Accursed (24 page)

William twisted away, wresting his throat from the thing’s moist grip, long enough to rasp out a spell.
“Claustrum luminarium.”
Another day, he might have fumbled with the spell. The words were simple enough, but the skill it required was specific.

This day, however, his life depended upon it. Terror gave him strength and focus. The spell seemed to begin in his gut, twisting his viscera in knots, and pain cramped his stomach so that he let out an agonized gasp. The demon-beast found its grip again, one claw puncturing his throat so that a trickle of blood began flowing. It held him with one hand now, and drew back the other. He saw himself reflected in the mirror of its black, glistening eyes, and William knew it meant to disembowel him.

Then the spell erupted from him, channeled through his fingertips at first. He threw his head back and felt it surge up his gullet and spine, so that the magic erupted from his mouth and eyes simultaneously. Tears slid down his cheeks and his knees weakened.

He slid his back down the wall where the creature had pinned him, slumping to the floor. It took a moment for his vision to clear.

The hissing, spitting thing that had been David Carstairs was contained inside a sphere of crackling crimson energies, bands of light that had formed a cage around the beast.

“Ah” was all he could muster.

For long moments he only sat there, staring at the magical prison he had wrought and the horror that writhed within it. Then, as his strength slowly returned, he forced himself to his feet, and stumbled out into the sitting room. The accursed wretch would have to be dealt with, carefully examined, but it was likely too late for David Carstairs. There were others, however . . .

William slid into Carstairs’s desk chair and began examining his documents again. What he wanted was the list of people who had bought artifacts from the man. There was no telling how many of them might be infected by this curse.

As he fanned through the pages, he discovered a small card among them. William held it before him and frowned as he read the words. It was an invitation to dinner at the Algernon Club the following evening, for the celebration of the birthday of Sir Darius Strong—the same event to which he, himself, had also been invited.

As he pondered this discovery, a familiar buzz filled the air, like discordant music. William glanced over and saw the ghost of Queen Bodicea materializing in the room, a golden glow emanating from her spectral form. Once he was certain it was indeed the queen, he averted his eyes.

“What have you learned, William?” Bodicea asked, her spear held tightly in one fist.

He showed her the invitation. “To begin with, it appears that Mr. Carstairs and I have both been invited to the same dinner at the Algernon Club tomorrow evening.”

Bodicea frowned. “A coincidence?”

“Perhaps,” William replied, unsure. “As to your question, Majesty, I have learned a great many things this evening. Not least of which is that in future, I shall await your arrival before venturing forth, regardless of how long you tarry.”

“Trouble?” the ghost inquired.

William smiled. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

He could still feel the cold grasp of the monster, and warm blood still slid like a red teardrop down his throat. But he took silent pleasure in knowing that what he had told Bodicea was the truth.

T
amara had been to the Egyptian Hall once before. When she was a young girl, her grandfather Ludlow had taken her and William to see the magnificent landscapes by Turner while they were on exhibition there. Art was not the hall’s main focus, however. It had been built in 1812 for William Bullock as a museum in which to display his vast collection of artifacts reflecting the natural history and art of ancient cultures. The focus had been Egyptology, of course, and the architecture of the place reflected that, its façade vaguely resembling an Egyptian temple. Seven years later, Bullock had sold both his collection and the building, and it had become an exhibition hall. Many of the exhibits that had been shown there in Tamara’s lifetime had maintained the original intent, but there had also been entertainment productions and art exhibits, such as the Turner showing that had so impressed her as a girl.

She had been only five or six at the time, but she remembered distinctly the way the colors almost danced off the paper. To her, Turner was some sort of magician—the way he was able to capture light on paper and tame it to his will. So often, she wished that
she
were an artist; that she could bend words the way painters bent light. Sometimes she found herself so frustrated with her own writing that she rent the paper and threw it into the fire—

“Where has your mind wandered off to, Miss Swift?” John Haversham asked, peering at her curiously.

She blinked, not liking to be caught.

“I
am
sorry. It’s just that the day has been so awful, you see. Horrid, if the truth be told. I would not have come, except that I thought I might go mad if I didn’t have something to distract me from my thoughts tonight.”

She had been trying desperately all evening to focus on the paintings that were so beautifully arranged around the hall. The subject was fascinating to her—hundreds of canvases depicting the savage Indian tribes of North America by an artist who had traveled and lived among them, the art richly textured and bright with color and life—but her mind had been drifting ever since she and John had arrived at the Egyptian Hall. Time and again she glanced over at Farris, who stood in a shadowed corner keeping watch over her excursion.

I should never have come,
she thought. It felt inappropriate to her that, rather than being at home with her grief, she was passing an ostensibly pleasant evening with a man who fancied her.

Tamara had argued with William over his insistence that she keep her appointment. Their exchange had grown heated, but in the end she acquiesced, in part because she knew that William was right. Haversham
had
been at the bishop of Manchester’s party. He knew Frederick Martin quite well. If he knew anything about the strange transformation that had befallen Frederick and the earl of Claridge, Tamara owed it to Helena to ferret out the truth.

So she had gone home to Ludlow House and put on a soft butter-yellow evening dress. She had wanted to climb into her bed, curl herself into a ball, and allow herself to cry, but instead she dutifully dressed her hair and applied a small amount of perfume to her neck. She realized afterward that the sweet-smelling jasmine would probably send John Haversham the wrong message, but it had been a present from her grandfather. She loved the scent, and the way it made her feel bold and attractive. It had helped even to wake her from the nightmare of the day, though she was certain nothing could fully shake her from the numbness that touched her heart.

A flutter of humor passed through her. Poor John had invited her out for the evening with no idea what he would get in the bargain. He was taking it rather well, though, this handsome young man who seemed far less a scoundrel this evening. In truth, he seemed quite the gentleman when he didn’t have an audience to entertain. How shocked Sophia would be to discover that her cousin wasn’t nearly the rogue he purported to be.

Tamara turned toward John, then, and found him staring at her, appearing slightly befuddled.

“Oh, I’m sorry, John. I must have been drifting again. Please forgive me. I probably shouldn’t have come at all.”

His expression softened, and the charm of his smile was undeniable. Only a few inches separated them, and Tamara was sure she could feel the heat coming from his body. Even in the midst of the Egyptian Hall, with Farris watching from across the room, there was a surprising intimacy to their closeness.

“No apology is necessary, Miss Swift. I’m pleased to offer any sort of distraction. I can barely begin to imagine what you must be going through.

“What a terrible blow, the loss of such a close friend. When you told me of Helena’s fate, I was resigned to suffering without your company this evening. But now that you’re here, perhaps art can dull the sharp edge of your pain. If that’s the case, then I am grateful to the artist.”

Tamara felt her face flush. She was attracted to the man, but her pleasure had more to do with his kindness than his other appealing attributes.

“It’s not only the artist who provides the distraction I sought, John,” she confessed.

He bowed with a dramatic flourish. “In that case, my wit and charm are entirely at your service.”

Tamara smiled. She liked this man, liked his surprising sensitivity, the way he tried to distract her from the pain she knew must be etched on her face. Under normal circumstances, she would have thrilled at his attentions, but tonight she was simply grateful for the easy companionship.

“And what of the paintings, Miss Swift? Are they to your liking, as well?” John asked, studying her intently.

Tamara thought before answering, not sure how to put into words the emotion the images called forth, the gleam in the eyes of the Indians portrayed, the smoothness of their copper skin, the exotic quality of their clothing, and the customs on display in those paintings. She had never been to the Americas, but found the idea enticing.

Of course, she had never gone abroad at all except under the power of magic. In recent months, their battles to protect Albion had taken them to Italy and to northern Africa, but only briefly. Even before that, she and William had accidentally translocated to a French brothel, at the very beginning of their magical training. William had been appalled, and she had tried to act as though she had been disgusted, as well, by the things she had seen and heard.

But a part of her had been extremely curious as to what
really
happened behind closed doors between a man and a woman.

She had heard tales from her married friends but had, herself, never even been alone with a man, let alone a
naked
one. That brief glimpse of undulating flesh in the shadows of a French brothel had been her only firsthand experience with such things.

“Miss Swift?” John said. “The paintings?”

Tamara blushed, afraid that her expression might have given him an inkling of the nature of her thoughts.
How silly of me—there’s no way he could know.
She would have been mortified if he even suspected, though.

“I like the paintings very much,” Tamara replied. She moved to one of the nearby portraits and stood before it, studying its composition. “For instance, Catlin has achieved the essence of this man. He seems majestic, almost beautiful, and yet . . . he exudes such
strength.
”

“The Indian Gallery is impressive,” he agreed, nodding. He took her arm and moved her closer to the portrait. When he spoke again, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “I must confess that I would like to go to America. But only in the company of someone special, someone who would appreciate the journey.”

His words were soft, his lips only a few inches from her ear. A tremor went through her, a wave of prickling warmth. Tamara took a single, shallow breath and ran her tongue over her lips to wet them.

I can’t allow this to continue,
she thought, chiding herself harshly.
This isn’t the time. It isn’t proper.

“I’m sorry, John, but I’m rather tired. Might we find a place to rest a moment?”

John smiled, showing his even white teeth to good effect.

“Of course, Miss Swift. Whatever you wish.” His dark eyes bored into her own so intently that she had to glance away. Tamara was alarmed by this look, concerned that he might have misinterpreted her request. What if she had only convinced him that she was falling under his spell, that she wanted to be alone with him in some dark corner?

And what if he isn’t mistaken at all?
she wondered. She glanced over his shoulder and nodded to Farris. He followed after them, silent as a shadow.

They stopped at a small bench and Tamara sat down, her eyes suddenly heavy and burning with exhaustion. She felt strangely nauseous, a bitter taste forming at the back of her throat.

The hall was almost empty and the corner in which they sat completely deserted. Farris took up a position at the far end of the room. She knew she was close to placing herself in a compromising position with this stranger, something she wasn’t emotionally prepared for, especially this day, but she was unable to change her course. She felt like the captain of a capsized ship, standing on the prow and watching the sea slowly pull her vessel into the depths.

John sat down beside her, and before Tamara knew what she was doing, her eyes were closed and she was leaning her head against his shoulder. The smooth cloth of his coat was cool against her burning forehead. She could feel the tears leaking from the corners of her eyes and she squeezed her eyelids tight, trying to assuage the sense of panic that was quickly consuming her.

“Tamara? May I call you that?”

She nodded, keeping her face pressed against his shoulder.

“Tamara, please don’t cry. It is agony for me to watch.”

She looked up, and much to her surprise she saw that John’s own eyes were wet with tears. It somehow made her grief seem that much worse, seeing such tenderness in a man.