The Lore Series (Box Set): All 3 Books In One Volume

by Chad T. Douglas

  Mr. Fairman frowned. “Molly, dear, look at me,” he said. “What is the matter?”

  “I recently learned who killed Eli and Frederick,” Molly admitted, but she was determined not to specify how. She doubted that Mr. Fairman knew Charlotte. “After the accident, I left the colonies and had a mind to find the killers. No one would give me names, but I left anyway. It was not until I left that I realized my search would be impossible.”

  Placing both hands atop his cane, Mr. Fairman rested his weight on his good leg and listened, nodding and letting Molly speak.

  “Years passed and I barely remembered why I had left home,” she continued, shrugging. “I forgot Eli and found another. But …” Tears came to her eyes and she shook her head.

  Seeing that she would go no further, the man kindly said, “I have a job for you here if it is what you truly want. The extra help might save my leg.”

  “May I stay until I have somewhere to go?” Molly asked.

  Mr. Fairman looked at the backs of his hands atop the cane and rubbed them with his thumbs. “Of course, anything for a Bishop,” he said, trying to comfort the girl.

  For three weeks Molly stayed at the Fairman farm and tended the herds, getting some ready for sale and others for display. It had been ages since she had done the same for her uncle Samuel, but all the old skills were intact. Discovering they had not left her made Molly happy and sometimes she was able to forget the things she came to the country to escape. Other times, the daily tasks weren’t enough. Being far from London put distance between Molly and her troubles, but did not separate her thoughts from her feelings. Her first reaction to this problem was outrage and anger. He killed Eli, she reminded herself, screaming at herself mentally. Not more than a year ago you would have killed him on the spot! That’s what you set out to do, you stupid, stupid girl! Some days her brain’s struggle against her heart was too much for her emotions, caught in between, and the victim of two torturously opposed forces. She would often come out of her catatonic states when she realized she had stopped feeding the horses, whose necks strained to reach her unresponsive hands through the paddock, unable to understand why she stood there so cruelly and made them hungrier. When Arthur was about, Molly tended to talk about anything and everything, not caring whether she made any sense or interested the elder man with her drivel, just so long as the noise coming from her mouth drowned out the one beseeching her to forgive Thomas and the one beleaguering her for a fool.

  The second week Molly was greeted by a young man as she left the house and walked to the stables to feed the horses. The gentleman called to her from the road, waving an arm and removing his hat. Molly brushed her hair from her face and turned her mahogany eyes on the gentleman, offering him a polite smile as she approached the fence where it met the house.

  “Good afternoon, miss,” he said cheerfully, reaching out to take her hand and putting a smile on his clean young face.

  “And you,” she returned, taking his hand briefly.

  “My name is William,” he went on.

  “Molly,” she replied, unsure how to feel about his friendliness, but glad to see someone new and interesting. For the first time, not a single thought of Tom crossed her mind.

  The two spoke for the next half hour. William explained that he often came to see Arthur when he needed an experienced opinion, as he, too, was a breeder. Molly learned that William had plans to leave the countryside for a time and seek an education overseas with the money he had earned doing business in London. He had seen Molly on a few occasions as she tended Mr. Fairman’s herd and boldly admitted he had asked about her and found her alluring. Molly had blushed at the notion, which pleased William greatly. Not wanting to distract her from her duties, he bid her a good afternoon and promised to be back the next day.

  Molly didn’t expect him again, but he surprised her, appearing at the fence each day around noon with something new to talk about or some little gift for her—small items such as flowers or poetry. Molly eventually decided he was a genuine gentleman. He stood patiently for an hour as she fed the horses one morning, never ceasing to smile or appear energetic and entranced with Molly’s most mundane behaviors. Often he remarked on her eyes—he’d never seen the like—and her hair, he said, was beautiful to watch. Each time he reminded her, he looked away shyly. Having never been courted in such a conventional manner, Molly was easily charmed. William made her feel like a lady—the kind of sacred temple that proper women romanticized about being in the eyes of a dedicated protector. As far as this man was concerned, she was pure, elegant and belonged in a large, comfortable home, in which she would raise beautiful children and never waste her intelligence and beauty on low-class labor. Molly, ravaged by more heartache than she could bear any longer, thought the notion was a lovely one, and even kissed William on the cheek before he left that day.

  About a month after leaving London, Molly took the herd out to pasture. Having finished caring for a new foal, she met Arthur Fairman at the edge of the fencing. Waving at her, he puffed away at his pipe until she reached the gate. The way his wispy blond hair stood up in the slightest breeze made her laugh to herself.

  “Good afternoon,” she greeted him.

  “Good day, Molly. I saw your bag in the sitting room. You must have decided where you’ll be off to next, I take it?” He rested both his knobby hands atop his cane and slouched.

  “Yes, a young man has been coming to speak with me every day around noon for the past several weeks. He lives in a borough west of here. He’s a breeder, like you, and he’s invited me to leave England with him,” Molly explained with a pleasant smile.

  “Oh, you mean William,” he said, chuckling. “Lad won’t quit bothering me with questions about ‘the beautiful girl in the pasture’ and whatnot. Should be an adventure,” Fairman agreed, glad to see the girl happy. “He means to make something of himself. That much is sure. Very polite young man, too,” he commented, looking off into the pasture distractedly. Leaning on one leg he shook the ashes from his pipe, smacking it against his thigh.

  “I think he’s rather handsome,” Molly added, getting a grin out of Arthur, “and he’s made himself sturdy out here in the country.”

  “That he has,” Arthur piped, sticking out his chest, “Breeder’s got to be well-built!” He stamped his cane against the grass and gave Molly a wink. “Best of luck to you, girl.”

  “Thank you,” she replied. Molly returned to the pasture and waved goodbye to Arthur as he made his way back to the house. She’d most likely leave early the following morning before he woke. Finding a shade tree, she sat down and rested against the trunk, daydreaming of the lavish life ahead. Envisioning herself strolling along the railing of William’s ship, headed across the English Channel, she smiled and bit her lip, the excitement almost making her laugh. Lost in her visions, she idly picked flowers by her legs, eventually dozing off for the rest of the afternoon.

  Hours later, Molly awoke. The sun was low in the sky and the herd had gathered around the gate, ready to be let into the stables for the night. Molly sat upright, rubbing her eyes. She paused as she looked at the grass beneath her. Down the hill, her shadow stretched forever, darkening the warm orange and red light that bathed the pasture. The air was peaceful and quiet. Every now and again a leaf would break free from the limbs above her and gently fall to the ground. A familiar pain crept into her heart. She turned to look east, where, beyond the countryside lay London. Somewhere in London was Thomas, and he was looking west. He always watched the sun at the end of the day. When they were at sea, Molly came to sit with him on the deck of the ship at the end of each day. The rocking of the ship and Thomas’s warmth nearly always put her to sleep. When she laid her head on his shoulder, their shadows would fade together as the last light left the world each evening. Into the dark—into the unknown—they went as one, every night. In the failing light, beneath the tree in the pasture, that ocean that had swept her away to bed those weeks ago, that feverish tide that washed up
onto her skin, promising nothing and offering her everything…It stole her heart again and called out to her from London. For the past four weeks, each night was more and more difficult to bear. No longer had she the certainty that tomorrow would come. No longer did a courageous smile and azure wink sing her fearful soul to sleep, so that she might dream in a safe place.

  The next morning, when Arthur awoke, he dug through the odds and ends atop his dresser until he found his spectacles. Cursing his aging back, he took up his cane and turtled his way into the sitting room. Molly’s bag was gone. His house was empty again.

  ****

  For the first time in weeks, Thomas Crowe felt immortal. All evening he buttoned and unbuttoned his new jacket thoughtlessly with one hand while, with the other, he flipped through pages of old books he’d collected over the years. During that day he’d begun looking for an answer—a new answer—that he could grasp now that his life had taken a step backward. Unable to uncover any information about where Molly may have gone, he’d come home the previous day contemplating giving up the dream he was sure was coming to an end.

  Alone in the library, his favorite room in his London home, he spent the greater part of the evening watching the books on the shelves. Over the course of several years they had fallen into place, one by one, filling the bookcases at the end of each sailing season. Slowly they grew old there, yellowing while he was away. He owed his magical knowledge to many of them—each having contributed a bit to his skill and know-how. Reading them, he often felt as though he were having a conversation with someone who simply could not converse back. In the middle of the room there was a hole in the literary continuum. A few notebooks were missing. The emptiness prompted a morbid sense of humor in Tom. The only time he smiled was when he laughed at himself, and how the writing that wasn’t on the wall of his library was the writing that spoke to him the loudest. She’s gone, it said.

  “Sir?” Ozias called from outside the door.

  “Come in,” Tom called back. He shut the book in his hand and held it under his arm, hiding it from view.

  “Your coach has arrived, when you are ready,” Ozias reported, smiling and retreating from the room. The old man had tried his best to keep Tom’s thoughts on business matters ever since Molly left four weeks earlier. He and Charlotte strongly encouraged Tom to attend the All Hallows Eve Ball when the invitation had arrived. Though he bitterly protested, Tom eventually agreed that it would offer him an opportunity to do something social and occupy his time. Unable to remember the last time he’d done anything but sail or read, he became concerned about losing the part of himself that was human. That thought alone was enough to spur him to purchase an outfit and a mask and send a rapid response confirming his attendance.

  Leaving the library, Tom went down the hall to his bedroom and deposited the book he’d been skimming through on the dresser next to Molly’s ring, taking extra care not to look at it. He could not help but stop and turn to walk across the room, to the dressmaker’s dummy wearing the dress he had ordered to be made for Molly only a few days prior, long after she was gone. His hands felt the fabric, traced the seams and rubbed the lace between their fingers. He could see her wearing it, dancing in it. Molly was beautiful in red, black and white. If she never wore any other colors again, those would be perfect for her. He had decided this long before, in Pamplona. For a moment he held the dummy at the waist, as if it were really her, then, feeling foolish, let it be. Before leaving the bedroom he straightened all the wrinkles his hands had made in the neck and waist of the dress, giving it a stern brush of his palm along where the overskirt began.

  As he descended the main stair and his head cleared of everything but the coach waiting outside, much of his gloomier thoughts left him for the first time in weeks. What bothered him almost as much as Molly’s rejection was the feeling of his old life and old self bearing down on him. Without her around, he was again left with only personal matters to mull over and simple goals—“business”—in the unfeeling sense of the word. He disliked the notion immensely.

  “Have a wonderful evening, Mr. Walsh!” Charlotte reminded him as he stepped out of the house. Tom saw her hand fluttering a goodbye over the back of the sitting room sofa. He put on the most sincere smile he could for her and gave Ozias a nod as the driver shut him inside the cab. With a snap of the reins the coach moved forward. Tom looked out the window and west, but the sun was hidden behind the city.

  Night had fallen on London when the coach stopped in front of Stepney Hall, a building that had been unused for many years. It sat asleep in a district on the fringes of London where people simply chose not to wander.

  Tom paid the driver and threw on his overcoat, donning a wool-lined top hat—a purchase made with reluctance, but one that his hatter had insisted upon—and climbing the stoop of Stepney Hall. As he anticipated, he was greeted at the door by an usher and led through the anterior hall as part of a larger entourage of guests. Tom spotted a few London Black Coats, some associates of the Red Legion, scarce representatives of the Highland House clan and, to his relief, many werewolves from both Weybridge and Nockholt clans. The diversity of the crowd suggested that relations between the clans and cults were friendly. He recognized none of the Black Coats. He’d killed so many of their surviving members in the past year, he thought, there was likely no one left to identify him even if they saw him arrive.

  The grand ballroom doors, made of solid black wood and carved to depict a history of peace between immortals in England, were finally opened after all invitations were checked. When the doors parted, all the guests hushed. Powerful music and radiant light welcomed them inside the grand ballroom. Seeing the place again made Tom believe perhaps for one night he could forget his loss. Tilting his head back, he found it difficult to see where the ceiling disappeared. Incredible tapestries told stories that couldn’t be finished because they followed the great walls into a celestial architectural canopy. Hundreds of thousands of candles highlighted every detail in the colors of the decorations. Beyond the dancing, laughing, drinking masses an open balcony looked far beyond into a nocturnal wilderness below, Luna Mater looking down on the celebration from high in the sky.

  The world of the ballroom was difficult to believe in. It was a magesmith who had originally built it. The magician-turned-architect spent much of his life creating a hidden sanctuary in the hope that no matter what, it would last forever. No one was certain whether the great wilderness beyond the balcony were real. The possibility that the architect had engineered it out of pure magic was a popular legend—one Tom had never heard challenged. If there were a spring from whence art had been born, Tom thought, the world inside Stepney Hall was that spring. It was such a masterful feat that its guests, no matter how extravagantly dressed, were difficult to distinguish from the murals, friezes and monuments occupying the ballroom at every twist and turn. Just as one entered Stepney Hall and became comfortable, he would discover he had merely familiarized himself with one of many inlets that comprised a vast sea of grandeur. One of the Red Legion, the patriarch Evander, who held the title from 1587 until 1718, famously said of Stepney, “I feel closer to Olympus than my ancestors ever could.” Gesturing at the great curtains hanging from the ceiling, he then joked, “In fact, I am looking up Aphrodite’s skirt!”

  As he followed the other guests inside, Tom straightened his mask. Growing tired of his hat, he took it off and hung it on a sculpture of Apollo just inside the grand doors, making the god decent. Finding paths through the crowd was a slow and arduous feat. Midway across the hall, a hand touched his shoulder.

  “Thomas!” a familiar voice called. It was teeming with thick sensuality. Tom turned and saw who he had expected. Her mask was ivy green with black trim, and her verdant corset and obsidian dress matched it detail for detail. It was the red lips and fiery hair that gave her away, though.

  “Good evening, Corvessa,” said Tom, watching her smile excitedly as she looked him over.

  “It’s been two ye
ars since you last came to the ball. Did the invitations not reach you?” she asked, stepping in front of him and dragging her fingertips down his arm. Something about being near her both intrigued Tom and put him on edge.

  “No, I regret I’ve just been away from England,” he answered vaguely, allowing her to lead him by arm into the next waltz.

  “Thomas what do you do when you’re away?” she asked him, squinting her eyes and flashing a lascivious smile, “And don’t say you’ve been conducting business. That’s what the little fat bald men who visit the House of Roses say. You’re scarred and tanned and spry, Thomas Crowe. You’re filthy with dramatic tales to tell.” She placed one hand on his right cheek and turned his face to the left. “No new damage here, though, that’s good. You’re far too handsome to be abusing this face,” she said softly, touching his neck.

  “Speaking of change, does Stepney look any different to you?” Looking around, he dodged her advances.

  “Thomas, don’t pretend to be boring,” she whispered in his ear, pressing up against him closely.

  There was little light coming from the windows of Thomas’s home. After knocking on the front door numerous times and receiving no answer to her calls, Molly placed her hand on the door as she had seen Thomas do many times when he hadn’t a key, and touched the places he’d marked. “Mihi nomen est Crowe,” she whispered. Little streaks of light scattered across the door and a lock clicked. Molly pushed the door open and let herself in.

  No one was home, or if they were, they were asleep. Molly looked around the house for Thomas, trying all the places he would normally be asleep at that time of night, but she had no luck. Going to his bedroom, she discovered a letter of invitation on his dresser. It was for the All Hallows Eve Ball. He must have gone, she thought to herself, somewhat saddened. Laying the letter down, she walked down the second floor hallway toward the stair and turned right.