Beasts of london, p.17
Beasts of London, page 17
After breakfast, Cecil excused Miss Lucy to the library for a break and led Vera to the basement where the Water Garden faery was trapped inside of the chimney. He set his supplies on the floor and turned to the child. “Vera, the sounds you heard last night were not the likho,” he said. “They were caused by a little pixie. Once it’s gone, you won’t need me to guard you while you sleep.”
There came a series of dull thuds from inside the chimney. Witherbones had blocked the opening with an iron grate, which the faery was steering clear of as it attempted to escape through the top.
Vera squeezed her cornhusk doll to her chest with one arm. She tugged backward on Cecil’s hand while trying to step as far away from the fireplace as possible. Eyeing the hearth like it was a gaping mouth about to swallow her up, she asked, “It won’t hurt you?”
“Not likely.”
“But what if it does?”
Cecil hesitated. “Well, I’ll tell you another secret, but you must keep it to yourself.” He bent to her level. “You know my magic I talked to you about before? It makes me invincible.”
She scrunched up her face. “What’s that?”
“It means that no matter what happens to me, I cannot be killed.”
“Really? Not ever?”
“Not likely.”
She gasped. “That’s wonderful.”
His mouth twitched. She reacted as if it was a good thing and not a curse on his life. But after she lost her parents so suddenly, he could not blame her. It was a childish dream to wish to stay young or live forever. Then I’ll let her keep her precious childlike dreams. If she knew the truth about my condition, as Witherbones calls it, she would not think it was wonderful at all.
“Stand behind me,” he said, straightening. “I’m going to open this grate, and when the faery flies out, I’ll catch it in this net.”
When he opened the grate, the faery flew about the room like an angry wasp. Vera screamed and clung to his coattails. Cecil was ready for the creature, and he swung with precision, catching it swiftly in the net and trapping it against the floor. Rushing over, he got on his knees and held the net down as the faery thrashed around inside.
“Got the little nipper. Vera, come see it for yourself.” He looked at the faery, baring his teeth. “What do you have to say for your actions? Did you sneak into the Seelie’s ranks when I caught them in the realm?”
The faery went very still, locking eyes with Cecil with its beady black gaze. “I was Seelie,” it said in a high, clear voice. “I became Unseelie.”
The floor seemed to fall out from under him. He steadied himself with his hands. Faeries can change their alignments? If they can decide to become Unseelie, can the opposite be true as well? How do they decide to go against their very natures? Unless… unless their natures aren’t so clear after all. Unless some of them hide who they truly are. Sweat bloomed on his skin. What if it’s simply waiting beneath the surface, and it’s only a matter of time before…?
“The Winter King sends his regards.” The faery’s words froze his belly. “You owe him a favor, and he will collect it.”
“What do you know about it?” Cecil snatched the faery up but felt his fingers slipping through it. “Now wait just a moment—” It vanished in his grasp, disappearing as it shifted out of this plane, no doubt appearing in the Winter Court far away. He tossed the net aside with a snarl, swearing under his breath.
When he turned around, cringing when he remembered the girl was there, Vera was staring up at him. “Who’s the Winter King?”
“He’s—” He suppressed a shudder. “Well, ah, he’s the king of the Unseelie faeries, and he’s very ancient and powerful.”
Vera scratched her nose. “I’ve never heard of him. Why does he want a favor?”
“I owe him a debt because he helped me with something important. You know the magic I told you about, the kind that makes me invincible? He gave it to me.”
“Can he give it to me too?” she asked, awed. “Then if the likho finds me, I’ll be safe—”
“No.” The word came out harsher than he’d intended, like a beastly growl. “You must never let yourself be indebted to anyone, especially to him. Do you understand?”
Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked away. “Y-yes.”
“Oh, dear. I’ve upset you.” He rose and dragged a hand over his face. “Come. You can study art with Miss Lucy in the library, all right? I have important errands to run, and I must be off at once.”
When he fled in a hurry, Miss Lucy was waiting in the entryway for him. She looked breathless and flushed, her dark eyes shining, and she opened her mouth as if she wanted to tell him something. “You’re leaving, Mr. Morris?”
“Yes. Forgive me, but I am in quite a hurry.”
“Has there been another attack?”
“Nothing has been reported in the papers, and I expect that Inspector Overton would be knocking down my door if there had been.”
She let out a breath of relief. “I ask that you be careful, regardless.”
His mouth fell open for a moment before twisting into a pleased smile. “Miss Lucy, if I did not know any better, I might mistake your words for genuine concern for my well-being. Do you worry about me?”
Glaring at the floor and folding her arms tight across her chest, she said quickly, “It is polite to wish someone well, even if they are a perfect stranger. You may be ignorant of this, having not been raised in high society. Please do not read into it further.”
“Oh, I never read into anything, Miss Lucy.” He hid a pleased smile, grabbed his hat, and ducked out the door. “I’ll be careful.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Sir Felix has been away all night, sir,” said the tired-looking butler when Cecil arrived at his friend’s home. “Mistress Hazel assumed he was out with you at one of his clubs.”
An icy prickle of dread prodded Cecil’s heart. “I was at home all evening,” he said. “I suppose he could have gone to one of his clubs, but I’ve never known him to stay out so late, especially with a new wife at home.”
Cecil glanced behind him at the hansom cab that was waiting. Thinking of the sixteen pence he had just spent on the drive, he turned back. “May I speak with the lady of the house?”
“She is currently entertaining guests, sir.”
“I won’t take more than a moment of her time.”
Cecil was nearing the parlor room, admiring Lucy’s drawings hanging on the wall as he walked by, when a pinprick of green light reflected off the glass of a picture. The light moved with his hand. The green gemstone in his family crest ring glowed faintly on his finger.
He stared at it with dawning horror, turning it all around. There were no windows in the hallway, no light source to create the illusion of it glowing. It only glows in the presence of a member of Mother’s coven. There’s another witch in this house.
When he approached the door, a burst of women’s laughter sounded from inside the room. He took off his ring and stowed it in the breast pocket of his waistcoat. Steeling himself, he entered.
Madam Hazel sat on the loveseat in a violet silk-satin day dress and a matching short jacket with her tarot cards spread on the table. Seated beside her was an unfamiliar thin, elderly woman with a delicate face, dressed in a mourning black ensemble. Across from them on the armchair was a woman whom Cecil recognized immediately. She stood out in her outdated Gothic late-Regency style gray dress and bustle with yellow ringlets framing her rouged cheeks.
Primrose. His heart began to pound. I remember her visiting Heatherfield to train Emily.
Upon spotting him and ceasing their laughter, the women stared. Madam Hazel stood with a surprised look on her face. Setting down her cards and smoothing out her dress, she asked airily, “I assume you’ve delivered my husband to me at last, Mr. Morris?”
“I am sorry, madam, but I have no idea where your husband is,” he said gently.
“What do you mean?” The woman sat back down quickly as if her legs buckled, but her voice was calm as she said, “Well, he must have slept at one of his clubs. It would not be the first time he has done so to avoid sneaking into bed drunk.”
“Madam,” Cecil cleared his throat, his voice coming out hoarse from the sudden dryness of his mouth, “I do not wish to intrude for a moment on your gathering, but I would like to have a brief word with you on the subject of your husband and the… investigation.”
“Shall I introduce you first?” She gestured to the others and produced a smoking pipe from her dress pocket. “Ladies, this gentleman is my husband’s dear friend Mr. Cecil Morris, a fellow member of the Society of Spiritualists and the owner of the Morris Museum of Supernatural Oddities.”
He bowed politely, avoiding the witch’s gaze and instead focusing on the mounted lion’s head above her, whose snarling mouth was somehow less intimidating. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, ladies.”
Gesturing first to the frail woman in black, Hazel said, “This is Lady Havisham, a client of mine, and this—”
“Oh, Mr. Morris and I have met before,” said Primrose with a gleam in her bright amber eyes that made him shiver.
“Have you?” Hazel raised her eyebrows, lowering her pipe. “You told me this was your first visit to London.”
“I met this young man in Yorkshire when he was just a wee slip of a lad. Close friends with his mother I was—like sisters, you might say Delilah and I were.” She cackled. “You’ve cleaned up since then, boy.”
Lady Havisham barely disguised a gasp with a cough into her handkerchief.
Though Cecil kept his smile in place, his fingers twitched briefly into fists. “At six and twenty, I am hardly the little boy you knew, Miss Primrose. That was practically ages ago—not to say that you’re ancient, ma’am. I have indeed come very far since then, and I am in the process of establishing my reputation in London.”
“What reputation would that be, I wonder?” She eyed him up and down. “I doubt your mother would approve of her son refusing his title as her heir and earning his living.”
His mouth twitched. “Oh, certainly not. My mother never earned a single pence in her life. However, I like to think my father would be proud.”
Cecil knew he had not been the son his father had longed for. Fearghus Morris had wanted a strong, ambitious heir to restore his fortune and the respectability of his name. He’d wanted a boy who would hunt and ride with him. What he’d gotten was a sensitive boy who spent his days lazing about and sketching faeries on the moors. The only time Fearghus took him hunting and riding, Cecil had scared away the prey with his incessant chatter.
Once, after he’d made her cross, Mother had taken Cecil by the arm and thrown him at the foot of his father’s chair. With a triumphant sneer, she’d asked mockingly, “This is the son you begged me for? This is your mighty heir to the Morris estate?”
“No,” his father had admitted with a brief glance. Cecil had thought his heart would break in two until his father added, “But he is still my son, and I cherish him just the same.”
“Well, it did not take much to impress Fearghus.” Primrose then turned to the others and giggled. “Oh, the stories I could tell you ladies about Cecil when he was a boy.”
Hazel shot him a sympathetic look before saying briskly, “How strange life is sometimes, and how small the world can feel, even with six-million people in the city. Why I only met Miss Primrose at one of my tarot demonstrations last spring, and here you are, having known her forever.”
Tarot demonstrations? Every witch worth her salt knows that tarot is complete rubbish. What does she really want with Madam Hazel then? Could it be a mere coincidence that she found me? The room suddenly felt like it was a cage closing around him.
“Have you been in London for that long?” Cecil asked, coming to stand closer to Primrose and giving her a meaningful look. “I never thought you would leave Yorkshire for anything. Your sisters rely on you, and your… mother requires special care.”
“Indeed. My family’s health has declined in recent years.” Her amber eyes flashed sharper than the lion’s fierce ones. “I still manage to get out now and then, especially when Mother needs something. She asked about you, you know. Still talks about Delilah and your sister, Emily.”
He flinched at his sister’s name and then swallowed to stop himself from snapping at her to keep the name out of her wretched mouth.
Hazel looked at him. “Felix never mentioned you had a sister, Mr. Morris.”
“Yes, Emily was a bright, talented woman like her mother.” Primrose sighed. “In spite of their worthless father squandering their fortune, the Morris estate was a great help to my ailing family, keeping them strong and cared for. It’s a shame Cecil was the only one in his family to survive.”
A thick silence fell over them, and Lady Havisham pretended to be preoccupied with folding her handkerchief into a perfect triangle. Meanwhile, Madam Hazel lit her pipe and took a few quick puffs.
So the High Priestess really is weakening, and the witches are dying off as they claimed would happen if Mother’s bloodline failed to join the coven. Cecil frowned. Good riddance. I hope the old hags all rot for what they did to our family.
Knocking ashes from her pipe and clearing her throat, Hazel said, “I was just about to read Miss Primrose’s tarot. Would you like another demonstration, Mr. Morris?”
“I’m afraid I must decline. Might I have a moment of your time, please?”
“Yes, of course.”
He followed her to Felix’s study and explained to her about the possibility of the creature he sought being an Ifrit. “Well, I have heard tales of Ifrits and Jinn while studying abroad in Egypt,” she said.
“They were sighted in Egypt?”
“Oh, all over the world, I’ve heard. They are said to inhabit tombs and forgotten ruins wherever they find them.” She hummed thoughtfully for a moment and then said, “You might try contacting one of the world’s leading experts, a man named Menes Tadros. I studied under him for a time, and Felix worked with him long ago. I believe he’s visiting London for an exhibition this month.”
“I think I shall contact him, thank you.”
While examining books on the shelves of the library, she asked, “Did my husband ever give you that book you asked for?”
“I don’t recall asking to borrow a book.”
“Ah, here it is.” She held it out to him. “I had to wonder what on earth you could want with an Arabic book on ancient incantations and binding rituals. I flipped through it, but it’s practically gibberish to me.”
Cecil took it gingerly as if it might burn him. He thumbed through the pages, finding circled and underlined passages and familiar words like “Jinn” and “Ifrits.” It felt oddly weighty in his hands, and his shoulders slumped under the heavy feeling of dread.
Why does Felix have this in his possession unless he was the archaeologist whose dig team encountered an Ifrit in Greece before the disaster? I shall have to broach the subject with him and demand that he answer honestly. Regardless, this book may prove useful if we’re dealing with one of these creatures now.
“Thank you for your time, Madam Hazel,” Cecil said, tucking the book under his arm. “If Felix wanted me to have this, then I shall take it.”
“Perhaps we can find a clue as to my husband’s whereabouts.” Shuffling to her husband’s desk, she began rifling through his papers and his planner. “There’s something scrawled here from last night. It’s an address. Could it be one of his clubs?”
Cecil leaned over to read it and then carded his hand through his hair. It’s in the East End. There aren’t clubs of any repute in that area. What are you doing there, Felix?
Turning to her, he forced a light smile. “Madam, I will find your husband and bring him home for a good scolding.”
“I have no doubt.”
Before he left, he hesitated, hearing another burst of laughter from the parlor. “Madam Hazel, I suggest that you choose the company you keep more carefully. Your tarot cards and séances are harmless enough, but I know from experience that Miss Primrose engages in… darker practices.”
“Whatever do you mean?” She chuckled. “Are you accusing dear Miss Primrose of participating in depraved bacchanals?”
“I am merely suggesting that you use caution.” He bowed his head with a smile and bid her good day.
Cecil paid the coachman to take him to the address written in Felix’s calendar. In the full light of day, this area of the East End had not changed much since he’d last been there ten years prior. The small, cramped housing on the street had been torn down and replaced with several large factories. The air was thick with the soot and smoke the factories were spewing out.
Felix’s carriage was parked outside of an inn on the filthy street, and Cecil had the driver pull over behind it.
“Shall I wait for you, sir?” the driver asked.
Cecil nodded. “I don’t think I will stay here long.”
As he passed, ladies and children selling matchsticks and flowers called in overlapping voices for his attention, one offering a daisy for “the lovely gentleman.” Horse carriages and carts clopped by. Foremen bellowed at his workers from inside the factories. The machinery inside was constantly whirring, churning, stamping, and thundering.
When Cecil stepped inside the dimly lit interior of the inn, the sounds from outside were dampened. He approached the innkeeper and inquired about a fine gentleman named Sir Felix Todd arriving at the inn.
The innkeeper nodded. “Don’t get many like him here. He went up to visit a patron late last night and hasn’t come down. I came knocking, asking for an extra pence for the night. The rascal bolted the door. I was thinking about alerting the police.”
“I am a good friend of his, and I might be able to help you get your money. Might I inquire about the name of the patron he’s visiting?”
“A foreign fellow.” He squinted at the name on his papers and sounded out the words painfully. “Menes Tadros.”
