Ghosts of Albion: Accursed

As impressed as William had been with the elegantly appointed interior of the Algernon Club, he had not been prepared for the room Lord Blackheath had called their inner sanctum.



Though all club members had been able to attend the dinner for Sir Darius Strong, along with invited guests, only elite members were ever allowed into the inner sanctum. Haversham imparted to him in a whisper that it was the cause of a great deal of bitterness among the general membership. To those who were never invited into that room-accessible via a long hall that led into an adjacent building-the selection process seemed arbitrary.



Yet it was anything but.



Only true magicians-those with some skill in spellcasting and genuine knowledge of the occult-were invited to the inner sanctum. Most of the well-to-do members of the club were used to wielding the influence that came of age and wealth. But though there was a brotherhood that existed among those who practiced the art of illusion, they had no gift for real spellcraft. Thus, there were doors barred even to them.



The inner sanctum was a huge room whose architecture and decoration were reminiscent of some of the more extraordinary ballrooms William had seen. The floors were marble, but inlaid with tile patterns that suggested a Moorish influence. The ceilings were easily twenty feet high, and all around were wide archways that led into an arcade that circumscribed the chamber. The columns supporting the arches boasted delicately carved woodwork, painted a startling white, as were the walls and the intricate friezes that went around the room above the archways. Oil lamps made of crystal and iron hung down from the ceilings on thick chains.



William was amazed by the place, not merely because of the ostentatious quality of its decor, but because the combination of styles and influences should not have worked at all. An architect by inclination and training, he had a sense for such things, and it surprised him to find the room immensely appealing.



It was shortly after he and Lord Blackheath emerged from the man's study that the party moved into the inner sanctum. The entirety of the situation was surreal. Men who had witnessed his succumbing to the embarrassing effects of the drug behaved as if nothing at all unusual had taken place.



All in all he was pleased. If they were keen to forget his embarrassment, he was all too willing to oblige, particularly now that he knew the reason for it all.



They meant him no harm-that much had become clear. Quite the contrary. In the space of hours he had been transformed from outsider to a true insider. Not merely a member of the club or its elite, but of its ruling council. More than once while he mingled with those influential men, sipping sherry, a smile came unbidden to his lips, while he thought what Tamara might say when she learned that she was about to become the first female member of the Algernon Club.



Her response would be something inappropriate. Of that he was certain.



He was also amazed, standing in that room and discussing politics and public affairs, by the number of members of the Algernon Club who were allowed into the sanctum. Granted, they had gathered from across the nation, but his experience with other magicians was limited, and to realize that there were so many . . . it was a bit daunting. Several times he caught gentlemen staring at him with looks that seemed to speak of disdain, and even anger. It unnerved him enough that he wanted to ask Haversham about it, and so he sought the man out.



William located him in a corner of the room, beneath one of those elegant archways. John was deep in conversation with a pair of men, one a seemingly ancient fellow with wispy white hair and a heavy cane, the other a broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced, fiftyish person who looked more like a dockworker or pugilist than a gentleman. Haversham gestured toward William as he spoke, and when he did, William caught his eye.



With a nod and a smile, Haversham said something to the two men, and all three began to work their way across the room. William met them halfway. The older man had skin like parchment and moved with the pain of age, but his eyes were alight with nimble intelligence that made his mind seem like a wild thing trapped in a cage of frailty.



"William, may I introduce you to Sir Horace Walpole and to the guest of honor tonight, Sir Darius Strong. Gentlemen, William Swift, Protector of Albion."



"Ah, yes," William said, turning first to Sir Darius. "I hadn't had the opportunity to make your acquaintance yet, sir. Please accept my best wishes on the occasion. A very happy birthday to you."



Sir Darius inclined his head in the slightest nod. "Thank you, Mr. Swift. It is an excellent birthday gift to learn that we will once again have the Protector as a member of the club."



"Protectors, Sir Darius," John Haversham reminded him.



The hulking man arched an eyebrow and lifted one corner of his mouth in the semblance of a smile. "Yes. That ought to be very interesting. Indeed, it will."



His companion, Sir Horace, grunted in outright derision. "Interesting is a wickedly sharp blade of a word, sir. It cuts friend and foe alike."



William flinched. "I'm afraid I don't take your meaning, sir."



Sir Horace sniffed. "Ah, but I'm certain you do. Your grandfather did us a grand disservice, splitting the Protectorship this way. Shameful. Though I suppose he performed his duties to Albion ably enough. We may only hope that you and your sibling are half as effective."



"Come now, Horace, don't be so hard on the boy," Sir Darius said jovially.



There was more to the conversation, but William began to drift. Despite his pique at the old man's insult, his attention was drawn elsewhere. Even as Sir Horace had been speaking to him, William had caught sight of someone moving in the shadows of an arch off to his left, back in the arcade that ran along beyond it. The figure was vague and insubstantial, yet still it took him a moment to realize that he was looking at a ghost.



Attempting to be inconspicuous, he took another look. There, little more than an outline, a flitting image in the gloom, framed within an arch, was the ghost of Lord Byron.



The specter of the poet beckoned to him with an upraised finger, then darted from sight into the shadows of the arcade, flowing across the air as though carried by a gust of otherworldly wind.



William frowned. Whatever Byron's purpose for showing himself there, it was obviously urgent.



"Gentlemen," he said, interrupting something Sir Darius had been saying, and not caring a whit. He straightened his jacket, back stiff, allowing his annoyance at Sir Horace's insinuations to show on his face. "If you'll excuse me, I've just seen an old acquaintance to whom I ought to say hello. It was a pleasure meeting you both." He nodded at Haversham. "John."



"Oh, yes, by all means," Sir Darius said.



But Sir Horace only scowled, and John Haversham eyed him curiously. William ignored them both and strode away, going directly to the arch where he had seen Byron. He passed beneath it and into the shadows of the arcade.



There were lights there, but they were dim, pitiful things that cast little illumination. The arcade ran along the entire length of the sanctum's outer wall. There were doors set into that wall at regular intervals, and within were rooms at whose purpose William did not take the time to wonder. He heard footsteps behind him, and the buzz of voices, and turned to see a man approaching as though to engage him in conversation. Beyond that, he saw Haversham talking animatedly with Lord Blackheath.



William ignored them all, turning again to search the shadows.



A spectral hand emerged suddenly through the carved wood of a closed door. Byron's face pushed from the wood, and he looked at William, beckoning once again, then putting a finger to his lips to hush him. Though already the man who was approaching seemed about to speak, William strode quickly through the arcade and opened the door. He stepped through, quickly closing it behind him and turning the lock.



"Well, I say, that was terribly rude," came a man's voice from the other side.



William felt sorry for having closed the door in the man's face like that, but only a very little. He might be a member of the club now, but these men had drugged him, after all. And he had been stung by Sir Horace's snide comments. If they regarded the Protectorship so highly, they were going to have to make him feel a bit more welcome.



The room he had entered was a small, private office with a pair of high windows protected by heavy drapes. It was dark, save for the glimmer of a street lamp through a slit in the curtains. What little light it offered was muted by the drapes, but it saved him from complete darkness.



"Byron?" William whispered.



His pulse raced, and his skin prickled with the feeling that he was an intruder in this room. When the ghost materialized beside him, flickering with an ethereal glow, he started.



"Do not sneak up on me like that!" he rasped.



Normally Byron would have been amused to have upset him, but tonight the poet only executed a half bow in apology. "I'm sorry to disturb you, William, but you're needed."



"What's happened? Is Tamara all right?"



"Quite. At least for the moment. This crisis seems to be building. We've located the Protector of Bharath. He is our ally, not our enemy. But trouble is brewing. Tamara has asked me to fetch you and return to the docks."



William sighed and glanced down at his formal attire. "Wonderful. I don't suppose I have time to change?"



Byron raised an eyebrow. "Shall I meet you outside, then?"



"Yes. I'll be along in a moment, as soon as I can make my apologies."



It was only after he'd left the room and was slipping through the arcade into the brightness of the inner sanctum that he realized the insouciant stable boy wasn't due to return with his carriage for at least another hour. He would need to translocate to the docks, of course, but it wouldn't have been acceptable for him to simply disappear from the midst of the party, and certainly not without bidding his host goodbye.



So he paused just inside the sanctum, glancing about. Several gentlemen stood in a group to his right, one holding a pipe whose smoke swirled and eddied above him. They nodded a greeting toward him, and William returned the gesture.



You're a member now. Grandfather was a member. They're here to help you, he thought.



Yet what did he really know about any of these men? To enter this room they had to have some degree of skill at casting spells, at manipulating the magical energy that existed as an undercurrent to the entire world. But that did not necessarily make them his allies. Even if the Algernon Club itself had been founded with benevolent purpose, might there not be less altruistic men among them? No, William doubted he would be willing to invest unreserved confidence in the Algernon Club without first getting Tamara's opinion of them. Her intuition was generally far better than his own.



Concerned for his sister's welfare, and worried that the action might begin without him, he moved in among the men, some of them jocular enough, but others grim-faced and leaden. The drone of conversation and the clink of glasses filled the room and echoed up to the high ceiling. He pushed through a cloud of cigar smoke and soon found himself within arm's reach of Haversham and Lord Blackheath.



"John," he said.



"William. There you are, good fellow. I was about to set the dogs after you. Where have you . . . I say, is everything quite all right?" Haversham peered at him curiously.



"Not entirely," he admitted, glancing at each of the men in turn. "I'm afraid I have to cut the evening short. I have a pressing engagement elsewhere."



Lord Blackheath's eyes narrowed. "Is there something brewing? We're at your service, you know. Might we send some of our spellcasters along to aid you, in any-"



"No, no, that's quite all right. It's a small thing, really. My sister has asked me to have a look at some documents she's found. Shouldn't be any trouble at all."



Haversham and Blackheath both looked dubious. William had never been a good liar. But he simply did not trust these men yet. He wanted to. It would be comforting to know they had such allies in the war against the darkness. But it would have been foolhardy to throw in with them without due consideration.



"All right," Lord Blackheath said, nodding. "But you know where we are, should there be anything at all we can do to help."



"Of course. And thank you, my lord," William said. Blackheath gave him a firm handshake.



William turned to Haversham. "John, it was an unexpected pleasure."



The man's face seemed to have grown a bit pale as the night wore on, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes. William wondered how little sleep John had been getting of late. When they shook hands, he found Haversham's skin cool, and a bit damp. It was entirely unpleasant.



William turned and made his way back into the main rooms of the Algernon Club, retrieved his coat from the same curmudgeonly servant at the door, and then at last was back out on the street again. He set off at a brisk pace; only when he was out of sight of the club did he step into the dark threshold of another building and call for Byron.



The ghost appeared instantly. "Shall we, then?" the poet inquired.



"Where, precisely?"



Byron propped his hand beneath his chin and described their destination. William had not spent much time around the docks, but that was the advantage of using magic. With that little description, he knew he could trust the translocation spell to get him within yards of the spot.



"The ship is called Sea Witch, appropriately enough," the ghost added.



William nodded, glanced around to be certain he was not observed, and raised his hands. "Under the same sky, under the same moon-" he began, intoning a spell that had become almost second nature to him by now, something the William of half a year ago would have been hard-pressed to imagine.



His entire body trembled with the magic that came up from within him, enveloping him in a strange glittering sheath of light. That discordant sound that accompanied powerful magic rang in his ears, rattling his teeth as though the noise were in his own head.



A flash of brilliance blinded him for a moment, and he felt the dislocation that always accompanied this spell, a moment in which he seemed to be floating and sensed around him nothing but unending, unyielding darkness. The ether. And out there in the ether, it felt as though he was not alone. In all the times he had translocated, William had never once tried to determine what else might be there with him, for he feared the answer.



It lasted only a moment, and he was glad.



He felt something solid beneath him, and staggered forward a step, shoes scuffing on wood. He blinked to clear his vision and found himself on the deck of a ship, presumably Sea Witch. The sway of the deck forced him to take a moment to adjust, but then he glanced around quickly.



There were other ships moored nearby, and he could hear the voices of sailors coming to him through the night. A light fog had begun to swirl up off the Thames, carrying with it a stink that churned his stomach. But there was no one else close around.



"Tamara?" he said, keeping his voice low.



William walked warily across the deck. In the fog he saw several figures lying there, unmoving, at the base of the main mast. When he drew closer, he realized they were Rakshasa, charred to little more than ragged flesh and bone, one of them decapitated. His mind ought to have been eased by this sight, but it only made him more nervous. The corpses did not steam in the chill night air, so they weren't exactly fresh. But there might have been others where these came from, and-



"In the hold, dear boy," came Byron's voice.



The ghost resolved out of the fog as though he were a part of it, spectral mist from river mist. William had grown quite used to the sight of the wandering spirits of the dead, and Byron himself was a jester and bon vivant . . . yet the poet's appearance sent a shudder through him.



There was a sound of footfalls to accompany the creaking of the old ship, and William turned to find Tamara emerging from the hold. A smile of relief washed across her face. In the fog he could not tell for sure, but he thought her clothes were torn. Her hair was a wild, unkempt mess.



"I thought I heard you up here. Come on, then, we've got work to do, and precious little time."



William grinned as he strode over to her, feeling absurdly happy to see her. "Haven't I heard that before? Seems to be a tradition for us."



There was movement behind her in the fog, and William saw a familiar face appear, the old Indian man who had aided them against the Rakshasa in the streets of Shadwell. Nigel was just behind him, the last to climb from the hold of the ship. When William glanced at Byron, he saw that the ghost of Lord Nelson had materialized in the mist, as well.



"Tipu Gupta, I presume?" William said, nodding toward the old man.



"Indeed," Tamara said. But her gaze was intense, leaving no room for niceties. "And he has provided all the missing pieces to this terrible puzzle."



William listened in growing horror, his stomach tightening anxiously as she revealed to him the sinister tale of madness and betrayal that had led to their current circumstances. Their enemy was a young woman no older than Tamara.



"But what is it all for? Creating all these monsters, rallying them to her, she must be building to something. If she truly believes she can destroy the Empire's hold on India, she must plan some hideous act of rebellion and-"



"Oh, she does," Nigel said, his voice dark and velvet like the night. He slipped up to William and Tamara in the fog, but then turned to look at Tipu Gupta.



The old man hung his head in shame. "Yes. My daughter's madness has reached grand proportions. This very night, I believe she will muster her forces and take the final step in her plan. Before midnight, she will assault Buckingham Palace."



William choked on the cold air and his own horror. "She means to kill the queen?"



"Not merely the queen," Tamara replied. "If Mr. Gupta is correct, Priya means to kill everyone at the palace, including the queen, her servants, and her entire family."



"Only together do we have a hope of stopping her," the old man rasped, leaning now on Nigel for support.



William stood straighter. "Right, then. If that's how it is."



The fog thickened and swirled around them, a cloak of stinking gray in the dark of the night. The air was heavy with the weight of the evil they faced, and the grim determination lodged in their hearts.



TAMARA AND HER brother sent the ghosts on ahead to survey the palace, and see if there was any sign that Priya Gupta's scheme was already unfolding. The Swifts could have translocated there as quickly as the ghosts traveled through the ether, but Nigel and Farris were incapable of journeying in that manner, so they retrieved the carriage. And though once it would have been a simple matter for the Protector of Bharath, too much of Tipu Gupta's innate magic had been leached from him.



Tamara was concerned for the old man, and wondered how well he would hold up in the battle to come. Gupta had been pale and unsteady getting into the carriage, so much so that William had had to give him a hand up. When the time came, she doubted they would be able to count on the old man.



Particularly if they had to kill his daughter.



They made their way west toward Buckingham Palace, and she watched him carefully. Though it was quite late, there were still a few people out and about on that cold, foggy night. Couples walked arm in arm, though most were likely illicit pairings. A pair of peelers argued with a well-dressed gentleman in front of the Temple Bar. They all seemed like wraiths in the mist.



As the carriage rattled along cobblestones, they saw fewer and fewer people. Long stretches were so solemn as to be almost funereal.



What had first seemed to be an ordinary mist coming off the river was proving to be far more. London fog was often thick and gray, choking off light and breath with equal devastation. Smoke from a thousand thousand chimneys had lingered all through the early evening in a heavy blanket over London until it was taken by winds that shifted direction from moment to moment, and swirled into a terrible stew with the stench of the marshlands of Kent and Essex and the rancid, strangling odor of human waste that floated off the river.



Tamara felt as if it were the stink of Hell itself. There was a hint of orange to the gray that only added to the effect.



At first the fog had crept along low to the ground, but by the time they reached the palace that had changed. That crawling mist had become heavy clouds that shrouded entire buildings, giving only brief glimpses of the dark, carved faces of the architecture they passed. It wrapped around lampposts as if hungry for the flames within, muffling and dimming the lights.



None of them spoke of the fog, even in jest. Yet Tamara was sure their thoughts must echo hers: this was no ordinary fog. In the silence of their journey, she contemplated asking William about his evening at the Algernon Club, but such questions seemed trivial at the moment, and Tamara felt that would be worse than no talk at all.



Almost on the heels of this thought, her brother spoke up, just loud enough to be heard over the rattle of the carriage.



"Do you think that in splitting the Protectorship between us, Ludlow did us a disservice?"



Tamara frowned, shifting uncomfortably on the seat of the carriage.



"What do you mean?"



William reached up and removed his tie, opening the collar of his shirt. One of the wheels hit a hole, and the carriage jounced. A moment went by before he continued.



"All due respect to Mr. Gupta, but his daughter's got most of the power of the Protector of Bharath now. Does that make her more powerful than you or me individually? Are we halves of a whole, or each whole unto ourselves?"



The questions troubled her, and she reached for her brother's hand, squeezing tightly.



"Don't turn to me on this. I've no idea. If there's some rule book concerning Protectors and their powers, I've never seen it, and I don't think Ludlow ever did, either."



The carriage seat creaked as Tipu Gupta leaned forward, his gaze taking in the both of them. "You protect the soul of Albion, my friends. I was charged with the protection of the soul of Bharath, and failed. There are Protectors in every region of the world. Though they may be part of a whole, part of an effort by the spirit and nature of this entire world to protect itself from evil, the attentions of the Protectors are nearly always turned inward. Where there is collected lore, I have found it is almost always about the legacy of the Protectorship of the region, not of the world."



It took Tamara a moment to digest what he had said. Then she frowned. "All of which is to say, you don't have an answer for me, either."



The old man smiled softly, copper skin crinkling around his eyes. "I do not. But I feel certain your grandfather would not have chosen both of you if he thought doing so might place you in danger."



"Well, that's a comfort," Nigel scoffed, trying to peer out the window into the fog, which had begun to seep into the carriage. "Looks like it's trial by fire once again. You'll have to find out the answers in the midst of battle."



Normally there would have been some muttered protest or attempt at humor from William, then, but the situation seemed to have drained him of any such temptations.



Tamara understood. The Crown was at stake. Blood would flow this night, and their only hope was to determine whose blood. She felt pity for those who had been victimized by the imperial aspirations of Britain, those who felt that they had been trammeled upon by the march of colonialism.



Yet no matter what offenses her own nation had committed, she could not stand by and allow the sort of retribution that Priya Gupta planned. The girl dreamed of slaughter and conquest, and whatever goddess she prayed to, whatever dark thing influenced her, Tamara felt certain it was no longer merely about vengeance. Inevitably, bloodlust became its own reason and reward.



"Here we are," Nigel rasped in that throaty growl that always filled his voice when there was blood to be shed.



They rattled to a stop. The fog muffled Farris's call to the horses, then the carriage tilted to one side as he climbed down from his seat. A moment later, the door opened and he stood aside to let them exit. Nigel did not bother to wait, but popped open the opposite door and leaped to the ground with a clack of leather soles on stone, landing like a cat. There was a spring in his step that made Tamara tremble, though whether from dread or anticipation she was unsure.



The city was like a dream now. A terrible dream. The orange-gray fog enshrouded everything, crawling along the street like the current of a lazy river, while an upper layer seemed not to move at all. Even when the wind picked up, the mass only danced and eddied, but did not drift away. To the west Buckingham Palace emerged, a mythical fortress floating in the clouds. That meant St. James's Park was just south, so close they must have been a stone's throw away, but Tamara could make out not a single tree. High windows in the palace gazed down upon them balefully, as though it had been waiting for them.



Foolish girl, Tamara thought, shaking herself. Here she was ascribing sinister intent to the palace itself, as though it had already been lost to the enemy. It may have stood sentinel above them, jutting from the fog, but ominous as it seemed, the palace was the stronghold of their allies, not their enemies.



For now.



"Farris, is there any sign of the creatures?" William asked, rubbing his hands together for warmth as he glanced around, trying to get his bearings. His face was wreathed in fog. "Rakshasa? Those reptile fellows?"



"Children of Kali," Nigel said, his deep voice riding the fog.



Tamara turned toward him, and saw only his eyes gleaming red in the mist. Then he stepped forward and without hesitation she reached for his hand and drew him closer. Watching her every move, Farris, William, and Tipu Gupta moved nearer, as well. It was better that way, she thought. There was no telling what lurked in the fog.



"They are not Kali's children," Gupta said, punctuating the words with a cough. "They bear her curse, but not her blessing."



"Call 'em what you like, sir, I saw neither hide nor hair. Nothing moving in the fog at all, in fact, the last half mile or so. Even with this dreadful soup, that's a surprise. Normally a fog like this'll bring out the thieves and scavengers. But not tonight."



"At least not this close to the palace," William said.



Tamara shivered. Stray locks of her hair had fallen into her face and were stuck there by the moisture from the air. "Horatio. Byron," she whispered into the fog.



William and Gupta looked up expectantly, but Nigel circled them all, prowling the edges of their little gathering, on guard for an attack from the tainted mist.



The ghosts appeared a moment later, shimmering into existence side by side, first Nelson and then Byron.



"Admiral Nelson reporting for duty," the spirit intoned with utmost gravity. "No sign of any disturbance 'round the palace. That's got me a bit worried, though. There's no one at all, you see. Not even guards at the gate."



Tamara gnawed her lower lip. "What do you suppose that means? Are we too late? Are the guards dead, the demons already within the palace walls?"



Nelson shook his head. "I think not. The gates are locked up tight. I spied not a single broken window. The doors beyond the outer walls are all closed, presumably locked as well."



"So where are the guards?" William asked.



"I haven't a clue," Nelson replied.



Byron glanced worriedly back toward the palace. "A mystery for another day, I should think. We've got work to do."



Their spectral forms seemed oddly substantial there in the fog, but it took Tamara a moment to understand why. This particular fog wasn't passing through them, as it should, but around them, as though they were beings of flesh and blood. William was the first to mention it.



"Yes. We had noticed," Byron told him, glancing down at his form. "If only I could muster such substance at other times. In any case, it's mostly illusion. We're no more solid than ever. Except where this fog is concerned."



None of them commented further. The supernatural origin of the fog had gone unremarked earlier because they were all certain of it. This confirmation was interesting, but utterly unsurprising.



"Right, then," Farris said, crossing his arms in defiance of the eerie mist and the air of malevolence that surrounded them. "What's the plan?"



As one, they looked to Tamara. She blinked in surprise as she surveyed their faces.



William.



The ghosts.



Farris.



Nigel.



Even the rightful Protector of Bharath. They all waited for her to determine their course of action.



She nodded solemnly, thinking a moment, and then pointed toward the palace. "Priya's behavior thus far has been full of arrogance. It would not astonish me at all if she strode right up to the gates. But we must try to cover as many approaches as possible. I shall take Nigel and Byron with me and go up Constitution Hill, moving around to the corner, in view of the gardens. William, keep Farris and Mr. Gupta with you. I suggest the southeast corner, just there, where you can keep a view of the gates, as well as the buildings to the south."



All their eyes were upon her, and she sensed their uncertainty. Tipu Gupta was still burdened by the weight of his guilt and shame.



"Do not hestitate," Tamara said. "The Rakshasa are nothing more than vermin. Wipe them out. As for the Children of Kali . . . they were men once, but no more. They have been altered irrevocably, and there is nothing human remaining. Slay them all, and send your prayers to Heaven for their families if you wish. But give no quarter."



"Well said," Nelson declared, drifting nearer to her. His good eye was narrowed with determination, the false one gleaming wetly in the mist. "But what of me, Tamara? Your battle plan has no role in it for me?"



"Indeed it does," she replied. "William was correct. We need reinforcements, but only those we know we can trust. My brother and I have only begun to access the community of ghosts who linger with this land, but Dunstan has made it obvious that not all of them are our allies. If we use the ability of the Protector to speak into the ethereal realm and summon them all, we may call up enemies as well as friends. I leave it to you, then, Horatio. Go into the shadows where only ghosts may walk, and sound the call. Send word along from spirit to spirit. The Protectors of Albion require the aid of any who are willing to fight for the soul of this land."



Horatio bowed. "Just so. What of Bodicea? Shall I fetch her as well?"



Tamara frowned. "Only as a last resort. It would mean leaving Sophia and the servants at Ludlow House with Oblis. The thought troubles me."



"All right," Horatio agreed. "I'm off and shall return with all due speed."



And he vanished.



The company remained together several moments longer, until William stepped nearer his sister and kissed her softly on the cheek. She saw something in his eyes, and thought he would speak, but instead he only gave her a reassuring smile and then turned to the others.



"Come, Farris, Mr. Gupta. While Nelson is marshaling our forces, we must see to it that Priya's monsters do not breach the palace walls."



"Pardon me a moment, sir," Farris replied. He went quickly to the carriage and reached under the seat, drawing out a large leather pouch. He lifted the flap on the pouch and withdrew, one after the other, a pair of guns that Tamara had never seen before. There were no flintlocks at all, and the barrels seemed immense.



"What on Earth have you got there?" she asked.



Farris smiled grimly. "A gift from my brother. They're revolvers, six shots each. Allen's pepperbox, they're called. Beauties, aren't they?"



Tamara only nodded as she watched Farris check both guns and slip them into the large pockets of his coat, then reach back under the seat. He withdrew a belt and scabbard, which he tied around his waist. The barrel-chested man did not draw the blade, only patted it where it hung at his hip.



"This, though, this was a gift from me dad. His own Pattern saber from his cavalry days."



"Excellent, Farris. Glad to have you at my back," William told him.



Then they moved off toward the palace, disappearing in the fog. Though Tipu Gupta still had his walking stick, Tamara thought the man leaned on it less than he had earlier. She imagined he was mustering the reserves of his strength-physical, magical, and emotional-for the confrontation with his daughter.



"All right, then," she said, turning to Nigel and Byron. "It's us. Stay close."



As she darted into the fog, keeping an eye on the palace, Tamara felt vulnerable. She envied the weight of the weapons that Farris had brought, and wished for even a walking stick as solid as the one Gupta carried to hold in her hands. But she knew that she was her own weapon; she was connected to the very soul of Albion, and its magic burned in her veins.



The knowledge propelled her faster. Byron kept pace, the fog caressing him as though it were urging him on, maintaining the illusion of solidity though he rushed over the ground without once setting foot upon it.



Nigel ran in a kind of crouch, almost loping, and when he glanced at her she saw that his eyes were even more scarlet, and his teeth had elongated to jagged fangs. Her heart staggered at the sight. He was a frightening creature, no matter that he was her friend.



Tamara could barely see the palace gates as they moved in haste toward Constitution Hill. They turned and kept pace along the northern wall, not slowing until they had reached the rear corner. The fog churned around them, and she could feel it flowing by her ankles.



"Hold here," she said, catching her breath and peering into the night, into the fog.



Nigel backtracked their steps half a dozen feet to see if they had been followed, then rejoined them. His eyes were like embers in the dark. Then he started toward the gardens to the west of their position.



"What are you doing?" Byron inquired, almost casually. "Get back here."



The vampire turned and glared at him. "I can smell them. The Rakshasa. I'd like to see if I can get a sense of how many there are out there."



Tamara considered for a moment, glancing around again. There seemed no trouble at the rear of the palace as best she could tell. And she saw no one in the fog to the north, up Constitution Hill.



"All right," she said. "But go quickly, and do not attack. To the edge of the gardens and no farther, then return."



Nigel grinned, baring his fangs. "I'm going to drink an entire barrel of whiskey after this." He slipped into the fog, and was gone.



Tamara had thought she would hear him moving out there, but ought to have known better. Vampires were stealthy creatures. She hugged herself, allowing a low hum to rise in her throat and a flicker of golden light to dance across the backs of her hands.



"I don't like this," Byron said, his voice barely a whisper.



The ghost started off the same way Nigel had gone, not bothering to pretend to walk. His dark, curly hair was like a puncture in the fog, his burgundy velvet waistcoat far paler than even his phantom nature would account for.



"Stay with me," Tamara said. "We cannot all separate."



"But-" Byron began.



The night was rent by loud hyena laughter. The voices of Rakshasa. It carried up toward the palace from the gardens, echoing within the fog.



Tamara stiffened, eyes searching the shrouded landscape for Nigel. Something shifted in the fog behind her, then, and she spun, those golden sparks blossoming into balls of lightning that seared the air, dispelling the mist around her.



The girl was beautiful, wrapped in white silk, her hair a cloak of raven black, her skin like smooth caramel. But the look in her eyes and the sneering lift of her upper lip made her ugly.



"For Kali," she said.



The magic that burst from her fingers in long, snaking ribbons was bloodred. They flowed, those crimson ribbons, and they were tipped with dagger points that whipped through the air and darted straight at Tamara.



"Contego!" Tamara snapped, and the balls of lightning in her hands exploded, that golden magic leaping upward to form a mystical shield in front of her.



Too late.



Most of those dagger-ribbons were deflected by her shield, evaporating the moment their malevolent power touched the pure light of Albion. But the protection spell took a moment to envelop her, and there wasn't time for it to be completed.



One of those dancing crimson ribbons sliced her left thigh. Another punctured her shoulder. The pain seared her and she cried out, but it was nothing compared with the third, the last of those to strike her before her spell of protection completely shielded her.



It impaled her, plunging through her abdomen, its tip emerging through her lower back.



Tamara's blood spattered Priya Gupta's beautiful white sari and her caramel skin, and the usurper, the madwoman, ran her tongue over her lips to taste it, grinning all the while.



"For Kali."