“Yes, that makes sense. Tell me, Charles, how did Albert die?”
He swallowed hard, not wishing to relive it, but knowing that eventually he’d have to confess it all to Beth, but he simply could not face it now. “Smallpox, back in ’78.”
“Smallpox? Oh, how tragic! I remember that outbreak. Late fall, wasn’t it?”
“November through mid-December,” he recalled darkly. “Albert was one of the last victims.”
“That must have been very hard to take,” she said, her eyes fixed on his. “You have such a tender heart, my dear. I expect that’s probably what these dreams are about. Your mind is still working through all the changes you’ve experienced, especially these Redwing attacks, so it harkens back to other, dark times.”
The front bell sounded, and Charles glanced out the large, south-facing window to see if a carriage had pulled into the gravel park. “Strange. I see no coach.”
Voices arose in the foyer, that of the butler and another; one all too familiar to the detective. “If you’ll excuse me, Aunt. I shan’t be long,” he stated, heading for the drawing room doors.
In the foyer, Miles was speaking with a dark-haired man in a cutaway coat and green fedora hat. His gleaming boots were topped with white spats, and his handsome features accented by black brows and a pencil thin, waxed moustache.
“Allow me to handle this, Miles,” the detective said, taking the visitor by the coat collar and turning him out onto the portico. “You are not welcome here, Mr. Best.”
“So everyone keeps telling me,” the reporter replied, brushing at his coat with yellow gloves. “My! Such manners. One would expect a bit more refinement from a marquess.”
“I am a policeman first and foremost, Mr. Best, and I shall happily drive you all the way into Whitechapel, if you wish. There, you can enjoy the same accommodations that Mr. O’Brien experienced. Why are you here?”
“Merely doing my duty, Lord Haimsbury. I wish to obtain a quote for tomorrow morning’s edition. Is that not fair of me? It’s said that you investigated last night’s horrifying Soprano Slaying, along with Superintendent Dunlap. Tell me, sir, did you draw the same conclusions as your A-Division colleague? That this is Jack, expanding his reach into the west?”
Sinclair had no intention of offering anything substantive regarding the true injuries inflicted upon Pamina Soubret, so he shook his head. “I was there, but only as a favour to Mr. Irving, the proprietor. Dunlap’s the one to interview, Best. He lives in Mayfair, on Duke Street.”
Best shrugged. “Yes, I’m aware of that, sir, but surely you can offer something more than that. What about the bite marks found upon the young woman’s forearms and face? Do you not think the sighting of a wolf, not far from the theatre, in Pall Mall connected? And what about the Victoria Park slayings? My sources tell me that those poor women were also profusely bitten.”
“I’ve no idea what you mean, Best,” Sinclair lied. “There are no wolves in London, save for those in Regent’s Park at the zoo. Move along before I arrest you.”
“For what, sir?”
“For disturbing the peace.”
“And whose peace would that be, Superintendent?”
“Mine. Now, leave whilst your legs are still functional.”
Miles returned to the portico along with two tall footmen, and the slightly built reporter tipped his hat. “Tis a shame. I shall have to write ‘no comment when asked’ for you, Superintendent. I’m sure your ardent followers across the world will be sorely disappointed.”
Charles ignored this last jibe and turned ‘round, leaving the foyer and rejoining his aunt in the drawing room.
“Another of those vulgar reporters, I take it?” she said, setting down a copy of the Times. “You know, I generally enjoy reading the news, but these indefatigable men employ rather vexing means to find their scandalous content. Having them constantly cluttering the doorstep is becoming a trifle irritating. Of course, reporters will regret running afoul of the staff here. Miles may appear to be mild-mannered, but he used to serve as a field agent under the duke. He trained as a boxer, and he’s a rather fine marksman.”
“Is he?” Charles asked, his mind on Best’s remark about bite wounds. How does the reporter know? Who at Scotland Yard told him?
“Charles, why do you ask that with such an odd tone? Is there something else that’s happened? You seem preoccupied, my dear. I hope our conversation hasn’t added to your worries.”
“My worry basket is already quite full, Tory. Does Redwing ever give us a respite? Time to breathe and just enjoy life?”
She returned the silver, cigarette case to her handbag. “Not often. I was overjoyed to have nearly four years of peace whilst Elizabeth lived with me. Seldom, did trouble arrive, but even when it did, it departed quickly. It seems to me that Redwing’s ranks have tripled their efforts since you and she returned to London.”
“Yes, it does,” he whispered, thoughtfully. “Perhaps, Beth should never have come back to London this year. This may be all my fault.”
Both sat quietly for a few moments, and Charles gazed out the window at the night sky, his mind on Warren’s strange behaviour and the spate of deaths in recent weeks.
“So, have you decided to grow a beard after all?” she asked suddenly, completely changing the subject.
He turned to stare at her, finding the question odd, as he had shaved only that morning. “Ah, I see. You are clever, Aunt,” he replied as he stroked his shadowed chin and cheek. “You wish to take my mind off dark thoughts through idle chatter. As to the stubble, my facial hair grows rather quickly. Amelia used to make me shave twice daily. Should I grow a beard, do you think?” he asked.
“Shave until the wedding at least, and then decide about a beard later. Your beard had grown quite a bit when I first met you. Despite Elizabeth’s jests about pirates, I thought it quite becoming, actually.”
She grew silent, gazing into Sinclair’s face thoughtfully. His attention had left the windows and now fell upon a large portrait of Elizabeth as an eleven-year-old, painted when she was named Duchess of Branham.
“That’s how Beth looked when we first met,” he said, pointing to the painting. “It seems so long ago now. Like another life. For her and for me.”
“Your mind lingers upon troubling thoughts, Nephew. You’re very worried about her, aren’t you?”
“It’s that obvious?”
“Only to me, I suppose. It’s your eyes, Charles. They are so much like my sister Angela’s. Your mother used to get that same look whenever she worried. Beth is safe. We won’t let anything happen to her. Paul, in particular, will always keep an eye on her, which is why you should tell him of your plans to sleep inside her bedroom.”
“You think he’ll object?” Sinclair asked.
“I think he’ll understand, but I’m sure it will affect him, my dear.”
Charles began to scribble on the notepad again, trying to organise his thoughts for the circle meeting. “My cousin assures me that he’s over his affections, but I doubt I could have gotten over mine, had she chosen him.”
“Of course, he’s not over them!” she exclaimed. “Nor will he ever be, but he would never allow harm to come to her—or to you. Paul has deep affection for you, Charles.”
“And I for him,” Sinclair replied. “But he is human, after all. Beth is a rare and beautiful woman.”
“She is indeed, but as I’ve said, Paul is accustomed to switching off his emotions. It is a sad truth, but he often must use that gift in his travels. You’ve no worries there. So, do you plan to remain with the police?” she asked, changing the topic again.
“Yes. I think so, at least for the present,” he answered. “I received a letter from Lord Salisbury this morning, saying he wants to meet with me right after the wedding. I keep hearing rumours of a promotion, but I shall only take a position that will all
ow me to continue on the Ripper case. And I will not serve anywhere but London.”
“Good. I hope you manage to keep that promise. Connor tried to remain in London, but he was always being posted hither and yon. Beth will want you near.”
“And I shan’t disappoint her. Victoria, what can you tell me about this Romanian prince?”
“The one who struck Elizabeth? No more than I’ve already said. Why?”
“Because, I’ve seen him. Here. At Queen Anne.”
She gasped, sitting forward, her hands tensing. “When?”
“This very morning, when I was crossing the park on my way to have my photograph taken. He cannot be human.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he vanished into thin air. What human can do that?” he asked.
“You must tell James and Paul about this, but say nothing to Elizabeth.”
“I have no plans to tell her,” he assured Victoria. He opened his mouth to say more, but was preempted when Adele burst into the room, her face pale, blue eyes wide as saucers.
“Cousin Charles! Aunt Victoria! Hurry! It’s Beth! She’s fallen down the stairs!”
Chapter Twenty
8:45 pm
Whenever in London, Prince Anatole Pyoterovitch Romanov lived in a palatial suite at the luxurious Langham Hotel. The four-bedroom apartment sat on the northeast corner of the fifth floor, overlooking the busy traffic of Langham Place. The tall, coffered ceilings of each room played host to a light and shadow display, cast by the sparkling light of electric chandeliers, whilst four, Italian marble gas fireplaces teamed with steam heat to keep each room warm and moist, even in the dead of winter. Romanov seldom felt the need for such creature comforts, but his guests appeared grateful, so he paid close attention to the environs and all amenities expected by the upper class, human denizens of London.
His guest this evening was Sir William Trent, who had arrived in his customary, smug way, pretending his news would bring Redwing closer to their ultimate, infernal goal, but also as usual, the man’s presence proved more annoyance than enlightenment.
“Can you not see how important this is?” Trent continued, sipping the prince’s cognac and smoking an expensive Dutch cigar. “If my information is accurate—which I can assure you that it is—then we’ve very little time.”
“I have eternity. What do you have?” Anatole asked, his absentminded gaze lingering over the red wine, swirling in his glass.
“Anatole, you told me yourself, that widespread war is coming to Europe. If England is to lead in this and rise as the centre of a new world empire, then we must have a suitable heir ready to reign! Edward is an idiot, and his son worse than useless. When Victoria dies, Redwing’s new king must be ready to assume control of the empire...unless there is a new plan you’ve not shared with me.”
“Are you making a statement, or asking a question, human?”
Trent despised Romanov, especially when the angel touted his perceived superiority to the race of men. “Neither. I merely point out that she must bear a healthy son very soon.”
“Yes,” the entity whispered, distracted by a thousand other thoughts. “All proceeds as planned.”
“Does it? How do we know that? Should we not make certain of it?” the human persisted, angrily.
“I know it. That should suffice.”
“Your assurances grow weak, Anatole,” Trent dared to remark. “Perhaps, your position within the council diminishes.”
Romanov glared at William Trent, his glittering eyes narrow, focused into rays of cold steel. “Do you wish to die so soon, human? Never forget just who I am and what my office is.”
Though inwardly terrified, Trent refused to back down. “How can I forget, since you remind me so often? How do you expect the round table members to trust you, when you continually threaten us with annihilation? If we are to trust you, Anatole, then you must learn to trust us.”
“Why should I trust in your limited, visionless solutions? You’ve no idea what vision truly is! You and your round table members foolishly believe that parading about in the skins of animals beneath the streets of London actually brings you power. How limited your imaginations are!”
“You think us limited?” Trent parried back. “Are the police of London not rushing about to uncover the true face behind those revelries? Power is only good so long as it is used. Perhaps, yours is beyond my reach, for now, but prophecies predict the rise of a man who will stand at the pinnacle of the new kingdom. Must we not make certain that this man belongs to us? You, yourself, showed me that future fifty years ago. Has it altered, or were you mistaken in your vision?”
“It has not altered,” the angel replied simply.
“Then, we have three decades at most before chaos erupts across the civilised world. If you are unable or unwilling to intervene, then perhaps another of your kind should assume your office.”
The prince’s muscular body snapped to attention, and his long fingers closed into fists. “Beware hasty alliances, Sir William. You place your faith in agents of change with no true seat of power. Long not for death, my ambitious friend, for it comes when you least expect it.”
“And the future? All depends on a child of the right blood lines!” the human dared shout.
“I have foreseen a child coming within the next year, and the bloodlines are perfect. Rest upon that fact.”
“How secure is that so-called fact, Anatole? Is it a male?” Trent persisted. “It must be male, or else all our plans will fall to nothing!”
Anatole turned towards the window, considering the future, calculating ten thousand possible outcomes, for he’d become bored with the small man’s impertinence. “Yes, yes, so you say,” the prince replied, irritation rising. “The heir must be male. That is an ancient plan—one not made by you, I might add. I do not forget; I assure you. A world war does indeed lie upon the horizon, and the promised heir will need to be of age when it begins.” He turned back ‘round, facing Trent, his irises turned into orbs of ebony. “Yet despite your advocacy for focus and speed, Sir William, you continue to engage in side projects, which draw the ire of the police and the attention of the round table’s ancient enemies: the Stuart family and their precious inner circle. If time is so important to you, then why must you squander it by laying petty traps and lures for Charles Sinclair?”
“I do no such thing,” the baronet denied.
The Russian prince smiled. “Lying comes easily to you, doesn’t it? Lie to anyone you wish, human, but never lie to me. I’ve seen you keeping company with them. My brother and his renegade son. Raziel’s misplaced loyalty will bring him back into chains, and that half-breed child of his is vulnerable and weak.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Trent blustered, finishing the last of his wine and pouring a second. “Rasha is a half breed? How is that?”
Romanov laughed loudly. “Do not feign ignorance to me! You and that ragtag round table of yours have been plotting with Razarit Grigor for over ten years! Why is it you trust him, when my power is so much greater? Grigor is only half elohim. His human half will die just as you will die. And his mind is nothing compared to mine! How foolish you humans are—how very small, how naive.”
“Rasha is useful for now,” Trent suggested, returning to his chair. “I place no allegiance with him, or with his father. And just how did Raziel father a hybrid anyway? Who is the mother?”
“He did not tell you?” Anatole asked, his eyes slowly returning to their normal shade. “I admit to surprise. He so loves to brag about his successes. Raziel never met Rasha’s mother—never knew her at all. Prince Rasha has two human parents. He is altered through blood magic.”
“Blood magic?” the human asked. “A rite of some kind?”
“It is a forbidden practise, involving a two-fold process. First, you inject the essence of our kind into the cells of the
human subject, and then perform numerous blood magic rituals to perfect the newly altered molecular structure. In time, the human qualities diminish, and the superior traits of the elohim manifest. It is similar to the way your abilities were achieved, though yours are quite inferior to Rasha’s.”
Trent’s eyes took on a greedy, envious look. “And why is that? Why should Rasha have powers I lack?”
Romanov smiled. “You lack the correct bloodlines, Sir William. Dragon’s blood requires the chalice of a dragon to hold it. You will never rise above your current, animalistic state. Be content with those powers you do possess, my covetous friend. Few humans can do what you can.”
Sir William tapped on his glass, pondering the cognac’s surface as if gazing into a crystal. “Why do you never serve more refreshing beverages, Anatole? Something with greater body and bouquet?”
“Blood, you mean? You truly are a petty man, aren’t you, Trent? Your blasphemous cravings will do nothing to advance Redwing’s goals. Do you truly believe the bloody mess that you and your friends left at the Lyceum will deter Sinclair from investigating you? Can you actually be that reckless? No, rather, I think you deliberately try to antagonise the man. Did Raziel advise you to go after Sinclair?”
“He foresees a different future,” Trent admitted. “One that does not require Sinclair’s blood.”
“Then my brother is willfully blind,” Anatole answered, his patience nearly at an end. “And if you throw in your lot with him, then you are doomed to failure as well.”
“And you have forgotten the original mission,” the baronet dared say. “Raziel has not. Your brother thinks you have lost your heart to a human, Romanov. And by doing so, you’ve lost all ability to reason.”
“My brother...!” he began to shout, but then the Russian prince restrained himself, growing silent for a moment. “What passes ‘twixt my brother and me is none of your business.”
“Have I struck a nerve? Raziel thinks you grow weak because of your affections, and I begin to see his point.”
Blood Rites Page 34
