Sky Pirates (11 page)

Patrice Chevalier was not amused. The source of his discontent lay on the starched linen tablecloth next to his cooling cup of café au lait. It was a telegram.

He shook his head and stared out of the finely arched windows of his Paris apartment. Up here, he had a most excellent view of the Avenue des Champs-Élysées.

Outside his windows, the citizens of Paris were going about their business. Fine ladies wove in and out of the elegant shops, with servants and automatons to carry parcels in tow. Steam cars rattled over the cobbles, their rivets and metal glistening in the thin, wintery sunshine of a morning in early November. The people below were like sheep, he decided. They were prone to traveling in herds, and utterly oblivious to the impending disaster that was threatening to befall the world.

The Oracle was missing.

Patrice sighed in frustration and picked up his cup. This was not the way he wanted to start his career as Grand Master of the Council. Damn and blast that woman.

Somewhere deep inside the building, an expensive-sounding doorbell rang. In fact, everything about Patrice Chevalier’s new apartment was the height of sophistication. Situated in the most desirable of neighborhoods, the imposing baroque building spoke of a grandeur and
affluence, and his view of the city had caused more than one lady caller to suffer from the vapors the moment they entered.

There was a soft knock on the finely painted gilt-edged door.

“Entrez,”
Patrice said.

At his command, Mr. Chunk, his right-hand man, appeared. Mr. Chunk was a man who had lived his entire life under an unfortunate name. Contrary to his nomenclature, he was lithe and athletic in the scrappy, stubbly kind of way that was typical of street fighters and pugilists. He was short and compact with sinewy muscles that played under the fabric of his shirt, no matter how he tried to hide them. Mr. Chunk also had the gift of mental agility, which many underestimated. This was why Patrice liked him so much. No one ever expected much of Mr. Chunk and he surprised them.

Mr. Chunk gave a short, awkward bow. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but you have a visitor. Are you available to see him?”

“A visitor?” Patrice frowned. He had arrived in Paris only the evening before and had tried to be as discreet as possible. It concerned him slightly that anyone should know his whereabouts. He would have to take care to be more guarded in the future.

“Who would be calling on me this early? It’s not even ten o’ clock yet.”

“A Mr. Crowley, sir,” Mr. Chunk said.

“Aleister Crowley the occultist?”

“I think so, sir. His card didn’t say.” Mr. Chunk held the visiting card out to Patrice.

Patrice scanned the card. It was white, cut from expensive-looking card. The one side simply said,
A. Crowley, Esq
. The other side contained a series of magical symbols printed in a vertical row. The symbols
fizzed slightly when he touched the paper.
I have important information for you …
 they whispered.

Patrice dropped the card on to the tablecloth and waved a dismissive hand. That was an impressive trick. He would have to remember to ask Crowley how he did that. “Very well, send him in. Let’s see what he has to say.”

A few moments later Patrice rose as Mr. Chunk ushered their guest in.

Aleister Crowley was the kind of man everyone noticed. He was burly, with a bristly, jowly face that was perfectly ordinary in its ugliness, but for a gaze that hinted at a fierce intelligence. He moved with a silence and grace that belied the coarseness of his features, and his presence filled Patrice’s drawing room entirely.

“Please sit. Would you care for a coffee? Have you eaten? I am sure I could ring for something to be sent up for you.”

Crowley cleared his throat. “No, thank you,” he said softly as he sat down.

Patrice took a seat opposite him and folded his hands in his lap. “And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

Crowley gave him a smile that sent shivers up and down Patrice’s spine. “Well, I am in Paris only temporarily. I am busy with preparations for an expedition to British India. There is a particular mountain that is just begging for me to mount.” He gave Patrice a dirty smile. “But then I heard rumors that you were due to arrive and so I simply had to come and make your acquaintance.”

“Well isn’t that kind of you,” Patrice said, returning the creepy smile with one of his very own. “I am at your service, monsieur.”

“So a Shadow Master has taken control of the Council of Warlocks,” Crowley said.

Patrice did not answer.

Crowley looked greatly amused. “Oh, Conrad de Montague and I go back many years. He blackballed me for membership to some of the London clubs when I was at Oxford. He was most indiscreet about … certain things,” Crowley said. “This in turn barred me from becoming part of the set to which one must belong in order to negotiate membership of the Council. My career as a warlock was forever ruined. It was all frightfully boring.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Patrice said.

Crowley waved a dismissive hand. “Oh I have managed well enough on my own. You are, I take it, familiar with my work?” He paused and waited for Patrice to nod. “So I am sure you now understand the reason why I have hated de Montague for so many years. And my joy at hearing of his demise.” Crowley folded his hands in his lap, mimicking Patrice’s gesture. “Mr. Chevalier, you did me a most excellent favor when you killed him and I thank you for it.”

Patrice nodded slowly. “I suppose I did,” he said.

“Come now, Mr. Chevalier, there is no need to be so modest. Achieving what you have is a most outstanding feat and I regard you with the greatest of admiration.”

“Thank you, sir,” Patrice said. To his surprise, he found himself starting to warm to his guest.

“And, as you have done me the great favor of vanquishing my nemesis, I am here to offer you my services in return.”

“And what would you possibly be able to do for me?” Patrice said.

Crowley gave a condescending look. “Well, while you might be vibrant and powerful, your background has left you largely unschooled in the grim realities of occult politics, my good man. By virtue of our education and breeding, most of us are seasoned warriors by the time
we reach the top. But you are positively virginal, if you don’t mind me saying so.” He sat forward and arched a sparse eyebrow. “And take it from someone who knows. You need to be a seasoned warrior in order to survive the constant dogfight that is the Council.”

Patrice felt himself grow angry. How dare this—this bullfrog of a man presume to condescend to him in this way?

“I would hazard that some new contender will challenge you for leadership before this year is out,” Crowley said, quickly interrupting Patrice’s thoughts.

“Is that so?” Patrice said.

Crowley regarded Patrice with his eerie gaze. “If you don’t watch out, it is you who will crumble to dust.”

“You are entitled to your opinion,” Patrice said.

“What you need is a mentor.
I
could be that mentor, if you’ll let me.”

“That is a most generous offer. But if what you are saying is correct, why not challenge me and take my place? What possible benefit could you gain by helping me?”

Crowley smiled. “It is true, I have always coveted de Montague’s place on the Council, I will not lie to you about that. But you, Mr. Chevalier, by assuming leadership, have changed the playing field forever. You have been touched by that which dwells in the deepest, darkest recesses of the Shadow realm and you have lived to tell the tale. I have spent years studying those dark recesses and I can only guess at what must be going on inside you. I mean, just look at you. You are a work of art, such beauty and grace and intelligence. Looking at you now—it’s, it’s … like watching a panther from the jungle,” Crowley drawled. “It sets my pulse racing.”

Patrice felt himself blush. “I suppose I am rather unique,” he said, looking away.

“Exactly so!” Crowley exclaimed. “And we cannot let
a rare and beautiful creature like yourself be swallowed up by the filth of the system. It would be a complete travesty, so hence my offer to help you.”

Patrice narrowed his eyes. “Admiration is all fine and well, but what’s in it for you?”

Crowley’s smiled broadened. “Well firstly, I get to spend time with you, you delicious beast. And, as I understand matters, you still need to fill that thirteenth place at the table. If you like what I can do for you, I would be honored if you could consider me for the place. As a token of your appreciation, of course.” His eyes grew dreamy. “Just think of all the wonderful things we could do together, you and I.”

Patrice nodded slowly. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with the advances Crowley was making. They left him feeling flattered and slightly aroused at the same time, which was rather disturbing. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Crowley did have a point, though. Patrice knew he needed help. He had almost been sucked into the swirling vortex the alchemists had created in their plan to use darkness to take over the Council not two years before. And he had barely escaped from it with his life. He had spent months limping along half in reality and half not, until his run-in with the Lady in White. She too had nearly finished him, but in the end he emerged transformed: a self-made warlock.

He was the first of his kind, not born of the ancient bloodlines. It was all thoroughly nouveau and exciting, but also deeply dangerous.

“And how would you help me if I were to agree?” Patrice said.

“I gather you have heard the rumors?” Crowley said.

“Depends on the rumor,” Patrice said.

Crowley laughed. “Oh, you do like to tease, don’t you? The one about a certain, rather important young
lady who went missing very recently on her way back from the Sudan.”

“Ouais,”
Patrice said without thinking. Immediately he regretted the informal answer as he allowed his careful, cultured French to slip in his moment of excitement. “
Mon Dieu
, how on earth do you know about this?”

Crowley nodded, seemingly oblivious to Patrice’s slip. “The London papers are full of reports of the lady pilot and her ship that disappeared on the way back from North Africa. A terrible tragedy they are calling it. Her poor father is said to be distraught.

“And
I
know who the Oracle is, so it really was not difficult to put two and two together. Such an inconvenience when an Oracle goes so young. It throws everything into disarray until a new one takes over, don’t you think?”

“She is not dead,” Patrice said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, of course I am sure. I am the Shadow Master. I can sense shifts in the divide. I would know if there were a gap in the Shadow and Light continuum and there is not. She is still alive and holding the layers of the realm together. The question is just where.”

“That’s even worse, in a way,” Crowley mused. “Knowing she is out there, but not being able to reach her. What exquisite torture.”

Patrice sighed. Crowley had hit the nail squarely on the head. This was precisely the thing he had been brooding over before the man had arrived.

The Council had people searching on both sides of the divide for Eleanor, but so far their search had turned up nothing. Perhaps it was time to seek assistance. Being Grand Master was certainly proving to be far trickier than he had envisioned. Maybe having someone who could provide him with advice on how to navigate this quagmire might not be such a bad idea, after all.

“So what are you proposing to do about the matter?” Crowley said, interrupting his thoughts.

“We are searching, but she seems to have disappeared into thin air.”

“And so soon after your appointment to office.” Crowley shook his head and tutted. “I am sure this would have set tongues wagging. How are things in Venice these days? The floodwaters this season are worse than ever. Venice is sinking, I have heard it told.”

Patrice swiveled round and glared at Crowley, for he had gone one step too far. “I am sorry if I appear to be rude, but who exactly do you think you are, bursting into my apartment at such an early hour and then accusing me of incompetence? I should ask you to leave, sir.”

Crowley lifted a placatory hand. “Now, now, Mr. Chevalier, there is no need for Gallic histrionics. As I have told you only a few moments ago, I am here because you and I share the same goal. We must find this Oracle. She must be taken in hand. We cannot allow the world to drift along with the barrier unguarded. Or else pretty soon we will have every Shadow creature in the realm clambering for a foothold here in the Light. Each one will be seeking to establish its own little base of power. And when that happens, we will be stuck in a world where warlords battle one another for whatever foothold they might gain.” Crowley paused for breath. “And you never know who or what might be slipping through or what their plans are. I mean, just look at that awful business in Battersea last year. I would not relinquish my position so easily, would you?”

“Certainly not,” Patrice said, recalling images of
La Dame Blanche
, which involved armies of indestructible clockwork soldiers. And she was small fry compared to some of the Shadow creatures out there.

“Well, what do you propose we do?” Patrice said.

Crowley folded his hands over his fine brocade
waistcoat and thought for a moment. “They say there is a man here in Paris. He is born of the unholy union of a human and a creature of the Shadow. This has given him a few … what shall we call them … unusual quirks. One of these quirks is that he can summon demons up from the darkest recesses of the Shadow to do his bidding. They call him the Summoner.”

“The Summoner?”

“Yes. He is a most useful fellow to know. All you need to do is give him something that used to belong to the person you seek and he does the rest. And before you know it, you have whomever you are looking for.”

“And where shall I find someone like that?”

“Well, he is a regular attendee at my masses. He holds a rather important position in our rituals—for obvious reasons. I have been asked to say mass this evening as I am here in Paris for only a short time. If you’d care to join us, I am sure he’d be happy to assist.”