You sound as though you’ve got a plan brewing, miss,” Farris said, as they found the path through the wood that would take them back to where they had left the carriage.
“I do,” Tamara confessed. “Though I daresay you’re not going to like it.”
With the stench from the corpse and the sickly sweet smell of the bayou threatening to overwhelm him, William slumped back into the boat and felt the blood drain from his cheeks as the dead thing released its hold and slipped back into the water. Antoinette watched him, her cat’s eyes full of interest.
“You afraid of the dead, Mr. Swift?” she asked, her voice like honey.
He shook his head, not wanting to look weak.
“It’s the movement of the boat. I sometimes get ill when I’m on the water.”
She licked her lips and smiled. The woman knew he was lying but her expression said that was perfectly all right. He looked away from the elegant perfection of her beauty, his gaze drawn back to the water. It would be easy to lose himself in her loveliness, even in the midst of the horrors of this place.
Best to be careful
A pale ivory hand thrust up from the water then, and snagged William by the shirtsleeve. Below the wrist, the arm was nothing but bone, yet it had such strength. William fought, beating at the dead hand, trying to get some grip on the boat, but it dragged him over the side as though he weighed nothing at all.
He gasped sharply as the cool, murky water engulfed him, filling his throat and weighing his body down as though an anchor was tied to his legs. He sank, choking, and welcomed the embrace of panic. He kicked out with both legs, struggling upward. Despite the weight, he pulled toward air.
Just a little farther.
When his face was only inches from the oily surface, he felt a vise clamp around his ankles, and then something tugged him down again, dragged him farther into the muck and the thick water of the bayou. His lungs burned and his eyes bulged, his body starving for air.
The corpse that had dragged him into the water still had hold of his shirtsleeve. He thrashed with the last of his strength, freeing his legs, and tore open his shirt. Freed, chest convulsing for air, he thrust himself upward. Just as he was about to break the surface he risked one glance down into the murk and saw the dead thing slipping into the depths with his shirt still clutched tightly in its hand.
Lungs on fire, he broke the surface at last and sucked down great gulps of air. After a few moments, he looked around for the skiff, which bobbed in the water eight or ten yards away.
“Horatio!” William called, his throat raw. But there was no reply from his ghostly comrade.
Fearful of whatever else might be lurking in the bayou, William swam as fast as he could toward the boat. He threw his arms over the side, and tried to pull himself up. The boat rocked and he nearly slipped back down into the water before he was finally able to heave himself inside.
He looked up and saw that the skiff was empty.
“Horatio? Antoinette?!” he called, but got no answer. He looked wildly around, but all he saw was the long shadow of Philippe Mandeville’s plantation home.
Unsure of what else to do, he picked up an oar, and began to paddle toward shore.
Soon enough he stood at the front door, his thin undershirt soaked through, and grasped the long silver bellpull. He gave it a tug, but could hear nothing of its call inside. He waited, his teeth beginning to chatter, occasionally looking back at the boat to determine whether Horatio and Antoinette had returned.
After what seemed an eternity, the lock clicked, and the door began to slowly swing open. William stood there, waiting for someone, a butler or maid, to show him in, but there was no one.
“Hello ?” he said. His voice did not echo. It was as if it were being sucked into the void, rather than a hallway.
Feeling foolish just standing there in the doorway, he stepped inside, and immediately the door slammed at his back. He jumped, turning to see if someone had shut it, but the foyer was empty, and entirely dark.
“This is ridiculous.”
He put his hands together.
“Inlucesco!”
Immediately, a ball of green light appeared above his head, lighting his way. William began to walk slowly through the home of Philippe Mandeville and his eyes widened with further amazement at every step.
Horatio had said Mandeville was a collector, but that had been an understatement. This was more than just a home; this was a cabinet of infinite curiosities. There were odd things locked inside glass cases— deformed fetuses, pieces of bone— that lined the hallway and the shelves that packed each room he passed.
William shuddered as he glimpsed a jar of eyeballs, the colored corneas a murky gray with age. The optic nerves and their attending veins trailed behind the eyes in the milky liquid. William didn’t want to think about who the previous owners had been— probably other intrepid explorers who’d tried to enter Mandeville’s home uninvited.
As he passed by the doorways that led into other rooms, he saw even stranger things. One chamber in particular caught his attention. It was filled with small daguerreotypes of men and women, images so numerous that they covered the walls like vines; some hung from nails and others were arranged on myriad shelves. Yet otherwise it was remarkable only in that it was the most ordinary of any of the rooms he had encountered.
William stepped inside, noting the pale ocher walls and the thick crown moldings that had been painted a benign eggshell color many years before. The floors were heavy oak, stained a rich, dark brown. He picked up one of the framed daguerreotypes from a shelf on the wall.
He blinked and stared closer, turning the picture this way and that in his hands. For just a moment it had seemed to him that the beautiful, dark-haired woman in the portrait had moved, ever so slightly. A trick of the light, perhaps.
“Do you like my little portrait gallery?”
The voice was smooth, like creamed silk. It saturated the air, seeming to slip like smoke along the walls.
He turned to find a tall man with blond hair gone white at the temples standing behind him in the doorway. His skin was the palest William had ever seen on a human being. Once he had met an albino man with such papery skin, but this was no albino. His eyes were a watery cornflower blue.
Mandeville smiled. The cool white of his crisp summer suit set off the chalky bone hue of his skin, and reflected the low light.
“Are you the artist, Mr. Mandeville?” William asked, attempting to present himself as perfectly unruffled.
Philippe Mandeville smiled, his pale lips revealing unnaturally long, yellow-stained teeth. Both eyeteeth seemed to be missing from his mouth.
“Of course. There is both skill and art to the work. It fascinates me. And it helps me in the lonely hours.” His voice was mellifluous, more compelling even than his daughter’s dulcet tones. As he spoke he seemed to be weaving a spell with his voice.
There was nothing natural about this man.
Wary of taking his eyes off Mandeville, even for a moment, William attempted to return the framed photograph to its place by memory. Instead he bumped the frame against the shelf.
The sheer panic that lit Mandeville’s eyes in that moment was more than alarm. William only caught a glimpse of it as he spun around and stopped another framed image from falling off the shelf. He snatched it up, feeling like a bumbling fool.
Carefully he placed both photographs back onto their shelf. Even as he did, he wondered about Mandeville’s reaction. Were the daguerreotypes so valuable that the idea of dropping one, perhaps damaging it, would cause the man such a fright?
A fresh ripple of dread ran up William’s spine. Cursing himself for turning his back on Mandeville he spun, certain that the man had used the distraction to steal nearer to him, perhaps armed with some enchanted dagger.
But Mandeville had not moved an inch, and the panic that had lit his face was gone. In its place was a curious, ironic smile, enough to make William wonder if he’d imagined seeing such alarm in those features.
“Daguerreotypes, aren’t they?” William asked, keeping his voice even. “I had heard the process had been perfected recently.”
The man gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Nonsense. Have you not noticed the age of some of these images? I was using polished silver and iodine to create such portraits before that fool Daguerre was even born.”
“Perhaps they ought to have named the process after you, then?” William suggested, trying to gauge his host’s intentions.
“I labor for love, not notoriety.”
William had no reply for that. He glanced around, anxious to be out of this room but knowing he could not leave without his prize.
“You’re alone here?” he asked.
Mandeville laughed, and the sound was warm and rich, in direct contradiction to his demeanor.
“Now, I wouldn’t say that exactly.”
Mandeville took a few steps toward William, who backed up involuntarily, resulting in another laugh.
“I see that you think I wish you harm, Mr. Swift. Where would the fun be in that?”
For the first time, William detected a slight French inflection beneath Mandeville’s smooth Southern accent. The man had assimilated well into the New Orleans culture, adopting the drawl of the landed gentry.
“Your daughter, Antoinette, brought me here. I’ve come to beg your indulgence. You possess a book I need badly.”
Mandeville held up his hand. “I know what you seek, and I will give it to you gladly— ”
William blinked, then stared at him in relief. “Thank you so much, Mr. Mandeville— ”
The man shook his head, interrupting William.
“You did not let me finish, Mr. Swift. I was going to say that I will give to you gladly what you seek, but first you must do something for me.”
William nodded.
“You must,” Mandeville continued, “answer a riddle.”
Dubious, William arched an eyebrow. “And if I cannot answer?”
Mandeville smiled again, but this time there was no trace of humor in it. “Why then, you and your friend will join my permanent collection.”
Mandeville snapped his fingers, and one of the daguerreotypes flew off a shelf toward William, stopping only when it floated before his eyes. William gasped and raised his hands, a defensive shield of magic summoned instantly and pulsing at his fingertips.
But he faltered when he saw the picture, and then he shuddered with fear. The face in the daguerreotype was unmistakably familiar.
Horatio.
The ghost had been frozen in an image, his features contorted with anger and a ferocity that was only intensified by the sepia tone of the print. Abruptly the picture sailed back to its place on the shelf, landing with a loud clatter.
“What did you do to him?” William demanded.
Mandeville gave a gentle wave. “He’s in no pain. The process is entirely reversible, if you answer my riddle correctly. Otherwise, your photograph will be next.”
William wanted to strangle the man, to pull out every magical weapon he had in his arsenal, but something inside told him he would lose that battle if he chose to start it. He had learned a great deal, but even with the power of Albion at his disposal, he was still a novice and he was a long way from home.
“Well?” Mandeville said, his seductive voice drawing William back to the question at hand.
William sighed, knowing his hands were tied.
“Tell me your riddle. But I swear to you that you will not add me to your collection without a fight, regardless of my answer.”
“Oh, I would expect nothing less from one of the great Protectors,” Mandeville sneered.
“Go on then.”
Mandeville snapped his fingers, and two chairs appeared instantly in front of him.
“Please take a seat, Mr. Swift.”
“I’ll stand, thank you.”
The sorcerer shrugged, and sat down in one of the thin white birch chairs, the seat crackling under his weight.
“As you wish. Now tell me,” Mandeville purred, “what is the weight of your soul, and what is the weight of mine?”
THE CARRIAGE RATTLED OVER THE RUTTED, uneven ground as Farris drove the horses toward Slaughterbridge. Bodicea did not like to be confined in such a small space. Even without flesh or bone, the queen preferred the fields and woods, the mountains, or, as her ghostly condition allowed, the sky. Even the streets of London town were more pleasing if she could wander them without restriction.
But the moment demanded her presence. Tamara had summoned her from her journeying across the moors and woods and shores of Cornwall, pulling her away from conversations with specters, in order to have her here, and so she would endure the cramped confines of the carriage for the benefit of Albion.
The ghostly queen hovered just above a seat, maintaining the appearance of solidity in spite of her translucent, shimmering form. Such pretense was a comfort both to her living companions, and to herself.
Tamara sat beside her, hands folded over her lap in a fashion that would have seemed demure if not for the way one clutched the other, tight enough to cause pain. Her every muscle was taut, and to Bodicea she seemed ready to scream.
Yet the Protector kept quiet, instead watching and listening to the sprite Serena, who was pacing back and forth upon the seat across from them, gesticulating wildly. Once Bodicea would only have been amused by the sight of the tiny creature’s fury, but she had come to respect Serena’s loyalty and ferocity in battle.
“ and then, Rhosynn and Fyg dare to call us a spy, so they do!” the sprite cried, full of righteous scorn.
The ghost scrutinized Serena. “Which was nothing but the truth, little friend. Why does it enrage you so?”
“’Cause we wouldn’t has to spy if they’d come to their senses, majesty,” the sprite replied archly, crossing her arms and glaring at the queen.
“There is that,” Bodicea allowed.
Tamara touched two fingers to her temple, as though to stave off a headache.
“Enough. Shall we attempt to focus? Tragic are the deaths we have been unable to avert, but I refuse to allow another life to be lost to this horror. There are four human girls still missing, and from the sound of it, five fairy girls have been taken from Stronghold. I shall hold myself responsible if I do not find them before the solstice.
“If they should die ”
She let the words hang.
Bodicea reached out a spectral hand, shimmering and transparent, and marshalling her concentration she managed to touch Tamara’s wrist.
“We will not fail them,” the ghost declared.
The girl looked up, grateful for the comfort.
“No. We won’t. On my life, we won’t.” Tamara glanced at the sprite, whose wings fluttered almost unconsciously. “Serena, did you get a sense that Rhosynn and her friends knew any more than we do about this?”
The sprite sighed heavily. “Not a bit, lady. Not a bit.” Then she brightened. “Though we has the idea there’s them at Stronghold as think the council’s a bit rash, we does. That maybe there’s some thinks a mistake’s made, not talking to you.”
Tamara nodded. “Well, perhaps they’ll come around, given time. But we cannot wait for that. For now, we’re on our own.”
“Indeed,” Bodicea said, narrowing her eyes. Her fists clenched with grim anticipation. “And the local ghosts will be little help, or none at all, I fear.”
“So you said when I called you back to the inn,” Tamara replied darkly. “I’m sorry to have put off your news, but I thought it important for us to get under way. And Serena was brimming with anger over her encounter with the fairies. Please, Bodicea, tell me what you’ve learned.”
The ghost paused a moment, and as she thought of her journeys in the spectral world, of the fear that coursed through the wandering souls of Cornwall, she faded just a bit, so her manifestation was only a silhouette upon the darkness within the carriage.
“The dead are frightened,” Bodicea said.
Serena swore and threw up her hands. “Frightened? What is they scared of, majesty? We doesn’t know of anything that can hurt one who’s already dead.”
“You’re wrong there, sprite. There are many things that can harm the dead. Necromancy is a twisted sorcery. Though it is uncommon, all spirits fear such power.
“Once, all souls, living or dead, feared witches,” she continued. “Those magicians, half-human and half-demon, may be rare now, but the ghosts of Cornwall know that they are not entirely gone. And where there is a witch, even the most confused of lost souls will know to avoid that place.”
“But what about the specters you’ve seen? The knights in armor?” Tamara asked.
Bodicea nodded. “Old ghosts, they are. I believe they are watching us, wondering if we will succeed against our foes. Brave and noble knights they may have been in life, but as ghosts even they fear the witches. They refuse to actively aid us, because they know the wrath of the dark ones would be terrible.”
“Witches, witches, witches!” Serena said, zipping into the air and flying back and forth between Tamara and Bodicea, wings like harp strings, purple-hued dust falling from them as she darted about. “Is ye saying ye know for sure they’re here? That they’s real? We’s never seen a one, majesty, never a one. And at Stronghold, ’tis said the witches are dead, the bells rung, all the wicked, gone.”
“Perhaps not,” Tamara said, meeting Bodicea’s gaze. “We keep hearing about witches, from Christine and her grandfather, and now from the ghosts of Cornwall. Perhaps they were gone for a time— I know not where, though the possibilities are limitless— and have only now returned. They’re half-demon. Perhaps they have been in some dark realm, or frozen in time, awaiting some trigger for their awakening. What’s important is that, even if we’re not dealing with witches, whatever we are facing is just as powerful, and equally dangerous.
“What I’d like to know, however, is why the knights— of all the wandering souls of this area— have presented themselves in this way. If you’re right, Bodicea, why is it only the knights who pay such close attention to our efforts?”
Outside, the sky had darkened, and the breeze that blew into the carriage was unusually cold. Several of the trees they passed along the road were dead and bare of branches, reaching for the sky with dark fingers. Bodicea could hear the river rushing nearby, and thought they must be nearing their goal.
“The last girl to disappear, the barmaid, told you the tale of Slaughterbridge,” she said.
Tamara frowned. “About Arthur, you mean? The legend indicates that he was killed around here.”
Serena flew in a wild spiral around the carriage, casting off purple dust in a shower that sparkled in the air.
“Arthur? Does you mean the Pendragon?”
“The Pendragon, yes,” Bodicea said. “It’s said that his son Mordred killed him at Slaughterbridge, and father slew son, as well. But Mordred died on the spot, while Arthur survived long enough to stagger off a ways.
“The few ghosts I could force to speak to me stayed off across the moors, and seemed not as afraid of the witches as those nearer by. They said the witches tormented the dead around Slaughterbridge, always searching for— ”
“Arthur’s burial place,” Tamara finished. “Or the very spot where he died, and bled into the earth. Yes, I’ve heard both.”
Bodicea gripped her spear, its edge only a phantom wisp.
“I believe the knights are watching because they have an interest the other ghosts of Camelford do not. I have seen them acting out a massacre, on a spectral battlefield, as though they had no choice but to relive that horror, again and again, day after day. It may be that they are the knights of the king you call Arthur, those who died for him here. So there may be something they dread more than the fury of the witches, something they wish us to prevent.”
“And what might that be?” Tamara asked.
The ghostly queen shook her head. “That, I do not know. But I have thought a great deal about what I have seen and heard of the wandering phantoms of Cornwall, and I feel sure I am right, or nearly so.”
“I trust your instincts, Bodicea,” Tamara said, smoothing her dress anxiously and gazing into a corner of the carriage as though she might find answers in the shadows. “But there are still too many questions that remain unanswered. If the ghosts of these knights will not aid us, then the course I have chosen truly seems the only one we have left. All of the whispers speak of the witches’ interest in Slaughterbridge. If we will find them anywhere, it will be there.”
Bodicea felt doubtful, and if they had only a handful of days before solstice, they had no time to waste. “And if they do not come, what then?”
“They will come, one way or another,” Tamara replied, eyes hard. “I have a spell that will draw them, even if it is against their will. It’s not powerful enough to hold them, but if I perform it correctly, they will be unable to resist the summoning.”
A shiver of dread went through the ghostly queen.
“I do not like the sound of that, Tamara. What will you do with them once you have them?”
The girl only looked back at her, and though Tamara was a Protector of Albion, and as strong-willed and clever as anyone Bodicea had ever known, in that moment she seemed so very young. The ghost feared for her.
“Lady Tamara!” Serena piped up in her tiny voice. “Majesty! The knights be here, now! In the wood!”
Bodicea spun, one arm passing entirely through the carriage door. Through the window she could see that the sprite spoke true. Three knights on horseback rode alongside them, spectral figures that the moonlight passed through, leaving them alight with an unearthly glow. They made no sound as they rode,
The leader had his sword drawn. Horse and rider followed a straight course; the branches and trunks of trees offered no obstacle as the ghosts went right through them.
“Go, Bodicea,” Tamara said. “Tell them that knights should not shirk from battle, that I’m tired of having them do nothing but watch, and demand they perform their duty to Albion.”
Bodicea hesitated. “The witches— ”
“I’ll wait for their answer, before I cast the spell.”
“Hurry, majesty!” Serena squeaked, darting around the carriage, then out the window as though to drag Bodicea along behind her.
“You stay,” the spectral queen told the sprite.
Then she moved out of the carriage, her ghostly shape flowing through the air. She held her spear in front of her and rushed away from the carriage toward the wood and the hesitant knights.
The ghosts turned their phantom steeds away, and moved deeper into the wood.
Bodicea passed through the trees in pursuit. “Damn you for cowards, each and every one!” she cried as she followed them. “The Protector of Albion demands your loyalty. The spirit of England itself— to which you are sworn servants— commands you!”
The ghosts rode on.
Bodicea saw flashes of spectral essence ahead, the shapes of horses made up from the substance of their souls, just as their armor and weapons were. For long moments she gave chase. Several times she thought she had lost them, only to catch a glimpse. But she would not be denied.
“Cowards! Halt!” she shouted, her voice that of the warrior queen who had ruled these lands once upon a time. It echoed now, just as it had then.
In a clearing that was bathed in moonlight, she came upon the knights. They had stopped in the midst of a grotesque phantom battlefield, with silhouettes and wisps of an ancient war strewn on the ground. A ghostly theater of the damned, they played out their mortal end with horrifying exactness. Some of the ghosts were nearly insubstantial, but others had manifested with such vigor that she could see the anguish and agony that had been etched upon their faces at the moment of their deaths.
As profoundly familiar as she was with the horrors of war, this gave even Bodicea pause.
The three knights on horseback watched her, forlorn, their eyes as lost as their souls.
“Albion needs you now,” she said, her voice so low it was almost a whisper.
