The Blood Is the Life

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “Vain promises from a nameless creature,” Sinclair dared proclaim. “It’s clear that your mind is warped beyond all hope.”

  The creature laughed, and the eyes flamed into crimson orbs. “Foolish man.”

  “A daring claim, coming from a nameless angel.”

  A shudder passed through the Watcher’s body, and Charles perceived a set of leathery wings emerging—though they seemed hesitant to fully form. The shape of them blurred, as if ready to take flight.

  “Afraid?” Charles asked boldly, though his heart felt anything but bold. “Name! Now!”

  The semi-emergent wings folded and faded; the eyes softened to a light blue, and he leaned down, grasping the marquess’s shoulder.

  “I am Saraqael, one of the seven great princes of old,” he whispered angrily, his mouth to Sinclair’s ear—the breath smelling of death. “And I killed that horse, just as I killed your father. I tried to kill you, but my fool of a brother rescued you and imprisoned me. It was but a reprieve, foolish man. Once the gate is open, and our brethren emerge, then your usefulness is at an end! We’ve no need for a puny king of clay. King amongst the dead, indeed!” he laughed. “Dead amongst the kings, is more like it! See you soon, human!”

  The being vanished, leaving only a tall shadow that lingered for a moment, and then twisted aloft into a howling whirlwind. Dropping to his knees, the marquess, buried his head in his hands and began to pray, beseeching God for protection and wisdom. The former for his great love and unborn child—and the latter for himself. He remained there for many minutes, and in the distance, he could hear Westminster’s tower bells chime the hour of four o’clock.

  “Fear not,” he heard a voice whisper, and he opened his eyes to find the same gardener he’d encountered twice before.

  “It’s you!” he gasped.

  The man’s face appeared human, but his ageless eyes had a light that warmed the detective’s heart as no earthly blaze could.

  “I represent the One. I serve within his council, not the infernal realm. I have been tasked to keep watch upon you and the duchess. I am not permitted to interfere, for your free will choices must never be compromised. However, I may aid in the battle against dark spirits. Many of us stand beside you, Charles. Though unseen, we always accompany you on this battlefield.”

  “Battlefield? What do you mean? What is your name?”

  “I am sometimes called Shelumiel. It means ‘peace of God’, and I am a son of the Most High. My office is as a ministering spirit to those who must engage the adversary directly. You ask which field, I mean. I speak of the world. This earth. Every human is born upon this field of battle, Charles, but most do not recognise it. Some live out their lives in relative ease, as though sitting at a desk. Others rush into the fray, taking constant fire from the enemy. You stand in this latter group; on the front line of a tactic planned by the infernal council in ages past, long before mankind was even born. The Adversary has asked permission to test you and your duchess, but you will never stand alone. Call upon the King, and my regiment and I shall fight on your behalf. Raziel, Saraqael, and all their fallen brethren are no match for us. And there are other spirits who serve you, though their fates are not yet known. Spirits who once walked in darkness and seek the light. These will confound you, but fear not! Choose well, son of the Highest. Trust only in the true King; in Christ, the risen Lord and his redemptive blood. The enemy may seem powerful to human eyes, but they are limited, and nothing is permitted to touch you without our King’s permission, so take heart!”

  Sinclair felt little comfort in this. “But it is the enemy’s dark power which causes so much heartache and injury. Redwing has murdered thousands over the years, and they now set their sights upon people I love!”

  “Yes, the men and women who call themselves Redwing have participated in horrendous crimes and rituals that reach back to the dawn of human time. They’ve called themselves by many names and served myriads of fallen angels. The crimes of these elohim reach back further yet, but they and those who serve them will receive judgement soon. All you need do is make the best choice you can today.”

  “And what choice is that?” he asked. “What of my child? Elizabeth?”

  The visitor began to fade. “Do not yield to fear. Trust in Christ, Charles. Trust only in Him.”

  Moments passed, and the marquess opened his eyes.

  “How long have I been kneeling here?” he asked aloud as he stood, his body aching. Did I just speak with angels from both sides of this battle? One fallen, and one not? Is this really a battlefield upon which I stand? Are there unseen spiritual entities, even now, gathered all around me?

  The sky was darkening, the clouds swirling into twists of midnight black, driven by a cold, easterly wind. “It’s going to snow,” he said aloud. Why does Beth fear snow?

  He left the gazebo and entered the mansion, the velvet collar of the overcoat pulled tightly about his ears. One night more, and he’d bring her here—to their new home. Beginning tomorrow, he would never more sleep alone.

  Raziel Grigor entered the third floor parlour of 33 Wormwood Street, his sudden appearance punctuated by lightning flashes.

  Sir William Trent did not move, not even an inch, though his friends nearly leapt out of their skins at the miraculous display. “Rather showy, don’t you think?” the baronet casually asked the Watcher. “What do you want? Can’t you see we’re having a meeting?”

  Dusting sparks from his sleeves, Grigor laughed and took a chair next to Clive Urquhart. “Nice place,” the fallen angel told the men. “Lewis Merriweather certainly knows how to construct a sound building. I do like the address. Wormwood evokes so many lovely thoughts.”

  “Knew,” Urquhart corrected, regaining composure. “Poor Lewis knew. Our estate agent is no more, Lord Raziel. Sadly, he succumbed to his weaknesses.”

  “Ah, yes, those,” the angel laughed. “A weak heart and a weak mind—but I suspect the cause of death connected more to his weak friends. I wonder if Inspector Reid and his bumbling policemen noticed the fingermarks on Merriweather’s throat?”

  “Does it matter? He’s buried now and this fine building serves as our new headquarters,” Trent stated. “Have you managed to curtail your brother’s interference?”

  “Which one?” the Watcher asked, waving to one three prostitutes who served as maids for the meeting. “I see that Mrs. Hansen has sent us a delightful collection of playthings. Blonde, brunette, and fiery red. I’ll take them all.”

  “Feel free to enjoy each and every one, old friend, so long as you answer my question. Saraqael is proving tiresome. He’s roused the ire of the inner circle by slaying the horse, and his rampage continues. Have you not seen the papers?” Trent shouted, throwing half a dozen broadsheets towards the visitor. “Dead sheep and dead horses in six English counties and two in France! He has only been released a few days. Can you imagine what he’ll do in the coming year? We must return him to his prison!”

  “Now, why would I do that?” Raziel answered, taking the redhead onto his lap. “Sara is annoying, yes, but he is necessary. Once this wedding is past, we’ll have ample time to deal with his compulsions. Let us concentrate on the task at hand. Have you placed the item in his house?”

  “Days ago, but your fool of a maid has failed, Raziel. Your so-called son’s temptations pushed her into madness and she tried to murder the duchess! Now, the girl is dead, and though no real loss, we have no one inside that house to place the other gateway.”

  “Do we not?” Raziel asked readily. “Are there not other women who may be used?”

  “One may have worked, but she chose to betray us,” Trent observed.

  Sir Clive sighed heavily, gazing into his wine glass. “Poor Susanna. I shall miss her.”

  “Miss a traitor?” Trent snapped.

  “No, my dear Sir William, no. Of course, not. Only I shall miss her warmt
h and inventive nature in bed. That is all. The good Lady Margaret is not so much good as she is cold. Can we not summon the doctor from her hiding place?”

  “Dr. MacKey wavers in her devotion,” Raziel told them. “My traitorous brother would lure her to his side; whatever side that is.”

  “His own,” Trent answered angrily.

  “Which brother? Saraqael or Samael? I grow confused, Lord Raziel. You all look alike to my eyes, and your names—they tie themselves into knots in my mind.”

  “Not surprising,” the Watcher replied drily. “Discernment requires a certain amount of wit, after all. We look similar for we are of the same class of elohim. The Ancient Princes of Old—the Seven Wonders of the primordial world. Each of us commanded hundreds of thousands. Such glorious days, they were! Then came the first war, and multitudes were slaughtered. The world split in two.”

  “First war? What war is that?” Urquhart asked as he poured himself another glass of cognac.

  “The war for the throne. So many died. But now we have a chance to avenge their blood, if we reclaim what was lost. This world is ours by right!”

  Trent took to his feet, suddenly quite bored. “Yes, so you’ve said many times. Will Rasha be ready?”

  “He is prepared to assume his place in the world. You know this MacKey woman, Trent,” said Raziel. “Can she be trusted to place the doorway?”

  “Lorena would do anything to achieve great power. Yes, she can be persuaded, but we’ll have to offer her a place at the table.”

  “As a member, or as a meal?” Raziel quipped.

  “Perhaps, as both,” Trent answered. “Perhaps, she serves us as both.”

  Lorena MacKey had never felt so afraid in all her life. Though, Anatole had promised to protect her, she’d begun to wonder if even his abilities could overcome Redwing’s long reach. The morning papers lay before her, containing stories of politics and peers, with the Haimsbury-Branham wedding featured on every front page. However, tucked amongst these happy reports was one slender column detailing the discovery of a woman, her body dissected into four parts, and washed up along the Thames shoreline. Though no name was given, Lorena knew who it must be. Susanna Morgan. The reporter’s frank mention of torture marks and a cruel brand upon the upper back confirmed it. These were the hallmarks of Redwing when dealing with traitors. Death often took days, and women weren’t exempt from the procedure—rather they served as sport for the sadistic men who inflicted the injuries.

  “If only I’d stayed in Scotland,” she told herself. “The duke treated me kindly, and I repaid that kindness with deception. Why? Why do I do this? What have I gained?”

  Startled by a soft ‘whooshing’ sound, she turned towards the door to the luxurious apartment. A white envelope had been slipped beneath it. Taking it from the floor, she opened the message—fearing the worst. Just before their apprehension, Redwing traitors always received a summons from those in charge, listing their crimes.

  Unfolding the note, she exhaled in relief. It was a telegram from Anatole Romanov:

  Lorena: In two minutes, Trent will knock upon your door. Do all that he asks without fear. I keep watch. You are never out of my sight. I have seen your future. It is bright. - Anatole.

  A bright future? she thought. How can it be bright, when I’ve chosen darkness?

  As if in answer, she heard a sharp knock on the painted door. Lorena swallowed hard, whispering a prayer inside her mind. Please, God. If you are there, I beg you! Please, protect me!

  The physician opened the door and found Sir William Trent holding his cane in one hand and a wrapped package in the other.

  “I’ve brought your costume, my dear. It’s time to show the earl just how dazzling a temptress you can be.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Russian embassy ball began at eight o’clock precisely, and nearly everyone in London high society had been invited. Government officials, bankers, barristers, builders, and peers of all ranks queued up to the majordomo’s platform, attired in eighteenth century dress to celebrate the upcoming union of the great houses of Branham and Haimsbury. Victoria had warned Charles that he and Elizabeth shouldn’t arrive before nine, for even though they were the guests of honour, protocol demanded they should be announced only after everyone else had arrived and begun to mingle in the ballroom.

  Charles sat opposite Elizabeth in the opulent carriage, sent by the prince. The golden coach was an exact replica of Empress Catherine’s very own, emblazoned with the Romanov crest and drawn by six white horses in glittering harness. Her gown was one Victoria had found in an old trunk at Queen Anne House; a voluminous dress made in Venice for her great-grandmother, Duchess Antoinette Mérovée de Moiré Linnhe. The elaborate ensemble featured a tiered skirt of pink and gold taffeta overlaid in silk lace, embroidered with scarlet roses. Above the wide skirt, a tight-fitting, boned bodice accented Elizabeth’s small waist. Alicia had arranged Elizabeth’s raven hair in a high coif, and a waterfall of loose ringlets cascaded down her shoulders. Upon her head, she wore her great-grandmother’s coronet, featuring a dozen, ten-carat diamonds set into a gold circlet of strawberry leaves, encrusted in smaller diamonds, and around her throat shone the bejewelled, matching necklace.

  “I feel like a princess from a fairy story,” Beth said as the carriage pulled through the stone gateway that formed the entrance to Kensington Palace. “Although, I wonder how those princesses endured their clothing. The whalebone in this bodice might serve as a medieval torture device! You, however, are truly Prince Charming. I mean it, Charles. I find myself falling in love with you all over again.”

  “Then, let’s pay the driver to turn ‘round and take us home,” he teased. “I prefer private dances to a grand ball.”

  She laughed. “You’ll turn my head, Lord Haimsbury! Now, behave. We’ll share that private dance tomorrow. Where did you find your costume? Is it your father’s?”

  “In part,” he told her. “Laurence and I found very little at my home, but Booth discovered an absolute treasure trove in the attics at Drummond House. This cavalry uniform was worn by the 8th Duke of Drummond, but the medals belonged to my grandfather. I found them in my father’s study. Not bad for a day’s hunting. I feel rather out of place, though. Laurence tried to get me to wear the Haimsbury coronet, but that is simply beyond all imagining. A Whitechapel detective in a crown! Good heavens! Beth, I sometimes wonder if I live in a dream, for this life is a far cry from my old policing days. I’m not sure how well I fit into peerage life, but so long as you stand beside me, I shall always feel at home.”

  “Charles, you need no crown to prove you’re my prince. I so look forward to calling you husband. Tomorrow cannot come soon enough.”

  The carriage pulled to a stop, and a tall footman in satin livery and powdered wig opened the door for the couple. Three additional footmen appeared: one to lower the steps, another to help Elizabeth and Charles descend, and the third walked ahead to open the door to the palace entrance.

  Inside the magnificent foyer, James and Paul Stuart met the couple, each peer in full regalia once worn by former dukes and earls. Drummond’s broad chest was covered in ribbons and medals. Both the Scottish lords wore a sash and sabre.

  “Welcome to the costume club,” Aubrey said with a wink at Charles, and then turning to Elizabeth his gaze softened, but to his credit, the earl kept his demeanor appropriate for a cousin.

  “Elizabeth, you are the picture of royalty,” he said, kissing her hand. “A true princess. Where is Aunt Victoria?” he then asked, his eyes watching every man who walked past.

  Charles recognised the look. What did Paul know he did not?

  “She arrived here earlier,” the marquess answered, “collected by Maisie Churchill. They are still finalising plans for the wedding reception, I think. Honestly, I’d no idea there were so many details involved in getting married.”

  Elizabeth
had stopped to adjust her train, but a small boy in satin livery and powdered wig appeared, as if from nowhere, to do it for her. “Thank you, young sir,” she said to the handsome youth. “What’s your name?”

  The boy smiled, his hazel eyes round with excitement. “Toby, my lady. Toby Ellingham.”

  “Well, Master Toby, you are quite gallant,” she said with a bright smile.

  The page bowed and stepped to the side, allowing the footmen to lead whilst he kept watch on the train. As they followed the footmen and youth, Charles marvelled at the gold-leafed interior of the palace. Neither Queen Anne nor Haimsbury House, as grand as both were, came close to rivalling this regal home. The closest would have been Branham, and Charles liked picturing his very own princess as mistress of her Kent county palace, digging in the gardens and baking inedible cakes.

  Climbing up two sets of wide, curving steps, the party was approached by the majordomo, an extraordinary looking gentleman with an enormous head, aquiline nose, and arched black brows. He carried a long staff of carved ivory, trimmed in gold leaf, and his livery was of iced blue satin, overlaid in gold stars.

  “Your Grace. Lord Haimsbury,” he said, bowing low to Elizabeth and Charles. “The Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh and Prince Anatole welcome you to Kensington Palace and are honoured by your presence.”

  He announced James first and then Paul. Charles noticed that a dozen or more peerage daughters suddenly turned to face the Italian marble and gold-trimmed balcony that led onto the ballroom floor. Clearly, word had travelled throughout the country that the handsome Earl of Aubrey was now available. One of these ingénues was all too familiar to both cousins: Cordelia Wychwright, dressed in a gown of white organza, and standing by her cousins, Lord and Lady Cartringham. For some reason, neither parent stood nearby, but Charles suspected the ambitious Baron and Baroness would never have missed attending.