“And the artwork?”
Donnelly gestured to the walls and shelves crowded with artifacts and artwork. “Some works of art are just that – pieces from the artist’s imagination. But others, especially pieces by some of the great masters, are imbued with magic of their own.” He raised an eyebrow. “You know something of how strong emotion colors an object?”
I nodded. “Yes. First-hand.”
“Now imagine a piece of artwork that contains bits of the creative spark of the genius who made it, or perhaps still retains some of the magic used by its creator.” His gaze told me he was utterly serious. “A famous painter or sculptor facing a deadline for a powerful patron might be tempted to call on supernatural powers for help, or bargain away part of his soul for fame.”
He gestured again toward the masterworks on the walls. “Down through the ages, some of those masterpieces were taken from display by their rightful owners, the supernatural creatures who made and kept those bargains with the artists. Others were taken by the artists themselves, long after their mortal lives ended, when claiming ownership would have been controversial or dangerous. The rest are here because they pose a danger to the mortal world. Quite a few of the pieces are portals to places you don’t want to go, or doors that could admit things you don’t want to meet. We keep them – and you – safe.”
Sorren cleared his throat. “Back to Reapers. You’re a necromancer, Archie. Can you conjure the spirits of some of the men who vanished and find out what took them, and why?”
Now I understood why Sorren had told me to ask the shop owner next door for something of Jonathan’s that he had left behind when he disappeared, and why Teag had been sent to find something that belonged to Harry.
Donnelly looked resigned, as if the request had not caught him by surprise. “I rather figured this wasn’t a social call,” he remarked, although his half-smile softened his words. “You want to confirm whether Sariel is the real power behind this, and shut him down – like last time.”
Something I did not understand flickered in Sorren’s eyes. “Whether or not it’s Sariel, there’s a nephilmancer using Reapers and Nephilim in Charleston, and bringing Watchers across. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a declaration of war. If we can confirm that it’s Sariel, all the better. But whether or not we know his name, it’s time to bring the battle to him.”
Donnelly’s eyes took on a hard glint. “That’s a reasonable request in an unreasonable business.” He nodded curtly. “All right. I just need a little time to set this up. There’s no such thing as a ‘simple’ working when it comes to necromancy.”
He poured bourbon for Teag and me although we hadn’t requested it, as if he assumed the evening’s work would require it. I could tell from Sorren’s slight flush that he had fed recently. After Donnelly left the parlor, I took a sip of the bourbon and began to move around the room, peering at the treasures though I was careful not to touch anything. Teag had begun at the same spot but was working in the opposite direction.
“Is that one of the missing Faberge eggs from the Russian Revolution?” I gasped, marveling at a jewel-encrusted egg on a golden stand.
“Yes – and the other six are here somewhere, too,” Sorren chuckled. “As are the most potent of the famous works that were ‘destroyed’ over the years in fires or disasters. The society took them because they were dangerous – you of all people should understand the possible consequences when objects carry a supernatural threat.”
I did indeed, but at the moment, I was overwhelmed by what I was seeing. It occurred to me that I had no difficulty believing in fallen angels, demons, and ghosts, but was mind-blown by artwork that had mysteriously survived fires, war, and cataclysm. I also noted a few objects with engraved plates that made my eyes bulge.
‘Medallion from the Lost City of Z, courtesy Percy Fawcett 1927’, read one tag next to a golden pendant. ‘Stone from the North Pole, courtesy of Roald Amundsen, 1932’ said another tag. I remembered reading about both men, and realized the gift dates were after their so-called disappearances.
“How does this place keep it quiet when they’ve got all these missing art treasures?” Teag asked. “What’s to keep authorities from barging in and finding the art – and the missing people?”
Sorren smiled. “The Briggs has its own defenses, built up over the centuries, as well as formidable guardians. That’s not something you need to worry about.”
Against one wall was a large glass curio cabinet. It was filled with small sculptures from several vanished civilizations, wax carvings and poppets I wouldn’t have touched on a bet, strange coins and amulets and a variety of other items that looked like a time-traveler’s souvenir collection.
“That’s a cabinet of oddities, or wunderkammeren,” Sorren said, noting my interest. “Members bring back things from their travels as mementos, or in some cases, to make sure they don’t fall into the wrong hands.” I made sure to keep my hands clasped behind my back, since I was certain I didn’t want any accidental visions from the pieces in the display case.
Half an hour later, Higgins returned. “The Colonel requests your attendance,” he said, and ushered us out of the parlor. We followed Higgins down a long corridor filled with more portraits and impossible pieces of artwork. I noticed that the butler stayed just far enough ahead of us to discourage conversation. Sorren seemed to know his way around, but Teag looked as nervous as I felt.
Higgins stopped at a pair of double doors at the end of the hallway. He opened the doors ceremoniously, and stood aside. “This way, please.”
The huge space might have been a ballroom a century ago. Now, it was empty of furniture except for a few wunderkammeren around the walls, giving it a cavernous appearance. The parquet floor was exquisite, as were the heavy velvet draperies that covered the floor-to-ceiling windows. I glanced upward at the high ceiling with its molded plaster decorations, and realized that the patterns there were composed of magical symbols.
Thirteen huge windows. Thirteen astrological signs incorporated in the plaster designs overhead, one for each of the conventional zodiac signs as well as Ouroboros, the tail-devouring serpent. Power was built into this room, and the single figure in its center who beckoned us forward fairly shimmered with magical energy.
“Wait!” I said, coming to a dead halt. “That’s one of Gerard Astor’s paintings!” I pointed to a dark, moody canvas that hung on one of the paneled walls. It was taller than I was, and the images it depicted were life-sized. Set against a background of shadows and flames, Nephilim stalked toward the beholder. Some were incredibly handsome men with a predatory gleam in their eyes, while others had begun to transform into their true, monstrous state, black-winged and sharp-toothed. I recognized Baldy, the dark-haired one I’d nicknamed Crow, and Blondie from the Nephilim who had attacked us in the alley. One of the fallen angels was Asian, while the fifth’s skin was dark as ebony. A fine net of silver chain hung over the canvas, fastened into the wall on all sides, and it looked to me as if it were designed less to protect the painting from onlookers than to protect the viewers from the painting.
I shuddered, remembering what Coffee Guy had looked like for real, and how the Nephilim at the Archive had peeled himself out of a similar painting. I thought that the silver mesh net was a wonderful addition. That made me worry about Mrs. Morrissey, and I resolved to find a way to protect her, as well as any attendees who viewed the exhibit. “His work is in another display at the Archive.”
Sorren frowned. “Astor made a deal with Darkness to achieve his fame, and it drove him mad. He either didn’t realize, or didn’t care, that his paintings could be used as portals for Nephilim to enter our world. Though he became very famous, his paintings cost a lot of lives.”
“I thought he disappeared,” I said, remembering what Mrs. Morrissey had told me. After the fight with the Nephilim I encountered at the Archive, I had no trouble believing that Astor’s paintings were cursed.
“He did,” Sorren replied. “The A
lliance saved his life and removed him to a safe location, where he was cared for until he passed away.”
“So some of these people who’ve vanished, the artists and explorers, didn’t always disappear on their own, by accident?” I had known that the Alliance operated in the shadows and out of mortal channels. Now, I was glimpsing a side of it I had never considered, and it made me uncomfortable.
“Regrettably not,” Sorren replied. “Remember – I know a thing or two about ‘vanishing’ myself.” That was true. Immortals needed to be able to fake their own deaths and then reinvent themselves as someone else. “Some of our members realized the danger of what they had created or discovered, and agreed to disappear in order to keep themselves or their creations from being misused. Others, like Astor, had their minds destroyed by dark magic. We took them for their protection and everyone else’s safety, gave them the best care possible, and provided a secure home. It’s a bad business, but there’s no way around it. And before you judge, try to imagine the alternatives.”
The thought of someone with Gerard Astor’s dark power painting Nephilim portals at the whim of drug cartels, Third-World despots, or organized crime bosses chilled me to the bone.
Archibald Donnelly stood in the centre of the ballroom floor. Like the building itself, Colonel Donnelly was far more than he appeared. Donnelly had been wearing a button-down shirt, sport jacket, and khakis when we first met him, standard casual attire for upper class men at leisure in Charleston. Now, he was dressed all in gray from head to toe. He wore a silver pentacle the size of a half-dollar coin on a chain around his neck and rings of silver, jet and obsidian on his fingers. I looked down at the smooth wooden floor, and realized that a large circle had been worked into the design of the wood itself. That circle was overlaid with salt and charcoal. Large pillar candles burned at the four quarters of the circle, and the smell of freshly-smudged sage filled the room.
Inside the circle, I saw the items Teag and I had supplied to Sorren. Harry’s dirty, worn backpack looked forlorn, and Jonathan’s carabiner held the keys to the beat-up motorcycle that was his pride and joy.
Higgins closed the doors after us, remaining on the inside of the room. He threw a heavy bolt, and then ran his hand down the opening between the two doors, murmuring under his breath as a golden glow sealed the doors shut. When he turned back to us, he no longer looked the part of a butler. Higgins stood taller, straighter, chin raised, and he met my gaze with a smirk as if he had anticipated my surprise.
“Let’s join the circle, shall we?” he said. He led Teag and me over to where Sorren already stood on the outskirts of the warded circle. As we followed him, I noticed that Higgins wore an Indian talwar sword on his belt, and a kila, a three-sided dagger, as well, an excellent weapon for fighting demons.
Someone – maybe Higgins – had brought in the duffel bag from Teag’s car that contained our weapons. That meant Donnelly expected trouble, and we were expected to be more than bystanders. Teag and I were already wearing the protective vests Teag had made with magic woven into them. Now, we grabbed the rest of our gear and went to stand in between the candles at the cross-quarters.
“Take hands and make a circle,” Donnelly said. I looked to Teag on one side and Sorren on the other. We couldn’t reach each other and remain outside the circle.
That’s when I noticed the ghosts. Some of them slipped out of the shadows and the corners of the room, while others stepped down from their portraits. A few just appeared out of the air, gone one moment, present the next. I recognized many of the faces from the paintings in the other rooms, explorers whose luck had run out, or who chose not to leave the society when their time was up.
Donnelly’s magic made them nearly solid, and the ghosts stepped up to the outside of the wardings to take our hands. The man on my right was dressed like a Spanish conquistador, while the man on my left had the look of a French fur trader. The ghosts came from every century, including a few I recognized from TV specials when I was a kid. Women explorers too, the unsung heroines of history, pioneers and traders, seafarers, aviators, and astronauts. Just a few of the Briggs Society’s members, coming at the Colonel’s call to venture once more into the unknown.
To my surprise, the ghosts’ hands felt cold and solid to the touch. I did not squeeze because I did not want to know what would happen. When the circle of our bodies was complete, Donnelly murmured words of power, and a cold incandescent barrier leaped up where the circle was marked on the floor, separating Donnelly from us.
Donnelly took out a dagger from his belt and put three slashes cross-wise on his left wrist. He shook his bleeding wrist, casting a spatter of blood within the warded circle.
“Jonathan, by your connection to this object, I call your spirit to this place and bind it to my will.”
Another shake. “Harry, by your connection to your possession, I call your spirit to this place and bind it to my will.”
A third shake. “So I have willed it. So mote it be!”
The curtain of power flared and I looked away, since I dared not break the connection of the circle to raise an arm that would shield my face. The power rippled and gleamed with an iridescent light. Donnelly’s figure glowed and as he spoke the words of summoning, he became a larger, more commanding presence, someone to be reckoned with.
When the glare faded and I looked again, two new figures stood within the circle. The ghosts around the perimeter had grown solid enough that if I had not known they were specters, I would not have guessed it. I strained for a better look through the shimmering warding, and recognized Jonathan, the clerk from the store next to Trifles and Folly, along with a bearded young man who looked familiar. I guessed that he was Harry.
I gasped when I got a good look at their ghosts. They were gaunt, sunken in on themselves as if they had been hollowed out. Deep, bloody scratches marked their arms, thighs, and faces, and the raw wounds on their arms and lower legs looked as if something had been gnawing on them. Deep shadows obscured their feet and warred with Donnelly’s magic to draw the ghosts back into the darkness.
“You are bound to speak only the truth,” Donnelly commanded the spirits. “Who took you from the staircases?”
“Black spirits,” Jonathan replied, his voice strained by fear and pain.
“Shadow things,” Harry replied, and screamed from a torment we could not see.
“Desist!” Donnelly commanded in a thunderous voice, and the darkness around the ghosts rolled back. He turned his attention back to the ghosts. “You were alive when you were taken?”
Both Jonathan and Harry nodded. “When did you die?” Donnelly asked.
“In between,” Jonathan replied.
“In the black place,” Harry said.
“What happened to your bodies?” Donnelly pressed. Harry and Jonathan looked at the shadows held at bay by the necromancer’s power, and then back to the Colonel.
“Taken,” Jonathan said, and even speaking in fragments seemed to take all of his energy.
“Eaten,” Harry added.
“What then?” Donnelly asked. The two shadows faded in and out, as if even the Colonel’s magic could not hold the remnants of their souls for long.
“Black ghosts… witch… circle… man appeared.” Jonathan’s voice dropped in places, but it was enough to piece together what he had witnessed.
“I don’t know,” Harry wailed, looking panicked. He was the most recently dead, still new to his fate.
“Help me!” Harry pleaded. “Dark place. Bad ghosts. Chains on the ceiling.” As I watched, Harry’s ghost grew brighter and dimmer by turns, then began to pull apart like a piece of wet tissue, separating strand by strand until only his scream remained.
Jonathan’s spirit jerked back and forth as if pulled by opposing forces, until with a lurch one side, the ghost dissipated. A loud bang made us all jump. Donnelly said the words of power that revoked his circle, and the shimmering lights fell. At that moment, the Gerard Astor painting tore itself apart and
five Nephilim wrested their way through the silver chain that covered the canvas. I could see their skin blacken and smoke where the silver burned them, but they tore the chain asunder anyway, never taking their predatory gaze off us.
A brilliant light flared, and a golden wall of power enveloped the room, like a dome descending from the center of the ceiling. It covered the walls and windows, the doorways, floor and ceiling. We were sealed in – with the Nephilim.
“What the hell is going on?” Teag shouted.
“The Briggs Society is defended,” Donnelly replied. “Nothing has ever been able to get through our protections. Since we have so many volatile items, we’ve got some internal protections too. This room is now on lock-down. Nothing gets in or out until the battle is over.”
“And if we don’t win?” I asked.
Donnelly’s expression was unreadable. “We have half an hour to contain the threat. At that time, the defenses purge this room and reset.”
“What does that mean?” Teag asked, as we circled to keep the Nephilim in view.
“Nothing good,” Sorren muttered. “You don’t want to know.”
“Can’t you override it?” I yelped.
Donnelly shook his head. “Regrettably not. Seemed like too much of a risk. I’ll bring it up at the next board meeting—assuming there is one.”
The five fallen angels came at us at a full run.
Higgins and Sorren moved faster than mortal speed, clashing with the two closest Nephilim, the ones I had nicknamed Baldy and Blondie. Sorren had a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other, and he ran toward the fallen angels with a shout, wielding his blades with deadly force. The Nephilim were unarmed, but that did not make them less dangerous. Sorren’s sword bit deep into Baldy’s right arm, down to the bone. The Nephilim snarled and flung the blade clear, showering the room with black blood. He swung a fist at Sorren, catching him on the shoulder and throwing him several feet across the room.
Vendetta (Deadly Curiosities Book 2) Page 25
