by LENOX, KIM
“How did you manage to get these accomodations? Before the hotel has even opened to the public?”
Selene answered for her twin. “Mark is one of the Savoy’s major investors.”
Archer glanced down at Mark, who frowned over a page. “Why don’t you get yourself a house? It’s not as if you can’t afford one.”
Mark answered quietly, “I prefer my rooms here.”
Archer moved to stand beside the window, covered in white and red-striped blinds. “Actually, the intrusion is not so bad over here.”
“It’s the placement of the granite columns and the steel joists. Apparently they used very little wood in the construction.”
Archer flicked aside the blinds and peered out. In the distance, Cleopatra’s Needle speared up from the dense fog layering Victoria Banks.
“A pleasant view,” he said quietly, understanding Mark’s choice of lodgings a bit better now.
“Mark always was a mummy’s boy,” Selene cooed. She chuckled at her own jest, and repeated, “Mummy’s boy.”
Mark threw her a disgusted look.
Archer intervened. “What of you, Mark?”
“While I waited for Selene to refurbish the scroll, I tracked down Mr. Limpett’s daughter at his home in Manchester.”
“But no Mr. Limpett?”
Mark shook his head. “And no Jack. I’m in agreement with you. I think he’s still here in the city.”
“What did the daughter say about Mr. Limpett?”
“She told me he returned from London a week ago, but disappeared, and she hasn’t seen him since.”
“And her thoughts reflect the truth of this?”
Mark nodded. “She’s no idea of where he’s gone, but I could easily perceive she’s suspicious of her father.”
“In what way?”
“She fears he’s dealing in stolen artifacts.”
“Interesting.”
“There’s no telling where the tablet is now. We’ll have to find it after this business with Jack is settled.”
“What have you translated thus far?”
Mark responded, “Nearly all of it. I’ll try to be brief, but why don’t you sit?” He indicated the matching chair beside him.
As Archer seated himself, Mark flipped a few pages back in the sketchbook. “The scroll opens with several prophesies, namely cataclysmic events—the foremost being the eruption of volcanoes—and they explain this theory of waves you identified at the museum.”
Archer nodded, waiting to hear more.
“The waves would of course initially take the physical form of earth tremors, aftershocks and tsunamis. But they tell their followers to remain receptive to unseen ripples in the atmosphere, which would continue for decades, perhaps even a century after the event. They predicted a volcano, at some unspecified point in the future, would be a beacon from which Tantalus would shout his call to arms, in the form of a dark energy that awakens those who have the hidden ability to turn brotoi.”
Archer removed his hat, and his gloves, and set them on the marble-topped table beside the chair. “Tell us more about these brotoi. What is their evolution?”
“The tendency to become brotoi already lies within a certain population of mortals—and from all I’ve read in the scroll, they are the same mortals who are prone to Transcension, those who suffer excessive moral and mental deterioration.”
Archer rubbed the bridge of his nose, pondering all Mark revealed. “At least there is that—we are concerned with the same fraction of population as before, only as I understand things, the brotoi will eventually unite their efforts, whereas Transcended souls remain solitary in their deviant pursuits.”
Mark nodded. “That’s right. Once awakened, they’ll become stronger during each ripple. The events will not only be a source of power, but of communication and instruction from the depths of Tartarus.”
At the table Selene stood, stretching like a lithe, dark cat. “I’m finished here. You can record the last of these sequences, Mark.”
Both Reclaimers left their seats for the table.
Selene took up the two ivory scroll rods, and twisting her hair atop her head, used them to pin the weighty mass in place. She dropped into the chair Archer had just vacated. She idly selected three of the decorative books from the side table and scrutinized the words typed in gold upon their spines, like a connoisseur selecting wine. “The thing I don’t understand is if Krakatoa erupted in 1883, why has it taken until 1888 for this first soul to emerge as a brotoi?”
Having settled on her choice, she ripped a long narrow strip, and twirled it about her finger. Tilting her head back, she dropped the paper between her lips.
“Because he only now understands the messages,” Archer answered solemnly. “It’s like any other language. One must be immersed for a certain period of time before the pattern makes sense. It’s like a code, unlocking the potential of evil within.”
Mark nodded. “From what I’ve read, the Ripper could very well be the Messenger referred to in the prophesies, and the purpose of his deeds here in London is to rouse an army of sleepers, or unperfected brotoi around the world. The end plan is, of course, for this vicious army to multiply and inhabit the earth . . . and of course, overtake the Inner Realm.”
“Hmmm,” mused Selene. “I wonder if my Thames murderer is a brotoi. He or she has been unusually difficult to trace.”
Archer met her gaze. “At this point, anything is possible.”
Mark laid the sketchbook on the table beside the scroll. Glancing back and forth between one and the other, he wrote out a string of numbers below the ones he’d already recorded.
Finally, Mark straightened. “It’s as you believed, Black.” He handed the sketchbook to Archer and pointed to what he’d written. “Look at the first few lines and compare them against one another. A little tinkering with their numerical code and you can see the pattern of the waves. They extend outward from Krakatoa and strike various points on the globe at specific times. When you compare that pattern with a calendar of the last five years, the dates correspond to everything you detailed before. Disasters. Outbreaks of disease. And murders. Lots of very nasty murders.”
Archer studied the characters on the scroll, comparing their number to the ones recorded by Mark. “Based on this particular pattern—the one encompassing London’s latitudinal and longitudinal location, I would expect the Ripper to strike again on the tenth of November.”
Mark nodded. “That’s the date I arrive at as well.”
Archer met Mark’s hard stare. “Excellent work.”
Mark appeared to take not the slightest pleasure in the commendation. “One more thing, Black. If this Messenger brotoi is as strong as the scroll prophesies . . .” Mark’s voice trailed off.
“What?” Selene demanded.
“I’ve read the scroll again and again. This is a nasty fellow. He’s only growing stronger with time.”
“Say it.” Archer crossed his arms over his chest.
“The only way to ensure the defeat of a brotoi would be to fight him on his own level. One of us would have to Transcend.”
Chapter Thirteen
“We’re not going to do that,” Archer stated firmly. “Once a Guard Transcends, there is no way back. He would risk—”
“Or she would risk,” Selene interjected, eyes flashing.
With a nod of acknowledgment, Archer continued. “He or she would risk eternal madness, and be forever cast out, not only from the ranks of the Shadow Guard, but the Inner Realm as well.”
Selene added, “And invite their own assassination. You can be certain the Primordials wouldn’t suffer the existence of a Shadow Guard-turned-brotoi on the loose.”
Archer shook his head. “Again, that’s not going to happen. Perhaps if there were only one of us forced to do battle with this soul alone, but there’re three. Together we can defeat him.”
“Together?” Selene repeated quietly, straightening in the chair. The heavy blue silk of her go
wn hissed against the brocade. “Do you mean that, Archer?”
Archer lifted his chin, unsmiling. “It is the only way to ensure Jack’s defeat.”
Mark growled, “What if that isn’t good enough for me?”
“Don’t,” warned Selene.
“What if I want to hear it from your lips that you understand the reasons for what I did, Black?”
Archer leveled a dangerous look at Mark. “I am here now, willing to go into this Reclamation on equal footing with the two of you. Can we move forward rather than backward?”
“Mark.” Selene pushed herself to her feet, imploring.
Her gaze veered from one immortal to the other. “Tell him yes. Tell him we will work together on this.”
Mark stared coolly into the center of the room, at no one. His starched collar contrasted pale against his throat. “Let’s do it, then. Let’s prepare ourselves for the battle to come.”
Archer claimed his gloves and hat from the table. “I’ll inform the Primordials of our intended strategy. When they learn of all this, they may wish, as a precaution, to temporarily close the portals. If you’ve any communications to be sent into the Inner Realm, I would make your dispatches sooner rather than later.”
Selene pursued him to the door. “What will you do in the meantime?”
He barely heard her, for already he had darkened to shadow.
Lizzy nodded over the tops of the roses. “Yes, miss. I’m certain they are for you. Mr. Jarvis read the florist’s card ’isself.” Lizzy winced. “I mean himself.”
Obviously Mary Alice had been at work attempting to polish Lizzy’s speech.
Elena stood up from her escritoire, where she’d spent much of the morning organizing pages of notes. She’d welcomed the diversion. The knowledge that Lord Black was expected to return today from his weeklong foray into France kept her constantly distracted.
She’d already filled two boxes with the books she must return to Dr. Harcourt. After her acceptance to the college arrived, it would only be a matter of time before she left Black House for a student boardinghouse closer to the campus. She wouldn’t have room to store them there.
Had Lord Black sent the flowers? Pleasure spiraled through her at the possibility. She accepted the vase, which contained a vivid scarlet display of at least two dozen fat, red buds, their petals as rich as velvet.
“They are beautiful.”
Lizzy cleared her throat, and with a purposeful tilt of her head said, “Miss Whitney, I wanted to thank y’ again for takin’ me to Catherine’s funeral, and making sure I got those few days off to gather me thoughts. My thoughts, that is.”
“There are no thanks necessary. I know she was your friend. It’s important you remember the Catherine you knew, and not what she has become in the newspapers.”
Catherine had died such a horrible, violent death. The macabre details, fully described in the newspapers, had served to memorialize her as a garish caricature of a woman, more akin to the wax figure Elena had seen on the street than a human being.
Lizzy clasped her hands in front of her apron. “You’ve been more than kind to me, miss, and I can’t say I know what I’ve done to deserve it.”
“Everyone deserves kindness, Lizzy. Everyone but monsters like Jack the Ripper. He’ll get his comeuppance in the end, for what he’s done to these women. I’ve no doubt of that.”
After Lizzy had gone, Elena settled the vase on her desk. She didn’t need to bend her nose to the blooms. Their aroma filled the air around her. She coaxed the tiny envelope free. There was only her name, MISS WHITNEY, typed in black ink on the card. Again a knock sounded on her door.
When she opened it, her heart stopped. Archer stood there, silver-eyed and handsome.
“Hello,” she said.
“Elena.” He tilted his head. Warm pleasure swept through her, hearing the intimate pronouncement of her name, spoken by a voice she’d come to crave.
A dark swath of hair swept down to brush his cheek. He looked swarthy and mysterious. A fissure of excitement speared through her center.
“How was France?”
“Inconsequential,” he said. “I know you’ve been confined to Black House all these days, at my selfish request. I’ve got the afternoon free of appointments. I wondered if you might wish to go for a ride.”
Her heart leapt. “Yes, I would.”
The roses. If he’d sent them, wouldn’t he have mentioned doing so? Perhaps he was waiting for her to say something. She bit her lip, half delirious that he stood there staring at her with such intensity. Perhaps it was more exciting to leave some things unsaid. “Would you like to come in and wait while I gather my things?”
“No,” he answered, laughing and raising an elegant hand. His lips turned up at the edges, in a faintly wicked smile. “I’d better not. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
He backed several steps away and pivoted toward his room, she supposed to collect his coat and hat. She could not help but glance down at his buttocks, which even beneath the concealment of his fine woolen trousers were perfectly shaped and muscular. Her heart beat an erratic tempo. She hurried to her wardrobe.
When she arrived downstairs he was already waiting, his top hat and gloves in hand. His frock coat, expertly cut to display the masculine burl of his shoulders, fell in an elegant descent to his knees. The footman stood back as Lord Black, rather than the servant, held the door for her. She passed him by, moving into the bracing chill of the afternoon. At the bottom of the steps, he assisted her up into a carriage—one that required no servant to drive. Going round, he climbed up to take his seat beside her, and accepted the reins and whip from the stableman.
He glanced over his shoulder toward a finely dressed servant, who waited on horseback at a discreet distance behind them.
“Leeson has informed me that in lieu of our perpetually melancholy Mrs. Hazelgreaves, we must take a groom for propriety’s sake.”
Elena grinned, and agreed in a hushed, conspiratorial voice, “We don’t wish to be tomorrow’s scandal.”
They drove between the high iron gates onto the street. Archer caught her gaze, but only fleetingly. “Where would you like to go? This is your afternoon, you know.”
“Really? Mine? What is the occasion?”
Archer stared over the tops of the horses’ heads, to the street beyond. “In your room the other evening, you brought up the subject of good-bye.”
“You’ll be gone soon.”
“Yes.”
She had known he would go all along, and had been sincere in her bedchamber when she told him she expected nothing from him. They both had dreams and obligations that took them in different directions. Still, that did not mean they could not share an afternoon of memories.
She smiled to soothe the sting of her heart. “Then let’s make the very most of my afternoon. Since it is I who will make the decisions on where we are to go, don’t you think I ought to drive?”
Without the slightest question, Archer handed over the reins. “Certainly, if you wish.”
“Consider yourself at my mercy, your lordship. If you were hoping for a gentle ride in Hyde Park, you shouldn’t have handed over the reins to me.”
Only a brief ten minutes or so later she turned the horses and carriage onto Jermyn Street. They passed a number of five-storied buildings crowded with shops and offices. She continued east until the shop fronts took on a bit shabbier appearance.
She drew the carriage to the curb. “In one of the city guides I read of a shop I’d like to visit, and I believe it’s just over there.”
She tied the reins, and the groom sidled alongside to mind the vehicle. Archer climbed down and caught Elena by the waist to bring her beside him on the sidewalk. In the shop window were advertisement placards for a host of items. Tea. Medicinal powders. And near the door there was a sign: TATTOO.
“Tell me again why we are here?” The dark slash of Archer’s brow drew up in suspicion.
“I read about the gentle
man who owns this shop. He sells all sorts of things from around the world and claims to be descended from Omai, the Polynesian native Captain Cook brought back from the Marquesas.” She shrugged. “Who knows if that’s true.”
“And he’s a tattooist.”
“Yes.”
“Why am I starting to feel as if I am somehow in danger?”
“I’ve already got one.” Elena smiled, angelic and devilish all at once.
He’d seen the serpent before, but of course she didn’t know. Darkly playful, he grasped her wrist and boldly pried down the fitted kid leather of her glove. When he saw it again, wrapped around her pale, delicate wrist, a fiery impulse arose within him to press his mouth to the marked flesh.
“This is what Mrs. Hazelgreaves was so overwrought about?”
“I am not as scandalous as she’d like to believe. Small, discreet tattoos are considered very chic in even the most exclusive of female circles.”
“Tell me why are we here.”
A blush spread high across her cheeks. He still held her wrist. It was almost as if they held hands on the busy street, while everyone moved around them.
“I couldn’t help but notice on the first night I met you in your study, and then again that night in your room . . .”
Now he felt as if he were blushing. When was the last time that had occurred? “Notice what?”
“You don’t have one.”
“There’s a reason for that. The damn things last forever.”
She tilted her head. “What’s wrong with forever?”
She could not know how deeply her words cut him. He would not say or even think the word “love” for it was too impossible to consider in the context of his solitary existence, but he had developed the most dangerous and consuming of passions for his beautiful young ward. It was torturous to know each moment brought them closer to good-bye. He blinked away the morose thought.
“You’re testing me.”
Her dual-colored eyes dazzled him with their candid mischief. “More like daring you.”
“You don’t think I’ll do it?”
“No, I don’t,” she goaded lightly. “I think you’re a prude, Lord Black.”
