The Pact of the White Blade Knights

by Barbara Russell

  The music died down when a bell rang, and a few dancing couples gathered in the middle of the room.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please?” The master of ceremony raised his arms. “Lord McCormack-Brighton is pleased to show you a few of his most precious possessions, a collection of unique, Egyptians artefacts coming from the Valley of Kings.” He pointed at the sitting room. “Please, follow me to the exhibition chamber.”

  An excited murmur spread in the ballroom. Glasses clinked, and fast chatters were exchanged as the crowd marched into the room like a trained troop.

  Tyon walked behind Hazel, shielding her from the rest of the guests. “When you see the vase, tell me immediately.”

  “I’m curious to know what you’ll do if the vase is the item you want.” She entered the room and stopped next to the window.

  “I’ll buy it.” Or steal it.

  “Buy it? The vase must be worth a fortune.”

  One doesn’t live centuries without amassing some money.

  Lord McCormack-Brighton, displaying a well-greased dark moustache, beamed at his guests. Glass cases with Egyptian jewels full of lapis-lazuli surrounded him. “The passion for archaeology runs deep in my family. My grandfather worked with Herr Karl Richard Lepsius, the archaeologist who carried on one of the first excavations in the Valley of Kings.”

  Surprised ‘oh’s travelled through the room.

  He strolled towards a carved wooden chest resting on a marble stand. “My most recent acquisition is a canopy vase found in Vizier Paser’s tomb, the man who was rumoured to be King Ramses II’s best strategist.” He removed the lid of the chest and took out a black and okra terracotta owl. Yellow eyes seemed to regard the crowd with contempt. A new round of gasps drifted. Even the footmen muttered their awe.

  Tyon’s body tensed in anticipation. “Is it the one?”

  Hazel rose on her tiptoes. “Yes, the canopy vase I cleaned for two days. Not something I can forget.”

  Lord McCormack-Brighton fiddled with the vase’s top, blathering something else about the great general whose heart now resided in the owl jar.

  Tyon unbridled his power and directed it towards Hazel. Her aura glowed in shades of jade and emerald as before, but crimson wisps intruded, pulsating angrily. Her aura hadn’t showed crimson tendrils last time he’d checked it. And what did crimson mean? Auras were simple to interpret—white and blue for goodness, black and grey for sins, green for those humans who had touched a hollow. But crimson?

  “Well?” she asked, tilting her head. “Is it your lost item?”

  “I’m not sure.” Damn. Where was the bright green he was supposed to see?

  Her eyes widened, pink flushing her face. “Why are you staring at—”

  A scream ripped the air. Other shouts resounded. A thud resonated.

  Tyon whipped around and pushed Hazel behind him. People shrank back from the chest and Lord McCormack-Brighton, forming a wide circle.

  The vase lay on the floor, cracked in half. A slit crossed the owl’s face between the eyes. A severed hand oozed blood in the middle of the room, slender fingers stretched out as if to reach something. Blood spotted a golden ring with a rounded ruby.

  A man stared at the mess of blood and terracotta pieces, his mouth hanging. A lady fainted in a heap of skirts.

  Hazel’s soft hand closed around Tyon’s arm as she peeked around him. The urge to protect her, to be there for her overwhelmed any other emotions her touch ignited within him.

  Her bottom lip quivered. “A hand? Oh my goodness.”

  “What’s this?” a man asked.

  “Is this a sordid joke?” another said, half laughing, half shouting.

  People talked over each other. Someone snorted a laugh.

  Lady McCormack-Brighton staggered towards the hand, trembling fingers on her chest. “T-that’s Rachel’s ring. That’s Rachel’s ring.” She backed on wobbly legs and leaned against the wall.

  “Go to Rachel’s chamber, now,” Lord McCormack-Brighton shouted to a maid and staggered out of the room, neck sweating.

  Hazel stood so close now her heartbeat thudded against Tyon’s back. “Is this part of the item’s work? Part of the sorcery?”

  “No.” He regarded her aura again. The crimson tendrils pulsated angrily, the green receding.

  Her aura changed, a severed hand found in the vase—the hallow had to be contaminated with evil. Which meant a sin-breather knew the owl was a hallow. How?

  A maid brought a glass of water to Lady McCormack-Brighton when another shout thundered. Tyon closed his fists as footsteps ran from the upper floor.

  “What’s happening now?” Hazel clung to his arm with both hands.

  Lord McCormack-Brighton stormed into the room, his tuxedo dishevelled, the bowtie hanging from his collar. “Rachel is dead in”—he tottered —“dead, in her bed. Her hand has been cut.”

  Chapter 8

  THE POLICE OFFICERS’ blue uniforms crammed the ballroom of Lord McCormack-Brighton. Hazel paced in front of one of the windows that opened to the manicured garden of the mansion. Flowerbeds, rose bushes, and exquisite marble statues formed a butterfly pattern bathed in moonlight. A beautiful, romantic view where she could easily picture herself strolling hand in hand with . . . She glanced at Tyon. With someone like him. The thought of a romantic promenade and the view were in stark contrast with the horror and agony going on in the house.

  The severed hand kept flashing in her mind while Lady McCormack-Brighton’s heart-breaking scream still rang in her ears. That poor girl.

  Arms folded over his chest, Tyon leaned against the wall, his keen gaze trailing the officers’ movements like a hawk.

  She stopped next to him. “What did that detective . . . Mr?”

  “Harrisons.”

  “What did Harrisons say?” she asked.

  “He’ll ask us a few questions. After that, we’ll be free to go.”

  “Free to go?” she almost hissed. “We shouldn’t be here. We don’t have an invitation and that unfortunate girl died. Don’t you think the police will find our presence here suspicious?” Anger was good. It made the scream in her mind stop and the bloody image of Rachel’s hand go away. Besides, she had enough of Tyon’s secrets and endless riddles. Sorcery didn’t exist, but this was real. A girl was dead for real, and that bloody vase was involved with it.

  “Let me handle this. We’ve done nothing wrong,” he said in a calm, measured tone.

  She threw a hand up. Discussing with him was a lesson in disappointment. “I don’t believe the police will care about what we did. We’re still suspicious. How can you be so calm?”

  He slanted her a glare. “What makes you think I’m calm?”

  “Well, you—” She shook her head. He was the hardest man to read, always composed. She couldn’t guess what he was thinking. “Leave it.”

  “Madam?” Detective Harrisons tipped his hat towards her in greeting. “I’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.”

  Hazel wiped her clammy hands over her skirt. “Of course.”

  “Tyon, would you please follow me as well?” Harrisons lifted his pointed chin at him.

  She shot Tyon a questioning look. “Do you know each other?” she whispered.

  He replied with a nod.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t ask,” he replied.

  She rubbed her tired eyes. “I don’t even want to comment on this.”

  On wobbly legs, Hazel followed Harrisons to a parlour. Leon had mentioned something about the police turning a blind eye on Tyon’s activity because he bribed them. Hellfire, what kind of mess was she into?

  Bright orange flames danced in the fireplace, but cold clung to her bones. She perched in an armchair and closed her hands over her knees.

  Tyon stood next to her, stern and motionless like a bodyguard. A couple of officers raised their gazes from the notepads they were scribbling on.

  “So, Sebasty
on Sancerre. I should’ve known I’d find you here.” Harrisons let out a half chuckle.

  Hazel stiffened, not sure the detective meant it in a funny way or in a ‘I’m going to lock you up’ way.

  He read from a page on the desk. “And your lovely companion is?”

  “Miss Hazel Ravenwood,” she and Tyon replied together.

  “You aren’t in the guests’ list.” Harrisons’s voice remained flat, but a slight accusatory note crept in it.

  Hazel squirmed on the soft cushion and opened her mouth, but Tyon was faster.

  “We didn’t receive an invitation,” he said. “The master of ceremony let us in.”

  “For what reason?” Harrisons sounded genuinely curious.

  “I asked nicely.” Tyon gave a one shoulder shrug. “We wanted to see Lord McCormack-Brighton’s collection.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose as a sudden vision of her locked in a cell in her ridiculously expensive gown filled her mind.

  Harrisons twitched his thin moustache. It added an aristocratic touch to his slender face. “Where were you, miss, between eight thirty and ten past nine?”

  She cleared her throat. “We arrived here twenty to nine and barely sipped a glass of champagne when the accident occurred.”

  “It was no accident.” Harrisons stroked the fire with a poker, and red sparks shot up. “Miss Rachel was killed.”

  “How?” Tyon asked.

  Harrisons shot a nervous glance at Hazel.

  Tyon gave the slightest nod. “You don’t have to worry about sugar-coating the matter for the lady. Miss Hazel won’t faint listening at the murder’s details. She is a strong woman.”

  Am I? She didn’t feel so confident, but Tyon’s words relaxed her shoulders a bit. His trust and admiration meant a lot.

  “Someone,” Harrisons said, “likely a guest, sneaked up to Rachel’s room and stabbed her repeatedly with a knife, a kitchen knife. Before cutting off her hand.”

  A hard lump of emotions clogged Hazel’s throat. While she’d been sipping champagne and worrying about her dress, a girl had been stabbed to death. Tears burned her eyes, and she sniffed.

  Tyon offered her his handkerchief, his amber eyes hot with turmoil. “I don’t understand, Detective. How could the killer have stabbed Miss Rachel then put her severed hand inside the canopy vase without being noticed? Besides, wouldn’t the killer be dirty with blood?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to assess here, and we found a discarded leather apron, one of those butchers use, on the balcony of Miss Rachel’s room. The killer couldn’t walk around in it, and their clothes might’ve stayed spotless.” Harrisons stared at Hazel from under heavy lids. “Do you know Sir Morris Andrews?”

  Tyon shifted a fraction, and the tendons on the back of his hands stood out.

  The tremor in her hands froze like the rest of her body. “I, I do.” She bit her tongue before she could ask what Sir Morris had to do with anything.

  “Are you well acquainted?”

  “I worked at the museum for a while, and Sir Morris is the head of the Royal Archaeological Society. We saw each other often, but I can’t call him a close friend of mine.”

  Harrisons’s shoulders slumped. “Has he ever mentioned Miss Rachel?”

  Hazel wriggled the bergamot-scented handkerchief, replaying the few occasions she’d conversed with Sir Morris. She’d been too busy swatting his hands away and he insulting her to have a proper chat, and when they’d been with other people, they’d always talked about work. “No, sorry. As I said, we aren’t close.”

  “Did you hear any rumour about Sir Morris courting Miss Rachel?”

  She sank her teeth into her bottom lip and shook her head.

  Harrisons stroked the fire again, his gaze on the flames. His hard pushes caused the fire to blaze.

  Silence stretched, and Hazel cast a furtive glance at Tyon, but he wasn’t staring at her. He was half turned towards the two officers shuffling papers on the table.

  Harrisons dropped the poker. “That’s all for now. You may go. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  “I shall see you later, Detective,” Tyon said with a curt bow of his head.

  Harrisons replied in the same fashion.

  Hazel sagged in relief and staggered to her feet.

  Tyon remained silent next to her as they crossed the ballroom, the foyer, and made their way through the throng of officers, pale ladies, and whispering guests.

  Once in the carriage, she plonked down onto the seat and huddled her shawl tighter around herself. “What was all that interest in Morris? You and the butler didn’t let him in.”

  “He courted her, but she rejected him.” Tyon tugged at his trousers leg, probably adjusting the fabric over his damn cilice.

  “How do you know that?”

  “It was written in one of the papers the officers were working on. I guess Morris is their suspect, but since he’s a toff, the police are reluctant to formally charge him unless proof is found.”

  She didn’t like Sir Morris. The man was a swine, but a murderer? “He doesn’t seem to have the wit to plot something like this.”

  “I agree, but we might underestimate him, and he isn’t an honest man.” The way he said it sounded like he had evidence about Sir Morris’s ethics. Well, aside from the fact that Sir Morris had groped her.

  “What about the canopy vase? The police have it now.”

  “I have a bigger problem.” He flexed his fingers over his knees, hunching his massive shoulders. “The vase has been contaminated with evil.”

  It took a moment to register his words. “The vase is contaminated with evil? What’s that supposed to mean?” A sharp note rang in her voice, but goodness, was Tyon deranged and believed in sorcery, or was she missing something?

  He didn’t flinch at her tone and rubbed the back of his neck slowly. “The killer used the vase to put the severed hand in it.”

  As if this explained everything. Impatience burned her tongue. “And?”

  “I can’t use it until it’s been cleansed, which means we have to identify the killer and take one of their possessions to restore the hallow’s pureness.”

  That did it. Hazel slammed a hand on the seat hard enough to hurt her palm, but the sting helped her focus. “We? I don’t think so. My job for you ends here. I didn’t sign up for playing detective, follow a killer, and being involved in some kind of witchcraft.”

  Again, no reaction from him. “I can’t use the vase without your help,” he said in a perfectly calm voice.

  “A girl was murdered!” She breathed so fast her chest almost spilled out of her bodice. “And her hand has been found inside your bloody vase. Are you involved in this?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, please.”

  He trailed golden eyes on her. “I told you I don’t lie.”

  “But you don’t tell the truth either.”

  “I tell you what I can,” he gritted out, a tendon twitching in his neck.

  So even brooding Tyon could get angry.

  “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go on alone.” Money was a motivation to an extent. Killers and witchcraft were out of her field of expertise. She missed the boring days spent translating documents and cleaning dusty artefacts in the quiet rooms of the museum.

  His jaw contracted, and he faced the window. “I understand you’re distraught by what happened, but my quest is of utter importance, and I do need you.”

  “Then tell me the whole story.” She leaned closer, rising her voice. “What’s your quest? How can you find a person with a vase? Why do you wear a cilice, and why can’t I touch you?” Perhaps she’d added too much emphasis on the last question.

  “You won’t believe me.”

  “Try me.” And it wasn’t like she believed him now.

  His shoulders sagged when he released a breath. “There’s a curse.”

  “Ah, sorcery again. I see.” She shifted back in the seat in a swish of silk against supple leather.r />
  He gave her a pointed glare. “It’s real. Sorcery is real.”

  “I think you believe this.”

  She brought up the lapels of her shawl and curled into a corner of the seat. A pang of sorrow speared her at the thought of not seeing him again, not helping him after she’d given her word, but a young woman died, and his explanation—or lack of thereof—wasn’t enough.

  “Hazel—”

  She brought up a palm, silencing him. “Enough. If you keep talking poppycock, then I don’t want to hear it.”

  The hurt expression smouldering his features didn’t soften her. No sir. It didn’t.

  “This is why my father was kicked out of the Royal Archaeological Society,” she whispered. “He believed sorcerers were real, wrote a paper about them, and dedicated his whole life chasing absurd clues about magicians and who knows what else.” She let out a huff, not sure why she was sharing her story with Tyon. But he had to understand why talking about witchcraft opened an old wound.

  He propped his chin on his closed fist, his attention all for her.

  She continued, “He bankrupted us. After being ridiculed by the scientific community and without funds, he used all our money to finance his research. He travelled around the world, said he found evidence of magic in an ancient temple somewhere in Turkey. He sent us a telegram. ‘I’m excited to tell you, I finally have proofs.’” Tears welled in her eyes. “That was the last time we heard from him. He was found dead in Ankara. Bandits mugged him, stripped him of his possessions, and shot him. All for his stupid beliefs.” She wiped away a tear, the pain still fresh. Her mother’s pale and shivering face flashed through her mind.

  “What happened to you and your mother?” he asked, his tone surprisingly gentle.

  “We worked hard, accepting every honest job we could. We barely saw each other during those months so much we worked. Then she fell sick. Consumption. A quick type of the malady. She was gone in a few weeks.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She closed her fists. “So you see now why I don’t believe in sorcery.”

  “The fact you don’t believe it doesn’t mean sorcery isn’t real.”

  Hellfire. He was deluded. The carriage came to a rocking halt in front of her apartment building. Without waiting for Tyon, she flung the door open and climbed out. He wouldn’t offer his hand, anyway.