded him of hope. Even her husband, a cold and fearsome man, eased into something more handsome around his strangely beautiful wife.
“Come then, you must sit down, now that you’ve come calling and disturbed my quiet. I see your nostrils flaring at the smell of it, Professor, so I know you’ll want a cup of your favourite brew.”
Alexi nodded and drew out a chair for his wife. She looked up at him with fond eyes, her hand unconsciously grazing her abdomen where her corset stays were bound more loosely these days. Having almost lost what she’d hardly knew she had, under horrific circumstances Michael didn’t wish to relive, he noticed her hand now rested there often, cradling the invisible life their beloved Jane had died to save.
Ducking into his small kitchen, he returned with a glass of wine for Alexi and a cup of steaming tea for Percy: as a parochial vicar for the Church of England, he always had a kettle of water at the ready, for he never knew when a parishioner might need guidance. It was more often that The Guard came calling. Would they still, now that they had lost their gifts?
The pair accepted their drinks, and Alexi wasted no time in admitting the reason for his visit.
“Michael, dear chap, now that we’re no longer arbiters of escapees from the spectral realm, I feel it necessary that Percy and I take the genuine, lengthy honeymoon we were so rudely denied by the onslaught of spectral warfare. However, I think it ill advised to leave Athens Chapel unattended, should there be . . . spiritual backl
ash or any other such nonsense. I’ll need your assistance to keep an eye open in case something flares up. Not that we could band together again without our powers, without our Healer . . .” Alexi’s usually firm voice faltered, and everyone looked at the table. He cleared his throat. “I assume this is not a problem?”
Michael opened and closed his mouth. He didn’t want more responsibility; he wanted time, now, to be a suitor.
Alexi read the conflict upon his face. “You’ve something better to do?”
“The good vicar does have a job, Alexi,” Percy murmured.
Alexi looked unimpressed. “Be that as it may, I may need him to step in and assist Rebecca with goings-on at the school, too. I’m not officially an administrator, but I might as well have been. The headmistress deferred to my judgement in many things.”
True, Rebecca often listened to him, but Alexi didn’t have to be so smug about it. His unwavering air of confidence rode Michael far rougher than usual.
About to open his mouth and chide his friend, he stopped and considered the impulse. What was this? What was this overwhelming irritation he felt for his dear comrade? He had always suffered notions of fleeting jealousy or resignation, like any mortal, but never with such a sudden sense of petty anger. His great heart had indeed withered with the loss of his gift. He wondered if his inner foundation of faith, too, his touchstone of assurance, would prove similarly shaken.
Percy’s voice roused him from his worried reverie. “How are you faring, Michael, in our new retirement?” She spoke softly, brushing her hand over his. Looking into her eyes, he fancied he could see her thoughts. Curious, empathizing, she was so intuitive despite her innocence, such an old soul in such a young, inexperienced body.
He shrugged. “Good, good. I spend more time at the church—never a bad place to be when one faces such a dramatic shift in life. There’s more chance to think, to pray . . . I’ve plans, you know. You two are not the only ones trying to make up for lost time.” Percy took a breath, but Michael continued before she could interject. “And how is he faring?” He indicated Alexi.
“I’m not sure he quite knows what to do with himself,” Percy replied, allowing herself a little grin.
Alexi turned. “Please don’t you go calling me insufferable, as The Guard has always done.”
At that moment the door was thrown wide and a nasal voice was quick to comment, “Did I hear the word ‘insufferable’?” Lord Elijah Withersby entered, a lean, flaxen-haired man in foppish satin sleeves, and he opened his arms to the assembled company. “Why, you must be talking about His Royal Eeriness, Minister of the Constant Sneer!” He bounded forward and clapped the grimacing Alexi on the arm.
Percy bit back a giggle, ever entertained by Lord Withersby’s outlandish titles for her imperious, black-clad husband. Michael was glad she was so good-humoured about the teasing, The Guard’s eldest tradition of all.
“Alexi, my dear man,” Elijah exclaimed, “I know you simply cannot be away for long without missing me terribly, so I thought I’d oblige you. Rebecca said you were here on business. Hullo, Vicar! Wine, please!”
“Rebecca spoke with you?” Michael asked, on edge. “Did you see her?”
Elijah shrugged. “She barked at me from the other side of her door.”
Alexi nodded. “Have we all called upon her then, and she has admitted no one?”
“So it would seem.” Michael wasn’t sure if his clenched fists were noticed, but he couldn’t be bothered if they were. He sighed, rose and went for more wine. The instinct of hospitality ran deep.
A beautiful and impeccably dressed woman appeared through the front door. Rolling her eyes, she closed it behind her with the same consideration as Percy and moved to Lord Withersby’s side. “Neither of you knock,” she complained, offering fond, French-accented derision to both Elijah and Alexi. She looked at Percy with empathy, a twinkle in her eye. “We trail behind well-dressed animals, my dear.”
Josephine Belledoux, the Artist of London’s onetime Guard, and Lord Withersby, its Memory, had been lovers for longer than they’d cared to reveal. Not wanting to conflict with the delicate, pathetic love triangles already scoring the group, they’d thought it best to keep their happy pairing away from their cohorts. The truth of their relationship had been only recently admitted.
Michael returned with more mulled wine and pulled spare, rickety chairs from what could hardly be called a sitting room into the dining area.
“Yes, I am here on business, Withersby.” Alexi eyed the turquoise fabric of Elijah’s sleeve splayed upon the table. Reaching out to finger the starched, gilt lace upon the cuff, he withdrew in distaste. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know what to do!” Elijah cried, collapsing dramatically upon the table. “How on earth can I traipse about London as I wish, commandeer Auntie’s house as I please, if I cannot bend anyone’s mind to my bidding? If I cannot make them forget, if I cannot become invisible in their presence . . . Oh, the horror of living the real life of a gentleman!”
“Oh, Withersby, you’re hardly a gentleman. You’ll make do just fine,” Alexi replied.
“He’s maddening,” Josephine muttered. “I’m painting more beautiful canvases than I’ve ever painted in my life, finally, subjects besides angels and death, and he won’t leave me alone for a minute. Mon Dieu. I told him he should take up a sport, use all this excess energy of his—”
“You know, Withersby, I’ve shuddered to think what would have happened to you without our Grand Work to set your life’s early course,” Alexi remarked. “That said, you might enjoy what leisure your class offers you, now that you’re free to fully take part.”
Elijah stared as if his friend were daft. “You’ll never understand the finer points of high society. Why, if I’ve taught you nothing, I’d thought you’d realized it’s a requirement of my class never to be content!”
Everyone turned, eyeing Josephine with pity. “I know, I know, I’m a fool,” she said, her French accent making her words drip with drama. “I tell him he needs a hobby, a new club, something. But no, he goes careening about the estate or pacing madly about our flat—”
“You’ve a flat?” Michael asked.
“We’ve always had a flat,” Elijah replied. “But with the upcoming nuptials—”
Josephine interrupted. “That’s truly the reason why we’re here, Vicar, we need to set a date for the wedding.”
Alexi turned to her. “You know, you don’t have to do this.”
Josephine chuckled. “Our fates were sealed long ago,” she said with mock weariness, touching her fiancé’s face with such obvious adoration that no sarcasm in the world could have countered it. “I accept as best I can and suffer onward. Right, Madame Rychman?”
Percy shrugged. “Alexi’s not nearly the handful that Lord Withersby is. I find myself resigned to no fate but happiness.” She smirked at Elijah, a sparkle in her eerie eyes. Alexi grinned triumphantly and snuggled his wife close.
It was still uncanny, Michael thought, to see Alexi smile. Twenty years he’d known the man and all Alexi had done was scowl. The transformation truly was remarkable. But some things would never change, particularly such endless verbal fencing.
“Alexi,” Elijah whined, “how ever will I have the upper hand now that you have this sweet young thing to take your part?”
Alexi shrugged. “Your fiancée will have to put on a better act of being your champion.”
Josephine lifted her hands in mock chagrin. Elijah grabbed her fingers and kissed them.
Further discourse was ended as the room suddenly lit with a strange and shifting light, as if the air were a curtain blown in a breeze. A spirit burst through the wall—a young boy—and the temperature plummeted. Alexi jumped up and lifted his palms. The Guard all stood and reached for one another, ready for action. Percy rose from respect, having been brought late into their circle. She was not quick on the defensive, having been rarely ambushed by ghosts of the villainous variety, and she
stared at this boy in recognition.
Alexi opened his mouth to say a benediction in a foreign tongue never meant for mortal ears, bequeathed only to The Guard. He anticipated the bursts of an angelic choir, braced himself for a charged and ancient wind that would whip up around them, magnifying their powers against the restless dead . . . But he could say nothing. He could hear nothing. There was no familiar blue fire crackling from his hand, no celestial music hanging glorious the air. He was a demigod no more. None of them retained such honours. They had earned this retirement, but clearly none of them had grown accustomed to it.
The spirit bobbed before them, a ghostly urchin, unperturbed. Michael recognized him, too: he haunted the ceiling of the foyer of Athens Academy, circling the chandelier, always watching the headmistress with interest.
Alexi’s upraised arm slowly sank, defeated. Michael watched his former leader and felt for him; the general was back from the war with nothing to command, with over half his life spent in service. No, it was not an easy shift. For any of them.
Percy instinctively took her husband’s hand. “It’s all right, Alexi. Billy means no harm, he comes bearing tidings,” she murmured. Her beloved sank into a chair, crestfallen, and Percy gave him one last empathetic glance before turning her attention to the spirit. “Yes? What have you come to tell me, Billy?”
The boy only had eyes for Percy, with an occasional glance at Michael. The one-sided conversation continued as the boy rapidly gesticulated. Percy nodded, clearly still translator to the dead, their medium, the only member of The Guard who had ever been able to hear spirits speak and the only one still apparently in possession of any of her powers. Translating had been part of her duty as The Guard’s prophesied seventh member, if only one of her many gifts.
A Midwinter Fantasy Page 2