The Dark Days Club by Alison Goodman
Over the edge of the bed, she saw Benchley lunge, slashing at Philip’s right whip with a glass knife, both men staggering and crashing to the floor. The bed frame shuddered as they slammed into it over and over, grunts breaking into low curses. Helen tried to gauge their position. Could she make it to the dressing room? To safety? She crawled to the end of the bed again. They were barely two yards away. Philip had straddled Benchley, the three whips and a pulsing blue-black tentacle all buried in the Reclaimer’s chest—in his heart—his torso lifted from the ground. Blue power pulsed from the older man’s body, his face contorted, his back arched in agony.
Helen reeled back. He was being drained!
Panting, she peered around again. Benchley writhed under the attack, pink foam bubbling from his mouth, his eyes wide. He reached a bloodied hand toward Helen.
“Help me,” he gasped.
Help him? He had killed families. Murdered a baby. He had nearly destroyed her mother!
“Stay back,” Philip snarled.
One of his whips uncurled from Benchley’s body and snaked toward her, ready to strike. She ducked away. The other two drove down deeper into Benchley’s chest, the tentacle sucking more violent blue power. He convulsed again.
“Help me.” His voice was a wet whisper.
He clawed at the wood, dragging himself an inch toward her, the effort clear in his agonized eyes. She crept to the edge of the bed again. A whip slammed into the floor a finger’s length from her face. She rocked back, momentarily blinded. Her vision cleared to a horrific sight: Benchley’s bloodied eyes bulging, every vein bright with the energy being dragged out of him, his lips drawn back over yellowed teeth in a silent scream. His head pounded the floor, arms flailing. His whole body lifted into one huge convulsion that wrenched his torso upward for a moment, then dropped him back to the floor, dead.
Helen stared at the lifeless face, that final agony set into the wide-open mouth and bulging eyes. She pressed her palm over her own mouth, a rush of bile burning her throat. No time for sensibilities. She had to escape. Drawing a hard, panting breath, she forced the shock back down into her body.
The distant clock tolled again.
She had lost count. She waited for another strike, her ears straining—but heard only the rumble of carriage wheels, the calls of late revelers, and the beat of the reel below, the thud of the dancers’ feet keeping time.
Midnight had come and gone.
Philip pulled his whips from Benchley’s body, the tentacle retracting into his back. He turned to Helen. The three weaving whips were eye-achingly bright. Full of Benchley’s life-force. “Give me the Colligat.”
She clutched the hard oval frame. There would be another full moon next month—if she could keep it safe that long. If she could stay safe that long. She saw the glint of gold amidst the ruin of her writing desk. Her father’s miniature. “It was in my desk,” she said. “You can see it over there.”
Philip shook his head, smiling. “A good effort, my lady, but I can sense it on you.”
She clenched her teeth: of course he could. Yet why did he not attack and take it? Even as she thought it, she remembered the slam of his whip into the floor, driving her back behind the bed. He could have easily attacked her then, but he had not. Nor later. He did not mean to kill her at all. At least, not yet. “Are you the Grand Deceiver?”
He took a step closer. “Me?” He gave a harsh laugh, the three whips curling above his head again, undulating in a slow, obscene manner. “I am merely his vassal.” He held out his hand. “Give it to me.”
Behind him, the light in the dressing room flickered as if someone had opened the door and sent a draught across the candle. Helen drew in a breath, a prayer upon it. Please God, let it be Lord Carlston.
“I thought you creatures did not work together,” she said quickly. “Why do you bow down to another of your kind?”
“He is not of my kind.” Philip advanced another step.
“What kind is he?” she asked sharply. He was tilting his head, listening. “What does he want?” She must keep his attention upon her, not the doorway.
“I am not here to explain my lord’s plans,” Philip said. “I am here for the Colligat.”
“He is a lord?”
“Not in the way that you think.”
A sudden blur of speed erupted from the dressing room doorway. Philip spun, his whips slashing at the crouched figure that ducked and rolled. For a moment Helen saw Carlston’s face, set into the hard lines of the hunter, then she leaped for the bed, dragging herself across its ruined linen. She dropped onto the other side, a trail of feathers rising behind her.
“Lady Helen, get out!” his lordship yelled.
A whip lashed against the door, slamming it shut. On hands and knees, miniature clenched in her fist, Helen lunged to the corner of the bed. His lordship grabbed one of the whips and wrapped it around his arm, dodging the other two as they sliced at his head. One connected with the wall, reaming a gaping hole, sending down a shower of plaster. Carlston leaped for the other, his hand closing around air as the lashing end flicked away.
He was trying to take all three!
“No!” Helen yelled.
He wrenched at the whip he held, staggering backward as the momentum jerked Philip off balance. Carlston hit the wall, Philip ramming into him. A moment of winded silence held them both still, then Philip’s swollen feeder snaked out toward Carlston’s chest. His lordship heaved Philip off him, grabbing the second whip as he rolled away from the groping tentacle. Roaring with rage, Philip yanked at his captured weapon, but Carlston grimly kept hold of the writhing end, doggedly wrapping it around his forearm as he ducked the slicing attack of the last whip.
She had to stop him from taking it. All three would kill him.
The third whip cut through the air again, the low buzz of it like a thousand angry bees. Carlston threw himself sideways, the blue lash carving a red pathway across his chest. Philip flailed, pulled behind him, stumbling over Benchley’s leg. The two men staggered and hit the mantel, Carlston falling to his knees.
Helen saw a dark shape on the ground. The pistol! She jumped, her fingers clawing for the wooden butt, the miniature sliding from her hand. The blue glows disappeared. She grabbed the gun and swung around, ramming her finger into the trigger ring. She aimed at Philip’s back and fired. Nothing. She stared at the pistol, frantically trying to remember what Andrew had shown her on the estate. The hammer. The hammer was not cocked. She wrenched it back. Aimed again and pulled the trigger. A crack. A flash of fire. She felt herself flung backward, the smell of smoke and gunpowder sharp in the air.
She blinked. Had she hit Philip? But he and Carlston had turned at the explosion, their struggle suspended in surprise. She had missed; a new hole punched through the wall above them.
The music downstairs faltered and stopped.
His lordship recovered first. Although Helen could no longer see Philip’s whips or feeder, she saw Carlston’s hand twist as if winding something around his wrist. He had caught the third whip! His other hand groped for the glass knife that lay near Benchley’s head. His fingers connected and curled around the handle. Philip jerked back, slamming his elbow into Carlston’s shoulder, desperately trying to loosen his grip. His lordship swung around and, in one savage stroke, sliced the glass blade across Philip’s shoulders at the base of the three whips.
Philip screamed and dropped to the floor.
Carlston looked at her, panting, his body rigid as he tried to hold the whip energy that Helen knew was wrapped around his arm.
“Take the Colligat. Go!” he rasped.
Behind her, Helen heard the commotion of arrival. His lordship threw back his head and lifted his arms. She had seen that stance before, at Vauxhall Gardens: he was going to take the power into his body, the violent blue energy that had brought the terrifying smile of madness
“No!” she cried.
She saw his arm plunge, his eyes widen as the power of the three whips slammed into his chest, arching his back into a rigid bow of agony.
“No! My lord, no!” A huge figure burst into the room—Quinn.
Darby stumbled in close behind him. “My lady!”
Twenty seconds. Before the energy consumed Carlston. Before it killed him. Twenty seconds to get him down three floors to the ground. To discharge the terrifying power ripping through his body.
“Get him out, Quinn!” Helen yelled. “Get him to earth!”
Quinn kicked his way through the debris on the floor and dropped down beside Carlston, trying to gather him into his arms.
“No!” Carlston gasped. He convulsed. “Too far up, too many people. Get her to safety.”
“No, no, I can do it. I can do it,” Quinn said through his teeth, but Helen could hear the defeat in his voice. “I can get you down.”
“No,” Carlston rasped. “My order. Do it!” He convulsed again, his veins bright bulging lines beneath his skin. The smiling madness was already in his face.
Bowing his head, Quinn released him, tears running down his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said to Helen.
“No!” Surely, she could do something. What was the use of all this power if she could not save his life? Save his life—Lady Margaret had said as much in the Gardens. One Reclaimer can absorb whip energy from another, she’d said. It would save his life.
Absorb the energy. But how?
She saw movement out of the corner of her eye and swung around. Philip had hauled himself to his knees, his focus on the miniature she had dropped. He looked up, their eyes connecting for a frozen moment. She could see the savage determination, the fierce need. He had one aim: to take the Colligat for his master. Unless she stopped him. But Carlston was running out of time.
Helen gathered herself, ready to lunge. But which way? If she saved the miniature from the Deceiver, Carlston would surely die. If she leaped for Carlston and risked madness, the Deceiver would steal the Colligat—her way back to a normal life—and all that power would be in the hands of a Grand Deceiver.
Sometimes there is no good choice. Just the choice that has to be made.
Helen propelled herself across the floor. She hit the solid muscle of his lordship’s chest, the impact slamming him on to his back, her body sprawled across him. As she clung to his shaking shoulders, she saw Philip dive upon the miniature. The Deceiver hauled himself to his feet and ran.
“Stop him!” she yelled, but he had already pushed past a gawking footman at the door.
Gone. The Colligat was gone. She felt it go, as if part of herself was being ripped away.
Sobbing, she grabbed for Carlston, blind instinct screaming that it had to be skin to skin. That she must touch him to save him. She pressed her tear-wet face to his, her mouth on the blood and sweat that smeared his cheek. He wrenched his head around, panting with pain, his lips against her throat, her jaw. Her lips. For an instant she froze—a reflex—then pressed into the taste of him: salt and brandywine, her breath hard against his gasp.
A jolt of energy arced between them, every nerve stripped raw, exploding into pain that edged into some strange, agonized delight. His lordship’s arm locked around her back, their bodies seeking more contact, every touch bringing more and more power. She felt a savage joy, a spiraling triumph. It peaked: a breath-stopping moment of irreversible change that lifted her from herself into glorious exaltation and then plunged her back into her mind and body. Back into the ruined room and the sensation of his lips against her own.
Gasping, she raised her head, his lordship’s stunned dark eyes upon her.
“Are we mad?” she said, panting. “I don’t feel mad.” Everything felt different—brighter—but not mad.
“No.” He drew in a deep, shaking breath. “I think we are unharmed. I’m not sure how, but the energy is gone.”
Gone. Like Philip and the miniature. “The Deceiver got the Colligat,” she said. “He will have escaped the house by now. They will have its power. What should we do?” She frowned. “Why do you smile so?”
His lips had curved upward into some kind of elation. “Because, Lady Helen, you are a Reclaimer. You are truly one of us now.” It was a statement. An announcement. A jubilant celebration. And she could not help but smile back.
“Helen!” Her uncle’s voice cut through the sweet moment, the shock of its harsh disgust rolling her away from his lordship’s body.
Lord Pennworth stood at the doorway, aghast. Barnett and two footmen peered over his shoulder. “Get out,” he barked at them. They rapidly retreated.
He stared around the devastated room. “God’s Blood, what has happened here? What are you doing? On the floor with a man. Like a whore. A whore!” He gripped the doorframe. “You,” he spit, his eyes on Carlston. “Corruptor. Devil. What have you done to her?”
Carlston moved to rise but fell back, panting. Quinn caught his arm and braced him.
“He has done nothing wrong,” Helen said. She climbed to her feet, the power still singing in her blood. “It is not as you think!”
“You defend him?” Uncle pushed past Darby and strode across the room. “We have His Royal Highness in the house, for God’s sake. And the Duke.” He grabbed Helen’s arm. “Have you run mad? No. No, you are not mad”—his grip tightened into bruising punishment—“you are evil. I do not know what foul corruption you are part of, but you are no longer my niece. Leave my house, and never show your face again. Do you understand?”
Helen looked down at his brutal hold. No more. Very slowly, she peeled his fingers from her flesh. He strained against her strength, but inexorably, she lifted his hand away. With a snarl, he tried to yank himself free. Once, twice. But her grip did not yield.
Panting, he stared at her, a sudden, confused fear in his eyes.
“Yes, I understand,” Helen said, and finally released him.
He backed away, clutching his hand. Now he understood too.
Thirty
Thursday, 28 May 1812
TWO DAYS LATER Helen sat alone in the morning room of Lady Margaret’s town house in Caroline Street, pen in hand, the opening lines of a letter abandoned as she stared out of the window. Beside the inkwell stood a small stack of completed letters folded into neat packets, ready to be delivered. She watched as a mud-spattered carriage passed by, drawn by a very wet pair of bays. For the last two days, every grinding wheel on the road had brought a rise of expectation. But none had brought Lord Carlston, and now all she felt was a dull ache of uncertainty and guilt.
Her uncle’s threat of dispossession had not been hollow. Nor had it been slow. He had insisted on her leaving the house that night, and had sent her belongings to Caroline Street the next day along with a curt note that dismissed Darby from his household. However, Helen knew that was not the end of it. He still had control of her money, and Andrew’s silence did not bode well for any kind of mediation. She rubbed her breastbone, the ache of that estrangement like a dull counterpoint to her heartbeat.
She still did not know how the ruin of her room had been explained, or Mr. Benchley’s body, or the disappearance of Philip; Lady Margaret and Mr. Hammond had hurried her from Half Moon Street before the guests had departed. Apparently, everyone had been told that the excitement of her own ball had tragically caused her to relapse from the effects of her fall. She had not even had a chance to speak to Aunt.
She touched the letter on the top of the stack, addressed to Lady Pennworth. Of course it could not hold any true explanation, but she hoped Aunt would read the love and gratitude within the lines. Darby was in the midst of packing their traveling trunks, but as soon as that was completed, Helen would send her around to Half Moon Street again to place the letter directly into Aunt’s hands. Otherwise, it would end up in Uncle’s fireplace.
&n
With all the death and mayhem, it was a marvel that no story had appeared in the papers, particularly since the Prince Regent had been present. Helen wondered how that feat had been managed, for this time it could not have been the Duke. Perhaps the Home Office had been called in by his lordship: obscured facts and vanishing corpses certainly had their touch upon it.
Yet Carlston had stayed away. Was it because she had lost the Colligat?
He had said nothing to her in the aftermath. Instead, when Uncle had retreated from the room, his lordship had risen from the floor and taken command, dispatching Darby to fetch Lady Margaret, and Quinn on errands that followed whispered instructions and the supply of coin. It seemed unlikely that he would now stay away from her in anger. Even so, she could not shake the fear that she had, somehow, failed.
She turned back to the unfinished letter on the desk and reread what she had written:
Caroline Street, London. 29 May 1812
My dear Delia,
It is with great pleasure that I write to you again. Although I cannot go into any detail at present, I find that my circumstances have changed to such a degree that I believe we can resume both our correspondence and friendship with impunity. I am to go to Brighton in the next few days with my friend the Lady Margaret Ridgewell and her brother, and will stay there for the summer season as their guest. Thence I am not sure where I will travel, but my hope is that we can soon meet again. Perhaps in Brighton, or if that is not possible, over Christmas once I am settled.
I also have another reason for writing, dear friend. I wish to reassure you that those events that you saw in that squalid room on that regrettable day were not figments of your imagination nor a sign of madness. I have good reason to believe they were real, and one day I hope to be able to explain to you what you saw. For now, however, be assured that you are sane, and that I