“Napoleon?”
“Mrs. Lewitt,” he mumbled, retreating a fair distance. “She stopped one of my constables on their beat, claiming Napoleon had sailed up the Firth of Clyde to fire his cannons into the field behind her house.” He did a slow three-hundred-and-sixty degree turn, studying the room. “She likes her sherry, that she does. Still, Mrs. Lewitt is a good sort, so I thought we’d best check it out.”
“Lily!”
Her heart leapt at the familiar timbre. She spun around, straight into Kelan’s chest and bounced back just as he reached out to steady her. “You’re here!”
Here and safe.
“Needless to say,” he said, dropping his arms, “I wish you weren’t.”
“Did you get my note?” She’d pinned it to the outside of the townhouse door.
“I rode here directly from the farmhouse.” His gaze moved from her to the Sergeant, who’d come up to them. “Kelan McAllister,” he introduced himself. “Earl of Perth.”
“Sergeant Cotter.” The man stood a little straighter, but didn’t let the title cower him from his duty. “What brings you this way, m’lord?” His eyes swept past Lily to Ana, then back to Kelan. “You’ve all picked an odd evening to visit Stobcross House.”
“An unfortunate coincidence,” Kelan said, smoothing aside the barbed observation. “I took the liberty of sending my man upstairs. There might be other victims of this…unfortunate accident.”
“More like them?” He jutted his chin toward the sofa.
“Did you not notice that part of the roof has been blown away? The boiler must have exploded.” Kelan didn’t so much as glance in the direction of the sofa. “Mr. Winterberry was always experimenting with one or other gaseous chemical to improve his coal-to-steam output ratio.”
Sergeant Cotter looked very much as if he wanted to say something, but couldn’t quite find the words.
“Wouldn’t surprise me if the man had turned his steam boiler into a nitrous compression chamber,” Kelan went on. “An interesting property of nitrogen gas…freezes when it comes into contact with oxygen.”
“Scientists will be the death of us all,” Sergeant Cotter barked. “Outside now, all of you.” He marched from the room, shooing Ana ahead of him. “Gather on the front porch and wait there for us. This house could be full of other hazards, waiting to explode. Jeffers! Where are you, man? Jeffers!”
Ana popped out and then right back inside.
“There was a young boy,” Lily said. Other victims. The house had been a mausoleum when they’d arrived. Dark, dead and empty.
Kelan shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lily.”
“I’ll go and look for him,” Ana said. “It’s better to know, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” Lily confirmed. Such questions from Ana were genuine rather than rhetorical. “Thank you.”
Kelan’s gaze finally went to the iced couple on the sofa. He delved into the inner pocket of his jacket to retrieve a flat disc, no larger than the palm of his hand. There was a dull click and then a bluish light emitted in a sphere around the object, widening in diameter and growing brighter until it lit up most of the room.
“It’s Raimlas,” said Lily, staring at the magical device. “I took another look through the demon glass—”
“Demon glass?” He raised a brow at her over his shoulder. “Your visions appear to you as if you’re looking inside a mirror?”
It was more like a window, but she left it at that with a nod. “After you left, I took another look and I’m convinced the demon was manipulating Mr. Winterberry’s mind.”
“Then we’ll add mind control to our section on Agares.” A gleam of amusement flickered in his eyes. “I thought you said you’d read our book of demonology back to front.”
“I might have skimmed a few pages,” she murmured. “Some of your ancestors do go on a bit.”
“Turn of the century.” He withdrew his gaze to walk around the sofa, examining the couple from every angle. “Middle of summer. Agares froze a lake over the twenty or so people while they were swimming. These bodies haven’t started to defrost yet.” He strode back to her side, his short burst of humour eroded. “Damnation Lily, you narrowly missed ending up like this. What were you thinking by coming here?”
Lily bit her tongue on a prim retort. “Shouldn’t you deal with our demon problem before it thaws?”
“The demon is gone.”
“It banished itself?”
“Not nearly as helpful,” he said grimly. “It was free to adopt another human form as soon as this body stopped functioning. It probably felt compromised after we banished Saloese and wanted to clean up this identity before assuming the next.”
“Dear Lord,” she gasped. “We’re responsible for this slaughter?”
“Don’t do that, Lily.” There was no sympathy in his tone, only the bite of a sharp reprimand. “This is what demons do. If we hadn’t banished Saloese, it would simply mean two of them and double the slaughter later.”
“True as that may be,” she said, turning on her heel, “people are still dead. Here and now. If you don’t mind, I’ll take a moment for some measure of remorse.”
“Remorse doesn’t save lives.”
Neither do I. She walked briskly, down the passage and out onto the porch. Needing to get away from him, and from herself. The hopelessness welling up her throat was even more useless than remorse, but she couldn’t stem it. Always one step behind. Always too late. Always death.
And it only grew worse as the night progressed. The bodies of the household staff had all been discovered in various stages of thawing. Including that of the young stable lad.
Sergeant Cotter was jotting down her name and address for his case notes when Kelan interrupted.
“I need you to strike Lady Lily’s name from your records,” he told the Sergeant. “She isn’t a suspect and has no more knowledge of anything here than you or I or anyone else. I’ll take this higher if I have to,” he added when Sergeant Cotter hesitated. “I don’t mean to bend your laws, but there’s no reason to link a lady’s name to an investigation, now is there?”
“Very well, m’lord.” The Sergeant scratched over a line of his scribblings. “If any new information arises, though, and I need to discuss—”
“You know where to find her.”
Lily didn’t object to Kelan’s protective threat. He’d saved her reputation, her future, but what about next time? She could not, however, find it within herself to care. Not right now, when she stood outside a house full of dead bodies. Grief, hopelessness, anger and despair washed through her.
She’d allowed this to happen.
Kelan might disagree with her, but she couldn’t rid herself of the condemnation. Who was to say she couldn’t have made a difference if she’d spent less time hiding out at Cragloden, worrying about her reputation, and more time focussing on how to find demons? She should have followed Kelan to London, forced the confrontation they’d had earlier this evening, done something…done anything instead of waiting in limbo.
She was straddling two worlds, and losing in both.
FIVE
Greyston had his foot propped against the control unit, using the traction to work the muscle of his bad leg while he kept the ship steady with a light hand on the rudder gear. The view from the pilot cabin was a balm to his spirit; the pale blues and greys of the Aether streaming past and, below, the white-capped swells of a restless sea.
God, he’d missed this.
For the last two months, the Red Hawk had been berthed in Frankfurt for repairs and he’d been just across the border, berthed for repairs in Austria’s finest clinic. The surgery had involved cutting away even more of his thigh than the demon’s fire whip had taken, and then grafting experimental celluloid flesh to his own.
The doctors had warned him not to expect a full recovery, but as far as Greyston was concerned, he’d lost enough in his life. He was not giving up his damned leg. He’d tossed the walking stick out last w
eek and next would be the limp.
“A pouch of emeralds, Grey.” The undercurrent of wistfulness in the bemused voice was not to be missed. “We’ve never been paid in pouches of jewels before and that for an engagement actually within the law.”
“Assuming you believe a man like Ohran Bey could ever misplace a caravan carrying such a fortune.” Greyston raised a brow at Jamie, the fiery-bearded McDonald from the Isle of Skye who was his second-in-command. “It’s more likely he had that caravan chased into the sandstorm and now he’s down a unit of his men in addition to the wealth he’d planned to appropriate.”
“That’s never worried you before.”
“It doesn’t worry me now.” Greyston grinned at the thought of a scavenger treasure hunt. “Take the Red Hawk and do your worst,” he told Jamie. “Tell you what, if you find that caravan, I’ll throw in a pouch of diamonds on top to divide amongst yourselves.”
Jamie gave a derisive snort. “There’s not enough money in the world to pay us to run away.”
“I understand loyalty, Jamie. That’s why I haven’t sent the crew home to Es Vedra, which I probably should still do.”
“We know what we’re getting ourselves into,” Jamie said, all trace of amusement drained from his face and voice. “We were there.”
When the demon Flavith had reduced Forleough Castle to ashes, killed Jean and crippled the Red Hawk.
Greyston looked out over the varying shades of blues rushing past the reinforced glass shield that wrapped the nose of the Pilot Cabin. “I’ll still be here when you get back.”
And so would the demons.
He’d never shared Lily’s optimistic time frame. By her reckoning, the demons would be purged and she’d be waltzing out the remainder of the season in London’s finest ballrooms by now. He knew for a fact she wasn’t.
“We’ve been gone two months and what has happened? Lily’s exactly where I left her and as for McAllister, God only knows what he’s been up to, but it obviously hasn’t been very much.” His gaze returned to Jamie, determination set in his jaw. “Go trawling the Syrian Desert for treasure. Let the men have some fun before they jump into the demon fray. I assure you, you won’t be missing much.”
“Is that an order?”
Each man on this ship would die for the other and, as tempted as Greyston was, he’d not give any order he’d never himself follow. “I’m asking.”
Jamie swore. “You know exactly where to bleed a man.”
“Oh, and another thing…”
“You’re all out of favours,” Jamie muttered.
“Then I’ll make this one an order.” Greyston threw in a smile as he stood to get a better look at the headlands of the Firth of Tay emerging from the hazy blue outline of the rugged Scottish coastline. “Collect William from Es Vedra on the way out there. This is as good a time as any to induct the lad and see if he really wants a place on this crew.”
Greyston flipped the sail levers, furling the three larger horizontal quarter masts as the headlands rapidly reared up at them. The revolutionary elliptical dynamic of the ship sliced through the winds gusting above the high plateau as he navigated them into an effortless landing.
The same could not be said for the turmoil in his gut when he stepped out onto the cliff top above Cragloden Castle a half-hour later, the one place he’d sworn never to set foot again.
Neco appeared at the opening where the hull door had been lowered to form the boarding plank, two carpetbags slung over one of his massive, steel-framed shoulders and holding a polished mahogany cane so that it rested on the other.
“Where the hell did you find that?” Greyston barked.
“In the forest behind the clinic where you tossed it.”
“I don’t need it.”
“So you said.” Neco reached his side. “You also said we were done with this place. With Scotland, to be precise.”
“For a celludrone,” Greyston remarked, “you do a plausible pout.”
Spring-loaded eyes of dark brown returned to him. “I don’t understand.”
Greyston set off for the narrow, overgrown path without waiting for the hull door to be raised. He disliked drawn out goodbyes and he’d already had a word with his men and left instructions.
“At least you’ll see Ana again,” he said, walking with care but resisting the impulse to stiffen his weak leg each time his foot came down. The uneven ground made for far rougher going than the paved gardens of the clinic. “You speak of her at every opportunity.”
“She’s the only other of my kind I’ve ever encountered.”
As was Lily for him. The thought struck Greyston with cold brutality. The only two people on this earth with demon flowing in their blood. If that was part of the attraction, he should welcome it. Something solid that could be rationalised into pieces and cast off bit by bit. But it galled him to think this emptiness, this longing, could be the hunger of one demon calling to another.
He refused to give anything to a demon, not even his broken heart.
He wasn’t a celludrone, Greyston reminded himself. Attraction, and love, could not be simplified into the composition of biological similarities.
“It’s natural to be…” Neco took a moment to process “…curious.”
“And now you can satisfy your curiosity to your—your analytical computation’s delight.” Greyston bit down on a pain that shot straight up his thigh and into the hipbone. He grabbed a nearby branch to steady himself as he took the weight off. “So try to show a little simulated happiness.”
“Happiness is a state of well-being, contentment and good fortune.” Neco drew level and passed. “The last time we walked into Cragloden Castle,” he said, stopping to turn and look at Greyston, “I had to carry you out.”
“We were talking about Lily.”
“No, we weren’t.”
“Ana. I mean, we were talking about Ana.”
“Is that what you feel when you think of seeing Lady Lily again?” Neco asked, offering the cane. “Happiness?”
“That’s different.” Greyston ignored the stick and shuffled on, no longer attempting to resist the limp and using the branches overhanging the path to help himself along.
“You don’t speak of her at every opportunity,” Neco reasoned aloud in his monotonic voice. “You don’t mention her unless someone else brings up her name. Do you not like Lady Lily anymore?”
“I’m not discussing matters of the heart with you.” Greyston glanced around him irritably. Before him, the path dipped steeply into a stretch of eroded rock surface and he’d run out of trees.
“Are we taking another rest?”
Greyston mumbled a miserable curse beneath his breath and held his hand out. “Give me the blasted stick.”
McAllister had watched Neco carry him out and now he had to swallow his pride and let the man watch him hobble back. And Lily…he couldn’t have her love and he damned well didn’t want her pity.
As it turned out, his great return wasn’t as important as he’d assumed. The Red Hawk’s deep vibrations made it impossible to arrive unannounced, and yet only Mrs. Locke was at the door to welcome them.
“Lord Adair,” she greeted with a tempered smile. “Please, come inside.” She noticed the luggage they’d brought and added, “Neco, it’s good to see you. Take those up directly, if you don’t mind. I’ll send the housemaids shortly to prepare your rooms.” She closed the door behind them. “His lordship is otherwise occupied, but won’t be long.”
“Where’s Lady Lily?”
“In the ballroom, m’lord, practising with Armand.”
“This place has a ballroom?”
So much for Lily not waltzing out the rest of her season, albeit in the highlands instead of London. The discovery pleased him. From the start, she’d been stoically determined to resume her old life when this was over.
Greyston hadn’t always appreciated that staid resolution, but he did now. It was a relief to know she’d one day slip back seamlessly into
the social whirlwind of her friends and family, be safe in the strictures of the society she set so much store in, and find genuine happiness in one or other pre-approved marriage.
“Would you like me to show you?” Mrs. Locke had opened another door to their left, but closed it again when he made no move to enter the library. “I’m sure Lady Lily will not mind the interruption.”
“Thank you.” Greyston followed along the hall and all the way around the west wing, tapping the cane lightly on the marble tiles as he kept pace with the housekeeper’s brisk march.
They passed a set of arched doors that were shut and into a service passage that seemed to run alongside that room until they came to a smaller door tucked away at the very end.
Mrs. Locke left him there with the suggestion that he enter with care.
“What the—” Greyston barged inside and stopped dead, the intense flashes momentarily blinding him. His thoughts raced to demon lightning and his heart thudded, but no, of course not. Cragloden was demon-proof and what the hell was that noise? A mechanical grind that flowed and ebbed and set his teeth on edge.
His vision adjusted to the irregular pulses of bright strobes that seemed to be originating from a common source, a large metal tank puffing steam as the gears churned to shoot bolts of electric light at odd angles.
A man, tall enough to be Armand, he guessed, waved a hand in his direction and then hurried toward the machine.
His gaze found Lily, skipping awkwardly over a ray of light, then twisting to avoid another without success. The beam flashed on her, illuminating a shapely form. The pale lemon dress fit her slender back like a glove, flaring slightly at the hips and gathered into a small bustle at the base of her spine. It was also cut off a good few inches above the ankle to reveal a decent portion of calf between the hem and her slippers. Or indecent, as she’d no doubt correct him.
Chuckling at that thought, Greyston glanced around him briefly. Daylight bled through a wall of closed drapes. Crystal chandeliers hung from the double-volume ceiling and the floor was polished wood. Behind him, black cloth hung from the walls, draining natural light from the room and, he saw after peering beneath a strip of the material, covering floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
The Dark Matters Quartet Page 31
