A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(78)

He pulled the head of the bed a little farther away from the wall so he could make a circle all the way around it, picked up the rugs for the same reason, and went to work. He washed down the floor with the salted water and let it dry, made the circle in the red paint, an inner circle in the two oils, and painted certain glyphs in the four cardinal points of the compass, and more on the door to his room, on the hearth, and on the windowsills. Fortunately the paint was a quick-drying variety, and quite permanent—he’d consulted one of his artist friends on such things a very long time ago, and now his caution was paying off handsomely. Only when he was finished did he undress, get back into his nightshirt, and step over the still-drying circle to climb into bed.

It might have been all in his mind, but once he was in the circle he felt a sense of profound relief. As his body warmed up in the bed and the brandy he was sipping gradually relaxed his muscles, he felt the tension draining out of him. Finally he felt . . . not safe, precisely, but at least safer.

When he found himself starting to nod off, he put the bottle on his bedside table, drained the last of the brandy in the glass, filled it with water and drank that, and slid down into his bed. And finally slept.



When he woke again, it was late afternoon, and he could tell by the chill in the air and the silence in the flat that Alf wasn’t back yet. That was fine, actually. It meant Alf really was taking this with the deathly seriousness it required, and was being as thorough as only Alf could be.

The paint was quite dry by this time, so according to The Book, his protections were now complete and solid. He got out of bed just long enough to build up the fires in his bedroom, the study, and Alf’s bedroom. When he had washed off the coal dust in the kitchen, he made himself some cold ham sandwiches and took them and a bottle of beer back to the safety of his bed. He lit the oil lamp next to his bed and climbed in. Once there, he read more in The Book—trying to figure out just what it was that the entity wanted, and what it was going to do when he satisfied its need for victims.

He didn’t find much. Only one passage. He who serves the Master faithfully and well shall himself become the Master.

But nothing more than that. No indication of what that meant, if the “Master” was the entity, or if it was a classical Master of the Elemental sort and the “he who serves” would be an apprentice, or . . . well, it wasn’t clear what was meant, exactly. The Book did seem to assume you were at least an Elemental Magician, because it gave specific means of excluding creatures of all four Elements from the area of the conjuration. And it said this was to keep “spies” away.

Obviously whoever had written The Book knew very well what the entity was going to ask for, and that this sort of thing was likely to bring a White Lodge or the equivalent down on the caster’s head.

He’d followed those instructions to the letter, and had taken pains of his own to make sure there weren’t any snoops around. When he’d set up the magic chamber in the basement in the first place, long before he’d found The Book, he’d sealed it against intruders. The last thing he’d wanted, even back then, was for the local Masters to find out some of the things he’d been up to. He’d played about a bit with sex magic and performed some animal sacrifices, and both those things were frowned on by the prudish White Lodge. Now he was glad he had taken those precautions. He doubted that even the most powerful of the Masters would be able to sense what was going on past all the shields and barriers he’d layered, one over the other. The outermost one was a very clever thing he’d learned from Alf’s former employer—a shield that made it look quite literally as if there was nothing there, hiding all the other shields beneath it.

It was well past dark when Alf came in; by that time, he was up and dressed again, and had moved his researches to his study, which was the first place Alf went to look for him.

“One more day o’ scoutin’ guv,” Alf said with satisfaction, “Oi’ll take th’ coach out t’ pick up wut we needs fer th’ upstairs flat i’ th’ mornin’.”

“Then you deserve a fine supper, old man,” he replied with great satisfaction. It was amazing what a change in attitude a decent sleep could give you. “Let’s raid those hampers.”

Alf all but licked his chops.



It was just after luncheon. Alf had “hired” five boys, all of them now sleeping away in the upstairs flat, after having stuffed themselves with food, none of them inclined to poke their noses out the door. Alf had told them, in the darkest of warning tones, that this was a test by their new Master—that if they didn’t stay in the flat until they were called for, they’d be dismissed on the spot and thrown straight out the door into the snow. None of them wanted to risk it. This was probably the first time any of them had been able to eat until they were full in years. It was definitely the first time they’d slept warm since last summer. The condemned do get a last hearty meal, he reminded himself with grim humor.

“Although what we are going to do with five boys, I have no idea,” he told the mirror as he dressed for his foray into American abduction.

I do.

His hands froze in the process of tying his bowtie. He glanced frantically down at his feet—sure enough, he was standing outside the circle of protection on the floor. And now, it seemed the entity could reach out of the basement to read his mind as well as speak to him whenever it choice. This . . . was . . . terrifying.