A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(32)

It’s not too late to end all this now, whispered a voice in his mind. You know people who know Lord Alderscroft. You could go to them in the morning. You could tell them you were trying out something and it went wrong and you need their help. One look at what’s in the cellar, and they’ll go straight to Alderscroft and he’ll summon his whole damn White Lodge to deal with it. The worst you’ll get is a tongue-lashing for dabbling in things you don’t understand. They won’t think you sacrificed anything more than a cat or a dog. No one knows about the baby, and it’s gone now, without a trace. Alf certainly won’t tell them. If you never show them The Book, if you never mention the baby, no one will ever know what you were really up to. This can all be over in a day, perhaps two, long before that thing in the darkness can . . . instruct you.

But that would mean giving up everything The Book promised. . . .

These things never end well, the voice whispered. These things always end in the sorcerer screaming, and blood spattered all over the ceiling, and neighbors saying afterward, “But he was so quiet and well-mannered . . .”

He listened to that voice for a moment, then violently shook his head. That wasn’t the voice of reason, that was the voice of cowardice, the same voice that had told him to be a good boy, go to church, obey his father like a little mindless slave. That voice had led him to undergo years of misery before he’d found his first magic book. He knew better. That voice wanted him to be weak, not strong. These are tales told to keep the bold from triumphing, he told the voice, and downed a third tumbler of whiskey. All those stories of “deals with the devil” never ending well had been written by people who had a vested interest in making sure things stayed exactly the way they were—that no “unauthorized” individuals dared to reach for power. People like his father! People who wanted to keep people like him under their thumb. It was always that way! People like Alderscroft and his precious Lodge would rather that everyone believed that if you took an unorthodox approach to magic, terrible things happened to you.

Courage rose in him once again. Look what he’d accomplished! Even the entity that he had summoned had recognized boldness and greatness in him! It had said the offering was “inadequate,” and yet—It had still taken the offering. It must know he was ready for the kind of power It could offer him.

Nothing terrible had happened in the cellar. In fact, the outcome had almost been better than if he’d had the “proper” sacrifice; in three days he would know exactly what the entity wanted, rather than guessing. He took a long, deep breath. In every single one of those “cautionary tales,” when an offering was not exactly what the entity demanded, it was the summoner who paid. But all the entity he had called had said was that he would have to strengthen it. Things were good. In fact, tonight was a triumph.

He realized he was still holding The Book, and carefully put it away in the locked drawer of his dresser. Not that he actually needed to lock it up, but it made him feel better to know it, and the original, were under lock and key.

That niggling little voice telling him to go be a good boy and confess to the Elemental Masters now nicely squashed, he left his bedroom and headed for the kitchen. That was where Alf usually brought girls, and this time was no exception. Alf had gotten out a bottle of gin, there were three glasses on the table, and the bottle was mostly empty.

There were three girls this time—so Alf was going to perform another of his superhuman feats of sexual athletics. Maybe the first thing I’ll ask for is to be able to perform in bed like Alf, he thought with amusement, as he surveyed his man and the three strumpets. Alf, as usual, was nearly as sober as a judge. The man had a head for liquor like nothing Alexandre had ever seen before. The girls, however, were tipsy and giggly.

One was a redhead, almost, but not quite, past her prime, dressed in red satin with black lace, a gown that showed her cleavage down to her nipples. That one would be for Alf. One was an athletic looking blond, in a black-and-tan striped dress with a slightly higher neckline. And she looked familiar . . . in fact, now that he thought about it, he had the notion that they were two of the can-can dancers from his favorite music hall. That one would be for Alf too. The blond sat on his knee, the redhead beside him, leaning on him.

The third was a waifish brunette, sitting by herself, in a slightly childish looking gown that might have been red once, but had faded to dusty pink, the kind of gown a girl who wasn’t “out” yet would wear. That one would be for him. He liked his girls either young, or looking young, and obedient.

“Where’s yer friend, Alfie-walfie?” giggled the redhead. “Wot’s ’e doin’ thet’s so ’portant?”

“Alf’s friend is right here, madam,” said Alexandre, emerging from the shadows into the brightly lit kitchen. “As for what I was doing, it was just a bit of very necessary work, that is now thankfully concluded.”

“Cor, a toff!” said the blond, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

“Nothing of the sort, madam,” Alexandre replied, with a little bow. “Just a man who appreciates beautiful ladies.”

That was probably the whiskey talking. But it made the blond and the redhead smile and giggle some more. And before they could express any preference for him, Alf swept them both up and hustled them off to his room. “Time t’ get the party started, gels,” he was saying as he vanished through the door. “There’s more gin where we’re goin’.”