Witchery: A Ghosts of Albion Novel

Tamara furrowed her brow and let gravity enter her voice. “You knew the girl who’s missing, I take it? Holly.”



The barmaid’s smile winked out like a star at sunrise. “I don’t like to think of it, ma’am. It’s a terrible thing. Can’t sleep at night, to be honest.”



“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”



Christine’s smile returned, though tinged with sadness. “No, no. It’s all right. Just difficult, is all. I fear the worst. We all do.”



Tamara reached out and touched her wrist. “Don’t give up hope. She may be found yet, and the other girls as well.”



Christine put a hand over her chest and gazed up at the heavens. “I pray you’re right.” She started toward the kitchen, but paused and turned back to Tamara. “Did you enjoy your ramble today, ma’am?”



“Indeed. It’s lovely country.”



“Truly, it is. But you’ll be careful, won’t you? You’ve got your driver with you, and that’s a blessing. Still, have a care. I fear none of us is safe of late.”



“I’ll beware,” Tamara said. “I still want to see more of the countryside, but I won’t go anywhere alone.”



A thought crossed her mind as she remembered the conversation she’d had with Ellie Kirk and her neighbor, the master of the hounds.



“Say, Christine, what do you know of Slaughterbridge? I’m told it’s pretty by the river there.”



The barmaid paused and a ripple of shadow seemed to pass across her face. “It’s pretty enough. Though not a place to linger. We pass back and forth across the bridge, from here to there, but it isn’t the sort of place young men take their ladies for a stroll.”



“No? Why is that?”



Christine gave her a sheepish look and a small laugh. “The legends, ma’am.”



“What legends are those?” Tamara asked.



“Just stories, Miss Swift. Old legends. My grandfather used to tell me the stories when I was just a little thing. Tales of ghosts and goblins, bogies and fairies. Slaughterbridge is where they say Arthur was slain, you know. Murdered by his own son, Mordred. But round here, all the stories about Slaughterbridge are about the witches.”



Tamara stared at her. “Witches?”



“They haunt the woods and the riverbank, searching for Arthur’s true grave, for his bones,” Christine said, and for a moment Tamara saw in her face the little girl she had been when her grandfather had told her those stories. “Half-human and half-demon, they are, or so the legends say. Beautiful and ugly both, full of dark magic.”



“Witches,” Tamara said again, and a shudder went through her.



Sophia’s skirts swept the stairs as she descended in a fury, her pulse throbbing in her temples.



When she reached the foyer of Ludlow House she turned, listening for voices. Long shafts of afternoon sunlight reached deep into the house, but she knew there would be no sunlight in the room she was looking for.



She considered the dining room. Its curtains could be drawn easily. As she turned in that direction, two maids came bustling along the corridor from the rear of the house, chattering between themselves. One was Tamara’s own lady’s maid, to whom all of the household staff save Farris answered, and the other was a young, blond girl whose name Sophia had never bothered to learn.



“Oh, excuse us, Miss Winchell,” Martha said, pausing in the hall and giving a small bow of her head. “We weren’t aware anyone was about at the moment. Is there anything I can help you with?”



Sophia sniffed, trying her best not to take her anger out on these women, but she couldn’t keep the edge from her voice.



“Indeed, you may tell me where I might find Mr. Swift at the moment.”



“Why, in the parlor, I believe, miss. With Mr. Townsend.”



“Of course,” Sophia said, teeth gritted.



She left the maids to gossip about her demeanor and to guess at the strife that had erupted in the house. Servants would always whisper on the back stairs, she had learned that as a child. There was nothing to be done about it. As long as they kept their suspicions within the confines of the household, there was little reason to be troubled by it.



And yet she hated the idea of them talking about her behind her back.



Her heels clicked on the wooden floor as she strode toward the parlor door. It was open just a few inches, but she grasped the handle and pushed it wide, standing just on the threshold.



The curtains were drawn, just as she had expected. William stood with Nigel Townsend at the center of the room, and each had a snifter of brandy in his hand. Nigel had the glass to his lips, and was interrupted mid-sip by Sophia’s abrupt entrance. Both men turned to regard her curiously.



“What is it, Sophia?” William asked. “Has something happened?”



Her mouth opened and closed. A small sound came out, but no words. She let out a breath and paused to collect her thoughts, then finally managed to find her voice.



“I have just been speaking with Byron,” she began, casting a dark look at Nigel. “He informs me that while you and Lord Nelson are off on this adventure in New Orleans, Mr. Townsend is to oversee the household.”



William blinked, his features etched with confusion. He cast a sheepish glance at Nigel, and then looked at Sophia again. “That is the case, yes. I’ve just finished discussing it with Nigel, and he’s graciously agreed to look after things. As I told you, darling, I don’t expect to be gone very long, but upon reflection I felt that in the event— ”



“But Nigel?” Sophia interrupted. She threw her hands up in exasperation and laughed a small, humorless laugh. “No offense meant, Mr. Townsend, but you and William are not exactly the best of friends.”



Nigel raised his glass to her. “You have a gift for understatement, Miss Winchell.”



William’s face reddened and he attempted to affect a sternness that Sophia knew only covered his discomfort.



“Nigel has been a friend and ally of this family for decades, Sophia, as you are well aware. We may not always see eye to eye, but I do not doubt his dedication to Albion.”



“This week,” Sophia sniffed.



With a mischievous smile, Nigel winked at her and took a sip of his brandy. It only incensed her more that their conflict was a source of amusement to him.



“Surely, someone else— ” she began. “Anyone else.”



“Sophia,” William said curtly, “I can’t very well leave one of the ghosts to attend to the household. With Tamara and Farris both away, and given that there have at times been dangers associated with living at Ludlow House, it was vital that we have someone here who might have a chance to combat those perils, and still be able to deal with the day-to-day business of the household.”



“But, he’s a vampire!” Sophia cried.



William looked stricken, and glanced toward the corridor. Suddenly he rushed past her, brandy spilling from his snifter onto the carpet, and he shut the door, then turned on her.



“I would ask you to be somewhat more circumspect when you are here, darling,” he said, tension clear in his voice.



Sophia crossed her arms without apology. “And what of me, William? If you must rush off on this fool’s errand, with our wedding day growing closer by the minute, you might simply have left the overseeing of Ludlow House to me. It will be my duty one day soon, after all.”



He stared at her, searching her eyes, and then he softened.



“Is that what this is all about? Sophia, as it is, we risk our reputations with each night you spend here before our marriage. When I considered it, I realized that if you were to present yourself to any visitors— couriers and such— as the lady of the house, the whispers would rise to a roar. For propriety’s sake— ”



“Damn propriety!” Sophia snapped.



“Oh, now I think I begin to understand what you see in her, William,” Nigel said, taking another sip of his brandy.



Sophia turned away from them both and wiped at the tears that were beginning to gather in her eyes. She breathed evenly, forcing herself not to collapse into sobbing.



“I just can’t believe you’re disappearing on me again, William. You swore to me that you would plan this wedding with me, that you would be a part of it. It’s a day that should be a glorious celebration of the love we share, and you’ve barely taken an interest.”



He put one hand on the back of her neck, gentle yet firm, and the other slid around from behind to encircle her. “Sophia, please. I love you. You cannot doubt that. And I wish I could invest my every thought in the arrangements for our wedding, but every time I think of it, I am unable to escape the shadow of my father’s condition. I must have him well again, to bear witness. You don’t understand what it means to me.”



Sophia rounded on him and when he reached for her, she slapped his hand away.



“How dare you?” she said, tears beginning to stream down her face. “My father died horribly, William. You know that I would give anything to have him in attendance on the day I am to be married. I rejoice at even the faintest hope that you might find a way to cure your father.



“But you cannot slough off your responsibilities to me and to our future. You haven’t even chosen the color of your waistcoat! You have a duty to your family, and to the bank, and most of all to Albion, but at some point, there must come a halt to this, and your duties to me must take precedence over all else. Just for a little while.”



She hated how small her voice had become. The room had fallen silent. Sophia glanced up and saw that somehow, during the tension of the moment, the vampire had managed to slip away, soundlessly and unseen. She and William were alone now, and she could feel the way he struggled for the right words, for some sentiment that would comfort her.



With a soft, almost musical sound, the air in the parlor rippled and the ghost of Admiral Lord Nelson appeared.



“All is in readiness, William,” Horatio said, his form transparent in the darkened room. “It is time to depart.”



Sophia looked up and stared at William. He hesitated, still searching for some way to comfort her. She shook her head, turned on her heel, and left him to his distractions.



In her heart she made a vow: this was the last time she would forgive him. If he did not concentrate on the wedding when he returned from America, there would be no wedding at all.



AFTER SOPHIA’S DEPARTURE, it took William several minutes to calm himself. It was no small task to translocate across the breadth of the Atlantic Ocean, and even more of a challenge to do so when the chosen destination for the spell was a place he had only ever seen in paintings.



When he had sufficiently recovered himself, he glanced at the ghost of Lord Nelson, shimmering in the late afternoon light.



“The moment I arrive, I shall summon you, Horatio.”



“Aye, aye, my young friend,” the ghost said, giving a small salute with his only hand.



William reflected for a moment on how much more confident their exchange had sounded than he felt. But then he knew that the time for such hesitation was through. He had to concentrate on the translocation spell.



Swift’s of London had recently made investments in the burgeoning city of New Orleans. One of their business partners was Clement Beauregard, with whom William had corresponded regularly since taking over the reins of the institution. Now he focused on the cordial letters he had received from Beauregard, who had mentioned many times his wife’s love for the gardens behind their large Bourbon Street estate in the Vieux Carre of New Orleans.



He seized in his mind upon the bright purple of bougainvillea in full bloom, and upon the Bourbon Street address of the Beauregard family. And he spoke the words.



“Under the same sky, under the same moon, like a fallen leaf ,” he began.



Though he no longer needed to perform the incantation aloud to achieve translocation, in this instance, with such great distance and so uncertain a destination, it seemed the best choice. Eyes closed, he repeated the words, breathing evenly, then he reached within himself, and let his heart touch the magic that had pulsed there every moment since he had inherited the power and duty of Protector of Albion.



The world shifted around him. Suddenly there was nothing solid under his feet. For just a moment it was as though he was hurtling through the air, and a chill touched his bones. Whatever limbo the magic brought him through, it was quite cold.



Then his feet were on the ground again and gravity took hold. Weakened by the effort, he went down on one knee as he opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by beautiful bougainvillea, redolent with heady scents.



“Well done,” he whispered to himself as he stood, a bit shaky on his feet.



He was not normally disoriented from translocating, but then, usually he had Tamara with him. William told himself it was the distance and anxiety, rather than her absence, but he knew it was a combination of all three. Still, he recovered almost immediately.



The gardens behind the Beauregard home were indeed stunning, a sprawl of flowers and trees and plants, with elegant pathways that wound among them, perfect for a stroll. But the moment William stepped away from the bougainvillea he found himself in the sun for the first time, and the heat of the day touched him.



The time difference meant that the afternoon here was really just beginning, and it was going to be a long, arduous day. The heat was insufferable and the air humid. William had never been in a jungle, but exposed for only a minute to this weather, he felt certain he would have no desire to visit one.



The mansion loomed ahead. He did not see anyone at the rear of the house, or through any of the visible windows, but still he wanted to be off the property quickly, before someone mistook him for a thief. That was one irony he hoped to avoid.



He slipped behind a large bush whose provenance he did not recognize, but which blocked him sufficiently from view.



“Lord Nelson, join me now!” he said as forcefully as he could without actually shouting. The words of the Protector were carried through the spectral realm when he performed a true summoning, as he did now.



For a moment, William was concerned that because he was not in Albion, Horatio would not hear him, but then the hot, sticky air shimmered and the ghost manifested before him.



Horatio executed a courtly bow. “At your service, good sir.”



William smiled with relief. It surprised him how much better he felt to know that he had at least one stalwart ally with him on this journey.



“All right, then,” he said to the phantom admiral. “Let’s not waste a moment. I’d like to get back to Sophia as quickly as possible. I shall make inquiries in the Vieux Carre regarding Philippe Mandeville, while you consult the local spirits, and we will rendezvous in two hours on the steps of St. Louis Cathedral.”



“Right. I’m off, then,” Horatio replied. Then he narrowed his undamaged eye and studied William. “Have a care, young one. The Battle of New Orleans was not so very long ago. War leaves long memories. You may not be welcomed with open arms.”



William nodded solemnly. This had been one of his greatest concerns. The British had laid siege to the city less than a quarter century before, and many remembered the final battle of the war quite well. “I will be wary.”



With a light trilling sound, the ghost faded from the air, and William was alone again. He stepped out onto the path that wound through the garden behind the Beauregard mansion and began to walk quickly. He attempted to adopt a carefree mien, as though he belonged in this place.



Good fortune was with him, for if anyone saw him that afternoon trespassing on the property of his New Orleans business partner, no one appeared at window or door to challenge his presence. In moments he was on Bourbon Street, beginning his first sojourn into the Vieux Carre.



Thanks to the heat, there were few people on the street at that time of day. Several carriages rattled past, and there were a handful of couples, well-dressed men and women who glanced at him curiously but quickly averted their eyes. Creole cottages and town houses were dotted among the shops and businesses. Beautifully intricate iron balconies hung above the streets.



The ladies carried parasols to shield them from the bright sun, and when he had turned up Rue Dumaine and then started along Dauphine, he heard voices rising from within shops and from the courtyards of private homes, all of them speaking French. It had been less than forty years since the French had sold Louisiana to the United States, and the Vieux Carre was still very much the French Quarter.



It occurred to William as he walked the street that he was not certain where to begin asking about Philippe Mandeville. Quickly, he realized that he knew so little about the man that there was no point in guessing. It would require luck to track him down. The only factor in his favor was that the Vieux Carre was relatively small, and that he would not have to stray beyond the French Quarter in search of Mandeville, who was obviously of French descent.



So he began to ask. At hotels and banks, at jewelers and clothiers, at a cabinetmaker’s and a bakery, he inquired after the mysterious Philippe Mandeville, describing him as an eccentric Creole gentleman with a predilection for the strange and obscure, who collected antiquated books and other artifacts. He went down toward the river and stood captivated for a moment by the sight of two majestic steamboats awaiting passengers.



Then William set his sights lower for Monsieur Mandeville, asking after him in bars, gambling houses, and theaters. From within the latter, he heard the sound of music being rehearsed, and it was vibrant and beautiful. As he passed restaurants that were open to serve a midday meal, he smelled unfamiliar yet tantalizing spices.



From most of those he asked about Mandeville, William received blank looks. Some of the people of New Orleans were openly hostile from the moment they heard his accent. There were those who pretended not to understand English, and then, when he spoke in French, made it clear they thought his French so atrocious that they still could not understand him.



Yet others did cooperate. Several thought that perhaps they’d heard of Mandeville, and one helpful soul— a mulatto man William met emerging from a tobacconist’s— noted that he seemed to recall a Mandeville among the known associates of “the Widow Paris.” When William pushed for further information about this woman— of whom the man spoke in a hushed, almost anxious tone— the gentleman only smiled, shook his head, and turned away.



It was nearly three o’clock when William arrived at the steps of St. Louis Cathedral. That austere structure gazed balefully down upon him, but it was as good a choice as any for a rendezvous point. William was still an architect at heart— a vocation that his father’s “illness” had forced him to abandon at present— and he knew a great deal about the structure of churches. He also knew something about their nature. Other than those headed there for worship, very few people would look at the face of the church, and if they did, it would be to peer upward at the way the building reached for the heavens.



An odd young Englishman talking to himself wasn’t going to draw very much attention there. No one would see the specter, only the man.



So when Horatio appeared at his side, barely a hint of the ghost visible in the afternoon light, William didn’t worry about what anyone would think of their conversation.



“Any luck, Horatio?”



“Perhaps a scrap or two,” the ghost replied, smoothing the jacket of his spectral uniform. “What of your own efforts?”



William grimaced. “Sadly, very little to show. Our Monsieur Mandeville seems next to unknown in the Vieux Carre. Though we might want to seek out a woman called the Widow Paris. Apparently, they are part of the same social circle or may have been at some point.”



A cloud passed across the sun and its shadow reached the front of the cathedral. William saw a look of deep concern, even dread, appear upon the ghost’s face.



“What is it?” he asked.



“The woman you speak of, the so-called Widow Paris,” Horatio began. “I was specifically warned against seeking her out. She is known by another name here, Marie Laveau, and the spirits of the dead who wander New Orleans are deeply frightened of her, even though they are no longer flesh and blood.”



“She’s evil, this Laveau woman?” William asked.



Horatio shook his head. “I cannot say. All I gathered was that she is powerful, and that they fear her. It was suggested that instead, we seek out another woman of Mandeville’s acquaintance by the name of Antoinette Morton, in the Marigny district.”



As William contemplated their next step he looked down at Jackson Square and saw an elderly woman walking past the front of the cathedral with another, not quite as old, who might have been her daughter. The heat was still oppressive and sweat dampened William’s clothes, and he questioned the sanity of anyone who would be taking a stroll in such climes. But the locals, he knew, must be used to such horrid weather.



The women had paused to stare at him. He smiled at the elder of the two and turned to Horatio.



“We have few options, my friend.”



FAUBOURG MARIGNY HAD ONCE BEEN a plantation belonging to a Creole family, but in the first decade of the nineteenth century it had been developed into quite a respectable neighborhood. Since it was just along the river from the Vieux Carre, William walked the distance, guided by Nelson, who remained unseen and unheard by any of the ordinary citizens of New Orleans.



William had his jacket over his shoulder and the top of his shirt unbuttoned. He had been sweating so much that he worried about dehydration, and knew he needed to stop for a glass of water, even if he had to summon a glass and use a spell to fill it. It would have been far simpler to translocate, but he was exhausted, and had no way of knowing how many witnesses would be there to see his arrival if he traveled by magic. Crossing the Atlantic had been necessary, a calculated risk. But this was only blocks.



No, he would walk.



At Esplanade Street he turned north. The road was busier now that the shadows had grown longer and the heat had diminished somewhat. William wished he could stroll back down to the river, to sit and watch it go by, perhaps have a glass of wine and taste the Creole cuisine. But that was not to be. Not today. One day, perhaps he would return to New Orleans on more pleasant business.



At Goodchildren Street, he turned right. A carriage stood in front of the third house he passed, and as he turned to examine it, he saw a man emerge from the house, a wealthy gentleman from the look of him. On the threshold stood a woman of color, her skin a gleaming caramel that suggested some white ancestry. The gentleman reached back for her and drew her to him in a passionate kiss. They laughed together and then the gentleman strode to his carriage.



In the doorway, a small child, no more than four, joined the woman, clinging to her skirts. The little boy was far lighter skinned than his mother, and it occurred to William that the man who now departed was his father— yet this was not the gentleman’s household, to be sure. Or perhaps it was, but a second household.



The man saw William staring and glared at him a moment, as if affronted. William turned away and continued along Goodchildren Street, but his curiosity found him paying close attention to the houses he passed. If the behavior he had just witnessed was so commonplace as to be conducted out of doors, within sight of any passerby, how much a part of New Orleans society were such arrangements?



The moment lingered in his mind and he wondered at the strange layers of a culture in which Africans and the sons and daughters of Africans were still held as slaves, but white men took free women of color as their mistresses, gave them children, and set up households in which to keep them.



When they reached the address Horatio had obtained, William stood on the street for a moment, staring at the door. Something did not feel right about the place. The afternoon shadows gathered in strange patches in the upper corners of the windows, like spiderwebs spun from darkness. An unpleasant ripple passed through him.



Warily, he went to the door and knocked. The sound resonated inside and something creaked on the other side of the door. Several seconds of silence passed, and then he heard a scratching against the wood.



There came the click of the lock being drawn back and William took a step away from the door. He glanced to his left and saw Horatio’s ghost nearby, strangely substantial in the shadows at the front of the house.



The door opened.



The woman who stood within was breathtaking. Her skin was a rich coffee brown and there was a light in her almond-shaped eyes like nothing he had ever seen. Her hair was pulled back tightly and she wore white cotton that clung to her, a small breeze fluttering the material and tugging it against her, showing the outline of her body in fine detail.



William found himself speechless.



“Do I know you, mister?” she said, and her voice broke whatever spell he’d been under. It was sweet enough, but ordinary, and brought him back to the world.



“Are you Miss Antoinette Morton?” he asked.



She arched an eyebrow when she heard his accent. Her lips parted fetchingly as she was about to reply, but then she frowned and glanced into the shadows by the door, where Horatio stood, observing them.



“That ghost a friend of yours?” she asked.



William blinked.



At first he tried to find some other explanation for her words, but only an idiot would have denied the obvious. The woman was a sensitive of some kind, perhaps a medium or a magician, or both.



“In fact, he is,” William replied.



She smiled, those almond eyes sparkling. “All right, then, I’ll play along. Yes, I’m Antoinette Morton. And I’m unused to having strange Englishmen calling at my door.”



Her breath smelled of cinnamon. William felt a powerful stirring and he forced himself to avert his gaze. Sophia was angry enough with him already. He could not allow himself to be captivated by this woman and yet she was an alluring creature, no doubt.



Enchanting



He frowned, wondering if she was, truly, enchanting him. He had sensed magic in this house from the moment of his arrival, and the shadows that gathered in the windows were not natural. A sorceress, perhaps?



“Miss Morton, I do hope you’ll forgive the intrusion,” he said. “My name is William Swift. I arrive upon your doorstep on a mission of some urgency, and— ”



Cinnamon. The smell was almost overpowering.



“Your father, is it? Got a demon in him?”



William gawped at her. “How on earth could you— ”



“Some people say I got voices in my head, Mr. Swift. I say they’re spirits. You you can call them whatever you like.” Antoinette Morton smiled and stepped back, opening the door wide.



Within, William could see candles burning and small idols and paintings of men and women with their hands clasped in prayer like saints, or with the wounds and blood of martyrs, but they were unlike any saints or martyrs he had ever seen.



“Got some more whispering up here,” she said, tapping the side of her head. “Why don’t you come on in, and we’ll talk a bit about your father, and magic, and then about the man you really came to N’awlins to find.”



William paused on the threshold, new scents reaching him, incense burning within the house. “You know Philippe Mandeville, then?”



“Know him?” she asked, then gave a small laugh. “He’s my daddy.”



OLD PHILIPPE DOESN’T LIKE VISITORS, Antoinette had said. No one out on the bayou is gonna bring you over to his place.



She served him coffee and beignets in her parlor, and told him about the old sorcerer and alchemist who had fallen in love with her mother, once upon a time. Antoinette barely knew the man, but she was among the very few people in the world he would tolerate now. She was blood, according to Mandeville. That meant something to him.



So when Antoinette had suggested that the only way for William to see her father was if she took him out to Bayou Teche herself, he abandoned all thoughts of translocating there. Arriving upon the man’s doorstep with his daughter ought to buy him at least an audience.



It had taken hours to arrange a carriage and then travel out of New Orleans on one of the levee roads that ran through Bayou Teche and the parishes surrounding the state capital. During that time, William confirmed what he had already begun to believe.



Antoinette Morton was indeed a sorceress, though she had another name for her magic. Vodoun, she called it. Apparently she was skilled in many mystical arts, thanks to her father, but had gravitated toward the beliefs of her mother’s people, thanks to the guidance of the loa, the spirits she claimed spoke to her.



William did not waste a moment doubting her claim about those spirits. He might not be able to see them, but given that the ghost of Horatio Nelson sat with them in the open carriage as they rode out across the levee, the sun sinking into the bayou with a red gleam as the night swept over the water he was in no position to question anyone’s belief in spirits.