The Dark Days Club

by Alison Goodman

  Helen shot a glance at Carlston. Is the Reverend one of the Dark Days Club too?

  His lordship inclined his head. Yes.

  She resolved to ask, very soon, how many the Club actually numbered.

  “It is time to start,” Carlston said. “We will rid your son of this evil spirit, madam, but it is too dangerous for you to be present. I must ask you to leave the room with the Reverend.” He bowed, the courtesy prompting a teary murmuring of thanks from the frightened mother.

  Helen had not thought him capable of such a gentle tone, let alone of bowing to a woman so far beneath him. Perhaps there was kindness in him after all. Deep down, and hidden most of the time, but still present.

  The Reverend ushered Mrs. Coates gently toward the door. “Come, we will leave Jeremiah in their care. You can trust them.”

  As they walked past, the woman reached for Helen’s hand and clasped it tightly for a moment. The fervent gratitude in her eyes forced a smile of reassurance from Helen. The woman had such faith in them; hopefully it was deserved.

  “Do not just stand there, Brother Jonathan,” Carlston said as the Reverend urged his charge across the landing. “Come in.”

  Sir Jonathan edged into the room. The bonhomie that had marked his greeting was gone. Helen watched him press himself against the far wall, his eyes never quite landing on Lord Carlston. Was he frightened of his lordship? Perhaps there was some fear, but there was something else, too—guilt, perhaps, or shame. What had happened between the two men to prompt such unease?

  “Is Darby with you?” Carlston asked, pulling Helen from her examination. At her nod, he motioned to Quinn. “Get her.”

  “You want Darby to be my Terrene, don’t you?” Helen said after Quinn had closed the door behind him.

  Carlston paced around the bed, watching the boy strain against the soft cloth ties. “I do,” he said, not raising his eyes. “We had someone ready to be your personal maid and Terrene, but you thwarted that plan when you gave the maid’s position to Darby. Still, I think you chose well.” He finally looked up. “Perhaps your blood chose for you.”

  Her blood had chosen? Helen hurried past the startling thought. “You had someone ready to be my Terrene?”

  “Yes. But Quinn can train your girl just as easily, once she is bound to you.”

  “Bound to me?”

  His lordship regarded her thoughtfully. “You saw Quinn tackle me at Vauxhall?” At her nod, he crossed to Sir Jonathan. “Would you mind if I used your person to demonstrate something, Brother Jonathan?”

  “Not—not at all,” the Tracer stammered. “Not at all. Glad to be of service.”

  With astounding speed, Carlston grabbed the front of the plump man’s coat and lifted him, one-handed, high against the wall, with no apparent effort. Sir Jonathan stared down at him, eyes bulging with surprise, and a little awe.

  “Obviously, a normal man could never tackle and hold down a Reclaimer,” his lordship said to Helen. “I have bound Quinn to me, and so he shares some of my strength and speed, and also that curious ability to calculate probability. Likewise, when your strength comes, you will bind your Terrene to your power so that she can ensure your survival.”

  He lowered Sir Jonathan to the floor and released him with a small bow. “Thank you, Brother Jonathan.”

  “My pleasure, of course.” The man tugged his coat back into place, adjusting his neckcloth with a trembling hand.

  Helen was silent for a moment. Was it possible that she would soon be able to pick up a man with such ease? The idea of it was strangely thrilling. And a little frightening.

  “You mean it is some kind of magical binding?” she asked. “Like that described in The Magus?” Even if such a thing was possible, she could not imagine Darby agreeing to it.

  “You have read some of the book then?”

  She remembered her manners. “Yes, thank you for sending it to me. It is”—she paused—“interesting.”

  “Very interesting,” he agreed with a smile. “I know some of it is nonsense, but there are other parts that still hold a good deal of truth.” He waved her over. “Come, take a look at the boy.”

  Helen crossed to the bed. “I do not want to put Darby in any danger.”

  His sidelong glance was narrow. “We each have our calling, Sister Helen.”

  “I would normally agree,” she said tartly, “except you seem to think that you are the caller, Brother William.” Her voice wavered on the intimacy of his name, taking the bite from her words.

  She saw his mouth lift into the irritating half smile. “I have good reason,” he said. “Did Brother Michael explain to you about Deceiver progeny? About the vestige within each of them?”

  A soft knock interrupted, the door opening to admit Darby and Quinn. Carlston looked at his man, a silent exchange completed in the fleeting glance. Helen caught only Quinn’s side: a resigned acknowledgment of something expected. The big man closed the door behind them and ushered Darby to stand by the wall, next to the rotund Tracer.

  “Brother Jonathan, how many people live in Britain at the moment?” Carlston asked.

  Sir Jonathan cleared his throat. “In the census of last year, our population numbered over twelve and a half million.”

  “And, Lady Helen, do you remember how many Deceivers I told you are in England alone?”

  How could she forget the terrifying number? “Over ten thousand.”

  Carlston fixed his attention upon Darby. “That means that in every twelve hundred people or so, one will be a Deceiver. And there are only eight of us capable of destroying them, one of whom is your mistress. Do you understand the importance of her now?”

  Darby nodded. “I always did, my lord.”

  Helen frowned; what was he doing?

  “Good. Since you are aware of her significance, I am sure you will want to help her in her duty.”

  Darby nodded again, as if mesmerized.

  “Lord Carlston,” Helen said sharply.

  “We are not using titles, Sister Helen,” he said mildly.

  She glared at him. How dare he try to press-gang her maid.

  His lordship seemed singularly unrepentant. He turned back to his study of the boy. “This child is the progeny of the Pavor at Vauxhall Gardens.”

  Helen drew in a startled breath, her anger doused.

  He leaned down and pressed his palm across the pale damp forehead, clearly testing for fever. The boy wrenched away from his touch. “Brother Jonathan is certain this boy is the Pavor’s last living progeny.” He looked across at the Tracer. “You are sure, aren’t you, Brother Jonathan?” There was a caustic edge to Carlston’s voice.

  “Yes. Well, as sure as I can be,” the Tracer said. He readjusted his neckcloth. “You know it is a difficult thing to determine.”

  “Yes,” his lordship said. “I am quite aware how difficult it is.”

  “No, I am completely certain.” The man drew himself up. “Positive.”

  Carlston returned to his examination. “So, this child’s body is the Pavor’s last avenue of survival. If that is gone, then when the Pavor’s body dies”—he looked up at Helen—“or is killed, his energy will have no place to go. It will die too.”

  “Mors Ultima.” Helen said.

  “You did listen closely to Brother Michael,” his lordship said. “Yes. Final death.”

  Darby lurched forward. “What are you going to do to the boy?” she demanded, her audacity bleaching the color from her face. “I won’t let you harm him.”

  Quinn caught her by the shoulder. “Now, miss, no harm is going to come to the lad,” he said. “They are going to remove the demon energy from within his soul and reclaim it. It is his father—one of the foul creatures—that we hunt.”

  Darby looked suspiciously up at him. “Is that true?”

  The big man nodded. “I�
�d have no part in killing children, miss. You can be sure of that. They are going to help the boy.”

  “What Quinn says is true,” Carlston said. He glanced back at Helen. “You may have wondered why I did not kill the Pavor at Vauxhall. If I had, he would have shifted into Jeremiah’s body, and the boy’s soul would be lost. We must reclaim Jeremiah first, and then kill his sire.”

  “All right then,” Darby said. She stepped back against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest. “All right.”

  “I am glad we have your approval,” Carlston murmured.

  Darby flushed. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  He eyed her, and Helen saw the calculation in his face. “If you wish to help save this boy, Darby, there is something important you can do.”

  She ducked her head under his attention. “Anything, sir.”

  Helen glared at Carlston. “Brother William,” she warned.

  “If I tell you to take your mistress from the room,” he continued, regardless, “will you do so? In any way you can? It will keep her safe.”

  Safe from what? And he was still pressuring Darby into his service. “You don’t have to do anything he asks,” Helen said. “In fact, you are under no obligation even to stay.”

  Darby chewed on her lip. “But I want to help you, madam. Is it all right if I do?”

  Helen sighed. She was definitely losing this battle. “Yes, of course.”

  “Brother Jonathan, you may go,” Carlston said. “You have done your part. Thank you.”

  At the dismissal, the older man’s face seemed to fold in upon itself. Clearly, he had wanted to stay. He bowed. “Of course.”

  As soon as the door closed behind him, Carlston sat beside Jeremiah, motioning Helen to the boy’s other side. She hesitated; to sit on a bed with a man was far beyond impropriety.

  “I can assure you that your person is quite safe,” Carlston said impatiently. “We are, after all, securely chaperoned.”

  Somewhat mortified, Helen sat, the straw mattress hard and ungiving. The boy smelled of sweat, and the bedclothes were damp under her hand. His chemise had come untied, and his narrow breastbone was sharp under his thin pale skin.

  Carlston took hold of the boy’s chin, halting the ceaseless rocking of the blond head against the pillow. “Most of the time a Deceiver’s vestige has only a small effect upon its progeny. It heightens the appetite for pleasure and sensation, but not usually so much that it is noticed.” He peered into the boy’s wide, unseeing eyes. “But, on occasion, it has a devastating effect. It may manifest as extreme violence or promiscuity, but in some cases the effect is to the mind.” He cupped the boy’s chin for a moment with a tenderness that Helen had not known he possessed.

  “Is he mad?” she asked.

  “Well on his way,” Carlston said.

  “Will taking the vestige from his soul save his mind?” It suddenly seemed immeasurably important to rescue the boy from the insanity thrust upon him by his Deceiver father.

  “Perhaps.” Carlston did not sound convinced. “All we can do is try.”

  “Am I to help you reclaim him?”

  “This first time, you may help me call the soul, but I will do the actual reclaiming. Your duty is to watch and learn.”

  Helen had the sudden uneasy knowledge that she, too, was being masterfully manipulated. If she helped Carlston save the child, it would be an irreversible step—an implied acceptance of this violent, dangerous life. Yet how could she possibly live in such a way? Even walking up Piccadilly had been fraught with danger. On the other hand, she could not refuse to help, either. Not with the boy in such clear distress. For the moment, that had to be her guide: saving a child’s sanity and soul. The implications of it would have to come later.

  Carlston took a small silver bowl, the kind often used for leeching, from the side table. “I will need a piece of your hair, Sister Helen.” He reached for a knife.

  Her hand flew to her head. “Whatever for?” Even as she said it, she realized why. “Oh, for the alchemy.”

  “Yes, it is the way Reclaimers have traveled the pathway to the soul for centuries. We blend together a small amount of hair from the Deceiver parent, the progeny, and the Reclaimer, purify it, and ingest the leavings.” He made a moue of distaste. “Quite revolting. But it bonds us with the essence of the boy and the vestige within him.”

  Helen wrinkled her nose. “Why hair?”

  “It is made up of the body’s materials, and one of its most indestructible parts.” He pinched his fingers into the bowl and held up a length of pale blond hair. From the color and texture, it was the boy’s. “It is also the most easily obtained.”

  From behind them, Quinn snorted. “Easy?”

  Carlston flashed his man a sympathetic smile. “Easier than other parts of the body,” he amended, and dropped the hair back into the bowl. He hefted the knife. “May I?”

  Helen hesitated for a second, then leaned closer to the knife, turning to offer the curls at the side of her nape. She felt his warm, bare fingers touch her skin as he lifted her hair, the sensation sliding down her spine, and then the slight drag as the blade sliced a curl clean.

  “There,” he said.

  She pulled back, face hot, her hand going to the place where his touch had been. She had never known that such a public place on her body could feel so private.

  He placed the ringlet in the bowl and then lifted the knife to his own hair. Three quick saws and a short dark length came away. He angled the bowl so she could see the mix of his black hair, her brown curl, the boy’s blond lock, and a dull brownish hank—the last, no doubt, from the Pavor sire.

  “Quinn, a taper,” his lordship ordered.

  The man quickly lit a long thin candle from the fire and passed it to his master. Carlston glanced at Helen. “I apologize in advance for the stink.” He touched the flame to the hair in the bowl. A small hiss sounded, an eruption of flame, then the strong smell of sulfur wrinkled Helen’s nose. Behind her, Darby coughed.

  “You can understand why this part of the process is called Casting out the Devil,” Carlston said, waving away the pungent smoke. He peered into the bowl, angling it again to show Helen. “As you see, it is ash. We now mix that with a solution of seawater and milk to symbolize the ocean of milk from which the nectar of immortal life is drawn.”

  He lifted a pitcher from the side table and poured in a small amount of the diluted milk, then swirled the mixture in the bowl. “The Elixir of the Soul.” With a pointed glance in her direction, he raised it to his mouth and took a large swig, shaking his head as he swallowed, as if to force the stuff down his throat. “Disgusting,” he said, offering the bowl to Helen. “One large mouthful will be enough. I suggest you hold your nose.”

  Helen took the bowl, doubtfully eyeing the pale liquid within. His lordship had obviously taken the first draught to show her it was harmless, but still, the idea of drinking other people’s burned hair was nauseating. Nor did she like the idea of swallowing some kind of so-called magic potion.

  A soft moan from Jeremiah made up her mind: if their actions had a chance of helping him, she must do it. Taking his lordship’s advice, she clamped her nose between gloved forefinger and thumb and tipped the bowl. The liquid was salty, with a strong taste of bad eggs and sour milk. Foul. Her stomach lurched. Stoically, she swallowed once more, then passed the bowl back to his lordship.

  Swirling the elixir again, he caught Jeremiah’s chin and deftly poured some of it into the boy’s gaping mouth, closing his hand around the narrow jaw as the child swallowed and coughed.

  “Well,” Carlston said, replacing the bowl on the side table, “that is the easy part.” He held out his hand. “For the next part, we will need to forge a connection.” His gaze dropped to her hands in her lap. “Without gloves.”

  She peeled them off and then reached for Carlston’s hand across the boy’
s chest. The weight of her reticule dragged at her wrist. “Wait,” she said, “let me take this off too.”

  Two twists, and the drawstring was unwound from itself. As she slid it over her hand, the reticule swung before Jeremiah’s face: a rose silk pendulum. His eyes fixed upon it and he screamed, pushing himself away, hard, against the iron bar at the head of the bed. “Dead!” he sobbed. “Dead, dead, dead, dead.”

  Helen jerked her hand back, clasping the reticule to her chest. Immediately the boy quieted, collapsing back against the pillow, his thin chest heaving under his worn chemise.

  “What did I do?” she gasped.

  From outside the room, they heard Mr. Hammond say, “No, madam. You must not go in.”

  Carlston twisted around, gesturing Quinn to the door. He was there in a moment, blocking any possible ingress.

  “But my little boy . . .” Mrs. Coates’s voice, pleading. Poor lady.

  “You must trust Brother William. Please, sit back down.”

  The voices retreated. Quinn tilted his head, listening, then nodded to his master. “They are back in the other room.”

  His lordship took the reticule from Helen and swung it before Jeremiah’s face again. The boy’s eyes followed the arc. Carlston’s frown deepened.

  He handed the reticule back to Helen. “Try it again.”

  The scream was like a spike through her head. Carlston winced too. She pulled the bag away, and the shrieks stopped.

  “He does not seem fond of you or your reticule,” Carlston said dryly. “What is in it?”

  There could only be one thing that could affect the child of a Deceiver. “My mother’s miniature,” Helen whispered.

  “Ah, I see. Let us put that to the test. Show it to him.”

  “But it scares him.”

  “Yes, and I would like to know why.”

  Helen dug the miniature from the reticule and held it tightly as the life-forces in the room blossomed into blue shimmering outlines.