by Amber Benson
There was a wavering in the ether around them and then Nelson’s comrade, Colonel Dunstan, appeared alongside them. He seemed calm, his brow unwrinkled by worry or fear. Tamara wished that she were a ghost so that she, too, could be impervious to the happenings around her. She had seen that same serene look on Bodicea’s face many a time, right before she flung herself into battle.
“He is being held in there,” the ghost said, pointing to one of the empty warehouses.
“Thank you, Colonel Dunstan,” Tamara answered gratefully. Their spell to locate Gupta would have led them to these buildings, but Dunstan’s guidance had shortened the time it would have taken to find the precise place where Horatio was also a captive.
When she glanced at Nigel, she saw that he was watching the ghost with an odd expression writ upon his face. “How was it that you escaped unharmed, Colonel?”
Dunstan looked offended for a moment, then shrugged. “It was not me they were after, vampire.”
Nigel hissed at the ghost, exposing his fangs.
“Please, Colonel, Mr. Townsend does not mean to be rude,” Tamara said. “He was merely curious. We are all on edge, I’m afraid.”
“No offense taken, milady,” the colonel replied drily, but the wary look in his eye gave lie to his words.
Tamara wished that William were here with her now. Instead he was having a fine time at the Algernon Club, no doubt, probably smoking cigars and talking politics with the rich and influential. She wished, not for the first time in her life, that she had been born the man, and William the woman. Really, he was much more interested in things of the female persuasion—gossiping, clothing, society affairs—than she was.
“Mistress Tamara?” Farris said, interrupting her reverie.
She nodded, leaving those thoughts for another day. “It may be that we need every available hand here. Byron! Come to us now! You are needed!”
It took only a moment. The ether rippled around them, and then Byron materialized beside her with an insouciant toss of his head.
“You called, my precious pet?” Byron asked, giving her a wink. “Hello, faithful Farris, and to you, Nigel.”
“Byron, please, now is not the time to be cavalier. Lord Nelson’s been captured.”
The spectral poet’s entire countenance changed. All the lightness went out of him, and a grim cast came over his features. The twinkle that so often danced in his eyes became a cruel spark.
“Time for a rescue, then,” he said grimly. “Shouldn’t we have Bodicea along, though? She is the warrior among us, after all.”
Tamara shook her head firmly. “She’s watching over Oblis. If he were to escape, there’s no telling what evil he might unleash. I won’t risk it unless there’s no other choice.”
Byron nodded. “Right, then. What are we waiting for?”
“He’s in there,” she said, pointing to the dilapidated warehouse. “Colonel Dunstan was with him when it happened.”
Byron turned to the other ghost, head cocked curiously.
“Dunstan? Have I not heard the name before?”
“Horatio has mentioned me, I’m sure,” the ghost of the colonel replied.
“I suppose,” Byron countered, but he studied the phantom soldier for a long moment before Tamara interrupted.
“You’ve been inside, Colonel Dunstan. What is our best approach?”
“I’m afraid the monsters will sense us the moment we enter, miss. As such, a frontal assault is as good a plan as any.”
Nigel replied, “Yes, well, thank the gods for your unique military expertise.”
BODICEA CHOSE NOT to go into the room.
She hated Oblis with a pure, black rage, and made it clear to the Swifts that she could not be responsible for what happened if she was left too long as his keeper. Truly, she did not trust herself in his presence. Bodicea would kill him with the least enticement, even though it meant the murder of Tamara and William’s father, Henry, in the bargain.
So she stood guard outside his door instead, knowing he was much safer that way.
“Bodiceeeeea . . . Bodicea!” the thing within screeched, taunting her, willing her to enter its prison and indulge in her hatred. Oblis knew that such conflict could end only with his death or freedom, and was willing to take that risk. But the spectral queen was determined to keep Oblis in check, and stay out of his way at the same time. She knew it was possible—she had managed the feat many times before—but tonight she felt the old rage stirring even more violently than usual.
“Bodicea! I can still hear their cries. Your daughters begged for their lives . . .”
She wished for silence, trying to ignore his words. Oh, Ludlow, dear one, sweet magician, where are you now?
With grim purpose she let these thoughts linger in her mind, meditating upon bittersweet memories. She missed Ludlow, and though she cared deeply for his grandchildren, it was not the same. She wished with all her heart that he were here with her now. He would have made her suffering more endurable.
Instead she would have to satisfy herself with naught but his memory.
COLONEL DUNSTAN LED the way into the warehouse, with Tamara, Nigel, and Farris following close behind. Tamara had misgivings about such an unsubtle attack, but agreed with Dunstan’s assessment that the Rakshasa would likely sense them the moment they entered the building. Still, it seemed as if there must have been some more logical way to go about this, perhaps drawing them out, rather than going in after them. If it hadn’t been that Horatio was a prisoner, and that they did not want to risk Tipu Gupta’s life, she would have taken more time to consider their course.
Byron floated ahead of her, his form gossamer as spiderwebs in the dark. Nigel and Farris were behind, but she paused and gestured for them to wait.
“Hold a moment,” Tamara whispered. “We’ll need light if we’re to accomplish anything inside this pit. And if we’re not worried about the element of surprise—”
She muttered a few words under her breath, and a ball of pure golden light blazed to life in her palm. With a gentle flick of her wrist she released the magic, and the light floated a few feet above her head, staying there as if tethered to her by an unseen thread.
“All right, let’s go.”
The others waited for her to move, and when she did, they followed even more cautiously than before.
The inside of the warehouse stank terribly. Tamara pulled the handkerchief from her sleeve and once again placed it to her nose. She looked over at Farris, and saw that he was also holding a handkerchief to his face. He was a staunch ally, brave and strong, but only human in the end. Her supernatural companions did not seem bothered by the stench. Even Nigel remained stoic.
The light that Tamara had conjured made a small dent in the pervasive darkness. She supposed that Nigel could see better in the dark than either she or Farris, but even he squinted to peer into the blackness beyond her magical illumination.
“Colonel Dunstan, where exactly did you come into contact with the demons?” Tamara asked quietly, though even as her lips formed the question the stench began to grow stronger, and she knew that they were getting closer to their quarry.
“Just a bit farther,” the colonel whispered. “Through that doorway and into the next room.”
Tamara had a sudden image in her mind of their strange procession, and wondered what an ordinary person would think if they happened to be in the warehouse just then. How would a simple laborer react to the sight of their macabre parade?
Until very recently she, herself, had not believed there were monsters that lurked in the shadows and lonely byways of the world. She had thought tales of fairies and demons nothing but pure fantasy. Now that she knew the truth, there was still a part of her soul that longed not to believe. To bury her head in the mud and ignore the harsh reality the Protectorship of Albion had foisted upon her and William.
The smell changed as they neared the entrance to the next room. It had previously been merely foul, but now there lingered within
it a sickly sweetness.
“Do you smell that?” Tamara whispered.
Farris nodded.
“Incense,” Nigel said.
“The sort of thing one burns for rituals . . . often with an offering to one god or another,” Byron added, his high, reedy whisper filled with dread. “It has been a good long while since I smelled this particular aroma, but I think it’s sandalwood.”
“Colonel?” Tamara began, but when she glanced over to where Dunstan had just been, she realized that he had disappeared.
“Where’s he gone?” Farris grunted. “He was just there.” The butler reached out with both hands to touch the air where the ghost had been floating a moment earlier.
“The coward has run off,” Nigel snarled, voice full of loathing.
“Oh, I don’t know if he’s a coward,” said Byron nonchalantly. “A traitor, though . . . that would be my guess.”
“What?” Tamara asked. A cold feeling spread in the pit of her stomach.
Then a terrible noise rent the air around them, like the savage laughter of hyenas, and Tamara turned to see two Rakshasa demons emerging from the darkness of the warehouse, her magical light playing upon their hideous features as though it shrank away from their evil.
“What the Hell are those?” Nigel barked.
“Hungry, I think,” Farris replied, his voice quavering.
As if on cue, the ghost of Colonel Dunstan returned, shimmering into existence in the dark, his features taking on an entirely different—and crueler—aspect.
“Hungry indeed,” the turncoat sneered. “And you are to be their dinner.”
“I think not, betrayer,” Nigel roared as he lunged at the colonel, wrapping his fingers around the ghost’s throat and throttling him, driving him to the ground.
Humans could not touch ghosts, nor could those specters lay a hand on a human being, but creatures of the supernatural were an altogether different story. Dunstan tried to flee, staggering back toward a wall. Most of him managed to slip through, but Nigel held the spirit in his clutches, and Dunstan was stuck.
The ghost drew his sword. Tamara shouted a warning to Nigel, but by then it was all she could do to defend herself.
Farris picked up a length of pipe from the ground and was swinging it viciously at one of the Rakshasa. Tamara wanted to aid him, but before she could do so, the other attacked. Her hands came up, a spell at her lips, but instantly it was upon her, driving her to the ground, claws puncturing the flesh of her upper arms.
“Tamara!” Farris shouted. He cracked the demon before him over the head, bending the pipe, and it flopped to the floor. The stout, thick-armed man leaped on the back of the one attacking Tamara and used the pipe to choke it, holding on tightly with his huge hands. The Rakshasa hissed and spat, sickly yellow eyes wide with fury and pain as it tried to reach back to tear him away.
“Let go, Farris!” Tamara screamed.
The man did as he was told, releasing his grip in the same moment the Rakshasa bucked with preternatural strength. Farris was thrown a dozen feet, to crash against a door frame. But at least he was clear.
Tamara weaved a sphere of fire between her palms and then hurled it at the creature, immolating the Rakshasa in seconds. It was burned down to the bones, which dropped to the floor as charred embers.
On the opposite side of the room, Byron and the second Rakshasa, which had recovered from Farris’s assault, squared off.
“Come here, you drooling hunchback,” the poet taunted. “You’re ugly as a whipped dog, and smell even worse.”
It did not seem to comprehend the words, but somehow it sensed that it was being insulted. It let out a terrible howl and leaped at the ghost. Byron vanished, immediately appearing on the other side of the creature, further inflaming its anger.
Tamara started over to check on Farris, but she was waylaid by the arrival of four more Rakshasa.
“Damn it!” she shouted. “Nigel, help me!”
But there was no response. She shot a quick glance toward Nigel and saw that the tables had turned. He was impaled upon Dunstan’s phantom sword, crimson blood staining his clothes and dripping onto the floor. The pain etched in the vampire’s features made Tamara herself ache in sympathy.
Colonel Dunstan twisted his blade with one hand, and with the other, he raked at Nigel’s eyes.
Tamara feared for her companions. As she turned to face the approaching creatures, she said a silent prayer to God, and to the spirit of Albion itself.
WHEN THEY HAD entered the dilapidated warehouse, Nelson had felt nothing amiss. It wasn’t until he found himself alone, and surrounded by hungry Rakshasa, that he realized his mistake: there was a Judas in their midst.
Thinking back to Colonel Dunstan’s betrayal, he felt the sting of sadness. He had known Dunstan for a very long time, and he would never have pegged the man as a traitor. Nelson wondered if Dunstan was somehow an unwilling servant to whatever devil was behind the demon plague.
He still could not believe his own stupidity. He had let himself fall into a trap, and now he was stuck in the hull of a half-rotted ship waiting for help that might never come.
Putting his ghostly hand to the wall of the moldy wooden vessel, he could feel a powerful magic humming within the timbers. Whoever was responsible for his incarceration was a strong magician. There was no hope of escape on his own. The magic that had bound him would keep him trapped forever, unless the Protectors found him.
There was a soft moan from the other side of the hold, giving hope that the man trapped down here with him would finally wake up. The man—really no more than a bag of bones wrapped in rags—had already been in the hold when Nelson got there. Though the man had not stirred, or even moaned, for the few hours they had occupied the same prison, Nelson had sensed all along that he was alive, if only barely.
He had seen the man before, of course, during the battle against the Rakshasa in an East End slum. Now, as the ghost floated toward him, the man forced himself up onto his knees, then seemed to collapse back into himself. But instead of ending up in a heap on a cold, wooden floor mined with rat droppings and assorted other bits of disgusting garbage, he fell into a yogic lotus position, his back pressed stiffly against the ship wall.
Amazing, Nelson thought. He is not nearly as far gone as I supposed.
The man did not look up at the ghost who floated only a few feet away from him. Instead he kept his head down so that his long, thin, white hair fell forward across his face, obscuring it.
“Tipu Gupta, I presume,” Nelson said.
The man did not answer. He lowered his head even farther, so that his long hair swept the floor of the ship.
“I say, sir. Are you all right?” Nelson ventured again. He knew the man could hear him, because every time he spoke, the shaggy head moved almost imperceptibly in his direction.
The voice was soft and hoarse when it finally came. Nelson had to float closer to the man in order to hear what he was saying.
“I knew your master. He was a dear friend, and I mourn his passing still,” rasped the Protector of Bharath. He lifted his head so that Nelson could finally see his face. There was caked blood where his nose had been broken—probably when he was thrown down into the hold, Nelson thought angrily—and his dark brown eyes were slits of pain and sorrow.
Astonishingly, the man smiled, and Nelson saw that he was missing one of his front teeth. It looked as if it had only recently been parted from its master, and that it must have hurt very much.
“Come now, sir,” said the ghost of Admiral Nelson, “you cannot possibly find amusement in our predicament. London is in an uproar from end to end. Dark magic twists the flesh of men from the most repugnant alleys to the highest towers, and women grow heavy with the spawn of Hell itself! What could there possibly be to smile about?”
The man nodded, and his white hair fell across his face like a veil. Or a shroud.
“I was merely remembering the dangers I faced alongside Ludlow Swift, the Protecto
rs of Bharath and Albion united against the darkness. So it must be again, if we are to survive this . . . if Albion is to be saved from the evil that plagues it.”
His smile disappeared, replaced now with a terrible sorrow. “And yet it is best that Ludlow did not live to see this day . . . to see my shame. I am to blame, you see. I have brought this plague to England . . . and before I die, I shall end it.”
William leaned back in his chair and rested his hands upon his bloated belly.
He had eaten so much that he could hardly breathe. All he wanted was to close his eyes and sleep until the bulk of his dinner had been digested, though by his calculation that might take weeks. The treacle tart had been divine, just the right consistency, melting in his mouth before he could swallow it. He was going to have to get the recipe from the cook. It had all just been too good to pass up.
As an added benefit, the luscious dinner and the scrumptious dessert had proved so exquisite that William had found he did not even mind sitting beside John Haversham. At first he had been annoyed, but as course after course appeared before them, he and John had bonded, after a fashion. He would still not call Haversham a friend, but at least now he did not mind the man so much.
For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why he had disliked Haversham so extraordinarily to begin with. Yes, he was loud, and almost absurdly jovial, with more than a bit of swagger in his manner. But he was so convivial, so enthusiastic in his sense of fellowship that it was impossible to maintain a disdain for him.
He had hurt Tamara’s feelings, of course, and William knew he ought to consider Haversham a villain for that reason alone. Yet how could he, when he was relieved to discover that the man showed no real interest in his sister? Enjoyable company he may have been, but he still had a scandalous reputation, and that hardly made him the ideal brother-in-law.
Still, how could anyone not like a man who extolled the merits of a good roast as heartily as John did?
