Poor things all,” William echoed. “But we’ll have them back, Farris. Every last one.”
“Yes, sir. I’m not certain how many fairy girls has been snatched. P’raps Serena will know better.”
“I shall ask her,” William replied.
They fell silent then, the two men lost in their own thoughts. The night birds sang and the trees across the river rippled with a passing breeze. The stone bridge that arched across the water echoed back the sound of the river’s voice.
Yet another sound intruded upon the gentle night, a familiar low trill that sent a shiver through William. Farris glanced up with a start, and William spun to see the night air shimmer.
The ghost of Queen Bodicea appeared, fierce and regal as ever, and neither man could gaze directly upon her. Both were instinctively flustered by her blatant nudity.
“William!” the queen said. “Come quickly. We’ve found her!”
“Tamara?”
“Don’t be a fool. Who else? Come away now.”
Pulse racing, relief flooding through him, William glanced at Farris.
“Go on then, sir,” the stalwart footman said, face alight with his own elation. “See to her. I’ll await your return.”
“Good show, Farris. Make certain her rooms are ready for her. A bath, as well.” William turned to Bodicea. “My sister’s well, then?”
The phantom’s expression was grim. “She will be. But the night has not been kind.”
William grimaced. “All right. Let’s be off, then.”
“There is a cottage, a mile southeast of here. I shall lead you.”
He nodded and reached out. For just a moment Bodicea focused so that her ghostly fingers could touch his flesh and they grasped hands. Then William intoned the spell of translocation, while he could feel her guidance and follow it.
A moment later he found himself in a small clearing, just outside the door of a rough-hewn cottage. Bodicea manifested beside him, but he rushed to the door without waiting for her. He swung it open with such force that it banged against the wall, shattering the silence within.
A ghost hovered at the end of the bed, a pale, shuddery thing. So insubstantial did it seem that for a moment William did not realize it was Nelson. When he did realize it, he saw the worry on the admiral’s face, and understood that it was his fear for Tamara that diminished him so.
Tamara.
It was larger inside the cottage than William would have believed, roomy enough for a small table and chairs, a tiny larder, and a bed. Tamara lay on the bed under layers of blankets, shivering as though stricken with fever. Aside from Horatio’s ghost, she was attended by Serena— the sprite sat on the headboard looking down at her, wings fluttering worriedly— and a stranger who sat on the edge of the bed, holding Tamara’s hand.
Barely more substantial than Horatio, Queen Bodicea passed through the door as though it weren’t there, marching over to stand by her fellow ghost. The two of them were like a thin veil of mist, transparent and drifting.
William went quickly to his sister, ignoring the stranger completely even as he stood up to make room for the newcomer.
“Tamara?” William whispered.
He touched her face, then felt her forehead. She had no fever, and the moment he laid his hand upon her the shivering ceased, as though she drew strength from him. And perhaps there was truth to that. They were not just siblings— they shared the magic of Albion. It coursed through them both, and they restored each other.
Her skin felt cold to him, but there was color in her cheeks. She lived. Even so, seeing her so vulnerable thrust a dagger into his heart and made him catch his breath. If anything had happened to her—
“She’ll be all right, I think. Just had a bit of a rough night,” the young man said, his voice low and calming.
William turned and looked up at him. Some innate goodness— even innocence— radiated from within this fellow, clear as the candle that burned in the lantern that hung just inside the door. William immediately felt at ease in his company.
“Your help is greatly appreciated, sir. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure ”
The man thrust out a hand in greeting. “Richard Kirk, Mister Swift. My sister is among the missing, and Miss Swift was very kind to me. I would be remiss if I did not return the favor. However, I must say that it was your friends who discovered her.”
William followed Richard’s gaze to where Horatio and Bodicea floated worriedly.
“Excuse me,” William said, “but to whom do you refer when you say that my friends are responsible for finding Tamara?”
Richard frowned in confusion, and glanced at Horatio and Bodicea. “They are your friends, are they not? I was in the woods searching for my sister and came upon them. They said— ”
“You can see them? The ghosts?” William asked, knowing that he sounded incredulous.
The young man smiled.
“I supposed that was what they were,” he said quietly. “Yes, I can see them perfectly well. And the sprite, too. Though I’ve seen her sort before, darting about the forest at night. Pretty things, sprites, but dangerous.”
“Aye, boy, more than ye knows,” Serena said, shooting Richard a sharp look.
The sprite took flight then, shooting across the room with a blur of purplish light. She went to a chair across which had been thrown some sort of heavy dark garment. Thrusting her hands into it, she gathered it up and dragged it from the chair, flying back toward the bed with the heavy burden. The weight of the thing almost dragged the little creature to the ground.
“Have it, we does, William Swift,” she cooed, dropping the dirty thing at William’s feet before flying back to her perch on the headboard.
William bent and picked up the dark cloth.
“Foul !” he gasped, so horrified at its stench that he dropped it again, kicking it into a corner of the room. “What in the world is that thing?” he said, wiping his hand on the leg of his trousers.
Richard also seemed to be repulsed by the smell, backing away from the bed.
“It’s a witch’s cloak.”
William jumped at the sound of the thin, weak voice, and spun to see that Tamara had awoken. She sat up, perching on one elbow, her long pale hair in a tangle around her shoulders and back. Her face was smudged with dirt, but her eyes still held the spark and warmth and intelligence that he always looked for in his sister.
“Tam, are you all right?”
She nodded weakly. “I think so. A bit of brandy might be in order, and something to eat.”
Even as she spoke, Richard poured her a small glass of brandy. They all waited as he brought it to her, and once she had sipped from it, William stared at her expectantly.
“I’ve got some bread and cheese. Little more, I’m afraid.”
“That would be wonderful,” Tamara replied.
Richard busied himself at the larder. Tamara looked up at her brother, a bit less pale.
“I don’t remember much, Will. But I do remember holding this cloth in my hands, and understanding its nature.” She paused to catch a breath and moisten her parched lips with another sip of brandy. “I remember combating the witches, then being dragged up into the sky. The one that carried me, she said something I’ll share with you a bit later. And I recall a terrible smell ”
She paused.
“But that’s all.”
She eased herself back onto the bed, shuddering.
“I know I should remember, that it’s important, but I just can’t,” she said, sighing miserably.
Richard brought her a plate with a block of cheese and a small knife, as well as several raggedly cut slices of bread. Tamara accepted them gratefully, cut herself a wedge of the cheese, and devoured it.
Bodicea glanced at Horatio, and the two ghosts were so close they seemed about to drift together, pass through each other. The admiral nodded, and Bodicea turned to hold William’s gaze.
“Long, long ago I did battle with witches. I know their strength all too well. You are the Protectors of Albion, but you are still only two, and you have not yet reached the full potential of the power you have inherited. You will require help, if you are to destroy these creatures. Without the fairies, we have little chance of defeating them.”
“But they want nothing to do with us— ” Tamara began.
“I should say,” William squeaked, “that it’s quite the opposite. We want nothing to do with them. Allying ourselves with the fairies, Bodicea? Have you lost your senses?”
Nelson made a sound as if he cleared his throat.
“You forget yourself, William. You speak to her majesty, Queen Bodicea. Her skill in battle is unmatched by any woman in the history of Albion— ”
“By any woman, Horatio? By anyone, you mean,” the queen replied angrily.
Horatio shifted awkwardly. “Perhaps, majesty, perhaps. The point, William, is that if Bodicea declares that the witches are more than our match, you cannot doubt her.”
Tamara looked over at her brother.
“So be it,” she whispered.
THE CLOAK LAY BETWEEN THEM like a gauntlet.
Sibille stared at it, shock registering on her ethereal features. Unable to take her eyes away from the horrible thing, this most respected of fairies, most powerful among the members of the Council of Stronghold, spoke without looking up.
“Witches ”
There was a muttering from the assembled crowd of fairies.
They had come to see vengeance meted out to the little sprite and her human and ghostly friends, but now fear echoed through the throng, changing the mood of the assemblage.
Tamara looked over at her brother. She could feel the tension that gripped William’s body, causing a slight tic in the jaw muscle on the right side of his face. Bodicea and Horatio stood at her other side, manifested so powerfully that they seemed almost alive as they glared at the fairy council. She didn’t need to turn her head to know that Richard and Farris stood protectively behind her, guarding her back. Serena would be perched on Farris’s shoulder, wings aflutter, defiant as ever.
Giselle Ravenswood stood beside Sibille. She gazed grimly at Tamara. “Since your last visit to Stronghold, two more have vanished. The witches have murdered one of us, and hold six others captive.”
Tamara nodded. “Six fairy girls and at least five human. They need thirteen all told. On the solstice, the witches will kill them all. We mean to stop it, but we need your help.”
Giselle nodded.
Sibille looked up at Tamara, fear reflected in her pale, cold eyes.
“It is yours.”
I WILL PACK MY THINGS and be gone before he returns, Sophia thought angrily as she grabbed another valise and swung it onto the bed.
Normally she would never have packed her own suitcases, but she was so angry, so hurt that she didn’t even give the action a thought.
She yanked open one of the dresser drawers, exposing her frilly cream underskirts. Taking her anger out on the defenseless pieces of cloth, she stuffed them roughly into the large case. She realized then that she hadn’t a clue how to pack the valise properly, but she really didn’t care. She slammed the lid down, ignoring the bit of lacy frill that poked out from under it.
Looking at her clothes, Sophia wondered again how Elvira always had managed to put so many items into so few cases. She had already filled three trunks, and there were still so many things left unpacked.
Shaking, she reached for the latch on the front of the valise, trying to force it to turn. She hadn’t the key to properly lock it, but she wasn’t about to go to Elvira and ask for it. The old maid would have experienced heart failure if she had seen the state of Sophia’s room.
The place was well and truly a mess. Clothing that had been thrown this way and that took up every available space, drawers were pulled from their berths, and even the curtains were askew.
Sophia ignored the mess and continued her packing. She half-expected William to return and beg her not to go, to sink down on one knee and ask forgiveness for his follies. Still, she was so startled when a rap sounded against her door that she dropped the silk handkerchief she was holding. It fluttered to the floor, but Sophia didn’t reach for it. Instead, she ran for the door, a hysterical sob burbling in her throat.
“Oh, William, I knew you would see— ” she said, as she threw open the door.
Nigel Townsend stood on the threshold. Sophia hissed and drew back as though he were a serpent about to strike. Anger flooded her, and she glared at him.
“You’re not William,” she said flatly.
“And I thank my maker every day for that kindness,” Nigel replied.
He smiled, revealing the opalescent teeth that glistened in his mouth. She usually marveled at how long and sharp those teeth looked, but today she only glanced at them warily.
Nigel gave a slight bow.
“No, I am not William Swift, milady, but I do come bearing news. Nelson appeared briefly in my chambers to inform me that William and Tamara have been unavoidably detained. They must stay in Cornwall for a few more days, at the very least.”
He purred his words, and, again, Sophia wondered if there was any cat in the man. She knew he was a vampire; that he wanted to sample her blood so desperately that she could feel his need rolling off him in languid waves.
Then her heart skipped in her chest as his words sank in. Once more, William had forsaken her. She turned her back on Nigel, and began her work again, in earnest.
“Sophia, are you going somewhere?” he asked, amusement in his voice.
Sophia turned on him, glaring, trying to find the words that would express her hatred and her sorrow and her fury. None would come. In the end she simply threw herself onto the bed and began to sob.
Nigel tried to speak to her, and to her surprise his tone was soft and kind, as though he were truly a man— a gentle man— and not a monster. But even had he been the kindest man in the world, Sophia would have spurned his placating words.
Salty tears slid down her cheeks, most dampening her pillow but several reaching the corners of her mouth. She licked them away, savoring the salt, nurturing her anguish.
For several moments longer, Nigel tried to assuage her sadness, but Sophia ignored him entirely. At last he left the room, assuring her that she had only to ask if she wished to speak of her troubles.
She sank into the soft down of the pillow, her breath still coming in shallow, ragged starts as he closed the door firmly behind him.
Sophia rolled over and stared at the ceiling. She tried to catch her breath and after several minutes the flow of tears stemmed a little. She had not felt right these past few days. Her chest ached, and her skin burned. She wondered if she had a fever.
She wanted her mother, someone who loved and cared for her, and only her. With William being so callous to her, she needed a loving hand to touch her brow, take away the pain she felt inside and out. She knew of only one such person who lived here at Ludlow House.
She would go to him, and he would ease her weary mind. He would know the words she needed to hear.
She sat up, and her head throbbed horribly, nausea churning her stomach. She felt so terrible that she almost lay back down, but the thought of that comforting voice and those gentle eyes gave her the strength to stand. Clutching the side table, she dragged herself to her feet, where she swayed once, but finally managed to stay upright.
And she went to him.
The moonlight offered William a clear view of the woods around him. He had spent the past few hours traipsing through the trees in the company of Horatio and Bodicea, looking for ghostly knights. The translucent forms of his companions were sometimes difficult to see as they passed through shafts of moonlight.
The dawn crested the eastern horizon, and they had nothing to show for all their effort.
His attention on the beauty of sunrise, William stumbled over an exposed root. He hissed a loud curse and sat down quickly, holding his foot, investigating to see if he’d done any real damage. The pain in his ankle faded almost immediately, so there was no sprain, but his toe throbbed and he wondered if he might have broken it.
For a moment he considered telling the ghosts to go on without him, but then he caught Bodicea’s disdainful gaze as she floated nearby.
“I’m getting up, I’m getting up ” William sighed as he clambered back onto his feet and hobbled over to where the ghosts were waiting.
“This way.” Bodicea pointed with a long, muscular arm, tracing gossamer wisps in the early morning light. Her arm, like the rest of her, was bare save for the streaks of war paint.
William liked to tell himself that he had long since gotten used to her nudity, but that was far from the truth. He had become expert at ignoring it, most of the time, but that was hardly the same thing.
“We are close to the spot where the knights repeat their battle,” the queen continued, floating forward so that Horatio and William had no option but to follow her.
They moved through the trees, William going at a much slower pace, since he had to avoid all of the overhanging tree branches that his allies did not.
Bodicea halted abruptly, holding up her spear to alert the others. The three of them watched through a gap in the trees as a spectral gray mist moved swiftly into the clearing that lay before them, seeping out of the forest and filling the space with unnatural speed and purpose.
“What in God’s name— ” William whispered, but Bodicea put a finger to her lips, silencing him.
He opened his mouth to add something else, but she shook her head, and glared in a way that spoke volumes. Bodicea pointed out to the field, and the sight that greeted William took his breath away.
The gray mist parted to reveal dozens of knights locked in bloody battle, silver armor against ebon black. William could hear the sound of metal clanging against metal, the grunts of effort as the knights lifted their heavy broadswords to hack and impale one another. Yet the sounds did not match the action of the phantom battle. Rather they seemed echoes of these events, unnatural sounds coming to the world of the living from some faraway time, drifting from the realm of spirits to the land of men. The smell of freshly spilled blood mingled in the air with the stink of sweat and the stench of human fear.
“Incredible,” he whispered.
With a quick glance he saw that Horatio watched with equal fascination. He imagined the sight of such a battle raised powerful memories in the ghost. The man had been a legend in his own time; his missing arm and eye bore testament to his greatness. Even though he was but a shade of the man he had been, William wagered that Horatio’s ghostly heart must race at the sight of such furious combat.
Sensing his companion’s stare, Horatio pulled his gaze away from the battlefield to give a wicked smile. He turned to Bodicea, who nodded. She, too, knew the call of battle.
William had never been one to court death, but since he had taken on the mantle of the Protectorship, he found that death courted him. He hadn’t thought he possessed the makings of a warrior— and he still didn’t, really— but in this moment he could not deny the surge of aggression he was experiencing, and his own soul’s cries for glory as he contemplated the fighting.
The ghostly knights clashed, swords resounding on shields, shouts of pain and exhortations to battle carrying through the woods. In the dawn’s light they were often only suggestions of figures, and as the sun began to rise in earnest they faded with each passing moment. Yet the blood that streaked their armor and spattered their faces seemed to paint their silhouettes all the more firmly.
William studied the specters, trying not to lose sight of them as they turned in the sun, sometimes disappearing altogether. His gaze rested on one particular knight whose ferocity was unmatched. The ghost turned to attack a black-armored foe and William saw the coat of arms painted upon his shield.
Could it be?
“The Pendragon,” he whispered.
He had to stifle a shout as he reached out to tug at Horatio’s jacket, completely forgetting himself in that moment. His hand passed through the admiral’s insubstantial form, but Horatio sensed his excitement.
“Yes, I see it, too,” he rasped. Nelson’s awe seemed to match his own.
As a boy, he had sat in his grandfather’s chambers and listened to the old magician as he spun tales of the Knights of the Round Table. He had read the books over and over again. Yet now he bore witness to those very knights, in combat against some dark force, the gallant men in service to Arthur Pendragon, bloody on the field of battle.
Mesmerized, he started forward into the clearing. Bodicea hissed and darted for him, reaching out her spectral hands, but she could not stop him, and he paid her no heed.
He had to be closer, to really see them. Bodicea tried to block his path with her spear, but he passed right through it.
“William!” Bodicea whispered harshly. “We must not interfere until it is finished.”
“But they’ll all have disappeared by then,” he protested. Even as he said this he could see the bodies of the defeated already starting to vanish from the field. He took a few more tentative steps forward, trying to determine exactly what was happening to the disappearing shades.
He cleared the trees and started through the tall grass.
“William!”
The voice made it clear that she brooked no argument, and it stopped William in his tracks. He turned to find Horatio floating toward him, his one good eye alight with righteous fury.
“Do not reveal yourself to them,” Nelson said. “There is danger here.”
Horatio started back toward the trees, gesturing for William to follow and giving him no opportunity to protest. William started to obey, but paused when he felt a cold breeze caress the back of his neck.
“What in ” he began, but then he saw the rictus of terror that etched upon the faces of Bodicea and Horatio.
He twisted around in alarm to find a huge knight in the armor of Pendragon’s enemies, lumbering at him and wielding an enormous double-bladed war-ax. The knight’s armor gleamed coal-black. Even the chain mail was a dark gray. The horned helmet he wore protected his face so well that William could not see his eyes.
The monstrous knight swung his war-ax. William hadn’t time to think, never mind dodge. He screamed and closed his eyes, expecting instant death.
Then he blinked.
Foolish William, he thought.
The knight was a ghost. The ax had, of course, passed harmlessly through him. He opened his eyes, and saw the knight prepare to swing again. This time he was prepared. He jumped backward out of the way. He could feel the cold bite of the ax as it passed inches from his face. It might not cut flesh, but the phantom weapon cleaved the spirit world with a force that penetrated the veil, ever so slightly.
So that was the breeze on my neck— the bastard was trying to cut my head off from behind.
“Only a coward attacks while his enemy’s back is turned!” William shouted. The giant only laughed, and gave forth a bellow like the crack of a tree felled by a storm.
Channeling the magic of Albion, William raised his hands. A verdant light crackled around his fingers, and he began to intone a spell in medieval French, a hex on the spirit that could not destroy the ghost, but would cause the lingering soul a great deal of pain.
Before he could cast the spell, the ghost took a step back, as if troubled by this new development. The black knight turned and fled back to the battlefield.
“That’s right, run away!” William called after him, surprised and a bit giddy at the fear he’d inspired.
But he faltered a moment later when he realized that the knight had not fled in fear, but in wisdom. The towering man in his black armor, bleached gray now as the morning sun began to rise more fully, ran toward his fellows and shouted for their assistance.
A cadre of black-armored knights turned away from the battle and joined the giant. Together, they marched toward William, Bodicea, and Horatio, brandishing their weapons with a homicidal glee.