Witchery: A Ghosts of Albion Novel
Chapter Seventeen

William gaped, mouth open. He sputtered for a moment before he could speak.
“That’s Not Harold! We were at university together. He’s been my friend and confidant for years.”
The peeler nodded. “Yes, sir. But he’s confessed to the crime. Mr. Haversham thought to keep an eye on the place— I gather to exonerate himself after you expressed certain suspicions— and he caught Ramsey at it. And the man himself hasn’t bothered to argue the facts. Not after Mr. Haversham administered certain pressures— ”
“I beat the daylights out of him.” Haversham grinned proudly.
“Even so,” Roberts went on, “Mr. Ramsey has an intimate knowledge of the items stolen, from whom they were taken, and how. As your trusted employee, his betrayal solves the mystery of how the thief was able to get into Swift’s and inside the vault without difficulty.”
“But why?”
“According to Ramsey, he’s always felt that he ought to have been given a position of management at Swift’s. When your father was incapacitated and Ramsey remained a member of the staff and wasn’t called upon to take a greater role at the bank, he believed it was proof that he would never receive such a promotion. He stole from you for the money, sir, but also out of some sense of vengeance.”
William’s heart sank. “My God. Harold.” He shook his head, gazing at the men who stood on his doorstep. “He never spoke up. Never even asked. We could have discussed it.”
“Men of weak will grow easily spiteful, Mr. Swift.”
“And what will happen to him now?” William asked, a terrible regret pressing upon his heart. He felt betrayed, certainly, but in some way he also felt the betrayer. Shouldn’t he have noticed Harold’s discontent? When he had turned away Harold’s inquiries after Tamara— the man had hoped to court her— did Harold believe William thought him somehow beneath the Swifts’ station in life?
Haversham stared at him. “What do you suppose will happen, Willy? He’ll go to prison. Where he belongs. He’s a thief, isn’t he? If I’d been the culprit, you’d have been screaming for my head.”
William nodded slowly. “Yes. Prison. What other choice is there?” He stepped back and opened the door wider. “Once again, John, you have my apologies. Would you gentlemen like to come in?”
“No, sir, it’s awfully late,” Roberts said. “The missus will be furious as it is. Thank you, though.”
“Not at all, Roberts. Thank you for all you’ve done.” William looked at Haversham. “And thank you, sir.”
Haversham nodded but said nothing. As he and the peeler turned and started away, toward a carriage that waited in front of Ludlow House, William wondered if the tensions between himself and his sister’s suitor would ever cease. If they did not, he had only himself to blame.
He closed the door and leaned his back against it, exhaustion and sorrow overcoming him.
SOPHIA’S HEART LEAPED. She had lain awake, unable to sleep a wink until she could hold William again, until she could look into his eyes and be reassured that this journey would be his last until the wedding. She had to speak with him, to reveal to him all the pain in her heart, and this time she would not allow their conversation to degenerate into spite and bitterness. She loved him, and knew he felt the same. It was time they behaved like lovers and not squabbling children. She had to let him know how much his attention to the details of their wedding meant to her.
Surely, he would see that he had been remiss.
Now her sleeplessness was rewarded.
A carriage had come up the drive, the hoofbeats of the horses carrying clearly on the night air. Rushing to the window, she’d heard the knock upon the door, and the low rumble of men’s voices.
Quickly, she had pulled her robe on and left her room, moving along the corridor to the stairs. The voices were clearer there, and one in particular was familiar. William had come home!
As she went down the stairs, she heard the distant sound of other voices, coming from within the house, though she could not make out the words.
A smile blossomed on her lips and she descended more quickly.
She heard the front door close, and one set of footsteps sounded within the house. The men who had come up in the carriage must be departing. All the better, she would have William to herself.
But as she came to the landing on the second floor, lost in the shadows there, she saw a dark figure move across the foyer. Its shape was familiar to her. Not William, but Nigel.
Her heart sank. All her excitement had been for nothing. William had left again.
But when next she heard a voice, it wasn’t the vampire’s.
“Good evening, Nigel. I knew I’d find you awake,” William said.
Relief swept over Sophia again. She put her hand on the banister and took a step down. There in the shadows, she was unnoticed by the two men.
“I’m afraid it is not a good evening at all, William. I have been awaiting your return, and I have troubling news,” Nigel said, his dark purr of a voice sounding even graver than usual.
Sophia froze.
“What is it?” William demanded. “What’s happened? Is Sophia all right?”
“As right as ever,” Nigel said evenly. “No, I’m afraid the news concerns Tamara. Earlier this evening one of the maids had a frightful encounter with Bodicea. Our ghostly majesty had journeyed from Cornwall with a message. She asks that you come at once, with all the means at your disposal. Your sister has run afoul of a coven of witches, it seems.”
“Witches?” William cried.
“And they have taken Tamara. It’s almost certain that they mean to kill her tomorrow night, on the solstice, so we haven’t any time to spare.”
There was a dreadful silence in the foyer. Sophia stood, unmoving, upon the stairs, uncertain whether to reveal herself, afraid that even her breathing might be heard.
At last, William spoke. “It’s my fault. I never should have let her go without me.”
Tears slipped down Sophia’s cheeks. She closed her eyes and shook her head.
“If I’m to show up in Camelford and expect the people to take me seriously, I must wash and change clothes,” William said to Nigel, down there in the darkened foyer, with only the moonlight from outside allowing any illumination. “Give me fifteen minutes, and then I’ll want to speak to you and Byron before I depart. You’ll have charge of the household, Nigel.”
The vampire snarled. “Are you mad? I’m coming with you.”
“And how will you manage that?” William asked, not unkindly. “I cannot translocate us both. I know you care for Tamara, and I wish that you could accompany me. But time is of the essence. And there is my father to consider.”
“Of course,” the vampire said. “Much as it pains me. If Tamara is in peril, my every instinct is to go to her aid.”
“I’m entrusting Ludlow House to you. Your presence here will ease my mind so that I can focus on Tamara’s safety. You aid her by safeguarding our home and family.”
William came to the bottom of the steps. It was the first time Sophia had gotten a glimpse of him since his return and even in the darkness, where he was barely more than a silhouette, she could tell he was a mess. His hair was unkempt, his jacket was torn, and a damp stench wafted up from him.
He took the steps two at a time, his head down, and only looked up when he was about to reach the top. There her beloved nearly collided with her.
“Oh, Sophia, darling, you startled me!” William said as he looked up.
In the gloom, the sadness of his expression spoke volumes.
“Don’t go,” she whispered, voice tight. “You must not go, William, not again.”
William stared at her, eyes wide. “You heard. But if you heard, you’ll know that I have no choice. Tamara’s disappeared. My sister needs me.”
“But I need you, William!” she cried, voice shrill and hysterical. “Damn you, don’t you see that I need you? I know you fear for your sister, but with all her power, she can protect herself! You rush off to here and there with never a thought for the woman you claim to love, the woman you claim to desire, the woman you say you wish to marry!”
“You’re speaking madness, Sophia! My sister is caught in the hands of witches. Her life hangs in the balance. I do love you, but only a lunatic would fail to see that I must go to her.”
Sophia began to shake. Her hands trembled as she lifted them to cover her mouth, to keep from screaming at him.
“A lunatic, am I? Perhaps perhaps I am. But if you have the bank, and your father, and your duties, and the horrors of this world to contend with, and all of them are more important to you than I am, then when will you have time for me?”
William stared at her a moment. There was anguish in his eyes, but he shook his head.
“I am sorry, darling. You don’t know how wrong you are. But I cannot take the time to argue the demands of my life, yet again. Not now. With regret, I must go.”
Sophia held a hand over her mouth. Her eyes stung with tears. “You don’t understand, William. Without you, I am alone. My mother my father every time you leave me, I fear you will not return. I can barely contain the screams that come up from my soul. If anything were to happen to you, I fear madness would claim me at last.”
He stared at her, eyes full of regret and mouth open. Then he pulled her into his arms and held her tightly, kissing her on the head and whispering lovely assurances into her hair.
Sophia felt cold and hollow. The words did not penetrate.
“I will come back to you. I promise.”
Sophia stepped back, glaring at him, and then struck him in the chest. “You can’t know that.”
William hung his head. “I love you, Sophia. But Tamara is my sister. I must go.”
He tried to step around her.
Stunned, shaking her head vigorously, Sophia grabbed his arm. “If you leave now, then there will be no wedding. I shall not be waiting for you when you return.”
William stared for a moment, then pushed past her without so much as an answer. He ran up the stairs, stripping off his filthy jacket as he went.
Sophia peered into the darkness above until she could no longer see him. Then, slowly, she sank down to sit upon the steps, hugging herself, nightgown soft around her, tears burning her eyes.
The pain in her head was blinding. It felt as if there were a tiny man inside her brain case, hammering away at her cerebrum, pulping her gray matter into mush.
Tamara opened her eyes only to find herself in utter darkness. She tried to sit up, but though she could feel her limbs, they would not obey her commands. Alone and paralyzed, she despised the feeling of utter helplessness that overcame her, and quickly it was eclipsed by rage.
Fury flowed through her like liquid fire, igniting something inside that at once terrified and fascinated her. The anger grew like some strange parasite, ready to tear apart its host and breathe air for the first time.
Tamara opened her mouth not by any conscious thought but with a primal surge. A scream clawed its way from her throat, full of such pain and rage that it sounded as though no human voice could have produced it.
There was magic in her howl, too, the power of a kingdom’s soul. It curled around her mind, sifting the pain from her head and replacing it, instead, with words.
Her mouth began to move of its own volition, her lips forming the syllables that rose up in her.
“Ab aeterno a posse ad esse iure divino resurgam!”
A blinding flash of white light enveloped her, pain searing every inch of her flesh, from soles to scalp. Yet the spell continued to issue from her lips. Her words seemed to gain a life of their own as they burst forth and spread their tendrils out into the ether.
A sizzling filled Tamara’s ears, and then her nostrils filled with the acrid stink of burning human tallow, the stench of which caused her to gag. There was a scream— one that was not her own— and then she was free.
At first she thought herself still enwrapped in darkness. Then she blinked away the effects of that bright flash and realized it was night, and the moonlight cast a warm, buttery glow. She looked around and found that she was sitting at the foot of a huge, ancient rowan tree, its massive trunk shattered as though gouged open from within. The moonlight illuminated the raw and jagged edges of the wound. Her mind made the connections instantly. She had been the cause of the tree’s death. She had been trapped within it, and her magic had eviscerated the venerable rowan in order to escape.
No. The fault lay not with her. The witches who had imprisoned her were the true killers. Still it saddened her to have had a part in the destruction of a thing of such power and majesty.
A terrible gurgling sound caught Tamara’s attention. She turned to see a dark shape rising from the ground. In the moonlight she saw that it was a witch, its face half-melted in a ruin of bone and gristle.
The witch hissed at her and Tamara summoned a defensive spell. Magic burst from her fingers and enveloped her. Weak as she was, she had instinctively summoned the Shield of Armor, a simple yet powerful protection that she and William had learned in the first days after inheriting the mantle of Protector.
The grotesque, wounded witch flinched from the brightness of the magic.
“All right, pretty,” the hideous thing snarled at her. “You’re free for the moment. But there’ll be no other human girl for us now. You’re the sixth. The magic in your bones will make the ritual all the more effective. We’ll see each other very soon.”
Tamara shivered under the glare of that ruined face.
The witch turned, staggering away. Neither one of them was in any condition to fight. Tamara was grateful. She doubted she would have survived. But the creature had made clear that this was only a respite now that they knew the magic that was in her, that she was Protector of Albion, they were determined that she be their thirteenth sacrifice.
Worried that the injured witch might return with others, Tamara knew she had to depart quickly. But she spared one last glance at the rowan she had destroyed and saw in the moonlight a black splotch on the ground.
Warily, she reached for it, and realized it was the still-intact cloak that the wounded witch had left behind.
She reached to pick up the cloak, but paused, wondering what kind of dreadful enchantments might lie in that garment. Tamara might share the mantle of Protector, but in so many ways she and William were still novices. She wished that Bodicea were here. The warrior queen would not hesitate.
Forcing herself to be decisive, she bent and picked up the cloak. Tamara folded the garment tightly and tucked it under her arm, before standing and scanning the grove for an exit.
The cloak stank of death and smoke, but she ignored the stench. If there was power in it, she wasn’t about to leave the hideous thing for the witches to reclaim and use against her. She wasn’t some English rose who fainted at the first sign of unpleasantness.
Tamara started toward the edge of the grove, her thoughts awhirl. It seemed clear that the witch had been left to keep watch over her. Little did she know what the task would cost her, Tamara mused as she picked her way through the tangle of tree roots that grabbed at her feet.
A frown creased her forehead as she glanced down.
That’s odd.
She had never seen such massive roots before. Turning back, she saw that the tree from which she had escaped was part of a strangely uniform circle around a central clearing. The trees in the circle were all rowans, roughly the same age and height, and all with those enormous roots.
As though they were planted this way by design, she thought.
She glanced about, searching the moonlit woods for any sign of other witches, then hurried back into the circle. She approached the nearest intact tree and studied it more closely. As she walked round it, she saw something jutting from the bark and stepped back as a cry caught in her throat.
A human arm protruded from the trunk of the rowan.
Tamara took a tentative step forward and reached out, breathlessly inching her hand toward the cold, pale fingers. She touched the hand
It felt cold and lifeless.
A moment later, as if woken by her touch, it twitched, then grasped for her. Tamara stepped back, heartsick, for now she knew exactly where the witches were keeping their victims.
Becoming wild with fear and horror, she turned to race back into the forest.
Then she let out a scream at the figure that confronted her, appearing as a spill of darkness in the moonlight.
The witch stood so close that Tamara was certain it could have breathed her in. Its eyes were ink-black pits rimmed with a fringe of barely visible gray lashes. Tamara felt herself falling into the witch’s eyes, and willed herself to back away, to tear herself from the hypnotic lure of those half-human, half-demon orbs.
She closed her own eyes and took in a shaking breath. When she opened them again, the hold was lessened, and Tamara found that she could think again.
Why hasn’t it attacked? It had me unaware, so why am I still alive?
“What do you want?” Tamara spat at the newcomer.
The witch laughed, making a sound that felt like insects burrowing under her skin.
“Hello, Tamara Swift ” it began.
Tamara flinched at the sound of her own name.
“Of course we know who and what you are. We are not animals. Though you treat us as such,” the creature whispered. “I am Viviane, witch queen, and you have scarred my sister Morveren. If we didn’t have other plans for you, you’d be made to suffer for that.”
Her voice weakened Tamara’s resolve, sucking the life from her limbs like fast-acting poison.
“My,” the witch continued, “you are a pretty one. Soft and lush. If only you would listen to reason, you and I might enjoy each other’s company, but those of your type are ever too righteous. I fear it’s back into the rowan tree for you.”
The witch raised a hand, twisted fingers working in the air. Her cloak swirled around her as though it moved of its own accord. Her grotesque face split into what Tamara thought was a smile, but might have been a leer, as she began to intone something under her breath.
Tamara recognized several words in that guttural tongue, but more than that, she felt the intent of the spell as it began to work upon her. A spell of forgetfulness.
“No!” she cried, and she quickly cast two spells of her own, simultaneously throwing up the most powerful magical protection she knew and muttering the beginning words of the incantation for translocation. She felt the translocation spell take hold of her, and for a moment she thought she had escaped unharmed, as the witch and the grove receded from her view.
That was lucky, she thought to herself.
Yet even as she was in the midst of translocating, she realized she hadn’t a clue what she meant.
What was lucky? she thought.
“UNDER THE SAME SKY, under the same moon, like an autumn leaf, let the spirit winds carry me to my destination.”
The words swept around William and caught him up, shifting him out of the world of flesh and blood. He closed his eyes and did not open them again until he felt solid ground beneath his feet and the breeze caressing his face. Until he was surrounded by the scents and sounds of a cool summer night in Cornwall.
William took a deep breath to dispel the sense of dislocation, and glanced around. He stood on the ragged grass beside a fast-running brook. There came a quick popping sound, then a discordant trill like the stroke of a badly tuned harp, and the ghost of Admiral Nelson manifested in the air beside him.
“Hello, William,” the ghost said quietly, as though fearful he might be overheard. “Are you well?”
“Well enough, Horatio. Got to get my bearings here, though. See if you can locate Bodicea while I go to the inn to ask after Tamara. Perhaps there’s something to be learned there. Find me at the inn when you’ve retrieved her majesty, and our search will begin in earnest.”
The ghost gave William a quick, worried nod, then disappeared back into the ether.
After Horatio had gone, William studied his moonlit surroundings more carefully. He had calculated his arrival point to the best of his ability, and if he’d gauged correctly he wasn’t far from the inn that his sister had been using as her base.
Back in bloody Cornwall again, he thought miserably, as he followed the brook upstream toward Camelford.
But it wasn’t merely the locale that troubled him. His mind still echoed with Sophia’s admonishments.
Would she truly leave him? How could she be so selfish, asking him not to come to Tamara’s aid? What could she have been thinking, to imagine even for a moment that he would consider leaving his sister’s fate to chance? William loved Sophia to distraction, and it seemed clear that she was deeply troubled and needed his attention.
When he returned, if she would accept him, he would give her that attention and sort out the pains of her heart. But he would never sacrifice his sister for that love.
When he returned to London he would make it up to Sophia, even if it meant looking through a hundred place settings and cutlery patterns.
For now, however, his duty was to Tamara.
His translocation had put him farther from the inn than he had planned, and much farther than he would have liked. The walk seemed endless, but finally William found himself approaching the Mason’s Arms inn.
It’s rather small, he thought to himself, wondering if they would even have a room for him, since he had arrived there so unexpectedly. The place was really more tavern than inn. Travelers might rest here, but now that he thought of it, there likely weren’t many who passed the night in Camelford.
He entered the tavern. The place seemed a bit larger on the inside, but that wasn’t saying very much. The few tables he found were placed haphazardly around the room, with a large stone fireplace taking up the bulk of the back wall. There was a barkeeper behind the counter.
Immediately he spotted Farris, sitting at a table in the farthest corner. The man’s face was ashen, and his hands were tightly cupped around a large pint. His hair was mussed, and his shoulders were rounded unhappily.
“Farris ” William said as he strode through the tavern.
The butler looked in the direction of his voice, his worried eyes perking up at the sound of William’s voice, as though he’d just awakened.
“Master William!” he said eagerly, standing and crossing to meet his employer with a hopeful expression. He clasped William’s hand and pumped it with great vigor.
“Mistress Tamara,” Farris muttered, his voice indicating that he was dangerously close to tears. “She’s she’s ”
“Let’s go outside, my good man, and you can tell me what’s transpired,” William said quickly, hoping to avoid any more curious stares from the barkeeper, who was watching them intently, hoping perhaps to get a good bit of gossip to pass around town. William ignored him and took Farris’s arm, leading him back to the entrance.
Once they were outside and under cover of darkness, William let Farris pour out his story. It seemed that when Bodicea had returned to Camelford after traveling to London with the awful news, the ghostly queen had begun the search for his sister without him. At that very moment, she and Serena were combing the woods, looking for any trace. Farris had wanted to accompany them, but they had made him promise to stay at the inn to wait for William’s arrival.
“It’s my fault, Master William,” Farris said. He hung his head, his large frame strangely made smaller by this confession. In the darkness, he cut a sad figure.
“What do you mean?” William asked.
“If only I’d been stronger, if only I’d held on longer, and not let the witches carry ’er away ”
William shook his head. “Impossible. You’re only one man, and creatures like that possess superhuman strength. You can’t control the fates of those around you.”
“It’s only she’s just a young girl. Anything could happen— ”
Damping down his own fears, William put a comforting hand upon Farris’s shoulder. “She’d have your guts for garters if she heard you talk like that.”
Farris nodded, chagrined. “If only she’s still alive ”
“How many girls have been taken thus far, Farris?” William asked, trying to find some clue to the witches’ plans in the details.
“Including including Mistress Tamara, there’ve been six, Master William. Not counting the two murdered, that is.” Farris blanched a bit as he said this last. “Holly Newcomb, Christine Lindsay, Sally Kirk, Mary Raynham, Miss Tamara, and the sixth, I’ve only just heard— ”
William frowned. “What, you mean it happened tonight?”
Farris nodded. “Just after we encountered the witches, if I understand it correctly. Katherine Monroe is her name. Poor thing.”