The Conquering Dark: Crown

by Clay Griffith Susan Griffith

  “It was very genteel. We had a bit of a chat and he went on his way.”

  “A bit of a chat?” Grace looked to Kate for some sanity, but Kate nodded in agreement. “He destroyed your grounds as a precursor to a chat?”

  “No, he originally wanted to kill us, but he could not.” Simon held a chair for Kate and put an easy hand on her shoulder, but he stayed on his feet since Grace was still standing. He maintained a diffident manner as if he were a country squire discussing the latest garden party. “He warned us to stay out of his way or we would die. The usual blather.”

  “He was toying with you,” Grace said firmly. “Trying to frighten you. That must be it. If he had wanted you dead, you would be. Archer, you simply cannot continue being so vulnerable. Surely there is a way for you to recover your magic. The stakes are very high. Your nation is counting on you.”

  Simon returned to the sideboard to pour another sherry. His voice was strained. “Everything that can be done is being done.”

  “That seems—” Grace North started to turn again to Kate but stopped to stare at Imogen, who stood only a few feet away. She then stepped back uncomfortably and focused her attention on Kate. “That seems unlikely. Miss Anstruther, surely there is something you can do with your great alchemy skills. You must impress upon Mr. Archer that he has a duty. You understand duty, do you not?”

  “I do.” Kate kept her polite demeanor. “Charlotte, you and Imogen go play in another room.”

  Charlotte sat on a sofa and huffed. “But I’m being quiet.”

  “Please, dear. Go find Mr. Malcolm. He would love your company.”

  Charlotte exchanged a quick gleeful grin with Imogen but then placed a frown back on her angelic face and stomped to the door. She spun and curtsied to Grace before leaving. Grace looked slowly toward Imogen, who had not yet moved. There was an awkward moment, then Imogen seemed to glide out of the sitting room. Simon closed the door behind the girls with a wry smile at their minor anarchy.

  Grace continued, “Miss Anstruther, Gaios came here, with no fear of your combined strength, and wreaked havoc on your home. Imagine what he can do to those who are unprepared throughout Britain. He must be stopped. We must do all we can or who knows what innocent lives will be lost by our failures. We can’t afford to ignore any possible effort.”

  Kate nodded with false agreement. “We are endeavoring to learn more about Gaios’s plans from his confederate.”

  “The Irishman?” Grace grew stern. “Ah, that’s why it’s so cold here. No fires. Have you extracted any information from him?”

  “Nothing. Yet.”

  “He likely doesn’t know anything.” The sophisticated blond woman straightened the lace on her cuff. “Gaios doesn’t fall into the trap of confiding secrets in underlings, particularly if they’re lunatics. Gaios might be crazy, but he’s not an idiot. You must do more if you hope to stop him.”

  Simon gave Kate a sidelong glance to defuse some of his growing anger. But even her steady look did not settle him. “I’ll certainly keep that sentiment in mind, Mrs. North. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Anger boiled inside him as he left the room. Hogarth stood just outside in the hallway. Simon shot him a quick glance, indicating that the manservant should hold his ground and keep tabs on their guest. Then Simon moved farther down the corridor and stepped into the silence of the billiard room. The arrogant expression on Grace North’s face only made matters worse. Everything about her was a lie. And he was forced to stand by and say nothing. His fists clenched as tried to wrest back his fury.

  Footsteps entered the room and Kate approached him. “That was unusual. I’ve never seen you unable to play the magnanimous host before.” Her hand lifted to his chest.

  Simon contemplated if he should voice all he had been long considering. Finally, he said, “I think Grace North is Ash.”

  Kate’s eyes widened. “You think what?” Then she lowered her voice. “Why would you think that?”

  “I’ve been doing a bit of research. It turns out that Grace North was supposedly away at a spa in Germany during the Sacred Heart Murders, and we know that to be false as we spoke with her in Sussex. She had a connection to Rowan Barnes. She had been playing a role in the magical affairs of the kingdom, by her own admission.”

  “That’s thin,” Kate commented.

  “I know, but what isn’t thin is that you saw one of those monstrous apes virtually wither on the vine when Grace North merely glanced at it. And her husband, the pointless prime minister, seemed to recover from near death at her touch. This is all consistent with the abilities of a necromancer such as Ash.” Simon flexed his arms to loosen stiff muscles. “And the position of Grace North fits what Nick said about Ash.”

  “Then why isn’t she the queen instead of the prime minister’s wife?”

  “Perhaps one was easier to arrange than the other.”

  “What does it mean to us if Mrs. North is Ash?”

  Simon bounced a loose billiard ball off the bumper. “On the one hand, it’s good because at least we would know where she is. On the other hand, she has distressing access to the power of the government.”

  Kate leaned on the green surface of the table and caught the ball he had sent spinning. She rolled it under the open palm of her hand. “How high could it go? Do you think the prime minister knows? Or the king?”

  “That wouldn’t be Ash’s style. She prefers to manipulate mere humans, and I’ve no hints that either Prime Minister North or King William is a magician of any sort.”

  “Why did she come here?”

  “Publicly, to get a report on the battle at Old London Bridge. Privately, I suspect, to ensure we received her gift, the blood spell. And to press home the urgency of our situation so we are more disposed to use it.”

  Kate glared in the direction of the West Room. “Ash is in my house.”

  Simon placed his hand over hers but neither of them was comforted by it.

  Chapter 9

  Malcolm placed a newly cleaned shotgun into the case and pulled out another one to inspect. It was spotless and oiled. He had heard the servants talking about the prime minister’s wife being in the house and he had no interest being civil to someone so vile. Let Simon and Kate play that game; such subterfuge suited them as magicians. Instead, Malcolm decided to pay attention to maintaining the arsenal of Hartley Hall. The weapons were a beautiful collection of shotguns, muskets, and pistols. English, German, Italian, even several Persian and Arabian. Then there were some that Sir Roland had built. Malcolm hadn’t the slightest idea how to care for them, and a few he frankly wasn’t even sure how they operated. And knowing Sir Roland, if Malcolm tried to take the contraptions apart, he might blow up the house. Those he left for Penny.

  He took a gorgeous pistol with an engraved walnut stock and a beautiful forged hammer back to the main table in the library where he had laid down a cloth. He systemically began to break the gun down to its components, laying each piece carefully in front of him. Malcolm put the dismantled barrel to his eye. There were no fires allowed in this wing of the house. No candle or lamps. They had shut off the gas just to be safe since Ferghus was locked below, and it would have been dim in the late afternoon but for a strange lantern on the table. The glowing light buzzed and occasionally a tiny dark shape bounced against the inside of the frosted glass with a ticking noise.

  Brownies, Malcolm thought with disgust. Hateful little faerie folk that Simon used as a source of light at Gaunt Lane. Kate and Penny had used the key for a quick jaunt to London and brought a few of the little creatures out to Hartley Hall to provide light in the absence of fire. He had to concede, they gave off a useful glow.

  There was a commotion at the door and in ran Imogen and Charlotte. They were giggling and clutching something. To his annoyance, they plopped down in the center of the room and started setting up a wooden ark complete with a number of paired animals. He almost told the girls to go find someplace else to play, but it was actually nice to hea
r the sound of laughter and revelry. Too long had there been nothing but the sound of battle and war councils, and there would be more of that in the coming days also. Where once Malcolm would have balked at having them on the front lines, he knew that these two had been baptized in fire. They deserved a moment of joy. There were so few for any of them.

  Charlotte let out a sharp squeal of laughter because Imogen placed her pet hedgehog in the ark. It immediately began investigating one of the wooden animals. Shaking his head, Malcolm resumed his work.

  A few minutes later, Barnaby the butler came in carrying a tray with food and a glass of water. Malcolm looked up expectantly until he realized with disappointment that the meal was not for him but for the prisoner below. The butler fumbled with a set of keys to unlock the heavy door leading downstairs to the cellar. Malcolm had returned his concentration to his work when he caught a scent. With a clatter, he was on his feet and racing after Barnaby, grabbing one of his pistols from off the table. The servant was already downstairs when Malcolm seized his arm. Barnaby looked panicked.

  Malcolm pinched the flame from the candle that stood on the tray, plunging the hallway into deep, black shadows. He growled. “No fire of any sort. You were warned, weren’t you? There’s a lantern in the library you can use.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t want to bother you. You were engaged. I’ll remind the staff.”

  “Make sure you do.” Malcolm plucked the candle off the tray and tossed it to the floor. They were close to Ferghus’s cell, so Malcolm led Barnaby through the dimness. When they reached the door at the end of the hallway, Malcolm toed open a slot near the floor.

  Barnaby placed the tray down and carefully slid it inside. There was a rattle of chains and the tray disappeared with a throaty, “ ’Bout bloody time. Starving down here. How the hell am I supposed to see what it is?”

  Malcolm ignored him and went for the stairs. He paused halfway up when he realized the butler wasn’t following.

  “Should I wait for the tray, sir?”

  Malcolm scowled with exasperation. A breeze suddenly blew in through the door above. Perhaps someone had opened a window in the library. One of the girls likely.

  The wind fanned the candle’s wick and an ember glowed pinpoint red in the darkness. There was a muffled laugh from the far end of the corridor.

  Malcolm’s shout of alarm was lost as the air caught fire. The flames engulfed the butler in a deafening roar. Malcolm dove out of the stairwell and hurried to close the door behind him.

  “Charlotte! Imogen! Get ou—!”

  He never finished. The wood-and-iron door blasted off its hinges sending Malcolm flying across the room. He slammed against a bookcase and the heavy door landed on top of him, cutting off all sight and sound. Searing heat and flame became his world.

  Ferghus appeared in the cellar door and the flame in the room drew back into his left hand. He had managed to clear one hand of the flame-retardant gel. His grasp on the doorjamb set the wood on fire. He eyed Malcolm, trapped and seemingly oblivious under the heavy door, which crackled with fire. He then looked up to see the two girls standing in shock, silhouetted against the windows along one wall of the library.

  “Stand aside, girls.” Ferghus grinned. Flames licked from his fingertips as he stepped into the room. “I’ve no desire to hurt you.”

  Charlotte looked at Malcolm with alarm. The sight of the Scotsman groaning and struggling to regain his senses frightened her. Then her eyes narrowed at Ferghus as she placed herself between the two men. “No. You go back downstairs where you belong.”

  The elemental stood straight in surprise. He laughed. “Where I come from, children are seen and not heard.”

  Charlotte squared off with her lips tight and her fists clenched. “I don’t know where you come from, but you’re not supposed to leave the house.”

  Imogen moved a few steps away. Ferghus stared at the tentacle fingers of her right hand with a twisted expression. He came closer and leaned on a chair, setting it alight.

  “Stop that!” Charlotte screamed. “This is our home!”

  Imogen flicked a button on the end of her lacy cuff and shook her sleeve loose. Long hairlike quills stood on her forearm like the bristles of an angry cat. Imogen then reached up and pulled the black veil from her pale face. Her strange inhuman eyes fixed on him.

  Ferghus paused with astonishment. “What in the name of God are you?”

  Imogen raised her arm toward him and quills shot across the library. A thin filament struck Ferghus in the face. He screeched in shock and anger, reaching up and grasping the dangling thread stuck in his cheek. His hand flared and the quill sizzled into nothing.

  Ferghus waved his hand in front of him, creating a barrier of fire. Imogen squeezed her fist again and more quills flew. This time, they hit the fire wall and frayed in the air. The Irishmen started to laugh, but then suddenly he jerked, and his eyes went wide. He staggered and his mouth opened. He paused, as if waiting to see what would happen. He started to breathe hard.

  He glared at the young woman clad in mourning. “What did you do? What in hell did you do?” He lowered his head, summoning his focus and pushed a hand toward Imogen. A column of searing flame roared out at her. She screamed and leapt to the side with her black gown catching fire. Behind her, the drapes flared into red flame and several panes of glass shattered.

  “No!” Charlotte shouted. She bounded two steps and jumped onto the back of the sofa. Her frame was already beginning to grow, arms lengthening, legs turning powerful and oddly jointed. Her pretty frock ripped as muscles expanded. By the time she sprang from the back of the furniture, her furious expression hardened and exploded into dark snarling features with monstrous eyes and rows of sharp teeth.

  Ferghus stumbled back, unprepared for this new horror that launched at him. He raised his arm in feeble defense as the werewolf slammed into his chest. They piled back against the bookshelves. Claws and teeth ripped into him. The room filled with the whoosh of igniting books.

  Malcolm distantly heard the sound of the werewolf’s satisfying snarling. The crackling roar of walls and books and furniture igniting surrounded him. Something slammed against the flaming wooden prison of the door and shifted it off his legs and hip. He pushed frantically with his bare hands. Ignoring the pain, he hauled himself out to find Imogen slumped over the end of the smoldering door. She struggled to rise. Malcolm didn’t see any blood, but much of her mourning clothes were burned away. He placed a hand on her to keep her still but she struggled under it, her inhuman eyes focused on the fight behind them.

  Malcolm turned and saw Charlotte with her jaws clamped down hard on Ferghus’s shoulder. The elemental’s hand was around her neck trying to dislodge her. It suddenly flared with an intense flame that bloomed over Charlotte, obscuring her. The smell of burning flesh reached Malcolm, cloying at his throat. Bile rose when he realized Ferghus was roasting the child alive. Charlotte’s growls suddenly became a high-pitched screech of pain and distress. Her claws scrabbled across the Irishman’s chest. Ferghus screamed in panic and a wave of blistering heat roared over Malcolm, forcing him to dive for cover.

  Ferghus and Charlotte careened off a wall and the flames abated momentarily. Malcolm scrambled to his feet and saw Charlotte. Most of the fur of her upper torso and face was seared off, revealing burned glistening red flesh beneath that boiled into blisters. She had little control over her movements, her pathetic scorched limbs sagged. Still her jaws remained locked on Ferghus, refusing to release the elemental.

  “No!” Malcolm shouted, fumbling for his pistols, but they weren’t there. He didn’t pause to search for them. Instead he picked up a heavy fireplace poker from the floor. With both hands, he swung the iron pole and connected with Ferghus’s back. The Irishman howled and swung his fiery left hand. The Scotsman roared in rage and slammed the hard iron against the man’s hand. Bones shattered. Ferghus screamed.

  “Charlotte, let go!” Malcolm hoarsely shou
ted into the searing air.

  The young werewolf continued to clamp down on the fire elemental out of pure instinct or excruciating pain. Her sobs of agony could still be heard over the crackling of the flames. Ferghus flailed wildly in an attempt to dislodge her. Charlotte blindly bit deeper. The agony caused fire to surge like a molten fissure from Ferghus’s shattered arm. Gobs of flames flew outward and slapped against Charlotte’s burnt flesh, charring it black. Her skin cracked and peeled away. Fire licked at Malcolm’s shirt, but it didn’t stop him from swinging the iron poker against the Irishman’s spine.

  Charlotte could hold on no longer. Even her instinct failed. Her massive jaws tore a chunk of muscle from Ferghus as her ravaged body slumped to the floor. With a harsh rattling breath, she collapsed and didn’t move. Malcolm could barely recognize her charred form and all sense of reason fled.

  The iron bar crashed down into Ferghus’s unprotected gut, bending him over. When the man collapsed on the burning rug, Malcolm kicked him onto his back. He sank to his knees, straddling the fire elemental. Malcolm dropped the bar and began beating Ferghus with his fists. The Irishman’s head snapped back and forth with the blows, blood spurting from his mouth and nose, splattering the room and Malcolm alike. Ferghus lifted a feeble arm to fend Malcolm off, but the Scotsman shoved it aside and continued his brutal attack.

  From a great distance, he recognized Imogen’s cries. Flames rolled along the ceiling like a lake of fire. Bits of hot ash floated in the air around him. All he saw was the monster trapped under his fists. Rage blinded him. Deafened him.

  Ferghus had stopped moving, no longer even defending himself, limp on the bloody floor. Malcolm didn’t stop.

  Someone grabbed him from behind. “Malcolm! Enough!”

  Malcolm struggled against the grip.

  “Stop! You’ll kill him!” A voice shouted and Malcolm felt himself being dragged away from the Irishman.

  Malcolm tore himself free and turned to strike. He stared into Simon’s eyes. He managed to freeze his blow in midair. Simon’s gaze flicked to the bloody fist suspended a few inches from his chin. He looked back at Malcolm as if seeking a glint of reason.