Realms of Stone

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “He is of age.”

  “Is there anything left in his veins for me?”

  “A little,” she answered. “There was a time when we shared many young men and women, did we not? So long ago, though.”

  Saraqael kissed the boy, licking the wound on his throat. “Delicious. How the world changes! The men of old knew how to worship one such as I. And the parties! My dear, the parties went on for months.”

  “Why do you speak of ages past, when the present is so very exciting?”

  Sara frowned as he gazed at himself in the vampiress’s mirror. “You forget how old I am, Serena. The present is but another moment to me. I saw the world begin, and I watched the birth of the Seven Realms. Long ago is not long for immortals. It is a breath, a wink of an eye, a spark! And how quickly that spark fades into nothingness and endless monotony.”

  “But Lord Raziel will return us all to those glory days, will he not?” she reminded him.

  Sara stared at her, the smile vanished. “Will he? His plans are meant to unchain my kind, but I prefer to keep them imprisoned. Does that surprise you?”

  She grew pale, her dark eyes uncertain. Is this a test? Is he trying to trap me? “I leave it to you to decide such things, my lord. I merely follow and serve.”

  “Bah! You serve only yourself, Serena, which is why I like you so very much.” His smile returned, and she began to breathe again. “There’s a small task I would have you do. One that requires a woman’s touch.”

  “I am here to serve you, my lord.”

  “Oh, you will serve me, my dear, and as a reward, I shall complete your transformation to glory! You will fly with my kind and have powers beyond that of any other hybrid. Would you like that? To become a goddess of the night?”

  “Yes, my lord, I would!” she exclaimed. “I’d give all to achieve such glories.”

  Saraqael drew her into his arms and began unfastening the buttons of her dress. “Then, we should celebrate. Together, you and I can achieve anything, Serena. We’ll finish this one, and then move on to another and another, until all of London bleeds! Then, they shall bow to us and call us gods!”

  “But your brother, my lord. Raziel has other ideas. Other plans.”

  “So he does, but he already weakens. His attack on the castle failed, and his plans for France show little progress.”

  “Because of this woman you mentioned? Antoinette? She interferes?” di Specchio asked, hoping to gain information that might prove useful.

  Sara laughed as he lay upon the bed. “You’re a scheming little witch, aren’t you? Yes, Gévaudan interferes, but I’m glad of it. Raziel will no doubt find some way to circumvent her obstacles, but we’ll not ruin his plans. Not yet,” he winked. “We’ll need his help to uncover and open the next two mirrors, but once done, he will be redundant. Araqiel has the power to find any remaining mirrors we wish to unlock, and Sathariel has the wisdom to decipher Raziel’s codes. Will you pledge yourself to me, and me alone?”

  “Anything for you, Lord Saraqael. Raziel thinks me weak and foolish, all because I am a woman, but you see my true worth!”

  “It is your womanhood that makes you so very important to my plan, Serena,” he said, stroking her dark hair as she joined him upon the bed. “Now, my bloodthirsty one, this is what you will do for me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  6:44 pm - Montmore House

  “Lord Salperton?” the butler asked from outside Henry’s door. “Will you be overnighting elsewhere, or do you plan to remain here this evening?”

  The physician had just finished a hot bath. Wearing only a dressing gown, he stared at himself in the looking glass, realising he’d not shaved for over a week. “Actually, I’m returning to Whitechapel to check in with the duchess, and then afterward, I I’ll stay at Lasberington House. I’ve plenty of clothing there, should I need them, Saunders. I could use a shave, though, if you’ve the time.”

  “I’ll fetch the razor and towels, my lord.”

  The servant left, and Henry crossed into the sitting room of his apartment to read the day’s newspapers. When he’d inherited Montmore from his late mother, the viscount converted four of the apartments into patient rooms. He added a locked cupboard inside each en suite bath, where his nurses kept sharp items as well as chemicals and medicines. No one, save himself, the butler, and a charge nurse had keys. Not even the housekeeper had a key, which grated on Mrs. Newton at first, but when Henry explained it was to prevent a patient from stealing them, the sensitive but efficient woman expressed understanding.

  It had been days since the doctor had slept more than an hour at a time, and he looked forward to a deep and peaceful rest. He was glancing through the Pall Mall Gazette, when he heard the door open and assumed it was the butler returning.

  “Where would you have me sit?” he asked, his eyes on the paper.

  “Wherever you wish,” a woman answered.

  He glanced up and rose to greet the unexpected visitor. She had glossy dark hair, curled into a fussy unsweep and secured with carved ebony combs. Her dress was scarlet, her eyes black as pitch, and her cheeks pale. The white of her skin seemed almost translucent, and for a moment, Henry fancied her an apparition. Whatever she was, the hair on his arms stood up, and a strange sensation passed through his entire body.

  “Madam, I hope you’ll forgive me, but you’ve wandered into private rooms,” he said, tightening the sash on his dressing gown. “Did my nurse admit you whilst I was away?”

  “Hardly,” the intruder laughed. “I’ve no need of your primitive remedies, Lord Salperton, and I’m sure you would declare me mad, indeed, if I told you all that I know.”

  The butler entered the parlour, but passed by the woman as if she weren’t there. “Shall we proceed, sir? If you’d sit in the green chair near the fire, I’ll take care of those whiskers.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot introduce you, as you’ve not offered your name,” Henry said to the woman. “Saunders, will you show the lady to our drawing room, please?”

  “Don’t bother,” she told him. “Your manservant neither hears nor sees me. Our entire conversation takes place in a fraction of unused time. He thinks you’re sitting in a chair, actually, and he’s already begun lathering up your face.”

  A chill ran down Salperton’s spine.

  “That’s impossible,” he whispered. Despite the sense of foreboding, Henry assumed the woman was mentally disturbed, and most probably a new patient. “Madam, if you would follow me, I’ll be pleased to show you into one of our drawing rooms. There you can speak with my nurse, Mrs. Winstead. She will offer you tea, and when I’m finished dressing, I shall be happy to entertain whatever questions you wish to ask me.”

  “I’ve no need of your English tea nor any form of human hospitality,” she declared. “I came to offer a word of advice. You might call it a warning, but I consider it wisdom.”

  “Pray, tell me, madam. What might that be?” Salperton asked, bristling at her brash manner. “You make pretense at civility, though I’ve yet to hear a name. If you wish to enlighten me, then precede your tuition with a simple and courteous reply.”

  The red lips smiled, but the dark eyes turned cold as steel. “Contessa Serena Sofia di Specchio. I found your medical bag inside Istseleniye Castle, and inside the bag, your name and address, which means you attended the duchess. We can offer you fellowship or enmity, Lord Salperton. I advise against the latter, for enmity with us is a quick road to certain death.”

  The countess turned to go, but Salperton would not be bullied, and he grasped her by the arm. “Stop right there! I’ve no idea just who it is you represent, madam, nor do I care. If you think to discourage me in any way at all by these heavy-handed threats, then you’ll discover that little in this world shakes me. I’ve seen things that would shatter most men; yet, here I stand! You think yourself superior to others, but I find yo
u little more than an unwelcome intruder. Saunders, see the countess out.”

  The woman offered a chilling smile as she leaned in to whisper into Henry’s ear. “Beware, Lord Salperton. Treading upon serpents may seem an easy task to those wearing thick boots, but it is a mortal mistake when one’s foot is bare.”

  She glanced down at his feet, which wore neither sock nor shoe. Her left hand stroked his throat and then wandered beneath the dressing gown, along his bare chest, aiming for the beltline, but he grasped her arm firmly to stop any further invasion.

  “I admire your physique,” she whispered, licking her lips. “Should you ever change your mind and accept my offer, I promise you ecstasies beyond your wildest imagining!”

  With that, the contessa returned time to its normal flow, causing the butler to see her for the first time.

  To poor Lester Saunders, the woman had popped into existence from thin air. “Madam!” he gasped, just seconds before the countess vanished.

  The perplexed butler promptly fainted.

  Henry, however, took the parlour trick in stride. The countess had intended to frighten him, but instead her gambit had the opposite effect. Before di Specchio’s visit, the viscount had considered bowing out of the duchess’s life once she returned home, but now, he had no intention of doing so.

  Bending down, he checked his butler for injuries. “Lie still until the blood returns to your head, Saunders.”

  “I am sorry, my lord,” the man muttered. “I’ve no idea what happened.”

  “Perhaps, you forgot to eat,” Henry told him, deciding to ignore any mention of the strange countess. “I’ll forego the shave for the present and leave for Whitechapel as soon as I can finish dressing,” he told him. “Lie still whilst I fetch smelling salts. Breathe as normally as possible,” he ordered the servant.

  In less than ten seconds, Henry returned with the bottle. Saunders coughed, shocked at the harsh ammonia smell. His eyes teared, but the man slowly regained his feet, leaning slightly on his employer. “Allow me to help, sir. I’ll lay out your evening clothes.”

  “Nonsense, I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself. Go to your rooms and lie down. Keep your feet higher than your head for half an hour. Consider that an order. You’re to take the evening off and rest.”

  Salperton finished dressing, but once done, he took his spare medical bag, left written orders for the staff, bade goodbye to the nurse and housekeeper, and called for his driver.

  By eight, his private coach and pair turned onto Warwick Road. Salperton pulled the woolen greatcoat’s collar tightly around his stubbled chin. Though the woman’s threats bore no fruit in his spirit, he felt as though a ghost had walked across his grave. He peered out the window, looking up into the evening sky. The early stars had emerged, and a white moon waxed towards her round form. Silhouetted against the pale face, a great shadow flew, its shape shimmering as though reflected upon water.

  Henry could almost hear his dead mother’s voice. You see it, don’t you, Henry? You see the monster?

  Henry did see it.

  It was a dragon.

  At half past eight, Paul Stuart knocked on Cordelia Wychwright’s door. “I know it’s somewhat late, but I wondered if you’re up to talking?”

  To Paul’s relief, the baroness was nowhere to be found, and her daughter lay upon the bed, turned to the wall as though sleeping. At the sound of his voice, Delia stirred and wiped at her eyes. “Lord Aubrey. Oh, I mean Paul, of course. What time it is?”

  “Half eight or so. I could come back tomorrow, if you prefer.”

  “Yes. I mean, no, don’t go. Come in. Mother’s gone to speak with Mr. Treves. She only just left, but we might have five minutes before she comes back.”

  “Good,” he said, pulling a chair close to the bedside. “How are you feeling?”

  “Tired. Worried. Foolish.”

  “Which of those might I help with?”

  The young woman managed a wan smile. “None, I think. Or perhaps all of them. Lord Aubrey, I owe you a very great apology. I’ve been an absolute bore, and you must wish you’d never met me.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “If it is nonsense, then I’m the one who’s nonsensical. It’s not my mother’s fault, not entirely,” she chattered. “You see, I’m the only one who can marry into position. That’s what my mother calls it. I know she wants me to marry well, but I want to marry for love. You’re rather older than I, and it’s not likely you’d ever understand, especially as you’re a man, but modern girls have dreams and aspirations. We don’t always want what our mothers want. At least, that’s what all the magazines tell me. I’m rather confused by it, actually. Mrs. Abbot’s advice column tells me to be demure and obedient, whilst Mrs. Spicer’s says I should be forceful and provocative. Which is it? One cannot be both, can one?”

  “I can’t answer to your satisfaction,” he said, “for I’m neither a woman nor young, as you’ve pointed out.”

  “I’ve made you angry,” she whispered.

  “No, no! Of course, you’ve not made me angry. The fact is I’m of a different age, in some ways. The world changes before my eyes. I was raised to protect and admire women, but it sounds as though you think my ideals rather dull and old-fashioned. You prefer to lead a less constrained life. Am I right?”

  “You think me a child.”

  “No, I do not. Though, you’re not much older than my sister, I do not see you as a child. Look, if you don’t want your mother to matchmake for you, then tell her.”

  “You don’t understand. She won’t listen.”

  He shook his head, sweeping a long tendril behind his left ear. “I want to understand, Delia. I do, but I fear it’s beyond my male brain. Talk with Elizabeth. She’s close to your age and has keen insight and a patient heart.”

  “The duchess cannot understand, for she’s never lacked for position or wealth. She inherited hers. If I’m to fulfill my mother’s desires, then I must marry well,” she insisted.

  He kissed her hand. “If you’re to marry well, then you must be well rested. I’ll leave you to sleep.”

  “Paul, will you visit me again? As a friend?”

  “Yes,” he promised. “Sleep now and stop worrying.”

  As the earl left, he discovered his cousin waiting in the corridor near the duchess’s door. “Have you been ejected?”

  “Yes, but only whilst a new doctor examines her. He’s an obstetrician. It’s a new medical discipline, I’m told. They specialise in expectant mothers.”

  “But she’s doing well, isn’t she?” he asked Sinclair, suddenly worried. “Why is Treves bringing in this specialist?”

  “I’ve no idea. I find myself wishing your friend Salperton were here. Beth trusts him.”

  “Where’s Emerson? Couldn’t we seek his opinion?”

  “Gone to Scotland. He received a telegram from his father two hours ago. Michael’s brother has taken ill. The doctors don’t expect him to live out the month. It’s very strange timing.”

  Paul grew pensive, his eyes clouding with worry. “Charles, this may be nothing more than a natural occurrence.”

  “Is it? Emerson is Beth’s primary physician, as well as mine, and now he’s pulled from us! Oh, ignore me,” he added, wiping at his face. “I’m tired.”

  “Charles, why don’t I keep watch here tonight?”

  “No, I intend to stay with Beth.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that, but I worry about you, Charles. Let me do this. I can place a chair near the door and make certain no one enters.”

  “Do you think someone would?” asked the marquess. “Who?”

  “Whoever attacked the castle. This isn’t over, Charles. In fact, it may just be the start. I rather doubt these attacks will let up until Beth has delivered your child.”

  “Or children.”

  Paul stare
d, whispering, “Have the doctors diagnosed twins?”

  “No. Yet, both Beth and I feel certain of it,” his cousin replied. “If you’d send word to Henry, I’d appreciate it. And tomorrow, I plan to investigate the names on that list, as well as Miss Finchley’s story.”

  “I may have something to add to that tale, Charles, but it can wait until the morrow.”

  The door opened, and Treves exited the hospital room along with a taller, dark-haired man in a tweed jacket and matching trousers. His bearing was easy and true. The cut of the coat hinted at an athletic build, and his features were the sort that caused society ladies to forget themselves: dark eyes, a ready smile, and a mysterious manner.

  Treves offered introductions. “Lord Haimsbury, Lord Aubrey, meet our newest instructor, Dr. Anthony Gehlen. He’s a Scot, so you might have many things in common.”

  “A pleasure,” Charles said, shaking the physician’s hand.

  “Scottish? I can’t recall any Gehlens,” the earl noted.

  “We’re part of the Pencaitland line. My father’s the current earl. I took my mother’s maiden name when I entered school. Long story. A rift with my father that’s never healed.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. May I ask your experience, Dr. Gehlen?” the earl enquired.

  “My full resumé is available through Treves, if you wish it, but I studied at Cambridge for chemistry and Edinburgh for medicine, graduating in ’78. I’ve spent the past ten years honing my skills as an obstetrician in a variety of situations in Paris, Milan, and Vienna. I’ve delivered over four hundred babies, losing only three, and amongst that number, I had the honour to diagnose and deliver seventeen sets of twins and two of triplets. All but one of those babies survived.”

  “That’s an impressive career,” Charles remarked. “Forgive my asking, but if you achieved so great a success abroad, why return to England?”

  “To bury my uncle,” he answered, his eyes taking on a sad expression. “Sudden heart failure a month ago. A very great shock, actually. Uncle Andrew was my late mother’s only sibling. He and I grew close after my father cast me out. Andrew practically raised me. He’d been a vital, energetic man right up until the last. He served as Bishop of Carlisle for thirty-six years.”