Chapter 53
Fifty-Three
Neal
It was the beginning of week three in Edinburgh when the final research on local cult activity came through.
Ansel and Sorcha were expecting a missive.
A couple of letters. They got three of Ansel’s top intelligence contacts standing around her desk wringing their hands and looking concerned.
It wasn’t technically in my purview, but I had too much personal stake to hear this secondhand, so I stood with my back to the door as they gave their report, Sorcha seated behind her desk and Ansel pacing in front of it—glaring.
“We thought it’d be limited,” the first man said. He was older. Swarthy skinned. Greek if I remembered correctly.
“It has been most of northern Europe,” the second added. This one was younger. Pale. Nordic of some kind.
“But?” Sorcha prompted.
“Most of the city? Barely anything,” the first man said. “We’ve got a couple police reports. A few portal openings. One actual incident where a farmer filed suit against his neighbor because one of those eldritch things with the spindly fingers disintegrated his prize hog.”
“But there’s a bit of a headquarters,” the third agent said. This one was female, human, elderly. Unremarkable in the best possible way for a spy.
“Elaborate,” Sorcha instructed. She was like a different person when she was working. Sharp, decisive. I was so damn proud.
“There’s a mansion northwest of town near Queensferry,” the woman said. “No official police reports. But people go there for help. And most don’t come back. And their garbage? Too much offal for ten times the people that come and go each day.”
“Would you like us to investigate?” the first man offered.
Sorcha shook her head. “We’ll do it.”
Had she really just said that?
“My Lady, typically . . .” the younger man began, but Sorcha didn’t let him finish.
“Typically we are not dealing with inter-dimensional demons,” she said.
“Typically we are not dealing with magic that bleeds the life out of people and beings that can kill with touch. Typically we are not worried about a threat that spans the entire globe. None of this is typical. I appreciate your work. Truly. There’s a problem with barrow-wights near Copenhagen.
I trust you’ll all deal with that while we handle this? ”
“Absolutely, ma’am,” the older man said immediately. “We’d be honored.”
“It doesn’t look like a cult headquarters,” Sorcha said as we stood half a block down from the gleaming white marble mansion, trying to seem nonchalant.
“I believe that’s the idea,” Ansel replied.
“But the patterns on comings and goings are irregular. People either show up and leave looking upset ten minutes later or they don’t come out at all.
Plus there’s no activity in the garden—with grounds like those usually you’d have someone outside, at least doing upkeep. ”
I gestured at the overgrown lawn. “Which they clearly don’t believe in.”
“If we get closer we may just be able to sense if they’re doing enough occult work in there,” Ansel said, “like we could back in Louisiana.”
“You do that then,” I suggested, “while I stay with our pregnant and magically vulnerable sovereign.”
“You don’t like that we’re investigating this ourselves,” Sorcha muttered.
“I don’t,” I agreed immediately.
“But ethically? You understand why don’t you?” Sorcha asked.
I shrugged. “It’s their job, Sorcha.”
“And protecting humanity from supernatural threats is mine,” she replied.
“And yours, lad, is to keep her safe while she does it,” Ansel said. “So you two go home. I’ll snoop around. And we’ll make our plans tonight. Safe plans. Sane plans.”
“Since when do you do safe and sane?” Sorcha asked.
Ansel didn’t reply as he walked off.
It was well after midnight when Ansel returned. He came back in with all the grace and subtlety of a bull elephant—slamming the parlor door hard in his wake.
I was going over supply lines into Islay, trying to ensure we’d actually be able to run an international organization from the remote island. Sorcha had fallen asleep with her head in my lap hours before, some old volume of occult lore long abandoned on her chest.
“You cannot sit on the sofa like that,” I said immediately when I looked up and saw Ansel streaked with ash and a viscous, brown substance that I didn’t want to try and name.
“Why do you smell bad?” Sorcha mumbled as she woke up, then immediately fumbled for the basin the Steward had left on the floor and was profusely sick.
“And to think that we’d almost hit a one-week record,” I muttered, wiping her face with my handkerchief.
“I’ve so much news for you,” Ansel said.
“Go take a bath,” I snapped.
“But I think we found another—” Ansel tried to continue but I cut him off.
“Go. Take. A bath,” I said. “We’ll stay up if you’re quick.”
“I don’t know who’s behind all this? But it’s bloody terrifying,” Ansel said, now clean, damp, wrapped in a dressing gown.
Sorcha nursed her cup of tea, clearly trying not to fall asleep at the table.
It was nearing two in the morning. But this was important.
It was progress. If Ansel had actionable insights it might lead to the cults downfall.
And without people actively summoning them?
There was a chance the portals would fade back into obscurity. And we could all get back to our lives.
“I listened in as best I could—hid out back behind the trash heap,” Ansel said.
“People come in for help. Someone in the family’s sick.
They’re an artist trying to make it big.
Debtor’s prison threatens. We’ve all heard the stories.
And same as in New Orleans? They’re offered the sacrifices as a potential solution.
But it’s orderly here. Structured. No shady nightclub with people licking blood off their fingers.
They all stay there, in that big house. They pay in a stipend. ”
“You learned all that hiding in the trash?” Sorcha asked in disbelief.
“I got through the coal shoot and up behind one of the main fireplaces,” Ansel replied.
“You’re insane,” I said. “You know that, right?”
“We’re fighting portals to hell,” Ansel countered.
“So. Stipend? Sacrifices? Are they letting the beasts kill humans? Or are they using animal bodies too?” Sorcha asked.
“Best I can tell they’re using animals most of the time,” Ansel replied.
“But seems for particularly challenging requests where repeated animal sacrifices haven’t worked?
They push people toward sacrificing humans.
Often? Themselves. Family members. Say your old dad is dying and you’ve been trying to get him cured?
They’ll say you give yourself to the beast and it’s guaranteed he’ll survive. ”
Sorcha suppressed a shudder. I grimaced.
“But I don’t know who runs it,” Ansel said. “Don’t know the inner workings. Just know I heard a coal shoveler from the rail yard leave sobbing because he didn’t have three weeks’ wages for a deposit.”
“They’re taking deposits?” Sorcha asked, stunned.
“They’re running a business,” Ansel replied. “One we can patronize.”
“This is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” I said immediately.
“Not if we prepare,” Sorcha countered.
“You cannot honestly be considering this?” I asked.
“We need to find out what’s going on,” Sorcha said. “We need to learn anything about the portals we can. Neal, one of those things killed my dad.”
“And if we aren’t careful one will kill you too,” I snapped.
Sorcha went still, face pale. She wrenched her hand out of mine.
“We’re being careful,” she mumbled, looking down at the table, her hands going to her belly. “I’m taking good care of them.”
“That came out wrong,” I sighed, rubbing my temples.
“He’s not wrong,” Ansel said, voice uncharacteristically gentle. “We need to be cautious. We need a way out. A way to kill one of the beasts if it comes after us. A planned maximum duration we let ourselves be exposed to that kind of magic.”
Sorcha just shrugged.
“Give us a minute, Ansel?” I asked.
He nodded. “I’ll go draw up some plans. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“Sorcha,” I said as Ansel left, “love, look at me. Please.”
Sorcha shook her head. There were tears on her cheeks now.
“You think I’m going to die? You think I’m being reckless?” Sorcha asked, voice shaking.
“I don’t think you’re going to die. I don’t think you’re being reckless,” I said.
“Every choice you’ve made since the day I married you has been about preserving the Court, the dynasty, hell—humanity.
I’m fairly sure the most reckless thing you’ve done was kiss me in front of Lady Guinevere.
Though smuggling Milkweed onto a steamship may be on the list as well. ”
Sorcha cracked a smile.
“I don’t want to see you in danger,” I said. “Either of you.”
“Neither do I,” Sorcha agreed, “but if we go ourselves then we get the information directly and we can move faster. And if that’s what it takes to get those godawful cultists out of the world?”
“Then that’s what we’ll do. But we need to be safe. We need to be smart.” I paused. “I’m sorry I said what I did. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Sorcha finally looked up at me, wetness streaking her flushed cheeks. She chuckled darkly. “I’m scared literally all the time, Neal. It’s not your fault.”
“One day it won’t be like this,” I said gently.
“One day,” Sorcha agreed. “But not soon.”
A long moment passed in silence as she twined her fingers with mine again.
“Take me to bed?” Sorcha asked. “Hold me till I sleep?”
“All the way until morning,” I promised, kissing her forehead.