by A. W. Exley
He ground his jaw. “I’m willing to take that risk.”
“One day. Give it one day to see if the sun rises with greater warmth. He will still be vulnerable tomorrow night.” She wanted the man dead too, but they needed London free of the rahab’s grip and spring restored. Doubt ate at her, what if they missed something? Malachi didn’t know if the unnatural cold was one artifact or two.
Nate huffed and let go of the handle. “One day. Then he’s mine.” He rapped on the roof, and the mechanical horses took them home.
y morning, people crowded the footpaths, coffee houses, and pubs as everyone spoke of what they saw the night before. Rather than a mass exodus, hope spread like a fast flowing river through the town. Speculation ran rampant that an unknown saviour had freed London from the forces of hell. Adding fuel to the rumours, the morning newspaper authoritatively stated that the manifestation that rose over the Thames had been vanquished by some unseen adversary. The first signs of confirmation emerged at midday; icicles hanging from gutters and naked tree boughs began to drip.
“It’s melting,” Cara said as she wandered the slumbering garden.
Nate shook a branch and showered Kirill in damp snow. “The air seems warmer, too.”
By late afternoon, the single drips turned into trickles. Laughter and chatter returned to the streets as people worked to clear the melting snow and no more fell.
The hours in the day multiplied and stretched, as they waited till dusk. Rachel and Amy completed their assigned task, so they took the youngster to school, where she regaled her friends with tales of her new pet dragon, which they all assumed was an automaton.
The air in the mansion buzzed with the sort of excitement normally reserved for Christmas, not heading out to fry a man who hoped to shed his old skin like a snake and emerge anew, young and powerful. While Nate kept his poker face in place, Cara spotted the number of times his hand strayed to his favourite blade at this back.
As dusk fell, they walked the Central Avenue of Kensal Green Cemetery and headed to the corner reserved for Dissenters. Kirill kept scampering off the path, and Cara hoped he wasn’t too similar to a dog and wouldn’t start digging and return with a thigh bone clutched in his jaws. They pushed through the high iron gates and searched for one tomb in particular. Brick spotted it first, a stout structure reminiscent of the Southwark house. Roughly an eight-foot square, it had ornamental Grecian columns in the corners and a stone set of scales on the roof.
Cara peered at the mossy plaque. “Andrew Taylor,” she read. “Wonder who he was?”
“An alchemist of exceptional ability.” A statue morphed into a man, and the Curator stepped from the stone. Kirill growled a low warning and parked himself at Cara’s feet. “Some say he discovered the formula to turn base metals into gold.” He stopped several feet from Nate and leaned on the staff.
“Did he?” Cara asked, ever curious.
A twitch of a smile. “If he did, I expect his tomb would be rather more ostentatious.” Several of his men fanned out behind him, and Nate’s contingent echoed their movements. A loose circle sprung up around them, made of mistrustful bodyguards.
“Let’s get this over and done with, shall we?” Nate pushed off from an avenging angel. “The staff?”
The Curator’s fingers tightened on the relic in his grasp. “Once my transformation begins, then you can have it. You have the feather?”
Cara licked her lips. “Yes.” She reached inside her coat and pulled out the golden feather. The end curled around and over itself. Light played along the vanes and fire danced despite the dull light from the shy moon.
With one hand, he reached out and then paused. “How do I know it’s real and not some cheap trick?”
“How many birds have golden feathers that mimic the play of fire on the dragon’s hide?” She pointed to Kirill with his molten lava tipped scales. “And surely after so many years, you must sense artifacts like I do. What does your gut tell you?” She held the phoenix feather close to her chest, over her heart.
His hand hovered closer, but didn’t touch the feather. He cocked his head to one side and his tongue moistened his lips as though he tasted the air around the object. A small nod. “It is genuine. Where did you find it?”
She stiffened her spine before she spoke. “Clasped in my dead mother’s hands.”
One grey eyebrow arched. “And yet, you chose to give it to me, not resurrect her? I am flattered.”
“Isabella is long dead, bringing her back won’t stop London from becoming the primordial abyss. By trading for the staff, I can save many from freezing in the city.” She drew a deep breath. One feather and she handed it to this man when her whole heart ached at the lost opportunity to see her mother. “I cannot put my needs above all of London.”
“So noble.” Csenger sneered. “I could cure you of that.”
Nate touched Cara’s arm and drew her back to his side. “Is the rahab still confined to the staff? How do we know last night’s performance hasn’t been undone?”
A low chuckle. “We are all so untrusting of each other. See for yourself.” The Curator held out the staff.
Cara edged closer, her gaze drawn by the sinuous beast wrapped around the artifact. As she watched, it moved and seemed to tighten its hold. The head turned, and the mouth opened exposing vicious fangs. The creature of chaos and despair confined to the delicate piece of wood. A cold sweat broke out over her skin from being so close to the object. Her dinner nearly fought its way back up as her body tried to occupy the same space as another powerful artifact.
Her heartbeat escalated, and Nate reached out to draw her back. She raised her gaze to the Curator’s face, the young man clearer now, and eager to escape its ancient prison. She sucked in a breath. Would their plan work, or had he absorbed too much power from the rahab?
“Let’s get this done; I will instruct Kirill when you are ready.” Cara handed him the feather and he snatched it from her fingers.
He stroked a nail along the edge, and red pulsed and flowed over the orange. He shrugged the coat from his shoulders, and a grey man took it before the fabric touched the cold earth.
“Here, I think.” He stood on a grave marked by a seven-foot angel. Arms and wings outstretched, it appeared to shelter him within its embrace. He clutched the phoenix feather in one hand, holding it over his breast. The other held the staff at arm’s length, ready to drop it before it too succumbed to the phoenix’s restorative fire.
His gaze fixed on Cara. “When I am young once more, I will take you to Europe. There is much I would show you and many secrets to reveal.”
A growl rumbled from behind her. Two actually, from man and dragon. Neither liked the idea of her taking the Grand Tour with a young and powerful Csenger.
Cara moved to stand directly in front of the Curator, and Kirill stuck to her. “Ready?”
“Yes.” The old noble took a deep breath and held it within his lungs.
“Fire, Kirill,” Cara told the dragon. “Burn him.”
The dragon rose up on his hind legs, spread his wings and drew in the chill London air. He seemed to swallow, then his sides contracted and he shot flame out his open jaws. A flow of molten heat spewed over the Curator’s body and limbs.
As the heat wave washed over him, he cried in rapture and dropped the staff. Nate swooped in and picked it up while Cara held her breath. The flame solidified and turned into lava, coating his outstretched limbs. His skin melted like wax and dripped from his face. One tiny piece at a time, the old skin sloughed off to reveal his young form.
Cara swallowed. We got it wrong, he’s transforming anyway.
Then the lava flowed over his shoulders and down his chest, and the ornate feather ignited. It crumpled upon itself, curled up into a tight ball and with a puff, turned to ash in his hand. The Curator’s eyes flung open, his lips drew back over his teeth as an agonising cry rent the night. His knees buckled, but before he could drop to the ground, a spear pierced his chest and exited t
hrough a gap in the arms of the stone angel behind, holding him upright. It appeared as though the angel cradled him in her arms and held him to her.
From the dark came shouts and the sounds of a scuffle. Cara cast around and shot a look to Nate. He just grinned as his plan unfolded. Long minutes ticked by, then mainly silence, punctuated by the screams and moans wrenched from the Curator’s destroyed throat.
Men emerged from the shadows, a few of them carrying something.
“You were right,” Liam said. He nodded to Cara. More of the Rookery men with their distinctive pins stepped from behind graves. “He had a number of men hidden around the perimeter trying to get these through.”
He gestured to two of his men, they carried a large object between them, wrapped in brown paper. Another man held a small box that made Cara’s skin crawl.
Cara tried to ignore the screams escaping from the avenging angel’s arms. “What is it?”
Nate pulled out his blade, slit the paper and then ripped it away to reveal Imrus, Csenger’s brother. The portrait, no doubt stolen from the countess’ now empty house.
She sucked in a breath. Why would he want Imrus’ portrait here unless he intended to somehow share his rebirth with his brother? She cast a look at the ornately carved box, ruins carved into the obsidian that reminded her of the Curator’s robe. The man holding it advanced another step, and her body rebelled.
“No,” she managed to cry, and then dove behind a headstone and retched up her dinner.
Nate patted her back until she regained control and handed her a handkerchief to wipe her mouth. “I don’t think we’ll open the box, not here, not when it makes you react like that.”
A shiver travelled over her limbs when she looked at the enticing little chest. What on Earth did it contain? “No, there’s something in there as powerful as the rahab.”
Nate glanced at the inferno sending sweet smoke into the heavens. “Whatever it holds, he planned to use it and the portrait to implement his plan. Let’s ruin it for him.” He picked up the picture and propped it against the base of the angel, next to the Curator. “Burn it, Kirill.”
He walked back to Cara and Liam, as Kirill ignited the oil paint on Imrus and created new rivers of lava as the picture burned.
Cara turned her head, unable to watch. Kirill covered the splayed figure of Csenger in flame, then sat back down. After a loud burp, a puff of smoke curled from his snout.
The scream continued, unending, as the Curator burned in slow motion. At high volume, it lasted for two hours, then turned to whimpers for mercy. Cara screwed up her nose as the pungent smell of burnt paint melded with a sickly sweet stench of incinerated meat. Her stomach revolted again, and she dodged behind the same headstone.
Nate wiped the hair from her damp forehead once she finished turning her gut inside out.
“Why is it taking so long?” Cara whispered.
He shrugged. “Residual power from the rahab, I suspect, trying to keep him alive.”
“I can’t stay.” It was more than the waves of nausea hitting her and the cries for the torture to end, it was the look in Nate’s eyes as his revenge played out before him. “I have something else I need to do.”
He kissed her cheek. “I’m staying until it’s over. Don’t wait up, I’m hoping it takes all night.”
A shiver slid down her spine, and then she turned her back on the man who shaped her life. She left him guarded by his Rookery army as she walked deeper into the dark, the crunch of Brick’s boots behind her to remind her she was never alone.
The following dawn looked far too much like fire. Although nature was at its most splendid, Cara really had enough of fiery reds, burnt oranges, and incandescent yellow. She sat on a thick blanket on the back patio of the Mayfair mansion. Her stomach cavorted at the mere thought of food, and between her hands, she clutched chamomile tea in a mug. Kirill lounged at her feet with a whole hogget, and she suspected he’d want another before the day was out.
The French door behind her opened, and boots clicked over the tiles. Nate sat down next to her with a waft of fresh soap, and she was relieved he bathed and changed before seeking her out. Her stomach wouldn’t cope with a reminder of the stench of fried Curator.
“It’s finished,” he said.
She stared into her tea and took a small sip. “And life will return to normal for London.”
“How did you know a fake feather would work?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t, but we had to try. I thought Amy and Rachel did an amazing job copying the original. They used the same metallic paints used to illuminate old books. It didn’t just look golden, it was real gold, took them hours to paint each vane a slightly different hue.”
“And you kept the real phoenix feather close enough he could feel its pull.” He shook his head. “Do you know you are a genius, woman?”
Kirill finished his breakfast and began an elaborate washing routine with his long blue tongue.
“We will need to figure out what is in that little chest.” Although it wasn’t a task she wanted to tackle right away. The wash of cold emanating from it told her two things: old and powerful.
“I examined it last night. It’s sealed somehow, not locked. It reminds me of a puzzle box that needs to be touched in the right way to release the mechanism. I suggest we seal it under the house until we sort it out.” He reached out and slung an arm over her shoulders. “Did I tell you Helene has moved into your Soho house?”
“I think you vaguely mentioned it.” She smiled and wondered if the cantankerous old house would electrocute the countess.
“She has a lot to say about its history. Including the fact it never hated you, it wanted to let you know you weren’t alone.”
She turned to stare at her husband. Surely, he was joking?
He rose and held out a hand to her. “Come inside where’s it warm, and I’ll tell you the whole tale.”
nspector Fraser pulled the chain across the latch on his front door and sighed. While Viscount Lyons didn’t pursue the unfortunate incident in Hyde Park, he made sure those in power knew about it. Fraser was suspended from duty until further notice. Or, as the superintendent so succinctly put it, until he hauled his head out of his arse. He sunk into the armchair and pulled the purple vial from his pocket. He tipped it back and forth, watching the contents slide from side to side. This particular mix was so potent and heavy, it took seconds to reform each time he tipped the glass.
Humiliated and stood down from his position, he had nothing left. He failed Faith and now was the time to offer his apologies in person, or spirit. He uncorked the bottle and tipped the entire thing into a tumbler waiting on the side table. The two liquids bloomed and danced around each other. He swirled the glass, letting them fully mingle. The amber took on a deeper hue of midnight.
So easy. He didn’t need the alcohol to dilute the opium, but it assuaged his guilt at taking his own life just a tiny bit. It left him that legal wriggle room to argue with Saint Peter. The bone-weary part of his brain whispered, yes, it is time. Once the contents of the glass spread out from his stomach, he would simply close his eyes and sleep. Vibrant dreams would claim him, and he would never wake. Outside of Connor, who would even miss him?
His loyal sergeant would grieve and perhaps curse and blame himself. Then he would return home to his loving wife and newborn child. It would only take weeks for Fraser to fade to a crumpled memory.
He lifted the tumbler to his lips when the scent of lilacs and jasmine washed over him, and a hand closed over his.
“I don’t think so,” said a feminine voice.
“It’s time, Faith.” A smile played on his lips. She had come early to accompany him on his journey. This close to his own death, she seemed more corporal. Her touch lit up his body in ways he long missed.
For a phantom, she moved fast. One moment her fingers caressed his, the next she drew back and hit him. Hard.
“Ow!” He dropped the glass onto the table and held a hand ove
r the side of his head. Never in his dreams had ghost Faith slapped him in the face. And this was no tap of a noble girl. This was the full-on punch of a woman used to protecting herself. “What the hell was that for?”
“That, Hamish Algernon Fraser, was for being a damn fool idiot.” She picked up the glass and threw it into the fire. The tumbler shattered, and purple flames flared and licked up the back of the chimney.
He pushed himself up in the chair. This opium-haze-Faith wasn’t obeying their usual dream rules. “What?”
Faith stood before him, hands on her full hips and her lush lips pulled into a serious line. “No more of that rubbish, for starters.” She wagged a finger at him like he were a naughty schoolboy.
“Faith?” he whispered and stared from woman to fire and back again. He had gone mad. Connor always said it was only a matter of time. “You’re dead.” She normally only came to him in dreams, where her presence only lasted as long as he chased the dragon. Her form was ethereal, and his hands—unable to grasp her.
“Was dead.” She perched on the edge of his armchair and touched a hand to his face, a cool caress over his burning skin. “I woke this evening in the cemetery, and a woman called Cara said you were a right mess and you needed me. Looks like I got here just in time. She was the one who recommended a smack on the side of the head to kick-start your brain.”
He blinked; words failed him. His opium-addled brain struggled to make connections that the younger him would reach with ease.
“Lady Lyons did this?” He swallowed. “How? Why?”
The serious line turned into a lush, promising smile. “She said you had lost your way, and I was to guide you from the forest. Which I intend to do. We’re getting away from here until you no longer need that horrid stuff.” She waved at the fire, where the last of the purple flames guttered and settled down to the everyday yellow and orange hues. “She also said you owed her a favour.”
A favour? No, he didn’t know how Lady Lyons had achieved this miracle, but he owed her a debt of gratitude he could never repay. He pulled Faith into his lap and kissed her.