Witchery: A Ghosts of Albion Novel
Chapter Two

Then the demon grew impatient.
Henry’s face contorted into a hideous visage, far closer to the true features of Oblis, William thought. Horns thrust up under the skin of his temples and his forehead rippled with ridged plates, as though Henry’s skull was being transformed.
And he screamed again, furious and ugly, thrashing against his bonds.
William hated the way the spark of hope extinguished in his heart.
The wheel remained. Again he repeated the spell, beginning haltingly, but his voice growing stronger. “Mit dem blut seines bluts, rufe ich sie. Mit dem blut seines bluts, entleere ich sie heraus.” He repeated it several times and the blood pulsed as it flowed around the room in that circle, and along the spokes of that wheel. Where it touched Henry’s chest, the blood grew darker, turning a purplish black instead of red.
Oblis shook Henry’s head.
“You’re still a novice, William. No matter how you and Tamara study, no matter how you practice, it doesn’t matter. You may have the power of the Protectors of Albion, but you haven’t the skill.
“Vapors are not of this ordinary, touchable world. While I control your father’s body, I exist both on this plane and in the inferno of my birth. I may be trapped here, but I am always aware of the other plane, able to touch the demon world And there are others who come to visit me, for whom I am a tether to this place.”
William didn’t like the sound of this.
The edges of his vision were darkening from loss of blood, and his head felt heavy and dull. He frowned, his mind becoming sluggish.
“Others?” he said.
Oblis smiled at that.
He opened Henry’s lips. In the blue light of those blessed candles and the swirling darkness and ice of that room, William saw something shifting in the recesses of his father’s mouth.
With a chorus of wails like the suffering of the damned, the vapors came streaming out. The ritual had not drawn Oblis out, but had instead summoned forth the other demons with whom he communed. They were still intangible and had no hold upon the flesh of Henry Swift, so they could not withstand the magic of the ritual. But Oblis remained, holding fast to the body he had commandeered.
Drawn out by the ritual, the furious vapors attacked.
William shouted in alarm and stood, knocking over his chair. He swayed on his feet, razor held stupidly out before him, as though a simple steel blade could cut the fabric of hell itself. His wits were slack, but a kind of despair came over him, even as he raised both hands and muttered the words of a spell that burst from his fingertips with such force it seared them.
The vapors were thrown back, as though an ethereal gale had swept them away.
But it was only a moment of disorientation, and then they were upon him. William’s own malaise was not so fleeting. He tried to summon more magic, but could manage only a meager mystical shield. He knew they would tear through it in moments, these hideous, gape-mouthed spirit demons with their slashing claws.
Horatio was there, then, bellowing a war cry as he began to hack at the vapors with his spectral sword. One of the demons slashed at him with talons of mist and tore at the very fabric of his soul.
Horatio cried out, but pressed his attack even more ferociously. The phantom blade sliced through two of the demons in an instant and they dissipated. Several of the others turned on him, and William tried to see how many there were. Dozens, at least.
The admiral continued his battle against the ethereal creatures, but there were too many. Across the room, still chained, Oblis laughed heartily in the voice of Henry Swift, enjoying the show.
At the center of the room, the perfume bottle meant to imprison him shattered in a shower of beautiful glass.
ON THAT GRAY JUNE AFTERNOON, Tamara Swift gazed out the window of her carriage as it rambled along Hampstead Lane past the Dufferin Lodge. The Fitzroy farms spread out behind the lodge, and over the hills she could see the steeple of a distant church.
It can’t be St. Ann’s, she thought. Not at this distance.
“You haven’t said what you think of the design.”
Tamara turned in her seat. Beside her sat her brother’s intended bride, Sophia Winchell. The girl was gazing at her expectantly, and not a little bit anxiously, as well.
It felt odd to Tamara. She and Sophia had been at each other’s throats— nearly mortal enemies— just months ago. For William’s sake they had entered into an unspoken truce, and since then, Tamara had found that she didn’t hate Sophia as much as she had thought. Yet neither did she enjoy the other girl’s company. Aside from the fact that both of them had lost their mothers at a tender age, they had nothing in common save love for William.
That was enough for Tamara to make an effort to get along with Sophia; enough, even, that she offered to help with plans for the wedding and to help prepare Sophia’s trousseau. Sophia had no family of her own to ask for help, after all, and it had seemed the polite thing to do at the time.
Now, though, Tamara found within herself a monumental lack of interest in all things related to the impending celebration.
“It’s beautiful, of course,” Tamara told her, putting a hand to her chest and hoping to communicate the sense that the fact ought to have gone without saying. Sophia needed frequent reassurance, and Tamara was trying to break her of the habit. “The seamstress is going to do a lovely job of it.”
She was being truthful. The dress would be made of blue silk and white lace, with a fitted bodice and a small waist over a full skirt that would accentuate Sophia’s figure. The veil would be of sheer white lace to match the pattern of the dress.
Beautiful.
But Tamara had never been the type of girl to be preoccupied by a dress, wedding or no. Her own bridesmaid gown was pretty enough, if simple, but her complexion did not favor white, and so she doubted she would wear it again after the wedding.
“Have you chosen a date yet?” she asked, touching upon one of the few details that did interest her.
Sophia smiled appreciatively. “Not yet. Do you have a suggestion?”
“You know the date is the bride’s prerogative,” Tamara replied.
Her future sister-in-law leaned in conspiratorially. “You know what they say: marry in May and rue the day.”
Tamara nodded. “Marry in September’s shine, your living will be rich and fine.”
Sophia gave her a grateful look. She could be a terrible shrew when the mood took her, but she did seem genuinely pleased that Tamara appeared to have taken such an interest in the proceedings. In fact, Sophia was at Ludlow House nearly every day with her ladies’ maid, Elvira, just as often to visit with Tamara as to see William.
It made Tamara feel guilty that she cared so little, but she did her best to play along.
Once upon a time, she had been a little girl who dreamed about the perfect wedding to the perfect gentleman. The flowers and the diamonds and the gown, all had been in her fantasy. But she had learned that men in general did not appreciate a girl who had interests other than marriage, and that had soured the yearning a bit.
When she had discovered that, along with William, she shared the power and responsibility of the Protector of Albion, such girlish musings had been banished almost completely.
Yet there was a man. John Haversham. A bit of a rogue, a novice magician, an artist, and a thief, he was a cousin to Sophia. Tamara knew he wasn’t the sort of man she ought to consider, yet she could never seem to entirely erase him from her thoughts.
“So it’s September, then?” she asked.
Sophia nodded. “Middle of the month, I think. William says the bank will be quiet then. A Wednesday, I believe. The best day of all, the old rhyme says.”
Tamara arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you were so superstitious,” she said wryly.
Sophia’s expression shifted subtly, indicating a switch to more serious matters than dresses and wedding dates.
“When I learned the truth about magic and the supernatural world, when I lost my father to it, and witnessed the dangers you and William face well, let us just say that I’ve learned not to take any superstition lightly.”
The carriage slowed. She heard Farris, the stout fellow who served the Swifts as both butler and driver, coo to the horses. And then they were turning north up High Street.
“That’s probably wise,” Tamara admitted.
Once again, she felt the sympathy for Sophia that had driven her to offer her help with the wedding plans. Aside from Haversham and a few cousins so far away they might as well have been myths, the girl had no family at all. William was always happy to offer suggestions, but he had been quite busy at the bank, where there had been trouble of late, and had taken to spending all of his free time researching a spell to exorcise the demon from their father. Tamara searched as well, but William had become utterly consumed by the effort, attempting anything that seemed even remotely possible.
As disenchanted as she was with the idea of marriage, Tamara would help Sophia, for William’s sake, if for nothing else.
Shortly, Farris turned the horses down Peacock Lane toward Ludlow House. The sky had begun to clear a bit, and in places patches of blue peeked through the gray, and splashes of sun touched the summer fields.
“What has William chosen to wear?” Tamara asked.
A cloud passed over Sophia’s features.
“He hasn’t had a chance to choose as yet. I’ve recommended a mulberry frock coat and white waistcoat.”
“I’m certain he’s just having trouble making up his mind,” Tamara assured her, though she was certain of no such thing. It was yet another example of how distracted her brother had been of late.
“What do you think about the flowers?” Sophia asked. “Orange blossoms are traditional for the bride. Would you advise roses for the bridesmaid?”
Tamara looked at her and wanted to laugh. She resisted the urge, knowing Sophia would take it poorly. But, really, did the girl think she was some sort of expert on marriage— she who had lost all interest in the subject many months ago?
“I think that would be perfect,” she said brightly. “I’ve always thought the orange blossoms were a lovely touch. Did you know the custom originated in China, and only came west during the Crusades?”
“I hadn’t been aware of that,” Sophia replied, a bit archly. “But leave it to you, Tamara. It’s just the sort of thing you always seem to know.”
Tamara had written about a wedding in one of the penny dreadfuls she authored under the pseudonym T. L. Fleet, and had found it necessary to do research on the subject of orange blossoms. That bit of lore had intrigued her. She could have chosen to take offense at Sophia’s indulgent tone, but she chose to take it as a compliment instead.
“I cherish such minutiae whenever I encounter it,” she said.
Moments later, Farris reined in the horses, and the carriage rolled to a stop in front of Ludlow House. Tamara waited for Farris to climb down and open the door before she stepped out, taking his hand to steady herself. Sophia exited next, and the two women stood together outside the house a moment as Farris got back up on the driver’s seat and started the horses moving again.
“You’ll stay for tea?” Tamara asked.
Sophia nodded. “If you’ll have me.”
“I think William would horsewhip me if I let you go home before he’d seen you.”
As if I could drive you away, Tamara thought. Sophia and William saw each other at least every other day.
“Excellent. There were some details concerning the ceremony and reception I’d hoped to discuss with both of you,” Sophia said.
Tamara nodded, and gestured for Sophia to lead the way to the door. The two young women went together up the walk.
A shudder went through Tamara then, accompanied by a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. She had no precognition, no clairvoyant ability. That wasn’t an area in which the Protectors were naturally gifted. But still, she felt certain that something was out of place.
From above their heads came the explosive sound of glass shattering, joined by a cry of panic.
Tamara looked up to see William crashing out through the window of the third-floor nursery, wreathed in tendrils of shadow and the screeching, clawing forms of half a dozen demonic vapors. Even as he twisted in the air, plummeting toward the ground, the wan daylight weakened both shadow and ethereal, and they slid off of him, dissipating in what little sunlight sifted through the cloud cover above.
He flailed as he fell.
Beside her, Sophia screamed.
“William! Translocate!” Tamara shouted, reaching up with both hands as though she could catch her brother.
Arms still pinwheeling in the air, William closed his eyes. Tamara saw his fingers contorting in the beginnings of the spell. It was one of the earliest they had learned, and was so ingrained in them that the words were now barely needed. That familiarity saved William’s life.
“Under the same sky— ” he shouted, and disappeared.
Only to reappear a moment later, lying on the ground, shaking and trying desperately to catch his breath.
Shouts came from above, and again Tamara looked up.
The ghost of Admiral Nelson passed through the wall of the nursery, pursued by more vapors. Both the ghost and the demons were little more than ripples in the air when seen in daylight, but to Tamara, Horatio was unmistakable. He was her friend, and one of their staunchest allies.
As he flew out through wood and glass he slashed his phantom sword through the air, bisecting two vapors at once, and the demons faded into nothingness.
William managed to climb to his knees.
Sophia called his name and ran to his side. She knelt there, taking his hand in hers. Tamara joined them, taking stock of her brother’s condition. His left wrist had been badly cut and he was bleeding, yet there was no blood at all on his clothing. Beyond that, he bore several scratches and scrapes from the attack. Ghosts couldn’t touch humans, but, though they seemed equally insubstantial, ethereal demons suffered no such limitation. Without a host body they weren’t solid enough to do significant damage, but she thought at the moment William would have argued with her about the definition of significant.
“William, what’s happened?” Tamara asked.
Disoriented as he was, her brother had trouble focusing on her. “Well, that didn’t turn out quite the way I’d hoped,” he said.
But she was not amused, nor was she in any mood to be misdirected. He’d obviously tried to exorcise their father on his own.
“What of Oblis? Did you drive him out?”
Her brother shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
But Tamara had to be certain. Even as Horatio joined them, she spread her arms.
“Under the same sky, under the same moon,” she whispered, beginning her own spell of translocation.
The magic felt like a hook set into her chest, and she was pulled forward and upward. For just a moment the world became insubstantial, appearing only as a warped blur.
Then the sensation ended abruptly, and she found herself in the nursery at the top floor of Ludlow House. Despite her ladylike attire, Tamara stood ready for battle, fingers poised to cast a spell, knees bent and ready for a physical attack if one was forthcoming.
Yet there was her father, chained to his chair, just as he’d been when she’d left. There was a circle painted on the floor in spattered blood, and thirty or forty white candles, all half melted and extinguished. In the center of the room were the shattered bits of a perfume bottle that had once belonged to her grandmother.
“Father?” she ventured, though she had only a faint hope that William had succeeded.
Oblis did not even attempt to deceive her. He only smiled and gazed at her with demon’s eyes.
“How sad, my dear, that you’ve missed all the fun.”
THE NIGHT SKY WAS OBSCURED by thin clouds that allowed only glimpses of the stars, like a veil across the face of some demure Eastern princess. The wind came from the west, and Holly Newcomb could taste the tang of salt upon her lips, smell the ocean six miles distant. The village of Camelford was a border of sorts between the rugged coast of northern Cornwall and the great moors that stretched further inland, and it shared the culture of both regions.
Camelford had beauty, in its way. She had never doubted that. The wide main street was lined with stone buildings; some were homes and others were shops. The church steeple was a beacon of faith that was visible from any point in the village. The jail was an old, unpleasant structure whose appearance reflected the character of its purpose, but it had held French prisoners during the Napoleonic wars, and a certain glory radiated from that.
The lands around the village were lush and green, with trees and ancient stone walls— likely built by Romans— lining the Camel River. Holly lived with her mother in a cottage on the northern edge of the Camelford. Her father had dropped dead on the eve of his thirty-ninth birthday, and they’d been alone together ever since.
Her mother worked as a chambermaid at the Mason’s Arms, and Holly had done the same until she’d turned fourteen, when she’d prettied herself up to look as mature as she could and convinced the owner, Mr. Price, to give her a job as a barmaid. There was considerably more money in that than in changing sheets and dumping chamber pots.
And as a barmaid, she got a better look at the foreign gentlemen passing through Camelford, and they at her, as well.
Mr. Price had let her out early tonight. It was just gone ten P.M., but the pub was quiet. The inn itself was hardly half full— the only new arrivals this evening had been a Scottish gentleman who seemed little interested in the pub, but overly concerned with the welfare of the horses that pulled his coach.
Normally her mother would have come back to walk home with her, concerned for her daughter’s virtue, though Holly was sixteen and secretly wished some gent would take an interest in robbing her of that very treasure. Often when she got off earlier than expected, she’d have an escort in Frank Turner, the farrier, a gray-haired, bearded gent with a fatherly smile and a protective air about him. Holly thought Frank had his eye on her mother, and the thought pleased her. The life of a widow didn’t suit Mum.
But since the Scots gentleman was so concerned about his horses, Frank had been unable to leave with her. He’d been concerned, but Holly had brushed off his suggestion that she wait for him. It was Camelford, after all. No harm would come to her, or to her reputation. It wasn’t as if she was a young lady of privilege, who needed a chaperon.
So she’d laughed, though gazing at him fondly, and waved as she’d gone out, wondering just how much of Frank’s concern was due to his desire to see her mother.
In truth, kind as Frank was, she relished the opportunity to wander Camelford after dark. The night and the stars and the cast of the moonlight that sifted through the thin clouds above made it almost possible for her to dream that she was in another place— another country, far away.
Holly hadn’t gone far. The Mason’s Arms stood on the bank of the river, beside a stone bridge that spanned the gently rolling water. She paused, halfway across the bridge, to breathe in the summer night and listen to the currents flowing by. From here she could see the outline of the town against the night. The Bridge House loomed on one side, and the inn on the other. Beyond those there were other buildings, including the church and the village hall, up on Chapel Street, with its odd weather vane.
Foolish travelers had, over time, convinced the far more foolish locals that the desert pack animal, the camel, ought to be associated with the town, and so the image of the beast adorned several of the structures, and a camel-shaped weather vane topped the village hall.
Mr. Price didn’t hold with such nonsense, though. His family had lived in the village for centuries, and he was well aware of the fact that the name came from the Cornish name “Camalanford.” Cam meant crooked, alan beautiful, and ford referred to the river. Roger imparted this knowledge to travelers and locals alike, and it never failed to sour his mood when he spotted the image of a camel in town.
As Holly glanced up at the silhouette of the village hall, the darkness a cloak around her there on the bridge, the sight of the camel had an entirely different effect, creating within her a profound longing. Her mind raced with images of vast deserts, of pyramids and tombs, of exotic marketplaces filled with the smell of spices.
Holly Newcomb dreamed of seeing the world. In the quiet moments just before bed and just after waking she fancied that one day an exotic foreign gentleman would pass through Camelford, take a single glance at her, and be so consumed by love that he would have no choice but to sweep her off her feet and take her along on his travels round the globe.
At sixteen, she was old enough to be aware that her dreams weren’t very original for a girl from Camelford. The village had been a stopping point along a trade route as far back as medieval times, and likely before. No doubt centuries of young girls had spied foreign gents along the road or stopping by an inn, and wondered if they might somehow go along when those gentlemen departed.
Still, Holly figured that by working as a barmaid at the inn, she made certain her odds were better than most. And she fancied that her yearning was more powerful than that of other girls. It had to be. One day, she would meet such a gentleman. And not some Scotsman or American, either, but a Spaniard, or Italian, or Egyptian.
One day, he’ll come for me, she thought. A smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
She took a deep breath, loving the sounds that came out of the summer darkness, the songs of night birds and the splash of something below in the river.
But she had given over enough time to her dreams tonight. Her mother would be angry if she discovered how early Mr. Price had sent Holly home, and realized how long she had tarried at the bridge.
With a sigh, she turned her back on the inn and started toward the opposite side of the bridge. The breeze brought her the scent of the ocean again and she breathed deeply. The church bell rang once, tolling the half hour. Another night passing by, and me still in Camelford.
As she walked she gazed longingly up at the weather vane atop the village hall, and thought of Egypt.
But then she realized there was something else in the sky. A dark silhouette flitted through the night above the buildings. Holly’s step faltered, and she narrowed her gaze. The dark shape moved swiftly, passing from near-total darkness into splashes of moon and starlight that filtered through the thin clouds. It took her a moment to realize there were two of them.
At first she thought they were birds of some sort, large night hunters, and she was mesmerized. She tried to follow their progress across the sky as they slipped in and out of cloud shadows. Even when the moonlight reached them, they seemed darker than dark, as though the celestial illumination could not touch them, and instead revealed their presence only by avoiding those patches of blackness as they slid through the air.
One of them darted upriver and Holly watched it for a long moment until she lost it against the night sky. For a moment she was distracted from the other one, and now she turned to see that it had gone downriver a short way.
In a stray shaft of moonlight, it hovered for a moment, and she saw that it was no bird. The black-sheathed figure was human in shape, most like a woman, with long hair as black as raven’s wings. Holly’s breath caught in her throat. Yet even now it was with wonder that she gazed into the night sky.
Until the moment when the figure darted toward her, slipping into darkness but unquestionably descending. She lost it in the darkness, and her legs were frozen as though turned to stone, while her eyes frantically searched the sky. When the shadow-woman passed through another patch of moonlight she was close.
Much too close.
Holly wanted to scream but her voice failed her.
Finally her feet obeyed her and she turned to flee, heels striking the stone bridge as she raced for the other side and the buildings that beckoned beyond. Camelford wasn’t London, and many of its people would be already asleep, or preparing to retire for the night. But if only she could scream, she might summon aid.
Her skirts flew around her as she ran. Terror raced through her veins like fire. The scream welled up in her chest. She opened her mouth to set it free.
But she had forgotten the other raven shadow, and even as she saw the movement to her left, out of the corner of her eye, slender yet powerful hands reached down from the dark night and grabbed hold of her, lifting her up and up and up into the clouds and the shadows and the patches of moonlight and starshine.
The other took hold of her as well, and then they were hurtling through the night at such speed that when at last she did loose the scream that had built up within her, it was lost on the wind.
The sun broke through the swath of cloud that covered the sky, giving the town of Camelford the first hint of golden daylight it had seen in a fortnight. For days on end, the small Cornish village had been plagued by the sickly gray of a sunless existence. Now, delicious rays flooded down upon the small hamlet and its outlying environs, warming the hearts of the townsfolk, and of their hidden neighbors: the fairies and sprites.
Under normal circumstances, Serena would have enjoyed the return of the sun, but today her usual good spirits were severely dampened by a cold chill that had entered her heart earlier in the morning, and refused to go away. At the moment, the nasty feeling was lodged in her throat, and the little sprite was sure that if anyone had spoken to her, she would have started sobbing, no matter how mundane the question.
Serena had always had a propensity for mischief. It wasn’t that she craved trouble— quite the opposite— but somehow she always found herself in the thick of some harebrained plot or looming fiasco.
This occasion was no different.
The disaster had started with a silly, stupid dare; one that she, Serena, had leveled at her dearest friend in the whole world. She had dared Aine to go to the sacred rowan circle south of Stronghold, and Call out her true love. She hadn’t really thought the silly girl would be so insane as to actually leave the safety of the fairy outpost in the dark of night, and head off into the woods by herself. But Aine had taken the challenge, and now, because of it, Serena was responsible for whatever horrors had befallen her friend.
She had waited for Aine to come back the night she had given her the melody to perform the Calling. When dawn arrived with Aine still not returned, she had become desperately worried.
Serena had flown out to the grove, hoping against hope that she would find Aine curled up in a ball, sound asleep against the base of one of the old trees. Finding the sacred circle empty had only intensified the cold, hard knot of fear in her stomach that had dogged her ever since she had visited her friend’s bedchamber that morning and found only pillows under the blanket.
Now something at the edge of the grove caught Serena’s eye and she felt all the remaining warmth drain from her. The sprite alighted on the ground beside a shiny metal object, her eyes marveling at its delicate, miniature beauty.
The silver whistle lay on its side, half-hidden behind a thickly twisted tree root. Surely it had been lost in haste, or during a struggle, because Serena knew that Aine would not part with it willingly.
Weighted with guilt and regret and grief, Serena realized she would have to tell the Council of Stronghold, so that they could begin searching for the missing girl as soon as possible. Something terrible had happened in this grove. Serena could feel it in her bones, hollow though they might be.
She could also sense that her own fate loomed in the balance. Fairies were noted for their rash, vindictive nature, and they would never forgive her for her part in Aine’s disappearance. They disliked sprites enough to begin with. The feeling was mutual. Though the two races were kin and both hailed from Faerie, when the tiny sprites came through to the human world they set up their tribal homes far from the outposts of the fairies. Serena’s tribe lived the nearest to Stronghold, and that was more than fifty miles from here, in the forest outside of Blackbriar.
Serena had never been like her brothers and sisters. She had never disliked fairies, in spite of their usual arrogance, with the same passion as other sprites, and she had even begun to appreciate humans of late. Also unusual among her tribe, she made a pilgrimage back to Faerie at least once a year to visit the homelands and the pure, untouched skeins of magic that wound through them. She visited family who thought her by turns brave and foolish to have taken up residence in the human world.
The simplest way to journey back to Faerie was through Stronghold, which as an outpost between worlds existed on both planes; there traveling to the homelands was as easy as stepping through a door.
On one of these pilgrimages, Serena had met Aine and, in her, found a kindred spirit. Aine had never understood the prejudice that fairies had toward sprites. “What?” she’d said once. “Just ’cause we’re nearly as large as the humans and our wings only appear when we summon them, that makes us somehow better? That’s foolish. We’re all cousins, all Fey, all of Faerie.”
They had become fast friends. Serena’s presence around Stronghold had, at best, been tolerated. Sprites were not banned from the outpost, of course. They traveled through from time to time. But it was always made clear that this was an indulgence, a courtesy.
Serena knew that would change by the end of the day. She would find herself banished from Stronghold. Bad enough, but since her own tribe had spurned her because of her friendships with fairies and humans, she would be a true outcast. And if she couldn’t enter Stronghold, it would make it that much harder for her to visit Faerie.
The very thought made the tears she had held back all morning start to gather at the corners of her eyes.
Yes, she still had human friends, but it was not the same. If something had happened to Aine— and she felt sure, in her heart, that it had— then she had lost not only her best friend, but all connection to her heritage and kind. It was unthinkable. There had to be something she could do.