Realms of Fire

by Sharon K Gilbert

  A footman entered the parlour with a message for Drummond. The duke took the note and then handed it back to the servant. “Thank you. I’ll take care of it at once.”

  “Is there a problem?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Nothing major. Booth asks if I’m staying here tonight or returning home.”

  “Do stay,” she urged him. “Then, we may all continue our talk tomorrow.”

  “You’ve twisted my arm!” he laughed. “I’ll just dash off a quick note. Won’t be long, Princess.” He kissed his granddaughter’s cheek, whispering as he did so. “You really should go to bed soon. You look worn out.”

  “I will, Grandpa. I promise.”

  Once through the foyer, instead of dashing off a note, Drummond climbed the main staircase to an apartment now being used by the earl. Inside, he found Salperton sitting at the edge of a canopied bed, running a series of medical tests.

  “What’s happened?” asked James. “When you and Charles returned without him, I assumed you were keeping something back. Is he ill?”

  “I’m not sure. There was a spot of trouble in that odd room off the library. A spiritual attack of some sort. Charles and I went looking for him and discovered the earl at the mercy of some mirror demon! I’ve never sensed anything so hateful, James. It looked as though she intended to pull him through to the other side. We had Baxter bring him up here, but now he’s showing signs of fever and a quick pulse. I think we have to assume it’s connected to the attack.”

  The elder Stuart stood at the end of the bed, staring at his nephew’s pale face. “Paul’s been injured many times in his life, but he’s hardly ever sick—not since he was a wee sprout. If he’s ill, then this demon must be the cause.”

  “I’ll stay here tonight, in case he worsens,” promised Salperton. “I’ve already sent word to Montmore. My nurse can look after my patients until tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Henry. You’re a good lad. I mustn’t be too long. Beth’ll grow suspicious. Baxter will find you a place to sleep.”

  “I’ll remain in here. I’m fine on the sofa.”

  Drummond slapped the viscount on the back in typical male fashion, letting him know his feelings without the need for emotional words. “As I said. You’re a good lad.”

  Once the door was shut, Salperton knelt at the foot of the bed to pray, for he had a very dark, troubled sense all through his spirit. Not since the week at Anatole’s castle had the Scotsman felt so great a burden. He began to petition the Lord for mercy, pleading the blood of Christ and the intervention of his mighty warrior angels to protect the Stuart family and the inner circle members; but also, he added with great emotion, that the Lord might protect Violet Stuart and help her to recover her lost life.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  When Drummond returned to the drawing room, he entered in the middle of a conversation. Beth glanced up, touching her grandfather’s strong hand as he took the empty chair beside her. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Not at all. I was just sayin’ goodnight to your cousin. I’m sure Charles told you Paul’s gone upstairs to sleep. Poor lad’s worn through. He says he’ll see you in the morning, Princess, and sends his love.”

  She seemed satisfied with this, shifting in her chair to draw close to her grandfather, content to sit between the two men she loved most in this world.

  Drummond smiled, enjoying the glow of his grandchild’s affections as he returned to the previous topic. “Mr. Stoker, I missed your answer to Dolly’s question. Do you believe in demons as literal entities that can interact with our material world?”

  Stoker took a deep breath. “Here’s how I see it, sir. Modern scientists believe themselves pioneers in a world with no room for God; but a man with true wisdom, allows God’s truth to guide his quest. When God is removed, then demons rush into that vacuum. These are not phantasms of folklore; they are not mere myth. They exist just as we exist, here, now—perhaps, in this very room. We only perceive them when they choose to reveal themselves. I’ve done a great deal of research into this subject, and I tell you this: folklore is a civilised silvering to cover the hideous entities behind the looking glass. This mirror realm is the darkling reflection where demonic creatures linger and plot their evil stratagems. In short, we are not alone.”

  Elizabeth squeezed Sinclair’s hand, and he put his arm round her protectively once more. “Courage, little one,” he whispered. Then to the writer, he asked, “Mr. Stoker, is your new book a treatise on this theme?”

  Stoker set his empty glass on the gleaming coffee table, amongst silver trays of cross-cut sandwiches and iced desserts. “It’s a novel, based on research. I hope to show how humans battle against spiritual wickedness. The folklore of the Carpathian Mountains forms the central idea. I’ve discovered stories that circle round an historical person named Vlad Dracul, or Vlad the Dragon, a Romanian warrior with an unquenchable thirst for the macabre and horrifying. He’s said to have impaled his Ottoman enemies on pikes whilst feasting at a bountiful table in their presence.”

  Beth shuddered. “You mean he ate a meal as these men died? Slowly and in agony? How awful!”

  “So the legends say,” Stoker continued calmly. “In the Carpathians, locals also speak of werewolves and something they call the wampyr.”

  “What is that?” she asked, the mention of werewolves unnerving her a little.

  “A ghost or demon that lives on the blood of humans. A shape-shifter, you might say. It consumes blood in the way we drink wine. Perhaps, not only for pleasure or satiety, but for some spiritual purpose we’ve yet to fathom.”

  Elizabeth’s face paled. “Why would you choose to write about such things, Mr. Stoker? Have you experienced this wickedness? Have you seen demons? I know you hope to teach through fiction, but these are very distressing topics.”

  Dolly Patterson-Smythe, who had nerves of steel and infinite curiosity, began to laugh. “My dear girl, didn’t you read that Frankenstein book last year? And that other one; the book about the scientist who drank a potion that turned him into a diabolical fiend. You read that as well.”

  “Jekyll and Hyde, you mean,” Beth answered. “Yes, I read both those, but they’re make-believe, Dolly. Seeing ghosts and demons in the real world is far more frightening.”

  Stoker found the comment surprising. “Do you speak from experience, Your Grace?”

  Haimsbury answered for her. “My wife sometimes suffers from troubling dreams, Mr. Stoker, but she’s also experienced events that defy natural explanation.”

  Stoker was intrigued. “Have you? Then, allow me to relate a strange experience of my own. When I was a boy in Clontarf, I suffered from an illness that required me to remain bedridden for many months. It was during this time, that I began to perceive a world not available to us with our natural eyes. One night, I found myself unable to sleep. I was perhaps, five years old at the time. As I lay there, a shadowy figure crept into the room and stood in the corner, watching me. He had multiple arms, that had a spindly aspect to them. I remember thinking he resembled a squid, but as I looked more closely, I realised some of the arms were actually elongated wings, emerging from his back. This creature called upon me night after night during my illness. I said nothing to my mother about it, for his appearance seemed to me perfectly normal; though I cannot explain why.

  “One evening, I overheard my father speaking of a puzzling phenomenon. Sheep were dying from a mysterious illness up near Clontarf castle, and farmers were talking about a blood-sucking ghost, which the old folk called the Droch-fhola—which, as the duke must surely know, means ‘evil blood’ in Gaelic. Seven sheep and three dogs were taken by this creature. Had the losses been limited to animals, that would have been heavy enough, but people also began to grow ill and die. Seven in all, with not one drop of blood left in their veins. It was ruled the work of a wolf pack, but I always felt it had something to do with this winged shadow.
”

  A hush had fallen upon the room, each contemplating the disturbing account. Finally, Victoria broke the silence. “What a very strange story! Tell me, Mr. Stoker, does Ireland have many wolves? Might the authorities have been correct?”

  Elizabeth had begun to shiver, and Charles moved closer, pulling her into a comforting embrace. “Shall I take you upstairs?” he whispered.

  “No, I want to hear this. Do go on, Mr. Stoker.”

  Drummond nibbled on a ham spread sandwich, his eyes thoughtful. “You know, Mr. Stoker,” he said, swallowing. “I recall reading a report about those deaths. I even mentioned it to the other circle members.”

  “Circle?” the writer asked. “What group is that, sir?”

  James took a moment to answer. In truth, this was the real reason he’d asked Victoria to invite the writer: to decide if he might be a candidate for the inner circle. He decided to wait a while longer before revealing too much.

  “Ah, well, it’s merely a reference to those of us within the family who find such tales of interest. If memory serves, this was in the early ‘50s, just before I left for the Crimea. You know, I believe we sent someone to look into it.” He turned to the circle’s resident expert on the occult, Dr. Ed MacPherson. “Mac, do you remember any o’ that, or am I completely off the map?”

  “I shan’t comment as to your map, sir, but I do remember the assignment,” the cleric said with a smile. “I’m sure Martin recalls it as well.”

  Kepelheim was lost in thought, deciding whether another crumb cake slice would be a late night snack or an early breakfast. “Remember? Ireland, you mean? Oh, yes! Yes I do remember! Of course, I remember. Mac and I travelled to Clontarf together and investigated on behalf of our, uh, circle.”

  Stoker’s eyes brightened. “The circle again. I shouldn’t wish to pry, sir, but might this group be the inner circle?”

  “You know it?” asked Haimsbury, clearly shocked.

  “My father once spoke of it, and I’ve tried to uncover more about it, but with no luck. There are countless rumours, but very few facts.”

  “And what facts have you discerned, Mr. Stoker?” Charles enquired.

  “That it is run by your family, and that Duke James is the head.”

  Everyone grew quiet; looking from one to another, silently deciding whether or not to offer a response.

  At last, Drummond began to laugh, easing the tension. “Is that so? Then praise the Lord for it! It seems, Mr. Stoker, your research has led you to us for a reason. It’s true that the inner circle forms the core focus of our family, but I no longer lead it. Duke Charles is the head now. The inner circle endeavours to learn all we may about occult activities and these veiled demons you speak of. But we do so as Christians engaged in spiritual warfare, not as curiosity seekers or willing pupils who bend to the whims of the fallen realm. Was it ‘53 when you went to Ireland, Mac?”

  “1852, sir,” the cleric corrected.

  “Oh, yes, that’s right,” said Drummond. “Derby had just taken over as Prime Minister. We’d read about a series of mysterious deaths in Clontarf and sent agents to discover the truth of it. Tell me, Bram, how much do you remember of that time?”

  “I fear my memories are that of a six-year-old child, Your Grace. I know the hour is late, but I’d be interested in hearing Dr. MacPherson’s account, if he’s willing to share it.”

  The clergyman’s greying brows rose as he gathered his thoughts. “Let me see if I can recall it for you, Mr. Stoker. Martin and I were much younger, of course—thinner and even rather handsome, if you can believe it,” he added with a wink to Martin, who was enjoying the crumb cake.

  “A bit thinner, yes, but dashingly handsome!” Kepelheim grinned.

  “Well, one of us was, at least,” Mac teased. “We’d received an invitation from our inner circle contacts in Dublin, asking us if we might prove or disprove the wolf theory. Martin and I arrived in Dublin in mid-April and then travelled north to your village, where we were met by the Reverend William Kemptson of the Clontarf Parish church.”

  “Yes, St. John’s. I was baptised there!” exclaimed Stoker. “How strange that you speak of my home with such familiarity.”

  “Then, my memory isn’t failing me yet,” Mac smiled. “Mr. Kemptson’s account made it clear that something out of the ordinary had invaded your village. He did not think it wolves.”

  Kepelheim interrupted. “To be frank, Mr. Stoker, even now, that trip gives me nightmares. The atmosphere that April would provide a chilling setting for any gothic tale of horror, but Mac and I hadn’t the luxury of closing the pages of a book. Rather, we lived it, along with you and many others.”

  “How many others?” Stoker asked. “Again, I seek only to reconcile it. A child’s memories are not always reliable.”

  “There were dozens, and you weren’t the only child who reported seeing a winged presence in your room at night. Mr. Kepelheim and I interviewed over thirty children who told stories much like your own. No, Mr. Stoker, the spiritual world is not fiction. It is a part of all the known and unknown realms, and these interact with ours in ways our limited senses find unsettling. Abraham is also your father’s name, is that right?”

  Stoker nodded. “Yes, it is.”

  “Your mother’s name was Charlotte?” continued MacPherson.

  “Yes, that’s correct. You spoke with her?” asked Bram anxiously.

  MacPherson poured himself a glass of water. “She was a lovely woman, intelligent but high-strung. Although, that may have been due to the topic of our conversation. Most of the parents we interviewed were quite shaken by the events that spring. We heard the spirits droch-fhoula and leannán-sí mentioned many times during our fortnight there, and we examined all the victims’ bodies—animal and human. Each was drained of blood, but there was another phenomenon that accompanied these murders. Not only were the corpses exsanguinated; some showed signs of cannibalism.”

  Kepelheim worried about the duchess, for her face grew evermore pale with each word. Rather than mention her directly, he used a different tack. “Bloodless corpses! Oh, my! Perhaps, our conversation has wandered too deeply into the maudlin, my friends. Lady Patterson-Smythe must think us all a pack of ghouls!”

  Dolly’s reaction hardly helped, for her response was to laugh. “Not a bit of it, Martin. Dickie and I often have conversations like this back in Goussainville. Our village may be small, but it’s steeped in all manner of ghoulish tales. In fact, there’s a very odd little group of people that attended one of my soirées this past summer. I think you and Beth met one of them, Tory. You remember the peculiar fellow Dickie called Mr. Sunshine?”

  Victoria shrugged, lighting a second cigarette. “Do you mean the chap who looked as though he’d eaten a rat? Always wore black with the most funereal expression. What was his name again? Something to do with rocks or metal. Mr. Stone? No, that doesn’t sound right.”

  “Mr. Flint,” said Elizabeth. “Albus Flint. He’s the solicitor for the Blackstone Society, and we met several times. Do excuse me, won’t you? I fear the food isn’t settling well, and I’m growing very tired. Tory, I’m sorry to leave you with hostess duties.”

  “Nonsense, it was my idea to have the party in the first place. Charles, go with her, but do come back once you’ve tucked her in. We’ve more to discuss.”

  The young duke took his wife’s arm to help her stand. “Forgive us, darling. I fear we’ve let our talk drift into very dark territory. We foolish men sometimes forget ourselves.”

  “You are anything but foolish, Captain,” she whispered. “Goodnight, everyone. Thank you for coming, Mr. Stoker. I hope you’ll visit us again.”

  The Sinclairs left the drawing room, and Drummond turned to the writer. “Now, let’s speak more openly. Tory, Reggie, this is now official. Are you in agreement?”

  “It’s why we asked Bram here, isn’t it,
James?” his sister asked.

  “Dolly, are you sure you wish to stay?” the duke asked Patterson-Smythe. “It could become intense. Dickie may prefer you return to the hotel.”

  “Nonsense, he’s long since gone to sleep. I’ve not sat in on a meeting since last May. I’ve rather missed it! Do go on.”

  “Shall I fetch Henry?” asked Kepelheim, starting to stand.

  “Not yet. We’ll fill him in when he comes back down.” Drummond reached for another sandwich. “Mr. Stoker, you are now privy to a conversation open to very few. The inner circle meetings are closed to outsiders, but from time to time, we allow a potential member to sit in and listen. Sometimes, we use that visit as an opportunity to assess the candidate’s fitness and willingness to participate. If you prefer to leave, we’ll understand completely.”

  Stoker’s dark eyes shone with open excitement. “I’d be a fool to leave, Your Grace. If this is an interview, then proceed with your questions. But may I first address one comment I heard earlier?”

  “Of course.”

  “I mentioned that I hope to teach my readers about the Christian response to spiritual wickedness. It’s a challenge to have such a work published these days, because the rise of scientism discounts such books as foolish or archaic. Therefore, I must be careful how I deal with the topic. We cannot deny that something unseen exists. And within that unseen world, live beings of immense power and capability. Some are loyal to God; others are not. These may offer us rewards in return for worship, but in truth they hate us.”