Come Midnight (3 page)

***

It was nearly midnight when the marquis at last found himself alone with his son. The storm was reaching its peak. Thunder crashed overhead. Blue-white flashes of light flickered eerily at the windows. At Adam's feet, beside the bedside chair where he slouched, stood a half-consumed bottle of brandy; an empty snifter dangled from his hand. He eyed it absently for a moment, then shut his eyes in abject resignation. Half a bottle, and still no effect. But then, he doubted anything could provide the oblivion he sought.

His own chambers being closest, they'd brought the child here. Andrew lay in the middle of his father's huge tester bed. Adam's face twisted in anguish as he ran his eyes over the boy; he looked so awfully small and fragile against the great expanse of sheets.

A bandage covering a severe wound to the head obscured Andrew's curly dark locks. The bedclothes hid the splints and heavy gauze that bandaged a crushed leg; yet in his mind's eye, Adam could see them as clearly its the crimson-stained gauze wound about his son's head.

The physician, as well as a highly regarded surgeon they'd summoned, had left over an hour ago. Andrew still hadn't regained consciousness. Best to realize, they'd told the distraught father, he likely never would.

His son was dying.

Hissing an obscenity, Adam grabbed the bottle and poured himself a hefty measure. He raised the glass to his lips, tossed down its contents. The liquid burned a trail to his stomach. He wished to hell it could burn away his thoughts.

Guilt, terrible and unforgiving, ate into his mind. Like a cancer. A living thing that devoured from within.
You sent them away. The wife you took .. . used, but never loved. Dead, because of you. The son you've loved all too well. . . the son who, because of you, will soon—

"N-o-o-o!" The snifter splintered against the far wall as Adam's howl rose over the storm. Wrenching himself from the chair with a violence that knocked it over, he bent over the bed. Arms rigid, he drove his fists into the mattress and made himself look at the small, ashen face of his son. "You can't die. I won't let you! I—"

Adam dropped his chin and shut his eyes. The gesture, made by another, would have signaled prayer. But Adam Lightfoot didn't pray. Hadn't, for years. Couldn't. Not to a Deity who clearly condoned the things he'd seen. Who gazed impassively from a heaven that overlooked the filth that was war. A God who would allow this to happen to an innocent child, when it was the father who'd—

"I'm the one!" he raged. The clock on the landing had begun to chime the hour, but Adam's cry overrode the sound. "I'm the one to blame—not the child! Take me, and let the boy live—damn it! I'd barter my soul for it—I swear I would!"

At that exact moment, there came a sharp rapping at the door. Thunder rumbled overhead, but didn't obscure the sound. Nor the final strike of the clock on the landing, which had reached twelve.

Outraged that anyone would have the temerity to disturb him at such a time, Adam snarled an obscenity and stalked to the door. By Judas's balls, he'd have the bastard's head! Giving the doorknob a vicious twist, he thrust the door wide. "What the ... ?"

He'd expected one of the staff, prepared to sack the feckless creature on the spot. But this was no servant. Before him was a man who wore the unmistakable hauteur of an aristocrat. Slender as a serpent, of average height, he wore the sartorially splendid garb of a dandy: A high, heavily starched cravat which had been tied just so. Tasseled Hessians, buffed and polished to a fare-thee-well. Held at a fashionable angle was an ebony walking stick, its silver head carved in the likeness of some animal Adam couldn't make out.

The aging face bore unmistakable traces of dissipation; it was heavily maquillaged, the cheeks and lips rouged. A quizzing glass poised in one elegantly gloved hand completed the picture.

"Appleby ..." Adam scowled. "What the devil are you doing here?"

"Why, my dear fellow," said his visitor, sauntering carelessly into the room. "How very apt!"

Chapter 2

"Apt?"Adam scowled all the more. "What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?" As Appleby clearly meant to stay, he shut the door after him, wondering briefly where the servants were. More to the point, how Appleby had gotten past the keenly vigilant Jepson.

Ignoring his query, Appleby slanted a glance at the bed. "Heard about the mishap, Ravenskeep. Pity ... understand the lad's barely out of leading strings."

Raising his quizzing glass, Appleby approached the bed. Suddenly Adam found himself moving to place himself in the way. He couldn't say why, but there was something about the man that urged him to put a barrier between the visitor and his son.

Noting this, Appleby arched a thinly plucked brow and chuckled. "Come, dear boy! You can scarcely object to my presence when you've summoned me yourself."

"Summoned ... I did no such thing! I scarcely know you."

"On the contrary, my dear Ravenskeep. Fact is, you've been flirting with my acquaintance for some time now." Appleby helped himself to a chair, a distance from the bed. Setting the walking stick across his knees, he regarded his host with assessing black eyes that seemed mocking and sly at the same time. "You and I go back a deal of years."

"Rubbish!" With Appleby safely seated, Adam breathed a bit easier, but didn't move from before the bed. Taking the bedside chair, he turned it and sat, facing his guest. "I recollect we were introduced but a fortnight ago."

"By my present mode of address, yes." Appleby withdrew a silver snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket, flicked it open with his thumb. "But, my dear fellow, I've a deal of other names, d'you see..." He paused, a pinch of snuff held artfully between thumb and forefinger, eyeing the marquis archly. "Happy to enumerate them for you, but... ah, perhaps you'd care to pour yourself another brandy first?"

"Just get on with it," Adam growled. He felt almost as if Appleby were ... toying with him somehow. Like a cat with a mouse.

His visitor deposited the snuff on the back of his hand. Raising it to his nostrils, he inhaled, then sneezed delicately into a lace-edged handkerchief. "Ahh, just the thing," he sighed. "Now, b'lieve I'll have a brandy, if you don't mind."

Adam blinked, then stared at him. He in no way recalled pouring the man a brandy. How the devil had Appleby come by that snifter in his hand? Giving his head a shake, he decided the liquor he'd consumed had more of an effect on him than he'd realized. Odd, though. He didn't feel foxed.

"Certain you won't have another, old boy?" Appleby prodded, indicating the bottle at his host's feet. "No? Very well, then," he added cheerfully, "but never say I didn't warn you."

The smile he bestowed on his host, displaying sharp, catlike teeth, had the effect of raising the hairs on the back of Adam's neck. Yet the marquis was hard put to say why. Foxed, of a certainty.

"I've many names," Appleby went on, "some of them ancient, others more recent. Came with the peoples who used 'em, d'you see. Now, Lucifer is the oldest, but it was quickly followed by Beelzebub. Then we have the in more folksy sort ... Old Nick ... Old Harry ... Old Scratch ... You take my meaning. The most universal, or well known perhaps, is Satan. I own, I'm rather fond of that one myself. Never did like being called the Anti-Christ, though. I mean, how'd
He
like being called the
Antidevil
, eh? But you get my drift, I'm sure."

Appleby raised his brandy for a toast. "Cheers, old boy." He took a swallow, while the marquis stared at him as if he'd acquired two heads.

"Your name is Appleby," Adam murmured warily, wondering if he were entertaining an escaped lunatic. "Lord Appleby!"

"Well, that, too," his guest told him merrily. "Fact is, Appleby's my all-time favorite. Comes from an association with the fruit, d'you see. Of course, it wasn't really an apple. But the incident involved, my dear Ravenskeep"—he winked conspiratorially at his host— "represents my most successful transaction, ever!"

Adam scowled. Definitely a refugee from Bedlam! Where the devil was Jepson? Wondering if he ought to chance ringing for the butler, he quickly thought better of the idea. Madmen could be dangerous; if he humored him, perhaps Appleby would leave on his own.

Yet Adam was unable to hide his irritation. His son was dying, damn it! The last thing he wanted was to entertain this lunatic. It was all he could do to brace himself for what lay ahead: the plunge into an abyss of unbearable pain and loss. Blood and ashes, it hardly bore thinking on! "Why've you come?" he demanded.

"Tut-tut, dear fellow! Thought I'd explained all that. I'm here at your summoning."

"Summoning?"

Appleby heaved a sigh, throwing him a look one might send an errant child. "Did you, or did you not, swear you'd barter your soul for your son's life?"

"How the devil could you... ? I said that when I was alone with my—"

"But you did say it.'' For some reason Appleby seemed intent on establishing the point. He propped his walking stick before him; one hand capped the other atop its head, and he leaned forward, spearing the marquis with his gaze.

Back to humoring him, Adam shrugged. "I said it."

Appleby relaxed. "Then, there was a summoning, Ravenskeep, and no mistake."

"Summoning?" Adam questioned a second time.

"Indeed," said Appleby, producing an apple from his pocket, polishing it on his sleeve. "When any mortal offers to barter his soul"—he smiled, and Adam felt a chill run down his spine, though he couldn't say why— "he summons me."

"You're mad," Adam whispered, not sure he even believed any of this was happening. Perhaps he'd fallen asleep, and it was all a bad dream. Or the brandy he'd consumed. He'd heard of drunkards having tremors accompanied by hellish hallucinations. But there were no tremors, just.... "Madder than a March hare," he added emphatically.

Appleby took a bite out of the apple and shook his head. Yet he smiled, not at all put out by the accusation. "Sane as a bishop, as the saying goes. I am who I've said I am, Ravenskeep. Make no mistake about it."

Adam snorted. "My only mistake was to admit you." When Appleby didn't respond, he leaned forward, meeting his gaze with narrowed eyes. "Why should I believe you?"

Appleby flicked a glance at the bed. "I should think that would be obvious. Because you can save your son's life by doing what you've already offered."

"And that is ... ?"

"Consigning your soul, old boy"—Appleby's fingers caressed the head of the walking stick, and Adam suddenly noted its shape: a serpent's head—"into my keeping."

"Damn it, Appleby, what kind of a gudgeon d'you take me for? My son's dying! Dying, d'you hear? And—"

"And I have the power to reverse it."

The words were simply spoken. Not bombastically.
Not as a braggart might utter them. And by their very
lack of ornamentation, they had the ring of truth.
Adam's eyes went to the bed. If, by some chance

"Prove it!" he snapped. "If you are .. . who you say you are, then you ought to be able to offer me proof."

Appleby's grin was sly, and a smugness glinted in the eyes he ran over his host. He knew he had him now. "Very well," he said, gesturing with his walking stick toward the hearth. "Observe carefully, if you will."

Adam followed the gesture, his gaze falling on the fire, which had died to mere embers. "I don't see ... bloody hell!"

Adam leapt out of his chair. With a roar, a blaze as big as a bonfire had exploded from the embers. A fire so bright, he threw his arm before his eyes to shield them. "Blood and ashes, man!" he cried. "Are you trying to burn the house down?"

"Hardly," Appleby chuckled, and waved his walking stick at the conflagration. It went out.

There was utter silence in the room as Adam slowly lowered his arm. He stared at Appleby. "How ...," he began in a choked whisper. "How did you—"

"Afraid the 'how' would be quite beyond you, old boy, but does it really matter? What you saw—"

"Was a trick of some kind ... a sleight of hand." His initial shock past, Adam grew more determined to show Appleby up for the fraud he was, and get rid of him. "A clever one, I'll own, but I've seen stage magicians—"

"You have another scar on your body," Appleby cut in. "Beyond the one on your face, that is. It's on the inside of your left knee and shaped like the letter Y. Came by it when you were seven. A fall from your pony. His name was Mudge, and you'd taken a jump you'd been told by your father you weren't to attempt—over a stone wall dividing the south pasture from ..."

Appleby's words trailed off as Adam slowly shook his head at him. "Still not convinced? Hmm, let me see ... Ah, I have it! You were quite the idealist in your youth ... especially regarding matters of ... the heart, shall we say? Your parents had an unusual marriage for their class. A love match. Lasted till the day they died—tragically, at sea, when you were seventee—"

"All facts anyone could have ascertained!"

"True, but the rest isn't at all common knowledge."

"The rest?"

Appleby's smile was sly and knowing. "Seems their wedded bliss led you to believe you could have the same ... a woman you adored, who loved you deeply ... children you both—"

"Tricks!" Adam insisted, yet he was far from sure.

He'd never told a living soul about those embarrassing yearnings. Indeed, he'd buried them in the back of his own mind. When it became clear he'd never have those things ... that he'd been a fool to even imagine them. "Clever parlor tricks," he told Appleby, "and nothing more!"

"Tsk, tsk." Appleby sighed again, shaking his head. "Recollect your file saying you're stubborn, old fellow, but I'd no idea ..."

"My file!" Adam sneered. "Any dossier you put together ought to have advised you can't fob me off so easily! Before that happens, m'lord, it'll be a cold day in he—"

As Adam stopped himself, Appleby broke into a wild giggle. "Never have 'em, Ravenskeep—rest assured!" He gave a loud guffaw, slapping his knee. "Not even a chilly one, old boy, I do assure you!"

"Appleby," Adam growled, beyond irritation now. An anxious glance at Andrew told him nothing had changed, but he was impatient to be alone with his child. It was time he got rid of this rouged fop! He started to say so.

The look on Appleby's face stopped him.

"The hour grows late, m'lord, and I'm done with wasting time!" his midnight visitor snapped. "You require irrefutable proof? So be it!"

A sudden clap of thunder boomed overhead. Every light in the chamber went out. Yet an odd kind of pale, flickering luminescence washed the room. Though its source was unidentifiable, it allowed the marquis to see what was happening. He noted a vaguely familiar smell, sharp and pungent, as of something burning, but was too stunned to ascribe a name to it.

Appleby seemed to rise from his chair. It took Adam a second to realize he wasn't really rising. He was ... growing. Growing and—blood and ashes! With a hoarse cry, Adam leapt from his chair, knocking it over. Appleby was—

Changing. All at once, a creature of gargantuan proportions filled the space where his visitor had sat. Reaching to the very top of the high ceiling, dwarfing everything in the chamber. The breath left Adam's lungs. He wanted to cry out, but couldn't. The very blood seemed to freeze in his veins. He gaped, mindless with dread, at the thing that hovered over him in Appleby's place.

"Now do you believe, mortal?" The inflection was the dandy's, but with voice greatly enhanced ... embellished ten times over. Booming. Echoing, as if from a vast chamber. Adam jammed his hands over his ears, trying to shut it out.

The beast moved. A great pair of appendages spread outward, as if it were trying to measure the breadth of the chamber with those vast, membranous wings. Its hands were—not hands! Scaled claws, with razor-sharp talons!

Adam felt his own weight upon him ... a mountain of dread, and he dropped to his knees under it. His gaze fell on the creature's feet. Which were not feet at all, but cloven hooves. Blood and ashes! All the stories ... the legends and myths—they were all true!

"Mortal!" The creature—fiend, whatever it was— seemed suddenly impatient. As if it were done toying with him. It loomed closer ... as if it would rather rend him to pieces on the spot.

Adam whipped his gaze to the bed. Andrew! He must not let it near his son! He staggered to his feet, just as the creature flapped those enormous wings. A howling wind struck him in the face.

"Your answer, mortal—now!"

Adam flung himself against the bed, never taking his eyes off the spectacle. "Yes, yes! Anything—only, take it away! Away, I say!"

There was a pleased echo in the terrible laughter that boomed in his ears before it faded. Just as the monster itself disappeared. Yet an unmistakable scent fingered in the air; he could identify it now: brimstone.

And then it was gone. The lamps in the room resumed burning. Everything seemed back to normal. Even Appleby, sitting in the chair, calmly munching his apple.

"I do really dislike coming it so dramatic, old boy," the dandy said around a bite of the fruit. "But the time's glowing short, and I've other calls to make. Are you ready to deal?"

Casting a fleeting glance at the bed, Adam picked up his chair and lowered himself into it on shaking limbs. He reached for the brandy, poured an entire snifter of the liquid with hands that were none too steady. It wasn't until he'd downed it that he met the visitor's gaze. "I'll deal," he said tersely.