As she returned to the house, feeling once more alone and unprotected, she noted that the evil Vincent was openly watching her again.
He grew bolder when, after several days, it seemed that the man of the house was gone.
George Harris came back once, on some pretext, but obviously to see Carrie, and they talked for some time. She learned that he was seventeen, and admitted she was three years younger.
Five days, then six, had passed since Czarina Catherine sailed away.
George Harris came back again, this time wondering if he might have left his order book behind on his previous visit. Carrie made him tea, out of the newly restocked pantry. Mr. de Ville had left them what he called a token of his gratitude for their timely help, and sometimes Carrie was almost frightened when she counted up the golden coins. There was a bed in each bedroom now, and chairs and tables below.
Tonight Chris was in the house alone, curled up and reading by the fire, nursing a cough made worse by London air. Carrie was out alone in the London fog, walking through the greasy, smoky chill.
She heard the terrifying voice of Vincent, not far away, calling her name. There were footsteps in pursuit, hard confident strides, and in her fresh anxiety she took a wrong turning into a deadend mews.
In another moment she was running in panic, on the verge of screaming, feeling in her bones that screaming would do no good.
Someone, some presence, was near her in the fog—but no, there was no one and nothing there.
Only her pursuer’s footsteps, which came on steadily, slow and loud and confident—until they abruptly ceased.
Backed into a corner, she strained her ears, listening—nothing. Vincent must be playing cat and mouse with her. But at last a breath of wind stirred the heavy air, the gray curtain parted, and the way out of the mews seemed clear. Utterly deserted, only the body of some derelict, rolled into a corner.
No—someone was visible after all. Half a block ahead, a tall figure stood looking in Carrie’s direction, as if he might be waiting for her.
With a surge of relief and astonishment she hurried forward. “Mr. de Ville!”
“My dear child. It is late for you to be abroad.”
“I saw you board a ship for the Black Sea!”
His gaze searched the fog, sweeping back and forth over her head. “It is important that certain men believe I am still on that ship. And soon I really must depart from England. But I shall return to this sceptered isle one day.”
Anxiously she looked over her shoulder. “There was a man—”
“Your former neighbor, who meant you harm.” De Ville’s forehead creased. His eyes probed shadows in the mews behind her. “It is sad to contemplate such wickedness.” He sighed, put out a hand, patted her cheek. “But no matter. He will bother you no more. He told me—”
“You’ve seen him, sir?”
“Yes, just now—that he is leaving on a long journey—nay, has already left.”
Carrie was puzzled. “Long journey—to where, sir? America?”
“Farther than that, my child. Oh, farther than that.”
A man’s voice was audible above the endless traffic rumble, calling her name through the night from blocks away. The voice of George Harris, calling, concerned, for Carrie.
Bidding Mr. de Ville a hasty good night, she started to go to the young man. Then, meaning to ask another question, she turned back—the street was empty, save for the rolling fog.
Wolf and Hound
Nigel Bennett and P. N. Elrod
Sabra stood on the cliff overlooking the sea, scenting the rising wind for magic. She braced against cold updrafts buffeting her small body, her long hair torn free, whipping about like Medusa’s snakes. She braced and let it come until she could determine if it was the simple spice of some minor weather-wizard or the dank reek of deeper sorcery.
As the church bells below tolled midnight the air abruptly went still, waiting. In the fields behind her she heard the dolourous bleating of sheep. In the town below a dog frantically barked warning. Then the storm itself burst upon sea and land. She could see the very color of its force on the wind, angry red streaks shot through with a violet so deep as to be black.
Spreading her arms wide, she sang into the night, her clear voice going out to the rocks below, then dancing across the wild gray waters of a harbour to a mist-hidden horizon. The returning echo against her soul confirmed her suspicion. The quickening wash of the gale had real spellwork behind it: old, dark, and dangerously powerful.
Blood magic it was.
Blood magic… and death.
Out there beyond the breakwater… a drifting schooner. That was the source. Did it carry plague such as she’d seen ravaging all the world in those short centuries past? If so, then there was little she could do to stop it. A rare stab of true horror pierced her, but only for an instant. Great would be that calamity, but it was part of the natural cycle of the earth. This was decidedly un-natural. Which brought it within her sphere of influence.
By miracle or curse, the ship found its way into the harbour, going aground, causing much activity among the locals who ran to its aid. She wondered if any of them marked the black shape of the huge wolf that leaped to shore from the deck. It charged straight for a sea cliff and the darkness of the churchyard above. The beast did not pause, but continued past the church, heading for the shelter of a broken abbey, heading directly toward Sabra.
The wolf found its way up the last steep rise, gaining level footing not five paces away.
Much larger than any she’d seen before, it was big as a calf, a match for any of the hounds of Annwyn. Raw hate gleamed from red eyes. Swinging its heavy head in her direction, long teeth bared in a growl, it advanced on her. She did not move, except to hold out her hand in a placating gesture. She spoke Words of Calming in the Old Tongue. The creature snapped in reaction, ears flat, hackles up as though she’d clubbed it instead. Beneath the thick fur, muscles bunched, and it leaped at her, its reeking jaws closing upon her throat, ripping flesh like paper. She fell backwards under the weight of its body and kept falling. Both of them launched spinning from the cliff, dropping into empty, roaring space…
Sabra awoke fully from the dream.
She lay inert, eyes shut, only mildly aware of the ornate bed in which she’d slept the day through, and tried to hold fast to the last shreds of the vision, seeking more details. Clearest of all was that picture of herself standing on the cliff overlooking Whitby Harbour. Sweet Cerridwen, but she’d not passed through Whitby in decades, why now?
Used to all sorts of nightmarish dreams, her gift of Sight was usually more forthcoming with meanings to explain the mesh of images, but not this time. Whether the wolf was a literal or symbolic danger she could not tell. Whatever was astir knew how to cloak itself, which meant a formidable magical skill. She could not ignore such a strong, if murky, portent and made the necessary arrangements for the long rail journey home.
Taking advantage of certain modes of this century’s fashion, Sabra covered her pale skin in long gloves and a heavy cloak, and draped a dense black veil over a wide-brimmed bonnet. Warm for August, but it protected her from the burning sun and offered welcome isolation. She appeared to be a recently bereaved widow in deep mourning. None would question why she took no meals in the train’s dining car. Those feedings she sought elsewhere from willing and forgetful companions. No more dreams of blood magic disturbed her day-sleeps, which was frustrating. She wanted more information.