Realms of Stone

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “I take it you’re reading about your royal status,” his uncle said as he moved a white knight into position. “You’re in trouble, Martin. Better mind your queen.”

  The tailor stared at the board, considering all possibilities. “Yes, I see that, but I might be luring you into making a false move, Your Grace.”

  Sinclair threw the paper against the cushion of a nearby chair. “Even the Pall Mall Gazette ran this ridiculous story! I hope Della hasn’t seen any of these.”

  “She rarely reads the papers. Besides, our girl spent the day making cards for Elizabeth’s homecoming. Watercolours or something. Oh, Paul, I received a letter from Baron Wychwright. He asks if he and his family might call this week. I rather think he’s heard the rumours.”

  “Which one?” Aubrey asked. “Those regarding Beth, or the rumours about Charles?”

  “Both, I should think. Charles, you mustn’t let these reports get under your skin. These rumours regarding the queen surface with regularity.”

  “But why do they surface now, James?” Sinclair asked. “And with hints that I’m the better choice to sit on England’s throne? I do not like it one bit!”

  The earl had been making notes for Laurence, Deniau, and Galton, but set the notebook aside. “The conclusion one must draw is your child. Or is it children? You keep using the plural term, which makes me think you know more than you’re saying. Have you information beyond this dream—I mean your journey? Which is it? Child or children?”

  Sinclair glanced at Martin. “Either and both. I don’t mean to be obscure about it, but I can’t state it as fact. As you still doubt whether or not I really visited another realm...”

  “No, I don’t doubt it. I’ve told you, I simply do not understand it, but neither do you.”

  “May we, please, change the subject?” Sinclair asked, his head aching.

  “Go to bed,” the duke told him, a white pawn changing position. “Checkmate!”

  The tailor sat back, his grey eyes round. “Your Grace, if I weren’t a Christian man, I’d have to wonder just where you’ve been keeping that pawn.”

  The duke laughed and began resetting the board. “I never reveal my secrets. Paul, take your cousin up to bed. That is an order.”

  The earl stood. “Come, Cousin. Our uncle is still head of the family, and therefore master of us as well as master of the chess board. We’ll share a brandy and talk a bit. Goodnight, gentlemen,” he told the others.

  “See you tomorrow, Nephews.”

  “Goodnight,” Kepelheim said, his mind on the new game.

  The two cousins left the drawing room and used the lift to reach the upper floor. Once inside Sinclair’s bedchamber, Aubrey filled a pair of snifters with brandy and handed one to Charles.

  “To Beth,” he said, clinking the other’s glass with his own. “Our beautiful princess and mother to the next generation.”

  “To my wife,” Charles said, smiling. “May she return to us before another day ends.”

  “Indeed!” Aubrey said, taking a sip. “Nice bouquet, this. Napoleon may have been an overly ambitious scoundrel, but he knew his wine. Charles, you really think Beth’s having twins, don’t you?”

  “For many reasons, yes, I do, but we’ll confirm it once Beth is home. Paul, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “About Beth?” he asked, sitting into a leather chair.

  “About the body that washed up along the Thames.”

  “Susanna’s?”

  “No, not Morgan’s. Or probably not. I spoke with Reid today, and he no longer believes those body parts belong to Morgan. In fact, he’s convinced it’s another woman.”

  The earl’s blue eyes widened, and he set the snifter aside. “Why would he think that?”

  “Because of a report he received just yesterday from Chicago. That city’s police department keeps detailed information on each prisoner. Cassandra Calabrese, also known as Susanna Morgan, was arrested in 1876 for prostitution and gambling. She was bailed out by end of day by her father’s solicitor, however, her booking form had already been filed. It describes her as five foot eight with red hair and dark roots.”

  Aubrey smiled. “I always suspected she dyed her hair. And the height is correct. Why does this alter Reid’s conclusion about the embankment body?”

  “I’m getting there,” Sinclair assured his cousin. “As you know, that body was dismembered, and not all the parts were found. We do have the upper left leg, and Sunders used a mathematical formula to determine the victim’s living height, based on the length of the femur. The woman was barely over five feet tall. It’s my belief that someone wanted us to think it was Morgan, and probably inflicted the burns and other markings to make the case.”

  Aubrey’s face passed through a dozen different emotions. “If you’re right, then Susanna may yet be alive!” he exclaimed, standing. “I’ll start looking right away. If she’s in London, then she’d hide herself in the darker parts of the city. I’ll start with the music halls.”

  “We’ll make a start tomorrow, Paul. I’ve already put two inspectors on it. James insists I sleep, but I would offer you the same advice. Three women now require that you and I use every brain cell God gave us. Redwing has declared war on us and on its own members. We may not wish to sleep, but our tasks require that we try.”

  “Then take some sleeping powder, Charles. If you will, then I will.”

  The detective sighed. “Very well. Just this once.”

  Aubrey left for his own apartment, and Charles shut the door. He changed into a pair of yellow pyjamas, added a teaspoon of soporific powder to a glass of water, drank it down, and then slipped into the bed. The chamber maid had removed the bar of soap, but placed it into a drawer nearby. He found it and returned the scented bar to its previous spot beneath the pillow. As the powder took effect, Charles drifted into a pleasant dream, his senses filled with thoughts of Elizabeth and the sweet scent of raspberry and vanilla.

  1:13 am

  Sinclair was torn from the dream by heavy pounding and shouting, just outside his chamber door.

  “Charles!” his cousin called, knocking again and again.

  Too impatient to wait for a reply, the persistent earl burst into the room and switched on the electric chandelier. Stuart was fully dressed and wearing a dark brown coat of burnished leather. “Wake up, Charles! Wake up! We know where she is!”

  The sleeping draught had hit him hard, and Sinclair lost his balance as he struggled against the bedcovering and spilled out of the bed’s warmth. Aubrey caught him.

  “Where is she?” the marquess asked, shaking his head to clear it.

  Stuart set him into a chair and then started gathering clothes from the closet. “It’s not an easy place to find, but there’s an old friend of mine here, who thinks he can show us. It’s turned very cold. You’ll want to dress warmly.” He handed Charles the same wool trousers and braces he’d worn the previous day along with a clean shirt, socks, shoes, and a suitcoat. “There’s no time for anything else. Hurry!”

  Sinclair dressed in five minutes, and the cousins took the stairs rather than the lumberingly slow lift. By the time Charles reached the main floor, the sluggishness had worn off, replaced by rising hope. Emerson and a second man, unknown to Sinclair, stood waiting near the north entry.

  “Michael, where is she?” Charles asked.

  “That’s a bit complicated. To explain it, let me introduce Dr. Henry MacAlpin, Viscount Salperton. He and I studied together at Edinburgh, but it seems that Aubrey knew Salperton at Eton and Oxford. Henry tells the story better than I.”

  The viscount had never intended to reveal the location of Istseleniye Castle to anyone, but he’d blurted it out without thinking when he’d found Emerson still awake at his father’s home in Mayfair.

  “Sir, it’s an honour, and I apologise for calling at this late h
our. I’ve been attending your wife since Monday last, and I’m happy to say that she’s mending well.”

  “Beth’s alive?” the marquess asked, his knees weakening.

  “She is alive and asks for her Captain hourly, sir.”

  Charles nearly fell to the floor, but Baxter caught him in a bear hug beneath the armpits. “Let’s get you to a sofa, my lord,” he said gently. “This is too much for you.”

  “No, no, we must go and bring her here. Why didn’t she come with you?”

  Salperton sighed, casting his eyes upon the other men uneasily. “I fear that is rather difficult to explain. You see, Prince Anatole insists that...”

  “Anatole?” Charles repeated. “Then Lorena told the truth. Romanov’s had her all along. But she’s well?”

  “Yes, sir, she’s on the mend. Romanov’s a very strange fellow, and I cannot say whether I trust him, to be honest, however, he did fetch me to look after her. The duchess was quite ill when I first saw her. Feverish and unable to awaken. She had a mild case of pneumonia, but she is, as I say, improving daily.”

  “I pray I’m not dreaming,” Charles said as he took a seat on a carved mahogany bench twixt a pair of potted ferns. “She’s alive. My wife is alive.” He wiped tears from his face. “Tell me, why hasn’t Romanov brought her home?”

  “He claims that the duchess is in danger from a group called Redwing. It’s preposterous, I know, but he will not back down from it.”

  Baxter interrupted. “Forgive me, my lord, but why did this prince hire you to tend my lady? Are you known to His Highness?”

  The Scotsman laughed. “Hardly! Originally, I’d assumed he brought me in because my clinic lies close to his castle, but it’s more complicated than that. I shan’t take up our time by getting into all this now. Lord Haimsbury, if you insist on returning with me, I warn you that the prince may not allow you to enter. If he is there, I mean.”

  “Why wouldn’t Romanov be there, Henry?” Aubrey asked his Oxford friend.

  “He left early this afternoon, stating only that he had work to accomplish and might be away the entire night. He’s frustratingly mysterious!”

  “And no one saw you leave?” asked Emerson.

  “Not that I noticed. I waited until the household staff retired before leaving. However, even if the prince has not returned, his butler will likely prove unfriendly. He takes his orders quite seriously. Of course, all this assumes we can even find our way back inside! The castle is shrouded by very peculiar mists. It took me the better part of an hour just to find my way out of them.”

  “Shrouded?” Aubrey asked. “Charles, we might be smarter to wait until morning. If the Russian has placed supernatural wards upon the castle, then it could prove dangerous to enter. Not only for us, but for Beth.”

  “What do you mean?” Sinclair asked his cousin.

  “He isn’t shrouding the place from humans, Charles. If I understand the process, passing through these wards weakens them. I imagine that anytime Anatole does, he repairs the wards and locks right away.”

  Henry grew concerned. “Paul, if you’re right, then I fear I may have done a very foolish thing. My own passage through the wards, as you call them, may have caused a breach. The main gates are rather like a maze, and I became lost. I pray I’ve not bumbled this! I only wanted to see about your own health, Lord Haimsbury, and report back to Elizabeth. She is consumed with worry over your welfare, and I sought only to offer consolation.”

  “We go tonight, then,” Charles announced. “Baxter, fetch my overcoat and several weapons from the armoury. If I know my cousin, he’s already carrying a pistol, but I’ll require a shotgun and at least two handguns. Michael, you needn’t come with us, but I’m afraid we need Henry’s guidance.”

  “Am I not allowed to enjoy a bit of shooting now and then?” Emerson asked, smiling. “I’ll take a pistol, if you have an extra. My aim might not match yours or Aubrey’s, but I can hit a rabbit when I must.”

  “I rather doubt we’ll be shooting rabbits tonight.”

  The earl checked the cylinder of a prototype, single-action Remington revolver and added two boxes of .44 Winchester shells to the right pocket of his leather overcoat. “I only pray the targets are material. We may be heading into a repeat of last Sunday night, Charles.”

  “Then so be it,” Sinclair answered resolutely. “I will not leave Beth there one night longer. We bring her home or die trying.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  1:33 am - Istseleniye House

  Count Viktor Riga had a reputation as a great and monumental snorer. The Romanian’s hooked nose and high cheekbones combined into a magnificent resonance chamber that allowed the sound created by the vibration of his soft palate to proceed from the nasal cavities in an almost musical tone. Riga’s apartment sat opposite that used by Blinkmire, and the gentle giant had often mused that listening to the count’s nightly concerts was akin to enjoying a solo from the French horn section of a symphony orchestra.

  The castle’s company had spent most of the evening hours listening to wax cylinders of Wagner’s Parsifal, recorded earlier that year in Turin under the baton of a young musical genius named Arturo Toscanini. The prince had purchased the cylinders whilst in Italy that August, and the nuances of Wagner’s portrayal of the famed tale of Arthur and his grail knights, brought tears to every eye within the castle’s fellowship.

  After enjoying the entire set of cylinders and watching two games of chess, the duchess had gone upstairs on the arm of Henry MacAlpin. Ida Ross joined them shortly afterward, having already promised the physician that she’d keep watch on the duchess during the night. Ross had warned Salperton that Anatole’s rules should never be broken, but the gentle-hearted young woman also worried about Sinclair, a man for whom she still cared deeply.

  “Do not delay,” she told Henry. “Sometimes, the prince says he will be gone the night through but returns suddenly, with no warning at all. He has the power to hear thoughts and can pop out of thin air.”

  “Do you trust him, Miss Ross?” Henry had asked her.

  “He saved my life, sir. How can I not? Now, go. Mr. Blinkmire has promised to remain in the parlour all the night through. Do be careful, my lord. Beware of all who follow you. The prince has many enemies, and not all are human.”

  That had been hours before, and Ross now slept soundly in the chair next to the duchess’s bed. She’d tried to keep awake by reading Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur, which the count had given her, but Ida had found it tough going. And so, the book of poetry lay upon her lap, open to chapter twelve, titled How Elven Kings Gathered a Great Host against King Arthur. The very last line she’d read was: ‘And now they sware that for weal nor woe, they should not leave each other, till they had destroyed Arthur.’ At that point, the former prostitute shut her eyes as though dosed with a sleeping powder and entered a deep dream state.

  Within the warm parlour next door, Stephen Blinkmire also snored; however, the brash snuffles and wheezes produced by his pig-like snout sounded nothing like a French horn, but rather like the dissonant belching of a fishing trawler’s whistle. The large man’s head tilted back against the curve of the overstuffed chair, lolling from side to side as he slept. His tongue protruded ever so slightly from betwixt his teeth, and a droplet of saliva slowly coursed its way along the curves of his smooth chin.

  Elsewhere in the castle, all stood in silence. Not another sound echoed throughout the great halls and drawing rooms. No mice scampered along the trim work, nor bats against attic windows; no windswept branches tapped upon the foundations; nor did a single creak or pop sound from the ever-settling stones. The mystical wards placed around the property shimmered, casting a ghostly air about the ancient castle, and to passersby, it seemed little more than a ruin from ages past.

  Then everything changed.

  Quick as a blink, an iron spear point, tipp
ed in Greek fire, pierced the shroud just west of the cemetery, precisely where Henry had at last found the exit two hours earlier. Behind the spear, a muscled arm clad in bright armour followed, and behind this, the arm’s owner burst through the portal. He stood thirteen feet high, his large head crowned in armour fashioned from black metal and smeared with blood. Every square inch of the battle dress bore inscriptions in an otherworldly script, which described the purpose of the armour, the owner’s names, and his place within the hierarchy of the infernal realm.

  The warrior elohim’s primary name was Raziel, no longer in human form, but clothed in light and shadow cast by the lamps of a thousand elementals. Accompanying the fallen angel, flew an army of demons and gargoyles, teeth champing, red eyes fixed upon the castle and its sleepers. Raziel’s gambit to lure Samael into sin by endangering the duchess had failed, and now his anger towards his traitorous brother knew no bounds. He charged at the windows, guided by blind rage and vengeance. The Watcher’s plan was to seize the duchess and take Romanov captive.

  “Leave only the duchess alive!” he shouted to his minions as they broke through the inner wards. “Find her and then slay them all!”

  Inside the castle, Vasily heard the battle cries and animal-like snarls of the demons seconds before they broke through, and he hastily armed himself with two blades and a specially designed pistol, made to bring down demons. Antony, the two cooks, and Katrina also took up arms, and then the lady’s maid raced from her bedchamber to warn the duchess.

  Riga snorted to wakefulness, blearily wiping at his rheumy eyes. Despite his deformity, the hunchback hastily threw a woolen coat over his nightshirt, and even had the presence of mind to place a medical book in the pocket. He also placed a derringer inside, grabbed a knife from its hiding place inside a small desk drawer, and then rushed into the corridor to meet the invaders head-on.

  The onslaught breached the upper floor from three directions at once, led by a trio of demonic lieutenants, each clad in battle armour and brandishing a variety of hellish weapons. Hybrid creatures that resembled sabre-toothed boars ran alongside these three, bursting through the doors so that the demons could search for Elizabeth.