Unnatural Issue Read online

  Susanne wandered back down into the gardens to see what Mary was painting.

  Mary, a tiny doll of a woman whose blonde hair and pink cheeks made her look even more doll-like, was in heaven, and, at the moment, in a trance of creativity. Evidently this part of the world provided endless scope for a painter—or, at least, for her. She was out all day and came back to the supper table with a look of intense satisfaction on her face. Right now, as Susanne discovered, she had found a particularly pleasing view of the farmhouse and was painting it. Susanne could see that two or three Elementals were interested in that painting as well, so she tried not to disturb them. They were a pair of sylphs, hardly more than vaguely human-shaped shimmers in the air. The sylphs flocked around Mary; they thrived on anything creative, according to Peter’s books. They’d appeared the first time she’d stepped outside with her painting rig.

  It had not taken the local Earth Elementals long to find Susanne, either. They were a bit more shy than the ones around Whitestone, but that didn’t stop them from spying on her from what they fondly thought was cover. There were some different ones here, but that was to be expected. There were the fee, who were very much a mixed bag. Some were like Robin Goodfellow, only not as powerful; some were “white ladies,” who were malicious and harmful. There were the lutins, who were like goblins and shunned her presence. The farfadet was a species of benign or mischievous gnome that looked a bit like a redcap and, as a consequence, gave her quite a shock when she first saw one. There were probably others she hadn’t encountered yet. She knew there were undines; this was the part of the world where that name came from, after all, but she never saw them.

  There was nothing about this life that bore any resemblance to her old one. Even the lessons in magic that old Paul Delacroix taught her were different from the ones that Peter had taught her. And that was what she spent most of her day doing—either learning from Paul or practicing on her own.

  And as for the evening—well, that was where Mary came into her own. Mary was everything that Susanne should have been; now Mary, without being obvious about it, was coaching her in the skills and manners of a girl of her proper class. Susanne was an apt pupil, and she knew very well that when this was all over, her father would no longer be the Master of Whitestone. She would have to be “squire.” She didn’t want to be a laughingstock, and—

  And somewhere in the back of her mind, a little voice kept insisting that once she was landed gentry, once her father had been dealt with, then she would have a chance at Charles Kerridge. But not if she had the speech and the manners of a servant.

  Paul Delacroix helped with this as well; he seemed to understand what she wanted to learn without her ever having to say anything. Gradually the number and variety of pieces of silverware at dinner increased, and the courses appropriate to them appeared—though not until she had mastered the previous lot. Little comments about her deportment, her dress and hair—never unkind ones, mind, but useful ones—were slowly helping her with her appearance, and Mary, when she wasn’t in an artistic trance, was exceptionally useful about fashion. She could see a difference already. And if she could, surely Charles would.

  Last of all, together, Mary and Paul were invaluable as examples of what to say in a social setting. Susanne had been vaguely aware that the gentry did a lot of talking, but she hadn’t quite grasped how you went about making polite conversation. In the kitchen, talk generally revolved around farm matters, food, and village gossip. Mary and Paul spoke about the politics of France and the British Empire, art, books and—village gossip. Except that their village was spread across two countries.

  So. Not so different after all.

  The more she learned, the more confident she became that yes, when all this was over and she could go home, Charles Kerridge was going to be so surprised by how she had changed that he would not be able to take his eyes off her.

  The wheels of justice grind slowly, Peter thought to himself as he bounded up the stairs of Exeter House. Let us hope they also grind exceedingly small.

  With Susanne safely out of the way, Peter was free to concentrate on her father. He had sent a preliminary report to Alderscroft, then a detailed one, and now at last had come the summons he had been waiting for.

  Clive was on duty tonight; Peter nodded to him as he held the door open. The summons was for the War Room, which meant that the Old Lion was about to organize a Hunting Party.

  Through the Club rooms to the private stairs—he wouldn’t take the lift, it wasn’t fair to the old codgers who actually had to use it—then down the hall to Alderscroft’s private suite, he wondered the whole time if they’d left it too late. Richard Whitestone could have easily fled by now.

  The question is, does he know we know he’s the necromancer? Peter thought, as a club servant standing quiet guard over the door to the War Room nodded and opened it for him. If he does, he’s long gone. Then the question is—

  “—and can we track him to whatever hole on the moor he’s carved out for himself,” Alderscroft was rumbling, as Peter paused to take in the room and its occupants. Normally the War Room was used for actual magical ceremonies; tonight, however, the meeting table had been brought in, and everyone was sitting around it, sans their arcane paraphernalia.

  Alderscroft sat at the head, of course. Down the right side were Peter and Maya Scott, Lord Dumbarton, Lord Owlswick. Down the left were Doctor O’Reilly, a fellow in a working-class coat that Peter didn’t recognize, and an empty seat, clearly meant for him.

  “I’m just here to organize transportation, old man,” Owlswick said as Peter’s eyes lit on him. “I’m no bloody good at combative magic, and that’s a fact, but I have a shielded private railway carriage that can be put on the express at any time, and I can have shielded carriages waiting for you at the nearest station to—” He paused and gave Peter an interrogative look.

  “Whitestone Hall,” Peter said. “Might as well start the hunt where the scent is strongest.

  “Good-oh.” Owlswick scribbled a note and handed it to the footman behind him, who handed it out to the attendant at the door.

  “I’m sorry it took this long, Almsley,” Alderscroft said apologetically, “But we’re a bit shorthanded. I sent a number of our people across the Channel just before this blew up, and, to be frank, the count of those who have ever put down necromancers is pretty low.”

  “Yes, well,” Peter said, taking his seat, “Whitestone himself used to be chief of that number, so we’re already under a handicap.”

  He couldn’t help but feel a certain satisfaction as he looked around the table. The inclusion of the working-class fellow in the group would have been cause for a revolution a few years ago, and never mind the presence of a female at the War Room table. Yet here they were: a female who was, oh horrors, so unnatural a creature as to also be a physician, and a fellow who clearly worked with his hands, and, lastly, Maya’s husband, Peter Scott, a tradesman.

  If the founders of the Lodge aren’t spinning in their graves, I would be very much surprised.

  Then again, they were monstrously shorthanded. The assassination of Archduke Ferdinand had turned the Balkans into a pot about to boil over, and Peter had no idea what was going to get splashed when it did. England would almost certainly get involved. The king had far too many relatives among the Germans and Austrians. And alliances on the Continent were far too tangled.

  Alderscroft himself interrupted Peter’s ruminations. “Ah, I’m remiss. Peter, this gentleman is Andrew Kent. He is our newest member, a Fire Master from the East End. Andrew, Lord Peter Almsley.” Alderscroft made the introduction without even a hint of condescension or distaste. “I found Andrew myself quite recently. He came here from Newcastle in search of work and brought with him a letter of introduction. He’s been employed as my agent under the guise of being a common-hauler ever since. His mentor was the late Farnsworth Benning-Tate.”

  “You’re old Bunny’s apprentice?” Peter said, with astonishment. “I didn�
��t even know he had one! Jolly good thing he did, though; we’re shorthanded in the Fire department. Most of ’em went over to the Continent, along with the Airs.”

  “So Lord Farnsworth told me, m’lord,” Andrew replied with a nod of respect. “I hope to be a credit to his teachin’.”

  “I can’t imagine Bunny turnin’ out a squib,” Peter replied. “And it’s just Peter. This is the War Room. We don’t stand on ceremony here.”

  He turned to Alderscroft. “So, other than Owlswick, this is the Huntin’ Party? Two Fire, two Water, one Earth, and one Air?”

  “Air to feed the Fire, mostly,” Dumbarton said. “Given your report of the attack, we are going to have to assume he will have another army of walking dead, and Fire is the best method of dealing with them.”

  “I’ll be reading the ground and talking to the Elementals to track him, and standing by as a physician,” Maya Scott said serenely. “I rather expect that Doctor O’Reilly will be too busy incinerating things to attend to injuries.”

  Alderscroft gave Peter a deferential nod. “You’ll be in charge, Almsley. You are the most experienced, and you weathered his first overt attack,” the Old Lion said. “The Hunting Party is in your hands.”

  Over the course of the next several hours, they planned in exhaustive detail. Owlswick scribbled several notes and handed them out, and Peter’s estimation of the man crept very much higher when he realized what the apparently ineffectual Owlswick was doing and why he was here. It seemed Owlswick had a knack for organization . . .

  And that guess was borne out when they emerged to find a carriage waiting to take them to the station; at the station were Garrick and a heap of luggage being put into a private car. From the feel of the beautifully crafted, wooden-sided passenger car, it had been shielded to a fare-thee-well. Richard Whitestone would definitely not know they were coming.

  They were no sooner settled—and advised by Garrick to remain seated for a few moments—when there was a bit of a bang and a lurch. They all knew what that meant; they were being added to the Express. A moment more, and they were on their way. Now there was nothing more that they could do but prepare themselves. At the worst, they were about to go tramping across the moor in an exhausting wild-goose chase. At the best—

  “I’ve investigated the car, m’lord, gentlemen, lady,” said Garrick diffidently as he offered drinks. “There is a chamber with beds on the other side of the front wall of this one. If you would care to take advantage of those beds, I shall be pleased to turn them down for you.”

  “I will meditate out here, thank you, Garrick,” Maya Scott said, with a smile for her husband. “But the rest of you should sleep while you can.”

  Peter was only too happy to do just that, and when the others saw how quickly he got up and headed for the chamber in question, they followed.

  Sleep while you can. No matter what happens, we’re going to be drained by the end of the day.

  Thanks to Maya Scott, who had the wisdom of the Indian subcontinent at her fingertips, he had a number of useful techniques at his disposal that would make it possible to sleep no matter how keyed up he was. So while the others were still muttering and tossing restlessly, he employed those techniques and drifted off into slumber.

  There had been no one on guard at the gates to Whitestone Hall, which had made them all suspicious. After a hasty conference, they had decided to proceed as if they were unaware of the attack on the Kerridge estate; after all, Richard Whitestone had no way of telling who was in the carriage or even how many of them were in there until they all got out.

  But when their driver pulled up to the front entrance, there was no one to greet them. Nor was there anyone in the public rooms of the Hall. But Peter had thought he heard faint noises from the kitchen, so that was where they had headed—only to be stopped dead by what they found there.

  “Good God,” Peter choked out.

  Whitestone Hall was indeed deserted by anything living—but that was not what was making Peter swear and Maya run out to the garden to be sick.

  It was the servants, here in the kitchen.

  Patiently, dumbly, they were working at their ordinary household tasks, without seeming to notice the presence of the Elemental Masters. There was only one small problem.

  They were all dead.

  From the look of things, they were mechanically doing the last task they’d been set to when Richard Whitestone left.

  They were all very bluish, with bulging eyes and a ghastly rictus.

  O’Reilly was extremely pale but otherwise controlled. “Poison,” he said. “Looks like the bloody bastard poisoned ’em all. Convenient for him—I assume he could do some sort of wholesale bindin’ on the lot.”

  Richard Whitestone had evidently left them without regard to their condition, which was awful and getting worse by the moment. Necromantic revival did not halt decomposition, and nothing had been done to preserve these poor murdered creatures.

  The air was alive with flies.

  Oh, this was worse than bad, because O’Reilly was right, there were spirits imprisoned in their bodies; Whitestone had murdered them all and then immediately caught the souls and bound them to the dead carcasses before they could escape to whatever afterlife they anticipated. Peter could feel their torment.

  The stench that assailed their nostrils, pent as it was in the kitchen and accented with those clouds of fat flies, was worse than appalling.

  Dumbarton was the next to lose control. He clapped both hands over his mouth and nose and followed Maya. Doctor O’Reilly and Andrew looked at one another, and then at Peter.

  “Do ye reckon the colleen’ll be carin’ about th’ furnishin’ of this place?” O’Reilly asked Peter. “D’ye think she’d mind havin’ t’rebuild the kitchen?”

  Peter shook his head. “Do you have something in mind? We are going to have to give the locals some sort of story about how and why these people died.”

  “Tragic kitchen fire,” Andrew grunted around clenched teeth. “Paraffin explosion, terrible accident—we’ll let the constables work out what happened. Right, Doctor?”

  “Terrible thing,” O’Reilly replied. “Clear out, you Peters. We’ll need salamanders for this.”

  Peter was not at all averse to following their orders, nor was his “twin.” As they explained to Maya and Dumbarton what the two Fire Masters had in mind, there was a sound like a dull explosion, and when he looked back over his shoulder, the windows of the kitchen were incandescent with flame.

  When the Fire Masters called them all back, it was over. Anything in the kitchen that could burn, had; the walking dead were reduced to charred bones, which O’Reilly and Andrew were salting. It looked as if this wasn’t the first round of saltings, either.

  “Do you remember how many servants the girl said her father had?” asked Maya.

  “Six, not including her.” Peter counted, and came up even. “We got them all.”

  “Thanks to the gods,” Maya replied fervently.

  Just to be certain, they all prowled every inch of the Hall, but they found nothing. When they gathered again in the withered garden, Maya frowned. “I am going to seek a better place to call and question the earth creatures,” she said. They won’t come near—this.”

  “And rightly,” Dumbarton replied.

  “Scott, go with her; I don’t want anyone out here alone,” Peter ordered. He went back to the shielded carriage that had brought them all and returned with a shotgun and blessed-salt loads. He handed that to Peter Scott, who took it with a grim nod.

  Dumbarton was standing very still, his eyes closed, head tilted in a “listening” posture. If Peter concentrated very hard, he could almost make out a wavering in the air, like heat-shimmers, but in the form of a human. It was whispering in Dumbarton’s ear.

  “Sylphs say Whitestone hasn’t been back,” Dumbarton said, finally. “Not here and not on the moor. And they’ve been watching for him. All this—” he waved his hand “—it’s an affront to ever
y Elemental.”

  Peter went to look at the stable and see if there was anything to be learned. There was: There had been a horse and a cart kept here until recently. Now they were gone.

  So Whitestone had fled by a faster means than afoot and less traceable than by rail. That was useful to know, but not all that useful. He could be anywhere by now.

  The others gathered with pretty much the same information. Whitestone had taken out the cart and horse, leading a group of walking dead. He had, at least according to the sylphs, then “resurrected” more for his army from every deserted churchyard or potter’s field he passed—which explained how he had gotten so many, though not where he got the power to raise them. And then he had crossed the moor and attacked and—

  And then passed out of the knowledge of any of the Elementals here or at Branwell. Which meant he had either created some powerful shields, or he had escaped via human contrivance.

  “Do you think he left Branwell by train?” Peter Scott asked, finally.

  “It seems logical. It would take only some money to escape undetected by train,” Dumbarton pointed out. “It would take a great deal of power and effort to do so anywhere that Elementals might spy on him if he kept to his cart.” The man shrugged, but Peter could see he was angry and frustrated. “He could be anywhere. We won’t know until he acts again.”

  “And if the situation on the Continent explodes, we won’t have the leisure to hunt for him anyway,” Peter said sourly. “Damn and blast!”

  “He won’t escape, Peter,” O’Reilly said soothingly. “Everyone is alerted now. The least whiff of necromantic goings-on, and we’ll have him. All we can do is wait and watch.”

  “I hate waitin’ and watchin’,” Peter grumbled. Peter Scott chuckled, despite the gravity of the situation.