A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(76)

Rather than lingering over his morning preparations, he hurried them, skipping shaving, doing little more than a splash of water over his face, and putting on yesterday’s clothing. The sense of dread he felt at facing that thing only grew in him as he dressed; he wanted to get it all over with as soon as he could.

A mere half an hour later saw him treading the basement stairs, lantern in hand, peering anxiously at the void in the middle of the floor. He was pretty certain he knew what it was, now. It was a passageway to some other . . . existence. Like a door into a world populated by nightmares. Some of the magic books in his collection—and a great deal of fantastic fiction—hinted at, or outright described such things. And it was the only thing that made sense; how else could half the victims have been spit back out again? The entity wasn’t “eating” them as such; it was pulling them into its world, keeping one, stripping the mind of the other, and throwing that one back into this world. Whatever had happened to them over there, it had rendered the ones that returned mindless and malleable—and the thing had created some sort of mystical link to them, or it wouldn’t be able to use them once they were back here.

Though, of course, he still didn’t know what the thing was going to use them for. He only knew it wanted them all together to do it.

He hung the lantern up and stood as far away from the void in the floor as he could. He thought he was out of tentacle reach, but . . . how could he know for sure? In the silence of the basement he cleared his throat, hoping the entity would notice him if he made a slight noise.

Nothing. Tension grew in him. And so did dread.

“Ah, oh Great One? I have a question?” He realized he was trembling at this point, and he wasn’t in the least ashamed of doing so. Anyone who wouldn’t have been quaking in his boots in this situation would have been an oblivious blithering idiot, and deserved to be eaten.

He stood there uncertainly for what seemed like hours. He could hear a very few sounds from the flat above—the creak of floorboards as Alf moved about, a faint clink of china and silver. And then, just as he was getting ready to leave, the temperature plummeted; one moment, he was mildly uncomfortable; normal in a basement in winter. The next, he was freezing, he could see his own breath, and it had gone completely silent. Not a single sound penetrated from outside the room.

What do you want? The void remained the same. Thank God. If it had suddenly reared up into the pillar-shape, he might have gone too witless to ask his question.

He swallowed. “I was wondering if it would be acceptable to bring more than one pair of offerings at the same time,” he said, clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering.

Acceptable, said the entity.

And the next moment, the temperature in the basement abruptly rose and he could hear the sounds in his flat again.

He grabbed the lantern, rushed up the stairs two at a time, and nearly ran into Alf, who had been waiting at the basement door. “Jeezus, guv!” the man exclaimed in shock. “Yer white’s that snow out there!” He took the lantern from Alexandre’s nerveless fingers. “An’ yer ’bout as cold!” He all but shoved Alexandre into the study, the warmest room in the flat, hurried out, and came back with a blanket folded in two, which he wrapped around Alexandre’s shoulders before pushing him down into a chair in front of the fire.

“It said we can bring more than one pair at a time,” he got out around his still-clenched teeth, holding his hands out to the fire. It felt as if he was never going to get warm again.

Alf nodded with satisfaction. “Well, tha’s good, hain’t it? We c’n get this thin’ satisfied, an’ get on wi’ henjoyin’ oursel’s.”

Maybe. And maybe it’s only going to demand more of us.

“Yes, but . . . now I can’t help wondering what this thing wants all these girls for,” Alexandre said slowly. “It called them witnesses, but what it is they are supposed to witness, I have no idea, since they’re presumably locked up in a London hospital and not witnessing anything but the four walls of their room. And it wants seven of them, which suggests it has some manner of magic planned to use them for.”

Alf shrugged, incurious. “Don’t matter to us, do it? If they be locked up in ’ospital, that’ll be far ’way from ’ere, so whatever it’s up to, it hain’t gonna ’appen ’ere.”

“I suppose not.” Once again, Alexandre thought about going to Lord Alderscroft and his White Lodge. But he was in too deep now. There was no way he’d escape punishment for the girls he had sacrificed to this thing’s needs. And there was no way he could play ignorant; they’d have it out of him, or they’d smell the thing’s dark power on him. No, the only way out of this was through.

Alf didn’t go so far as to slap his shoulder like a boon companion, nor tell him to “buck up,” but it was clear that now that they knew the thing could and would take multiples of the victims, he wanted to get it all over with as quickly as possible. “Look, guv, once yew warm up, yew get yersel’ outside’a th’ best part uv a bottle an’ go t’bed. Oi’ll go nose about. Foind th’ ’otels with ’Muricans in ’em. Foind places fer th’ coach. Thet’ll take me one, mebbe two days. Soon’s Oi can, Oi’ll get us three lads, an’ ’ide ’em in th’ upstairs flat.”