Accursed (11 page)

S
moke clouded the gloomy interior of the Three Goats’ Heads, a pub in Wandsworth Road where Horatio often met with J. W. Clark, a former cook and sometime layabout who had earned over the years a reputation as a friend to all, a trusted confidant, and an inveterate drinker.

He had other facets to recommend him as a companion, however. Though he hid it well, he was a man of deep conviction, and thus when it appeared that a bit of information might be useful in certain noble endeavors, J. W. Clark could be counted upon to discover that information.

His ability to do so seemed to know no bounds. In truth, whenever he and Horatio sat down for one of their regular chats, J. W. inevitably had stories to tell.

Tonight was no exception.

The laughter in the pub was loud and raucous. A barmaid cut across the floor through an ocean of wandering hands, bringing a tray of pints to a table just opposite the one Horatio and J. W. shared. She didn’t so much as glance their way, which suited Horatio just fine. J. W. was in the midst of his latest account, and it was fascinating indeed.

“You’re sure it was the earl of Claridge?” Horatio asked, knitting his brows.

J. W. ran a hand across the stubble on his chin and studied the table in front of them. There were two empty pints, as well as two others not entirely drained. The one in front of Horatio was half full yet, and J. W. eyed it thirstily.

“The earl, aye. That’s the word. Went mad, he did. In the middle of a dinner party hosted by the bishop of Manchester. An august occasion if ever there was one, I’d say. That’s the word. Claridge went a-bedlam, apparently. Got himself alone in the library with the bishop’s niece. Her screams brought the rest at a run and they caught him, red-handed like, trousers down, trying to pluck her maiden flower, as it were.

“Or, at least, that’s the—”

“—word, yes. So you’ve said,” Horatio finished rather impatiently. He cleared his throat. He was no stranger to a woman’s garden of delights, but had never approved of such cavalier talk. There was such a thing as propriety.

“Of course, it’s all been hushed up, hasn’t it?” J. W. continued.

“I wish I could be astonished,” Horatio sighed. “Have you heard any further? What’s to be done? I can’t imagine the bishop would press the matter, given the black mark such idle talk would leave on his niece’s virtue.”

J. W. tapped a finger against the side of his head. “Right you are, Admiral. A clever sort, you are. Always said so. The earl’s been put under lock and key. Sanatorium, they say, but not one where you’d ever find a commoner.”

“Please don’t call me that. I haven’t been an admiral for quite some time.”

The man nodded sagely. “Aye, well, none of us have been much of anything, have we? It’s been far too long since I manned the stove aboard ship, sir. So you’ll forgive me if I fall back on old habits, yeah?”

“Of course, J. W.” Horatio nodded. “And you’ll let me know if you hear anything further about this, won’t you? It might be simple madness, but we know all too well that oftentimes such things are more complex than they appear.”

As he spoke, he watched the barmaid cross the floor again. She ignored the fingers that grazed her bottom and thighs, but swatted away any hand that crept too near her breasts. Horatio thought it must make it difficult for her to navigate among the tables with her tray laden with ale and whiskey.

“Indeed we do, sir,” J. W. said, his attention returning to the unfinished pint on the table before him. He ran his tongue out to wet his lips. “Say, how are the young ones coming along, the new Protectors?”

Horatio smiled. “Quite well, I think. It’s no simple task, adjusting to having such responsibility thrust upon them—not to mention the magic. Can you imagine having that sort of power burning in you, more than any mystic master, and yet having only the skill and knowledge of a novice?”

“Think I’d be scared of me own shadow, if it was me,” J. W. said.

“That’s why they’re remarkable,” Horatio replied proudly. “They have so very much to learn about the supernatural and about how to wield their magic, but they both have natural skill and discipline that have kept them alive until now.”

J. W. stared once more at the pint on the table. “It’s good to hear you’ve so much faith in them. I only wish we could raise a glass and drink to their health.”

The barmaid came toward them. Horatio smoothed his jacket and attempted to appear as though they had been discussing something more mundane. The woman didn’t even glance at him as she cleared the glasses from the table. J. W. gazed longingly after the half-full pint as she set it on her tray, but he said nothing.

Balancing the tray precariously, she wiped the table down with a rag. A loose tendril of hair fell across her face and she blew at it, but kept at her task. Horatio watched the line of her jaw, the icy blue hue of her eyes, and the way her bosom heaved with the effort.

“You are lovely, my dear. Why do I have the feeling it’s been far too long since anyone told you that?” he asked.

She reacted not at all, standing up to survey her work. Her eyes narrowed in consternation as she at last looked in Horatio’s direction, and he felt a moment of triumph. Had his words touched her?

Then she leaned forward and ran her rag over the back of the chair, wiping it down, her hand and forearm passing entirely through Horatio’s chest as though she were made of nothing but smoke and starlight.

But that wasn’t the case, of course, and he knew it all too well, sitting there in the back of the Three Goats’ Heads. For a few minutes’ time, with all the talk and the laughter and the companionship, Horatio had allowed himself the illusion of life.

Though more than thirty years had passed, Admiral Lord Nelson didn’t like to dwell on the lingering tragedy of his own death.

M
ORNING MIST MOVED
in patches across the lawns of Ludlow House, yet the sky revealed scattered islands of blue. The sun had begun to combat the gray cover that attempted to throw its influence over the land, and William Swift was just optimistic enough to believe that it would succeed, at least for a time.

Two of the tall windows in the breakfast parlor were open, and he found that he was grateful for his frock coat. There were roses in a vase on the buffet, and their alluring scent whisked about the room, mingling with the smells of breakfast.

As a child, William had loved breakfast the most. He could recall with utter clarity the sort of grand event that each morning had brought, with his grandfather Ludlow and his mother and father gathering around the table, doing their level best to keep William and little Tamara from making a shambles of the entire proceedings. Mother, God rest her, had indulged her husband and father-in-law in equal portions to her children, so that every surface in the room was laden with food. The dumbwaiter would be arranged neatly with marmalade and jams, and there would be fresh cider, coffee, and tea atop the pier cabinet.

There would be oatmeal with sweet cream, cold veal pies, sardines with mustard sauce, grilled kidneys, bacon, and beef tongue with hot horseradish. An entire sideboard would be dedicated to half a dozen varieties of bread and rolls of differing grains, with butter and honey beside them, complementing the orange marmalade and assortment of jams on the dumbwaiter. William’s favorite had been the cherry jam.

Father and grandfather had indulged in Spanish brandy, eschewing the French for reasons born more of politics than of taste.

Servants had hovered around them, one cadre to serve and another to remove the detritus.

He had loved the structure to the whole proceeding, the very orderliness of it all, the way all of the dishes had been arranged with such precision. And the food itself, of course . . . the multitude of textures and flavors. What he had loved best, however, had been the way that this breakfast tradition had brought the family together around the table. Young William had listened to the adults talking, and merely the sound of their voices in conversation had given him a sense of safety and security; the confidence his grandfather had always exuded had planted a seed of confidence within William himself.

Ah, how times had changed.

Mother had been gone so long that she was little more than bittersweet echo in William’s heart, but in her memory the traditions of the house had continued. Until the previous year, of course. Until Ludlow had been murdered in his own bed by hideous beasts of unnatural origin, and Henry Swift had been taken by the evil that presently occupied his flesh. William did his best to continue tradition within the household, for Tamara’s sake and for his own.

His efforts were undermined by the presence of the demon upstairs.

Oblis.

William didn’t like to discuss his suspicions with Tamara. Not because she was of the fairer sex—he had never confused
fairer
with
weaker,
at least not where Tamara was involved—but because he was frightened that she might concur.

William thought his father was gone. He believed that the Vapor, the cruel demonic presence that lived within his father’s flesh, had cored the man in order to take up residence. He feared that if they ever found a way to exorcise the demon, Oblis, all that would remain would be the brittle shell of a man who had once loved them.

But as long as he did not raise such fears with Tamara, she could not confirm them.

And so, as he did each morning before setting off to Threadneedle Street, William finished his own breakfast, then took a clean plate from the buffet. It was damnably hard to keep servants in his employ of late. The ghosts frightened them. Their current staff consisted of Farris, the butler and head of household, and Martha, who was Tamara’s lady’s maid. Martha oversaw three other maids, none of whose names William could remember. They rarely stayed long enough for him to bother.

There were a groundskeeper, two cooks, and a new stable boy. But there were no more servants attending to breakfast at Ludlow House. He and Tamara had decided it. Perhaps part of their decision was a reluctance to pretend to the happiness of a bygone era, though William preferred to attribute it to simple practicality.

He considered himself quite the pragmatist.

These days William rose much earlier than Tamara, and was generally out of the house before she deigned to descend for her own breakfast. This morning the breakfast buffet consisted of oatmeal, kippers, bacon, and bread. William did still enjoy his cherry jam, and there was always orange marmalade for his sister.

Upon the fresh plate, William placed a small portion of each item. He poured a small glass of cider, unwilling to bring a hot beverage upstairs, given what had happened the last time he had done so. The coffee stains still lingered in his gray twill trousers.

Rather than walk past the parlor out to the front entrance, so that he might use the grand staircase, William went through the kitchen and up the narrow servants’ steps. The house was very quiet this morning, mercifully devoid even of the usual ravings of the demon. It ought to have been peaceful for him, but there were times that the quiet haunted William.

It should not have turned out this way. Even in the wake of their grandfather’s death, even without Father being in control of his senses, there ought to have been more life here.

A spark of something. Of family.

William hoped that one day soon he, himself, might alter the state of things, with a wedding to Sophia Winchell. That there would be children, and that perhaps Tamara might find herself a suitable husband. Perhaps the house would be filled once again with the orderliness, the hope, and the confidence that it had once had. Despite the truth of their lives, their status as Protectors, and the evil that lingered in the very air around them, he held out this hope.

Despite his practicality, he still dreamed.

Nearly quiet as a ghost himself, William made his way up to the top of the house, to the corridor that led to the room where his father was imprisoned. Where his father
was
the prison, for the demon Oblis.

The mist had continued to burn away outside, and as he passed open doors he could see sunshine splashing into the rooms on that upper level. Yet the end of the hall remained in shadow, and at first glance Queen Bodicea seemed solid as any woman, fully fleshed. Her Majesty stood with her back to him, her spectral hand propped upon the door of the former nursery as though she was listening to something within.

For a moment, William allowed his gaze to linger upon the breathtaking curve of her backside and the languorously heavy weight of her breast as she leaned forward. This latter he caught only in side view, yet it was enough to bring a rush of blood to his cheeks.

He averted his gaze, never comfortable with her nudity. There was nothing brazen about it. Rather, it was an expression of her defiance to the dark forces arrayed against them all, a bold statement of her confidence. And it was also somehow a facet of her mourning. William had never had the audacity to inquire further.

“Bodicea?” William ventured, almost in a whisper.

The phantom queen glanced over her shoulder, wild hair tumbling in front of her face. Her eyes were alight with intelligence and curiosity. She extended one ghostly hand and beckoned him with a long finger. William balanced the plate in his hand and went to join her at the door.