Ghosts of Albion: Accursed Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Ghosts of Albion on the Web

  Copyright Page

  To my family—without you I wouldn’t be the person that I am.

  I love you all unconditionally.

  And to mbl—don’t be tired and I won’t be sad.

  —A.B.

  To Rob Francis, one of the good guys.

  —C.G.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The authors would like to thank the entire team at Del Rey, most especially Steve Saffel, Keith Clayton, and Colleen Lindsay, for their enthusiasm and support. Thanks, also, to William Schaefer at Subterranean Press; Jose Nieto and Tom Canty for their artistic contributions; Agnes Bell, James Butler, and Kim Zemek for research assistance; and Tim Brannan, Garner Johnson, and Alex Jurkat at Eden Studios.

  We gratefully acknowledge the fantastic contributions of those talented individuals who worked on the BBC web serial version of Ghosts of Albion, including Rob Francis, Martin Trickey, Jelena Djordjevic, Martha Hillier, John Ainsworth, Kim Plowright, Emma Ko, James Goss, Ann Kelly, Roger Danes, Rebecca Kirby, Marc Wilcox, Keith Graham, Alex Mackintosh, Claudine Toutoungi, Maria Ogundele, Mario Dubois, Steve Maher and all of the animators at Cosgrove Hall, animator Nick Hilditch, Jason and the crew at Big Finish, the extraordinary composer Peter Green, and, of course, the remarkable cast, Jasmine Hyde, Rory Kinnear, Anthony Daniels, Emma Samms, Joe McFadden, Paterson Joseph, Roy Skelton, Elliot Falk, Trevor Littledale, India Fisher, and Leslie Phillips. In our heads, the voices are always yours.

  And, finally . . .

  Thanks to my friend Kim Simerson and her teacher, design historian Eleanor Schrader Schapa—who hooked me up with some wonderful articles and websites on Victorian fashion.

  —A.B.

  Thanks to the real, original Tamara Swift, for the inspiration.

  —C.G.

  The young woman slipped out of the doorway into a maelstrom of men and women moving up and down the cobblestoned street. Her body was entirely covered in a bright red cotton sari and stanapatta that were far too thin to protect her from the evening’s chill.

  The stench of the river filled the air to the point that the ramshackle buildings and filthy, winding alleys of London’s Shadwell district seemed saturated with it. Nevertheless, the night was alive. Drunken oafs stumbled out of taverns and haggard, filthy prostitutes hawked their wares. Music drifted from an open doorway, punctuated with laughter. Rough-hewn men with stony eyes and gruff humor—sailors and dockworkers all—prowled the alleys in packs, speaking the languages of a dozen nations.

  The woman kept her covered head down so that no one could see her face, or notice the fear in her eyes that would clearly identify her as prey. At first, she kept her speed equal to those who jostled around her, but like a frightened animal she picked up her pace as much as she could, until she was almost running as she weaved in and out of the uncaring crowd.

  Her heart hammered in ragged time against her ribs, like a tiny, frightened bird screaming for release. She wanted nothing more than to silence it, but that would mean death, and surely nineteen years on this Earth wasn’t enough. She knew that the quick only danced for a few precious moments before being swallowed by their partners, that it would catch her someday—this death—this thing that struck the fear of the gods into her very soul. But why did it have to come so soon?

  She thought of her twin daughters, Chhavvi and Chhaya, and prayed that she would live to see their beautiful faces again.

  From somewhere behind her, she heard someone call out her name.

  “Avani!”

  Desperately she ignored it, pushing forward, colliding with a pair of young sailors who regarded her with a hungry look. Terrified that they would grab her, that they would stop her there, she veered into a dark, empty alleyway to get away from the crowd and shake off her pursuers.

  Immediately, she realized her mistake. She should have stayed hidden in the crowd. They would not murder her with so many witnesses around. But in the filth of the vacant alley . . .

  She reached a new intersection, took another turn, and plowed deeper into the maze of the slums of Shadwell.

  This new alley was as desolate as the last. Ordinarily she would have been terrified to encounter a stranger in these hidden passages, where life was worth nothing and people took what they wanted. But now she prayed for the intervention of a stranger. Even an open door, some sanctuary where she might find protection for herself and for . . . the other.

  The thing she was carrying inside her.

  It had happened against her will. The man had been possessed, had forced her onto the ground behind the marketplace, and had defiled her. She hadn’t told her husband, or her family, because she knew what they would do. But the very next morning, when she awoke, she found herself heavy with child, and knew that her life had reached its end.

  Now as she ran, she reached down and cupped her bloated belly. She had loved carrying the twins, cherished the pleasant feeling of new life growing inside her. But this experience was nothing like that. This time she felt misshapen and ugly, full of something poisonous that fought wildly within her, weighing her down and depleting her energy, so that even the effort to draw breath exhausted her.

  Behind her she heard the clamor of feet on cobblestones and knew they were still on her trail. She tried to run faster, but her back and stomach were aching more than ever. When her foot caught on an upraised piece of stone and she tripped, falling and scraping her hands and knees, she was almost relieved.

  The inevitable had come.

  Tears burned her cheeks, and she felt as if something had burst inside her. She reached down and felt a viscous fluid issuing from between her legs. There had been small droplets earlier that day, of a thick green paste, and now this. She was glad of the dark, so she could not see the color of this new humiliation.

  She tried to pull herself back up, but did not have the strength. Deep, heaving sobs issued from her mouth, and though she tried to prevent them, covering her face with her hands, her body would not comply. She began to shudder, not from grief or fear, but from a horrid sickness that was making its way through her.

  The men followed her tears to where she lay on the ground. Though she recognized their features, there was no trace of love or sorrow, or even pity in the faces of her father and her husband. Only her younger brother, Tek, did not glare angrily down upon her. Instead his large, almond eyes held a mixture of fear and shame, and he would not hold her gaze.

  “Avani, you have shamed your family,” her father said as he stood over her.

  Her husband, Rajeev, had dark brown eyes that had once gazed upon her as though she were a golden lotus flower. But now they held nothing but contempt. She was soiled, now, tainted forever. In his mind, she had betrayed him, and deserved nothing less than what she got.

  Avani felt her heart shatter into a million tiny shards. She had never guessed that anything could hurt so much. She had
loved them all so dearly, and now, when she needed them most, they had forsaken her.

  “Rajeev, please—” she begged.

  He spit on her.

  She reached out to touch his foot, but he kicked her hand away.

  “But I didn’t—” she said, but stopped, knowing it was futile.

  She watched as her father pulled an unlit torch from the cloth bag bound at his hip and lit it. He glanced around to make sure that they were alone, then he motioned for her husband and brother to lift her up. Avani fought as they grasped her roughly by the arms and stood her on her feet.

  With a cry to Shiva, she closed her eyes and prayed for a quick end.

  The night sang with a strange, jangling noise like discordant music, and she heard Tek scream. But the sound seemed to come from some distant place. Then the acrid smell of burning human hair filled her nostrils, and slammed her back into reality. Even as she opened her eyes, he released her arm, and she saw his singed eyebrows and eyelashes. He had been burned, somehow, and she saw the terror in his eyes as he turned and fled back down the alley the way they had come.

  “Let the girl go!” came a voice from behind her. With Rajeev still gripping one arm, she managed to turn, and saw an old man leaning upon a walking stick. He was Indian. His skin was dark, his eyes were bright, and he stood in the middle of the alley, glaring at her father and husband. Everything about him indicated an air of command.

  Her father gathered his wits and handed the torch to Rajeev, then walked toward the old man.

  “This does not concern you,” he said through clenched teeth. “It is a matter for family.”

  “You must let the girl go,” the old man said again. “This has nothing to do with family. Evil has touched her, but she may still be cleansed, if you will stand aside.”

  Her father moved forward again and shoved the old man. Avani gasped, thinking he had hurt the poor fellow, but she was surprised to see the old man still standing.

  “I have warned you,” the newcomer said, before lifting his stick and pointing at his attacker’s heart. Silver light flashed from the tip and enveloped her father in a halo of white flames. He shook as though in the grip of the gods, and then collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

  Rajeev took a step back, pulling her with him, but the old man moved swiftly now. The same silver light leaped from his walking stick and struck Rajeev. He shuddered uncontrollably, and his grip slipped away. She watched as her husband fell to the ground, and did not stir.

  Avani dropped to her knees and began to cry again.

  “Please spare us, oh great one . . .”

  The words were no sooner out of her mouth than a wave of pain swept over her, racking every part of her body. She wrapped both hands around her voluminous belly and screamed.

  “Too late,” she heard the old man whisper in the language of her homeland. “Damn her, I’m too late.”

  THE OLD MAN could only watch and mourn as the girl dropped to the ground, her body lurching uncontrollably. The toadlike creatures began to drop from between her legs, an unholy, hideous parody of birth. Their bulbous, sickly yellow eyes gleamed preternaturally in the shadows.

  But there were too many of them, and they wanted to get out.

  Her belly split with a sickeningly wet tearing noise and a splash of blood and viscera, and then they came flooding out of her. The girl’s wide brown eyes stared glassily at the night sky. By this time she was beyond pain. She twitched once, but she was already dead as the small creatures, their bodies covered in a sickly greenish slime, hopped away to disappear into the maze of alleys and crumbling buildings, into the deeper shadows.

  The old man wept for her, his heart heavier than all creation.

  It was a rare day in Highgate. The sky above was a brilliant blue, and the sun lured from the landscape vivid colors that were seen so infrequently as to achieve near-mythic status.

  Ordinarily Ludlow House seemed to loom upon the hill, gazing balefully across the lawns that surrounded it. The gardens were vibrant and beautiful, but the façade of the house was almost monastic in its plainness, a grim visage of window and stone with a thorny crown of gables and chimneys. Yet on this day, the Swift family home managed an elegant nobility. Though the sprawling manse cast long shadows eastward, they did not engender the sense of foreboding that had so often been their companion.

  There was a southwesterly view from the rear of Ludlow House. The elevation of the hill was such that High Street was visible in the distance, and on a day as clear as this, those of keen eyesight or imagination might see the spire of the chapel at Highgate Cemetery. Yet it was neither the view nor the rare brilliance of the spring day that had prompted Tamara Swift to host afternoon tea in the observatory, rather than within the house proper.

  Inside the house, even in the front parlor, her guests might have heard the mad howling that came from the second floor, the screams of her father. Or, more accurately, of the thing that lived within him.

  Much had changed in the months subsequent to the death of her grandfather, Sir Ludlow Swift. Tamara and her brother, William, had inherited a host of responsibilities they could never have imagined, and the loss of her beloved grandfather, combined with her father’s affliction, had cast the bleakest of shadows across her heart.

  Yet she felt a sense of purpose now that she never had before. No matter how frightful her current circumstances, she knew she would not have willingly erased the events of the past several months. Once her greatest concerns had been the attentions of young men and the scribblings she authored under the pseudonym T. L. Fleet, stories published in pamphlets they called penny dreadfuls on the street. Once upon a time, her taste for the macabre had been mere musing. Now her writings leaned toward those of reporter, rather than tale-weaver.

  But the darkness could be suffocating. For too long in recent months, she had chosen to ignore invitations and gentle inquiries from friends. Now she had at last determined that it would be prudent to escape into the trivial from time to time.

  This afternoon’s tea was attended by four young ladies of North London whom she counted as her friends and, unfortunately, Miss Sophia Winchell, whom William was courting. Absent from the gathering was Marjorie Winterton, who was attending to the needs of an ailing dowager aunt. Marjorie had sent her regrets, and Tamara shared the sentiment. Sophia was a poor substitute.

  This tea was meant to signify Tamara’s return to society, and the throwing aside of the shroud that had cloaked her spirit so much of late. And she found now that the gathering was indeed fulfilling its purpose. The sunshine and the flowers that were blossoming so fully, ripe with color, out across the grounds, had lifted her spirits. But nothing healed her so much as the company of her friends.

  A titter of naughty laughter rippled through the observatory. One of the girls had no doubt said something scandalous—no surprise in this group—but Tamara had been lost in thought, and she had missed it. She feigned amusement politely, but she couldn’t entirely escape the weight of the dark truths she had learned in the wake of Sir Ludlow’s savage murder.

  At times she wondered if she should share her burden with one or more of her closest friends, yet she knew there was no way she would dare to do so. Ignorance of the evil that hid in England’s shadows was indeed a gift, and it was one she would give them freely. No, she would keep her own counsel. In those moments when she could not bear the weight of the dreadful truth, she would seek solace in her brother’s calming voice. In his reason.

  Or she would rely upon the kindness of ghosts.

  But she would not place the burden of knowledge upon her friends. That would be too cruel.

  And the truth of it was that part of her conviction sprang from selfishness. Simply being in their presence eased her mind, let her become once again, albeit briefly, a part of the mundane world. She hadn’t realized it until today, but in their ordinary concerns and their gossip and their laughter she found respite. For the first time in months she wasn’t dwelling upo
n the certainty that night would fall once more; that they would depart and the light of whimsy would be extinguished.

  No, while they were here, she would be as she had been. Just another girl—no, just another high-born lady of London town.

  She took a sip of lukewarm tea—she didn’t dare try to use magic to warm it in the presence of her friends—and turned her gaze toward the windows. Tamara had always found it peaceful here in the observatory, if a trifle chilly. The gardens of Ludlow House were renowned, arranged as they were with an almost architectural precision. Tamara’s grandfather had entertained many a guest here, to exploit the glorious view of the prize tea rose garden.

  Tamara still missed the grizzled old man terribly, but time had begun to scar over her tender wounds. They would never heal altogether; the thought that they would was a myth. Yet, brushing away the momentary pain, she turned her attention back to the conversation in progress.

  “—I truly believe that if I were ever to find myself in the company of our Mr. T. L. Fleet, I would just expire,” said Victoria Markham, her face so flushed as to make her cheeks nearly as red as her hair. “I would be just that—for lack of a better word—stimulated.”

  Tamara almost laughed, but managed to hold herself in check by pretending to cough into her silk handkerchief. She perched on the edge of the soft red velveteen settee, blue eyes wide with curiosity. Somehow, while she was lost in reverie, the topic of conversation had come around to her own writings. How odd it was to be privy to gossip that was, however indirectly, about her.

  Victoria dramatically raised a hand to cover her mouth, as though she had been scandalized by her own ribald insinuation, her mischievous, pixielike features doing little to make her pretense convincing.

  Tamara so treasured the girl. In the aftermath of Sir Ludlow’s death, Victoria had continued to make overtures of friendship, long after everyone else had ceased trying. She had stubbornly refused to let Tamara surrender completely to grief, and had finally called at Ludlow House—uninvited—the week before, hoping to coax Tamara back into society.