But before he could think of anything else to say, Alison had carried the gloves away with her and Carolyn was babbling at him about the delights of the ball.
He tried, unsuccessfully, to get her onto any other subject, or at least to slow down the torrent of words. To no avail; it was clear that she was babbling out of sheer panic now, and nothing he said was going to penetrate the wall of fear she had around her. He sat on the edge of his seat, alive with tension, trying to listen past Carolyn's wall of words to what was going on in the next rooms. Was there the creak of a door, something slamming, a muffled exclamation? Was there the sound of a struggle?
"Here we are!" Alison said brightly, making him jump. "Here is your mysterious girl, Reggie—I am afraid that my Lauralee was playing a bit of a prank on you, pretending to be a stranger to you. Girlish high spirits and all—" She smiled thinly. "Of course, she didn't want to spoil the joke by allowing you to guess who she was, so she tells me she ran away from you in the garden."
Sure enough, behind Alison came Lauralee—but a very pale Lauralee, with her teeth clenched, though she tried to feign that she was completely normal. And she was wearing both gloves.
He stood as they both entered the room. "Lauralee!" he said, immediately on his guard, but hoping he wasn't showing it. "How could I not have recognized you?"
"I wore a wig," she said, her voice strained, her mouth stretched in something that looked nothing like a smile. "And I took care to disguise my voice." As he neared her, he saw that her pupils were very large, and heard a faint slur to her words, as if she was drugged.
Yes, there was no trickery; she wore the gloves. But he knew very well that the last time he had seen her, she had owned the usual number of fingers. Which must mean—
The thought made him sick. The girl must be mad. Or her mother. Or both.
Probably both.
He might have spared a moment to pity her, if such an act had not simply shown him that she was as ruthless as her mother. And fear of what they might be doing to Eleanor made him act in a way he probably wouldn't have, otherwise. He reached out and seized both her hands before she could prevent it, and gave the left one a squeeze.
She nearly fainted. And seeping blood stained the side of the glove, where she must have only now cut off the little finger of her left hand. He looked up at Alison's face, and saw that it was suffused with rage.
He had them. "I think—" he began—
And pain and blackness descended on him from behind.
August 12, 1917
Broom, Warwickshire
"Well, Carolyn, you have redeemed yourself in my eyes," Alison said, as Reggie crumpled to the floor. Carolyn stared first at him, then at her mother, wide-eyed, the poker she had used to hit him with still clutched in her nerveless fingers. "Oh, don't look at me like that, you haven't the strength to kill him! You have merely rendered him unconscious. Go and get my kit. I fear we will have two bundles to smuggle out after dark, not one."
She turned to Lauralee, who had reeled against the wall, whimpering with pain, cradling her injured left hand in her right. "I warned you to be sure that you had cauterized the wound properly and that the laudanum had taken effect before you came out of the kitchen!"
"I couldn't help it. He squeezed my hand, Mother," Lauralee replied, her voice faint and full of agony. "He broke open the wound—"
"So he knew all along. He came here looking for Eleanor, and he knew it was Eleanor behind the mask. This is worse than I thought." She stood rigid, rooted in thought, arms crossed over her chest, tapping one finger against her forearm. "That's it; the only hope we have is to take him to the Hoar Stones and make him forget her."
Lauralee blinked up at her mother through tears of pain. "Can you do that?"
"Well, I can make him forget a great deal, and her with it," Alison admitted. "I can erase, in general, every memory he has had since he came home. Then when he wakes, it will be up to you to convince him that he proposed marriage to you last night in the garden, and that he has been in love with you all along."
Carolyn, who had not yet moved, put the poker aside. "But won't that be a problem with his mother?" she faltered. "She wants him to marry within the peerage. That's what everyone was saying last night. And how do we explain that he was injured and his loss of memory?"
Alison shrugged. "We'll say we found him wandering and brought him back. It isn't as if there haven't been rumors about the steadiness of his mind." She frowned. This was getting more complicated by the moment, and dangerous, too. "We'll have to be quick, though. If he doesn't come back by morning—"
"His motorcar is here," Lauralee pointed out. "People will know that. By now, everyone in the village knows that."
Alison gave vent to her feelings with a curse. Carolyn flinched. "Then one of us—me, I suppose—will have to drive our auto, and one of us will have to drive his."
"I'll drive it," Warrick Locke said from the stairs. "Here's your kit, Alison. It was still on the hall table." He handed her the morphia kit and looked down at the prone form of Reggie Fenyx with a lifted brow. "I hope you didn't damage him, Carolyn. Things could be cursed difficult if you have."
"So what if she did?" Alison retorted, filling a syringe and kneeling beside her victim. "It will make my job easier. Bloody hell. I hate complications—"
"Then let's plan this very carefully," Locke said, grimly, "Because this isn't just 'complications,' Alison. You've physically assaulted a man, and not just any man, but a peer, and not just any peer, but a genuine hero of the war. If he remembers what he came for, and what happened to him, the law is going to come into it, and I very much doubt I can get you out of it."
She turned to stare at him as she removed the needle from the vein in Reggie's arm. "You assume I haven't been in this position before."
"If you have, that was in London. In a part of London where people know better than to be curious," he said, coldly. "And you must have dealt with someone who was a nonentity. This is a tiny village, where everyone knows everyone else's business. And this is Captain Reginald Fenyx, baron. Have a care, Alison. This is dangerous."
She took a deep breath and held it to prevent herself from snapping at him. He was right. She needed his help.
The trouble was, it was going to cost her. Men like Warrick Locke could wait decades for an opportunity to get their hooks set in a target—and once they did, it was impossible to shake them off.
"So what do you suggest?" she asked, with feigned meekness.
"After dark, I pull Reggie's motor around to the old stable. You bundle him up in a blanket and bring him out; I'll put him in the passenger's side and wear his coat, goggles and cap myself. Don't try to hide him, I want people to see that there is someone with the driver, though not who. I'll take him straight to the Hoar Stones, leave him there, and drive his motor back along the route you'll be coming, where I'll abandon it in a ditch." Locke's eyes glittered as he spoke; there was no mistake, he enjoyed the part he was now playing, and he was going to get his pound of flesh out of it. "You'll bring the girl along and pick me up. We'll all go back to the Hoar Stones, drop the girl down the mineshaft either before you do your work with Reggie, or afterwards, depending on how things work out. You will work your spell on his memories while I damage his clothing to make it look like he was in an accident. Everyone around here knows how he likes to drive like a demon. That will explain the crack on the head and the amnesia afterwards."
She had to admit, it was a brilliant plan. "Do we leave him with the motor?" she asked, reluctantly. She really didn't want him out of her sight, but—
"Yes, but we'll drive to that coaching-inn we stayed at, and one of us will go rushing in there to report the accident," Locke replied. "While people are milling about, we'll slip away, and there will be no connection between us and his condition. And as for Eleanor, she figures into the plan, too. We'll leave Eleanor's old coat, and perhaps a bundle of belongings in his auto, and once he's identified, no doubt someone will co
me around to ask why he was here. We'll say we never saw him, then identify the coat and the clothing. That will give us the excuse to send a search-party back in that area to look for her, once you're sure she's gone quite mad! Everyone will assume she eloped with him, or he persuaded her to go away with him, and without a doubt, everyone will assume the worst of her."
She ground her teeth, but smiled at him. Damn the man. It was a good plan, making the best possible use of all of the disasters that fate had thrown at them. "It will work," she conceded.
"It will do more than merely work," Locke said, raising his chin arrogantly. "It's the way to guarantee that one of your girls marries the boy. Don't you see? If Lady Devlin thinks that he and Eleanor were off together, unchaperoned, perhaps on their way to a wedding at the worst, or a clandestine liaison at the best, she'll be terrified that you will demand he marry Eleanor! Bad enough to tie her precious boy to a commoner, but one who's gone mad? And if instead, he's fixated on Lauralee and you give your consent, she'll be so relieved that you aren't making a fuss about the stepdaughter that you'll have no trouble getting her to agree to the wedding herself. She thinks you're gentry—poor, but blue blood. By the time she finds out differently, it will be too late. Especially if you hasten the wedding on the grounds of scandal, the war, or both."
He was right, curse him. Well, of course he was right. He was used to thinking in terms of blackmail. She hadn't much practice in that particular "art." She had always dealt with her enemies in much more direct ways—and with those from whom she wanted favors, by means much more arcane.
"What about me?" Carolyn mewed plaintively. "If Reggie's going to marry Lauralee, what about me?"
At that moment, Alison caught a glimpse of something avid in Locke's eyes, and knew what he was going to demand as his payment for all of this. After all, she would now control the Robinson fortune outright, once she was appointed guardian to a madwoman. Carolyn would stand to inherit all that; Lauralee wouldn't need it once she was Lady Devlin. Carolyn was pretty, soon to be wealthy, none-too-clever, and just as ruthless as Locke. She was a good match for him, by his way of thinking. He would not have to hide things from her, and she would be just as eager to cover up irregularities as he was.
"Oh, you'll have your wedding, too, Carolyn," she replied, with a little nod to Locke. "Just as splendid as Lauralee's. I'll see to that."
And she would see to it that the girl found Locke acceptable, too. After all, it was a great deal easier to put a death-curse on a man whose wife would do anything her mother said.
Because the clever Warrick Locke was getting too clever. And Alison Robinson had not gotten where she was now by allowing anyone to have a hold over her.
30
August 12, 1917
Elsewhere
ELEANOR STARED AT THE SMALL army of Earth Elementals facing them, and put one hand on the back of a Salamander to steady herself. There was no way that she could battle all of them—they'd overwhelm her by sheer numbers. Was it possible that she could call for more help?
Well, what do I lose by trying! She didn't close her eyes, but she did turn her focus inward, calling up from memory the glyphs and sigils that would bring one of the Great Elementals, many of whom had been worshipped as gods. At this point, she didn't particularly care which one, either; the only thing that she did stipulate in her mind was that she really didn't want to fight, not even these things—
As she traced the last sigil in her mind, the whole diagram suddenly flared in the air between her and the Earth creatures, hanging there like a fantastical fireworks display.
And beside her, she heard a swift intake of breath.
Her companion began to grow. His nimbus of flame flared out, engulfing her—but she felt nothing but a cool breeze on her skin, and smelled nothing but the faint scent of cinnamon and clove. He sprouted wings, too, and his head became bird-like—no, hawk-like— and when he stopped growing, at roughly twelve feet tall, she recognized him. Or at least, what he represented.
Horus, the Egyptian god of the rising sun, the son of Osiris and Isis.
She stared at him. Of all creatures, the least likely—
Or perhaps not. She had been working through a Tarot pack which employed many symbols out of ancient Egypt. Horus was as likely as any other, given that influence.
The Earth creatures stared at him as well, dumbfounded, as the flaming sigils faded away. He looked down at them, then turned his head to stare at Eleanor, wings flaring.
"Do you still want to negotiate with them?" came his mild voice. "I think you're in a better position now."
The Salamanders romped about his ankles as she looked up at him. "I'd rather not hurt anyone," she said, though a bit doubtfully. "If I can help it, that is."
"That's wise, here," he conceded. "There's no point in making more enemies than you have to. They have long memories, and hold grudges forever."
He turned to the Earth creatures. "Let us pass," he said, his voice taking on trumpet-like tones. "We would rather not harm you, but we will fight to escape if we must. You do not wish to fight us."
There was uneasy stirring from the line of Earth creatures, but no one moved. Finally the Redcap spoke up, sullenly.
"All right for you to say, but what about us? What happens when the Earth Master discovers you've slipped the trap? She'll have us then, for certain-sure!"
Horus clacked his beak impatiently. "And if we break her protections first? She'll be yours, then."
There were startled looks, then the creatures began talking urgently among themselves. Eleanor couldn't even begin to recognize what they all were; a good half of them hadn't been in any of her reading yet. They all looked like things out of nightmare. Including, of course, the Night-mare.
Horus waited patiently until the murmuring stopped, but if he had expected a direct answer, he didn't get one. Instead, the assembled creatures merely faded away into the shadows and the depths of the maze, leaving the path open.
Eleanor looked up at her protector, and he down at her. "That is as direct an answer as you will ever have from the likes of them," Horus said. "The way is open, for now—until they change their minds."
That was all she needed. She ran forward, out of the maze and into—
—darkness—
She realized, after a moment of light-headed giddiness that at least part of the darkness was because there was a blanket over her head. It was stifling, and she could hardly think, because she felt so—so intoxicated—
That's—because—I am— Alison had drugged her, as she had suspected, and there was still plenty of the stuff in her veins. She jounced along, lying on her side, two sets of feet poking into her, and the roar of an automobile engine near at hand. It was hard, so hard to think—even the fear that sat cold and primal in the pit of her soul was sluggish.
And her companion was gone, now that she was in the real world again. There was no one to advise her.
She fought her way through the glue that clogged her mind. Fire. Burning. She was outside Alison's spells, and in control of her own powers now. There must be something Fire could do!
Can—can I burn this stuff—out of me?
There had been some hints of that in her mother's notes, of a kind of healing that Fire Masters could do, that literally burned out disease and poison. This drug was poison in and of itself.
What did she have to lose? Alison was taking her away somewhere, and it was just lucky she'd broken free of the spell, because otherwise she'd be feeling the compulsions right now.
And at that thought, she felt a cold certainty steal over her, and with it, the fear woke out of its sluggish sleep to seize her heart. Alison knew that. So Alison was planning on it. Why?
She had to clear this poison out of her veins so she could think clearly!
She had only one thing to try. If she waited for the drug to wear off, it might be too late. She had to burn it out before Alison expected it to wear off. Because Alison certainly had Locke with her still
, and perhaps Locke's brutish manservant, and there was no way she could escape them all.
Once again, she turned within, concentrating on another sigil, this time a simple one; just as well, because it kept slipping away from her as she felt herself floating away.
Ateh. Malkuth. Geteth. She had traced this thing a thousand times; each Name from her mother's notes attached to a particular stroke in the air with finger or wand. But now she traced it in her mind instead of the air, and muzzily tried to hold the image burning there.
It nearly escaped from her three times before she completed it, and tried to put purpose to it. Its intention was to purify. Could it purify her blood?
Only one way to find out. It seemed to flutter in her mind, like a bird, impatient to fly. It, at least, thought it had a purpose.
She set it free, and let go. If it didn't do what she wanted, there wouldn't be a second chance.
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