Ross’s head lowered in shame. “Yes, sir, but Irene was right. Whoring is all I know.”
He took her chin in his hand, tilting her face upwards. “Untrue. However, your entire life changed direction whilst there, did it not? Just one week after arriving at the Empress Hotel, you met two men who would forever alter your life. One would abuse you mercilessly for the next ten years. The other served as the solitary ray of hope in that nightmarish darkness: the handsome policeman with the beautiful smile and azure eyes.”
Her face went white. “How can you know that?”
“I told you; I know everything about you, Ida. I know that you are in love with this ray of hope, though you would never tell him. I also know that he cares about you as well. Charles Sinclair would be most upset if you do this.”
“If I do...what?” she asked, stunned.
“The river is very cold tonight,” he said. “Cold as the grave. Won’t you allow me to escort you to safety? The myth of the beautiful, drowned woman is only that: a myth. L’Inconnue de la Seine died hopeless and alone, despite her famed beauty. I also tried to stop her, but she refused my help. I hope you will not follow in that poor girl’s futile footsteps and pursue a watery grave, my dear Ida. Only poets profit from such an ignominious death.”
The dark waves licked hungrily against the dockside stairs, as if the ravenous river god awaited her decision. “Who are you? How do you know so much about me? About my thoughts?”
“I am your true friend,” he assured her, standing. “Take my hand, Ida Renée. Allow me to help you.”
Ross’s heart warned her to resist the beautiful man’s tempting smile, but the offer felt so welcome, so right, as if sent from heaven above. She had come to Billingsgate Dock to end her life, but the oppressing gloom and despair that haunted her thoughts suddenly felt lighter. Despite her doubt, she accepted the long, pale hand, and he drew Ida to her feet. Standing now beside him, Ross could see just how magnificently tall the man was, and that his regal bearing seemed strangely familiar—like something from a distant dream.
Ross smiled, her mind no longer fixed upon suicide. “Who are you, sir?” she asked.
“I shall tell you my name soon, Ida, but for now, just think of me as your guardian angel.” A crested brougham drawn by a pair of midnight black Friesians stopped in the lane that ran beside the Custom House, and he pointed towards it. “Come with me, Ida. I shall take you to safety and a new life.”
Ross allowed the enigmatic stranger to lift her into the interior of the sumptuous coach, and within seconds, the entire rig had disappeared into the dense fog.
As the coach departed, a second spirit creature landed upon the Custom House roof. Two small imps, their contorted limbs covered in rough scales, flanked the taller being. The gargoyles’ claws gripped the heads of the marble statues; leathery, bat-like wings folded against their curved spines.
“Do we eat now, my lord?” the taller imp snarled.
“Patience,” the Watcher replied. “All in good time.”
“Good? Time is not good! Time is a prison!” the second imp bit back; its black spittle dropping as frozen pellets upon the slate roof. “Why must we wait? Do you fear your brother?”
“I fear nothing!” the Watcher snapped, his eyes points of fire. “Nothing and no one. Our ultimate triumph draws ever nearer, but it requires that we free my other brethren.”
“All of them? That could take years, Lord Raziel! It is too long to wait. We hunger now, my lord. We crave sustenance!”
“As do I, Shishak,” the fallen angel replied, stroking the imp’s pointed ears. “The veins of this city’s humans pulse with a dark buffet of sweet delights. I do not think it would cause too many ripples if we enjoy a small taste.”
“A taste merely whets the appetite,” the younger complained. “If we must share this sweet buffet with your brethren, who then will be the first to emerge, my lord? Which merits such an honour?”
The Watcher smiled, his ice-blue eyes twinkling. “The foolish men of Redwing have uncovered the prison belonging to Saraqael, so he will be the first to join my army.”
“Did not Sara once aid in your imprisonment, Lord Raziel?” the elder enquired, his chameleon eyes twisting in all directions. “Why must he be freed at all?”
“Because I require all thirteen brethren, you fool! Do you know nothing of the old texts? However, once his usefulness is finished, I shall repay Sara for his treachery. I’ll repay all the traitors who bound me within that stone.”
The two imps gazed at one another, and the younger’s head tilted to one side. “Yours is the greatest power,” he declared with a low bow. “Since you speak of traitors, do you think Lord Samael has taken the woman for a reason, my lord?”
“Reason eludes my brother,” the Watcher answered with a sardonic smile. “Sama’s mind has turned to sentimentality, which makes him weak.”
“Then, might he be vulnerable, sir? Might he be easier to slay?”
The Watcher laughed. “Slay the slayer? A delightful thought, Globnick. Perhaps, we should follow him to see just why Samael has taken the woman. Summon your packs—both of you!—for we require many eyes to spy upon one so deviously powerful as Samael the Betrayer.”
Leaping with glee, the hideous gargoyles unfurled their wings and sounded their battle cries—squawking and squealing in high-pitched calls audible to few, save their loyal minions.
Below the slate roofline, Eddy Morrain, the younger of the two watchmen, had just left the west entry of the Custom House to relieve himself, when he heard animal cries rise up in the distance. A shiver ran through his rawboned frame, and Morrain felt certain he heard a kind of cruel laughter, ringing like an unwelcome, animal chorus against the city’s night sky. Hundreds of black rats rushed past, and a red fox ran across the lanky lad’s path, stopping to stare at him with eyes that looked eerily human; its sharp snout open as if to speak.
Suddenly, the voices of a thousand animals of all kinds rose up from every direction. The nocturnal chorale followed the retreating coach, and the Cerberean pack snapped at its turning wheels; the terrifying cacophony causing yellow gaslights in houses along the path to spring to life.
Hastily buttoning the fly of his woolen trousers, the young night watchman wanted only to return to the refuge of the Custom House, but a monstrous, inky shadow suddenly obscured the white face of the waning moon, and the air temperature dropped by ten degrees. Turning about, the youth could see something enormous leave the roof, the shadowy figure shaped like a gigantic man; but then it sprouted wings so wide that even the stars winked out momentarily.
As he raced back into the building, Morrain crossed himself, certain that he’d just seen Satan himself.
Not far from the Custom House, Maxwell ‘Stinky’ Tubbs, one of the city’s few remaining nightsoil men, guided his laden cart towards his next stop in the east, just the other side of Bishopsgate. He, too, saw the mammoth nightmare pass overhead, but Tubbs could also see the dense, supernatural pack that pursued the black brougham. This hellish mob rushed towards the coach and pair, eyes red as flame, and it seemed to Tubbs that the animals’ shaggy legs never touched the ground. But there was no mistaking what they were: Wolves. Enormous, grey wolves, some on all fours, some running upright like men, calling to one another in hideous, black speech.
Tubbs could hear their dark conversation. Even understand it, for something translated it inside his head:
Snarl! Claw! Rend and bite!
Satan rises on this night!
Blood and flesh and cracking bones;
Enter all their happy homes!
Destroy the world of men and then;
Our fallen world will rise again!
Crush the skull and bind the head;
And hail the king amongst the dead!
Far away, on a lower level hospital ward, beneath the streets of Hackney
Wick, a desperate man writhed upon a narrow cot, his pointed ears twitching as he listened to his altered brethren sing the hideous rhyme.
The king amongst the dead, he thought to himself, as the remaining portion of his once human brain strained to recall the boy’s face. Five years old, he was. Tall, kind, with eyes of a unique, azure blue. He’d once called the boy his friend—or so the hybrid man believed.
Had the boy been there that day? The day when his father had died?
Now, why is it I keep remembering it? the man worried. I was there, all right. Standin’ alongside the other one. The cruel angel with the pistol smoking in his hands.
A beautiful woman had rushed out of the mansion at the sound of the gun’s report, and she’d bent low to hear the dying man’s last words. Then, she’d turned pale with fright and raced back towards the house to find the child.
But the boy was already there, standing upon the green. He’d seen it all. Watched his father shot down like a helpless rabbit upon the manicured lawn of his own home.
Rose House.
That was the name of it. Rose House!
Why does the story make me sad? the man wondered. His transformed mind struggled with the painful memories. Why should blood make him sad? Why should a child’s pain—his tears—make him so very sorrowful?
And where had he seen those same eyes since that day? He’d smelled the child only recently—on that other one. The hospital visitor. The old man with the white hair and top hat.
But I’m an old man, too, the patient thought, looking down at his leather-bound wrists and forearms. Their once papery skin used to hang upon the thinning bones like crepe upon a widow’s back, but not today. Not now. New, firm muscle and glorious hair rippled along the powerful limbs now!
But the boy. What of the boy? He’d seen those same, distinctive azure eyes here in London once. He felt certain of it. He’d seen them in the east...but where?
The boy was an adult now, and he’d worn a uniform.
That’s it! A uniform made of darkest blue with brass buttons, and a tall helmet sat upon his curling black hair, just above those unforgettable eyes of azure blue.
The king! the unbalanced hybrid thought wildly. My king! The boy king with the beautiful eyes and the perfect blood.
And he was crying.
Now, why does that make me sad?
Fury overwhelmed the man’s altered mind, and a hideous strength surged through his bound limbs. No, I’ll wait, he reasoned, the human part of his brain regaining control over the animal instinct. I’ll wait a little longer. Wait until HE calls me. The Other One. The nice angel. Perhaps, he’ll help the boy again. Allow me to help, too.
A tear ran down his cheek, and the hybrid creature began to weep great, anguished tears. “Forgive me, sir!” he whispered aloud. “Lord above, forgive me! If there is redemption for one such as myself, I beg you to reveal it!” he whimpered. “I don’t want to do these things anymore!”
Chapter One
8:56 pm – Queen Anne House, Westminster
“That was the most delightful lamb I’ve had in months. Nay, make that years,” James Stuart, 11th Duke of Drummond, gushed, patting his belly as the family left the mansion’s dining hall. With Mary Wilsham on his arm, the head of the Stuart clan led everyone into the music room. “Do sit, Mary,” he told the plump woman. “Della, why don’t you entertain us with a few of those Scottish airs I like so much. A bit o’ Bobby Burns settles the stomach as no other music can.”
Dressed in a yellow silk skirt and white blouse, trimmed in blue ribbons and ruffles, Lady Adele Marie Stuart skipped lightly to the Bösendorfer grand piano, where she lifted the hinged seat and glanced through a collection of sheet music. “I don’t see any of them here, Uncle,” she told the duke. “They must still be packed with my things at your house.”
“I had Mrs. Chambers send over all your bags, Della,” Elizabeth Stuart told her young cousin. “Lester and Carter carried them upstairs whilst we ate.”
“Did they?” the girl asked, her eyes bright. “All of them?”
“All of them,” the duchess answered as Charles Sinclair helped her to a soft chair. “Your Uncle James has agreed to allow you to remain here with me until after the wedding. I require your expert advice on music, but also in choosing the perfect flowers and jewellery.”
Adele threw her arms around the duchess’s slender neck, kissing her liberally on both cheeks. “Oh, Cousin Beth, that is so very nice! Thank you! But is it all right with my brother? He is my guardian, you know. When is he returning, Cousin Charles?” she asked the marquess. “Hasn’t Paul been at Whitehall a very long time?”
Sinclair drew a second chair close to his fiancée. “Your brother plans to be out most of the evening, Della. Dull government business, I should think. Won’t I do? Perhaps, I could help plan out some of those flower arrangements. Do they usually include weeds and lots of scrap metal? Bits of broken glass, perhaps? I’ve an old emblem from my first policeman’s helmet that would make a splendid centrepiece.”
Adele giggled as she embraced the marquess. “You are so very silly, Cousin Charles. I think it’s best that you don’t help with the flowers. Aunt Mary may do it, though. Shall I play some Brahms for you, Cousin? I’ve memorised almost all of Wiegenlied and several others, so I shouldn’t need the music.”
“That sounds quite lovely, Della. Yes, please.”
The girl started to turn, but suddenly stopped. “Cousin Charles, are you and my uncle meeting later?”
Sinclair took the girl’s hand, his dark brows arched in curiosity. “That is a very pointed question, little cousin. Why would you ask?”
“I’m just adding up all the clues,” the eleven-year-old told him, her blue eyes twinkling. “I have observed long tables, arranged into a single surface inside the library. Paper and pens for writing. Lots of wines and other drinks men seem to enjoy, though I cannot imagine why anyone drinks whisky.”
The duke huffed, his waxed moustache twitching. “What sort of Stuart would say such a thing? Della Marie, shame on you! I may just have to strike your name from the clan rolls for that.”
The girl offered a knowing smile, her own brows arched in defiance. “You cannot do that, Uncle James. I am a Stuart through and through, and there is no denying it. My eyes are just like my brother’s, which are like our mother’s. I even look rather like Cousin Charles, too. Don’t you agree?”
“Wouldn’t that make you a Sinclair?” the marquess teased. “If so, then I’ll side with you on the whisky. It’s a bit too powerful for me,” he whispered, “but then perhaps that’s because I’m only part Stuart. Do play for me, though, won’t you, little cousin?”
Adele kissed his cheek and then took her position at the gleaming, ivory and ebony keyboard, her slender hands slowly beginning the first measures of the lullaby.
As the music filled the room, Martin Kepelheim entered with Lady Victoria Stuart on his arm. He eased his companion into an overstuffed, chintz-covered chair nearest the piano. “Shall I fetch your cigarette case?” he asked amiably.
“Not just now, Martin,” Tory answered. She wore a grey flannel skirt and crisp white blouse, accented with a striped tie and burgundy waistcoat. The spinster’s dark hair showed hints of silver at the temples, and fine lines around the deep brown eyes made the duke’s sister appear careworn. “Elizabeth, I thought you intended to retire early tonight. You mentioned a headache coming on before we sat down to eat. Has it improved, for if so, your eyes have failed to register the change. You have the look of someone in great pain, my dear.”
The duchess had spent most of that day planning the wedding and reception with her aunt and Maisie Churchill, and she now glanced at her family, her heart-shaped face paler than usual. “I do have a slight headache,” she admitted, looking guiltily at her fiancé. “Charles, I thought I’d told you about it, when you came home earlier.
I’m very sorry, if I didn’t. It’s nothing. Really, it isn’t,” she explained rapidly at seeing his surprised reaction. “I’d like to listen to this song first, and then I’ll go upstairs and sleep. I promise.”
“If you’ve a headache, then you should go to bed at once,” Charles insisted. “Beth, you promised Price that you’d follow his instructions to the letter, which of course, you have not. He required that you rest all day today, and instead you’ve spent most of it working on the wedding.”
“Our wedding will not organise itself,” the duchess argued, her hands set demurely against the dark velvet of her skirt.
“Perhaps not, but must you be the one who does the organising? Darling, if such activity causes you physical duress, then let’s hire someone.”
“There’s no need to hire anyone, Charles,” Victoria interrupted. “Maisie and I are quite capable of arranging a simple ceremony and reception, though with nearly five hundred guests, it presents a few challenges. Beth does not actually work, you know, but merely offers opinions as bride. That is all. However, you do look quite tired,” she told her niece. “There is a paleness about your cheeks that is not flattering. Perhaps, an early bedtime would be wise.”
The twenty-year-old duchess sighed and put out her hand. Sinclair helped her to stand, but she nearly fell into his arms. “As I thought,” he said, clearly worried. “You’re exhausted. Here now. Lean upon me, and we’ll climb the stairs together. Everyone, do excuse us. I’ll be back in a few minutes to hear Della play.”
The Blood Is the Life Page 2
