The Bartered Brides (Elemental Masters)
Page 10
There was more, much more, in this same vein. It barely registered on Spencer. He’d heard it all before, many times. He didn’t care one way or another. All that he cared about was that Hughs was appropriately despondent, easily manipulated, and in good health.
His health would suffer slightly from the opium Spencer was going to supply him, but that was nothing that couldn’t be taken care of later.
When Hughs finally wandered out of the usual diatribes of life and its heavy burden, his tone darkened, to a point that greatly surprised Spencer. “I’m tired of it all,” he said, heavily, and with none of the elaborate language he had used before this. “No, I really, really am. I don’t know why I was even born. My mother practically threw me at a wet nurse and then to a nanny so she could resume her social life as quickly as possible. My father never saw me except to ask why I wasn’t exceeding his expectations. My brother is everything he wants, so I was always useless in his eyes. I failed at University. I’ve failed at poetry. If I died tomorrow, no one would even miss me. I’d try doing myself in, except I am sure I would botch that too—” he gave a bitter laugh “—and so prove a further disappointment to my father.”
Spencer could scarcely conceal his glee. Here was someone, at last, with such a low will to live he should scarcely put up a battle at all! “Well,” he said, in a consoling tone of voice. “I’m not a doctor, but I can certainly recommend opium-eating. It cures nothing except the pain of living.”
“I have tried it,” Hughs admitted. “I must say that I found it pleasant, and it did take me away from myself. I would probably indulge—” he made a face “—but the creatures one has to deal with are so repugnant. Greasy little Chinee. . . .”
“Leave that to me,” Spencer said, soothingly. “I have taken a liking to you, Hughs. I’ll get you the opium. And if you’d rather not indulge at your home, allow me to offer you the comforts of mine. It’s not opulent, but it’s pleasant.” He wouldn’t actually allow Hughs in his real home, of course. He had a cozy little apartment here in Chelsea for purposes of this sort. Here he could make sure Hughs got carefully measured doses and came to no harm.
Hughs brightened. “You’d do that for me, old chap? Really?”
“Of course,” Spencer smiled. “I’m not a poet myself, but I certain admire your sort. And who knows? You might find your muse in opium. Plenty have, or so I hear.”
In fact, the only person he’d ever heard of bringing anything out of an opium dream was that chap Coleridge, and even then it had only been a maddeningly short fragment, but telling Hughs that only made him more eager. “Here’s my card,” he said, handing the young man the card with his alternate address on it. “Turn up about teatime tomorrow, I’ll have what you need, and make up a comfortable place for you to enjoy it. Who knows? You might awaken in the morning with fresh inspiration.”
Hughs seized the card with alacrity. “By Jove, you are a capital friend, old chap!” he exclaimed, with the first indication of enthusiasm he had shown yet.
Spencer smiled as he stood up. “I do try to be,” he said, modestly. “Now, if I am to have what you need by teatime, I need to take my leave now.” This was a lie, of course. He had enough opium stockpiled to kill a regiment. But he wanted to give the impression that he was going to considerable effort for this young man. The more beholden Hughs felt, the more submissive he would become. Spencer knew his type well. They longed to be the captains of the ship, the masters of their universe—but if they ever got that position, they wouldn’t know what to do with it.
He returned the now-empty decanter of brandy to its place and took his leave of Werlicke. “I trust you found my little rabbit satisfactory?” Werlicke smirked.
“Very,” Spencer replied. Werlicke, of course, had no idea what Spencer really intended. He was under the mistaken impression that Spencer’s game was to befriend men like this, pander to their vices until they were addicted, and exploit them. Hughs was certainly an easy mark for that sort of thing, given he had access to his mother’s money. Hughs was not the sort that Werlicke would allow to be a hanger-on for long. For all his faults, Werlicke was a collector of genuine talent, and possessed some of that himself.
“I’ll send you that book in the morning,” Spencer promised, making Werlicke’s eyes light up. And with that, he took his leave.
Mrs. Kelly had gone to her own bed by the time he arrived home, and when he looked in on Peg, she was soundly asleep, with her knitting laid by on the table beside her. He thought about visiting his workroom, but decided against it. He wanted to be sure of Hughs first.
Instead, he selected the book he intended to send to Werlicke, wrapped it neatly in brown paper, and addressed it, leaving it on the kitchen table with the money for postage for Mrs. Kelly to send out with the morning post. He went to his solitary bed, reflecting rather sardonically that tomorrow would be full of the tedious business of courting. First, it was time to accelerate the courting of that girl. And then, another sort of courting, that of Hughs. Very different, and yet with the same goal.
To make them his, to bend to his will, forever.
* * *
“Good morning, Peg,” he said, coming into the kitchen. And now, at last, he was rewarded with a bright smile. It was bright enough that he decided to press his luck. He sat down, but did not touch his breakfast. Instead he gazed intently at her, until she blushed and dropped her eyes, but looked pleased. And almost pretty, although most of that was merely youth. He could see why her former master had forced his attentions on her, however.
“Peg,” he said, earnestly, although he did not move to take her hand. “I have been thinking about this for some time since you came into my service—”
“I’m ready to start work, master!” she said, looking up with anxiety painted all over her features. “Right now, this minute!”
He shook his head. “No, dear child, that was not what I have been thinking. It has occurred to me that I live a very lonely life. And that God may have placed you in my path for a greater purpose than for you to scrub my floors and help Mrs. Kelly. I believe that God wishes for me to make an honorable woman of you, and it is His Will that we wed.”
He made this a statement, knowing that she would be unable to say “no” to it. And Kelly chimed right in from the sink, as if he had coached her.
“House needs a missus,” she grunted. “You’re cleanly and respeckful. You’ll do.” Which was perfect, the sort of endorsement she would have expected out of someone who a few moments before had been her superior.
Peg went red, and white, and red again. Opened her mouth and closed it several times.
“It is God’s gift to both of us, Peg,” he reiterated, again, making it a statement.
Finally she got up the courage to say something. “Yus, sor,” she whispered. “I ’opes I makes yer ’appy, sor. I don’t rightly d’serve sich kindness.”
Now he reached out, and patted one of the hands clenched on the tabletop. The hand relaxed, and turned palm up, taking his. He smiled triumphantly. “Then will you be my wife, and obey me forever, Peg?”
“Yus, sor,” she said, fervently. He clasped her hand, and felt the magic binding them properly.
He allowed her to hold his hand for a moment longer, then gently extracted it. “It will take me a few days to make arrangements. We’ll be wedded here by my priest friend, all neat and tidy. In the meantime, we’ll just keep on as we have been, you getting stronger and healthier. All right?”
“Yus, sor.” She seemed dazzled, and clearly still did not believe this reversal of fortune. He finished his breakfast, and went up to his workroom, using the key on his watch chain. He had hidden the other in the locked drawer of his desk. Although he didn’t expect Peg to have the spirit to go wandering and investigating, there was no point in taking chances.
He closed the door and, with satisfaction, felt the power and the despair of all his trapped brides. He lit the overhead gas lamp and went to the focus table. Without something to wo
rship, it could not properly be called an “altar,” but it served the same purpose of focusing power that an altar did.
He removed the silk drape from the sealed vial of old blood in its special holder in the center of the table, and immediately felt it. The force. The presence. The spirit that refused to die, refused to give in to anything, gods, fate, or destiny. The revenant that was Professor Moriarty.
He moved his vision from the material world into the space that lay between the material and whatever afterworlds there might be, the space that was inhabited by ghosts, spirits, and revenants.
Behind him, in a semicircle, were his brides, faces contorted with suffering, chained together by his magic and his power. When they realized he could see and hear them, they began to wail, but he silenced them with a gesture. All his attention was for the revenant of the Professor—who here was a somehow more sinister version of the man he had been in life. Thinner, taller—in fact, he towered over Spencer. All of the strength and menace he had hidden from the world were revealed here where he could hide nothing.
“Well?” Moriarty asked. It was not quite a snarl.
“I believe I have the perfect vessel for you,” Spencer said calmly. “It is a poet in his twenties. He lives his life in despair, and I believe he will not attempt to contest you when you possess his body. I need only weaken his will further with opium—”
“Opium! And then I will be forced to suffer through the effects of weaning myself off that pernicious substance! Why is it you insist on this? Why could you not bring him here, now, if he is all you say?”
“May I remind you,” Spencer said, fighting down anger, “We did things your way three times. The first time, I brought you a vessel that was physically weak as well as weak-willed, and your attempt to possess him killed his body as soon as you drove out his spirit. The second time, I brought you someone who successfully fought you, and I was forced to kill him and dispose of the body, at much inconvenience to myself. And we both know how the third time went.” He turned his gaze into a glare. “You thought it would be sufficient for the victim to be mad. I brought you a madman, and he nearly subsumed you, and I was forced to kill him on the spot before he infected you with his madness.”
Moriarty shrank—literally shrank—in acknowledgement of Spencer’s rebukes, although he did not acknowledge them in any other way.
“Professor,” Spencer said, giving the man the title of respect. “You took me on as your advisor in all things magical because I have not just the learning, but the true Gift that grants such power, and the Mastery of my Gift. While you knew you could easily conquer the learning, without the Gift and the Mastery you would be operating blindly, as if you were trying to create delicate clockwork with your hands and tools encased in a box. And you permitted me to operate independently because you knew you could trust me to work to your interests. When I told you that we needed to make this talisman with your blood to ensure that I could bring you back to life at need, you agreed, because you knew you could trust that this was in your best interest. It would be illogical to lose that trust now, especially after you have proved to yourself that this is not just the best way, but indeed, the only way, to give you life again.”
Something like a growl or a grumble emerged from the spirit. “Damn you, Spencer, for being right.”
When he had been alive, Moriarty had been skeptical, even slightly dismissive, when Spencer had first urged him to make that talisman. True, he had been convinced that magic existed, and Spencer could do and know things it was not possible to explain by any other way. But he had not been convinced that there was any way to beat death.
But Spencer was no ordinary Elemental Master. He was a Master of the fifth Element, that of the Spirit. There were, of course, two ways one could take that Mastery, but only one that led to true power. And so, he was a Master Necromancer. So eventually, Moriarty had agreed, for he had come to realize that if there was a way to control, coerce, drain, bind, or otherwise manipulate spirits, Spencer knew it, and he had conquered it.
All the Elementals were, to some extent, Spirits. That meant he could conjure and bind all of them, in theory at least. In practice, he generally kept to the most tractable. The Elementals of Earth and Air, for instance, and then only the lesser creatures of those Elements. It was not wise to attract the attention of the Greater Elementals. which were not only impossible to bind, but would work their wrath on any mere human who attempted to bind them. And it was just best to steer clear of Fire Elementals altogether.
But when it came to human spirits—once they were in the halfway realm, there was nothing he could not do with them, and that included finding them a new body. It had taken a while to persuade Moriarty—in fact, it had taken actually doing so with a trusted lieutenant who needed more than just a new identity. Spencer knew his own limits, and he knew that while he could control the dead, he could not do the same with the living. And he had known that when Moriarty died, the Organization would fall apart, and he would lose far more than he was willing to give up.
So this had been in his best interests . . . of course. The one thing that Moriarty must never be allowed to know was that Spencer would always, always, work only in his own best interests. It just so happened that those coincided with Moriarty’s.
“How long?” Moriarty growled.
“Not long,” Spencer replied, knowing that Moriarty had no way of keeping track of time here. There was no use, of course, in suggesting the Professor attempt to learn anything while in this state. He was more than merely trapped, he literally could not see anything that Spencer did not illuminate with his magic, such was Spencer’s power over the spirits he bound. He knew better than to attempt to bind the Professor, or directly control him in any way, so he controlled Moriarty’s access to just about everything. He didn’t want Moriarty spying on him, for one thing, and even a ghost bound to a talisman would be able to move about the house and listen to and observe the living, unless restrictions were placed on it. And for another, he wanted Moriarty to understand at a visceral level how much power Spencer held over him without Spencer coming out and telling him. The best way to do that was to keep him isolated and alone with his own thoughts.
“I have nothing more to report, Professor,” he said, with outward humility. “I will come to you again when I do. You will probably see another girl or even two added to the chain before then. Remember that this, too, is in pursuit of our goal. The more power there is in the chain, the more power there will be available to you to assist in your possession of the new body.”
Moriarty merely waved dismissively at him, and he removed himself and shut off his vision into the half-world. Once back in the silence of his workroom, he took a deep breath and composed himself. He had not felt this uncertain since the day he had realized that his own Master intended to give him just enough education in his powers to be useful without allowing him to reach his true potential, and that he was going to have to kill the man in order to achieve that potential. That had been the day that he had first learned there was such a thing as a Spirit Master, by overhearing a conversation between his Master and another Earth Master. Until then, he had thought his true gift was Earth Mastery, and he had a minor talent as a medium. His mentor had known better.
He checked the time on his watch, and decided to lunch on the way to his other flat. He obtained a quantity of opium sufficient for several sessions from his supplies as his brides looked on, secreted the box in a special pocket in his coat, and left.
He wanted to avoid Peg for now; fortunately he heard her chattering excitedly to Mrs. Kelly, and he gathered they were altering a gown, probably for her wedding dress. He slipped out the front without either of them noticing.
In the cab on the way to his flat—there was a decent pub conveniently near it where he could lunch—his thoughts returned to the discussion with Moriarty. Had there been a touch more of anger than usual? And a little less of the cold rationality that was the Professor’s hallmark?
His previous mentor’s sanity certainly had not lasted long. It had been with considerable regret that he’d released what had been a formidable source of power that had ceased to be useful when despair turned to mindlessness. And at that time he had not had the resources of a Moriarty at his disposal. He’d been forced to capture existing ghosts and bind them, which had been tedious, or make off with vagrants, bind their spirits, and murder them, which had been dangerous. He had not been able to afford a house, or a helper like Mrs. Kelly. He had been forced to use his flat, and take the risk that a nosy landlady could discover evidence of his murders, or poke about amidst his ritual equipment and undo everything he had accomplished by stupid curiosity. It wouldn’t take much: breaking a talisman, erasing a diagram, crushing a vessel. . . .
He did not want to go back to that. It was imperative to get Moriarty a new body.
There would be a great advantage to this; provided Moriarty would leave this reckless chasing of Holmes to his underlings, Hugh’s body should last him for thirty, forty, even fifty more years. Meanwhile, with the source of his income restored and secure, he would be able to complete the considerably more complicated procedure to procure himself a much younger body. There was no reason why this could not go on for as long as both of them exercised due caution, and made sure all dangerous activities were left to expendable underlings.