The Undying Legion Page 28

  Her other hand went to her gaping mouth. “I … I don’t know what to say, sir.”

  The white-haired man’s eyes sparked like a storm on the desert. “Please, call me Gaios.”

  Chapter Thirty

  The Hotspur Club was an establishment of long repute in St. James. They served an excellent dinner and had many fine rooms for hire suitable for small or large engagements. A lovely warm fire crackled in the baroque hearth, with white plaster ornamentation and a dark marble mantel. A large oval table was set with crystal and candles and a spray of festive winter foliage.

  Simon parted the heavy brocade drapes for the twentieth time, searching for Kate’s carriage. The steepled skyline of London showed dark against the night sky. He could see no wisps of magic, no streams of aether wandering across the city as if searching for something. Even after more than a month of looking at it, the world looked different without aether, so ordinary. He contemplated murmuring one of his ancient words, but he knew there would be no response from his body. His runic tattoos were gone.

  Even more, the entire mystical world of London seemed to have grown quiet as winter grew old. It was difficult to say if the clash between Albion and Ra had exhausted the combatants or shattered their plans. Ash could’ve been destroyed. Gaios may have altered his scheme, whatever it was. Or perhaps the whole terrifying dream of a coming battle between Ash and Gaios had been merely an exaggeration. Simon only knew the silence of the supernatural had become deafening. On the nonmagical street below, he finally saw the Anstruther four-horse chaise approaching the front.

  “This is a mistake,” Malcolm said as he paced by the fire with a limp, hands clasped behind his back. He looked unusually dashing in white tie.

  “Everything’s a mistake with you.” Simon turned from the window with a smile. He brushed lint from his black swallowtail coat, ignoring the tinge of pain from his healing collarbone. “Solving murders. Keeping werewolves. Is there anything you do like?”

  “She’s not ready for this. Neither of them. It’s too dangerous.”

  Simon walked past the table, pausing to straighten a fork with a white-gloved hand. “We’ll see.”

  A rustle of heavy silk from the corner came as Penny sighed in exasperation. She wore a long gown of exquisite sky blue with pearls sewn along the bodice. Her hair, which was typically tied up or tied down, glistened in fashionable ringlets. Most of the cuts on her face were healed, but she would have a few minor scars. Penny retrieved a lit cigar from the tray next to her and flicked off the ash. She put the cigar in her mouth, took a long drag, and blew smoke into the air. “Is this what gentlemen do when they go off by themselves? Bicker and wait for women?”

  “You spent time in male society at Cambridge,” Malcolm said to her. “You should know these things.”

  “They were all engineers. I had hoped gentlemen were more sophisticated.” Penny lifted her feet onto a nearby chair and blew a perfect smoke ring into the air. “Oh well.”

  Malcolm eyed the engineer as she watched the delicate hoop of white haze drift into nothingness. It wasn’t her enjoyment of a cigar that surprised him, but rather her comely nature in a gown. Before he could stop himself, Malcolm asked, “Do you enjoy poetry?”

  She shrugged her bare shoulders. “Never thought much about it.”

  He pulled the small yellow book from his coat and tossed it to her. “Read this. You’ll enjoy it.”

  Penny caught the book cleanly out of the air and flipped it open. She scanned a few lines. She looked up at Malcolm, with a grateful nod for his sharing the poetry of poor Eleanor with her. “Thank you. By the way, when can I read your poetry?”

  “When I’m dead,” the Scotsman droned.

  “Something to look forward to.” Simon pushed the drapery aside yet again.

  Penny laughed and held up her empty wineglass, tilting it back and forth.

  Malcolm brought the sherry decanter to her. “Nice shoes.”

  She crossed her leather boots. “Just pour.”

  Simon released the curtains and headed for the door. “I’m going down to help Kate.”

  Malcolm asked quickly, “Do you need help?”

  “No, no. Relax. Smoke one of Penny’s cigars while you wait.”

  Penny gave a crooked smile and drew a fresh cigar straight up out of her bodice. Malcolm stared at it with interest but waved a hand in polite refusal.

  Simon swept down the stairs. They had rented the entire club for the evening. The reception hall held only the bare minimum of staff, whose discretion was paid for handsomely. These were the type who routinely kept the secrets of nobility.

  A servant raced to attend Simon, calling for his cloak and hat. Simon waved him off and breezed into the frigid night in his dinner coat. His shoulder immediately began to throb. The Anstruther coach stood at the base of the portico, with footmen waiting. Hogarth saw Simon approaching and automatically opened the door so he could climb inside.

  Charlotte grinned at Simon, gaping at his formal attire. “Mr. Simon! You look so handsome!”

  “Thank you, mademoiselle. And your gown is stunning. The color suits you perfectly.”

  “I know! Miss Kate said it would.”

  Kate was in a flowing gown of deep crimson with a silver mantle over her strong, bare shoulders. Her stately appearance, however, was undone by the tension in her face. She sat next to Imogen, holding her sister’s gloved hand.

  “Ladies, I am to be your escort,” Simon said. “I knew that if I didn’t come, some other gentleman, overcome by your magnificence, would lure you to his party.”

  Charlotte giggled but looked with surprisingly adult dismay toward Kate, who laughed politely at Simon’s glibness. Imogen simply stared down. She wore another mourning gown that had been altered to run a bit long, with a high collar and sleeves that extended to her wrists. However, there were accents of deep violet including long gloves, and her misshapen hand was hidden inside a fur muff that was on a silken cord around her neck. A hat with a long veil that prevented any view of her features covered her head.

  Simon was disturbed when she pulled her tendril-fingered hand out of the muff and lifted the homunculus skull. She held it in her elegant silk-gloved hand and began to play it: “My sister has a gold key that our father made. It’s what you want. My sister has a gold key that our father made. It’s what you want.”

  Kate sighed. “Imogen, don’t you want to come inside for dinner? The only people there are your friends. Simon. Malcolm. Penny. And Charlotte.”

  “My sister has a gold key that our father made. It’s what you want. My sister has a gold key that our father made. It’s what you want.”

  Simon sat back patiently next to Charlotte, letting Kate focus on her sister and Imogen on her.

  Kate’s tone was warm and encouraging. “Are you worried about walking to the door? That people will stare at you? They might, but only because it is their nature to do so. You must overcome that. That is your challenge. If you don’t, you allow the wrong people to win. You see that, don’t you?”

  The gears turned faster and the words of the skull sped up.

  Charlotte added, “I’ll be with you, Imogen. We can hold hands. Who cares what they think? I’d like to go in. Please? But I’ll go back home if that’s what you want.”

  The skull gradually grew silent, but Imogen continued to cradle it with her long, supple fingers.

  “You have come so very far, my dear Imogen,” Kate urged gently. “Everyone here who matters wants you with us for the celebration. You deserve to be here. You are a part of us. None here are perfect, but together we have overcome incredible odds time and again.” Kate reached out and took the skull from her. Imogen tensed and her fingers reached out in shock.

  “We are family, Imogen.” Kate’s voice was quiet but firm. She placed the skull on the seat across from her, next to Charlotte who stared at it wide-eyed. “You won’t need that inside. Won’t you come along? The others are waiting. Let’s not disappoint them.�
�

  Imogen sat stone still, her hands clasping together tightly. A small shape appeared from the muff and her hedgehog waddled out onto her lap. It sat sniffing the air. She didn’t appear to notice it.

  “For me then,” Kate said. “No matter how frightened you are, do this for your sister. I want you to come inside. It’s important to me. So I’m asking you, please, come with me. We won’t stay long unless you wish it. But imagine if we have a grand time like when Father would take us out for Christmas dinner. Just us. Just family.”

  From inside the dark veil came a single gargled sound. “Yes.”

  Kate gasped and seized Imogen’s arm. “You spoke! My God, Imogen, you spoke!” She turned to look at Simon, with tears already streaming down her cheeks.

  Charlotte said, “I’ve never heard her talk. Did you hear her talk, Mr. Simon?”

  Simon nodded and put a finger to his lips to silence Charlotte.

  “Come, Imogen,” Kate said with an unsteady voice, sliding toward the door. “Now we really have something to celebrate.”

  The door opened immediately. Kate moved out of the carriage and extended her arm back toward her sister. Simon sat quietly. Charlotte seemed eager enough to explode, but she stayed still.

  The bustle of traffic roared in the street around them, and dozens of strolling Londoners glanced curiously at the livery coach. The horse’s breathing steamed into the cold night air.

  Imogen herded the hedgehog back into her muff, then slowly raised her normal hand and placed it in Kate’s palm. Kate drew her sister toward her. Imogen’s black gown rustled as her hidden feet slid along the floor. When she reached the door, Kate held her hand tightly and took her other elbow since her strange hand was now buried in the muff. She held Imogen up as she stooped to put a tentative foot on the carriage step. The poor girl was shaking in fear.

  “You’re doing fine.” Kate helped her sister take the first ungainly step. “We’ll go as slowly as you need.”

  Simon went out and handed Charlotte down, offering his elbow for her tiny hand.

  She squeezed it, and whispered, “Have you ever been to a party with a hedgehog?”

  Simon pursed his lips in thought. “Once. But I was young and I had fewer options.”

  The girl laughed as Hogarth closed the carriage door behind them and gave a deep bow. “Miss Charlotte. Miss Imogen. Do have a delightful evening.”

  Simon and Charlotte followed Kate and Imogen as they walked up the portico and inside the Hotspur Club. Some of the servants stared, no doubt wondering about the shambling figure in the veil. Certainly it was possible that she was an elderly matron, but there was something odd about her. Simon quickly told the maître d’ that they would not need to have cloaks and hats taken. Kate continued to push forward, speaking quietly to Imogen, assuring her that all was well. They reached the foot of the sweeping staircase. Imogen froze.

  Simon patted Charlotte’s hand and slipped out of her grip. He went forward and gently took Imogen’s other arm. She turned her veiled face toward him and took a deep breath. She put her foot on the steps and they started up. Kate’s face was strained with emotion. Her eyes glistened in the candlelight. Imogen gained strength as she went up, long gown trailing down the dark red carpeting.

  When they made the top of the stairs, Kate reached out and the two sisters embraced. Simon put a comforting hand around Charlotte’s shoulders to suppress her excited bouncing. The young girl then saw Malcolm standing in the open door to the dining room and she sprinted toward the Scotsman. “Mr. Malcolm!” She threw her arms around his waist and the hunter staggered, arms raised in shock, unsure how to react. Charlotte wrestled him back into the room, where Penny’s laughter came bubbling out.

  Kate walked Imogen to the door and let her sister enter alone to applause and shouts of her name. Then Kate turned back to Simon and clasped his face between her two hands.

  “Thank you.” She kissed him. “Thank you for suggesting this evening.”

  “Kate, this is hardly acceptable public behavior for a lady.”

  “For once in your life, shut up.” She put a hand behind his neck and drew him close, kissing him again. Simon tightened his arms around her, tasting her for a long moment.

  She slowly slid her hand down his cheek. “I never thought I’d see this. It’s a miracle.”

  Simon grinned, and whispered, “Marthsyl.”

  Abruptly, there was a pulse of energy against Simon’s chest, where the key hung near his heart.

  If you loved Undying Legion, be sure not to miss the final book in the thrilling Crown & Key trilogy:

  The Conquering Dark

  by

  Clay Griffith and Susan Griffith

  Here’s a special preview

  Chapter 1

  The madman’s boots rang heavily as he strode up the nave of Westminster Abbey. His embroidered attire was old-fashioned and unkempt, including ridiculously tasseled boots and lace cuffs. The fires of hell and damnation drenched his hands in a shimmering hot blaze, causing dignitaries on the aisle to stand and rear back while those farther away stared.

  From the walls behind the stunned assembly, statues of marble men stood stoic while stone angels mourned the intrusion. Passing tomb by tomb, the red-haired man marched down the stream of time. An overdressed guard rushed forward. The intruder set him ablaze with a wave of his hand, then pitilessly sidestepped the flailing soldier.

  The stunned throngs began to move in a panic toward the doors. The intruder with the burning hands swept under the arch of the choir screen and looked on the theater of coronation. His feet muddied the black-and-white-diamond floor as a squad of guardsmen formed a solid line between the intruder and the royal family, who sat facing forward on a raised dais in the spiritual center of the church.

  King William IV rose from his chair, resplendent in an admiral’s uniform, and turned with annoyance to view the disturbance. Beside him, the queen gained her feet as well, nervous and pale, contrasting against the white satin of her gown overlaid with a fine gold gauze. Her purple velvet train lined with white satin and a rich border of gold and ermine bunched around her legs as she twisted toward the line of soldiers standing with their backs to them.

  King William motioned for the queen and the other grandees nearby to be removed from harm’s way. More scarlet-breasted soldiers moved quickly to rush the dignitaries toward the north transept where they found their way blocked by a woman.

  She had shocking short white hair and wore trousers with high boots and a metallic corset over her midsection. Even more shocking than her mannish attire and hair was the fact that she had four arms made of strong rods and struts of brass and steel. Two of her hands held pistols like some mechanical horror of a highwayman. In a third, she brandished a thin walking stick like a country squire. Her free hand gestured threateningly at the approaching crowd. “I suggest you all remain in your places.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” King William’s voice echoed through the hallowed halls of the Abbey, even above the sounds of fear and shuffling feet. “You want to stop my coronation? So be it! But spare the lives of my subjects.”

  The redheaded man in the nave laughed, eyes crazed and hair wild. The heat radiating from his hands could be felt as he sneered, showing he was missing a few teeth. “You’re all guilty of the same sins as the rest of us. Why should we let anyone go?”

  “Enough ranting, O’Malley.” The white-haired woman pointed at the king with her walking stick. “You have something we want, Your Majesty. We intend to take it.”

  From the shrine of Edward the Confessor located behind the altar emerged a tall, languid gentleman dressed in the finest black silks, a fashionable top hat gracing his head. His sophisticated attire was hardly complemented by the strange bulky steel gauntlets that covered his hands and forearms. In his steel-sheathed right hand he worked a thin-bladed sword that gleamed wickedly in the candlelight. Where all others fell back, only Simon Archer came forward.

  “I th
ink not,” was his calm reply.

  One of the woman’s pistols swung with the clicking sound of a geared arm to cover the newcomer. The other gun lifted directly at the king. Simon Archer leapt onto the dais, seizing the sovereign by the shoulders and pushing him down behind the throne. Two lead balls slammed into the chair, splintering it across Simon’s back as he huddled over the king.

  The sound of shots unleashed the panic anew. Hordes of people made for the closest doors, some shoving and pushing to save themselves, others shouting to allow the women to go first, struggling to assert a hint of civilization in the madness. Terrified crowds roared from the makeshift galleries in the north transept, swarming around the woman with the mechanical arms but fighting to keep their distance. She tossed her empty pistols aside and began to muscle her way through the panicked herd toward the dais.

  “Baroness!” shouted the fiery lunatic, but turned as he heard the sound of weapons cocking behind him.

  “That’s right, lad. Face yer better,” scolded a new voice, one laced with a thick brogue.

  The wild eyes of the madman turned gleefully, pleased that someone had dared challenge him. His desire for violence was not going to be soothed quickly. “Who are you to say such? A pompous duke or lazy English lord?”

  “A Scotsman!”

  Laughter roared as loud as the flames around him as Ferghus O’Malley pointed a hand at the challenger dressed in a long frock coat striding up the nave toward him. “You’re a dead man.”

  The Scotsman’s black hair was pulled back from his widow’s peak into a tight tail behind him. He sported a brace of four-barreled Lancaster pistols. Malcolm MacFarlane fired off two shots before he ducked below a bolt of fire that flared over his head. From his crouched position Malcolm shot again, and the shells shattered near the cackling Irishman’s head before the flaming target leapt into the surging mob that was only trying to escape him. Malcolm cursed and fought into the crowd to close on the Irishman.