She took a more careful look around, noticing a small window set high on the wall. The view out of it was gorgeous, though the night was cloudy. Mina could see the outlines of the London roofs, lit against the sky by the still-awake city below, and the dome of Saint Paul’s rising above them.
Turning reluctantly back to the room itself, she had to admit that it wasn’t at all bad. As far as she could see, there was no evidence of spiders or rats, nor any dust. The air was a little stale, but if she opened the window tomorrow, that would be all right soon enough. For a hundred pounds, she could imagine staying in far worse places.
There was gas lighting too, she found when she examined the lamp on the wall. MacAlasdair, or more likely his father, wasn’t far behind the times when it came to modern comforts. She wouldn’t have expected it from creatures who lived…however long they lived.
Mina shivered at the thought. It was an important thought, though, and an important thing to remember. However human MacAlasdair seemed—however handsome she thought he was, at odd moments when he stopped being aggravating—he wasn’t human at all. He didn’t live like one; he didn’t die like one, or at least not at the same rate; and he might well not think like one.
And the man who opposed him had been human once but was clearly willing to deal with creatures who were anything but.
Mina wrapped her arms around herself and eyed the corners of the room, the shadows that fell from the bed and the writing desk. They didn’t move. Anything hunting MacAlasdair would hardly start up here.
All the same, after she undressed, she got into bed with the light still on. She could sleep in almost any conditions, and MacAlasdair could damn well foot the extra bill.
***
Mina woke to clear light, a pair of starlings fighting somewhere near her window, and an immediate sense of unreality. Shadow men. Dragon men, for God’s sake. If she hadn’t been in an attic room in a strange mansion, she would have dismissed the whole affair as a dream and cautioned herself against whatever she’d had for supper.
The thought of supper brought on an immediate and most worldly hunger. She washed and dressed in a hurry, though she was careful to look respectable, coiling her hair tightly back and pinning her collar very straight. Word got around quickly; Polly wouldn’t be the only one with questions.
Mina soon found that she was right about that. She’d risen early enough to find the servants still at breakfast, and all of them—four maids, a butler, a groom, and a gray-haired couple who were probably the valet and housekeeper Alice had mentioned—turned to look when she entered the room.
The older woman got to her feet. “You’d be his lordship’s new secretary, then,” she said in a much broader Scottish accent than MacAlasdair’s. “I’m Mrs. Baldwin, the housekeeper here. You’ve met Polly. That’s Lizzie next to her and Sarah, and the wee one next to her is Emily, and James and Owens and Mr. Baldwin on the other side. And Mrs. Hennings upstairs, poor woman, and that’s all of us under this roof.” She smiled and spoke readily. It could have been friendliness; it could have been duty.
Mina gave the most polished smile she could manage in return. “Miss Seymour,” she said. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” said Emily, who was “wee” indeed—no more than fifteen, by the look of her—and thus probably from the scullery. The others produced a variety of nods and smiles, pleasant and careful and distant.
“Have yourself a seat and a bit of a breakfast,” said Mrs. Baldwin, “and then his lordship will see you in the drawing room. Polly will show you how to get there.”
Breakfast was porridge, bacon, eggs, and scones, as well as very strong hot tea. It was also largely silent. Mrs. Baldwin observed that the weather was likely to be fine, James mentioned needing to have the blacksmith in one of these days, and Mina asked if the Baldwins had come up from Scotland with Lord MacAlasdair. Yes, they had; no, the trip hadn’t been very difficult. That was nice.
Mina wanted to ask about Scotland, about how long the train journey had taken and what it had been like, about Lord MacAlasdair’s horses and how the maids were finding the house. Miss Seymour, who had to keep the distance becoming to his lordship’s secretary, sipped her tea, made polite inquiries about Mrs. Hennings’s health—she was recovering nicely, it was really a bit of bad luck for her to have slipped on the staircase as she’d done, and clearly the story about the robbers hadn’t gotten out—and excused herself as soon as she’d eaten sufficient food to see her through the next few hours.
MacAlasdair’s house was rather handsome, now that she saw it in the daytime and without supernatural pursuit. However, it was still a rather intimidating place. The walls were mostly dark, with plenty of mirrors and gilded picture frames, and the furniture tended to be dark as well, not to mention rather massive.
Portraits were abundant. Mina saw an icily blonde woman with a ruff and a lapdog, a pair of bright-eyed children posed in front of a bay window, and a succession of men who looked more or less like MacAlasdair in clothing of various decades and centuries. She didn’t think they were all MacAlasdair himself—he hadn’t owned the house for very long, and scattering such pictures around the place would have been arrogant even for him—but, combined with the knowledge of his longevity, they still gave her a chill.
She lagged a little behind Polly as she walked, looking around, and so she gave a little start when the other woman said her name.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Come in,” said MacAlasdair, from the room beyond an open door, and embarrassment swept over Mina. The maid had been announcing her. She should have known, and now she looked like a complete fool.
She drew a deep breath and stepped into the drawing room. MacAlasdair was lounging in one of the chairs by the fire, folding the day’s paper in a leisurely manner, his long legs stretched out before him. He stood up and looked her over slowly, as if confirming her reality and the fact that he’d have to deal with her.
“Good morning, sir,” she said, with as much cool politeness as she’d ever used for three short words.
There was equal caution in the golden eyes that met hers, but Lord MacAlasdair spoke more smoothly. “And a good morning to you as well, Miss Seymour. You may go, Polly.” As the maid left, he indicated one of the chairs. “Have a seat. You seem to be well enough.”
“One adjusts,” said Mina, which she supposed was the truth. Her lack of hysterics had surprised her a little. She was glad that he probably didn’t know anything about the light in her room. “Besides, if those things come back, I’d guess I wouldn’t be the first they’d go after. Not from what you said.”
“You wouldn’t,” said MacAlasdair, “and they’ll not. Not for a few weeks yet. You canna’ summon manes save in the dark of the moon, and that’s past. Now that I’ve sent them back where they come from, Ward will have to wait a fair bit to play that trick again—though I’m sure he can lay his hands on other tools.”
“Nothing like starting your day with a bit of good cheer, I suppose,” said Mina.
“I’ll take what cheer I can,” said MacAlasdair. “Especially if it means not having manes tearing through my house. You can have your breakfast with me from now on,” he added. “It would be sensible for me to give a secretary the day’s instructions then.”
It wasn’t a gracious offer, and the first response that rose to Mina’s lips was a stiff I know my place, sir, thank you all the same. But she checked it, remembering the stares and the stilted conversation over breakfast. She didn’t know her place, not in this house. Or rather, her place was betwixt and between in a way it had never been with Professor Carter, who had only the one housekeeper and ate in his study without looking up from his latest book more often than not. Here, MacAlasdair at least knew her real situation better than the servants.
He was trying, too. And it wasn’t as if their circumstances were entirely his fault.
“I’d be glad to,” said Mina. “Will you actually have instructions for me?”
&nb
sp; “Perhaps,” said MacAlasdair, startled. “Nothing immediate comes to mind. I’m in the habit of handling my affairs personally.”
That was possibly the least surprising thing Mina had seen or heard since she’d crossed MacAlasdair’s threshold. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from saying as much.
“Today,” MacAlasdair continued, “we’ll go and retrieve whatever belongings you need. Whenever you’re ready: my own plans are far from set.”
It took a moment for Mina to realize what he was saying. When she did, she couldn’t help laughing. “We won’t do any such thing, thank you.”
MacAlasdair raised dark eyebrows. “Pardon?”
“I live in a lodging house, my lord. A female lodging house.”
“Ah. And they won’t—”
“Not hardly,” Mina said. “No men. Not even wealthy men with titles. Maybe especially not wealthy men with titles,” she added, and saw MacAlasdair look away. Ha.
“I’ll wait for you outside, then,” he said after a moment.
“You’ll wait for me in the tea shop,” said Mina. “There’s one on the corner. If I suddenly can’t walk safely from there to my flat and back in the middle of the day, neither of us has any business staying in this city.”
“You’ll not talk to anyone on the way.”
It wasn’t a question, and Mina narrowed her eyes. “I won’t be rude to anyone I know, but I’ll be quick—and I’ve been looking after myself for a few years now. I gave you my word on your secrets, if that’s what you’re getting at, so you’ll just have to trust a little bit that I meant it. You can’t watch me every minute. For one thing, I won’t let you.”
“We have a bargain—” MacAlasdair began, glowering at her.
If Mina let him continue, his look and the authority in his voice might start working on her. She glared back instead and raised her voice. “Which says I’ll stay here. So I’m staying. And I’ll put up with more supervision than most people have outside of Newgate, because it’s an awful situation all around and because you’re paying me, but I have my limits. Anyone would.”
Part of Mina was surprised that the table between them didn’t start smoking in the seconds to follow. Apparently he didn’t breathe fire, or he had it under good control if he did. All that happened, after a very long moment, was that he sighed like a man beset on all sides. “Verra well.”
His accent was stronger again. From her own experience, she knew that wasn’t a sign of composure. Mina wasn’t sure whether she was pleased about that or not.
Either way, she had to take one more step. Walking about with MacAlasdair might cause enough talk to be trouble, even as careful as they were being. She wanted to be sure of her future before rumors started. “And before we do anything of the sort,” Mina said, “I want to talk to Professor Carter. Alone.”
Seven
So, for the second time in less than a week, Stephen cooled his heels in Carter’s outer sanctum while Miss Seymour and the professor held their own council beyond the door and up the stairs. This time he was waiting longer—long enough to sit down, grow tired of sitting down, and begin pacing the room again.
He hadn’t tried to argue this time. Carter was his friend, even if the two of them hadn’t seen each other in a long time, and Carter had less than no love for Ward. Even if Miss Seymour did decide to betray Stephen, Carter would be no accomplice to her treachery. She had to know that. Granting them privacy carried very little risk. It certainly hadn’t seemed worth another wrangle with the woman. Stephen had encountered actual bulls who were less stubborn.
Besides, he did want to put her at ease, as much as he could manage. Much as Stephen hadn’t wanted Miss Seymour—or anyone else—entangled in his affairs, he had to admit that her entanglement had come from noble motives, and that she’d showed more courage over the last day and night than he would have expected from most mortal women. And, even had those things not been true, she would still be living with him for some unknown length of time.
Still unknown, dammit. Stephen glared ineffectually at a figurine of Anubis.
The manes provided some clue: the summoner had to be in the same city as his target, more or less, and the rite to summon them was far from common, even where magic was concerned. Stephen, who was no scholar, had only heard about it from a demon hunter he’d met some decades ago and who’d been dead for the last twenty years.
That was a pity. He could have used Abraham’s insights into this particular matter. He would also have welcomed the German’s company again. As it was, he was stuck with letters to the occultists he knew, ineffectual requests to talk with Ward’s remaining family, and whatever information Scotland Yard wanted to pass his way. It wasn’t much.
Now he could add one sharp-tongued, mistrustful mortal female to—well, not to his list of resources. Typing and correspondence wasn’t likely to be Ward’s bane. Miss Seymour went on the list of encumbrances, then, which was quite long enough already.
A sound from outside stopped Stephen’s pacing and spun him toward the door.
Someone was coming up the steps outside, someone moving quickly and more furtively than most people on legitimate business ever did. Stephen crossed the room in three steps and seized the doorknob, just as the letter slot banged open and something spherical dropped through onto his foot.
Instinct sent him backwards, kicking the thing toward the wall before it could bite or sting or explode. The footsteps outside scurried off.
The sphere was about the size of a man’s fist, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. It wasn’t hissing or ticking. It didn’t smell like smoke. Still, nobody with an ordinary package to deliver dropped it through the letter slot and ran, and Stephen doubted that Carter had any secret admirers.
Miss Seymour might have, of course. She was a pretty lass with an undoubtedly nice figure, that mass of honey-gold hair, and a set of very red lips in her sharp little face. A man could take quite a fancy to her until she spoke, and perhaps one who had spoken to her wouldn’t have the nerve to give his gifts properly.
The thought made Stephen curl his lip. They bred a spineless lot of young men these days, if that were the case.
There was nothing for it. Stephen faced the east and said a few quick Latin words, invoking the Wind That Parts the Veil, and saw the world before him turn misty and gray. The desk shone faintly golden through that fog, and the bookshelves were a bluish violet, but the package stood out like a full moon, glowing an eerie, shifting silver-green.
Stephen took a few steps toward it but made no move to touch it yet. At this distance, with the Wind at his back, he could see through both the physical wrappings and the object itself, and knew that it was no coward’s courting gift—though it would look like a harmless bauble of some sort, probably a polished crystal or a metal bowl. It would be something to keep on the mantel or to put flowers in, so that the mist inside it would have as much time as possible to disperse.
That mist would be somebody’s eyes and ears, and a truly skilled enough magician could whisper suggestions through it. It would take a great deal of power to change a human mind that way, but one could certainly change moods, twisting a target toward despair or madness. Even if Carter or Miss Seymour had gotten rid of the thing, the mist that came out on opening the package would probably have been enough to suit Ward’s purposes.
Even with the package wrapped, there was only a little time before the mist would begin to seep through the paper.
Fortunately, April in London was still a chilly month.
Stephen took off his coat and wrapped it around the sphere, careful not to let his hands touch even the outer layer of the paper. With the bundle in his hands, he stood, walked over to the fireplace, and uttered another invocation, this one to the Flame at the Center of the World.
Then he dropped the ball, coat and all, into the flames.
In retrospect, he thought when his head stopped ringing, he probably should have expected it to explode.
***
“…and so here I am,” Mina said. She’d told Professor Carter everything that had happened the previous night, though she’d excluded Stephen’s real form. In her version of the story, he’d sent the manes packing with pistol and holy water and wanted to keep her there because she’d seen them.
“Well,” said Professor Carter. He drew a breath and then repeated: “Well.”
“I know it must all sound rather improbable—” Mina began.
“How could it, my girl, when I was there for half of the proceedings?” Professor Carter chuckled, though there was as much ruefulness as mirth in it. “I may have been a skeptic at first, but the Bavarian expedition went a long way toward curing me of that, and it wasn’t the last such experience I had, either! There was a time in Jamaica—but that’s neither here nor there, is it?”
Mina had to admit that it wasn’t. She smiled, though, as she hadn’t been able to do since she’d entered Professor Carter’s office with MacAlasdair at her side. Despite everything MacAlasdair had told her, she’d still worried that the professor would think she’d gone mad. Seeing his face animated by curiosity and without a trace of disbelief did more good for her spirits than any tonic she could think of.
“And if I hadn’t been convinced already,” said Professor Carter, “Stephen would have done it the other day. Bless the man, I’d hate him if I was a vainer fellow. Doesn’t look a day over thirty, does he?”
“No,” said Mina, another admission. “Then—he is a friend of yours?”
“Oh, yes. Not that I know a great deal about him, mind you, but we went on a number of journeys together when I was a younger man. Quite a dependable sort of a chap. If you had to go poking into this affair of ours”—Professor Carter tried for a reproving look—“I’m glad you’ve ended up under his protection while it lasts. He’ll see to it that you’re all right, if anyone can.”
Mina decided to ignore the uncertain postscript and kept herself from bristling at the mention of protection. After all, an evil magician with shadow demons at his command was hardly a figure that even the most independent of New Women could be expected to handle on her own.
Legend Of The Highland Dragon Page 5
