“Or kill him, if it is three whips,” Lady Margaret cut in. “If it was a full or new moon, he would have a better chance, but it is a waning quarter.” She chewed on her lower lip, her eyes fixed upon the figure of his lordship moving cautiously through the undergrowth.
“The gifts of a Reclaimer are linked to the energies within the earth, and those energies are at their peak during the new and full moons,” her brother explained.
“But what if the creature is indoors, or his lordship is too far from bare earth?” Helen asked. “How would he discharge the energy then?”
A grim smile flitted across Mr. Hammond’s face. “In the words of the Bard: The better part of valor is discretion. His lordship would not fight a creature without a clear path to earth. The risk is too great. Quinn does not fight because he must be ready to get Lord Carlston onto the ground straight after the battle. He must hold his lordship there until he releases the Deceiver energy into the earth.”
“He must hold him?”
“Yes, his lordship will fight to keep it.”
“Why?”
Hammond shook his head. “He has never explained why.”
“If Quinn cannot help him, then why don’t you, Mr. Ham-mond?” Helen asked. “Why is he fighting this creature alone?”
It was as if the air contracted between them. Hammond rounded on her, his voice tight. “Do you think I want to just stand here and watch like some Goddamned coward?”
Lady Margaret’s attention snapped to her brother. “Michael!”
He bowed his head for a moment, his hands balled into fists, then took a deep breath. “Forgive me, Lady Helen. His lordship has forbidden anyone to approach. You will see why once they start. He and the Pavor will move faster than anything you have ever seen—too fast for a normal man to keep up. Too fast even for a Terrene like Quinn. His lordship says if anyone tried to help, it would just distract him and put him in more danger.” He looked back at the unfolding scene at the wall. “I would be a liability.”
Lady Margaret reached over and covered one of her brother’s fists with a gentle hand. “You would help if you could.”
He nodded, but frustration pulsed from him.
Lord Carlston stopped two yards away from the creature and its victim, the glass knife catching a flash of light from the fireworks. He must have called a challenge, for the Pavor suddenly ripped his feeder from the prostitute and spun to face him, the obscene blue-black length retracting somehow into his back. The woman’s body slid down the brick wall and slumped to the ground. Was she still alive? Helen could not tell.
“Has it built a third whip?” Lady Margaret asked.
Helen tightened her grip on the miniature, as if more pressure might give her a clearer view in the shifting light. “No, I can see only two. What are they?”
“Weapons made from the creature’s true energy form. If those whips penetrate a human body, they can lock a man into convulsions, or stab and slice like a rapier. They burn flesh, too,” Mr. Hammond said. “That is why his lordship is wearing gloves and armguards.”
“For all the use they are,” Lady Margaret said under her breath.
The Pavor advanced upon Carlston, whips curling back into striking position above his shoulders, like two scorpion stingers. The primeval curves sent a shudder through Helen. Although the man was shorter than Carlston and more heavyset, it did not seem to hinder his speed. He punched a whip at Carlston’s chest, the other swinging into a savage slash at his neck. Helen gasped, hearing the crack of energy as Carlston spun to the left and ducked away from the first lash, grabbing for the second as it sliced above his head. His gloved hand grazed it but did not connect. Hammond was right: they were both moving with abnormal speed. Carlston’s grace and agility thrummed through Helen’s body, as if she, too, were spinning and ducking and grabbing for the Pavor’s whip. She looked down at the touch watch in her other hand. “How does he see the whips without the lens?”
“He doesn’t,” Lady Margaret said tightly. “He is using his other senses to locate them. He says he can hear their shapes in the air, feel their movements, even smell them.”
“What?” Helen croaked, her mouth dry. “He is trying to grab those whips without seeing them?”
“Yes,” Hammond said, eyes fixed on the fight. “He must wrap both whips around his forearm and hold them so that he can cut off the creature’s weapons with the glass blade. Only then can he absorb the energy and discharge it into the earth.”
The Pavor lunged at Carlston. For a second the Earl did not move—why wasn’t he moving?—then Helen realized he was listening for the creature’s next attack. Suddenly he launched himself to the left, dropping into a roll, the end of a whip biting into the earth inches from his head. So close! He clawed at the energy, but it was already snapping back. The Pavor ran forward again, both whips curved high above his head. The left one snaked toward Carlston’s chest, the right massing into a ball of power that swung horizontally through the air, like a mace. His lordship dived to the right and then launched himself at the flicking end of the left appendage. Helen heard his gasp of pain as his glove closed around the pulsing blue power—her fear leaping at the sound—but he did not hesitate, circling his wrist to wrap the lash around the armguard.
“He has caught one!” she said. The danger of it throbbed in her blood.
“Thank God,” Lady Margaret said breathlessly.
The Pavor wrenched at Carlston’s hold, pulling him off-balance. His lordship hit the ground as the other whip slammed down. He rolled, the blue shaft of power plunging into the earth next to his head, sending up an explosion of dirt and grass that merged with the cracking roll of fireworks. Carlston staggered to his feet, shaking his head, blinded by the shower of dirt, but still holding the end of the first whip. The other snapped from the ground and came at him, too fast to duck. He turned, taking it across his back, waistcoat and shirt slicing open into a bloom of blood. Helen flinched.
Lady Margaret gasped. “No!”
“He is still holding the first whip,” Helen said.
Carlston staggered then recovered, pulling himself up with the writhing energy whip. The Pavor, seeing his advantage, kicked at Carlston’s shoulder, trying to free himself. The other lash curved back for another attack, the dark length of the Pavor’s feeding tentacle flicking out behind it. Carlston dropped his knife and grabbed the man’s foot, twisting. The Pavor fell facedown onto the ground, his free whip rising up, striking at Carlston’s head. But this time Carlston was too fast. He caught it, forcing it down, the effort baring his teeth.
“He has the second,” Helen cried.
Carlston wrapped the writhing end around his wrist alongside its mate, and snatched up the knife. A slash high across the pulsing energy severed the whips near the man’s shoulder blades, just missing the feeder as it retracted into his back. Helen heard a scream, but could not tell if it was the Pavor’s agony or Carlston’s as he lifted the captured whips and slammed their blue energy into his own chest. The force of it dropped him to his knees. The Pavor kicked at him, the weak blow making no impact on Carlston’s arched, rigid body. Then the creature hauled himself to his feet, panting, the glow around him reduced to the same pale blue that shimmered around Lady Margaret and Mr. Hammond. Helen blinked at the bright corona around his lordship, an intense, burning ultramarine light that throbbed with power. Through the blue haze she saw him throw back his head and smile up at the Pavor, the glass knife still in his hand. Helen had never seen such a smile. It was beyond joy; an ecstasy of total abandon. Of madness. There was no boundary left within him, and it was terrifying. The Pavor staggered back, then turned and ran.
“Does his lordship have the Pavor energy?” Lady Margaret demanded.
“He is—he is surrounded by bright blue light,” Helen stammered. She followed the Pavor’s retreat through the trees. “But the creature looks as if he only has
human energy now.”
“Unless they are glutted, their life-force looks the same as ours,” Hammond said. “That is why they are so hard to find amongst us.” He searched the dark wood. “Quinn should be on his way. What is holding him up?”
Lady Margaret peered intently into the undergrowth. “Why does he not come?” She clutched Helen’s arm, fingers digging through the layers of clothing. “Lady Helen, prepare to run to Lord Carlston. In an emergency, one Reclaimer can absorb a share of whip energy from another. You can share the load. It will save his life.”
Helen tried to pull her arm free. She did not want any part of that mad energy.
“Margaret, no!” Hammond said. “She cannot. She does not have her Reclaimer strength.”
“But Quinn is not coming. Why is he not coming?”
As if conjured by her despair, Quinn emerged from his hiding place at a dead run, dodging trees and leaping over bushes with astounding speed and agility. He tackled Carlston just as the Earl rose to his feet. The brutal impact sent both men sprawling to the ground. Quinn recovered first and launched himself at the Earl’s prone body, straddling his chest. He grabbed Carlston’s wrist and forced it back until the glass knife dropped into the grass, then slammed his knee across Carlston’s arm, pinning it against the ground. He groped at the scabbard strapped to his leg, but the momentary slackening of his grip let Carlston free his other fist. He drove it into the big man’s jaw, the vicious blow rocking Quinn backward. Carlston tried to throw him off, but Quinn hammered his elbow into the Earl’s face and grabbed his flailing arm, forcing it back down. He threw himself over Carlston’s body again, pressing him into the ground. The Earl strained against him, bucking under the fierce hold of his Terrene as he tried to wrench himself free.
“Let it go, sir!” Quinn’s desperate voice reached Helen. “Let it go. Or I must use the spike!”
Lady Margaret pressed her fingertips to her mouth as if she could not bear to ask the question. “Is he releasing the energy?”
“No.”
“It must be near twenty seconds. He is running out of time,” Hammond said.
Quinn had come to the same conclusion. In one fluid movement he pulled a spike from the scabbard and raised it high. Helen gasped as he drove it straight through Carlston’s left hand, pinning it to the earth. The Earl screamed, writhing as the bright blue energy roiled around them, the sound melding with the booming finale of the fireworks. Quinn’s head jerked back, his teeth bared in pain as he grimly held on to the spike. The pulsing ultramarine power imploded. This time the Earl’s scream was a howl of loss as the brilliant blue light collapsed through his body and drained away into the earth under the two agonized men. Above, a final explosion of green and red and white stars burst over the gardens, the clap and rumble fading into distant cheers and applause.
“He stabbed him!” Helen cried.
“But is the energy gone?” Lady Margaret clutched Helen’s arm. “Is it gone?”
“Yes.” Helen watched, horrified, as Quinn wrenched the spike from Carlston’s hand and rolled off him, huge chest heaving with effort.
The Earl clutched his wounded hand, the last of the Pavor energy flickering from his body into the earth. He rolled onto his side, curling around his hand.
Hammond exhaled. “Thank God.”
“He stabbed him,” Helen said again.
“It is not always the case,” Hammond said quickly. “Sometimes his lordship keeps enough of himself to let the energy go.”
“I think he has got worse since we last saw him,” Lady Mar-garet said softly, searching her brother’s face for confirmation.
He gave a short nod. “Three years of fighting on the Continent has taken its toll.”
Helen drew in a sharp breath. Did he realize Carlston had used the same words about Benchley?
Hammond touched his sister’s shoulder. “We must help get him back on his feet and out of here, then return to the supper box.” He led them swiftly through the bushes.
“Will he be all right?” Helen asked, as she kept pace with Lady Margaret.
“Yes. Now that he has released the energy.”
Helen nodded, trying to maintain her calm, but the shock of what she had seen could not be contained. “His lordship seems to think this is what I am meant to do. How could I ever fight such creatures? I cannot do what he does. His own man stabbed him!” She stopped, her sudden halt bringing Lady Margaret to a standstill. The dark shapes of the garden tipped into a dizzying whirl. “It is impossible.” She flung her hand out, trying to push it all away.
Lady Margaret grabbed her arm. “There is no choice, Lady Helen. His lordship has shown you this hidden world because you are a Reclaimer, and we are desperate for your talents.”
Carlston was on his feet again, his injured hand cradled in the other. He turned to give an order to Quinn, and for a moment Helen saw his back through the wreck of his shirt. A long, bloody slash stretched from the muscles of his shoulder to the base of his spine, crisscrossing a half-healed older wound. She looked away from the shock of his bare skin. And the awful damage.
Quinn passed them, intent on the woman slumped against the wall. He kneeled beside her, his hand hovering at her mouth for a moment. “She still breathes, my lord,” he said. “She may survive.” He gathered her into his arms and, in one mighty hoist, lifted her up.
Carlston flexed his injured hand, hissing as the wound stretched. A cut across his forehead oozed blood through the lift of his eyebrows.
“This is what you had to see, Lady Helen,” he said, wiping blood from his eye. “Welcome to the Dark Days Club.”
Fifteen
Wednesday, 6 May 1812
AUNT LEONORE LOOKED up from her tambour frame, the thin hook she was plying momentarily suspended in the air.
“You are quiet, Helen,” she said for the third time that morning. “Did you take some of that dreadful rack punch last night?”
Helen raised her eyes from the linen cravat she was hemming. Or failing to hem, as it happened. She could not focus on stitching when all she could see were snaking blue whips, plunging spikes, and that terrible moment of madness in Lord Carlston’s face. Everything else seemed frivolous and inconsequential. It was ridiculous to be poring over dance invitations and hemming a cravat when foul creatures walked upon the streets, hidden as humans. Yet what else could she do? She had, at least, taken the precaution of holding her mother’s miniature during morning prayers to study the life-forces of everyone in the household. They had all been a reassuring pale blue. Although, Helen reminded herself, Mr. Hammond had said Deceivers’ energy looked the same as humans’ unless they were in a glut. So maybe it was not so reassuring after all.
“No, I didn’t drink any punch,” she said. “I am just a little tired.”
Her aunt pushed the hook into the linen she was embroidering and tugged at the length of silk thread. “Yes, it was a long night. But that Mr. Hammond was a pleasant young gentleman, was he not? So attentive to you.”
Mr. Hammond had, indeed, been attentive when they had returned to the supper box. Under the guise of procuring her a glass of orgeat, he had slipped her a startling measure of brandy, and then engaged her in conversation that had been a one-sided description of his new bay hunter while she recovered her composure. Although she burned to question him about the Dark Days Club, he had forestalled her with a grave warning in his sympathetic blue eyes and a smile that never faltered. “You will see his lordship at Almack’s,” he had whispered as they vacated the box at the end of the evening, and Helen had almost laughed. Apparently, Lord Carlston went from battling Deceivers in the Dark Walk to dancing a cotillion at Almack’s, all in twenty-four hours. It seemed as incongruous as the idea of her fighting demons.
He had said she was a Reclaimer. She tasted the word again. Reclaimer. No, it was too absurd. She placed a stitch in the cravat, somewhat crook
ed, and tried to suppress the rise of the other epithet that had been placed upon her: harbinger of evil. She shivered, as much from the idea as from its source: Mr. Benchley. She had, in truth, encountered two monsters in Vauxhall last night.
“Yes,” Aunt mused, intent upon her embroidery, “I liked Mr. Hammond a great deal. A good family and some land in Gloucestershire.” She looked at Helen over the frame, clearly trying to judge if her approval was having any effect. Helen placed another distracted stitch. Her aunt pressed on. “Did you like him, perchance?”
“Well enough,” Helen said shortly.
Her aunt knew the end of a subject when she heard one, and offered another. “Lady Jersey was so generous last night. I truly think she has settled on you as her favorite this Season. It is most gratifying. When I told her of our missing housemaid, she was very sympathetic. She has even offered us one of her own maids.”
That caught Helen’s attention. “One of her own housemaids?”
Since Lady Jersey had colluded with Lord Carlston to get her to Vauxhall Gardens, this had the touch of his lordship upon it too. Yet why would he want to place a maid in her home? She could think of only two possibilities: protection or spying. The latter brought an ugly notion in its wake. Did he remove Berta, after all, to make way for his own spy? It seemed farfetched, but she did not know enough about this clandestine world to even guess at his motivation. He seemed ruthless enough. In fact, all of the Dark Days Club seemed ruthless, right to the very top at the Home Office. Helen stared sightlessly at the linen in her hands, overwhelmed by the enormity of such high-placed corruption. The government had hushed up Mr. Benchley’s involvement in the Ratcliffe Highway murders, and there was no getting away from the fact that his lordship was complicit—not only by his silence, but by his tolerance of such a madman. Her brother always said that a man could be judged by the company he kept. If that was the case, then Lord Carlston could not be trusted. Yet he had been appalled by Mr. Benchley’s confession. And even with all the horror, one had to admit it had been a stirring spectacle to watch him battle the Pavor so bravely.
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