Witchery: A Ghosts of Albion Novel (Ghosts of Albion #2)

Go on, then; you’re wasting my time.”

John sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“Lord Blackheath was less than pleased that I returned from Ludlow House without the creature. Seems to think your sister’s charms dissuaded me from pursuing the assignment to the best of my ability. Now he has insisted, rather emphatically, that I retrieve the sprite and see to it that she is promptly returned to the fairy council for questioning. We all know how difficult the fairies can be, and no one wants to incur their wrath.”

William nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes. Well then, you’ve nothing to worry about. As you must suspect, Tamara has taken the sprite with her to Cornwall. I have no doubt she will approach the council soon after her arrival. If the belligerent butterflies at the Cornish stronghold have business with Serena, it will be sorted out quickly enough.

“It’s no longer your concern, Haversham, or Lord Blackheath’s.”

John narrowed his gaze. “I did have that suspicion, but needed to hear it spoken aloud. As for Lord Blackheath, I rather think he will decide for himself what is and is not his business.”

William Swift surprised him, then. The all too priggish young man had lacked confidence in his role as Protector of Albion from the start. Now, though, he lifted his chin and glared at John with surprising iron.

“Where our friends are concerned, Mr. Haversham, the Algernon Club is not, and will not ever be in a position to instruct the Protectors of Albion as to our behavior. Serena has earned our trust and protection. Lord Blackheath interferes with that at his own peril.”

For a long moment, John studied him. Then he nodded. “Well, the point is moot, isn’t it? Now that you’ve confirmed that the sprite’s gone home, we’ve nothing to quibble about.”

They sat for a few moments, neither man speaking. Finally, the clanging of dishes from the next room broke the spell.

John stood to go.

“Wait, Haversham— ”

He pivoted on his heel and regarded William, presuming he was about to be upbraided again for his friendship with Tamara. But once again William surprised him.

“Look, John ”

The familiarity felt purposeful and forced, but it piqued his curiosity. “Yes?”

William looked down at his hands.

“I need your advice, actually.”

John raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“There have been some thefts at the bank,” William said, when he realized no reply was forthcoming. “Swift’s of London has always prided itself on its integrity and ability to protect the interests of its clients. And now ” He shrugged.

“You have no thoughts as to the culprit’s identity?” John asked.

“None save that whoever is responsible is either very clever or magically inclined.”

Even more intrigued, John cocked his head and studied William. “Why do you say that?”

“Only four people, myself included, have access to the vault keys. I have placed wards upon the vault that ought to prevent magical intrusion, but— ”

Haversham shrugged. “So it must be one of the other three.”

William waved the suggestion away. “Impossible. I trust them all implicitly, or I would never have given them the combination to the safe where the keys are kept. It’s got to be magic, don’t you see? And someone clever enough to make their way past my wards, yet leave no trace. Someone skilled at both sorcery and thievery.”

Slowly, John nodded. “Ah. I see. Of course the combination of the two is rare, and since you know only one man with experience in both pursuits, you’ve got one suspect already.”

“Now, just a moment,” William said, shifting awkwardly in his chair.

“Come now, Willy. Surely you’re not the type to deny your suspicions. You think I’m your thief. Admit it,” John prodded, grinning humorlessly. “Even I would suspect me, if I didn’t know better.”

The wealthy young banker tapped his fingers on the table and stared at Haversham, striving to regain his composure. He waited, as though he thought silence would force a confession.

John smiled.

“It isn’t me, William. Which leads me to ask what you plan to do about discovering who is stealing from you.”

“I’ve already hired someone to investigate at the bank, in the event that it is just a remarkably clever thief. If there’s magic involved, though, I’d hoped you might have some suggestions as to how I might proceed.”

“You’ve got wards up. Seems to me you’ve done what you can, other than sleeping in the vault yourself.”

William averted his gaze. “Other responsibilities preclude me from taking such a direct hand in the matter, at least for the moment. Though it may come to that.” He looked up. “Meanwhile, I’d be grateful if you’d keep your eyes and ears open at the Algernon Club. Perhaps you’ll learn something an ordinary investigator— one who won’t consider a magical source— could not.”

John nodded. “If I come across any better suspects than myself, I shall be certain to inform you.”

WILLIAM MARCHED INTO THE FOYER of Ludlow House and slammed the heavy oak door behind him. It frustrated him no end that he had been forced to let Haversham get the upper hand in their conversation. He had never appreciated being taken lightly, and that was precisely what Haversham had done. The man was toying with him.

Or was he? Is he really so innocent?

The question was driving him mad.

Yet even that trouble paled in comparison to the issue that occupied nearly his every waking hour of late. William hurried up the stairs, taking them two at a time, impatient to return to his most vital task: exorcising the demon from his father’s flesh.

ALL MORNING AND AFTERNOON the ghost of Lord Admiral Horatio Nelson had haunted the library of his old friend Ludlow Swift. Ostensibly he was doing research, but in truth he had spent much of the time reminiscing. He had begun searching through Ludlow’s journals for any reference to possession that might help to exorcise Henry, and was slowly working his way through them from first to last.

Fortunately, magic lingered in all of Ludlow’s possessions, making it easier for Nelson to manipulate them. With proper focus, ghosts could handle physical objects, but a residue of magical influence simplified the task.

Horatio had not realized how much he missed his old friend until he saw Ludlow’s spidery scrawl stretched out across the page. They had shared many an adventure together, most of them chronicled in these very journals. With each flip of the page, he found himself reliving his own strange, ghostly past, one that had allowed him to continue his personal vendetta against evil long after death.

During his life, Horatio had assumed that he would be buried in the ground, or dropped down into the watery embrace of the sea, where his flesh would rot and he would cease to exist as if he had never lived at all. How astonished he had been to find himself still strangely conscious after he closed his eyes for what he’d thought was the final time.

During his fleshly existence, Horatio had been a tireless fighter in the battle to protect England from anyone who sought to destroy it. But it wasn’t until after his death that he realized how many opponents he truly faced. There were far more perils facing Albion than he had ever known.

Byron and Bodicea had been a part of the battle for England’s mystical spirit even before their deaths, had been involved in the war against the darkness during their lifetimes, but for Horatio it had all come after his death. Yet once he learned of it, how could he, of all people, fail to continue the battle? He would rather spend eternity locked in an unwinnable conflict than wander the spirit realm aimlessly, or worse yet, pass on to his final rest, never to enjoy contact with the human world again.

The door to the library flew open and William strode in, pulling Nelson abruptly from his reverie.

“Anything, Horatio?”

William dropped into one of the large, stuffed wingback chairs that sat beside the fireplace.

The ghost shook his head solemnly.

“We must find something!” William snapped. “The situation is becoming intolerable.”

Horatio nodded. He felt exactly as William did, but he had the wisdom of time and experience that allowed him to see that no matter how frustrated they became, anger would not speed the process.

“You must have patience, William. Your anger will do nothing but hinder our progress.”

William leaned back in his chair, his face set.

“We shall continue on with our research, and see what we can find,” Horatio continued. He was sure that this day would not yield the fruit they sought, but they had to battle on regardless. In time, the solution would present itself. “We must persevere, my friend.”

“As usual, you’re right.” William sighed, standing up and moping over to one of the bookcases.

Horatio smiled. He had come to think of William as more than just Ludlow’s grandson; more like his grandson. Yet he found it difficult to express this fondness. It was uncomfortable.

He had spent so many years in command of headstrong young men much like William that he could not seem to bridge the distance between them. As was common for him, he wished that the ghost of his Emma, the lovely Lady Hamilton, had lingered after her death. Oh, how he missed her good counsel. She would have known exactly how to lift William’s dreary spirits.

Now William extracted a small tome from one of the lower shelves. It was a book that Horatio had never noticed before. This wasn’t unusual, as there were hundreds of books arranged lovingly on these shelves. Silently, the two of them immersed themselves in their research. Horatio concentrated on a large volume he had left open on a nearby table.

“Horatio ?” William called, his voice an octave higher than usual. He came toward the ghost, the book held almost reverently in his hands. “Were you aware that Roger Bacon wrote a grimoire that was lost in the late fifteenth century?”

“What do you want with a book by that blasphemer?” the specter asked.

“It says here,” William replied, pointing to a page in the book he was reading, “that this grimoire contained a hex capable of compelling the spirit of a demon into an inanimate object, like a stone or statue.”

Horatio shook his head. “That grimoire is a legend, as much of a myth as the idea of eternal life, or turning lead into gold— ”

William began to pace excitedly, ignoring Horatio.

“No, it exists. It must. We must find it. It is of the utmost importance.”

“But you said yourself it’s been lost for four hundred years.”

Now the young man smiled as he turned to face Horatio. “Lost to others, perhaps. But the magician who wrote this treatise claims to know its location. The last man purported to possess the grimoire was a Frenchman called Philippe Mandeville. We must go to Paris as soon as possible. It may be our last hope.”

Horatio frowned, his spectral substance rippling with unease. “This Mandeville ”

“Yes?”

“I know of him. He is a very powerful sorcerer and alchemist, but he is also a collector of all things mystical. I have no doubt he would like nothing more than to possess one of the Protectors of Albion for his permanent collection,” Horatio finished.

William raised an eyebrow.

“What do you mean? How would he collect a person?”

Horatio paused, choosing his words carefully.

“Mandeville was driven out of Paris many years ago. Whispers say he traveled to America— New Orleans, specifically— after an angry mob called for his neck on the guillotine.”

William shook his head. “I don’t understand. What was his crime?”

The ghost shuddered.

“His crime, William? The theft and trafficking of human souls.”

NEW ORLEANS. William had never been to America, and this seemed a less-than-auspicious occasion for his first journey there. But if there was a chance he could find Philippe Mandeville and through him, Bacon’s grimoire, then nothing would keep him from making the trip.

He was in his chambers preparing for his journey when there came a knock upon the door.

“Come in.”

The door opened slowly to reveal Sophia standing at the threshold. She wore a pale blue silk dress that set off the richness of her hazel eyes, and complemented the creamy smoothness of her skin. She looked like a china doll, her dark hair falling about her shoulders.

She waited for William to address her, but he was intent on packing his things. Finally, she cleared her throat. Realizing his discourtesy, he went to her and quickly placed a kiss upon the bridge of her nose before pivoting back to the wardrobe for his greatcoat.

“Nelson and I are off, my dear. We shall try and be as quick as possible, but with these things you simply never know.”

SOPHIA LISTENED, becoming truly aware for the first time how completely consumed he was with finding a cure for his father’s illness. She realized with a start that she had somehow slipped to a secondary position in his priorities.

The realization chilled her.

Her whole life she had struggled with the idea of keeping separate what she wanted from what she needed. She had always reasoned that they were two different things, but now, too late, she saw that they were one and the same.

She had wanted William most of her life, desired him with greed and hunger, but when that want had turned to need, she could not have said. Now she knew for a fact that she couldn’t live without him, that he was necessary in her life. Without him, hers would be only a half-life.

“ and Byron will be here keeping watch over Father. If you have any difficulties, you can always rely upon Martha, and call upon Nigel if absolutely necessary. I shall make every arrangement to see that you are safe and comfortable here while I’m away,” William continued, slipping on a pair of boots before picking up his valise and moving past her to the doorway.

“I shall be downstairs with Horatio, preparing. Come and say farewell and wish me luck before we go,” he said, giving her another kiss, this time on the lips, and hurrying down the hall, leaving her alone in his empty room.

Sophia leaned back against the doorjamb, her head spinning. She realized she had not said one word to him during the entire encounter, and he had not even paused long enough from his preoccupation to ask her why.

She sighed and closed her eyes. The question she had come to ask him was a superfluous thing about the wedding dinner— something she was more than capable of deciding herself, but she had wanted his opinion nonetheless. Now she knew it might never be answered at all.

“I’M A GHOST, MY PET,” Byron said, his spectral form shimmering, almost lost in the dim corridor. “I’ve been privileged enough to see things I shouldn’t have seen, so I know precisely the size of the member you’ve been impaling yourself upon.”

His mischievous face floated only a few feet in front of her, and Sophia knew that even in the gloom of the hall he could see the effect his words had upon her. She found herself flushing a deep shade of crimson, but she tried not to let embarrassment overtake her.

They stood— though Byron, of course, actually floated— in the hallway by the second-floor landing. She had left William’s room in a daze, uncertain of where she was going, only to run into Byron, who seemed to be waiting for her in the hall.

He had seen the look of misery on her face and proceeded to console her by trying to whisper sweetly in her ear. When she swatted him away, her fingers slipping through his ghostly substance, he had turned to lust and perversion in an obvious effort to lift her spirits.

“Byron, you’re terrible— ” she said, covering her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“Don’t play coy with me, darling,” he said, as he floated closer to her. “I wasn’t born yesterday. For that matter, I didn’t die yesterday either. I know everything— and I do mean everything— that goes on in this monstrosity of a house.”

Sophia didn’t doubt that he thought he knew everything that went on at Ludlow House, but she had worked very hard to keep her now almost daily visits to Henry well away from Byron’s prying eyes.

“My physical encounters are really none of your business, Lord Byron.”

He fluttered his fingers happily. “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, my dear. I am here to listen and assist. And usually not in that order: you know what a hands-on kind of a fellow I am at heart.”

I know exactly where your hands would be if you thought they could do anything more than pass through my flesh. A hint of a smile crossed her lips.

Still, she found herself feeling a bit sorry for the ghosts. She could only imagine how much they must envy those who still had flesh to caress. Particularly a spirit as salacious as Byron.

“What are you thinking, Sophia, my sweet? You look a thousand miles away,” Byron said.

“Only naughty things, my lord poet,” Sophia shot back. Her tongue seemed to take on a life of its own whenever she was alone with Byron.

“That’s my girl,” he said, silently clapping his hands with glee.

“You know, there is one thing I can think of that might dispel my foul mood,” Sophia said, the words sliding out of her mouth before she could stop them.

“And that is ?”

“I would dearly love to be able to help William with his work,” she said. She tried to keep her face still, hoping he wouldn’t guess her true motives.

“At the bank, you mean?” Byron asked, his mouth turned down in distaste.

“No, I mean his work here.”

“I see.”

But obviously he does not.

“Byron, I know how much you detest research, but I wouldn’t know where to begin in that stuffy old library. Do you think you could be a dear and select some volumes that I might search through? This way, if William’s travels do not bear fruit, the work might continue in his absence.”

“I do hate Ludlow’s books. All about magic, and yet not a bit of it in the words themselves. No poetry, no lyricism. But if you’ll be doing all of the actual reading and you only need a bit of guidance, I suppose I could ”

“Oh, thank you!” she squealed, starting as though to embrace him and then faltering when she remembered that her grasp would only pass through.

He chuckled, enjoying the attention. “Shall we reconvene here at a quarter past the hour, then? Or perhaps you’ll just come to the library.”

“Excellent!” Sophia proclaimed. “The library it shall be.”

He blew Sophia a kiss before vanishing into the ether.

Sophia hiked the hem of her dress up so she wouldn’t trip as she ran up to the third floor and down the hall to the nursery. She hadn’t more than twenty minutes before she had to meet back with Byron, and she had news to share with Henry.

Good news.

He was sitting with his back against the cold, white wall of the nursery when Sophia eased the door open and stepped inside. She was dismayed to find that he had been moved back to the chair. Apparently his children thought him somehow more likely to escape captivity from his bed, and thus had changed their minds. Sophia scowled in disapproval.

When Henry looked up, his chains shifted against the wood of the floor. Sophia took a deep breath, pushing down the bit of nervousness she always felt in the first few moments she was alone with William’s father.

“They’ve found the book you asked me to place in the library, Father-in-Law,” she said quietly. “I know it because they’re preparing to go to New Orleans, as we speak.”

“That’s excellent, my dear,” Henry croaked, a wide smile alighting upon his wrinkled face.

“Most excellent, indeed.”

The morning after her arrival in Camelford, Tamara set out along a little-used road that stretched northeast through thick forest and then to the misty moors. But she wasn’t going so far as that. Not far at all, in fact.

Farris sat up on his seat and gently urged the horses on. Apparently the farrier at the inn was kind and skillful, for Farris had noted how well rested and content the animals seemed this morning. Tamara reminded herself to thank the man later, and perhaps set aside a few coins for him.

The road was rutted and dusty, and the morning had begun warm and was only growing hotter. Tamara took a sip of water from a small pouch she had asked one of the servants at the inn to fill for her before departing. The man had presumed that they were setting off for a lengthy journey, and Tamara did not disabuse him of that notion. In truth, though they did not have far to go, their destination was a world away.

Or nearly so.

Beneath a long jacket Tamara wore a dark blouse, and a pair of William’s wool trousers. She felt faintly ridiculous with the trouser legs cuffed up and wearing the boots also borrowed from him, her feet wrapped in cloth to fill them out. But better to feel foolish than to be foolish, and it would have been absurd to endeavor upon such a hike in the elegant dress of a lady of London.

“Ho, me beauties,” she heard Farris call to the horses.

Tamara smiled. He was never so comfortable in London as he was in the wilds. A gentleman’s gentleman, to be sure, but there was a rough-and-tumble boy inside the man.

The horses whinnied and the carriage slowed.

After he’d stopped, Farris came around to open the door and helped her down. The sun was warm upon her skin and the back of her neck was damp with the heat. There wasn’t so much as a salt breeze here to remind her that the ocean wasn’t very far away. The road cut through the deep woods, and it was thick and wild on either side. Birdsong filled the air and the brush rustled with the wind, or the passage of the small creatures that made the forest their home.

“A most inhospitable wayside stop,” Tamara observed.

“So it is,” Farris agreed, glancing around at the deep woods on either side of the road, and the impenetrable darkness there. “But Serena says this is the nearest spot by road. You’ll have to walk from here.”

At the mention of her name, the sprite appeared from the front of the carriage as though summoned. A sprinkle of purple dust streaked the air in her wake as she flew to Farris and alighted upon his shoulder.

“Aye, good witch,” the sprite said. Her wings folded behind her and she gazed at Tamara with a gravely serious expression on her beautiful face. “’Tisn’t far from here, we thinks. Feel it yourself, we’re sure enough. Magic that strong, you must be able to feel it.”

Tamara smiled kindly. “Serena, I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m not a witch. And it isn’t precisely a compliment, is it? Could you please not call me that?”

Serena bowed with great sincerity.

“We apologizes, miss. It’s only that your magic’s too strong for an ordinary old sorceress, and you’re no fairy, are you? No, we knows you’re not. What else to call you, then?”

“I’m a Protector of Albion. Not a witch, as you well know. But perhaps you could simply call me Tamara, and be done with it.”

Serena bowed again. “We’s deeply honored, good lady Tamara.”

With that, Tamara turned her attention to the forest. In fact, she could feel the magic resonating from within. The fairy stronghold was an outpost in the human world, and it marked the border between this realm and Faerie. From Stronghold, one could enter either world. An ordinary human would never find it. Walking through the woods, a man or woman would discover that they simply did not want to go in that direction, and their path would take them on a route around Stronghold. They would never realize that magic had influenced them.

But Tamara was no ordinary human.

“All right, let’s be off, then.”

As much as she wished that Bodicea were with her, it had seemed more important to have the ghostly queen search for the spirits of the wandering knights she had seen in the forest, to discover if they had any connection to the mystery in Camelford, or if they might have seen something that would be a clue.

And it would not do to leave the carriage on the roadside unattended, so Farris wouldn’t be able to accompany her, either. Only Serena would join her. She had business with the fairy council of Stronghold as well.

But when Tamara began to walk toward the trees on the west side of the road, the sprite remained on Farris’s shoulder.

“Aren’t you coming, Serena?”