“Yes,” Carlston said, still watching the departing figures. He gave himself a small shake as if to rid himself of Benchley’s presence. Or perhaps his own fury.
“That man is not in his right mind, is he?” Helen said.
Carlston pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “He has been reclaiming too long. It has taken its toll.”
Lady Margaret made a sound of contradiction deep in her throat. Carlston lowered his hands and stared at her, his face forbidding.
Helen, however, was not deterred. “He should be answering for the Ratcliffe murders.” She looked from Carlston to Hammond, finding no accord in either. “He admitted to them.”
“You heard why he is not,” Hammond said. “The Home Office has covered it up. He is too valuable to them.” He tapped his temple. “Lots of information.”
“But that is not right,” Helen said.
“Enough talk of Benchley,” Carlston said abruptly. “We have work to do. Lady Helen, I want you to wear my coat.” He removed it, revealing the close-fitting black tailcoat beneath. “Your white gown is not the best color for moving unnoticed through the undergrowth.”
He draped the heavy garment over her shoulders. Helen clutched at the front capes to stop it slipping, and smelled the scent of him in the woolen folds: a mix of woodsmoke and soap, with a tang of male exertion. She, however, was not finished with Mr. Benchley. “What did he mean when he said I was a harbinger of evil?”
Carlston hesitated. For a moment she thought he would not answer.
“There are old texts that suggest a direct inheritor, like yourself, is a sign of something worse arriving in our world.”
“But that is ridiculous. Surely you cannot think that of me?”
His lips pressed together in mute apology. “I cannot discount it.” He motioned to the path ahead. “You wanted to know what you are, Lady Helen. You are a Reclaimer. Now I am going to show you why you are. Keep a firm hold on that miniature, and try to see past your natural shock and disgust. Do you understand?”
Helen wondered if she had the wherewithal to be shocked again, but she nodded and quickly transferred the portrait to her bare hand. The dark blue shimmer surrounded Lord Carlston’s body.
He gave her one last measuring look, then turned and led the way along the gravel path.
Fourteen
WRAPPED IN THE shield of his greatcoat, Helen followed Lord Carlston further into the darkness. Questions whirled through her mind, but only one found an anchor in the tumult of emotions that rocked her between bewilderment and fear. Could she really be a harbinger of evil? It was a ludicrous idea. It had to be ludicrous, because if it was not, that meant . . . She gulped for breath. She had no clear idea what it meant, but the thought crushed the air from her chest.
Before long, Carlston stopped in a stretch between two lamps, his shimmering blue arm pointing to a break in the bushes. He pulled the touch watch from his pocket and deftly assembled the three-part lens. A loud bell rang. Helen recognized it: the call to the start of the fireworks at the other end of the Gardens. Everyone would be streaming toward the display, leaving the Dark Walk and its surroundings deserted.
“Stay behind me,” Carlston whispered.
They entered the dark cavern of undergrowth, both stooping under the overhanging trees. The narrow, flattened path smelled of crushed leaves and the sap of broken branches. Newly forged, Helen thought, then felt absurdly pleased at the logical deduction. There was comfort in logic: it brought order and sanity, unlike this brutal Reclaimer world that had the likes of Mr. Benchley in it.
She glanced back to see the paler blue figures of Lady Margaret and Mr. Hammond still at the start of the path. She was to be alone, then, with his lordship. The prospect should have been alarming, but her idea of danger had shifted somewhat in the last half hour. She tightened her hand around the hard oval of the miniature.
Behind them, a large popping explosion made her duck her head even lower, shoulders tensing. Above, a staccato run of high-pitched whistles threw whizzing red and green wheels past the treetops. The fireworks had begun.
Carlston held a large branch out of her way. “The display will keep the area clear, but we must hurry. The show does not last long.”
She edged past the straining branch, ignoring the dig and scrape of smaller twigs against the woolen coat. They stepped into a compact clearing, an expanse of night sky visible again, lit with a showering bloom of pink stars. Combustive cracks boomed through the air, bringing an orange comet arcing through the slow fall of pink. The spectacle held Helen still for a moment, her neck craned back. But she was not here for childish wonder. Turning from the fireworks, she found his lordship already by a clump of pale, ghostly trees across the clearing, his lens lifted to study another kind of light: an ominous blue glow about thirty yards away, near the boundary wall. Even at that distance, Helen could see it was brighter than the blue shimmer around Carlston. A virulent ultramarine.
He beckoned. “Come. Meet one of our adversaries.”
Adversaries. The word tolled through her. She crossed to his side and squinted into the deep blue light, the edges of the miniature biting into her clenched hand. What she saw did not make sense: a jumble of arms and legs and long trails of energy that pulsed in her sight. Then her skin tensed with cold understanding. It was two people up against a wall, enveloped in the violent, throbbing ultramarine: a woman, garish pink skirts up around her waist, exposing a pale thigh and ragged stockings, and a man in a greatcoat pressing her against the bricks, holding her pinned with the length of his body. But this was no normal man: two long tentacles of energy protruded from his back, whip-thin and bright with brilliant blue charge. Another tentacle, as thick as an arm and the blue-black color of a new bruise, wove through the air above the woman like an obscene, oversized leech, then plunged into her chest. She convulsed, her head hitting the bricks as it impaled her body, the tentacle shivering with an influx of pale energy. The man slammed up against her, the sound of his grunt carrying across a lull in the crack and whir of the fireworks.
Helen stepped back. “Holy God, what is he doing to her?”
“He is fornicating with her, and at the same time harvesting her life-force,” Carlston said calmly, lowering his lens. “That is a Deceiver. He and his like are why you have your gifts.”
She felt her blood rush in her ears, her breath hard as if she had run for miles. Fornicating. She had seen the carnal act illustrated on Berta’s card, and that had been shocking enough. But to see it enacted before her, by some kind of heinous creature, was truly terrifying. “Is it a demon?” she finally gasped. No, demons were metaphors for the evil in man, not monsters made of flesh and blue energy that walked Vauxhall Gardens. They could not be real. Yet here was the proof, pulsing before her eyes.
“They have been called many things,” Carlston said. “Evil spirits, hellions, lamia. Whatever they are called, they have been among us for centuries. Creatures that thrive upon human lust.”
Even with the horror before her, Helen could not help flinching at such language. Fornication. Lust.
“Forgive me,” Carlston said quickly. “I use the word in its broader sense: overwhelming appetite. These creatures feed upon human yearning and desire. They seek to foment it among us, according to their needs. This one is a Pavor: a particularly foul creature that feeds on physical and mental suffering and our most primal desire to stay alive.”
“Will he kill her?” She could barely form the question.
“He will, but not yet. The energy within her fear is what he feeds upon.” Carlston’s face was grim. “This type of Deceiver is one of the worst, but there are others: the Cruors, which feed on bloodlust and dominance; the Luxures, which seek out the climactic energy of se—” He stopped, visibly correcting himself. “The physical expression of love; and the Hedons, which seek to sustain themselves from the energy of art and creati
vity.”
Helen motioned to the man. “But it looks human.”
“Yes. You start to perceive our difficulty. They colonize human bodies and live at all levels of society, wherever their particular taste will be best satisfied. These Pavors are more often found in the lower and middling orders. You will always find Luxures in the demimonde, the Cruors are often drawn to the military, and the Hedons are generally among our own social sphere.”
The Pavor’s bruise-black tentacle was writhing through the woman, her back thudding against the bricks. The light of the fireworks flashed across her face, bringing detail to the pale, drained features. Helen recoiled. Under her revulsion, she felt a sickened outrage gathering in her body. “He must be stopped!”
“Yes, and he will be. But I must wait for Quinn. You see those two energy whips that come from his back, on either side of that feeding tentacle?” Helen nodded, transfixed by the awful flexing of the appendages. “They are very effective weapons. This is not his first victim tonight. He is in a glut—feeding to his fill—and close to forming a third whip from the energy he has gathered. Do you see how the feeder penetrates her chest?” Helen nodded again. “He is draining her life-force through her heart. The first rule: always protect your heart.” He tapped his chest. “This is what they aim for. It is difficult to fight two whips and still stay clear of a feeder tentacle, but fighting against three whips is almost impossible for one Reclaimer.” He shot a glance at her. “One trained Reclaimer.”
“Is that what you do? Fight them?”
“It is what we do.”
Helen stared at him. She could not fight anything, let alone one of these creatures. A large explosion of green sparks lit the sky. The Pavor looked up, his face clear for a moment in the sickly light. It was a normal man’s face, but his lips were drawn back in a loathsome smile of lust that seemed horribly stretched beyond the mouth it was fixed upon.
She turned her head, unable to keep watching. “Where did they come from?”
“Some have said Hell; others say they were born from our own hatreds and base natures.” Lord Carlston lifted his shoulder: the shrug of a practical man. “Whatever the truth, it is the duty of the Dark Days Club to keep them in check.”
Them. Helen stared into the darkness, seeing leering faces in every shadow. “Are there more here now?”
“If there are, they will stay clear. Deceivers are territorial and do not gather together. Collaboration is not in their nature. From our standpoint, a most fortunate trait; it would be disastrous if they did.”
At the corner of her eye, Helen caught something moving across the clearing. She spun around.
Lord Carlston laid his hand fleetingly on her shoulder. “Be easy. It is Mr. Hammond.”
“All clear,” Hammond reported. Helen’s face must have worn her horror, for he swiftly stepped to her side and said, “Do you need to sit down?”
“Lady Helen is coping well,” Carlston said, peering through the lens again.
He thought she was coping well? She felt as if her whole world had been torn apart.
“Here is bad news, though,” he added. “The creature has two whips.”
“Two?” Hammond’s attention turned fully to his leader. “Already?”
“Almost three.” Carlston closed the touch watch with a snap. “He is in another glut. Bow Street has already found six bodies in Cheapside—no wonder they want him stopped. If the deaths are linked to one perpetrator, it will be another mass panic.” He stared at the Pavor again. In the hard, clean lines of his profile, Helen thought she discerned a fleeting weariness. “And as we now know,” he said softly, almost to himself, “the Home Office will go to any length to avoid a panic like Ratcliffe again.”
Hammond frowned at the violent scene in the distance. “What if he builds the third whip? You cannot take a full complement.”
“I know, I know, but we cannot leave him killing at his leisure in Vauxhall Gardens.” He gestured back toward the path. “Get Quinn. He should be back by now.”
“I must protest, sir. You cannot take three whips.”
“Well, he does not have three yet, does he?” his lordship said dryly. “But if you keep standing there instead of finding Quinn, he will have the third by the time I get to him.”
“Yes, sir.” Hammond disappeared into the undergrowth.
Helen peered into the bushes and heard a moment of low-pitched, fast conversation, and then the rustle of movement. Lady Margaret burst into the small clearing, her gown gathered scandalously high above her ankles.
“You must not take three whips,” she said, stopping in front of Carlston. “Not for a whore.”
Helen stepped back from her vehemence.
“Calm yourself; he has only two at present,” Carlston repeated. He pulled off his tailcoat, the close tailoring taking some force to remove from the width of his shoulders. “This has to be done. The poor unfortunate out there is just his latest victim. Bow Street wants him curtailed.” He tossed the coat to the ground. “And I can think of no better way to show Lady Helen the role of a Reclaimer.”
Lady Margaret drew herself up—a small but furious height. “Bow Street be damned.” Although her eyes cut to Helen, she refrained from damning her as well. She jabbed her finger at the sky. “It is only a quarter moon. Everything is against this, my lord. Please, we have only just got you back.”
Helen looked up at the slim crescent in the sky, a band of cloud crossing its pale light. What did the moon have to do with it?
“Lady Margaret, this kind of foul attack is one of the reasons why I have come back,” Carlston said reprovingly. His eye lit upon Helen, and she knew that she was the other reason. “I have been too long gone from my duty.”
He tugged at his cravat, unraveling its intricate folds and pulling it free. The waistcoat was next, thrown to the ground with no regard for the ivory silk. He stood clad in only boots, buckskin breeches, and white shirt, the lower part of each sleeve covered by a thick black armguard laced from wrist to elbow. Heat rose to Helen’s cheeks: she could almost see the skin of his chest through the fine linen. He pulled on the end of one leather glove, working it well over the edge of the guard. The sound of approach made him turn. Hammond and the huge shape of Quinn emerged from the undergrowth.
“Two whips,” Carlston said in way of greeting to his man. “On his way to three, but there should be enough time to stop him. We cannot kill him yet—he still has progeny—so I will only disarm the whips.”
Quinn nodded, his eyes flicking across to Helen. He reached inside his greatcoat and pulled out a long knife. It had a smooth, pale handle—ivory, perhaps, or bone—but the blade was not steel. It was transparent. Helen leaned closer. It was made of glass, and easily her handspan in width. His lordship rolled his shoulders. “Ready?”
“Aye, sir.” Quinn straightened, his coat falling back around a scabbard strapped to his leg.
Carlston held out the touch watch to Helen. “Keep this safe for me.”
The drop of its small weight into her hand felt like a finality. She had a sudden image of him lifeless on the ground. “But don’t you need it?”
“Here is your second rule,” he said. “We must absorb a certain amount of a Deceiver’s whip energy to defeat it, but metal acts as a conduit for their power and concentrates it into a lethal blast. Never carry metal when you face a creature that has glutted and built whips. If you do, you will be dead in the time it takes to blink. That means no normal knives, swords, or pistols.”
Quinn passed him the glass knife. Helen could not take her eyes from the blade. Its broad length was etched with a swirling design around a phrase: DEUS IN VITRO EST. God is in the glass.
Carlston hefted the weapon in his hand. “Use that miniature, Lady Helen. Watch carefully. This is what you are. A Reclaimer built to fight Deceivers.” He paused. “Perhaps to fight something even worse.?
??
She stepped back. No, she was not built for battle. Nor was she some harbinger of evil. She was just a girl.
Lady Margaret picked up Lord Carlston’s jacket, holding it against her body. “Do not take on three. Please.”
He gave a nod and strode from the clearing, Quinn following like a huge shadow.
“What does he mean, ‘use the miniature’?” Hammond demanded.
Helen showed the portrait in her ungloved hand. “When I hold this, I can see the energy around everyone. Around that creature.”
“Without a lens?” Lady Margaret asked, clearly astonished. She crossed to Helen, her voice urgent. “We are not Reclaimers; we cannot see the energy, ever. All we see are two men fighting. You must tell me what is happening with the whips. Please!”
The force of Lady Margaret’s fear gathered Helen to the edge of the clearing. Mr. Hammond took up a position on her left side, his sister on the right. Perhaps to stop her from fleeing. No, a mad thought, born from her own fear.
Carlston walked directly toward the Pavor. The creature was still intent upon the woman, its feeder buried in her slumped body, the two bright blue whips curved over its back. But Quinn no longer followed his lordship. Helen scanned the trees and finally found him moving stealthily into a position near the wall.
“Does Quinn fight the Pavor too?” she whispered.
“No,” Hammond said. “He is not a Reclaimer. He is Lord Carlston’s Terrene.”
“Like Parker was for Mr. Benchley,” Helen said, recalling the reference to Benchley’s servant. Hammond glanced at her in surprise. Did he think she could not put two simple pieces of information together? “What does a Terrene do?”
“When his lordship takes the energy from those whips, it will stay within his body. He must be in contact—the whole length of his body—with bare earth in less than twenty seconds to discharge it, or it will render him insane. It—”