A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(31)



When he ended, chanting and walking both, he got back down on his hands and knees and painted another pair of circles, and another set of words, and repeated the walking and chanting.

He did this for a total of nine circles. And when he was finished, with tiny dots of paint, he marked north, northeast, east, south east, south, southwest, west, and northwest, with absolute precision. And in each of these positions he left an object. In the north, a piece of meteorite. In the northeast, a small fossil. In the east, a piece of fulgurite, the glass formed when lightning strikes sand. In the southeast, a tiny cube of electrum. In the south, a pyramid of black jade. In the southwest, a saucer of mercury. In the west, a dodecahedron of obsidian. And in the northwest, a crystal skull. That last, he had found as the pommel of an expensive walking stick.

He set incense of dragon’s blood burning and placed lit black candles behind each of the objects. The incense fumed and filled the air with its pungent and peculiar aroma. He licked his lips, and tasted it, lingering resinously on his tongue.

Then, with his watch out in one hand, The Book in the other, and a lantern behind him to illuminate the words clearly, he began a long, sonorous chant, of which he only understood about half the words. As nearly as he could tell, it included the names of gods so old they were ancient even to the Egyptians, but what the sense of it was, he could not tell.

And he ended the chant precisely as the bells in the churches around him and the watch in his hand chimed midnight.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, slowly, all the light drained out of the room, and the lamps hanging from the ceiling went out, leaving only the eight candles on the floor, flickering with dim, blue flames.

The temperature in the room dropped until it was so cold his face hurt. And then, all the darkness was sucked toward the altar stone, shrouding it and the basket atop it, a pillar of darkness he could not see into. He shivered all over and his teeth chattered . . . but not just because of the cold. There was something about that pillar of darkness that sent all the hair on his head standing straight up, and evoked a primal and bone-deep fear.

“The offering is inadequate.”

The voice did not seem to come from anywhere. Rather, it seemed to echo within his own mind. Alexandre went rigid all over, his words freezing in his throat. Even his teeth stopped chattering. What was he supposed to do now? The Book hadn’t said anything about “inadequate” offerings, only “acceptable” and “unacceptable” ones. “Acceptable” meant he . . . well, would have anything he wanted. “Unacceptable” would mean the door would slam and he’d have to wait until next year to try again. But . . . “inadequate”?

“The offering is inadequate,” the voice repeated; emotionless, expressionless, as dead as Alexandre’s father. “But the offering is accepted.” He sighed in relief.

Too soon.

“You must do more. You must bring Us more.”

“Now?” he bleated, frantic, unable to imagine where he was going to find a virgin anything on Christmas Eve, or—maybe Alf hadn’t left yet, maybe they could go back to the Foundling Home and steal more babies. How many babies would equal a virgin girl? Four? Six? How soon could they do that?

And now his mind was running in frantic circles as question after question about how to do this impossible task made him dizzy. How would they steal six babies at once? How would they carry them all? They couldn’t get a cab! How would they explain toting around six babies on Christmas Eve? Alf had used a basket . . . could they use baskets? Could they fit three babies each to a basket? What if they woke up? What if they cried?

“The offering has opened the door, but We are not strengthened. You will strengthen Us. Come in three days time, and We will instruct you. Now go.”

The pillar of darkness collapsed into a pool of darkness on the floor. There was no sign of the altar stone, or the basket that had been on it. A wind out of that pool swept around the room, blowing out the candles—and, somehow, the lamps, all but the one behind Alexandre.

He shivered in every limb as he stared into the darkness, and felt the darkness staring back at him, reaching into his soul. He had to get out of here before whatever he had called changed its mind and decided it wanted him. He finally made his arm reach for the lantern without taking his eyes off the pool of blackness; his body seemed to move with glacial slowness.

Is that thing in the floor the door? Alexandre wondered, as he took the lantern and backed slowly away from what looked like a bottomless hole in the floor. He wanted to run away, screaming, and it was all he could do to move slowly, cautiously, trying not to attract that . . . thing’s . . . attention any further. He inched his way up the steps, and only when the cellar door was shut and his back was to it did he finally breathe, wiping his sweating face with his handkerchief. His body flushed, went cold again, flushed and went cold. Nervous sweat plastered his hair to his skull.

Mustn’t let Alf see me like this, he thought, dazedly after a moment, only now remembering Alf had promised to bring back girls. He made his way to his bedroom, still carrying the lantern, and poured himself a tumbler of whiskey from the decanter there, and when that seemed inadequate, another. Then he stripped off coat, vest, and shirt, put on a clean shirt, toweled his hair dry with the old shirt. He sat on the edge of the bed, and waited for the whiskey to soothe his nerves.

After a moment he realized he was still clutching his copy of The Book. He must have put it down to change . . . but he didn’t remember picking it back up again. In fact . . . he didn’t remember putting it down, either. He stared at it. So innocuous, just a plain copybook with cloth covers, the kind anyone could buy at a stationers.

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