Realms of Stone

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “Burn it to the ground!” Raziel ordered his army, and a team of dog-sized dragons from the middle ranks rushed forward, blasting flame from their gullets. The fire sizzled in tongues of blue unlike anything known to man. Not even Greek or Roman fire could match it, for this flame burnt through supernatural structures and locks. The squeals and caws of monstrous bats and ravens rang in pitches so high that the ears of the frightened occupants of the castle began to bleed.

  Ross covered both ears against the terrifying din, and she shouted for Blinkmire, who’d already roused from a strange dream of roaming the world as a three-foot-high man with red hair and spectacles. Now stone-cold conscious, the massive man raced into the room, reaching the duchess, who’d only just awakened.

  “Here, my lady. Take this blanket and put it ‘round your shoulders,” he told her. “There is no time for anything more!”

  The duchess did as instructed, and the pig-like gentleman lifted her into his arms whilst Ross placed a second blanket across Elizabeth’s body to shield her from the supernatural flames.

  “Stay behind me, Miss Ross! Put one of those blankets on yourself now. Don’t look to the right or left. Just follow me!”

  Carrying the duchess protectively, he led Ross through a secret panel that concealed a back staircase. The prince had taught all who lived there to meet in the brick pavilion behind the west garden wall should the castle’s defences ever be breached. Special wards of highest strength were placed all along the passageway that Blinkmire now followed, and he met no intruders until they reached the final turning towards the garden doors.

  A demonic dragon keeper and its fire-breathing sidekick had burnt through the final ward that protected the secret passage, and flames of blue pain seared into Blinkmire’s thick hide, nearly causing the great man to stumble.

  Refusing to drop his precious cargo, the brave man forced his bulky leg muscles to push harder, and he burst through the door and into the night air. The blankets that protected Elizabeth had caught fire, and Blinkmire used his hands to extinguish the hellish flames, scorching his palms and fingers in the process.

  “Run to the pavilion beyond the little gate!” he ordered Ross and the duchess as he set her upon the dewy grass. “Do not turn ‘round and do not stop—not even once!”

  Behind them, the dragon appeared through the opening to the castle, ready to exhale a cloud of blue death into the moonlit garden.

  Ross screamed.

  The duchess shouted, “No!”

  Blinkmire turned to face the monster, willing to die to protect the women.

  The next four seconds ticked by in slow motion.

  Elizabeth saw the dragon’s midsection grow large as it sucked in air until its scales stretched to bursting.

  The creature opened its mouth to slay her champion, and Blinkmire, still running, raised his hands to protect his face as he raced towards certain death.

  The demon riding upon the dragon leapt into the air, and Beth perceived the glint of a spear. Both the flames and spear assailed the night air, gliding towards the doomed giant.

  In the fourth second, a miracle happened. Viktor Riga came running around the corner of the castle’s exterior wall, followed by Vasily, Mr. Stanley, Katrina, Kilmeade, and Mr. Anderson. The Romanian brandished a knife, and the butler carried a crossbow loaded with arrows tipped with a poisonous metal created in the mirror world of sen-sen. Vasily fired two arrows into the dragon’s side and a third at the demon’s head, causing the winged creature to sway wildly and then shut its mouth.

  Blinkmire stopped when he saw Riga, which caused the hurled spear to miss its mark.

  The demon vanished in a puff of smoke.

  And to their great relief, the dragon-beast fell to the ground, dead.

  “Well done!” Riga shouted victoriously above the riotous noise of the ongoing attack. “Anderson, help Blinkmire! Stanley, carry the duchess! Everyone else, get to the prince’s special coach without delay! It’s stored inside the brick pavilion! I’ll stay with Vasily and fend off the others!”

  Blinkmire was badly burnt, but had no wish to leave his friend. “Viktor, you must promise to meet us!”

  Riga bowed and offered Stephen Blinkmire a wide smile. “If I do not see you at the pavilion, we’ll meet you beyond the cemetery. Near the green. Go with God, my friend!”

  An explosion obscured any further exchange of words, and a shower of stone fell all around the Romanian’s feet, narrowly missing his head. “Come, Vasily!” the wily count told the butler. “There’s a tunnel beneath the orange grove!”

  The pair ran together through a narrow corridor of shrubs that ended in a planting of graceful orange trees where Beth had shared tea with Henry MacAlpin. The prince’s shroud also kept the gardens in a perpetual state of blossom and fruit, and these mixed upon the branches in an otherworldly fashion. Rings of brick encircled each tree, and a small stone structure resembling a garden shed concealed the entrance to the tunnel. The others had already entered the escape route, and Vasily and Riga followed. As they ran along the tunnel, the butler turned back often to watch for signs of pursuit.

  Inside the pavilion, Blinkmire and company had reached Romanov’s special coach. Also built in sen-sen, the conveyance required no horses, and was operated by thought.

  “How do I work it?” Stanley asked as the others found their seats. “I’ve heard the prince speak of it, but never seen it. Blinkmire, have you any ideas?”

  “None at all,” the huge man answered. “My lady? Are you all right?” he asked, ignoring the intense pain from the burns that covered his face and hands.

  The duchess gave no reply, for she’d fainted from fear and smoke inhalation. Her lungs, which had only begun to heal from the bout with pneumonia, struggled to maintain oxygen flow to her blood and brain, and she’d lost consciousness.

  “We have to hurry!” Blinkmire told his friends.

  The pavilion door opened again, and the men turned, expecting to engage the enemy, but instead sighed in great relief.

  “Riga!” Stanley cried out happily. “Come, quickly!”

  The cooks, Katrina, Kilmeade, Riga, Antony, and Vasily piled into the large coach, which seemed much roomier within than it did from without.

  “I’ve no idea how to work it,” Stanley told the newest passengers. “Vasily, I pray you’ve a notion to offer.”

  “The prince has never allowed me inside it, but I believe it works by desire,” the butler suggested.

  Ross stared at the controls of the carriage. “If only we could find the police, they’d help us!” she said, thinking of Whitechapel and the officers who worked with Charles Sinclair. The kind-hearted detective’s handsome face dominated nearly every corner of her thoughts, and she pictured him as she’d last seen him, smiling at her as she lay upon a cot inside the constables’ lounge of Leman Street Station House.

  In a flash, the coach began to hum, transporting it and its occupants through the dizzying realm of sen-sen and emerging betwixt a hansom and a police maria, stopping just six feet from the door to 76 Leman Street.

  The Haimsbury coach arrived at Istseleniye House precisely twelve minutes after the prince’s remarkable carriage appeared on Leman Street. Already, Raziel and his minions had fled the remains of their incursion, leaving behind a smouldering heap of stones.

  Charles ran from the carriage almost before it had come to a full stop, followed quickly by Paul Stuart. “Where is it? Was it smoking like this when you left?” he asked Salperton.

  “No, not at all. It looked rather like an abandoned castle from the outside, but once you passed through the gates, it looked completely normal. I don’t understand. I tell you, this place was different only three hours ago!”

  Paul withdrew his pistol, ready for battle as he carefully stepped into the stone-covered yard. “I think this devastation just occurred, Charles. See here? Bloo
d, and it’s fresh.”

  Sinclair felt like screaming. “Where is she?” he moaned as he followed his cousin through the smoking ruins. The company of men picked their way through piles of stones, furnishings, clothing, and mayhem. The terrified marquess kept his eyes on the ground, expecting to find his wife’s body at any moment.

  Aubrey walked ahead and had just turned a corner, when he called to the others. “Back here!”

  All three ran, reaching him in seconds. The earl stood over the body of a creature that made no sense in the natural world. Raziel had ordered his captains to remove the fallen and wounded to sen-sen immediately, but this one had been missed.

  “What is it?” Emerson asked, bending down for a closer look at the sickly green corpse.

  “No idea. I’ve never seen anything like it,” Paul answered.

  “I never should have left her,” Salperton declared, running both hands through his dark hair in despair. “Dash it all! I never should have left! Romanov said she was in danger, and I foolishly broke through his protections. My actions probably let Elizabeth’s pursuers inside. Charles, I’m so sorry. Dear God in heaven, it’s my fault!”

  Sinclair closed his eyes, trying to picture Beth’s face, but it proved hard. “Where in the castle did she sleep?” he asked Henry.

  “First floor, northwest corner. Up there, where the wall is blown apart,” he answered darkly.

  The earl left the group once again, his keen eyes focused on the ground. “There are tracks here, Charles. Several that look like men’s, but others much smaller. Henry, how many people lived here?”

  “Let’s see,” the frazzled viscount replied, “there’s the duchess, of course, but also Miss Kilmeade, Riga, Blinkmire, Stanley. Oh, and there’s a fellow who calls himself Thirteen, but I’m told it’s actually Anderson. Vasily’s the butler, and there’s a footman and two cooks.”

  “Six men and three women, plus Elizabeth?” Charles asked.

  “No, wait, there’s also a woman who served as lady’s maid at times. Katrina. And, of course, Miss Ross.”

  “Miss Ross?” Sinclair asked, staring at Salperton.

  “Yes, a lovely woman, though somewhat shy. Ida Ross.” A strange light of relief swept across the marquess’s face, which thoroughly puzzled Henry. “Do you know her, sir?”

  “I’d thought her dead,” Charles answered. “Romanov makes a habit of rescuing women, it seems. How did he let this happen? He seems to foresee all sorts of things. Why didn’t he foresee this?”

  Aubrey had reached the brick pavilion. “The tracks stop here, Charles, but the building is empty. There’s evidence that something sat here. You can see wheel marks on the floor. A carriage, perhaps?”

  “If so, then, they hitched up the horses elsewhere,” the detective observed. “Let’s walk through the castle. I have to believe Beth is safe, Paul. The Lord would not allow her to die—not after he’s already rescued her once. Would he?”

  “No, Cousin, he would not. Henry, show us where Beth stayed, will you?”

  The men started back to the ruins, and high above, a dragon flew upon the thin winds of sen-sen. The massive wings outstretched against the moon, obscuring it momentarily, but few in the human realm saw so much as a sliver of shadow. The mirror realm offered a window into earth’s material world, but those within it remained unseen. Only certain animals had the instinct to see into the shadows.

  And a few humans.

  Henry shivered as the moon of sen-sen winked out for a second. He looked skyward, perceiving the shimmer from the other realm.

  “What is it?” Aubrey asked his friend as they neared the castle entrance.

  “Nothing. A ghost, perhaps. A hint of an apparition. Never mind me.”

  Raziel Grigor watched from his seat upon the brilliantly hued dragon. “That one has eyes,” he told the beast. “Interesting.”

  The dragon turned and descended towards a maze of living stones, three realms below sen-sen. The beast could hear his master’s thoughts, and he knew Lord Raziel planned to confer with the Ravens and seek the Stone King’s advice.

  It would be a very long night in Sebet Babi.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  4:56 am – London Hospital, Whitechapel

  Edmund John James Reid paced back and forth like a caged cat. A constable named Howard Belman had roused the inspector from a much-needed night’s sleep at half past three, telling a tale that sounded like something straight out of Grimm’s book of fancy. What the experienced detective discovered upon arriving at Leman Street could not have surprised him more if a unicorn had greeted him, bitten him on the nose, and called him Uncle Bob. Now, at nearly five in the morning, he awaited a reply to the message he’d sent to Haimsbury House. The answer arrived in a crested coach, drawn by two matched Friesian mares.

  “Where is she?” Sinclair asked as he burst into the hospital’s main lobby.

  “Treves is with her down the hall. Charles, he asks us to wait out here.”

  Ignoring the caution, Sinclair pushed through a group of police officers, two nurses, and a porter until he reached a closed door flanked by two sergeants.

  “We’re not allow anyone inside, Superintendent. Mr. Treves was quite insistent.”

  “I’m not anyone,” Sinclair declared as he turned the doorknob.

  Inside the hospital room, three men hunched over a patient, mumbling instructions and opinions as a middle-aged nurse watched. “Sir, no one is to enter!” the woman declared sternly.

  “That is my wife. Treves, let me see her, please!”

  Frederick Treves turned ‘round, his face serious. “Charles, you may see her for a moment, but only that. I appreciate your anxiety, but allow us to finish our assessment.”

  The physicians left the bed momentarily, and Sinclair approached. “She looks so pale,” he said, reaching for her hand. “But she’s all right, isn’t she?”

  “We’re worried about her lungs. She’s having difficulty breathing. The others mentioned smoke and a fire, but wasn’t that fire over a week ago?” Treves asked the detective.

  “Yes, but there may have been another one tonight. Others? What others?”

  “Her companions. We’re also treating several of them. One was burnt quite badly. Two of the women are being looked after for shock. We’ve placed all the ladies in a room together, and the men in a private ward. Has Reid told you how they arrived?”

  “I’ve not really talked with Edmund. Has she said anything?”

  “One word, spoken twice. Captain. Does that make any sense at all?”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling. “Beth, can you hear me, darling?”

  Her face turned towards his, but she gave no reply. Charles took her hand and kissed it. “Thank you, Lord,” he whispered. “I’ll be outside, Fred. Call me if anything changes. Oh, and the doctor who’s been tending her for the past week is here with me. Shall I send him in to you? He mentioned pneumonia.”

  “That helps a great deal,” Treves answered. “Yes, please, send him in.”

  Sinclair kissed Beth’s hand once more, and then left, rejoining his cousin and the others in the waiting area.

  Paul brought his cousin a glass of water. “How is she?”

  “Pale, but alive. Nothing in this world has ever cheered me more than her face this day, Paul. Seeing her has brought me back to life.”

  “I understand,” the earl answered, for his own heart had leapt when Baxter brought them Reid’s message. “Charles, you look as though you might collapse. You’ll do her no good if your health fails. If you want to help Beth, then gather your strength.”

  Sinclair wiped his eyes and drank the water. “You’re right. I am tired, but very happy.”

  The doors to the main entry parted, and the Duke of Drummond strode into the lobby. His powerful presence caused the sea of waiting patients and constables to pa
rt as though commanded. James Stuart spread his muscular arms and embraced his nephew.

  “Charles, this is good news indeed! Booth woke me half an hour ago.”

  “Half an hour?” Aubrey asked his uncle. “Your horses certainly made short work of the journey ‘twixt here and Westminster. I suppose we should be grateful you took time to dress.”

  “Did I?” the duke asked, winking. “As one ages, the mind tends to forget mundane matters like clothing. Your aunt promises to visit later, but she and Della await news. Is there a telegraph nearby?”

  “The hospital keeps one inside the administration wing, but we have one at Leman Street as well, sir,” Reid told the Scotsman.

  “You look close to fallin’ down, son,” Drummond told Sinclair.

  “I’m fine, sir. Just tired. Sister?” he called to the charge nurse.

  A tall woman approached. She wore the dark grey dress common to nurses, along with a white pinafore apron. Her wheat-coloured hair was bound into a tight chignon and tucked beneath a peaked cap of starched cotton. A pair of white streamers fell behind the cap, and a gold and navy enameled pin bearing the hospital’s insignia indicated her position as supervisor. “How may I help you, Lord Haimsbury?”

  “You know me, Sister?”

  She smiled, nodding her head in deference. “Anyone who reads knows you, sir. Superintendent Charles Sinclair, 11th Marquess of Haimsbury—and perhaps more,” she added. “What might I do for you, my lord?”

  “I’m told that a woman named Ida Ross arrived with my wife. Could you show me to her room?”

  “Certainly, sir. If you’ll follow me?”

  “James, send for me at once, if anything happens.”

  “Sure enough, son,” the duke answered as Charles followed the tall charge nurse down the corridor to the right. They passed two large wards of female patients, and then entered an area with smaller, private rooms.

  “In here, sir. I’ll send a porter to fetch you, should the duchess awaken.”