chapter Twenty-five
Maurus Robert Lea, Seventh Earl of Leland, rarely slept anymore. If he were lucky, four or perhaps five hours of sweet oblivion would claim him. Lately, however, the god Hypnos rarely granted him a visit. He began to wonder if such sleeplessness was the work of his mind striving to keep itself useful until the day that final sleep would claim him. Surely it would arrive sooner than later.
Thus he was very much awake, sitting before his coal fire hearth, listening to the storm that was brewing up and taking stock of his overlong life, when the clock struck three in the morning and blows began to rain down upon his front door.
“Leland!”
Startled, he tripped over his dressing robe as he scrambled to his feet. Wilkinson met him in the hall looking alarmed yet impeccably groomed, his snow-white hair neatly combed, his collar points high as Dover cliffs. Leland doubted he looked as well.
“My lord?” the butler inquired with a hasty glance at the door. The blasted pounding had not abated.
“Open up, Leland!”
“All is well, Wilkinson. Go to bed, will you. I’m far too old to be mollycoddled.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Leland knew the man would stay in his butler’s closet until his master went to bed. He pushed the thought out of his mind and wrenched open the door to face the wily bastard whose voice he knew so well.
Archer did not appear wily just then. Only lost. Rain bounced on his shoulders as he stood drenched in the doorway. He wore only the half mask tonight. It stuck to him like sealskin, outlining the weariness and utter defeat carved on his face.
His massive chest lifted as he pulled in a deep breath. The plea came out a rasp, as though he wished to pull it back in with every word. “I need your help, Lilly.”
For one angry moment, Archer thought Leland might slam the door in his face. The man stood frozen before him, his ridiculous peacock-printed dressing robe hanging askew over his nightgown, his thin legs like birch sticks trembling above worn velvet house slippers. He might have been Ebenezer Scrooge standing there with such a sour scowl upon his face. But then he moved, stepping aside to bid Archer entrance.
“Come,” he said, keeping his eyes on Archer.
Archer brushed past him, feeling very much the specimen pinned to a dissector’s board. But the time for humility had come. He’d made sure Miri was in bed and then slipped out. Even though it struck terror in him to do so, plans had to be made.
He followed the old man into a library nearly identical to his own. A coal fire glowed in the hearth—warmer than wood but foul smelling.
“Drink?” Leland was already pouring himself one.
“Have you bourbon?”
A thin smile lifted the man’s mustache. “No. Can’t say I’ve developed a taste for that Yank swill.”
“Snob. Scotch, then.”
Leland handed Archer a glass, and he took a grateful swallow, then moved closer to the hearth. Little hisses and black smoke puffed out of the grate as water dripped from Archer’s back and shoulders.
“You’ll put my fire out,” Leland admonished.
“I didn’t know where else to stand.” Or to go.
“Why on earth didn’t you put on a cloak, or hat, for that matter?”
“I was distracted.”
The man was beginning to sound like his mother. Then again, Leland always chastised. Leland, the pinnacle of common sense and order—until West Moon Club.
“Let me get you a dressing gown.”
Archer snorted. “Thank you, no.” Yet he could hardly stand freezing his stones off and conduct a proper conversation. He clenched his jaw, absolutely refusing to let his teeth chatter.
Leland took a long drink of his Scotch. “I insist. I’ll never hear the end of Wilkinson’s grousing should you soak the carpet or, God forbid, mar the upholstery.”
“And the ruling class runs in fear of their chiding servants.” Archer smiled and took another sip.
“Quite.” Leland reached for the bellpull.
The stiff-faced butler soon returned with an equally ridiculous dressing gown imprinted with saffron-yellow butterflies. Archer scowled down at it. “Your wife’s?”
“A present from, I’m afraid.” Leland’s expression wilted a bit. “All of them are. Can’t bear to replace them.”
The skin along Archer’s neck tightened. “When did she pass?” Had Leland loved her? He certainly had not when he married her; Leland had confessed as much to Archer long ago. Archer’s fingers curled into the worn silk.
“Sixty-nine. Hurry up, you’re still dripping.” Leland snorted. “Or are you going to act like a virgin and change in another room?”
Archer’s hand hesitated at his collar. “You’re sure you want to see?”
Leland’s mustache drooped. “Sorry. I’d forgotten, if you can believe it. If it bothers you, I shall step out.”
Archer pulled off his cravat. “It does not bother me.” Part of him wanted Leland to see. See what he’d shunned. To understand what Archer was facing. He pulled at his sodden mask first. The swollen ties snapped, and the mask slid off.
“Christ’s blood,” Leland gasped. He sat heavily in his chair and tried to take a drink. His shaking hand proved useless in the endeavor.
“I did warn you.” Archer spoke lightly yet his chest had tightened. Despite himself, he felt exposed, as though turned soul-side out.
“Yes. You did.” Leland managed a drink as Archer divested himself of his shirt and slipped into the dressing gown. But not before he’d seen Leland’s eyes go to his bare chest and quickly away. A fine shudder passed over the old man’s frame.
They had all seen the beginning of his change, but that had been confined to his right hand. And now, solid, dependable Leland was shaken to the core. How then would Miri have reacted? He swallowed hard, wanting to put the mask back on, but pride stayed his hand.
“Don’t despair,” he said, taking the empty seat by the fire. “It isn’t on you.”
“Might as well have been.” Leland’s gnarled hand passed stiffly over his eyes. “Had I not been such a coward.” Leland lifted weary eyes to him. Again, a wince convulsed his face but he held firm. “Both of us were chosen. Only you had the courage to try.”
Archer’s throat burned. “And look where it has left me.”
“I am.” Leland took a deep breath and set his drink down. “With what do you need my help?”
This was easier. Archer pulled his gloves off, grateful to be rid of the fleshy wet leather. He could tell Leland recognized the ring he wore. He worked it from his finger and took Daoud’s notes from their hiding spot. “I need you to read these. Here is the cipher.”
Leland fumbled in his breast pocket for his spectacles. “If you would turn up the lamps. I’m afraid my eyes are not what they once were.”
The man’s mouth moved as he read, his head tilted toward the light, thick half-moon spectacles at the end of his long nose. Unable to keep still, Archer left his chair and paced.
Leland studied Daoud’s notes, and a deep frown worked across his brow. “You cannot mean to do this. You are no more responsible for this madness than any of us! You needn’t be a sacrificial lamb. Especially now…” He trailed off with a swallow.
“Now that I have married?” Archer supplied softly. He forced a shrug. “I might try… Hell, I have tried.” He touched the altered side of his face. “The situation has changed. That thing wants Miranda.” His hand curled into a fist. “I cannot leave her unprotected.”
Leland’s frown remained. “I understand the sentiment. But surely if anyone can stop this, it is you, Archer.” Leland bit his lip, an action Archer hadn’t seen since Eton. “I thought you wished to save your soul.”
Archer rubbed his hand hard across his face as if it could ease the restlessness inside. “I’ve had my hands about that wretch’s neck twice. Twice and I cannot… I cannot destroy it.”
The color drained from Leland’s flat cheeks. “By God.”
“Not by God,” Archer said wryly. “Most assuredly from hell. And hell is where it will return. But I cannot send it there as I am.” He lifted his left hand. Strong though it was, it was still made of flesh and blood. “I am no match now, a fact used against me to great advantage.”
He broke from Leland’s gaze, and the pity residing in it. “I must change. For all our sakes.” He touched his glass then let his hand fall. “Even changed, we are evenly matched at best.”
He heard Leland’s sharp intake of breath and looked up to find him gaping.
“This is why you need my help.” Leland lifted the paper in his hand. “Because of this new revelation?”
“Yes. There can be no doubt as to my success. To fail would bring disaster. On all of you.” Archer gripped the mantel hard. “Do you think it can be done?”
“I’m not quite certain.” Leland studied the note. “Ah, the Druids.” He glanced at him above his spectacles. “I take it that is why you came to me.”
Archer gritted his teeth, and Leland snorted. “You always were transparent…” He blanched. “I say, Arch…Had I come across this sort of thing before… That is to say, it never occurred to me the curse might have come from the Druids.”
“It never occurred to me that you might have withheld information. If that’s what you’re on about.”
“I ought to have looked.” Leland’s long fingers clutched the soft cloth in his shaking hands. “Druid priests knew of magic that we are only beginning to understand. Such blundering is inexcusable of me.”
A remorseful Leland was near intolerable. “You are looking now,” Archer said brusquely.
Leland nodded, and resumed studying the note. “It shall take some time. A few days to consult some old texts.”
“Understood. Just find what you can. Will it work…?”
Helplessness brought a rage upon Archer. To find Miri slaughtered… Archer would rather be dead himself.
Leland’s eyes bore into him but Archer refused to turn around. “I am not afraid to die,” he said, staring at the red coals in the grate.
“Then why—”
“Haven’t I ended my life long ago? When I knew myself cursed?” He turned. Leland had put down the notes. His long hands lay limp in his lap, bone white against the peacock-blue silk.
“The ironic thing is, I rather like life,” Archer said. “As odd as mine is. Losing my soul is another issue entirely. I should not like it…” His voice trailed off, awkward in the heavy silence.
“Certainly not,” Leland agreed softly. He sighed and moved to his bookshelf, and after a bit of searching, he pulled down a large tome covered in thick, embossed leather. “I shall start now. I never sleep these days, anyway. A good riddle will be a boon.” His worn slippers shuffled over the oriental carpet. “Have another drink. Or shall I set you up with a room?”
Archer shook his head slowly. It felt heavy as a ballast stone. “I am going to retrieve that sword.” He pointed to Daoud’s letter for emphasis. “Now.”
The book in Leland’s hand closed with a decisive thump. “If you think you are going to leave me behind, think again.”
Archer’s lips twitched “Can you keep up?” he countered softly.
“Such effrontery,” Leland answered with a snort of irritation.
Archer reached for his damp clothes. “Then we had better get moving.”
They rode horses. And despite Leland’s protestations, Archer worried over him. His frail frame wobbled a bit as they cantered up a small incline. The man held on. The storm had ended and the fog returned, icy and thick. Darkness was nearly complete, and they might have gotten thoroughly lost were it not for Archer’s extraordinary vision. He led the way to the outskirts of town and those desolate caves that had seen the origin of his destruction.
His breath came out as white mist, eaten up by the muddy dark. Silently, they wove through a copse of trees and came to a stop by a growth of thickets.
“Looks abandoned,” Leland said from behind him.
“It was meant to.” Archer leapt from his horse and pushed away the thick overgrowth. Heavy timbers barred the entrance. They lifted easily in his hands and landed in a muffled crash in the undergrowth behind him. Yes, abandoned. Thank God for small mercies.
He heard Leland dismount as he worked on clearing the entrance. He remembered it well, knocking the boulders down over it and pushing the great tree trunks in front of them. Barring this place from any further mischief.
His blood pumped. The iron door came into sight. He glanced back at Leland and then gave the heavy door a shove with his shoulder. It gave with a great groan and a small puff of red iron dust. One more shove and the door teetered back and then landed with an earthshaking thud upon the soft ground.
“Torch.” He held his hand out waiting for Leland to light it and hand it over. Thick cobwebs and swirling dust motes colored the mouth of the cave gray. He brushed a clump of cobwebs aside and then went forward, stepping back in time.
No torches burned now in the narrow passage, yet in his mind’s eye he saw them, lining the walls, leading the way. The irritating scent of patchouli hanging in the air, and the chants of men echoing somewhere deep beyond. At the time, it had given him a morbid thrill. He’d gone willingly. Afraid of nothing, and everything. A grim smile touched his lips. That, at least, had not changed. The memory faded, and he faced the dark, moldering passage once more.
Leland stumbled behind him, and Archer held out a steadying hand.
“You remember the way?” Archer asked. He did not want to turn round and find his friend lost.
“How could I not?” came the dry reply.
“Good. Let’s get on with it.”
They moved slowly, Archer brushing aside cobwebs or kicking errant debris out of the way. The path twisted hard right, and Archer felt his breath coming quick. Cavern Hall was only steps away. It opened before them, a perfectly round cavern of rough limestone walls. Empty torch rings, twelve in all, hung from the walls, and above, suspended on a heavy iron chain, the great chandelier was still filled with stumps of thick candles. On nights of the full moon, the cavern used to glow like orange fire from the hundreds of lit candles. But long before West Moon Club had discovered the cave, it had been used for ancient rituals. A millennium of torch smoke had painted the ceiling black, and the shuffle of men’s feet had trampled the floor to a smooth surface.
The men stood for a moment, both of them silent as memories assaulted them. Archer knew Leland thought of the same night. The chanting, the excitement. That cup, filled with a silver liquid that might have been mercury. Archer closed his eyes. The white-hot pain as the icy liquid had slid down his throat had brought him to his knees before his friends. And then Leland, turning away in shame and horror, had refused to finish his drink.
Archer moved to the large semicircular niche carved into the far wall where a sacrificial altar lay in wait. Resting on a large, rectangular block of granite lay a thick slab of basalt. An evil-looking black stone. The same stone bed on which Archer had been destined to lie upon and finish the process—had he not fled into the night, too terrified of the viscous pain that pulsed through his veins after he’d swallowed down that vile brew. For a moment, he thought he heard laughter.
Archer and Leland slipped their torches into the holders that hung on either side of the altar so that a dim halo of wavering light illuminated the niche.
“The note says it’s under the altar.” Leland’s thin voice echoed softly in the empty space.
Fancy that, Archer thought. He would have never thought the altar hollow. He reached out with shaking hands, afraid to touch the stone but forced to do so. Icy cold seeped through his leather gloves. A chill ran over him. Gritting his teeth, he slowly began to push the stone from its base. It pivoted, the sound of stone grinding against stone filling the air. Archer dug in his heels and pushed harder. The stone slipped farther until a small crack of dark appeared. A whoosh of dry air burst from the stone’s base, sounding like a woman’s gasp in the silence. Archer jumped back. Leland too. But nothing more occurred.
Archer ground his teeth and finished pivoting the stone. The great square base proved hollow as promised. Archer grabbed a torch and bent forward. A long brown bundle lay nestled like a babe deep within the dark well of the table.
Leland eased the torch from his hand and held it aloft as Archer reached down. His fingers made contact, and every inch of his changed self screamed in protest. His muscles hardened painfully. He took a breath and forced his fingers to curl over the thing. And when they did, his left side seemed to sigh with ease. Divided, his body was. Part shrinking in fear, part craving release. He made quick work of taking the bundle out and placing it on the altar top. Nothing more lay within the hole.
“Undo it,” he said to Leland. He was sweating profusely, which almost never happened, and he doubted his trembling hands could manage.
Leland seemed to understand. He set the torch back and carefully examined the bundle. It was made of leather, so old that the small ride from its bed to the table was more than enough to start its disintegration. As no markings or adornment covered the leather, Leland simply cut through it with a penknife and peeled it away, much as he would have done when inspecting a mummy. Archer had a vivid memory of them in Cairo, long ago when they had fancied themselves archaeologists.
The image was reinforced as the brittle leather crumbled, revealing fine linen wrappings. Leland’s white head bent closer. “A coin.” He handed it up to Archer.
“Greek inscription,” Archer said. “It is from Claudius the First. A tetradrachm.”
Leland’s hands shook nearly as badly as Archer’s had done moments before. The linen unraveled to give up another prize—a small collection of papyri held in a leather folder. “The roman soldier’s writings.”
Daoud’s note had been specific. Two letters sent home in the time of Claudius by a young soldier named Marcus Augustus revealed that he had stumbled upon a most horrific spell. The first letter explained his findings, a way to conjure a demon of light, a creature of immense power who could judge innocent from dammed, and in so doing, destroy the evildoer. The second letter was of a different tone. He begged his dear sister to burn the first letter. That he would hide away his discovery where it would never be found, in the place of worship of the newly slaughtered Druid priests. Fortunately for Archer’s purposes, the sister had not burned the letters but kept them both. Only to be discovered by Daoud more than a millennium later. More research by Daoud had uncovered where the soldier had been stationed. Another account from one of his fellow soldiers stated that a small dispatch of men had found a cave and, within it, a sacrificial altar made of granite and basalt. The description and location of the cave matched Cavern Hall exactly.
Archer could well appreciate the amount of work Daoud had done to verify the far-flung story. He missed his friend just then. For you, dear friend. For all of my slaughtered friends.
Leland’s fingertips barely touched the papyri as he looked them over. “Greek as well. I shall study it in a moment.”
Archer nodded, and the elder man put the tome aside in favor of further unwrapping the bundle. A strange hum emanated from it. Archer doubted Leland heard it, but Archer felt it with every cell. His skin twitched as the last vestiges of the linen fell away. A wide leather scabbard was embossed with symbols. The ornate hilt was bronze. Bronze that oddly gleamed like new. That was all he saw before he had to step away and get a breath.
“Easy,” Leland murmured. “It cannot harm you now.”
“So say you,” Archer choked out with a bit of humor. He passed a shaking hand over his exposed jaw.
Leland turned the ancient sword, still safely tucked in its sheath. “Fascinating. See the inscriptions on the hilt?”
Archer inched a bit closer. “Egyptian glyphs?” It was all he could say before backing away.
“Yes. How very interesting. Not Druids, then…”
Leland’s scholarly detachment began to grate on Archer. “Is it what we seek?” he asked with a bit of impatience.
Leland’s bushy brow cocked. “Need you ask? You feel the power in it, yes?”
“Assuredly.” That and more. A sense of his mortality. Strange that. The sensation of being in mortal danger was almost foreign to him now.
“It makes one wonder,” Leland mused. “Is this why Cavern Hall was chosen for the ritual?”
The members of West Moon Club hadn’t picked Cavern Hall; they’d been led there and were told it was a place of great power. Suitable for those fool enough to try their hand at playing God, Archer thought bitterly. He paced away. “Why choose the very place that houses the sole object capable of one’s destruction?”
“I am thinking it was more a matter of being drawn to this place because of the power the sword emanates. One needn’t know about the sword to feel its pull.”
“I suppose that could be it,” Archer said as Leland carefully set the sword down.
“Let me see…” Leland had picked up the papyri and was now reading over them. “It appears Daoud misread the situation. According to the solider, Augustus, a secret sect of Egyptian priests was tasked with the creation and care of beings they called Children of Light, but whom Augustus calls Lux Daemons, or Anima Comedentis. Augustus came upon them when his legion destroyed their temple in the name of the Empire. If there were any light demons left by then, Augustus did not come upon them. Augustus stole both the sword and the secret for creating the light demons….By God…” He fell back on his rump.
“What, for God’s sake?” Archer snapped.
“He tried it!” Leland’s eyes reflected like wading pools in the flickering light. “He became one. But unlike you, he knew how to end it. Only he chose not to.”
The room seemed to go dim. Another one. Out in the world.
“Being a thoughtful fellow,” Leland went on, reading in abstraction, “he kept the sword with him. Should he grow weary of life, he would use it well.” He thumbed through the pages. “Apparently, the Egyptians had a way to control the light demons, the sword. They claimed it is the sword of Ammit, The Devourer.”
“The Eater of Hearts,” Archer said. They shared a look, then Archer laughed without humor. “Son of a bitch.”
“Apparently, Ammit is the mother of the first light demon,” Leland said.
Ammit, an ancient Egyptian demoness, was said to devour the hearts of those found unworthy by the Underworld God Anubis. God, he hoped that bit was allegorical. The idea that his friends’ stolen hearts were actually being consumed turned his insides. That he might one day crave a similar meal nearly made him cast up his accounts.
Thankfully oblivious to Archer’s shaky constitution, Leland read on. “The priests claimed that the sword was forged in the lake of fire in Duat, the Egyptian Underworld.”
The lake of fire was said to both destroy and purify. The undeserving would be consumed, their souls doomed to become forever restless, thus dying a second death. Those judged true of heart would be spared. “ ‘The water thereof shall be yours, but to you it shall not be boiling, and the heat thereof shall not be upon your bodies,’ ” Archer quoted.
“So says the Book of Gates,” Leland finished with a familiar gleam in his eyes before returning to the text. “The rest is in the usual vein… the sword can only be wielded by one of true heart and courage; the light demon cannot be destroyed by any other means…” He trailed off and looked at Archer. “Read it. You know ancient Greek better than I.”
Archer’s hand shook as he took the ancient text. Leland was right. Save Archer found himself utterly weary and surprisingly timid. He did not want to plan his death. He wanted to go home to his wife.
He knelt close to the torches and read through the entire story. A glimmer of hope, so small as to be laughable, flickered within his heart as he reached the end of the tale. A small smile tugged at his lips.
He stood then, careful not to harm the papyri. “We have what we came for.” He would not take the sword. “I ask that you keep everything until I am ready.”
Leland got up more slowly, his old knees audibly creaking, but Archer did not help him; his friend would not want it. “There is much to plan. And texts to consult.”