Curse of the Nandi (Society for Paranormals Book 5) (11 page)

Yao provided me with as benevolent a smile as a vampire can provide. “You told us you would have an answer for us in three days. This is the end of the three days. You promised.”

I searched my memory. What promise had I made? As a matter of principle, I didn’t make promises for this exact reason: one never knew when they might return to bite you. Generally speaking, I preferred vague reassurances over specific oaths, for the former allowed for many interpretations while the latter was far too binding for my comfort.

Yao sighed and I suppressed an urge to provide my undying promise to relieve him of whatever burdened him. Instead, I straightened up — for my stature was not sufficient to allow me the luxury of slouching — and gave him a cool stare.

“Miss Knight, you promised to discuss with the headless doctor about our proposal,” he reminded me.

“Headless doctor?” Mr. Elkhart Senior repeated. “My, what an intriguing set of friends you have, Tiberius.”

“He is referring to Dr. Ribeiro who most certainly isn’t headless,” I said with a degree of sharpness, for my stomach was beginning to gurgle, having been awakened to its hunger by the smell of the roast awaiting us inside the house. “The good doctor has merely come into possession of a brainless head which he has the good sense to keep tucked away in a hatbox. And he has identified what he believes to be a mutated version of the Bubonic Plague.”

“Yes, yes,” Yawa agreed.

“And you promised to discuss the merits of our proposal with the doctor,” Yao reminded me.

As I pondered the dilemma, I tapped the metal tip of my walking stick against the thinly grassed ground. “If I recall correctly, I didn’t promise you. I merely said I would chat with the doctor…”

“You forgot,” Yawa accused me, pointing at me with all the fingers of one hand.

“Miss Anderson,” Mr. Elkhart Senior began. “Perhaps…”

“It’s Miss Knight,” Yao interrupted.

“Actually, it’s Mrs. Timmons,” Mr. Timmons said with a level stare at the Adze.

I turned to Mr. Elkhart Senior and, upon meeting his reassuring gaze, I nearly succumbed to the impulse to ask the old vampire to call me Beatrice. While such informality with a man I had only just met was alarming, I felt as if I was with my uncle or an adopted father. Perhaps my mother’s familiarity with him provoked in me a similar response. Still, it was absurd, so I merely nodded once toward Mr. Timmons.

Mr. Elkhart Senior’s smile reached into the depth of his eyes. “Mrs. Timmons, to what are these two referring?”

“They’re suggesting that they can stop the Bubonic Plague by sniffing out the victims and killing them,” I explained.

“Yes, devouring, eating, drinking,” Yawa enthused.

“Ending their suffering,” Yao added.

Mr. Elkhart Senior shuddered and stepped back as if to distance himself from the very notion being bandied about. I had never encountered a vampire so soft-hearted, and I wondered how he managed to sustain himself if the Adze’s plan disgusted him so.

“Bee, I think this conversation has gone on long enough,” Lilly stated with a cross look at us all as she ushered her father-in-law into the house. “Please make arrangements to meet your acquaintances on another occasion.” She spun about and went inside.

Mr. Timmons eyed the Adze, and I didn’t need to squint to see what he was deliberating.

“Don’t,” I warned him, for I wasn’t certain that I would care to live with a husband who possessed the energy of two African vampires. Turning to Yao, I said, “Let’s give the doctor some more time. Not all Plague victims die, you know.”

This fact disturbed our visitors and was received with great disappointment. “Pity,” Yao said with a delicious pout.

“They really should,” Yawa purred with an elegant sneer, as if appalled that anyone should have the temerity to survive.

And with that, the Adze melted into the night.

Chapter 15

“Do you by any chance have the teapot?”

The question was not so out of place as it might at first appearance seem, for we were partaking of after-supper tea and cake, comfortably settled in the Hardinge’s cozy and well-furnished living room. I knew instantly that Mr. Elkhart Senior was not referring to the China teapot he was currently using to refill my cup.

I glanced about before answering. The others were scattered in small huddles around the sitting room: Mr. Timmons was politely and thoroughly thrashing Mr. Elkhart at cards; Lilly and Lady Hardinge were chatting near the piano, no doubt discussing options for baby names or some such maternal matter, of which I had no experience and even less interest. Drew and Cilla were seated on a carpet close to the cheerful flames that filled the stone fireplace, so involved in their conversation that none would dare approach them. Nurse Manton had removed the three young Hardinge children to the nursery where presumably she was cajoling them into bed.

A maid was carefully wheeling in a tea trolley upon which were piled assorted pastries. While I didn’t recognize the young African, I recalled Lady Hardinge mentioning her to me recently: a slender, pretty girl, Esther had requested asylum with the Hardinge’s in exchange for her labor. She was deathly afraid of going outside, or being spotted by whomever she was attempting to evade. Our hostess, a kind-hearted woman, had agreed to allow her to work in the house. While curious about the source of Esther’s terror of the outdoors, I was distracted by the sumptuousness of the pastries.

Resisting the urge to rush to the trolley and fill up a plate, I returned to the question at hand. “I do have it,” I replied, visualizing the small, metal teapot with its embossed design. “It was a gift from you to my mother, wasn’t it?”

The old vampire inclined his head slightly, and said, “It pleases me greatly that you have that pot. I feared it may have been lost in the seizure of assets that surely followed your mother’s demise.”

My breathing was shallow as I waited for him to explain further, but he remained lost in whatever memories he saw rising up with the steam from his cup. I longed to question him about his journeys and what manner of creatures he had surely encountered in the Far East. How desperately I wanted to know how such a gentle-hearted man could be a vampire. Although I hesitated to ask for fear of what I might hear, I wished to inquire more deeply into his relationship with my mother. And I wondered why he had taken so long to return.

As my mind meandered through the paths that history hadn’t taken, it suggested another question: what would my life have been like if I’d had a father who was a paranormal, perhaps even a vampire? How different it would all have been! My mother wouldn’t have had to turn her life into a lie, playing the part of a flighty socialite, preoccupied with tea parties and her husband’s career. The paranormal version of my father would have allowed my mother to be the great and powerful witch that she was. They would have accepted my second sight and all the eccentricities that came with it; nay, they would have encouraged it and perhaps we would still be together, a family of diverse abnormalities but all alive and together.

Then, as if aware of the oddness of his silence and the intensity of my study, he shook himself slightly and turned more fully to me, leaning closer. “There’s something else I want you to have.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew a silver locket and passed it to me.

What struck me most forcibly was the similarity of design between the locket and my teapot: the same embossed curls, swirls and abstract patterns that I’d always enjoyed tracing on my pot were there on the front of the locket, only in miniature. Breathless, I clicked it open and gasped. A painted portrait of a young woman smiled up at me, and I knew instantly who it was. Even if my childhood memories had faded over time, she was so striking in her resemblance to me that it could be no other but my mother. Her gracious smile was captured in oils and transported over the years to my heart.

“You like it then?” he asked, his gently lined face lifting with shared joy.

“Very much,” I responded, wiping a tear that slid so easily through my defenses.

“You are so similar to her,” he whispered, grasping my hands, not flinching at all when he touched the metallic left hand.

I shook my head, my sight lowered to the portrait, and I couldn’t speak. I dared not, for more tears lurked in my throat, preparing to overwhelm any words that I might try to utter. Fortunately, I needn’t have worried, for at that moment our host entered the room.

A fresh bubbling of greetings and conversation followed. Sir Arthur Hardinge, Her Majesty’s Commissioner of the East Africa Protectorate, apologized for the lateness of his arrival as he grasped Mr. Elkhart Senior by the shoulders as if greeting a brother. It was a jovial reunion.

His arrival caused a rearranging of seating arrangements, and we all gathered amongst the chairs and sofa set out before the fire. Of course, as is the way of conversation, we drifted from topic to topic, before my husband altered the entire mood with an observation.

“What’s with the proliferation of officials?” Mr. Timmons asked. “Every second day, there’s a new one being added. I hardly think we need so many bureaucrats to run such a small colony.”

He didn’t add that the increased scrutiny created by the multiplying officialdom wasn’t beneficial to business, particularly when not all importations were declared as clearly as they should be. Lord Hardinge’s lips twitched, for he was neither fooled nor concerned.

From the first day I’d met him, I’d taken a prodigious liking to Lord Hardinge. He was a trim fellow, not particularly big in stature. He had a well-proportioned face, every feature sharp including his straight and pointed nose. Yet his eyes softened all of that appearance with their long-seeing gaze. His fair hair was receding gracefully, but his mustache made up for it, a full and healthy specimen atop firm lips that seldom smiled yet were not harsh. But what I most appreciated about him was his character. He carried about himself a gently dignified air without the usual pettiness and snobbery I’d come to associate with landed gentry.

“It’s nothing to do with administrating this place, and everything to do with gaining a foothold to control the Nile.” He then added for all our benefits, “The source of the Nile, Lake Victoria, is in the neighborhood so to speak, and whoever controls the lake controls all the Nile countries. Or so Parliament would have us believe.”

Mr. Timmons snorted derisively, for he wasn’t too keen on politicians unless they minded their own business. “Well, it’s not working with the Nandi, that’s clear.”

Mr. Elkhart Senior and Lord Hardinge exchanged a glance that was potent with history and an undercurrent of shared understanding. My mother’s would-be protector said, “Tribal politics are as complicated as the British version, and at times just as deadly.”

Lord Hardinge nodded. “Indeed. Nothing is straightforward in this country. The Nandi are protesting against the treatment of their women, yes, but rest assured: there’s another game being played out as well.”

Before the chill of his words could settle about us, a box-shaped woman with frizzy hair burst into the room. Nurse Manton’s hands were gripped together, as if to restrain them from flying off her arms.

“M’lord,” she gushed with a clumsy curtsey. “My apologies, sir, but I felt you needed to hear this for yourself.” With that, she gestured to the man standing behind her. “Come on then, John. Tell him yourself. Get on with it.”

I recognized John as the Hardinge’s driver and stable boy. Clearly not accustomed to entering the great stone house, the man’s wide eyes remained downcast and fixed to the floor as if unable to gaze into so many staring faces. “Bwana,” he mumbled, a sheen of sweat glistening darkly on his skin.

“Speak up, John,” Nurse Manton berated him.

John peeked up at her through short, thick eyelashes before resuming his study of the wood floor. “Bwana, please come quick.”

“What is it, man?” Lord Hardinge demanded as he rose up, reaching for the jacket that Nurse Manton provided.

“I just come from town, from dropping the workers,” he explained.

“And?” Nurse Manton pressed him.

“I saw it. The Kerit,” John whispered, his body starting to shake.

“Is it here?” I asked, leaping up and snatching up my walking stick.

He shook his head so thoroughly I feared the motion might snap his neck. “No. But I saw a body. In town.” He licked his lips. “Without a head.”