Accursed (36 page)

“Of
course
Nigel referred you to me, darling. I am the most . . . well-traveled of us, am I not?” Byron said. “My adventures have taken me to Europe and Asia, and northern Africa, as well. You can’t seduce a nation’s people if you know nothing of its culture.”

“That’s not precisely what we need to know, Byron,” William said tensely. “Just tell us what you know about this Tipu Gupta fellow.”

“Well, you don’t have to be rude about it.”

“William,” Tamara said, giving him a stern look before turning once more to gaze upon the poet’s ghost. “Byron, please understand. Time is of the essence. We need to discover how to track Tipu Gupta, the Protector of Bharath. We believe we may have already encountered him once, and we need his help desperately.”

“If that was him, it may be he needs our help more than we need his. But regardless, we must find him,” William commented.

Byron cast his mind back to his last meeting with Tipu Gupta. It had been when Ludlow was at the height of his skill and activity as Protector of Albion.

“You’d need something that belongs to him, for a location spell, something to track him with. I seem to recall that he gave Ludlow a small token of friendship. Yes, I remember exactly! A brass figurine, a man seated on a coiled serpent, representing Lord Vishnu. If my recollection is correct, it’s gathering dust on one of the upper shelves near the fireplace in Ludlow’s study.”

“Vishnu?” William asked. “What’s a Vishnu?”

“The greatest deity of Indian worship,” Byron explained. “And you really should learn to keep the disdain out of your voice, William Swift. Lord knows if you do find the Protector of Bharath, you should be a bit more respectful.”

William didn’t reply, so Byron continued.

“With this trinket, and a proper bit of magic, you should be able to find him wherever he may be, in the land of the living
or
the dead. The Egyptians believed they could track the spirits of their dead, and the demons that were their enemies. You’ve just got to find the right spell.”

Tamara frowned. “I don’t remember anything of the sort. Simple locator spells, yes, but all of them referred only to the world of the living.”

Byron smiled. “Ah, those Egyptians. Always full of surprises. Of course, you already know someone with a predilection for all things Egyptian. It was something he shared with your grandfather. It’s ironic that he sent you to me, but now I’ve got to send you back to him. Nigel ought to be able to help.

“Shall I go and fetch him for you?”

“Thank you, Byron, but no,” Tamara replied. “Nigel may need some . . . prompting, and he’s more likely to be intimidated by Bodicea than by you. I’m afraid we’ll need you to watch Oblis a while longer yet.”

Byron sighed, resigned to his duty.

Yet he had to do something to fight the boredom. The challenge was to concoct love sonnets so absurdly sweet that they would cause the demon unending torment.

The ghost smiled. Perhaps the evening would be entertaining after all.

I
T HAD BEEN
late afternoon when they had returned to Ludlow House, and now evening was arriving, stealing across the walls and floors, darkening the house until night had truly fallen.

Tamara and Nigel were to take on the task of locating Tipu Gupta while William attended dinner at the Algernon Club. Despite her disappointment, Tamara had insisted, in much the way he had insisted she keep her date with John Haversham. There were connections among the Algernon Club, David Carstairs, and John Haversham. That much was clear. And they had not issued William this unexpected invitation without reason. Tamara was right, as usual. It would be foolish of him not to at least determine what that reason was, and learn if there was more than coincidence in Bodicea’s discoveries.

Yes, they all had a great deal to do this evening, but he was determined at least to wash up and change his torn and bloodstained clothing. He had been grateful, as well, when Tamara not only agreed, but suggested that they have something to eat. There was no telling when they would next have an opportunity to refresh themselves, she had said, and it made sense to take advantage of it so they would be at their best.

William’s thought processes weren’t nearly so logical. He was simply hungry.

The rest also allowed him to help Tamara with healing spells that closed the wounds on her shoulder and mended her ankle. The Rakshasa scratches that had been on his chest had been superficial. Hers had been much worse, and though the magic was sufficient to heal them, it would leave scars. She would bear those gashes on her shoulder for the rest of her life.

The thought troubled William. How would she explain them, one day, to the man she married?

As he hurried down the stairs, distracted by such thoughts, he walked right through Nelson’s ghost, which had appeared before him quite suddenly.

“Horatio!” he said, taken aback. He hated touching the ghosts. It was like being thrust out into the snow stark naked. He shivered as he collected himself, and turned his attention to Nelson’s worried expression.

“It’s getting worse, I’m afraid. Not only in the East End, either. More of the upper class have been infected. Percy Highforth and Lord Charles Derby for certain, and one or two others have taken to their sickbeds, and may also have been cursed.”

William was thunderstruck. The plague had made its way into the House of Lords. Before William could say another word, however, Farris appeared at the bottom of the stairs. As always, he took no more notice of Nelson than he would any other guest in the house.

“Sir, you have a visitor.”

William frowned. “A visitor? Now is not the best time, Farris. As soon as Tamara has rested awhile, we’re to go out to—”

His words were cut short by the arrival of Sophia Winchell at the foot of the stair. Though she had seen the ghosts before, Nelson took her presence as his cue to disappear. William believed it was because he knew she was uneasy around the supernatural, but he worried that it was actually because Horatio didn’t enjoy her presence.

“William?” she called, a moment before she saw him there.

The relief that flooded her face filled him with a lightness he hadn’t felt all day. He began to smile as she started up the stairs, her lady’s maid trailing slightly behind her. Farris stood aside to let the women pass.

“Sophia, what are you doing here?” William asked, the very sight of her renewing his strength and resolve. “Had we made some arrangement that I’ve forgotten, for—”

When she glanced up at him, just two steps below, his words faltered. Her expression was etched in misery.

“What is it, my dear?” he asked quickly.

Sophia practically leaped into William’s arms, pressing her face into the stiff material of his dark coat.

“Oh, William, I’m just so frightened. People are talking, saying horrible things. Word is spreading about a horrible illness. Some are calling it a plague. And there are rumors of other things.”

She looked up at him, gaze heavy with meaning. “Darker things.”

William nodded. “Yes. I’m afraid it’s true. And I’m glad that you’ve come.”

“Where else would I go? If evil is afoot, I can’t imagine being anywhere but with you. In your arms. I cannot bear to be alone this night.”

He stroked her dark hair and nodded.

“All right, darling, all right. You’re here now. Safe in this house. No need to worry,” William said. He looked over her shoulder at Farris, who still stood formally at the bottom of the stairs. “Farris, could you please arrange a place for Miss Winchell’s maid to sleep this evening? I’ll show the lady herself to one of the guest rooms.”

Sophia’s maid frowned deeply, not at all pleased with this plan. But William found himself too troubled by Sophia’s fear, and too exhausted from exertions of the past couple of days, to pay much attention to propriety.

For his part, Farris didn’t even flinch. He nodded at William’s request, then gestured for Sophia’s maid to follow him up the stairs.

“I’m sure Elvira must be thinking the worst,” William said quietly.

“She’s not a fool,” Sophia replied. “She has seen enough to know that in sinister times, the one place we might be safe is among the only people in London who have a chance of understanding what is going on, of fighting back the darkness.”

Sophia slipped her arms around him, and held on as though her life depended upon it.

I
T WAS A
damp night. The air was saturated with moisture, and the pale gray clouds that hung like fairy dust around the quarter-moon threatened to erupt with cold wet drops of rain.

The moderate warmth of the day had given way to a chilling coolness, so that the pedestrians who trod the strip of turf in front of the Drury Theatre on the Strand pulled their dinner jackets and wraps tighter around their elegant shoulders. Breath came in smoky wisps, making it seem as though the ladies and gentlemen—who had only recently left the theater’s confines—had all taken up their cigars and pipes at once.

The man who slipped like a wraith through their midst didn’t notice the chill in the air. He was wearing a thick woolen coat, and his hands were covered in black leather gloves. His thick-soled black crêpe shoes made no echo as he threaded his way through the shivering throng.

Leaving the crowd and turning off the Strand, he went quickly down the street, his heartbeat keeping time with his footfalls. He stayed close to the walls of the buildings that towered over him as he walked, keeping his head down and his eyes on the few paces of road that lay ahead.

He slowed, then came to a stop at a low brick wall. He crossed in one smooth leap, and made his way to the nearest side of the imposing two-story home that sat there like a sleeping giant.

With its graceful lines and decorative columns, the Palladian villa looked much better suited to the more temperate climes of Italy and the Mediterranean. The harsh English weather imposed an air of neglect and gloom upon the stately structure, obscuring its architectural beauty.

The man ignored the building’s merits, instead finding more interest in its entrances and exits. Bypassing the front door, he moved stealthily toward one of the first-floor windows.

The appearance of the two peelers gave the man a shock. He hadn’t been prepared to encounter policemen here. He threw himself quickly into the thick shadows and shrubbery that graced the side of the building, and held his breath as the men passed almost directly in front of him.

Then it must be true,
he thought.
Lord Derby’s been infected.

Waiting for the two men to pass him and move to the back of the house, he knelt rigid as a statue underneath the safety of an overgrown shrub. When the two men were no longer in his view, the man whispered a quick spell under his breath. A protection spell. He hoped it would work.

Then he made his way to one of the windows at the rear of the house and did another quick spell. Small magic. The best he could do. The glass was gone, and he slipped inside without a sound.

He moved quickly through the house until he found the foyer, which housed the ornate spiral staircase that led to the next floor. He took the stairs slowly, trying to tread softly. At the top, he turned right and opened the first door he came to.

It was a library with a huge collection of books. In the darkness, he couldn’t make out the titles on the hard leather spines, but he could guess at the contents: Shakespeare, Jonson, Keats, Marlowe, Shelley, Byron. Lord Derby was a noted collector of Elizabethan drama and British poetry. His library was the envy of many an English bibliophile.

The man stalked over to a small glass case on a walnut stand that housed the item he truly sought. The little deformed idol sat like a skull, grinning under the glass. Its three eyes stared at the man as he lifted the glass and gingerly picked the stone creature up.

“I’ve got you,” the man whispered under his breath as he pulled a small, dark, cloth bag from his pocket and slipped it over the statue. Holding the bag tightly in his fist, he moved to one of the library windows and began the spell that would grant him his freedom.