Incarnation (18 page)

We remained unmoving until at last the dust began to settle. Slowly, Marco stepped away from the door. I did the same. Together, we stared at the ruins of the foundry, still shifting and settling like a creature in its death throes. All around us lay the dead and, in far smaller number, the dying, their piteous final moans filling the acrid air. Too quickly, unearthly quiet descended.

As from a distance, I heard my voice, flattened by shock. The horrible possibility rising in my mind could not be denied. “This can’t be a coincidence, us being here, my seeing Mordred, just when this happened. Could what I did, crossing over the barriers that separate time and place, have caused this?”

Marco hesitated. Clearly, he wanted to reassure me that I had no role in what had happened, yet he was too intrinsically honest to lie. “We have no way of knowing and, at any rate, you did what you had to. If you want to blame someone, blame whoever took Mordred and set all this in motion.” To forestall any further discussion, he added, “The authorities will arrive at any moment. We must go.”

Already, the all-seeing dirigibles were moving overhead, the Watchers on board searching for anything that could explain the calamity that had just occurred. Quickly, I took Marco’s arm. Together, we hurried up the hill to the train station only to discover what with hindsight we should have expected. Given the disaster at the foundry, the station was closed. A helmeted police officer stood out in front, directing everyone away. With great effort we retraced our steps and managed to reach the river, crossing at Blackfriar’s Bridge. The statue of Her Imperial Majesty loomed over us. Victoria looked more than usually displeased, but perhaps that was only my imagination.

To the south on the opposite shore, vast clouds of smoke rose from the foundry site. As I watched, several more steam-powered fire wagons raced across the bridge. More dirigibles were moving into position above the wreckage.

Turning to me, Marco said, “We must get off the streets. Can you walk?”

Only then did I realize that I was sagging against him. The
encounter with Mordred had left me profoundly drained. My limbs shook and I felt scarcely able to hold my head up. Even so, I nodded.

Staying off the main thoroughfares, we made our way slowly through narrow, twisting lanes that I recognized as remnants of the London I had glimpsed from Mordred’s tower now all but lost in the vastly greater metropolis reaching out in all directions to engulf everything in its path. But where a lane ended, a gate stood open, leading onward to sloping stone steps, a basement passage, and up again into the sunlight, the way made smooth by others who had gone before us, as intent as we were on avoiding notice. The ancient city seemed to be devising its own means of surviving in our harsh new age.

As we walked, I related to Marco some of what Mordred had managed to tell me. Of Gladstone’s role, I said nothing. That could wait.

When I had finished, he said, “A subterranean room within hearing of the river. Traffic above. Screams and music. That is all?”

“I’m afraid so. Of course, there is the man . . . or devil. Mordred wasn’t sure which he is.”

“He is a man,” Marco said flatly. “Mordred is all too familiar with dark spirits, devils, demons, and the like. He would have no trouble recognizing one of them no matter what disguise the creature came in.”

I remained doubtful. “A man capable of capturing the king of the vampires and holding him against his will? What sort of man could that be?”

“I don’t know,” Marco admitted. “But I do know someone who might have an idea.”

As he spoke, a pair of Watchers appeared at the end of the
lane. Seeing us, they paused. At once, Marco said loudly, “Dear heart, I know you are fond of what you insist on calling ‘quaint old London,’ but I must tell you that I have no desire to live anywhere other than Mayfair. What civilized man would?”

“But don’t you see,” I said, falling in with his ploy, “how artistic and interesting it all is?”

“What I see is mold and dry rot, nothing else. But if you must have an ancient pile somewhere, let it at least be in the country. We can go down to Kent next week. I’ve heard of several properties there that—”

Disinterested in our domestic conversation, the Watchers moved on. Marco and I waited until they were gone before we did the same. Through another close, down a shadowed alley, we came out into the narrow lane that ran alongside the Serjeant’s Inn. A moment later, we entered the office of Barrister Nicolas di Orsini, who, once again, was not present.

“The bath is through there,” Marco said. “If you’d like to clean up.”

Catching a glimpse of myself in a framed mirror hanging on one wall, I flinched. Like Marco, I was covered from head to foot with ash and grit.

“I’ll use another down the hall,” he said.

The bath was well appointed including a large claw-footed tub that I looked at longingly. But with time so pressing and not wishing to presume upon the tolerance of my absent host, I washed my hands and face, then set about damp sponging my clothes. As I did, I found myself recalling how Marco and I had eluded the Watchers. An obviously mismatched couple arguing over where to live. Just the sort of nonsense that humans fell into and that I, when I was fully one of them, had observed with amusement. How fortunate I was to have escaped all that.

Yet Kent was pleasant at this time of year and Mayfair, where my family lived when they were in London, had much to recommend it. Such a couple might reach an accord after all. Perhaps even find that they could rub along congenially enough. Assuming one was willing to settle for a life of such petty concerns—love, children, a future destined to end in inevitable death. Death that lent such poignant flavor to life, shaping it and giving it meaning where otherwise there would be none. One night flowing into the next, lost in frivolous or worse, vicious pleasure.

How had Mordred endured the tedium of immortality for so long? How had he managed to find purpose in such an interminable existence? Did he find his strength in the realm whose king he surely would have been had his father only seen his worth? Or was it from Morgaine, the woman he had lost to remorseless fate, that he drew the will to go on?

Were vampires capable of such love? Could a cold, still heart hold fire within?

I caught myself rubbing far too hard at a stubborn bit of ash and stopped abruptly. My hair was a tangled mess. I set about rearranging it, pulling harder than I had to at the snarls. The last pin was scarcely in place when I heard the door to the street open and close.

Assuming that Nicolas di Orsini had returned, I gathered what strength I had left and stepped into the office. My intention was to introduce myself and explain my presence. If he was as knowledgeable as his brother, he was likely to recognize what I was. I had to hope that Marco would appear swiftly and put him at ease.

All this was in my mind when I caught sight of the man standing just inside the door. He was as tall and broad
shouldered as his sibling, but where Marco’s hair was brown, Nicolas’ was black shot through with silver, the latter at odds with his obvious youthfulness. His eyes, when the light hit them, held an amber sheen. As I watched, his nostrils flared and he took a quick step toward me.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

A taste flitted across my tongue carrying with it a cascade of sensations—cold air, the rush of wind, flesh and blood, and the moon, low in the sky, beckoning. Fear gripped me but hard alongside it rode hatred and rage that threatened to be all consuming.

My response to him stunned me. For a horrible moment, I felt myself plummeting into a chasm where reason did not exist and only bloodlust ruled.

“Your fangs are showing, Miss Weston.”

His matter-of-fact tone was enough to draw me back. Embarrassed, and not a little appalled with myself, I asked, “Do I know you?”

My question appeared to amuse him. He advanced farther into the room but did not come near me, circling around instead so that I was forced to turn to face him. I was shamefully relieved to notice that unlike his sibling, he did not wear anything resembling the red pendant.

“Of course not,” he said. “How could you possibly? We’ve only just met.” Shrugging out of his coat, he added, “I’ll warrant my brother has something to do with your being here.”

“Guilty.” Marco stepped into the room from the hall. Like me, he had managed to remove the worst of the ash and grit from his face and clothes. For the first time I saw that a gash several inches long ran down the left side of his brow. A little
further and it would have reached his eye. Guilt stabbed me as I realized that he had likely acquired it while protecting me.

“What happened to you?” Nicolas asked, frowning.

Marco touched a finger to the wound as though he had only then remembered its existence. “This? It’s nothing. You heard about the foundry?”

His brother nodded. “The authorities are wasting no time pointing the finger of blame at the anarchists.”

“The truth is rather more complicated,” Marco said. “I see you’ve met Miss Weston.” As he spoke, he stepped between us. His manner toward his brother was entirely pleasant, yet I was struck by the odd sensation that he was once again intent on protecting me. At the foundry, the danger had been obvious. But here . . . ?

“Lucy, may I present my brother, Nicolas? He’s not a bad sort, just a bit rough around the edges.”

The younger di Orsini gave a quick, hard laugh, but at the same time he appeared to relax. More pleasantly, he said, “Pardon my manners, Miss Weston, or the lack of them. You should know that I am the black sheep of the family, rather ironically, since I’m not good with sheep at all.” With a glance at Marco, he added, “But it seems that my brother is aspiring to take the title from me.”

“Nicolas—” Marco looked disinclined to discuss the matter, but his sibling was not deterred.

“No, seriously, what are you thinking of, consorting with a vampire? I cannot begin to imagine how the family will respond. But I am sure that it will make what happened with me look like extreme tolerance.”

“That isn’t important now,” Marco insisted. “Miss Weston
has been through an ordeal. She needs to rest. If you aren’t prepared to help us—”

In truth, I was swaying on my feet. I had become so accustomed to the power of my new state that I was at a loss how to cope without it. The floor was rushing up toward me when I found myself lying on a leather couch. Marco loomed over me frowning. Just behind, his brother watched us both.

“Shall I call for tea?” Nicolas asked. “That is what one offers fainting females, isn’t it? Or do you require something stronger, Miss Weston?”

“Leave her alone,” Marco snapped. “She was able to find Mordred.”

At once, Nicolas’ manner changed. From his response, I gathered that he knew about the vampire king’s disappearance and the urgent need to find him. “Why didn’t you say so at once? If we know where he is—”

“We don’t,” I said. The weakness of my voice appalled me, but I struggled on despite it. “I’ve only managed to communicate with him. He was able to give us a few clues as to his whereabouts, nothing more.”

“I don’t understand—” Nicolas began.

“Lucy has a connection to him,” Marco explained. “He incarnated her for a reason, but—”

Nicolas shrugged as though the answer was obvious. “Her mother is of Morgaine’s bloodline.”

“How could you possibly know that?” I asked. Indeed, how could he have known about me at all? Marco had not told him, that much was obvious from the exchanges between the brothers.

“I asked Stoker,” Nicolas said. He was smiling as he spoke, clearly anticipating our reaction.

Marco straightened and stared at his brother. “You’ve talked with the Irishman?”

“Indeed. He’s a font of information, shockingly little of which he included in his so-called novel. Perhaps he’s saving it for a sequel.”

I ignored the suggestion that Stoker could follow deceit with yet more deception and said, “I thought he was a pen for hire, nothing more.” Surely that was the impression Mr. Stoker had gone to great lengths to create during our single meeting.

Nicolas looked surprised. “Stoker? Hardly. He’s been one of Gladstone’s operatives for years, mainly to do with the sorry Irish business. But he’s had a hand in elsewhere, as well.”

“Gladstone?” I repeated, mindful of what Mordred had revealed. “What has he to do with this?”

Former Prime Minister William Gladstone, the Lion of Parliament as he was still known, was a very old man who, having served his country for six decades, including no fewer than four terms as prime minister, should have been living in honorable retirement. But if the whispers were to be believed, he still had a firm hand on the British ship of state.

“If Stoker is so well informed,” Marco said, “perhaps he is the man we should ask.”

“Not a bad idea,” Nicolas agreed. “Now about that tea—”

I declined. Hard on the sapping of my strength had come hunger I could not deny no matter how desperately I tried. As much as I wanted to challenge Marco about his nature as a Protector, it would have to wait. I stood, smoothing my skirts even as I observed how my hands trembled.

“I must go.”

Marco rose, his face creased with concern. “Don’t be absurd. You need to rest and we have much to discuss.”