Dark Embers

by R. L. Giddings

  Macrory took my arm and arranged us both so that we stood as if waiting for someone to come and take our picture.

  “Mr Allardyce Macrory and Miss Bronte Fellows, at your service.”

  I had to suppress a giggle at that.

  Then, after a very long pause, the gates began to open.

  There was a beautiful Elizabethan house at the end of the drive with four high gables and stone latticed windows. It had a proliferation of tall grey chimneys, all of which appeared to be on the brink of collapse.

  “The place had been in ruins for well over a century,” Macrory said. “Had to be re-built using authentic Elizabethan building techniques. They had to source hundreds of elder trees before they could even begin.”

  As we walked down the drive we were dwarfed on all sides by banks of elm, ash and chestnut trees. The trees looked unruly as if they had never been tended and yet the garden itself was one of the richest I’d ever seen with exotic plants scattered everywhere. In the dark, their vivid fragrances helped conjure up a magical atmosphere.

  “What’re the origins of this place? You still haven’t told me.”

  Macrory cocked his head. “Why, this is the magician’s house.”

  We walked on a little further. A group of visitors had gathered in the glow of the doorway. They were, all of them, exquisitely dressed.

  “Which magician? There are so many.”

  He squeezed my hand. “Why Doctor John Dee of course. The greatest magician of his age. Magician Royal to her majesty Elizabeth I.”

  I was duly impressed. Of course I’d heard of Doctor Dee. It was impossible to practice magic and not to have heard of him but I never expected to be visiting his actual house.

  “Now, before we go inside, just a couple of house-keeping rules. You haven’t got any electrical items on you, have you?”

  “Just my phone.”

  “You’ll have to leave that with the porter,” in holding out his hand he was anticipating my objections while dismissing them at the same time. “No exceptions. If you refuse then they won’t allow you in. It’s intended for your own protection.”

  I made a fuss of locating my phone but handed it over eventually.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Oh, and time. Time acts a little differently once go inside.”

  “I’m sorry: time acts a little differently? What does that even mean?”

  We were drawing close to the small group of visitors who were waiting to go inside. Macrory lowered his voice. “I didn’t invent the rules. There’s a few other things. No fraternisation with the people inside. You’re never totally sure who you’re fraternising with.”

  “By fraternising, do you mean actual sex?”

  He carried on as if I hadn’t spoken.

  “And finally, the one absolute rule. “Nice to handle, nice to hold but if you should break it, consider it sold.””

  We stood in line while I attempted to digest all this new information. Then it was our turn to go in. The two porters were small men, tidily attired in coat and tails. One of them looked to be in his sixties and the other one was, if anything, much older. They made an odd couple as they went about their business. Not the sort of doormen I had envisaged but then, as I well knew: appearances can be deceiving.

  They had several whicker baskets stacked with phones and Macrory duly surrendered mine. In return, he was handed a yellow catalogue of items. They seemed to recognise Macrory and smiled cordially before ushering us inside.

  *

  The inside of the house was like a maze, its dimensions seeming to have no bearing whatsoever on the building’s exterior. The rooms were reasonably spacious but, because the ceilings tended to be quite low, it was difficult to escape a sense of oppression. Once we’d helped ourselves to drinks, Macrory led me out to a long gallery where the main action was due to take place.

  It felt like a much grander space after the confines of the rest of the house and had a viewing gallery running along two of the four walls.

  There were two blocks of chairs running down either side of the gallery with a tall dais at the far end. Various items were on display around the walls. I went over and examined one.

  “Don’t touch,” Macrory whispered.

  “I wasn’t going to touch anything. Besides, I’m not on a school trip. What is that anyway?”

  Macrory flourished his catalogue. There were no illustrations and, when I went to examine it I saw that it had all been written out by hand.

  “Lot 168,” Macrory read the description to himself first. “One of the original enchanted rats from Hamlyn.”

  “A rat?”

  I’d mistaken it for an upside down brush. Thank God I hadn’t touched it. I wasn’t impressed.

  “It’s been stuffed,” Macrory explained.

  “It’s just a mangy old rat. Are they seriously trying to pass this off as one of the original …?”

  Macrory came across and pinched the inside of my arm.

  “What are you…?”

  He pulled me to one side. “Did you not hear what I said? The house is sentient. It hears everything. You’d do well not to question the veracity of its wares.”

  When he spoke next, his voice was loud enough to be heard by everyone in the vicinity. “It’s re-assuring that the Provenance of these items can be relied upon absolutely.”

  I gave him a stern look. “Really? Really?”

  “The dealers here expect total authenticity. That’s why your friend Silas was such a frequent visitor. They may be expensive but they are the best.”

  I scrutinised the rat further. I took the catalogue and examined Lot 168 for myself.

  “What’s this other long number at the bottom?”

  I seemed to be taxing Macrory’s patience. “That’s the guide price.”

  I looked at him, appalled. “Really?”

  “Really?”

  *

  It took another ten minutes before everyone could be gathered together and the auction could begin. Macrory made the most of this time by making contact with some old acquaintances. I was too overwhelmed to talk to anyone. There were perhaps three or four hundred people crushed into the space with every seat and vantage point filled. We had to sit near the back as the best seats were reserved for the serious traders. I hadn’t had much of a chance to examine more than a couple of items but had come away with the sense that of all the incredible things I’d seen, all the things I knew, the items on display were seriously challenging the boundaries of what I thought I knew.

  I watched the unfurling events like someone in a trance.

  Each item was even more exotic and unbelievable than the one before. Macrory must have got sick of me tugging his sleeve and then arching my eyebrows as another item was brought forward for display. To give him credit, he didn’t lose his patience, he just pointed to the listings and nodded sagely as if to say: yes, that’s what it says there.

  It was truly unbelievable. Items from mythology, objects from ancient civilisations, articles from folklore, pieces from every corner of the earth, items long since thought lost. They were all there and they were all up for sale.

  “And now we come to item number 83 in your catalogues, ladies and gentleman,” the auctioneer was a red faced man wearing a waist-coat a number of sizes too small for him. “Michael, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  The warehouseman he was addressing approached the dais cautiously. He was carrying a green silk cushion with something small and hairy at the centre of it.

  “Very sought after item this. We don’t see many of these normally. This one comes to us courtesy of our associates in Chandaha’ar. Ladies and Gentlemen; a genuine monkey’s paw. It has been verified and fully authenticated by the various experts in the field; as have all our items here this evening. You don’t have to take my word for it just have a look at Michael’s expression. Be careful what you wish for with this little lot, ladies and gentlemen, it might just come true.”

  *

  By the interva
l, I was ready to go and lie down. I didn’t know what was more unbelievable: the items themselves or the prices that were being paid.

  Macrory went off to get more drinks and came back with two flutes of champagne.

  “So Silas used to come here, then?”

  Macrory nodded. “Big money game. You need a lot of capital and years of experience backing you up otherwise one bad deal and – pfft! - game over.”

  “Is that what happened to you?”

  He took a sip of champagne then nodded. It took a few seconds before he was able to speak.

  “Specialised in Sidhe artefacts. My family were jewellers and fine gold specialists back in the Old Country, so I had a head start when I first set up business on this side of the fence. First few years went better than I could have possibly expected. Made a lot of money very quickly. Everything was going right and then things changed. Six months later, I’d lost everything.”

  I didn’t know what to say. From being a major player in multi-million pound artefacts to running a House Clearance business; that must have been tough.

  I said, “Did you never try to get back into it? Work for someone else? Use your expertise that way?”

  He pulled a face. Clearly, it was difficult just talking about it.

  “It wasn’t just my bank balance that took a hit. My reputation did as well. Once people think you’ve lost your touch, word starts to spread. They’re a very superstitious lot these dealers.”

  I looked at the people standing around me. The evidence of their wealth was plain for anyone to see and it wasn’t just the jewellery and the exquisite cut of their clothes. They were divided along tribal lines. There were the old school gangsters in their pinstripe suits with their partially hidden tattoos, the rock and roll guys with their open neck shirts and dark glasses and the rowdy new boys with their shiny suits and lacquered hair. The overwhelming feeling was of a desperate bravado. Like watching the players around a high-stakes poker table. They had to have an unbelievable amount of self-belief just to be in this arena but you knew, at the same time, that not all of them were destined to be winners. It got me to wondering about just how many of them were financially solvent and how many of them were just putting on a brave face, desperate for that one big-ticket item which would turn their fortunes around.

  I said, “Now, as impressive as all this is, have you made any progress on the…”

  I did the little knife mime but he quickly shook his head to discourage me.

  “I’ve been asking around. Now, this isn’t definite, but I think that one of the dealers who’s bidding on this next lot might be able to help us.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “That all sounds rather vague considering how little time we have.”

  Macrory produced a large white handkerchief and proceeded to vigorously blow his nose. “Can’t be helped. That’s the way these things work.”

  I knew better than to argue. “What is it then? This thing they’re bidding for? Looks interesting whatever it is.”

  There were three warehousemen standing around an applique display cabinet. Two were white haired whilst the third was completely bald. They appeared to be very busy though they weren’t actually doing very much.

  “The shield? That’s up next.”

  I’d witnessed no end of unlikely things being sold earlier but that stumped me. “What did you just say?”

  “Perseus’ shield. That’s up next.”

  “Perseus? As in the Greek myth? What was it that he did again?”

  “He’s the one who cut off Medusa’s head.”

  “And that’s meant to be his shield?”

  Macrory was getting annoyed. “Yes. That’s why it’s so polished. He could look at her reflection without being turned to stone.”

  I chose to ignore this and said, “So, who are we looking out for?”

  “Gentleman over there.”

  I couldn’t work out why I hadn’t noticed him earlier. He was surrounded by a coterie of men and women who exhibited great deference towards him. His eyes shone out of a face the colour of burnt caramel. He wore a striking green frock coat that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else but looked quite magnificent on him.

  “Who is that?”

  “Daniel Cardoza. He has a certain reputation for ruthlessly pursuing whatever he sets his sights on. As such, he is to be treated with great care.”

  “Are those frills on the front of his shirt?”

  “He’s Spanish so it’s allowed.”

  “He must take very good care of himself.”

  “Bronte, look at me,” after a while, I complied. “Looking at Daniel Cardoza is a bit like staring into the sun. It may draw the eye but eventually you’re going to live to regret it. Trust me. As far as Mr Cardoza is concerned: be – ware!”

  The warehousemen were readying the next lot and the auctioneer had taken his place on the dais.

  “Now ladies and gentlemen, we come to one of the most anticipated lots in tonight’s auction. The Shield of Perseus. Now, who’ll start me at three million pounds?”

  As the bids crawled inexorably skyward, I glanced across at Cardoza. It was difficult not to. He was a very handsome man.

  I tried to think what he must have done to get himself to such a point where he was bidding on items of this value. The deals he must have done.

  Behind every fortune, there’s a big secret.

  That was one of my dad’s favourite sayings. But I thought that in in this case it just might be true.

  *

  “What’s happening,” I said after a while. “Why have they stopped?”

  Macrory voice was barely a whisper. “They haven’t stopped. The bid is with the Russian.”

  All eyes were locked on an urbane looking gentleman standing over to our right. After what felt like forever, the Russian made the tiniest nod and the whole mood of the room changed.

  “34.2 million.”

  All eyes shifted to Cardoza.

  “What’s happening now?” I said.

  The Spaniard was talking to a heavy–set man wearing dark glasses.

  “By the look of it he’s having a chat with his bank manager.”

  “That’s his bank manager?”

  Macrory raised two fingers to his ear as though making a call. “No phones, remember?”

  The pair spoke briefly and then the bank manager walked away.

  “Where’s he off to?”

  “That’s it,” Macrory said. “Cardoza’s lost it. He’s been outbid.”

  When the auctioneer turned to him again Cardoza shook his head.

  “For the last time at 34.2 million, and I will sell!”

  As the gavel struck home, the room broke into spontaneous applause. The tension had been palpable. A number of people moved over to congratulate the successful bidder. Cardoza stood at the centre of the room, with everyone keeping a respectful distance.

  He turned, fanned his face with his catalogue and then left the room.

  I said, “Aren’t we going to speak to him. About the blade?”

  Macrory’s eyes widened just at the mention of it.

  “Perhaps later.”

  “But we’re running out of time.”

  “Trust me on this. If we approach him now he’s just going to say ‘No.’ Then we’ll have a devil of a time trying to get him to change his mind.”

  The room was starting to clear. The auction wasn’t over but a natural break had occurred and people were moving off now in search of refreshments.

  I said, “What’s going to happen to it now?”

  “He’s not bidding for himself. He’s an agent bidding on behalf of a private collector, a Russian energy billionaire with a large number of witches and wizards on his staff. He’s got money to burn.”

  I bit the inside of my lip. “What do we do about Cardoza? We’ve only got two days left.”

  “We just need to bide our time.”

  “But that’s the one thing we haven’t got.”

  CHA
PTER SIX

  Millie woke me with a glass of orange juice at seven the next morning, which was a nice surprise. She’d been fast asleep by the time we got back home at 3am.

  So I wasn’t feeling particularly refreshed the next morning when I made my way to the living room. The whole place smelled of sour boots and incense.

  Macrory was asleep on the sofa bed. His feet were sticking out from under the duvet but, charmingly, he had elected to keep his socks on.

  I opened the blinds, put the kettle on and went to grab a shower.

  By the time I returned with damp hair and fresh clothes, Macrory was stumbling around looking for his boots.

  I made some coffee and then the three of us sat around the table in the little kitchen diner. I quickly filled Millie in on what had happened the previous night. She listened with a neutral expression, nodding her head at various points but rarely commenting on what I said. It was only later that I realised that she was barely listening, waiting for me to finish before she could drop her bombshell.

  “I went to see Edwin yesterday. I was hoping to get some idea of where they’re keeping Kinsella but he seems as clueless as we are. But what he did tell me is even more worrying: The Inner Council are holding an extraordinary meeting later this morning. He thinks that they’re going to be pushing for a War Council.”

  Macrory shook his head. “Oh, that’s not good.”

  I said, “There’s a long way to go before that actually happens.”

  “Doesn’t matter. What matters is that this will play into the hands of The Unseelie Court. Any perceived threat only strengthens their position.”

  “You say the Unseelie Court but aren’t there two of them?”

  “That’s right The Seelie Court and the Unseelie Court. Only one court sits at any one time. Aleena, the queen of the Unseelie Court, is currently in charge. But when that ends Silesia, her sister, takes over with the Seelie Court.”

  “So, each one reins for how long? Six months?”

  “Not quite. Our seasons are a bit longer than yours. Each era, as they’re called lasts about ten years.”