by Amber Benson
“Over the years we acquired a public face, that of the gentlemen’s club, so popular in London in this new era. An interest in magic, and a certain position in society, were all that would be required to make an application, and soon enough the Algernon Club became known for its amusing eccentricity. We are well known now as a collection of sleight-of-hand artists and illusionists, tricksters, and stage mystics.
“Or so the world believes.
“Among the entertainers, however, there remains a core membership, including the directors of the club, who are true to its founders’ wishes. There is real magic here, William, as I’m sure you know well.
“From its inception, the club was aware of the existence of the Protector of Albion. In the earliest days, the Protector was a sailor, a ship’s mate named Harry Curtis. It was an unwanted anchor to him, curtailing his ability to pursue his love of the sea. His mother had been Protector before him, and had passed the mantle to Harry. He despised her for it. They were both commoners. Harry Curtis took his own life without naming an heir to the legacy, but the soul of Albion would not be denied, and soon a new Protector was chosen, and the legacy restored. In time—more than ninety years and three Protectors later—the legacy fell to Maurice Ludlow.
“In all the history of the Protectorship of Albion, Maurice was the first to accept an invitation to become a member of the Algernon Club. The directors of the club did as they had always done, attempting to share secrets and spells to better our fellowship of magicians, as well as safeguard the people of this great land. It was an honor to have the Protector among us.
“Upon his death, Maurice passed the duties and power of the Protector to his grandnephew, Ludlow Swift. Your grandfather, William. He was also a member of our club. Now, though, Sir Ludlow is dead, and we would like to know if the mantle has passed . . . to you.”
The robed man stopped speaking and walked over to one of the curio cabinets. William held his breath as the man unlocked the case and pulled open the door.
Inside were three of the stolen Indian idols.
“Don’t touch them. They are not safe—” William began, but he did not finish as the man lifted his hand and began a protection spell. A blue flash of light formed over the stone creatures, and William gasped.
“Your concern is understandable, but not necessary, William. The club became aware some days ago of the curse that had been laid upon these idols, and the plague of evil they were spreading. In the time since, we have had agents working ceaselessly to locate and recover as many of them as possible, doing our best to halt the spread of this horror. We have purchased them when possible, and stolen them when we had no other choice. Those in our possession have been made safe, counterspells cast upon them so that they are harmless, as long as they reside within our walls.
“In the time since your grandfather’s death, we have been attempting to determine the identity of the new Protector. The disappearance of your father deepened the mystery. It would have been preferable for us to undertake this recent action with the Protector’s approval, but under the circumstances we had no choice but to proceed upon our own instincts. We hope, now, to remedy that situation, and to once again have the Protector of Albion counted among our number.”
“Who are you?” William asked.
The man reached up and lowered the hood of his robe, revealing handsome, regal features and dark hair peppered with gray. “Lord Simon Blackheath. The director of the Algernon Club. At your service.”
William stared. His head had begun to clear, the effects of the drug wearing off, and now he felt his pulse racing. He so wanted to believe Lord Blackheath. The idea that he and Tamara might have such allies to aid them in their cause was one that would make him rejoice . . . if it turned out to be true.
Of course they had been aware for some time now that there were other magicians in England, and that some of them belonged to various secret societies. According to Ludlow’s journals, however, most of them were apparently black magicians, devoted to dark deeds and enslaved to evil masters.
“There is no mention of the club in my grandfather’s journals,” William stated flatly, climbing to his feet and brushing off the seat of his trousers.
“Of course not. The true nature of the Algernon Club is cloaked in utter secrecy. Ludlow would never have betrayed our trust in that way.”
Lord Blackheath respectfully lowered his head and waited for a response.
William studied the man. Blackheath could have killed him while he was unconscious, yet he had not. There was also the matter of the stolen idols, which explained many of the errant mysteries connected to the present crisis. It all seemed too good to be true. Which meant it probably was.
As he considered it, though, William decided that the only way to discover whether or not the man could be trusted was to see the conversation through to its natural conclusion. He could not find any reason not to confirm for Lord Blackheath what the man already seemed to know.
“You are offering me membership in the Algernon Club?”
Lord Blackheath smiled, his dark eyes ringed with tiny wrinkles. “Not only in the club, but on the council. The Protector has held a seat on the council for more than a century.”
“All right, then. I accept.” William grinned then, and raised an eyebrow. “But I should inform you, my lord, that you will need two empty chairs, not one.”
Storm clouds passed across Lord Blackheath’s eyes as he frowned at William. “I beg your pardon. Two?”
“I have inherited the Protectorship of Albion, just as you thought,” William went on, straightening his jacket and feeling the magic of his inheritance surging up within him, sparkling just beneath his skin. “But I share that legacy. My grandfather chose two heirs, myself, and my sister, Tamara. I accept your invitation on her behalf, as well.”
The older man’s eyes went wide and he paled, his jaw working for several moments during which he seemed incapable of forming words.
“But . . . ,” he said at last. “But, this is a gentlemen’s club.”
William crossed his arms and gazed at Lord Blackheath balefully. “Good,” he said. “Then I can be confident that in my sister’s presence, you will all behave like gentlemen. You desire to have the Protector of Albion among your ranks, my lord. So you shall have both of us.”
IN THE MOLDY, rotting hold of the creaking ship, Nelson watched Tipu Gupta quietly meditating, legs pulled beneath him. The man seemed to gather strength from the quiet chant he intoned under his breath. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the Protector of Bharath looked up and gave the ghost another weak smile.
“I am sorry I have dragged you and your friends into my troubles,” he said.
“Nonsense,” said Nelson. “This plague affects us all. It is not your burden to shoulder alone. We must stand united against it.”
Tipu Gupta shook his head sadly.
“Yet I am responsible, Lord Nelson. This evil has afflicted Albion because of me and my . . . poor choices.”
Horatio raised a ghostly eyebrow. “Please explain.”
The man nodded slowly, a pain deep as the heart etched on his face. “It was because of Ludlow Swift’s passing that I was reminded of my own failing health,” Tipu Gupta began. “I, too, had not chosen an heir, and I realized that, though I had a number of years still left on this Earth, I had much to teach my pupil. That the choosing had best be done soon, if I was to impart all the knowledge I possessed.”
Horatio nodded.
“I was a fool. I chose unwisely—”
Suddenly a loud buzzing noise rent the air.
“What in the—” Horatio began as a blue light filled the hull of the ship, blinding Gupta and causing the ghost to retreat.
With a noise like meat frying in a pan and a flash of bright light, Tamara Swift translocated into the dank cargo hold. Her dress was torn and her hair unkempt, but her eyes were bright and gleaming with courage and determination. Even in his lifetime, Admiral Nelson had never bee
n so happy to see the face of an ally.
“Tamara!” he cried.
“Horatio, oh, thank the Lord,” she said, and rushed to him.
There was an awkward moment when, were he a man of flesh and bone, they would have embraced. Instead they only gazed fondly at each other for a moment before Tamara turned her attention to the old Indian man who still sat cross-legged upon the floor. She squatted down beside the man and stared at him.
“You are Tipu Gupta, are you not? The Protector of Bharath?”
The old man took a long, shuddering breath.
“I am.”
The sadness on Tamara’s face broke Nelson’s heart. It was as though all her courage had failed her, and he knew she must have been thinking about Helena Martin, and perhaps all the others who had suffered so horribly in recent days, as well.
“Please, sir. Can’t you explain this all to me? There has been so much horror. We fight against these demons, see women violated and men turned to monsters, so much death and cruelty, and we don’t know why.”
He gazed at her for long seconds. “Why?” he said, at last. “A single word, a simple question, but it never has a simple answer. Had you lived in India before the English came, or seen the way our people are treated in their own country, you might begin to understand. Had you spent time in this district, near the docks, in the filth with sailors from the East India Company who were carried here so far from home and then abandoned without any way to return to India, you might know. My country, my people, are trampled beneath the boot of the British Empire.”
There was such bitterness in his voice that Nelson felt sympathy even as he bristled at the man’s anger. As a naval man, he felt the call to defend the Crown, to defend England, but he said nothing. Gupta was a fellow prisoner and posed no threat.
Tamara’s mouth gaped open. “You . . . you’re responsible for all of this?”
The old man shook his head in despair. “Yes. But not in the way you think.”
“I should hope not! For whoever’s done this has cursed not only London, but slaughtered your own people, as well!” Nelson snapped.
Tamara shot him a withering glance. “Lord Nelson. Get hold of yourself.” Then she turned her attention back to the Protector of Bharath. “Mr. Gupta, sir?”
He met her hard gaze with his own. “I trained my daughter, Priya, as the Heir of Bharath, the Protector-in-waiting. Upon my death she would look after our country and keep it safe from the encroaching evil. Just as your grandfather chose you and your brother.”
He sighed and shook his head. “She was the wrong choice. The Protector is to combat supernatural threats. Evil and dark magic. War and diplomacy must be left to human society and its governments, for better or worse. It is not our place to interfere with civilization, only to protect it.
“I have no love for the British Empire. But my daughter has nurtured a hatred for the English in her heart her entire life, despising your control over our people and lands. Named as my heir and successor, she began to tap into the magic of the soul of Bharath, sapping my power from me before it was her due. When I had been sufficiently weakened, she attempted to kill me, so that she would receive what remained of my power . . . what she had not already stolen.
“I survived, but only barely. With most of my magic at her disposal, she fled India, bent upon vengeance against the British Crown.”
“Your own daughter?” Tamara exclaimed. “I am so sorry.”
Tipu Gupta nodded, his eyes sad and empty.
“Weakened as I am, I followed Priya here and tried to undo the evil she had perpetrated, tried to stop her. But I cannot. I do not know how to explain it. She must have been studying spellcraft for years, without my knowledge, abusing my trust, making supplication to the gods, courting demons . . . so that once she had even a fraction of my power, she was able to wield it with deadly skill.
“I am depleted. Most of what I was, I am no longer. But Priya only grows stronger. I think she believes she has allied herself with the goddess Kali, but the thing that whispers to her in the shadows of her mind is not Kali. It may be an aspect of the goddess, a dark, feverish, savage thing, but not the goddess herself. Still, it gives Priya more power even than she stole from me. The longer my daughter taps into that power, the more difficult it will be for me to stop her when we face each other for the final time.”
Tamara took his shaking hand in her own and squeezed.
“Why did you not come to us? We would have helped you,” she said.
The old man shook his head.
“I thought that your father was the heir, the Protector of Albion. And since I found him to be incapacitated, I chose to fight my daughter alone. And I was . . .”
He gazed up at her, jaw set grimly. “I was ashamed.”
THE WIND WAS colder than the girl could have imagined. It whipped through the thin fabric of her sari and chilled her copper skin. Her long, black hair, her pride as a child, was held firmly in place beneath a piece of thin, white cloth. She had chosen white, the color of bone, the color of death, because it mirrored her mood, and because the goddess wished it.
Yes, the voice spoke in her mind, in the native tongue of her homeland. White for death. White for vengeance. You have done well, daughter of Kali.
Priya smiled to herself, no longer cold. The love of the goddess warmed her. She was here for vengeance. And it thrilled her to the very core to think how close she had come to fulfilling her aim. From the poor, suffering fools who had been cast aside in the slums of London like refuse, she had created a small army. Some of them had been traitors, serving their English masters, and others had been victims. Either way, they were better off now, transformed into the reptilian Children of Kali, serving both their country and the goddess. She had begun with them, and then proceeded to punish the guilty, using the Curse of Kali to destroy the thieves, one by one, and transform them, as well. They would serve the cause of vengeance for the very goddess they had defiled.
It was perfect. As Protector of Bharath, she had wrought monsters from the flesh of men, and she had them to do her bidding. With the help of the goddess, she had yoked the mighty Rakshasa to her command. And now the endgame had begun. One more night, and she would wrest control of the entire British Empire in the name of the goddess, and the accursed would destroy the city of London.
Never again would a foreign power look toward India with predatory eyes and imperialistic ambitions. Not after this.
Priya closed her eyes and placed her hands upon her abdomen, where she had tattooed the thirty-six tattvas in ink, etching the symbols with the tip of a blade and then staining the wounds black. All for the goddess.
Now, under her breath, she began to chant a mantra to soothe her mind.
“Krim Om Kurukulle Sarva-Jana-Vasamanya Krim Kurukulle Hrim Svaha,” she whispered, pausing only a moment before chanting the mantra a second, then a third and fourth time.
Yes, daughter, the goddess said, the voice in her mind warming her flesh and making her gasp, as a shudder of pleasure rippled through her, beginning at the tips of her fingers and ending deep within her yoni. The time had come at last. Now you will be the true Protector of Bharath, safeguarding your people with the courage your spineless father could never muster. At last, a worthy Protector has risen.
Priya opened her eyes and called into the frigid night. “Children, I call you! Come to me! Rise and destroy your enemies in Kali’s name!”
THE NIGHT GREW colder, and freezing rain began to shower down upon the makeshift hospital in Shadwell district. Wind ripped at the coverings that protected the patients, and the rain slipped in through every crack.
The wind died suddenly, and there fell upon the place an unsettling silence. The doctor and the others who were caring for the suffering looked up from their tasks, sensing something in the air that filled them with dread.
A single shriek of agony ripped through the troubling silence and then was joined by another. Then another, one by one, until it was
an unholy chorus. The women who lay upon the cots in that filthy hospice arched their bodies and gripped the rough blankets as their wombs began to tear. The curse that had afflicted them had followed a predictable course, days of discomfort and grief followed by excruciating labor and death while giving birth.
But now all the victims were engulfed. Regardless of how long since they had been infected with this plague, from women who had staggered into the courtyard this very evening to those who had been there for days, each and every one began to scream and thrash, their bloated bellies undulating . . . and from each there burst a stream of grotesque toad-creatures, erupting from the torn bodies to spill onto the floor.
The doctor could not bear the sight. He had seen too much. With a cry that matched their wails of pain, he struck his skull against the wall. Once, twice, a third time. Then, weeping and bleeding, he fell to his knees and vomited in the cold rain as the toad-creatures hopped off into the darkness.
It was only after those hideous things, with their bulbous yellow eyes, had all disappeared that the first of the accursed men, the twisted creatures that had defiled those very women, tore themselves free of their blankets and bindings and leaped from their cots. Their caretakers screamed and attempted to flee, but to no avail. They were caught and gutted with scaly fingers tipped with ragged claws. The accursed men ate their fill of the human flesh, steaming in the cold night air. The creatures were hungry after such a long time spent waiting for the call.
When they had finished, they lingered with the corpses of the women who had died giving birth to their spawn, waiting patiently until a pair of Rakshasa came and led them away to the waiting water of the Thames and the call of their mistress, the Protector of Bharath.
As impressed as William had been with the elegantly appointed interior of the Algernon Club, he had not been prepared for the room Lord Blackheath had called their inner sanctum.
