When Tom finished, Molly opened her eyes and looked upon the artwork sitting on the lake. She smiled and followed Tom beneath the elegant atrium of ice just as the band of instruments in Stepney began to warm up for the second half of the night. Their tunes poured from the great hall in the distance and filled the wilderness as Tom and Molly shared a dance.
“Whoever built Stepney and this wild place left a great amount of magic here,” Tom said, looking all around as he took Molly’s waist. “You can do things here that would take dizzying amounts of gems and energy elsewhere.”
“That must be what I felt coming from the woods and from the air … from everything.” Molly’s eyes passed over the fine details of the frozen dome, her magesmith eyes lighting up with excitement.
“If the legends are correct, there is a genamite stone here,” said Tom, pointing into the distance. “There are not many of them. Only a handful of them have ever been written about. They are the most magically rich materials in this world.”
“You’re saying that one of them created this place?” Molly asked, eyes widening. Stepney began to sing another song for them. She took the lead from Thomas.
“Yes, and if you think that is incredible, each of the stones is said to be a fragment of one mother stone,” he added, spreading his arms to emphasize. Molly watched him with an innocence and intrigue Tom hadn’t seen in a very long time.
“Where is the original stone?” she wondered aloud.
“In a place no one has ever found,” he answered cryptically. “Not a soul has the fuzziest idea. Most people don’t believe in it, but there are a few magesmiths who hold onto the belief with every ounce of faith. They will argue that there is no other explanation for things like … well, Stepney Hall, for one. Where does one get this much magic?” Again he spread his arms and bounced them as if he held the world in them. Applause came from Stepney, and Tom turned his head to listen. “Come, it’s nearly time for the unmasking!”
On the balcony outside Stepney Hall once more, Tom and Molly saw all the guests congregated on the dance floor, all facing the orchestra where a vampire was counting down the moments until the unmasking.
“Nothing makes me happier than to address you all this night,” he was saying. His years showed through his gold mask, yet he wore them well, projecting his deep, scratchy voice and flashing jovial smiles at his audience. His face was square, with hollow cheeks, a dignified nose and hidden eyes. His outfit was foreign; a tailored uniform of Florentine design, decorated by a prominent insignia on the breast of the jacket—the Bowl of Hygeia, overflowing with ivy, stitched in a gold thread that matched his mask. “I am honored to share this privilege with Donna Hecate and the London Legion. La Legione Rossa has not met with our northern friends in nearly a century, which is why I remind all of you how crucial it is that we maintain these relationships, especially during the coming century.”
“Who is he?” Molly asked Thomas, leaning toward him and speaking quietly. She clung to his arm as they entered the ballroom and stood at the back of the crowd.
“That is Don Violanti Pagani,” Tom said quietly, pointing to the man in the red uniform, “current patriarch, or, lord, in this case, of La Legione Rossa, in Florence. The vampire behind him is Dea Capello, also known as Lady Hecate, matriarch of the Red Legion of London.”
“You’ve never mentioned any cults in London other than the Black Coat Society,” Molly reminded him. “There are others?” She watched Lady Hecate smiling and nodding as Don Violanti spoke. She was very delicate and not half Violanti’s age, thick brown hair falling over her ruby dress and accentuating her long face. She had light brown eyes that Molly could see through her modest mask. Lady Hecate’s gaze swept the crowd and lingered on Molly. With feigned nonchalance, Molly pretended to be looking elsewhere.
“And without any further ado,” Don Violanti proclaimed, “the unmasking!” Both arms held aloft, he initiated a round of applause as the orchestra burst into a celebratory tune and the guests stripped off their masks, some proposing toasts, others sharing a last dance, and still others bidding their friends, old and new, farewell. Tom and Molly joined them, sinking into the crowd and becoming anonymous. Through the crowd, Molly could see the vampire she met earlier, the one with the clover mark beneath his eye and the chocolate hair.
“Who is that?” she asked Tom casually, pointing to the vampire.
“His name is Leon. He’s one of the Beaumontes. They operate the Black Coats in Paris. At least, they did. I’m not familiar with their current patriarch. See the emblem on his overcoat? It’s like the one on the medallion you found in Barbados,” said Tom.
“You mean this?” she asked, pulling it out from her dress.
“So that’s how you got in!” Tom laughed. His blue eyes lit up.
“I learned from the best,” she remarked coolly, kissing his cheek. Together they danced through the end of the last of the orchestra’s performances, intending to leave before they had too much more to drink. Molly berated Tom for his enthusiastic consumption, but let it be after some scolding, not wanting to break down what they had spent much of the night rebuilding. Tom readily compromised and didn’t argue with her; instead he invested his attention in her glowing unmasked face and frequently reminded her how much he preferred it that way. Molly would roll her eyes and hold him closer each time he did.
The orchestra finished, and the guests began to depart. All the while Luna Mater quietly looked in through the balcony doorway. Tom spoke with a few werewolves who all seemed to have known his father at one time or another. Molly noticed that mention of his father produced a bittersweet reaction on Tom’s face. One vampire from the Ivy Hollow cult struck up a conversation with Molly, having noticed her magic rings, and asked her what magical society she was affiliated with. The only one Molly knew of was El Ocultado, a society Tom had once mentioned her father being in, so that was her answer.
“Oh!” the vampire exclaimed. “It’s a pleasure to meet one of you.”
“Much the same,” returned Molly with a nervous smile, hoping there would be no further questions. Luckily, the vampire was distracted by someone and excused herself. Molly took a breath of relief. That is, until Leon Beaumonte approached her. Her mind raced, not wanting Tom to know she had been with him earlier that evening. Leon hadn’t made eye contact with her yet, so she stayed close to Tom and tried to appear interested in what he and another werewolf were discussing.
“And no one thinks it is Parliament?” Tom was asking the werewolf.
“No, no, it couldn’t be. They wear an unfamiliar white uniform,” the werewolf replied.
Molly glanced over her shoulder and, much to her dismay, Leon hadn’t gone away. Before she could turn away, he nodded to her and she was forced to acknowledge him, smiling politely and waiting silently for him to say something to her. Keep talking, Thomas, she thought, but just as the wish crossed her mind, Thomas was waving at the departing werewolf. He turned to Molly and noticed Leon instead, the cheer fading slowly from his face. Cheeks burning, Molly felt her insides sink.
“Good evening,” Leon said, addressing both of them, but particularly Molly.
“Evening, Leon,” said Tom, grinning, to Molly’s surprise.
“I … oh, Thomas! I’m sorry, I did not realize—” Leon began apologetically, bowing his head without losing his statuesque posture.
“No worries, it’s been awhile. I understand.” Tom waved off the explanation and shook Leon’s hand. Molly shut her mouth quickly after realizing it had begun to drop. She hadn’t the faintest idea how the two knew one another. Tom must have noticed her attempt to hide her shock and covered for her, explaining that his father, John, often passed through Paris in his earlier traveling years and dealt with magesmiths who sold directly to the Black Coat Society of Paris. As much younger men, Leon and Thomas had met a handful of times.
“Leon, this is Lucia Vasquez, Gabriel’s daughter,” Tom explained to Leon, who showed great interest in the fact and smi
led at Molly with his dark brown eyes. She noticed the clover mark drew up near his left eye when he smiled. Sensing an odd magnetism again, she inconspicuously averted her gaze from him.
“She is awe-inspiring, Thomas—her father’s finest work,” Leon said soothingly, hands folded astutely behind his back.
“Of that, there is no question,” agreed Tom, sharing a laugh with Leon as Molly looked down, trying to rid herself of her prior discomfort.
“I’m glad you both could attend the ball tonight. Do take care,” Leon said as he excused himself and began to walk away. As Molly and Tom headed toward the grand doors at the other end of the ballroom, Leon turned and took one last pleasant look at Molly.
Tom was in the middle of telling Molly the story behind one of the paintings in the hall. Just as he reached the black doors, holding them open for Molly, a voice crept into his head.
See you soon, it cooed.
Looking to his left, Tom saw Corvessa lounging in a large cushiony chair near an oil painting depicting the goddess Aphrodite, holding a golden apple and whispering into young Paris’s ear. Corvessa flashed her green dragon eyes at Tom. Putting a glass of Burgundy wine to her lips, she folded one leg over the other and bade him goodbye with a casual flutter of her fingers.
****
A few minutes after Tom and Molly returned home, the clock in the sitting room told them it was one o’ clock in the morning. Neither of them was awake enough to talk, so they mutually agreed to wait until morning. Molly wanted her tea before bed, despite the time of day, but Thomas disappeared to his bedroom complaining of dizziness. Molly attributed it to all the drinks he’s had at the ball, but they were not his bane.
As Tom bade Molly goodnight in the upstairs hall, a pulse rocked the back of his eyes. He struggled to walk into his room without his feet deviating from the path he chose for them. They managed to walk him around the room twice before he seized a bedpost and forced himself to lie down.
Cold air reached for Tom from the windows, driving him to wrap himself in blankets and roll over on his side. The quiet house creaked and complained as the chill from outside squeezed it tight. The wood in the floors popped every now and again. The ticking of the downstairs clock chipped away at the minutes and helped Tom to focus his thoughts. As he calmed down, he imagined Molly in her dress, and how beautiful she had looked at the ball. He had been so afraid of losing her. Wondering if she had made her tea yet, Tom hoped she was still awake, and would not mind sharing her bed with him if he came to her room.
Whispers came to him from somewhere in the dark. Like raiders they set his mind aflame in confusion and scrambled his thoughts. Tom shut his eyes hard and pinched his head between his hands. As soon as he closed his eyes, he saw a face on the backs of his eyelids. Yelling out in surprise, he opened them and sat upright, cold sweat condensing on his forehead. It was a face he’d never seen before. Slowly recalling what it had looked like, Tom couldn’t even be sure he could call it a face. It had white rings for pupils and a long, ovular mouth—agape and occupied by only a handful of what he could only guess had been teeth. A long moan filled the air, spurring Tom to jump from his bed and to his feet. The sound was disturbing, sorrowful and deep, and yet soulless in pitch. Had anyone heard it? Thomas crept to his bedroom door and cracked it open.
The house was silent and dark. The clock in the sitting room downstairs rang out three o’clock. It was just one o’ clock, not minutes ago, thought Tom. How long had he been in his room? Was the clock wrong? When he left his room to check, he couldn’t remember the way downstairs. Disorientation bleached his senses and steered him into the library. Whispers crawled up his back and into his ears. Sensing the presence of something in the hall behind him, he spun and slammed the door shut, backing away from it carefully. Wide-eyed, he watched a shadow pass by the crack underneath the door. A pulse knocked at the backs of his eyes and an invasive sensation filled his body, as if someone were wearing him like a costume; something was trying him on, one arm at a time, like a shirt. Backing onto the fireplace sofa, Tom turned and shoved the piece of furniture away, mistaking it for a person. A loud rattle stole his attention. One of the windows was rattling as if it were being slapped by hands. Walking over to it hesitantly, Tom saw only his own reflection. As he turned away, he failed to notice that his reflection didn’t mimic him. Instead, it kept staring at him as though it knew he was there. Tom felt his skin scrawl and stopped. The reflection’s pupils became white rings. Its mouth opened wide and stretched as another bellowing moan drove away the color in Tom’s face. A great impact struck Tom in the chest like a charge from a bull and sent him to the ground, filling his vision with spots and spinning the ceiling round and round. All became dark and quiet.
Three chimes of the clock downstairs pulled Molly from a particularly pleasant dream. About to fall back to sleep, she opened her eyes again to the sound of a pronounced thud coming from the library across the hall. Her first thought was that someone had broken into the house, but it was immediately dashed away by the reasoning that any burglar in Thomas Crowe’s house was a dead one.
Stepping out of bed, Molly slipped into a nightgown and put on her ruby ring. “Candelae,” she said softly, producing a small flame from the ring and holding it out like a lamp. The house was terribly cold, she thought. The pan of coals she had put beneath her mattress was dead and held not an ounce of warmth. Even the flame from her ring seemed to strain. Taking a blanket from her dresser and wrapping it around herself, Molly walked out into the hall. She couldn’t help but feel someone was with her. How childish, being afraid of the dark, she thought to herself as she shrugged off the notion and crossed the hall to open the door to the library.
“Oh!” she proclaimed as a wintry chill flowed from the room. “Thomas?” she called quietly, holding out her ring. He was facing a far window, his back to her. Relieved to find it was only Thomas making noise, Molly wrapped her blanket tighter around her arms and crossed the room. “Thomas, what are you doing making such a commotion in …”
Her words left her, and she stopped dead in her footsteps as she saw not only that Thomas did not respond, but also his feet were not touching the ground. His body was suspended in midair as if he were hanging by an invisible noose. A phantom whisper came from just over her right shoulder. A ghostly face flashed in her mind’s eye and made her scream. A rushing chill filled her, and her ring snuffed out. Instantly overcome with panic, she ran from the library and down the hall, descending the stairs and hoping that Ozias or Charlotte were home. Unable to find either of them in their bedrooms, she conjectured that Ozias might be in the kitchen. Flying from Charlotte’s room, she crossed the sitting room and threw open the kitchen door, running blindly into something large, causing her to stumble backward.
It was Thomas.
His body floated through the kitchen doorway, unmoving and quiet, eyes shut, as if he were fast asleep, but Molly felt as though something inside him were watching her.
How had he beaten her to the kitchen?
Seconds ago he was in the library…
Molly’s nerves lit up like Chinese firecrackers. Her breath left her as Tom’s eyelids snapped open and two white-ringed pupils stared blankly ahead. She could hear breathing, but it was neither hers nor Thomas’s. A terrible squealing came from all the windows of the house at once. Molly could see what looked like large, spindly hands clawing at them from outside, leaving inky trails in their wake. A great moan filled the house, as if the foundation itself were lamenting. Tom’s mouth hung open, and his eyes shifted to look into Molly’s. His face kept changing shape. Strange phenomena convoluted his features, stretching and crunching them continually the way a moving warped mirror or a disfigured glass bottle does.
Spectral shadows peeked at Molly from around corners and from behind doorways. The darkness was frantic with movement, but Molly heard no sounds coming from the shadows. Fleeing upstairs to her bedroom, she locked the door and retreated to her bed. The sound of the front door
breaking from its hinges could be heard downstairs. Moments later, a new flame burst from her ring, and the house became warm again.
Thomas blinked, took a breath and looked around. Nothing was distinct. Brick walls crowded him on both sides. No light dared come into the alley as far as he had come. Early morning fog rolled past his feet. Somewhere in the dark he felt things moving, but they made no sounds. Then he smelled blood and found it was on his hands. It didn’t belong to him. That was when confusion attacked him, sparking his empty memories and twisting up his sense of time. No recollection of the ball or his episode hours before came easily to him. The only image his mind showed him was of a dream he had while his body was away. He had seen white flowers, like the ones he saw in the dreams about Harlan, except, they were clearer. Tom had noticed they were speckled with clusters of spots; little red spots, and they were growing all over a shelf in his library. The library, he thought. I was in the library because that’s what I saw when I got out of bed. What happened after? He could not remember why he was outside. Then he saw the blood again, but this time it struck him harder. Forgetting his visions, his first instinct was to crouch down and rinse his hands in a puddle on the street. No one was around and that was good, but what had he been doing? Had he killed someone? Had he been attacked? He began to hyperventilate as he splashed in the puddle.
Tom forced his nerves to settle. His history was full of blood, and he would not allow this incident to haunt him. As much as he tried, that logic did not soothe his conscience. This blood wasn’t the kind he was used to. This blood didn’t do anything to provoke or threaten him. It was stolen from someone who was taking an early morning walk, or going to the docks to start their day’s work or doing anything but worrying about being pounced on by a lurking shadow. Tom shook his head and gave himself a couple of hearty slaps to the cheek, beating the fear out of his misbehaving brain. He had control. He would go home, go to bed, and in the morning, before eating a single crumb of breakfast he would find a way to quietly resolve whatever devilish thing Oi’alli had done to him. Molly wouldn’t have to be involved or even know about it.
The Lore Series (Box Set): All 3 Books In One Volume Page 37