The horror of what Barnes might have done to his mother’s body with dark magic clawed into Kate’s mind until she forced it out again. She could only imagine what Simon was thinking.
Malcolm, who clearly knew about the situation already, set down his coffee cup and laid a hand briefly on Simon’s stooped shoulders. “If there’s anything you require.”
“Thank you, Malcolm.”
The Scotsman nodded and wandered to the breakfast table to search for more food. His sudden public concern for Simon made Kate even more ill at ease.
She settled beside Simon and draped an arm over his shoulders. “Of course I’ll go with you.”
“Good.”
“What about Nephthys?” Kate asked.
“Well, her appearance was a shocker, I’ll grant you. I wasn’t prepared for yet another of the Bastille Bastards. And while she does alter the power balance considerably out of our favor—”
“Was it in our favor before?” Malcolm asked sarcastically as he scouted for sausages.
“No, but it’s worse now that she’s involved. I find it hard to believe that a relative unknown like Rowan Barnes could be ordering about someone of her advanced magical pedigree. Still, she doesn’t seem to have any trace of righteous vengeance for our defeat of her Bastille friends. And since she seems intent on killing us, I can only assume it’s to keep us from mucking about with Barnes. Therefore, Nephthys or no Nephthys, the Sacred Heart murders and the ritual to break Pendragon’s spell are under Barnes’s control and our central question remains: What shall we do about Rowan Barnes?”
“Kill him.” Malcolm stabbed a sausage with a knife. He looked at Simon from under downturned eyebrows. “Now. Today.”
Kate objected, “We can’t just kill him.”
“Why?” Malcolm asked coldly. “Is there any policeman who could arrest him? Any gallows that could hang him? We don’t live in that world.”
“How can we dare face him in the Red Orchid?” Kate retorted. “Barnes is forewarned and terribly powerful. And the home is always full of innocents.”
“I don’t need to face him,” Malcolm replied. “I’ll wait across the street. He will come out or pass before a window. All I need is the proper weapon, which Penny has at her shop. Magicians, for all their godlike powers, are just people. Right, Simon?”
Simon gave a wan grin. “Indeed we are. Provided we don’t know it’s coming, a lead ball will end our days as surely as it would a grouse’s.”
“Simon! We can’t kill Rowan Barnes.” Kate stared at Simon expectantly, but he stayed silent. “Tell him, or I will.”
Simon raised his eyebrows. “Secrets are meant to be such.”
“Tell him,” Kate repeated.
Malcolm looked at Simon.
“Very well.” Simon took a breath and held up his hands helplessly. “In my skirmish with Barnes, he cursed me.”
The Scotsman looked blank, obviously unsure of the implications of Simon’s statement.
Kate exhaled. “He struck Simon with a black spell. Now Simon will find himself in greater and greater pain over time until he is in excruciating agony at all times. The only person who can lift the curse is Barnes himself. If we kill him, we are condemning Simon to a life of unspeakable pain.”
Kate sat gripping the arms of the chair, her face a mask of barely controlled fury and terror. Simon took one of her hands. She leaned toward him, beseeching him to understand her fears.
“Kate, I’m so sorry for the pain this causes you.” Simon kissed her hand and pressed it to his cheek. Then he turned. “Malcolm, kill Barnes.”
Chapter 19
Fading sunlight turned the ribs of a ruined church into a grim shadow against the sky. The remnants of a medieval gatehouse hunched beside the road. The carriage rocked along a rough country lane as it approached the distant abbey on a piece of open ground amidst bare, wintry trees.
“Welcome to Warden Abbey,” Simon announced. “My childhood home.”
“How long ago was your childhood?” Kate asked, as the skeletal abbey grew nearer. A flock of night birds rose in a carpet and blotted out the sky briefly before settling into the scabrous forest.
Simon laughed a bit stiffly. “Don’t judge by the abbey church. It has been a ruin since the Tudors.”
The thought of Simon’s boyhood home being some crumbling wreck was too sad for Kate to contemplate. Then they rolled past the dead old church and came upon a large country home with lights blazing in the many windows. It was a heartening oasis in the darkening landscape. Warden Abbey retained the character of its medieval ecclesiastical past, with spires and even turrets on both ends of the front façade.
Simon had his hand on the carriage door for a long while as the vehicle rolled past low, untrimmed shrubbery and clattered up to the low portico in the center of the house. A footman scurried out to meet the carriage.
“Good evening, Mr. Archer, sir. Welcome home.”
“Thank you, Nickerson.” Simon exited and handed out Kate. “How is your good wife, and your son?”
“Well, sir. Thank you.” The footman grinned at the attention.
“Gratified to hear it.” Simon turned to meet the butler and housekeeper, who waited on the steps but were obviously so eager they would have come out if it had been proper. They were both fit and likely in their early forties.
“Good evening, sir.” The butler bowed. “Good to have you back.”
“Winston!” Simon grabbed the man’s hand and shook it so that the exertion created a slight wince of pain. “And Mrs. Winston. Thank you both for your efforts. The place looks splendid.”
The butler bowed and the housekeeper curtsied. The woman’s eyes were on Simon and she put a handkerchief to her face, suppressing tears. Winston turned to his wife kindly, and said, “Perhaps you should see to dinner.”
“Very well,” she muttered and hurried away.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Winston said. “She’s very upset about the incident with Mrs. Archer.”
Simon shook his head graciously and led Kate through the grand door. He stared around at the stone-walled entryway, open to the vaulted ceiling with a heavy iron chandelier aglow with a covey of lit candles. The vast foyer was dim and only slightly warmer than outside. The flagstones were rough and uneven.
“It seems rather spartan for a magician’s lair,” Kate said, as servants collected coats and hats. “Where are the skulls and jars of herbs and tomes of runic spells?”
“Warden Abbey was the home of the Archers. My mother’s family was distinctly unmagical, in all ways. I thought it sociable to confine my mystical activities to a room in the turret. Otherwise, this is a normal country home that used to be a medieval monastery. So if you’ve ever admired the comfortable way of life of the Cistercian monk, prepare to be disappointed.” Simon turned to the butler, standing a few steps away. “Winston, after Miss Anstruther settles in, we shall reconvene for dinner if that’s convenient?”
“Indeed it is, sir. We’ve laid a fire in the great hearth and it’s warmed up nicely.”
Kate followed a maid toward a set of narrow stairs winding upward and on to her private accommodations along a dim corridor. She freshened up in the chilled room, lit by a single oil lamp. The view from the frosted window was of a dark, foreboding forest creeping so close that spindly branches nearly tapped the thick glass. Neither the house nor the grounds had the vivacity and strange luster of Hartley Hall. Craving Simon’s company and a warm fire, she went downstairs.
She found Simon in a large room that once must have been a great hall. A long table was set for a small dinner and Simon stood with Winston next to a blazing stone fireplace along one wall. The two men were in close conversation, which Simon broke off to seat Kate before taking the chair at the head of the table. “Please, have a bite to eat. It’s been a long day, and it may be a long night. Winston, tell Miss Anstruther what you were just telling me.”
Kate’s appetite had vanished in the coldness of her room, but now that
there was food in front of her, she began to eat. It had been a day of hard travel.
The butler stood next to Simon’s chair, hands behind his back, and said, “I was relating our discovery of the dreadful event. It came to my attention through one of the groundskeepers, a fellow named Greene, relatively new here. He was inspecting the grounds and noticed something odd about Mrs. Archer’s grave, which he brought to my attention.”
Kate noted the respect in the man’s voice, and his use of “missus” even though Simon’s mother was never married and was an Archer by birth. Simon was frozen in contemplation, staring at the untouched food in front of him.
Winston continued, “Her grave appeared to have been disturbed. The earth was unsettled.”
“Was her casket disinterred?” There was a cold distance in Simon’s voice that made Kate’s heart ache.
“Not when we saw it, sir.”
Kate asked, “Could it have been dogs digging?”
“No, miss. It appeared to me that the grave had been exhumed, then refilled.”
“Are you sure her body is still present?” Simon asked with odd directness.
The butler’s glance flicked uncomfortably to his master. “We dug deep enough to find the coffin. However, we were unwilling to open it without your presence. I hope you understand, sir.”
“Of course, Winston.” Simon ran a hand through his hair. “I appreciate your efforts. I’ll want to see this Greene.”
“Of course, sir. Shall I have a lantern and your coat ready? Will you go down to the grave later?”
Simon sat with his eyes down on the tabletop. Kate had never seen him frozen by indecision before. It was stunning, even frightening. He remained motionless for several minutes. Finally, he nodded.
“Very good, sir.” Winston walked away.
Simon sat back, tapping his fingers on the table. The fire crackled behind him, the light wavering in the unsipped wine. Kate ate quietly, but Simon showed no interest in his food. She allowed him to sit silently, lost in thought. And so he remained until after Winston had removed the last course and laid a plate of cheese along with two glasses of port.
“Simon,” Kate said softly, “tell me about your mother.”
He looked up at her with almost grateful eyes. He stood, reaching out his hand.
Simon led Kate down a long hallway that grew darker and colder. Plaster and wood gave way to ancient stone. They entered a turret door and started up a narrow spiral staircase. It was virtually pitch-black but for the starlight coming through occasional embrasures. Kate let her fingertips trace the wall to guide her upward as she placed her feet on the well-worn steps.
Simon suddenly halted before a door. He ran his hands over the rough wood and whispered. A light flared under his fingertips, then faded. He grunted and turned a heavy iron handle.
He pushed the door in and pressed into the room beyond. It was a round chamber atop the turret. Three embrasures were closed by wooden panels. There were many bookcases and tables covered in tomes and scrolls. Several heavy trunks rested about the floor. Simon spoke and light appeared from ghostly spiderwebs draped in the rafters of the peaked roof. He began to inspect the room, glancing over the books on shelves and the papers on desks. Finally, he leaned against a table with a breath of relief. “No one has been here. My wards are still active.”
Kate stood in the middle of the cold room. “This was your boyhood room? I won’t come across old love letters, will I?”
His smile was pleasant but she saw the strain there. His thoughts were not on romantic banter—neither were hers—but she felt a burden to offer him some distraction.
Even so, Kate could hardly contain her excitement at the many journals and few published books in the room. “Are these books yours, or were they your father’s?”
“Most of them were his. All I have of his is here, or at Gaunt Lane. A large number of his papers were destroyed or taken the night he was murdered.”
“In Scotland?”
“Yes.” Simon walked around the room, glancing at everything but not touching. He seemed fearful of disturbing the books and papers, as if they had gone from useful objects to artifacts. Kate understood all too well. The mere arrangement of the chamber represented something he didn’t wish to alter. “It’s sad when I think of the treasures he had that are lost to me now, including materials from Byron Pendragon himself. My father was Pendragon’s last student.”
Simon shook his head and went to a window, pulling back the oaken shutter. He leaned against the stone and stared out the narrow gap in the thick wall. “My mother didn’t deserve this.”
“What do you think happened?”
“I think she has been disturbed.”
“Perhaps body snatchers?”
“No. Her spirit has been disturbed. I think someone came here, found her body, and forced her dead spirit to speak to them. A necromancer. Rowan Barnes.”
Kate watched the side of his face as he continued to gaze out into the night. A deadly rage was building in his eyes despite his emotionless visage. Her own outrage flared. “If that is so, what could he have learned from her?”
Simon’s breath misted in the frozen air. “I don’t know. Very little. Barnes already knows I’m a scribe, but my mother had little concept of my magical skills. I kept the details from her. I was afraid it would remind her of my father.”
“She might have liked that.”
Simon smiled sadly with fresh realization. “You’re right. There’s another small joy I might have provided her but didn’t. I locked it away from her.” He gave a sharp laugh that had nothing to do with humor. “I don’t see anything useful Barnes could acquire from her. It was purely an exercise in cruelty. Her life was a struggle, and now she has no peace in death either. Because of me.”
“You don’t know that,” Kate said quietly. “You don’t know that her spirit was attacked.”
“Of course I do. She was involved in the world of magic, first through my father, then through me. But she was not part of it. All she did was love one man, then love their son.” He turned to her, his eyes haunted. “I’m going to her grave now. Please come with me.”
Kate pressed his hand against her cheek. “Of course.”
Malcolm hefted the rifle. The weapon still looked remarkably normal despite having come from Penny’s tinker shop. It was the size of standard-issue Baker, but with a lighter heft that felt odd in his hands. Rather than the usual ball and powder, however, it used a special shell similar to those Penny made for his Lancaster pistols, ten of which could be stored at the ready in a chamber near the breech. Attached along the top of the weapon was another of Penny’s gadgets. Just ahead of the breech, a small magnifying loupe was fixed, aligned with a series of concave and convex lenses, each one capable of being moved in line with the others down the length of the barrel.
Malcolm brought the stock to his shoulder and pointed the rifle at the French window in the library at Hartley Hall. He took aim at the head of a strange monstrous statue on the far edge of the garden over one hundred yards away. With deft fingers, he flipped the small round lenses of glass up and down in several combinations until the distant head grew close but it was still lost in the dark. He lowered another yellow lens into the row and suddenly the statue lit as if in a bright sun. Its teeth were bared and its eyes stared straight back at him. It looked as if he were standing right upon the creature.
He let out a low whistle of amazement. Penny’s modification was incredible. As a hunter, he knew the value of such a telescopic advancement. He could take out any number of beasts from a great distance without the danger of getting close enough to be shredded by claws. This was the perfect weapon for killing.
The perfect weapon for murder.
Malcolm didn’t flinch at the thought because it wasn’t murder if the beast was slaughtering innocents. Rowan Barnes was a beast, no doubt.
“What are you doing?”
Malcolm started and the rifle fired with a suppressed whoos
h. The glass of the French window shattered and the head of the statue exploded into dust in nearly the same instant. He glared down at Charlotte. He hadn’t even heard her approach.
She covered her mouth and stared wide-eyed. “Oh. You’re in trouble.”
He breathed out angrily, trying to ignore the child, and started packing.
“Is that the gun Penny modified to shoot Barnes?”
Bloody hell! Penny was a chatterbox at the worst of times.
“May I come with you to the Red Orchid?” Charlotte rocked back and forth on her heels, making her pastel frock sway about her ankles. “I’m terribly bored here.”
“Go away.”
“I could help.”
“I don’t see how.”
“I can hold on to your stuff.” She grabbed for a box of ammunition on the table, but tipped it over so the specially designed bullets scattered across the teak surface.
“Stop it!” Malcolm rebuked crossly. “These are delicate.”
She held up one of the bullets to the light. It was long and made with a shiny brass casing. “Oh, how pretty! What do they do?”
“They kill things.” The hunter snatched the bullet from her hand.
“Penny made these also?” Charlotte pointed at the stylized gear cog on the box that was Penny’s brand. “She’s terribly clever.”
Malcolm took the ammunition box from her. He could still barely stand to look at her despite the evidence of her improved demeanor. As a werewolf, she was a threat he knew how to deal with; as a girl, she was an annoyance with which he was unfamiliar. “Go outside and play with the dog.”
“I want to go with you.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“No. You need to stay here with Imogen.”
“Imogen is grumpy.” Charlotte scuffed a foot on the rug. “Just for a little? I’m bored.”
“Ask Hogarth for something to do.”
She quieted. “He scares me.”
“Aye, he scares me too,” Malcolm admitted. “But you’re still staying.”
“Please! I’ll be very quiet. I promise. You won’t even know I’m there. I’ll be so careful. I haven’t changed in forever. You know I’ve been so good they moved me out of the cellar. I have a room upstairs like everyone else. I’m so calm all the time I’m practically asleep.”
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