The Blood Is the Life

by Sharon K Gilbert

  The false Kelly continued to sing, ‘her’ voice raised high and loud. “Father and Mother, they have passed away...Sister and Brother now lay beneath the clay. And while life doth remain, in memoriam, I’ll retain this small violet I pluck’d from Mother’s grave...”

  Lorena MacKey hastily threw her belongings into an overnight case. A terse telegram lay upon the table near the fireplace, bearing a single line: GET OUT NOW. STUART ON HIS WAY.

  Fearing that the inner circle would exert all their considerable influence to find her, she had coloured her hair to a light blonde and changed her name to Elaine Michaels, but it seemed her location was now known.

  As she packed the leather bag, MacKey fought rising panic that threatened to take hold of her heart. What if Paul did find her? Would he kill her? Would Sinclair seek revenge for himself and the duchess? Had she lost a chance at redemption by fleeing the duke’s castle?

  “I thought you liked it here,” a deep voice called from the open doorway.

  She turned, fearing it might be Aubrey, but then seeing the visitor’s face, MacKey slowly smiled. “How you come and go at will, my lord!”

  Anatole Romanov stepped into the room. The prince was dressed formally, his raven hair tied behind his ears with a crimson ribbon. He picked up a lace undergarment, lying beside the open case.

  “Expecting to entertain, my dear?”

  She snatched at the delicate chemise. “How may I serve you, my lord?”

  “By telling me the truth, Lorena. Or should I now call you Elaine? An interesting choice in names,” he said, playing with her long hair. “Is it after Elaine d’Astolat from the Lancelot tales? The isolated princess who lived in a tower, and could only watch the world through a mirror—the cursed Lady of Shalott? Poor Lorena! Do you despair of never seeing your Lancelot again? Which man might that be, I wonder? The elder or the younger cousin?”

  “I despair for no one,” she whispered, her green eyes diverted.

  “Another lie,” he replied, sitting near the fireplace. Noticing the telegram, he tapped the paper. “Trent is a busy man, yet he takes the time to warn you. Do not risk your eternal life by siding with him, Lorena. His path soon closes.”

  She snapped the valise shut and sat opposite him, feigning ease despite her fear. “I never know quite what to expect from you, my prince. It is as if you are two people in one body.”

  “I have not changed since we first met, Lorena, but you have. Your insights into Redwing’s true agenda sharpen, and you begin to doubt the wisdom of their goals. Does Trent know you secretly hope to align with his enemies?”

  “What do you want from me, my lord?”

  “Honesty,” he whispered. “Something most difficult for you, I know. For now, I shall settle for your promise to follow my commands. Sir William has overstepped, and I intend to remove him—permanently. How do you feel about that?”

  “Is this a test?”

  “Perhaps.”

  She managed a nervous smile. “Then command me, my lord. For that is the ultimate test. If I fail, then I fail.”

  He stood and took her hand, and his eyes turned soft. “Once you trusted in my plans for you, Lorena Melissa. When did that cease?”

  A traitorous tear slid down her cheek, but she maintained defiance. “Command me.”

  The Watcher sighed. “You must do all in the precise manner which I describe. I have seen numerous futures for you, Lorena, and your next choice will determine your happiness. Do you trust me?”

  She paused, recalling her first meeting with the dark angel—how he’d rescued her from a broken home, from danger and penury. How he’d placed her feet upon a better path; even assisted her in her studies. Do I still trust him? Is he now my enemy?

  “I am not your enemy,” he told her, reading her thoughts. “Nor have I altered, Lorena. Allow me to assist you once more, and you may see your Lancelot again, without the aid of mirrors. For now, though, I prefer that the inner circle not speak to you—not yet. I have arranged accommodations at Claridge’s, under the name Carla de Longe. You are a famous singer, but you prefer to be left alone. The hotel’s staff will comply with your eccentricities. But do away with these altered locks. Your true hair is so much more beautiful. The radiant auburn complements your skin and eyes.”

  “And then?”

  “Then, I shall visit you and reveal the rest of my plan. Look for me tomorrow evening. My coach now awaits you in the hotel drive to convey you to Claridge’s. Go quickly, for it is quite likely that the earl will call here yet tonight.”

  “But what of your plans?” she asked boldly.

  “That is not for you to know. If you wish to find true happiness, Lorena, then you must trust me. Your tower imprisonment nears its end, my dear.” He kissed her hand. “Until tomorrow evening.”

  She blinked, and he’d vanished.

  MacKey sat upon the bed, considering her position, wondering now if she might not be better served to go directly to Aubrey and confess everything.

  What game is Romanov playing?

  “I play no game,” she heard his voice speak from the air all around her. “Trent is doomed. Do not join him.”

  Fear clutched at her heart, and the physician lifted her bag and rushed out into the hallway. In less than five minutes’ time, a black brougham spirited her away to the confines of Claridge’s, and Lorena unpacked, wondering just what it was the prince would ask her to do.

  Far away from the modern atmosphere of Claridge’s Hotel, within the darkened halls of a 17th century castle, Ida Ross shivered upon a lonely bed. She’d been awakened by a noise outside her chamber door, and now she could hear persistent scratching at the wood, as if a dog tried to get in. Ida pulled the velvet blankets up close to her chin, biting her lips from fear.

  “Little whore, little whore, let me in,” a gravelly voice called from the other side. “Or else I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow this door in!”

  “Go away!” she shouted. “Please, please, go away!”

  “Little whore, little whore, let me in,” it called again, and Ross heard what sounded like sniffing, and she could see a dense shadow pass back and forth beneath the door, as if something knelt upon the hallway’s carpet and tried to peer through the narrow space, just above the threshold.

  There was a momentary silence, and then without warning, a heavy thud echoed throughout the upper storey, as the unwelcome visitor threw its considerable weight against the heavy door, trying to shatter it. “Let me in! Or I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow this door in!” it shouted. “And then I’ll eat you up, little whore!”

  “Go away, please! Oh, please, leave me in peace!”

  The shadow’s form lengthened across the threshold, and Ida’s eyes widened in panic. A huge, hairy paw had forced its way underneath the door, the claws clattering and scraping upon the oak floor. She pressed against the headboard of the bed, weeping from terror. The hideous paw probed and pushed, and the woman feared it might actually breech the door, but suddenly she could see the blinding rays of a brilliant, white light flooding the area, and a sharp, high-pitched howl split the air.

  Moments passed, and Ross sat still as a statue; listening, fearful of making even one sound.

  She jumped from shock as a hand knocked. “Ida?” a genteel voice called. “Are you all right?”

  “Go away!” she shouted again, certain that it was the intruder, merely using a different tactic.

  Though she’d locked the door from the inside with a key, it opened of its own accord, and Ida’s host, Prince Anatole Petrovich Romanov, entered, wearing a tall hat and sweeping, black opera cape. He carried an ebony cane, as if he’d just returned from an elegant evening out.

  “Please, forgive the intrusion, dear Ida. I worried that you might become frightened in this old house. I’m very glad I returned, for one of my other guests had some
how managed to break free of his confines and was roaming about the upper floors. I have ordered Vasily to return him to his room and lock it securely once more. He will not trouble you again, I assure you.”

  Ross broke down weeping, her pale face in her hands. Anatole removed the cloak and lay it across a brocade sofa that sat before the warm fire. He crossed to her bed and touched the girl’s hand. “You are trembling! I am so very sorry that he frightened you, Ida. Had I known that Mr. Stanley had escaped his restraints, I would never have gone out for the evening.”

  “Mr. Stanley? I don’t understand, sir. That wasn’t a man! He could talk, yes, but I saw an animal’s paw beneath that door! It tried to get in!”

  “Yes, yes, I know how confusing it must be, but you’ll understand all about our household soon. My home provides shelter and medical treatment to a select few whose lives have been altered by certain devious individuals within our city. I had thought this guest confined firmly inside his apartment, but I shall not make that mistake again,” he said, his thoughts turning to the only other person who had a key: Serena di Specchio. “If someone intentionally unlocked it, then I shall see to it that he or she pays for such neglect. Mr. Stanley still struggles with his recovery, which is why he remains confined at night. Regardless, he deserves our compassion and sympathy.”

  “But he wanted to eat me!”

  “That was his altered personality speaking, my dear, but that part of him already begins to die. It is only the moon that stirs up these dark compulsions. It’s my hope that by next month, he will no longer require chains or locks. Tomorrow, when he awakens, I shall introduce you. He is quite docile when in his normal state. A most tender man who wishes only to be of service to mankind. Mr. Stanley once served with the Metropolitan Police, in fact.”

  “I just want to go!” she sobbed. “Oh, sir, you should have let me die!”

  He drew Ross into his arms, the ordinarily serene prince appearing somewhat perplexed. “How could I allow you to end your life, when there is so much for which you must live? I cannot foresee all aspects of your future, but certain events are known to me, and I assure you that happiness awaits.”

  “Not for me, sir. Never for me,” she argued, her speech interrupted by heavy sobs.

  He stroked her hair, his ice-blue eyes blinking. “Why is it women weep? Is it always fear, or are there other emotions that cause these tears?” She clutched at his body, and he held her like he might a child. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “I am a poor companion for such moments as this. Perhaps, I should fetch someone else. A human, perhaps.”

  “No, please, don’t leave me! I’ll be good. I will, and I’ll not complain. I could make you happy, sir. If you wish to stay—there is room aplenty in the bed. If you wish to... To sleep with me, I mean.”

  The Russian shook his head. “That is not why I’ve brought you here, Ida. You are my guest, not my mistress.”

  She seemed confused. “Sir, I’ve no other use in this world. I only know of one way to please a man.”

  “Then, I shall be happy to teach you other ways. Ways that are dignified and uplifting. Now, try to sleep. Do you require something to aid in this? A soporific powder? Wine?”

  “I don’t want to be alone,” she whispered. “Can you not stay with me, sir?”

  He touched her face with such sweetness that it caused Ida’s heart to skip two beats. “I shall remain with you until you fall asleep, but I am sincere when I say that I have no plans to use you as other men have done. In this house, you are a lady, and I insist all here treat you as such.”

  Finally, she lay back against the silk sheets, her eyes round as she gazed at his ethereal beauty. His features might have been carved upon a Greek statue, not with lifeless, marble eyes, but iridescent orbs of icy blue, rimmed in the blackest of lashes. He had untied the scarlet hair ribbon after leaving MacKey, so that the raven waves fell across the broad silk jacket with such softness that Ida longed to touch the locks, for even these held power to fascinate. His skin was pale as alabaster, but his full lips shimmered with radiant life.

  “You referred to yourself as if you are not human, sir. Are you an angel?” she asked.

  The lips widened into a soft smile, and his ebony lashes fluttered as he blinked. “Of a kind,” he replied. “I promise to tell you more about my life another time. For now, as it’s your first night here, it is important that you rest. Think not on the trials you’ve borne before, dear Ida, but only of the future. Like you, I wear the burden of past choices upon my back, and there was a time when its weight nearly crushed me, but it grows ever lighter. Yours will, as well.”

  “I don’t understand, sir, but I’ll try to sleep, if you wish it. You’re far too kind to me, my lord. You could have any woman in England—probably any woman in the world. Why do you show me such compassion?”

  He drew the blankets across her body and sat beside her. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Love, as you comprehend it, is something that is still somewhat foreign to me. I’ve walked this world for longer than any bard may find the words to express, but the bondage of the human heart has only recently found its way into my life. It was nearly eighteen years ago, when I first beheld her. I perceived the tears in her innocent eyes, and suddenly all the selfish aspirations that once defined me fell into nothingness. However, though I might speak of my admiration, I would never act upon that desire. If I did, then the weight of all my past choices would return a thousandfold and render me lifeless, and I would lose her forever. Besides, she loves another.”

  “I am sorry, sir.”

  A single tear slid down his alabaster cheek, and Romanov rose to his feet. “Close your eyes, Ida. I shall keep watch by the fire, and I shan’t leave until you are safely nestled within the land of dreams. No one will harm you this night. Not whilst I stand guard.”

  Chapter Five

  Friday morning, 9th November, 1888

  Few slept well at Queen Anne House that night. Dawn had long since broken over the Thames by the time Sinclair rose. He quickly shaved and dressed, trying not to waken the duchess, who’d suffered from troubling dreams that lasted until dawn. He entered the earl’s bedchamber through the open door, but found the bed empty and already made; the room tidied.

  Leaving the master apartment, the detective hurried down the stairs to the foyer, where he could hear the duke speaking to a man, whose voice did not sound familiar.

  “Charles,” Drummond called. “Son, we’re in here.”

  Sinclair entered the morning room to find a handsome gentleman in a charcoal cutaway and slate blue waistcoat. He stood about six feet in height and wore a thick crop of silver hair, cut short and neat. His equally silver beard was closely trimmed into a goatee that looked as if it had once been sandy brown in colour.

  “Good morning. Sorry I’m late getting up, Uncle James. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” the marquess said, extending his right hand to the stranger. “I’m Charles Sinclair.”

  The visitor smiled broadly, revealing unusually deep dimples, just below fleshy cheekbones, and his grey eyes twinkled, making him appear younger than his sixty-two years. “Good morning, my lord. Edward MacPherson. It’s a very great honour to meet you at last.”

  “Mac’s the pastor at Drummond House Chapel,” the duke explained. “He’ll be marrying you and Elizabeth come the eighteenth, and he sits on the circle, so you’d best get used to his weathered mug. Let’s all sit, shall we? We’ve much to discuss.”

  “Haven’t I seen you before, Dr. MacPherson? In Whitechapel?”

  “Your reputation as possessing a keen memory for faces is true, it seems; much like your good father, may he rest in peace. Yes, I occasionally attend to the spiritual needs of patients at the Eastern Dispensary and also at the London and French hospitals. I meet weekly with what you might call a ‘religious confederation’ of fellow clergymen to discuss the conditions there. That borough
hosts many dark spirits, I fear. The duke’s been telling me that you and the duchess have suffered spiritual attacks in recent weeks.”

  “We have, sir. In fact, there was another last night,” he said, sitting. “I’m sure my uncle has mentioned it already. Elizabeth has been suffering from distressing nightmares, and she worries that Paul might be in danger. Where is my cousin, by the way?”

  “He went out very early, eight or so,” the duke replied. “When he finally returned, he took Kepelheim and the two left for Mayfair. That was, oh, half an hour ago, I think. Paul never explained his earlier destination, but he and Kepelheim have gone to collect some of Galton’s records about the ‘79 murders at Victoria Park. He said you’d understand, but he also said he’s discovered some very important information for the circle.”

  “But Paul is all right? Unharmed?”

  “Yes. He seemed fine to me,” his uncle answered. “But you needn’t worry about our earl. Paul’s more than capable of taking care of himself, Charles. Believe me. Before you ask, I gave him your message last night, when he returned around eleven. I explained that Beth was very worried and that is why we sent Granger to collect him, but as you were both asleep, he decided not to wake you.”

  “I thought I heard him tiptoe into the other bedchamber, but it was long after midnight. I assume you and he talked for awhile before he came up.”

  “I needed help finishing up that decanter of whisky, didn’t I? Your cousin was happy to assist,” the duke said, his eyes merry.

  Charles began to laugh. “At least, the whisky served its purpose! Actually, even if Paul had come into the room, I doubt that I’d have been coherent enough to discuss anything. Once I finally found my way into dreamland, I remained there a good long time—until Beth’s nightmares started again.”

  “She’s all right?”

  “Yes, sir. Sleeping soundly at present.” He turned back to MacPherson. “I’m very glad you’re here this morning, Doctor.”

  “Just call me Mac, Lord Haimsbury. Everyone does.”