Witchery: A Ghosts of Albion Novel (Ghosts of Albion #2)

Witchery: A Ghosts of Albion Novel (Ghosts of Albion #2) Page 3

With a flit of her wings, she darted off into the trees, pirouetting through branches as she flew toward Stronghold, searching the forest with her eyes. Serena moved with a grace and speed even fairies envied, her shimmering form no more than a flicker in the air.

She didn’t stop to speak to any of the forest creatures as she flew past the trees and across part of the yawning moorlands, too caught up in her own thoughts to pay them any mind. No, she had decided upon a course of action, and she was moving as quickly as she could to carry it out. First, she would return to Stronghold and reveal to the council her part in Aine’s disappearance.

Then she would begin the second, and trickier, phase of her plan.

Stronghold came into view ahead of her, the first sight of it causing her breath to catch in her throat as it always did. The fairy outpost was majestic. From its tall, intricately carved battlements to the silvery spire at its center, the place was like a dream come to life— a dream that was about to end for her.

The fairies had created this place so long ago that there was no one still living who could tell tale of its construction. Some said that Stronghold had been built as a wedding gift for a long forgotten human king and his fairy wife, providing a bridge between the magical realm and the ordinary world, given as a sign of goodwill in the days before humanity ceased to believe in magic— and by extension, all the world’s magical beings.

Whether or not this was true, Serena could not say, but it made a pretty story.

Bypassing the front gates and the sentries that stood silent as carved idols beside them, Serena flew over the stones that encircled Stronghold. The magical wards and protections would not delay her. This place recognized her as a friend.

She knew a shortcut to the Great Hall, a secret way she and Aine had found when they were amusing themselves in the seldom-used hallways of the outpost.

Serena flew in through an open window in the armory, then buzzed through a series of empty rooms before slipping inside the sewing room.

That room was empty, so Serena was able to fly over to the giant armoire that was pushed up against the farthest wall without anyone stopping her to ask questions. Grasping the small metal pull on the front of the cabinet, she opened the door a few inches so that she could fly inside.

At the back of the armoire was a small hole, perfectly sized for a sprite. Serena flew into the hole, and found herself speeding down a long tunnel that seemed to span the length of the keep at Stronghold’s center. She pressed forward in the darkness until she came to a section that was illuminated by a dazzling yellow light. The tunnel veered off sharply to the left, but Serena followed the glow of the light out into a long corridor that led up to the anteroom of the Great Hall.

There were a few fairies milling about, waiting their turn for an audience with the council. Serena ignored them, flying so low to the ground that most of them didn’t even know she was there. She slipped under the crack between the door and the floor, moving as silently as she could.

The council was already in session when Serena arrived. She quickly darted behind an antique tapestry, the thick woven material practically a bas-relief depicting the coronation of the last queen of Faerie. It was stuffy, hovering behind the fabric; dust that had collected for more than two hundred years found its way onto Serena’s wings, making them heavy and hard to control.

Her nose began to twitch, but she pinched her nostrils together, stopping the sneeze. She didn’t want to be detected just yet.

“We have no cause to blame the humans, but then again— ” the voice began, the cadence quick and whiny.

That can only be Zacharias, Serena thought to herself, darkly. His voice is as prissy as the rest of him.

Zacharias was one of the eldest members of the council, and one of the few males. Indeed, males were scarce at Stronghold. Female fairies seemed to have a much easier time adjusting to the human world, so most of the males remained behind in their own realm, never wishing to cross over.

“Enough, Zacharias!” said a commanding voice that could only have belonged to Giselle, Aine’s aunt. “We do not know who is behind these horrors, or why, but we must not distract ourselves from discovering the truth by engaging in wild and unfounded suppositions.”

From her vantage point, Serena couldn’t see the wise fairy warrior, but in her mind’s eye she called up an image of Giselle, her long silver hair braided in a thick rope down her back, silver-blue eyes that seemed to see into the dark recesses of your soul. This was a woman who preferred the bloody battlefield to a verbal duel of words.

Regardless, she was fair, and listened to all sides before passing judgment. Stronghold was lucky to have her on the council, helping to make their laws and mete out justice. It was her wisdom and compassion, along with a view shared by other true voices on the council, that kept the more conniving members in check.

“Mellyn is dead, murdered in the forest. Were you not listening?” Giselle went on. “Her body lay tangled in the upper limbs of a towering oak. What human could do such a thing? This horror is all the more troubling in light of the news that no one has seen Tamsyn in days. I’d thought her off on some flight of fancy, but now I fear the worst.”

Giselle’s words jarred Serena and she could not breathe.

Dead, murdered in the forest.

“The shadow grows longer, Giselle Ravenswood,” old Zacharias wheezed. “My granddaughter, Wenna, has long loved to watch the sun set over the Celtic Sea. Last night, she did not return.”

Silence reigned in the council chamber. The council knew nothing of Aine’s disappearance, but with her also gone that made three fairy girls vanished, and Mellyn murdered.

A cold chill of fear and dread went up Serena’s spine, and she tried to tell herself that Mellyn’s death did not mean that the other girls had met the same fate. But even if she was right, something terrible was afoot in the woods, something that stole away young girls and did not return them. And now her truest friend was at this thing’s mercy.

Serena realized then that there was no more time to spare. Nervously, she slid out from behind the tapestry, and began to fly across the large hall.

Giselle noticed her immediately. Wise and beautiful though the silver-haired fairy might be, she was also known for her wrath.

“Sprite!” she thundered, and every head in the council chamber turned.

Serena darted into the center of the chamber and alighted upon the floor, an eighth the height of the smallest among them. Still, as she knelt before Giselle, she kept her chin up, held on to her dignity.

“Wise Giselle— ” she began.

“What do you mean by this intrusion?” Giselle demanded. “No one is allowed within the chamber while the council is meeting. You dare much, little fool!”

Zacharias sniffed in disgust, and the bent, crooked old fairy glared down at her. “A sprite? Outrageous!”

In that moment, Serena wanted to scream and to fly. Every time she came to Stronghold she tried to pretend that the disdain of the fairies did not hurt her heart. She could pretend no longer. In that moment, she felt small not in size but in worth, and she hated them for it.

But she loved Aine, and so she met Giselle’s angry gaze with one of her own.

“We comes with awful news, we does,” the little sprite said, her wings buzzing behind her in punctuation to her words. “Our greatest friend, Aine, were out in the forest last night. To Call her true love, she went, just to see, to see his face, ye ken.”

Her lips trembled and a hot tear streaked down her cheek.

“She doesn’t come back,” Serena whispered. “Aine doesn’t come back last night.”

Voices erupted in thunderous debate, her transgression momentarily forgotten. Serena glanced around at the members of the council as they argued about what was to be done regarding the missing girls, and whether or not they were still alive.

The sprite leaped into the air, tiny wings beating rapidly, and hovered three feet from Giselle’s face. She spun around in a circle, crying out to the others.

“Listen. Listen, ye must!” Serena said. “We knows what to do! We knows who will help!”

Giselle clapped her hands and all fell silent. The silver-haired woman stared at Serena.

“The council will continue its discussion of these matters momentarily. First, however, we must attend to this sprite, and her intrusion. She has violated these chambers and thus broken our law and our trust, and for that there must be punishment.”

Serena stared at her. “Ye’re mad, woman. Listens to us! Send us to the Swifts. The Protectors of Albion, they helps find Aine and t’others, before they be as dead as Mellyn!”

Zacharias snorted in derision. “Ah, so she was eavesdropping as well. Furtive, nasty little bug.”

“Hush, now, Serena, before you condemn yourself further,” Giselle said, eyes flashing darkly. “You’ll accept your punishment. As for the Protectors, we have no need of human help. Stronghold can look after its own.”

Serena glared at her. “Aye, ye’ve done so well thus far.”

Giselle glared a moment longer, then looked toward the doors. “Summon the guard to take her.”

“Fools, all’ve ye!” Serena cried in anguish and fury.

She darted away, flitting across the room toward the tiny hole through which she’d entered. One of the council members, an elegant, gauzy young thing, sprang into the air, pretty gossamer wings appearing at her back, and tried to intercept her.

Serena was quicker. She slipped through the hole and out of the council chamber. Thanks to her friendship with Aine, she knew every secret and tiny path in all of Stronghold. They would never catch up to her before she could leave.

In moments, she was out, flying among the trees and then above them, soaring toward the southeast, toward London. It would be an arduous journey at such speed, but she would not stop to rest. She must get to Farris as quickly as possible, and hope that he would intercede on her behalf with the Protectors.

Our Farris, she thought, so brave. He would help. He must.

Aine’s fate hung in the balance.

AT THAT VERY MOMENT, Serena’s only hope was asleep on a wrought-iron bench in the gardens of Ludlow House, his pale face turning salmon pink in the sun.

Farris let out a snore, the sound so loud and grotesque that it startled him awake. He looked around sheepishly, his eyes still blurry from his catnap, hoping that no one had caught him. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Tamara Swift trying to stifle a giggle, and she was trying very poorly indeed.

Her honey-blond hair was caught up in a loose chignon, accentuating her high cheekbones, and her face was flushed with exertion. The dark gray muslin dress she wore clung to her womanly frame in all the right places, enhancing her burgeoning sexuality.

It made Farris worry more every day.

He knew that she was naďve when it came to the opposite sex, but sensed that this was a lack she wanted to remedy. The very idea that some rogue might take advantage of her innocence made his blood turn to ice. He thought of Tamara as his personal charge, and looked after her fiercely. He would sooner die than let anything happen to her.

Normally he felt confident that he was quite adept at performing all of the various services he provided for the Swifts— butler, footman, valet— yet he had absolutely no idea how to be a successful chaperon for a girl who did not desire one.

IT TOOK ALL OF TAMARA’S CONTROL not to laugh at poor Farris’s discomfort. Since she didn’t want to embarrass him any further, she looked down to the end of the garden where the archery target stood.

As she watched, John Haversham pulled the last arrow from the covered hay bale they had been loosing their weapons upon all afternoon. He waved at her, half a dozen feathered arrows in his hand, and began to jog back to where she stood, staring at him curiously.

She turned back to Farris, and saw that he had an odd look on his face as he watched John trot back toward her. She wondered— not for the first time— if Farris disliked John Haversham as much as her brother did.

William despised Sophia’s cavalier cousin, and made every effort to dissuade Tamara from spending time with him. Had her brother any idea of her true feelings for John, he would never have allowed his sister to leave the house in the man’s company— not even with Farris as chaperon.

The rakishly handsome young fellow strode toward her across the grassy slope, his head erect, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. His dark hair was a bit wild, always appearing to be windblown, even indoors. He possessed sharp gray eyes and a wide, sensual mouth. Just being near him made Tamara’s heart race, and she was tempted to swoon so that he would catch her, so that physical contact would be instigated “against her will.”

And it was against her will. Intellectually, she didn’t want to be in love with John Haversham. In fact, she felt small and stupid in his company, knowing that he could easily make use of her vulnerability, her need to be close to him. It bothered her terribly that she couldn’t control her emotions, as he clearly could.

They had shared a few intimate moments, but John had made it more than plain that while he found her attractive, that didn’t mean he wished to court her. Which led them to afternoons like this: Tamara pining away for him under the guise of helping him hone his magical skills, and John accepting her assistance without recognizing her discomfort.

“What do you think?” John called out to her. “Shall we have another go? Or have I worn you out already this afternoon, milady?”

She was certain his little innuendo was engineered to annoy her, but she let it pass. He cocked an eyebrow, waiting for a nasty dig in response, but when none was forthcoming, he began to smile.

“Has someone gotten up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?” John’s smile widened. “Why, you’ve been as calculating as a cobra these past few hours, biding your time, waiting to strike the death blow, I suspect.”

“John, you really are— ”

He began to laugh, pleased to have riled her. The rich baritone of his speaking voice translated perfectly into laughter. She loved this sound, especially, and would have done anything— under different circumstances— to make it appear more often. She also liked that he had a sense of humor and wasn’t afraid to show it.

“Come, Tamara, you can only remain stoic for so long. I shall continue to tease you until you crumble under the onslaught and spar with me properly or at least unlock your sweet smile.”

Tamara said nothing, only clenched her jaw harder to keep from opening her mouth.

This only made John laugh harder.

“Tamara Swift, I know you better than you think. It’s impossible for you to keep that lovely mouth of yours shut for very long. Your brain will burst with all of the poisonous barbs and tart ripostes you’re holding back, if you don’t just speak.”

Her eyes flared at that. As much as she hated it, when John called her mouth lovely, her heart had skipped a beat— perhaps even two or three.

But she shook her head, and took a deep, calming breath.

“I have no idea what you mean, John. I have nothing but kind words to impart, each and every day.” She smiled sweetly.

John snorted.

“You’ll have to do better than that, milady,” he countered, the corners of his mouth still curled in the last vestiges of a smirk.

Tamara ignored him now, her expression turning serious, and reached out and plucked one of the arrows from his hand. She put the long, thin shaft against her bow, and drew her hand back, releasing the arrow high into the sky. It sailed upward in a long arc, gaining momentum as it flew. She watched it, waiting, and it began to curve back down again, directly on target.

At the last moment, Tamara called out “ignate,” and the arrow burst into flame just as it hit the target, a perfect bull’s eye. With a wave of her hand, the arrow ceased its burning, leaving no charred or even singed bits in its wake.

“Amazing, as usual,” John said, as he deposited the rest of the arrows into a wide leather quiver that rested on a small wrought-iron table.

“Thank you,” she answered, offering him a prim smile and half a curtsy.

John rested his weight against his longbow, and he leaned there, watching her.

“You know, as much as I’ve enjoyed this afternoon of silence, I do prefer the old Tamara Swift. What have you done with that clever beauty I first met at the Wintertons’ dinner party, all those long months ago?”

Tamara blushed, silently enjoying his compliment. She decided to use the light moment to broach a subject that had been on her mind for some time.

“John, may I ask you something?”

Sensing her hesitation, he nodded, encouraging her to go on.

“I know that you’re not an innocent, that you’ve dabbled in the dark side of nature, seen things that have ” She paused.

“Terrified me?” he finished.

She nodded.

The smirk was gone from his face now. He regarded her with utter sincerity.

“Go on,” he said. “There’s no question you could ask me, Tamara, that I wouldn’t answer.”

She sighed.

“Demons. What do you know of them?”

John narrowed his eyes, but let her continue.

“And what do you know of how can they be cast out of someone they’ve possessed?”

“Your father?”

She nodded, relieved to be talking to someone other than William about this. As a member of the Algernon Club— the exclusive gentlemen’s club that catered to stage magicians, and whose inner circle were well acquainted with real magic, not just stagecraft— John had at one time been assigned to spy on her. The club’s directors had wanted to know who had become Protector of Albion in the wake of Sir Ludlow’s death. Those true magicians had dedicated themselves to combating the forces of darkness. Ludlow had been one of them, and they wished to have the new Protector join their club, as well, if only they could determine who it was.

John Haversham had been the club’s spy, and in other instances, their thief. And though their relationship had begun under false pretenses, Tamara had forgiven John that deceit when, once it had ended, it became obvious to her that his affection was genuine.

It was clear he had true feelings for her, but still he kept his distance and refused to court her, which frustrated her no end.

I know you want to love me, she thought. Why can’t you then?

Tamara believed it still had something to do with his obligation to the Algernon Club. She and William sat upon the board of directors now, much as it made them all fidget endlessly to endure the presence of a woman in the boardroom. But she felt sure that Lord Blackheath must still require John to make regular reports of his activities as they related to the Protectors. Therefore, she surmised, if John courted her, he would end up betraying either her trust or his duties to the club.

It was an untenable position.

At the moment, however, Tamara was acting upon the belief that the Algernon Club’s members knew more than they ought to know. Surely they were aware of her father’s circumstances, though she and William had always avoided the subject as much as possible. It was safe to assume, then, that John was well aware of Henry Swift’s condition. But he was too much of a gentleman to let on what he had discovered. He kept things close to his heart, which was one of the reasons Tamara had decided to ask him for help.

“The demon that possesses Father’s body,” she began. “William and I have tried everything to expel him, but to no avail.”

“Do you know its name?” John asked.

She nodded. “He calls himself Oblis. Does that name mean anything to you?”

John shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, Tamara. I wish that I was better equipped to help you, but my knowledge of the demon world is sparse at best.”

It had been a long shot, she had known that. But at least she felt better talking about it to— dare she say it— a friend.

“You will keep this to yourself?” Tamara said, realizing that any knowledge she imparted to John Haversham still might be funneled directly back to the Algernon Club.

“I will speak to no one concerning what you have told me,” John said, interrupting her thoughts. “You have my word on that.”

He had such a look of complete earnestness on his face that Tamara felt as if she had no reason not to believe him.

At least she hoped so.

SERENA’S WINGS WERE ON FIRE— they felt as if they were actually burning from overexertion.

She had traveled with a speed she did not know she could achieve, pushing her tiny body to its utmost limits. Now she could see the peaks of Ludlow House, only a few miles away, but that didn’t allow her to slacken her pace. She refused to slow down, driving herself even harder.

Serena hoped she would find her Farris at Ludlow House with his masters, but even if she didn’t, she would continue on, seeking them wherever they might be. She had spent a fair amount of time with the Swifts the previous year, after they had come to Blackbriar to investigate a group of mysterious changeling births in the area.

Serena had given them her help, and in the process become enchanted by their trusted butler and footman. How she admired his great heart, and was amused by his gruff exterior.

Ah, Farris.

She did somersaults of happiness whenever he was around, such was her fascination with him. Farris was not young, or tall, or thin, or beautiful. In every way he was the opposite of the sort of men so often obsessed over by her sprite sisters and the fairy girls she’d known. Yet Farris was a stalwart friend, courageous to a fault, though he had no magic to protect himself in battle. He had saved her from a tragic end, once upon a time. But in truth it was his heart that made her yearn to be near him, made her flit and giggle in his presence.

Farris had the kindest, truest, gentlest heart of any male she had ever met, whether human or fairy or sprite. Serena trusted him, and that meant the world to her.

Only her desire to make a pilgrimage to Faerie had drawn her back to Cornwall, first to Blackbriar to visit the rest of her tribe, and then to Stronghold and on through to Faerie. But afterward she had been unable to resist the temptation to spend time with her great friend, Aine.

And now

A shudder of horror went through her.

As Ludlow House drew nearer, she again wondered why human beings and most fairies wanted to live indoors. Sprites spent most of their time in the woods, sleeping in the nests they built on the higher branches of oak or rowan trees, but sometimes they appropriated the odd abandoned rabbit- or foxhole, burrowing deep underground.

If you were going to have a house, however, she would have been forced to admit that Ludlow House was quite stunning. Three stories of Gothic architecture at its most haunting, with tall windows that looked more like shuttered eyes, and a long wrought-iron fence that surrounded the whole property like a row of sharpened teeth.

In the moonlight, the place had an eerie, haunted air it did not possess in the daytime. She had spent many a night following Farris around as he patrolled the property, but had never noticed how unsettling the place could be.

Serena followed the fence to the back of the grounds where the carriage house stood. She saw the flicker of a candle through the window and flew straight toward it, almost knocking herself out on the glass before realizing that the window was closed.

In all her life she had never been so exhausted. Her whole body tingled with an odd numbness and all she wanted to do was lie down and drop off to sleep.

But she saw Farris inside, checking on the horses, and mustered her resolve. She began to bang on the glass with her tiny fists. He looked up, surprised, and stepped over to the window, pushing it open so that Serena could come inside.

She touched down on the whitewashed windowsill, and immediately crumpled into a heap. Farris picked up the tiny sprite in his hand, cradling her limp body carefully in his palm.

“Serena?” Farris said, his voice full of worry.

“Farris— ” she began, but she could not finish the sentence. She had no strength left with which to speak. Finally, unconsciousness took her.

FARRIS SMOOTHED SERENA’S bristle-spiked hair with the tip of his index finger, marveling at the beauty of her sparkling blue skin and flame-red hair. He was always so frightened of hurting her. She was small and delicate, like a little bird.

Unsure of how to proceed, Farris carried her through the carriage house and across the lawn to the main house. He pulled out his keys to open the door to the kitchen, and went inside, blowing out his candlewick before setting the taper down on the butcher block.

The kitchen was large and spacious, and there was a separate larder— reachable by a set of stairs that led down into the cellar— that was almost the same size. In the past, Ludlow House had been used for entertaining on an almost weekly basis, but since Sir Ludlow’s untimely death and the possession of Henry Swift by the demon, the house had been open to very few guests.

“Serena?” Farris repeated, whispering still. She opened her eyes, but could only blink miserably at him, her little chest heaving from all the exertion she had endured during her flight.

Farris picked up a set of cloth napkins that the housekeeper, Martha, or one of the new maids had left on the counter, and created a soft nest to set Serena into. When she was settled in her little napkin bed, Farris moved to the cupboard and pulled a bottle of whiskey from its back shelf. He set the whiskey on the counter top near Serena, then left the room, only to return a moment later carrying a small, porcelain thimble. He poured a few drops of whiskey into the thimble, and brought it to Serena. He propped her into a sitting position with his left hand, feeding her the thimbleful of whiskey with his right.

She pulled back abruptly, then coughed and spluttered, but the whiskey seemed to revive her.

“Is that better, little one?” Farris asked.

Serena nodded, though she was clearly still disoriented, now from both exhaustion and the alcohol. She blinked several times, becoming more alert, the whiskey warming her.

Then she tried to speak, desperate to tell her story, but Farris wouldn’t let her. When she opened her mouth, he shushed her, using his index finger to once again stroke her hair.

“All in good time, poor thing. Got to get your strength back up.”

She settled back into the napkins, relaxing her body and wings until she began to doze slightly. For perhaps twenty minutes she lay that way and Farris watched over her, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the flutter of her wings. Much of the time her frantic attentions perturbed him and so he was often gruff with her. Yet her reckless nature had made him protective of her as well.

Serena was valiant and fierce but so small that he could not help fearing for her.

After what seemed like an eternity, Serena sighed, and the sound had a musical quality that let him know she was feeling better. She sat up, wings fluttering, casting off sparkling gold dust. Then her wings settled like soft down against her shoulders and back.

“Farris, ’tis yer help we needs,” Serena began. “Your help, and that of your young masters.”