by Amber Benson
Too late.
Most of those dagger-ribbons were deflected by her shield, evaporating the moment their malevolent power touched the pure light of Albion. But the protection spell took a moment to envelop her, and there wasn’t time for it to be completed.
One of those dancing crimson ribbons sliced her left thigh. Another punctured her shoulder. The pain seared her and she cried out, but it was nothing compared with the third, the last of those to strike her before her spell of protection completely shielded her.
It impaled her, plunging through her abdomen, its tip emerging through her lower back.
Tamara’s blood spattered Priya Gupta’s beautiful white sari and her caramel skin, and the usurper, the madwoman, ran her tongue over her lips to taste it, grinning all the while.
“For Kali.”
At the southeastern corner of the palace, William stood utterly still and listened for the sound of any approaching enemy.
The buildings across the street were cloaked in fog that clung to each brick and board and roiled in great clouds along the ground. There were occasional breaks in that filthy gray-orange wave, giving glimpses of a window or door or a stretch of empty street, but they were brief and only served to make the depth of the fog seem more unnerving. So William listened.
There were a great many sounds out in the fog. Though muffled, they told him what he wanted to know. Despite appearances to the contrary, he and his allies were not alone. There were snuffling, animal noises coming from the murk, and once a terrible screeching, like cats fighting . . . but these were not cats.
He heard a woman shout in surprise, then the slamming of a door, followed by a shattering of glass and then a more distant, more muffled shriek that he could have heard only because of the otherwise complete silence.
Poor woman, he thought. As tempting as it was to race off in search of her, he knew it would be utterly futile. She’d seen something she was never meant to see, and paid for it with her life.
“They’re coming,” he said to his companions.
Tipu Gupta, usurped Protector of Bharath, nodded gravely and pushed himself up on his walking stick. He could not have been considered hale, but there was a strength in his countenance and posture now that had not been there before. William thought he was getting a glimpse of what the man must have been like in his prime.
Though the young man had never quite considered it that way before, his grandfather was a hero to him. And Ludlow Swift had called Tipu Gupta friend and ally. They had stood side by side and fought the darkness, risking their lives and their souls. As William studied the old man, with his deep brown eyes and weathered skin, he realized that he was gazing upon a legend.
Something changed in William, then. He drew a long breath and stood a bit straighter himself. That was the sort of battle this was. There would never be history books written about it, no poems crafted or songs sung. But it would be spoken about in whispers, by ghosts and magicians and demons.
Beside him, Farris drew out both of his revolving pistols and held one in either hand. The gentleman’s gentleman gave William a solemn glance, then peered out into the fog, weapons at the ready.
“Let ’em come, I say.” Farris aimed his pistols into the gloom. “Let ’em come.”
Moments later, as if in answer, the first of the Children of Kali darted out of the darkness. There were several off along the southern wall of the palace, shadows passing through the thick gray cloud so that they vanished and reappeared from moment to moment. The twisted, accursed men ran with a dangerous agility, knifing through the night, but it wasn’t those few that concerned William.
Others had appeared almost immediately out of the mist-blanketed St. James’s Park, and that band of monsters rushed toward the gates of Buckingham Palace as though the dinner bell had sounded.
And perhaps it had.
William started toward the gates, but Gupta snagged his arm.
“We must not separate,” the old man rasped.
“Sorry to disappoint you, but we have little choice. The attack is on two fronts, and must be fought on both.”
Farris gestured with a gun. “The vermin at the gates won’t be turned away. They’re on a mission, they are. But those others, well, might be you could make short work of them, drive them off with a nasty spell or two and then join us at the gates. After all, those ’round the side aren’t going to be getting in from that direction. Unless they plan on climbin’ the walls.”
Gupta was correct. It would not do to separate. But Farris had a point. It might take him only a few moments to deal with the attackers heading for the southern wall.
“Go guard the gates!” William snapped. “I’ll be right along.”
With only a moment’s hesitation, they did as he instructed. The old man used his stick to walk, but moved with surprising speed. Silver light swirled in circles around his legs, dispelling the fog there, and it became clear that he was propelling himself with magic. William had to wonder how much of his sudden vitality was magical . . . and how long it would last.
Then he turned west and started along the southern wall. More of those reptilian men, some dressed in the rags of the East End slums and others in the fine clothing bespeaking wealth, emerged from the alleys and side streets to his left, but he ignored them. Up ahead, those that had first shown themselves reached the wall. One did not bother to slow, leaping at the obstruction, scaly, webbed hands sticking to the stone, talons digging in. It began to climb.
Damn you, Farris, for being right, he thought.
There were too many of them for him to destroy quickly. He had to think of another way to keep them off the wall, to get them to focus their attack on the front, so that he and his allies could work together.
The Children of Kali began to hiss, some of them even to wail a kind of high, keening cry that made his stomach turn. Never had William been so aware of being on his own. He wished he and Tamara had not needed to split up. She was so much more clever when it came to magic, and so much more difficult to rattle.
William thought of Sophia, and images swept across his mind of the wedding they would have one day. He thought of the elegant interior of Swift’s of London, and of the people who worked for him there, of the utter, wonderful ordinariness of it all. And a liquid fear raced through his veins. Not only fear of his own death, but fear, too, that no matter how much he struggled and fought to return his life to normal, every time one of these supernatural crises occurred, he would never really be able to do so. Never be able to rest.
“I hate you,” he said in the dark, in the fog, and wasn’t at all certain to whom he spoke.
Then a smile touched his lips. He had an idea.
Tamara would have come up with a way to stop them. But in that moment he had asked himself what Tamara would do, and suddenly he knew.
Something hissed in the murk over his left shoulder, but he ignored it, hoping he had the few seconds he needed. His eyelids fluttered, and the ice in his gut melted as he raised his hands. He felt the power of Albion deep inside him, thrumming in his bones, and he racked his brain for the words that would give his incantation form. The magic of the Protector of Albion was immense, part of his flesh. Part of his soul. But the skill to wield it, that had to be learned.
William had never had much luck with more complicated magic. Now he would see if that had changed.
His whole body ached as he summoned the energy, imagining the spell. He curled his fingers into claws, and slashed at the air in front of him, drawing symbols he did not even realize he recalled from his studies. The surge of power was like hammers pounding his arms and chest.
“Mutatio cito lancea,” he whispered.
Half a dozen of the reptile creatures had leaped up onto the wall by then, slithering upward, their scaly, mottled flesh gleaming wet from the moist air. At the last syllable of his spell, the wall wavered for a moment as though made of liquid instead of stone, and then in an eyeblink thousands of spikes grew from the wall, stone
lances that thrust out and impaled the Children of Kali that were there, and several that stood close by at the bottom, preparing to climb.
They didn’t even have time to scream.
He could practically feel the one that was rushing up behind him.
William spun and summoned a spell as he did so, and the monster was buffeted by magical fire that consumed it, leaving a tower of ash in the shape of a hideous man. With the next gust of wind it collapsed and eddied away into the fog.
“Accendo!” he cried, turning to the others.
A brilliant flash of light burst from his hands like a flare, reflecting off the fog so that it seemed a solid blanket of gray filth. But where there were breaks in the fog, he saw them. And they him. The Children of Kali hissed with hatred and hunger, and when William turned to race back around the front of the palace, they followed.
The fog grasped at him as he sprinted toward the gates, eyes narrowed in search of Gupta and Farris. There were figures in the mist, dark things outlined against the cloyingly moist gray fabric of the air. Some of them crept, but others barreled forward without hesitation or stealth. One of them was huge and crouched low, uttering a roar that came out like a laugh.
Rakshasa.
So there were demons among the accursed now.
He pushed past curtains of fog and came in sight of the palace gates. Tipu Gupta stood in front of them with his staff raised, guarding the royal palace, guarding the queen of England, not out of duty but of righteousness. Whatever spite he may have held in his heart for the way his people were ruled by the British Empire, this night the fight was not between nations, but between light and darkness. And Gupta had chosen his side ages past.
Silver light danced around his entire body, arcs of lightning that encircled him. Much of his power as Protector might have been drained away by his daughter, but he was still connected to the soul of Bharath, and had far more skill and experience in wielding that power than William could imagine.
Two Children of Kali rushed the gates, where Gupta held the staff in both hands and pointed its tip at them. Silver-blue energy flowed serpentlike from the simple walking stick and the twisted, damned men screamed as their hellish flesh melted from their bones. They collapsed together in a single wet heap.
A crack echoed across the sky, the sound ricocheting around in the fog. William flinched and tried to locate its source, and then he saw Farris, perhaps twenty feet beyond the old man, wielding those pepperbox revolvers. Another crack slapped the air, a gunshot, and this time William saw its effects. One of the Children of Kali, rushing toward the butler, wasn’t merely halted, but staggered back as a bullet punched through its chest. It toppled to the ground, attempted to crawl toward him, then shuddered and died.
Farris started back toward Gupta, both guns raised, watching the fog for monsters. William ran up to the gates, falling in beside the old man even as Farris joined them from the north. The three formed a line of defense against the evil things that assaulted the palace. Farris fired again, this time taking a Rakshasa in the eye. The back of its skull exploded outward in a shower of gray matter and bone shards. The rightful Protector of Bharath let loose another searing arc of silver lightning that evaporated the fog it touched, and turned two of the Children of Kali to ash. By its clothes, William thought that one of them might have been his old friend Frederick Martin, and he felt the burden of that death upon his heart.
Yet it did not slow him. With a flick of his wrist and a bellowed incantation he froze one of the accursed reptilian creatures that had pursued him from the south. Another collided with it from behind, shattering it, and William cast a spell that immolated the newcomer and two others.
Still they came.
“You will fall” came a dark, insinuating voice that emanated from the swirling fog behind him.
He spun and found himself face-to-face with the ghost of Colonel Dunstan. The traitorous specter wore a hideous smile. William raised his hands, spheres of magic crackling around them, prepared to defend himself if Dunstan dared attack him.
“Come to watch the proceedings, betrayer?” he snapped.
“Too right,” the phantom soldier replied. “Wouldn’t miss it. I was loyal to the Crown, Mr. Swift. While I lived. In death, I saw the error of my life. And when the horror began in the East End, you proved me right. The British aristocracy looks upon my people as animals, house pets at best.
“So much for so-called nobility. Now you’ll—”
“Please do shut up!” William said.
Before the ghost could react, he threw his arms wide and shouted a brief binding spell. Ethereal chains appeared in the air, wrapping quickly around Dunstan. If the ghost had been quicker, he could easily have vanished, slipping away into the ether. Perhaps Dunstan had assumed William not up to the task of capturing him. He was not the first to underestimate the grandson of Ludlow Swift. But William was becoming used to shattering such low expectations, and he liked the feeling.
The chains were as insubstantial as the ghost himself, but as they tightened the ghost was bound as though he were made of flesh and blood. Those spectral bonds shimmered with a pale blue light that spread over Dunstan’s ectoplasmic substance, tainting him the same hue.
The sound of Farris’s guns boomed once, twice, a third time. William heard the crackle of Gupta’s magic. For the moment, though, he left the battle to them.
“What . . . what have you done? You cannot touch me!” the traitor cried.
“I haven’t touched you, fool. But what kind of idiot must you be to think you could taunt me without fear of retribution? I am one of the bloody Protectors of Albion, Colonel. Capturing an errant ghost is one of the very first things I was taught when I inherited this power. Now, you wanted to watch; that’s all right with me.
“Watch, and witness Albion’s triumph!”
Suffused with magic and fury, he turned to rejoin the fray.
Only to find Sophia Winchell standing before him, gazing up at him in fear and need.
“So-Sophia?” he stammered.
She smiled. Her flesh seemed to ripple. Then it wasn’t Sophia standing before him, but a beautiful Indian girl with hatred in her eyes. A glamour. He’d fallen for a simple glamour.
Priya Gupta struck him, clawing his face, and as William staggered back her fingers seemed to erupt with darting, jagged serpents of bloodred magic.
“Perhaps not,” she purred.
IN THE GUEST bedroom where she had so recently lived out a delicious dream she had nurtured since her youth, Sophia Winchell slept fitfully. There was a chill in the night air, damp and cool as it slipped through the narrowly open windows. She shuddered beneath the heavy covers and burrowed deeper, but it wasn’t truly the cold that disturbed her sleep.
Nor was it the barely audible screaming that came down from the topmost floor. What wrinkled her brow and drew her again and again almost to wakefulness was the vast emptiness of the house around her, the frightening loneliness that gripped her, even while unconscious.
She dreamed, there in that comfortable bed, of being alone.
And woke to the sound of her name being spoken with all the insistence of a rap on the door.
“Sophia! Wake now, girl!”
Flinching from the unpleasantness of her dreams and the hardness of that voice, she drew a long, abrupt breath as though her lungs had been stilled for a moment, then opened her eyes.
Above her there towered a naked woman whose face was painted for war, whose eyes were alight with a strange blue-white flame, and whose flesh was utterly translucent, shot through with shadows and the flickering light of the candles she had been too frightened to blow out before going to sleep.
“Good Lord,” Sophia whispered, recoiling, drawing herself up toward the head of the bed, her legs pulled under her.
Sleep often erased memory and identity, and so it took her several seconds to realize that this was not some nocturnal shade there to haunt her. Ghosts terrified her, made her feel as tho
ugh she might crawl out of her own skin, but they were not unknown to her.
Nor was this ghost, specifically, unfamiliar.
“Queen Bodicea,” Sophia breathed, drawing the covers up to her throat in awkward counterpoint to the specter’s brazen nudity. She could not help letting her eyes survey the warrior woman’s transparent body just once, amazed at the firmness of her thighs and arms and the fullness of her breasts. The phantom’s body was streaked with the same war paint as her face, though the colors were dull and the paint no less an apparition than the queen herself.
“Rise, girl,” the ghost commanded, her form wavering slightly, floating there beside the bed. “Hurry. The Swifts have need of me, and I cannot leave you here.”
Sophia threw back the covers and climbed out of bed, hugging herself against the chill in the room. She threw on her robe, but it was too thin to combat the cold.
“Where are we going?” she asked. “I must dress. I shall move as quickly as—”
“There isn’t time. And you cannot leave the house. You are safe within these walls, from the crisis facing London this night. There are wards and defenses—”
“They’ve been breached before,” Sophia countered.
“Only when someone was fool enough to leave the door open, or invite the enemy in. Heed my instructions and you shall be safe,” the ghost declared.
As imperious as Bodicea’s tone was, Sophia sensed a hesitation in her. Still, she did not argue further. If William was in danger, and Bodicea had been summoned, she would not hold the ghost back from going to aid him. She took a night coat that William had loaned her from Tamara’s armoire, slipping it on even as the ghostly queen went to the door.
The air shimmered in front of Bodicea and suddenly she was holding the long war spear she often carried.
“Open it,” said the specter.
Sophia tensed and drew open the door. Bodicea could have gone ahead of her but obviously did not want to leave her alone. The ghost flitted out into the corridor, and Sophia followed.
