Early spring, 1866
London
The damn fools were chanting now.
He felt like an idiot, and Montgomery Fairfax wasn't
partial to playing the idiot.
The circle of men in their brown monk's robes and cowls
were muttering together as if they'd practiced this ritual
for months, if not
years. He could swear he heard beads clicking together as
they shuffled into a
circle.
Only two beeswax candles illuminated the drawing room.
The candles, accompanied by various incense burners and a
large brass statue of
a naked female figure, sat on the mantel of a cold fireplace
at the far end of
the room. The incense was strong, a convergence of scents at
once flowery and
spicy, mixed with the warmth caused by too many people in
too small a room.
He should never have listened to his solicitor.
"I'd recommend you take the mirror to the Mercaii, Your
Lordship," Edmund Kerr had said. "They can properly
determine its provenance and
origin." Edmund had procured him an invitation to this
gathering as well as
providing him directions to the townhouse.
From that conversation, he'd
been given to
believe the Society of the Mercaii was comprised of
reasonably intelligent men
whose purpose was to investigate, then dispel, anything
abnormal or irrational.
Instead, he faced a group of chanting monks.
The robe he'd been given to wear was too short and the
wool cowl made his face itch. He done what they'd asked, and
pulled it close so
he would remain anonymous. For that fact alone, he was
grateful. At least no one
of his recent acquaintance would learn of this idiotic exploit.
He knew enough Latin to recognize it was the language
the men were chanting. Their voices were low, melodic, and
not one of the
so-called monks slipped in their recitation.
The circle parted, forming two half-moons. He clenched
his hands, forced himself to relax even as he felt his
heartbeat escalate.
He didn’t particularly like the unexpected.
A figure separated from the others, walked to the
mantel, taking one of the candles. With great ceremony, he
lit the candle each
man held in front of him. Because their hoods were drawn
forward, he couldn’t
see any of their faces, even after their candles had been lit.
The chanting grew louder; the flames flickered as a door
opened in the opposite wall. A tall, black-robed figure
entered, moving to the
center of the group.
The man – the leader? – spoke Latin in a deep, rumbling,
voice. The monks answered him in one voice. The gathering
had taken on the
solemnity of a religious ceremony, but that wasn’t the only
reason he was
becoming increasingly uneasy.
According to instructions given him, he should have
remained in the anteroom until officially summoned. He would
have done so if the
monks hadn’t passed him, chanting. His curiosity had made
him follow, but now he
wished he’d stayed in the other room, or even opted to leave.
The damn mirror could have remained a mystery for all he
cared.
Another door opened, one he hadn't noticed until this
moment. A figure, clad in a blue robe, was supported by two
monks, and led
through the circle to stand before the leader.
Mumbling something in Latin, the man in the black robe
stepped forward and pulled the cowl from the supplicant’s
head, revealing a
woman with tumbling chestnut curls.
The crowd surged toward her, the atmosphere abruptly
changing from a religious ceremony to one more predatory. A
hungry and expectant
pack of wild dogs ready to set upon a wounded deer.
He took a few steps to the right, to see the woman more
clearly. Her face was pale, her profile nearly perfect. Pale
pink lips were
curved in half smile; her eyes blinked slowly as if she had
recently awakened.
She didn't belong here but, then, neither did he.
Another brown robed figure brought a bench into the
circle. The woman was made to kneel upon it, and place her
folded hands on the
small ledge in front of her. A lit candle was placed between
her hands, her
fingers molded around it when she couldn’t hold it on her own.
From the way she was responding, he suspected she’d been
drugged. Otherwise, she would have comprehended the danger
implicit in the
sudden eagerness of the men around him.
"Do you surrender your will to the Society?" the leader
said, addressing the woman in clipped English.
She shook her head, then reconsidered when one of the
men at her side bent to whisper something in her ear.
"Yes," she said softly, almost too softly for him to
hear.
He pushed past the first row of garbed members, ignoring
the murmur of protests around him.
The woman was oddly ethereal, kneeling as she was,
candlelight illuminating her face. She was looking up at the
leader, an
expression of solemn wonder on her face, her green eyes
clear and guileless.
"Do you submit to the Society of the Murcaii?"
Again, she hesitated, then shook her head as if to clear
it.
The leader bent forward, whispered something he couldn't
hear.
When she didn't answer, the leader bent forward again.
This time, his voice was louder. "Say: I surrender myself to
the Society of the
Murcaii."
She closed her eyes, her head dropping forward.
He took another step toward her, knowing he couldn't
let this game play out to its conclusion.
The crowd around him pressed closer, evidently eager to
see the rest. The men behind the leader parted, revealing a
table draped with a
white cloth.
He placed his hand against the pistol tucked into his
jacket. A four-year-old habit of never going anywhere
unarmed would prove
helpful tonight. Reaching into his robe, he grabbed the
handle of the mirror. If
nothing else, the damn thing would serve as a second weapon.
Glancing at the woman, then the door, he calculated the
distance. From what he'd seen of the British, they weren't
an overly
confrontational sort. A Fairfax man knew when to fight and
when to walk away.
He had to save the woman, but damned if it made him
happy.
####
Veronica found it difficult to sit upright, let alone
kneel. She was forced to look up and the position made her
dizzy. The flame atop
the candle she held was surrounded by a bright white halo.
Perhaps she shouldn't have taken the drink they'd given
her.
"It’ll take away the chill of the evening," someone said
when she'd entered the house.
"I don't drink spirits, sir," she'd replied.
He'd smiled. "It isn't spirits, my dear, just something
to warm you."
The man had been so kind and handsome, with blue eyes
reminding her of a summer sky in Scotland. She'd not wanted
to appear
rude, so she'd taken the cup and finished it.
Had it contained spirits? Would that explain her sudden
wish to sleep?
The members of the Society clustered around her. She
wished they’d tell her what she needed to know. A
happenstance, to have
overheard a soft-voiced discussion at the tobacconists, when
she'd gone to get
Uncle Bertrand’s favorite tobacco. Against all rules of
decorum, she’d addressed
the man before he left the shop.
"We should be happy to have you in the Society," he
said, smiling. "We're having another meeting the first
Tuesday of next month.
Would you be able to attend?"
"I will, thank you." He'd given her the address, and
she'd memorized it. She had no privacy at Uncle Bertrand’s
house.
The days had passed too slowly until tonight, when she'd
waited until everyone was asleep before creeping down the
servants’ stairs and
out the kitchen door. She'd made her way to a busy street
where she'd hired a
carriage, behavior shocking enough to warrant punishment.
Now, she looked up at the leader of the Society, the
same man she'd met at the tobacconist’s, and congratulated
herself on being
here. He would tell her everything she needed to know.
If she weren’t so very tired, she would ask him.
He took the candle from her, her palms missing its
warmth immediately. She was icy inside, like a snowy winter
night in Scotland.
Would they give her a blanket if she asked? The words
formed, then sat on her
lips, falling into nothingness before being voiced.
She raised her hand and then stopped, fascinated by her
fingers. All she had to do was think and her fingers moved.
She raised them in
front of her face and wiggled each one, feeling the most
absurd wish to giggle.
A lady didn’t giggle in the middle of company.
"Stand."
He’d given her an order, and she would have obeyed, but
her legs wouldn’t support her. She waved her fingers,
instead. The two men on
either side of her helped her stand, then moved the bench
out of the way. She
smiled her thanks, amazed when her lips felt numb.
The men gripped her elbows tightly, moved her closer to
the leader. When they released her, she swayed on her feet.
Glancing down, she
saw the beautiful crimson carpet and thought it looked like
blood pooling at her
feet.
Where were her shoes?
The leader – had she ever learned his name? – leaned
toward her like a buzzard perched upon a limb, waiting for
its prey to die. He
said something to her, but the words were lost in the
curious fog surrounding
her mind.
A chill was spreading through her body. She felt as if
she were becoming slowly frozen. Everything was slower than
it should have been,
including her comprehension. When the two men led her to a
table covered in
cloth, a warning bell pealed, but any sense of danger felt
distant and obscure.
The leader came and opened her robe, pushing it back
from her shoulders. She no longer felt any kindness from
him. Instead, he
reminded her of something dark and dangerous and sharp: a
cat's claws, a
parrot’s beak, a knife point. She took a step backward and
realized that both
men stood behind her now, blocking her escape.
Laughter came from far away. Were they laughing at her
innocence or her gullibility? Or for her sheer naïveté to
believe something good
might come from her foolishness?
She should never have come here. She should never have
left Uncle Bertrand’s home.
A man ran a knife from the top of her collar all the way
down her bodice. He cut through each successive layer of her
clothing, ruining
the expensive whalebone corset she'd inherited from her
mother, as well as her
only shift, one of the few garments she'd brought with her
from Scotland.
When she was naked, she was lifted on to the table.
Staring up at the rosette of plaster above her head, she
told herself it was a
dream. A garish sort of nightmare in which she was imagining
horrible things.
People were looking at her. She could feel their gaze.
The cloth was cold on her back, her buttocks, and thighs.
Could she be cold in a
dream? The tips of her toes were frozen, and her nose felt
the same.
She heard the sound of laughter again. She was Veronica
Moira MacLeod, the daughter of a Scots man of letters, and
his beloved wife. Her
father had always told her that a question was the purpose
of a trained mind.
Why, then, was she being ridiculed for wanting answers to
her questions?
The room was spinning, and the cold was growing worse.
Was she dying?
She felt the brush of cloth against her feet and managed
to raise her head. He was standing at the end of the table,
stroking the back of
the knife up her leg. She feel herself tremble, but couldn’t
seem to move.
His hand was scorching on her skin, parting her knees.
The howl of a wolf startled her into semi-awareness.
Wolves didn’t live in London. A blur of motion jarred her,
made her jerk. She
turned her head to see a man wrestling with the leader. He
was shouting.
Something bright and metallic caught her eye, like a pretty
talisman dangling in
the air.
Two men joined the fight. Thunder sounded, so close she
couldn't hear for a moment. The sky separated, rained down,
pieces of it falling
on her.
God had come, then, to rescue her. Thank You, God.
Her eyes were so heavy she could barely keep them open
to see the struggle.
God was winning, but of course He would.
Suddenly, she was upright. No, not upright, but slung
over someone's shoulder. Did God carry a sinner in such a
fashion? Oh, God, I
have sinned. Please forgive me. Something hard was
digging into her stomach,
dislodging the ice. She wasn't feeling very well suddenly
and wanted to warn
God.
She was miserably uncomfortable, her stomach lurching,
her head whirling. Her bottom was cold.
He set her back on her feet, better for her stomach but
worse for her head. The room was spinning again. She reached
out and gripped
God’s sleeve only to realize it wasn’t God at all, but a
man, a stranger.
She tried to get her balance, realizing she wasn’t in
the same room. Instead, she was in a hallway, being draped
in a scratchy brown
robe.
The stranger was gripping her wrist with one hand and
pulling her after him. She stumbled behind him, wishing he
would stop. They were
descending steps, long, steep steps that made her dizzy. She
flailed for the
banister, heard an oath just before she was upended again.
A black cloud was falling over her, something dark and
frightening and overwhelming, stripping her of thoughts and
feelings.
She succumbed to it with a sharp feeling of regret.