Firelight

by Kristen Callihan

  “Looks abandoned,” Leland said from behind him.

  “It was meant to.” Archer leapt from his horse and pushed away the thick overgrowth. Heavy timbers barred the entrance. They lifted easily in his hands and landed in a muffled crash in the undergrowth behind him. Yes, abandoned. Thank God for small mercies.

  He heard Leland dismount as he worked on clearing the entrance. He remembered it well, knocking the boulders down over it and pushing the great tree trunks in front of them. Barring this place from any further mischief.

  His blood pumped. The iron door came into sight. He glanced back at Leland and then gave the heavy door a shove with his shoulder. It gave with a great groan and a small puff of red iron dust. One more shove and the door teetered back and then landed with an earthshaking thud upon the soft ground.

  “Torch.” He held his hand out waiting for Leland to light it and hand it over. Thick cobwebs and swirling dust motes colored the mouth of the cave gray. He brushed a clump of cobwebs aside and then went forward, stepping back in time.

  No torches burned now in the narrow passage, yet in his mind’s eye he saw them, lining the walls, leading the way. The irritating scent of patchouli hanging in the air, and the chants of men echoing somewhere deep beyond. At the time, it had given him a morbid thrill. He’d gone willingly. Afraid of nothing, and everything. A grim smile touched his lips. That, at least, had not changed. The memory faded, and he faced the dark, moldering passage once more.

  Leland stumbled behind him, and Archer held out a steadying hand.

  “You remember the way?” Archer asked. He did not want to turn round and find his friend lost.

  “How could I not?” came the dry reply.

  “Good. Let’s get on with it.”

  They moved slowly, Archer brushing aside cobwebs or kicking errant debris out of the way. The path twisted hard right, and Archer felt his breath coming quick. Cavern Hall was only steps away. It opened before them, a perfectly round cavern of rough limestone walls. Empty torch rings, twelve in all, hung from the walls, and above, suspended on a heavy iron chain, the great chandelier was still filled with stumps of thick candles. On nights of the full moon, the cavern used to glow like orange fire from the hundreds of lit candles. But long before West Moon Club had discovered the cave, it had been used for ancient rituals. A millennium of torch smoke had painted the ceiling black, and the shuffle of men’s feet had trampled the floor to a smooth surface.

  The men stood for a moment, both of them silent as memories assaulted them. Archer knew Leland thought of the same night. The chanting, the excitement. That cup, filled with a silver liquid that might have been mercury. Archer closed his eyes. The white-hot pain as the icy liquid had slid down his throat had brought him to his knees before his friends. And then Leland, turning away in shame and horror, had refused to finish his drink.

  Archer moved to the large semicircular niche carved into the far wall where a sacrificial altar lay in wait. Resting on a large, rectangular block of granite lay a thick slab of basalt. An evil-looking black stone. The same stone bed on which Archer had been destined to lie upon and finish the process—had he not fled into the night, too terrified of the viscous pain that pulsed through his veins after he’d swallowed down that vile brew. For a moment, he thought he heard laughter.

  Archer and Leland slipped their torches into the holders that hung on either side of the altar so that a dim halo of wavering light illuminated the niche.

  “The note says it’s under the altar.” Leland’s thin voice echoed softly in the empty space.

  Fancy that, Archer thought. He would have never thought the altar hollow. He reached out with shaking hands, afraid to touch the stone but forced to do so. Icy cold seeped through his leather gloves. A chill ran over him. Gritting his teeth, he slowly began to push the stone from its base. It pivoted, the sound of stone grinding against stone filling the air. Archer dug in his heels and pushed harder. The stone slipped farther until a small crack of dark appeared. A whoosh of dry air burst from the stone’s base, sounding like a woman’s gasp in the silence. Archer jumped back. Leland too. But nothing more occurred.

  Archer ground his teeth and finished pivoting the stone. The great square base proved hollow as promised. Archer grabbed a torch and bent forward. A long brown bundle lay nestled like a babe deep within the dark well of the table.

  Leland eased the torch from his hand and held it aloft as Archer reached down. His fingers made contact, and every inch of his changed self screamed in protest. His muscles hardened painfully. He took a breath and forced his fingers to curl over the thing. And when they did, his left side seemed to sigh with ease. Divided, his body was. Part shrinking in fear, part craving release. He made quick work of taking the bundle out and placing it on the altar top. Nothing more lay within the hole.

  “Undo it,” he said to Leland. He was sweating profusely, which almost never happened, and he doubted his trembling hands could manage.

  Leland seemed to understand. He set the torch back and carefully examined the bundle. It was made of leather, so old that the small ride from its bed to the table was more than enough to start its disintegration. As no markings or adornment covered the leather, Leland simply cut through it with a penknife and peeled it away, much as he would have done when inspecting a mummy. Archer had a vivid memory of them in Cairo, long ago when they had fancied themselves archaeologists.

  The image was reinforced as the brittle leather crumbled, revealing fine linen wrappings. Leland’s white head bent closer. “A coin.” He handed it up to Archer.

  “Greek inscription,” Archer said. “It is from Claudius the First. A tetradrachm.”

  Leland’s hands shook nearly as badly as Archer’s had done moments before. The linen unraveled to give up another prize—a small collection of papyri held in a leather folder. “The roman soldier’s writings.”

  Daoud’s note had been specific. Two letters sent home in the time of Claudius by a young soldier named Marcus Augustus revealed that he had stumbled upon a most horrific spell. The first letter explained his findings, a way to conjure a demon of light, a creature of immense power who could judge innocent from dammed, and in so doing, destroy the evildoer. The second letter was of a different tone. He begged his dear sister to burn the first letter. That he would hide away his discovery where it would never be found, in the place of worship of the newly slaughtered Druid priests. Fortunately for Archer’s purposes, the sister had not burned the letters but kept them both. Only to be discovered by Daoud more than a millennium later. More research by Daoud had uncovered where the soldier had been stationed. Another account from one of his fellow soldiers stated that a small dispatch of men had found a cave and, within it, a sacrificial altar made of granite and basalt. The description and location of the cave matched Cavern Hall exactly.

  Archer could well appreciate the amount of work Daoud had done to verify the far-flung story. He missed his friend just then. For you, dear friend. For all of my slaughtered friends.

  Leland’s fingertips barely touched the papyri as he looked them over. “Greek as well. I shall study it in a moment.”

  Archer nodded, and the elder man put the tome aside in favor of further unwrapping the bundle. A strange hum emanated from it. Archer doubted Leland heard it, but Archer felt it with every cell. His skin twitched as the last vestiges of the linen fell away. A wide leather scabbard was embossed with symbols. The ornate hilt was bronze. Bronze that oddly gleamed like new. That was all he saw before he had to step away and get a breath.

  “Easy,” Leland murmured. “It cannot harm you now.”

  “So say you,” Archer choked out with a bit of humor. He passed a shaking hand over his exposed jaw.

  Leland turned the ancient sword, still safely tucked in its sheath. “Fascinating. See the inscriptions on the hilt?”

  Archer inched a bit closer. “Egyptian glyphs?” It was all he could say before backing away.

  “Yes. How very interesting. Not Druid
s, then…”

  Leland’s scholarly detachment began to grate on Archer. “Is it what we seek?” he asked with a bit of impatience.

  Leland’s bushy brow cocked. “Need you ask? You feel the power in it, yes?”

  “Assuredly.” That and more. A sense of his mortality. Strange that. The sensation of being in mortal danger was almost foreign to him now.

  “It makes one wonder,” Leland mused. “Is this why Cavern Hall was chosen for the ritual?”

  The members of West Moon Club hadn’t picked Cavern Hall; they’d been led there and were told it was a place of great power. Suitable for those fool enough to try their hand at playing God, Archer thought bitterly. He paced away. “Why choose the very place that houses the sole object capable of one’s destruction?”

  “I am thinking it was more a matter of being drawn to this place because of the power the sword emanates. One needn’t know about the sword to feel its pull.”

  “I suppose that could be it,” Archer said as Leland carefully set the sword down.

  “Let me see…” Leland had picked up the papyri and was now reading over them. “It appears Daoud misread the situation. According to the solider, Augustus, a secret sect of Egyptian priests was tasked with the creation and care of beings they called Children of Light, but whom Augustus calls Lux Daemons, or Anima Comedentis. Augustus came upon them when his legion destroyed their temple in the name of the Empire. If there were any light demons left by then, Augustus did not come upon them. Augustus stole both the sword and the secret for creating the light demons….By God…” He fell back on his rump.

  “What, for God’s sake?” Archer snapped.

  “He tried it!” Leland’s eyes reflected like wading pools in the flickering light. “He became one. But unlike you, he knew how to end it. Only he chose not to.”

  The room seemed to go dim. Another one. Out in the world.

  “Being a thoughtful fellow,” Leland went on, reading in abstraction, “he kept the sword with him. Should he grow weary of life, he would use it well.” He thumbed through the pages. “Apparently, the Egyptians had a way to control the light demons, the sword. They claimed it is the sword of Ammit, The Devourer.”

  “The Eater of Hearts,” Archer said. They shared a look, then Archer laughed without humor. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Apparently, Ammit is the mother of the first light demon,” Leland said.

  Ammit, an ancient Egyptian demoness, was said to devour the hearts of those found unworthy by the Underworld God Anubis. God, he hoped that bit was allegorical. The idea that his friends’ stolen hearts were actually being consumed turned his insides. That he might one day crave a similar meal nearly made him cast up his accounts.

  Thankfully oblivious to Archer’s shaky constitution, Leland read on. “The priests claimed that the sword was forged in the lake of fire in Duat, the Egyptian Underworld.”

  The lake of fire was said to both destroy and purify. The undeserving would be consumed, their souls doomed to become forever restless, thus dying a second death. Those judged true of heart would be spared. “ ‘The water thereof shall be yours, but to you it shall not be boiling, and the heat thereof shall not be upon your bodies,’ ” Archer quoted.

  “So says the Book of Gates,” Leland finished with a familiar gleam in his eyes before returning to the text. “The rest is in the usual vein… the sword can only be wielded by one of true heart and courage; the light demon cannot be destroyed by any other means…” He trailed off and looked at Archer. “Read it. You know ancient Greek better than I.”

  Archer’s hand shook as he took the ancient text. Leland was right. Save Archer found himself utterly weary and surprisingly timid. He did not want to plan his death. He wanted to go home to his wife.

  He knelt close to the torches and read through the entire story. A glimmer of hope, so small as to be laughable, flickered within his heart as he reached the end of the tale. A small smile tugged at his lips.

  He stood then, careful not to harm the papyri. “We have what we came for.” He would not take the sword. “I ask that you keep everything until I am ready.”

  Leland got up more slowly, his old knees audibly creaking, but Archer did not help him; his friend would not want it. “There is much to plan. And texts to consult.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The Blackwoods’ staff found John Coachman’s body in their stables, his throat cut and his heart taken. The news sent Miranda to her rooms for half the day, leaving Archer helpless to comfort her. In the cold light of morning, they buried him in the family plot behind Archer House, near an old birch tree. A gentle breeze passed over, and ghostly white limbs swayed like the skeleton of a hand reaching down to grasp at the newly turned earth. Archer took comfort in knowing this death, and the others, would soon be avenged.

  “How do we go about catching this killer?” Miranda asked when they’d settled down in the library.

  Archer, who’d been in the process of handing her a glass of bourbon, paused. A dark fear twisted his insides. “We?”

  God help him, no matter how much he desired to confide in Miri, he would sooner die than do so, for the impetuous woman would not think twice about going forth to seek her own vengeance.

  “Yes, ‘we.’ ” She took the glass from his stiff hand. Caramel sweet perfume danced in the air. “We have already established that the killer is after me. Thus we must find him first.”

  He straightened to his full height. “You are going to stay here at Archer House,” he retorted crisply. “And I shall remain by your side to protect you.”

  “Of all the ridiculous plans.” She took a sip of bourbon as if needing to restore herself. “We might as well lie down like dogs!”

  Archer drained his glass and stalked away. “Your confidence in me is heartening, Miranda,” he said from the far side of the room.

  “Well, then, what is your plan?” she asked. “Other than acting the jailer.”

  A knock on the library door kept Archer from answering. Inspector Lane was calling, informed Gilroy. Normally, Archer hated being interrupted, especially when he was with Miranda. On this occasion, however, Winston Lane’s arrival was more than welcome. Archer quickly bid Gilroy to allow Lane entry.

  Miranda muttered an oath as he gave her a grin and slipped on his full mask. Lane soon strode into the room, his bony frame lost among a brown sack suit and billowing blue Crispin cloak, his bowler hat tucked under his arm.

  “Miranda.” He came near, bringing with him the acerbic scent of the damp London air tinged with an unnerving hint of blood. “Are you well, sister?”

  Miranda gave him a strained smile. “Well enough. Hello, Winston.”

  “My lord.” He inclined his head to Archer. “I heard you had a coach accident last night. Nothing too dire, I hope.”

  “The horses spooked,” Archer said. “It was a nuisance, but we are unharmed.”

  Lane’s mustache twitched slightly at the ridiculous understatement. “I am glad.” He cleared his throat. “The CID thought it best, given the delicacy of the situation, that I handle this matter.”

  “I’m glad it is you,” Miranda said in earnest.

  “I must ask you both some questions. That is, if you agree, my lord.”

  Archer gave a nod. “You are Miranda’s family. I should not think you capable of upsetting her.” Or he’d throw the good inspector out on his ear.

  “It would grieve me to do so.” Lane folded himself into the nearest chair and pulled a small notebook from his coat pocket, and with it, a stubby pencil. “Now then,” he said, “I am to understand this last victim was your coachman, was he not?”

  “Unfortunately,” Archer said. John was a good lad who deserved far better.

  “Rather odd as the other victims were all older, titled, and apparently members of a club of which we can find no record, though we know it exists.”

  Masks were good for some things, and Lane proved no match for Archer’s silent stare. The inspector l
ooked away and went to the door to call Gilroy. Lane returned with an object in his hand. A dark discoloration marred part of it, and Archer realized with a sick lurch that it was Miranda’s mantle, covered in blood. Lane set it down on a chair, and the scent of her perfume lifted from it, so thick just then that it seemed as though the cloth had been doused with it.

  A muscle along his jaw twitched. A woman’s perfume was as good as a fingerprint. Miranda clearly thought so and turned pale as cold cream.

  “We found this near the body of your coachman.” Lane peered at Miranda. “Can you tell me when you last had it in your possession?”

  “When I entered the Blackwoods’ home last night. I gave it to a footman, but I didn’t remember to retrieve it when we left.”

  A small frown worked its way between Lane’s brows. “You didn’t think to collect your cloak upon leaving?”

  Miranda colored. “I was feeling ill. I only thought about getting home.”

  When Lane merely looked her over thoughtfully, her green eyes narrowed. “You don’t think…” She could not finish.

  But Archer could. “You think perhaps Lady Archer had an amorous encounter with our coachman, and I happened upon them?”

  “Archer!” she hissed, turning to glare at him. He blinked back, unmoved.

  “After all,” he went on, “all of the victims are in close connection with me.”

  “Archer, stop! That is ridiculous. We did not even know John was dead when we left the party.”

  “I believe, my lady, that Lord Archer would rather place himself as the suspect than have us look to you.” He glanced from her to Archer and his mustache lifted. “Very admirable. However, we have gone over those scenarios and found them unwarranted. More likely, that is what the killer wants us to think. He took Miranda’s cloak, perhaps even killed your coachman, in an effort to place her at the crime scene. But why?”

  That Miranda had been brought into it… the sofa back caught in Archer’s grip creaked in protest. “I don’t know,” he said stiffly.