“Exactly.”
“Then where are the gentlemen going?”
Just then, the carriage pulled up. Rupert and Bailey stepped out and followed a waiting servant into the domed atrium. A majestic statue of Poseidon stood in a pool of moonlight, frozen in action with one arm held high, calling to the sea, marble waves roaring at his feet.
Then the muffled strain of violins floated up. George followed the sound and took more notice of the lake. Moonlight should have cast a cold blue reflection on the water rippling in the night wind. It should not be shining with golden flecks as it was now, specifically centered in one area.
“He has a ballroom at the heart of this lake.”
Jude nodded at his side. “They can’t seem to get away from the underground.”
A golden hue reflected up through a domed ceiling beneath the water.
“We must get in.”
“The wards are too strong,” said Jude. “I’ve checked—”
“Wards won’t hold this close to water,” said George. “You know this.”
Jude shifted his gaze from George to the lake, examining his theory. “We’d still have to get beyond these wards to sift underwater. And who is to say where we’d find ourselves? You know as well as I that without a proper homing target on either a place or person, we could end up at the bottom of the lake or who knows where.”
“Calliban is too confident. A demon prince’s greatest weakness. He’s warded out here, but he won’t have taken the proper precautions to ward an underground and underwater club. He thinks he’s too clever, having hidden it away from the world.”
Another carriage rolled to a stop outside the atrium. Two gentlemen stepped out and donned the top hats that completed their regal evening dress.
“Damn it to bloody hell,” said George. He recognized the tall forms of Damas, also known as Lord Radcliff, and his protégé, Alexander.
“Let’s try your plan,” said Jude, fury edging his words. His hatred for Damas was legendary among the Flamma of Light.
“No. We won’t do this without knowing what we’re getting into. We may have only one chance. We need more intelligence on what this place is.”
Jude could not argue with that. If they could actually break through by sifting directly inside the club beneath the lake, then it would be their one and only opportunity. Calliban would set greater wards the next time. And if they descended into a pit of vipers without knowing who and how many they were up against, it could end in disaster.
“So we watch,” said Jude.
“Yes.” George eased closer to a nearby tree and leaned against the trunk, arms crossed. “And we wait.”
While snatches of violin melodies strained through the waters, there was no other sound. No lilting laughter of women or posturing voices of men or clinking glasses and silverware. It was as if there was nothing but a concerto recital taking place beneath Poseidon’s lake. It was well past midnight when the voices of two men speaking low and steady echoed across the water. It was none other than Rupert and Bailey, with a woman escorted between them.
Stumbling in her white gown, the woman seemed to need the two gentlemen’s assistance to make it into the carriage. Rupert entered last with quick, sharp instructions to the driver. The driver snapped the horses awake with a crack of his whip, and they jostled forward toward the exit.
Jude and George shared a troubled glance. Again, knowing one another so well, they didn’t need to say a word. George pointed. Jude nodded. And so George and Jude sifted to the gate’s exit.
The stout guard let the carriage pass without stopping. Jude and George followed, sifting through the woodlands that bordered the road until they were on the edge of London proper. The carriage pulled over next to an inn sagging with age and neglect, the kind of place where those without money were forced to rent rooms and board, or the kind of place where those with money wanted to avoid being seen by their peers.
“This reeks of villainy,” said Jude, breathing hard after sifting so many times in a row.
“It most certainly is. I know the girl. I met her father at the Weathersby ball, where he kept a keen eye on her.”
They waited while Rupert went inside, presumably to acquire a room, then returned for the other two. Escorting the woman, holding both her arms, they practically carried her inside. She did not resist.
“Is she drunk?” asked Jude.
“I believe it’s worse. No time to lose. Come on.”
Both of them turned up the collars of their overcoats before crossing the road and stepping inside. The tavern was no more than a stopping point for travelers. It did not buzz with life as did so many pubs in the city. One man slumped over a table in the corner, unconscious, his ale half-drunk. A brutish fellow with thick forearms and a greasy bald head polished mugs behind the bar.
“Hep ya, gents?”
“Discretion,” was all George said.
“Seems to be a popular commodity.”
George stepped forward and tossed several coins on the bar, larger than the man had probably seen his whole lifetime.
“Aye.” He swiped them off the dirty wood and stuffed them in his pocket before his visitors could change their minds. “That’ll do.” He nodded toward the stairs, then turned his back, literally averting his gaze so the two new strangers could get the discretion they paid for.
George led them up the stairwell. They listened at the first door and heard nothing. Someone snored on the other side of the second. But behind the third, they heard the purring words of Rupert.
“A ripe peach, Lady Emily. Those pretty lips denied me often enough. But not tonight.”
George burst in, and Jude slammed the door shut with his boot behind them. Bailey sat on the bed with Lady Emily in his lap, unfastening her stays from behind. Rupert appeared in the middle of pulling down his breeches when the surprise interruption caused him to leap back against the wall.
“What is this?” exclaimed Rupert with indignation. “What do you mean by barging into our room here?”
Bailey stood off the bed, knocking the woman to the side. There was no question there would be a fight.
“This isn’t going to happen,” said Jude, pointing to the girl.
“There’s nothing untoward going on here,” chimed in Rupert. “She came willingly.”
“Oh?” asked George. “And does Lord Farrell know where his only unwed daughter is tonight?”
Rupert launched at George. They grappled to the floor. George pummeled Rupert repeatedly in his perfect aristocratic nose till it bled and the man slumped to the floor. George stood over him with bloody fists and looked over to where Jude had Rupert’s friend on his knees, an arm constricting his neck. He was turning blue.
“Drop him,” said George.
Jude did. The man fell on all fours. Jude gripped his collar and jerked his head back while Bailey still gasped for air. Before the interrogation, George pulled a tattered woolen blanket from the bed and wrapped it around Lady Emily’s shoulders. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands limp in her lap, saying nothing.
“Are you all right? Emily, isn’t it?”
She did not answer.
George turned and towered above the fiery-eyed Bailey, smiling at the fact the man still seemed to have some fight in him. George had no qualms about coercing him for information, no matter what means he needed to use to get it.
“What is the purpose of the club you went to at Lord Calliban’s home tonight?”
“Who is Lord Calliban?”
Crack! George’s blow knocked a tooth out of the man’s jaw as his head whipped to the side. The tooth rattled across the floor and into the cold grate of the fireplace.
“I’ll ask again. This time, I won’t be gentle.”
“Christ, man!” Bailey spat a mouthful of his own blood on the floor.
“That I am not. What is the purpose of the club?”
Though George was fairly certain he knew the answer, he wanted to hear it from the culprit’s mouth.
“Shall I ask again?” George tightened his fist at his side.
Bailey’s eyes widened. “It’s a service,” he spluttered, holding up one hand to guard against the blow George was preparing to lay on him. “For gentlemen.”
“Well, I doubt that,” said Jude, tightening his hold on the man’s collar. “I didn’t see any gentlemen enter Calliban’s estate.”
“Define this service.” George knew of this type of gentlemen’s entertainment. Rather than seeking out women at a brothel, the club moved to different locations at a lord’s out-of-the-way manor or a bachelor’s home.
“An auction.” Bailey wiped his mouth on his white sleeve, streaking it crimson.
“Auction?” Jude’s dark brow furrowed together.
“Are you telling me,” began George, his voice growing more quiet and steady, a sign of his rising fury, “that Calliban is selling women of the aristocracy to the highest bidder?”
Jude let go of his collar and snatched the man by his hair, snapping his neck back to look him in the eye. “You unbelievable bastard. I ought to hang you by your balls right now.”
“No! It was all consensual, all legitimate. The ladies—”
George laughed. “You expect me to believe that these ladies of London society offered their virtue for money? You’re out of your bloody mind.”
“No, no,” stammered the pathetic man on his knees, bleeding onto the wood floor. “Not for money. For sport. For both parties. Calliban explained that these women had given consent. Ladies with ennui, seeking adventure of a more sensual nature, joined this very exclusive club. He even showed us the contracts with their signatures. We signed contracts, wagering high sums against our vow of confidentiality.”
Jude dropped the man in disgust. “Fuck.” He shook his head at George.
If it was consensual, then Calliban was breaking no rules that would require them to expel him back to Hell. If Bailey told the truth, he was simply engaging in a lascivious game with the aristocracy. But George had been dealing with demons for literally centuries. The cat eventually got bored with a string of yarn. Then it wanted live prey, a mouse or a bird to torture.
He glanced at Emily slumped in the bed, who had never moved since he wrapped her in the blanket. Her auburn hair had slipped from its pins, falling loosely around her pale neck and shoulders. Her head dipped toward the floor as if she wasn’t even aware of the men in the room. She hadn’t attempted to retie her loose corset to cover herself properly.
“It doesn’t add up. I met this girl. She wasn’t suffering from ennui.” He stepped toward the bed and gently cradled her face to lift her gaze to his. “She was enthralled at the Weathersby ball, not bored.”
Her gaze was half-lidded. He suspected she had an opiate in her system.
“Drugged?” asked Jude.
“Perhaps. But that wouldn’t explain the contracts. She couldn’t sign her name if she’d been given opium. She wouldn’t care what her name was.” He inspected her eyes more carefully. She never resisted his touch. Very odd. “No. Her eyes aren’t dilated from inebriation. Wait a minute…” He caught sight of a plume of liquid smoke passing over her blue iris, then vanishing. “Come look, Jude.”
Jude moved to the bed and bent over the girl.
“Look closely,” said George, tilting her face toward him.
“It’s not—” The sinister presence licked out again across her eye. “Damn!”
Jude jerked upright, took two steps and punched the wall, cracking the already faded and falling plaster.
“Calm down,” said George as he wrestled with his own rage threatening to overtake his reason.
“How many, George? How many have already fallen?”
“It’s not hopeless. Calm yourself.”
Jude paced for a few seconds, then hauled Bailey onto his feet and slammed him against the wall. Jude pressed his forearm to the man’s throat. “How many girls, you lowlife piece of shit?”
“Wha—how many?”
“Speak quickly, before I lose my patience.”
“T-two ladies were there tonight.”
“Who was the second?”
“The widow, Mrs. Kingsley.”
“And that is all,” said Jude, more statement than question, constricting the man’s throat.
“That’s it!”
“Who bid on the widow?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, what other gentlemen were there?”
“I don’t know.”
Jude pressed harder. “What do you mean you don’t know?”
“We wear masks. Like a masked ball. The moment we stepped into the entrance, we were told to mask ourselves.”
George mulled this over. Made sense. The lords would feel more comfortable bidding on a woman like a piece of meat under the cover of masks.
“And what is Lord Blakely’s role in all of this?” asked George.
The beaten man frowned. “He—he brings the ladies. That’s all I know. He has some kind of deal with Calliban.”
“Enough,” said George, lifting Emily into his arms. He stepped from the room, but not before he heard Jude’s threats of severe torture and death should Bailey or Rupert frequent another of Calliban’s clubs again.
As soon as Jude moved into the corridor, George said, “Grab my arm.”
They vanished from the seedy tavern into the Void, where gray shapes blurred and whirred by them—all Flamma of Dark and Light passing one another in a blink. George took them to the edge of his property. He’d instilled the kind of wards that not even he could sift through. They felt the distinct pull and release of energy as they crossed the invisible barrier to a safe zone. Rather than take her into his home, he carried her into the shade of a maple tree. The sky was clear and the moon shone bright. George set her on her feet.
“Remove the blanket, Emily.”
She did.
“Remove your dress.”
“George, are you mad?” growled Jude.
George stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Wait,” he whispered.
Her corset had been loosened by the bastard, Bailey. She began unbuttoning the low-cut gown, which revealed too much of her already.
“George,” warned Jude.
“Wait.”
Without shame, she unfastened the bodice, then continued to pull her corset loose and dropped it to the ground. She pushed her skirts to the dewy grass. With a pool of white at her feet, she stood tall in nothing but her transparent shift.
Heaving a sad sigh, George lifted the woolen blanket and wrapped her shoulders.
“What the bloody hell did you do that for?” asked Jude.
“To test the extent of Calliban’s entity, which has a hold on her. Apparently, his essence is strong enough to neutralize a high-born lady’s most valuable assets—her will and her morals.”
“Damn him to hell.”
“I plan to. For now, we need to find a quiet place for her to recover, to remove the entity so she might be returned safely to her father. He will be alarmed at her disappearance, but he would be more alarmed if she were returned as she is.”
An entity was a form of spawn only high demon lords could create. If he could infect a human with his spawn, he could control their will.
“You know,” continued George, “I’ve seen essence used many times before, but it was always to control a violent situation—to start a riot or in acts of war—never to control a girl’s will like this.”
“Calliban is playing games. He enjoys watching the corruption of others.”
“Yes,” agreed George, staring at the lady now covered by the dingy blanket he’d confiscated from that d
ecrepit inn. “Especially the corruption of those who should be incorruptible.”
“He’s enjoying watching gentlemen of society fall further than ever before, I imagine. This is a much darker level of debauchery, George. This girl is certainly a virgin. After tonight, she would be unmarriageable if word got out.”
“Ah, but it wouldn’t, Jude. Not according to the rules. Unless”—his gut clenched at another thought—“unless Calliban was planning to use this information to blackmail the father for money. And all the women debauched in his filthy scheme. Calliban loves earthly money and what it can buy him.”
“Yes, but the widow has no father or husband who cares.”
“But she has a huge estate and a home in Bath. And though she doesn’t have the cleanest reputation, this scandal would cast her from every circle of society, from the balls and dinners where she regularly finds her lovers. To be sold at an auction for the highest bidder, Jude. Worse than a whore. Like cattle. Calliban may have fooled these gentlemen that this is consensual, but the truth is he’s controlling the wills of these women. When he removes his essence, which I imagine he would the next day after their hedonistic night with the buyer—or buyers, as would be the case for Lady Emily here—they would come back to themselves and remember everything. The shame of it.”
Acid churned in his belly at the cruel game Calliban was playing.
“What role does Damas have in all this?” asked Jude. “He doesn’t need to bid.”
“No. But he could corrupt Alexander further by getting him to.”
To think that Damas had taken George’s kin to a place like that set flames to his innards.
“I’ll take her to Father Abney and remove the essence,” said Jude, lifting the girl into his arms like a doll. “Where does she live so that I might return her when she is clear of it?”
“Grosvenor Square, I believe. I’ll send you a letter with the exact address. You’ll want to have Father Abney deliver her directly there, not you.”
Father Abney was a sentinel for the Light, capable of helping and healing humans who had been possessed.
“Don’t worry, friend. You just get ready for your houseguests. I’ll make an appearance when this is all taken care of.”
The Deepest Well Page 8