“The wine is over here. What’re you doing muddling with those pictures?”
“Caught my eye.”
“What do you have under your coat, mate?”
“A bottle.”
“You’re a liar. You’ve got a knife or a pistol.”
Malcolm drew back his coat to expose the heavy weapon in its holster. “Fine. It’s a large pistol. Step aside and I’ll be on my way.”
The man shook his head. There was a strange coldness in his beefy features, a certain simplicity that troubled Malcolm because this type of man often had to be killed.
Malcolm said, “This is a Lancaster pistol. It was designed in India for hunting tigers from the back of an elephant. The ball will tear a hole in you large enough to insert your own freakishly huge head. Do you understand?”
The man replied, “I understand, but I’m going to kill you.”
“Just for looking at pictures?”
The man proved fast and nimble in the cramped space. Malcolm felt an incredibly strong arm lock around his neck. The brute had him in a headlock. Very smoothly done, an excellent wrestling maneuver. Malcolm saw sparkles of light even as he tried to bow his neck and shoulders.
He preferred not to kill the brute so his fingers rubbed along the nearby shelf until they touched a smooth, narrow cylinder of glass. He pulled a wine bottle and smashed it back into the man’s head. He felt liquid and glass shards splash onto his hair. The man shook his head and tightened the vise.
Malcolm wrapped his arms around the man’s waist. He had done a bit of grappling in his day. He tried to take out the man’s ankles but it was like kicking the legs of a Clydesdale. So Malcolm braced his own feet and, with a twist, slammed the brute against the brick wall without effect. He surged up and bashed the man’s head against a heavy beam.
The brute fell slightly off balance so Malcolm began to push toward faint slivers of light he saw on one wall. They picked up speed and Malcolm turned so the other man took the brunt of the impact when they hit what proved to be a fragile door. The two tumbled into a cold alley amid splinters of wood, slamming against the brick wall on the far side.
Malcolm tried to pull away, but there was still no give in the murderous, choking grip. He heard his blood drumming in his ears. He couldn’t draw breath. His vision was dimming. He desperately gouged the jagged neck of the bottle into the man’s wide face, grinding the glass shards deep. The brute gave a shout of pain.
With tingling fingers, Malcolm fumbled for the hilt of the dagger that hung next to his rib cage. The stinking dark alley was spinning around him, but he concentrated on the feel of the bone handle in his hand and the rough slide of steel past leather as he pulled the knife. Malcolm pressed the blade into the man’s thick white shirt. He hoped the prodding would’ve convinced the brute to release him. But no.
With eyesight going red and misty, Malcolm jammed the blade between the man’s ribs. His opponent made a gurgling gasp and Malcolm was thrown aside by the neck. He first assumed the man had twisted his head off and he was experiencing the weird effect that chickens feel after they are beheaded.
Malcolm crashed against the wall and slid to the ground. The brute collapsed with him, his massive arm still draped on Malcolm’s shoulder. He could see his torso and legs from the proper perspective so his head hadn’t been torn off after all, much to his relief. The alley wafted into focus. The dagger was hilt deep in the dead man’s rib cage.
He pulled it out and struggled to his feet with his ears humming. He staggered down the alley, pushing past confused onlookers. He paused to take several deep breaths and to rotate his head to ensure his neck wasn’t broken. Then he sheathed the knife and buttoned his coat. His eyesight was clearing and his hearing was returning over the faint ringing.
He thought of nothing but those dead women on canvas and Kate upstairs with that creature Barnes.
Chapter 16
Kate stood very still, doing her best to study her surroundings and coax Barnes into useful conversation. She had succeeded in swallowing her anger at his barbs toward her father, and to her relief, he had lapsed into silence while he painted. Finally, she dropped her arm and stepped toward him. “May I see?”
“No.” Barnes ceased work and rushed to her, positioning her once again.
“You perform in front of your … students.”
“They’re not students. And I don’t perform before anyone with a great work like this. This is a private … a solemn … matter.”
Kate leaned back purposefully against him, her neck poised near his mouth. She wasn’t sure what might trigger a reaction in the man, but it was time to experiment. Barnes was all too ready to respond. His hand lifted to pull her waves of thick hair away from her ivory flesh, his fingertips trailing along her skin. She arched back against him, letting out an exaggerated shuddering sigh as he lifted her arm out in front of her. He was well built and muscular. He brought his hand back and brushed it languidly across her chest, boldly caressing a breast. Kate’s eyes flashed open and she took a hard swallow.
“Tell me your secret,” she breathed in her best wanton voice.
“Secret?”
“You have mesmerized everyone with your art and your mere presence. Even me. I have never been so wanton. You must have a secret.”
Barnes laughed deep in his throat. “The secret is to know what one desires in her heart. You desire to be free of your burdens. I can help you.”
“Can you?”
“I will remake you.” He turned her face to his. “Will you allow me?”
“Yes,” she whispered. This was what she was waiting for. For pity’s sake just hurry it along so I don’t get ill.
“I knew you were perfect. You have the fire of the new world in you. You can sense my purpose, can’t you?”
Kate grasped the pedestal for support. “Tell me what you want.”
Barnes nearly purred as he lifted her chin just as Simon did and kissed her. Where Simon evoked a blinding want in her, Barnes was foul and brought on only induced nausea. “You asked what power I have. Are you ready to know?”
“God, yes.”
“I have the power to remake the world, and I want you to be part of it.”
“How can I do that?”
“I can give you freedom. Freedom from the burdens of your family. Freedom from the shadow of your father. Freedom to become something more than you ever imagined. And it will be you who accomplishes it. Not your father’s daughter. You. Your mind, your heart, the very blood in your veins will become pieces of a god. You will become a stone to build Jerusalem. You will become a limb of a giant. Your blood is the sword that will cut down hatred and defend the innocent. You will know things no other human has ever, or will ever, know. Do you believe me?”
He continued kissing her and, even with her senses acute, she didn’t see or hear a door open. Suddenly two women stood near her.
Kate’s gaze flicked to the women. Both were young, with shapely figures, clad in the barest silk shift so all the nuances of their anatomies were on display. Their skin, however, was slightly gray and looked oddly thick. Both women had a gruesome scar that ran down the center of their chest and across the top of their left breast. It was a horrific welt, crudely stitched and poorly healed. One of the girls looked familiar.
Barnes reached out to touch the first woman’s shoulder. “Ah, my dears, you shouldn’t be here. I haven’t yet called for you, but no matter.”
The woman he touched stirred and turned her face toward the artist. Her expression was quietly expectant. She put her own hand over his. Then she slowly turned her eyes to Kate and stared without expression. Her features finally stirred Kate’s memory. She had seen that face lying still and pale on the floor of St. George’s Bloomsbury. Kate felt cold seeping through her own limbs and her gaze was drawn to the long, puckered line on their chests. She realized there was no rise and fall to their breasts.
They had no breath.
Kate tried to pull back fro
m Barnes, who was staring at her like a cat tracking a wounded bird. He gripped her tightly. Her hand tried to reach for a vial in her pocket, but Barnes yanked her arms forward.
“Don’t be frightened of them,” he said. “Madeleine and Cecilia are harmless. If I wish it.”
There was a crash of glass behind her followed by a crack of thunder. A concussive blast swept them all off their feet. Barnes’s grip was lost. Kate scrambled up and ran toward Simon, who crouched on the floor in front of a broken window.
Barnes came up onto his elbows, sweeping the broken glass off himself. He eyed Simon with surprised curiosity. He snorted with laughter as he gained his feet once more and ran his fingers through tousled red hair.
Simon’s expression showed nothing but contempt. He stepped in front of Kate. “You’ll not harm another woman, especially her.”
“I haven’t harmed anyone yet. Your perception is so small,” the artist remarked.
“You killed and mutilated those women in an unspeakable ritual,” Simon said icily. “And you’ve reanimated them as trophies. You are something even worse than I suspected. Something inhuman.”
Barnes went to a pitcher and basin on a dresser along one wall. He began to wash his hands. The two dead women rose off the floor and continued to stare at their master. “They’re not trophies. They are Jerusalem. They are Albion.”
Simon whispered and clapped his hands together. Another shock wave rolled over Barnes. The artist slammed against the heavy dresser and toppled to the floor. He glared up at Simon, for the first time showing anger and concern. Barnes reached out toward Simon and spread his fingers wide. There was a faint glow of yellowish-green aether crackling in the air around Simon. The artist grunted with effort.
Suddenly, Simon clutched his chest with a grimace. Kate grabbed him. Simon leaned on her, cursing through the sudden agony.
Barnes struggled back to his feet with his hand still outstretched, his fingers closing as if around Simon’s heart. Simon doubled over screaming.
“Archer, I don’t know who or what you are,” Barnes hissed through gritted teeth, “but I’ll find out from your corpse once I wither your heart.”
“Stop it!” Kate shouted. Her hand pulled the vial of amber from her pocket and threw it at Barnes. The dead women stepped purposefully into its arc and the vial broke against their waxy skin. The amber swelled to encase them.
Barnes exclaimed in surprise at the vision of his reanimated disciples trapped in an ocher resin.
Despite the agony that had brought Simon to the point of collapse, he staggered over to the easel where the figure of Kate was taking form, nude despite Barnes’s assurances. The oils were still wet and Simon slapped a desperate hand on the canvas. With sharp strokes, his finger traced a dark rune across her breasts. His other hand grabbed the real Kate’s forearm, drawing her close against him. With a shuddering exhale, he whispered a word in her ear and the aether responded to him, spreading over them. Kate supported him as he sank to the ground with a rush of relief from the fierce pain in his chest.
Barnes tilted his head in confusion, tightening his grip in the air without result. He smiled angrily. “An aether shield. Impressive. But you can’t sustain it for long. I can wait.”
Kate was formulating a plan in her head when there was a faint noise behind them. There was a shuddering crash and the door shook on its hinges. Barnes leapt back with alarm as a second vibrating boom smashed in the door, spraying splinters of wood. The artist scurried for another door on the far side of the room. He pulled it open and darted away just as what was left of the other door exploded in thunder.
Familiar dark boots paused at Simon and Kate. The magician muttered a word with stiff lips and the shimmering shield fell away like water.
“Are you alive?” Malcolm crouched next to them, his pistol aimed at the far door, his hand resting on Simon’s shoulder.
Simon could only nod.
When Malcolm started to give chase, Kate cautioned, “Stop! Barnes is dangerous. He’s a necromancer. We’re not ready to face him here. We must withdraw.”
Malcolm grunted in disappointment but reached down to pull Simon to his unsteady feet with Kate’s help. The Scotsman locked eyes on the two women covered in amber. He shivered in recognition. “God help us. Is that Madeleine Hawley?”
“Yes,” Kate said. “And Cecilia de Ronay.”
“And both of their portraits are in the cellar,” Malcolm said.
Simon grinned in a strange vicious way. “So he kills them, stitches them up, and reanimates them.”
“I’m going to be sick,” Kate muttered.
They went to the window and Kate was relieved when Simon was able to throw a leg over the sill. Heavy footsteps were heard in the hallway and he began to clamber back in, intent on a fight.
“Don’t you dare!” she told him.
Malcolm forced Simon out the window, holding him by the arm. “Is there a fish wagon still below?”
Before Kate could answer, Malcolm released him. Simon dropped onto a mound of shining fish and toppled to the street in a landslide of herring. Kate jumped down after him, scowling at the smell and the slime. Malcolm landed just behind and vaulted off the wagon.
Simon took Kate’s shoulder for balance with a hand smeared in paint that mimicked Kate’s skin tone.
“Come on,” insisted Malcolm. “We need to leave. Now.”
A large man filled the window above and glared at the three figures below, who were surrounded by fish. Malcolm raised the pistol and fired. The ball struck the man in the chest and smashed him back inside the room.
“Malcolm!” Simon gasped, grabbing his gun arm. “You’ve killed that man! He’s an innocent in this.”
Malcolm began to pull Simon down the street as the fishmonger screamed at them. “He’s not innocent. And I didn’t kill him.”
“How can you know that?”
“Because I already killed him in the alley earlier.”
Chapter 17
Kate gave a quick rap on Simon’s bedroom door at Gaunt Lane and entered. Simon stood in a shaft of morning sun. He reached for a shirt as he saw Kate’s form appear. His tattoos were dark shadows against his pale skin. They entwined along his muscled back and across his broad shoulders, reaching down to his strong forearms. She stopped, bemused, as he slipped into a shirt.
“Sorry,” she said without conviction and with a touch of suspicion. “Did you actually throw on a shirt out of modesty?”
“There is such a thing as decorum.” The shirttail hung below his waistband, with his braces dangling lower. He was in his stocking feet still.
“Think of me as a physician.” She smirked as he ran a hasty hand through his pleasantly disheveled sleek raven hair. “However, I could fetch a chaperone.”
“A man’s bedroom is sacred. You may see things you’d rather not.”
“How terrifying.” Kate picked up his razor from the marble-top basin. It was still warm and damp from shaving. She found the worn heft of the ivory handle comforting.
“You have been warned.” Simon wiped his face with a small towel. “I’m sorry if I leapt in too soon at the Red Orchid. I suspect you were close to securing information from Barnes, but when I saw those two women, I had to act.”
“I understand. I don’t know how much Barnes would have actually told me.” Kate set down the razor. “I assumed you were lurking in the hall. How exactly were you outside the window? Can you fly?”
Simon smiled.
Kate waited, but he said no more about it. She idly took the towel from him and folded it onto the rack next to the basin. “God help me, but I keep thinking we should just go to the Red Orchid today and level the place.”
“I do as well, but Barnes is no fool, in addition to being a powerful magician. He surrounds himself with innocents so any enemies with a moral compass, such as ourselves, must hesitate before launching an attack.”
“I know.” Kate handed Simon his hairbrush with a slight smile, enjoyi
ng the brief moment of domesticity. Watching a man prepare himself was a rare glimpse into a secret world, and she found it oddly appealing. He proceeded to brush his hair with slow, measured strokes. Then he slowly tucked his shirt into his waistband and struggled to lift the braces over his shoulders with a painful breath.
Kate came forward and adjusted the braces for him. “Perhaps I should examine you.”
“It’s nothing. Would you hand my waistcoat to me, please?”
A bit concerned by his dismissal, she lifted the garment from the bed and held it out so he could slip his arms into it. When he turned back to her, Kate peered at the upper edge of the tattoos visible above the open collar of his shirt. She ran a finger along one of the lines, feeling his skin and the light hairs. His muscles twitched beneath her touch. She looked up into piercing eyes as dark as any numinous forest.
“That is most improper, miss,” he breathed.
“Is it?” Her voice was surprisingly deep and her hand slid down along his chest.
Simon flinched, his mood changing immediately. He stepped away.
“I … I’m sorry, Simon.” Kate was surprised and embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to … I don’t know, but I didn’t mean to.”
“No, Kate. It isn’t you.”
She almost laughed as he began the oldest speech in the manual.
He took her hand in a quick reassuring gesture. “It’s merely that I have a bit of a souvenir from the Red Orchid.”
“It is more than just the fall from the window, isn’t it?”
Simon looked down into Kate’s green eyes and gave a glib wink. He was going to make light of the situation. Her heart raced with trepidation.
“Yes. I survived, but I didn’t quite escape.” He unbuttoned his shirt and drew it down from his neck. On his chest, where his heart would be, was a horrible reddish patch. The skin was inflamed, almost blistered.
“Oh Simon.” Kate started to touch it, but he backed away again. “No wonder you’re in pain. I have something to alleviate the burn.”
“It isn’t a burn.” He covered the wound. “It’s a necromancer’s curse.”
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