Soul of Fire (3 page)

Peter Farewell stumbled down the streets of Calcutta,
looking like a drunken man but feeling all too starkly sober.

A tall Englishman with dark curls, his classical features—whose symmetry could have shamed the marbled perfection of ancient statues—were marred only by a black leather eye patch hiding his left eye. The right one, as though to compensate, shone brightly, and often sparkled with irony.

Many a woman had gazed into that eye and been captivated by the verdant depths that seemed to hide all promises and sparkle with possible romance. Peter Farewell knew his gaze’s power and had consciously avoided capturing any hearts when he could not offer his own in return. For the last ten years, he’d known he wouldn’t make anyone a good husband. Once, he’d dreamed of a world where he could live like anyone else—a world where he loved and could be loved. Now he did not know what dreams he had, if any. All he had was a mission. One at which he was failing miserably.

He walked blindly through Calcutta. He’d arrived here six months ago, and was staying in one of the palatial mansions of Garden Reach—the place inhabited by East India Company employees and their families. The vast houses would make most noble families in England blush with envy, and it put Peter’s own inherited estate, the rambling Summercourt, to shame.

Summercourt . . .
As his mind dwelt on his ancestral house, his hand plunged into the pocket of his exquisitely tailored suit to feel a bundle of papers. He did not need to take it from his pocket to see its text floating before his gaze as vividly as if he were reading. The top line said:
To Peter Farewell. Lord Saint Maur.

He hadn’t needed to read the next lines—though he had—nor the twelve pages following to know what his estate manager was telling him. That Peter’s father was dead. That Peter was now the only heir to that ancient and noble family name descended from Charlemagne.

The manager’s faithful account of Peter’s inheritance made Peter groan. He’d received the letter—by bearer—just before dinner, and how he’d gotten through dinner he’d never know. He’d left immediately after. He’d gone, without quite knowing how, all the way to Esplanade Row, where he now stared at the impressive facade of Government House. Like his estate manager’s letter, it resonated with the power of the expected and the prearranged. The manager never said it, but it was clear in his every word that he expected Peter—who for the last ten years had been abroad and had sown his wild oats, such as they were—to return and shoulder the name of Farewell, the title of Saint Maur and the responsibilities and needs of his house and retainers.

Not that there was much. At least, there hadn’t been when Peter had last seen it. A large, rambling farm, and an assortment of smaller farms, let to various tenant families. Enough for a shabby gentility of the kind that supported a living similar to a wealthy farmer’s, with pretensions that would make the royal family’s seem small.

But compared to the way he had been living, it would be paradise. He couldn’t think of his north-country domains without longing for the smells of the fields around his house. He craved the twang of local speech; the Sunday afternoons in semi-deserted streets; the parks visited by serene families, the children named for kings and queens; the museums; the lending libraries; the places that had sheltered his childhood when he was, in fact, still full of illusions. When he still thought that he might grow up to be Peter Farewell, Earl of Saint Maur, scion of a noble family.

Only it couldn’t be. Oh, England had shape-shifters aplenty among its noble families. Despite the law’s command that they all be killed upon discovery, it was an open secret that several noble families threw out weres now and then.

But all known noble weres were foxes or dogs or—at worse—wolves.

There was even a charming story of a Scottish nobleman who turned into a seal at the waxing of the moon. But Peter didn’t have that innocuous a form. His other shape was a dragon. An eater of humans. A killer.

It was beyond the pale to even think of such a dangerous beast being tolerated. Witness the story of Richard Lionheart, trudging his weary way home from the Crusades, only to be put to death because more of him was a lion than his heart.

The laws that had allowed John Lackland to execute his older brother and lawful sovereign were still extant. And still enforced.

Tomorrow morning, early, he’d pen a letter for his manager, apprising him of his intent to never return. The man would be disappointed. He would possibly be crushed, destroyed by such a complete break with the past and by his internal certainty that Peter did not care about house or family. Let him think it. If that kept Peter’s secret—and if it kept Peter safe—it was enough.

Peter would stay in India and try to fulfill his mission here. He’d find Soul of Fire, the ruby once used to bind all the magic of Europe to Charlemagne. Six months ago, on the highlands near Darjeeling, he’d separated from Nigel, who might be his last friend in the world, and he’d promised Nigel that he’d find the ruby. And then he’d reunite with Nigel—who held the ruby’s twin, Heart of Light, which would attract Soul of Fire like a beacon—so Nigel could return both stones to the temple at the heart of Africa, the oldest temple of mankind.

Neither man knew what would happen once the jewels were returned to the temple. They’d been convinced that such an act was necessary to prevent a horrible catastrophe, which would bring them as close to the end of the world as bore no distinction. But Peter didn’t think it would in any way improve his life or his material circumstances. He presumed he would still be followed by his curse, still separated from normal men and limited in how close to them he could live. Yet, for the last six months, since his visit to the temple, the curse had been so slight and so easily controlled that he’d dared to dream. Perhaps once the rubies were returned he would be free. . . .

But now, after six months of following a long-dead trail for the ruby that Charlemagne had used to bind magical power to him and his descendants, and then abandoned, he’d grown to believe the jewel had been cut up or destroyed, and no longer existed. His scrying instruments and all his attempts at divination showed him nothing. They had led him here, to Calcutta. For a brief, shining moment, he had been sure the jewel was here. Right in this city. And then, before he could pinpoint its location, the trail had vanished. His scrying instruments had been unable to find it again.

Meaning he’d live out his days in India, futilely trying to find an artifact that couldn’t be found.

He’d already broken his father’s heart, through no design of his own, on that cold morning so many years ago, when his father had discovered Peter’s secret. He had packed his son up and told him to get out—and stay out. Money would find him, but he must not—he must never—make his way to Summercourt again. He remembered his father’s dour face and the instruction: “Seek some form of employment that will not disgrace you. And strive not to commit more sins than needed.”

Did his father know then that it would be the last time they’d see each other? He had to, didn’t he? He’d told Peter to stay away and never let their paths cross again.

Something caught at the back of Peter’s throat, something that might have been laughter or tears, he wasn’t sure which. He looked up, trying to find something to fix his eyes upon, something that would take his mind off his own misery and the final renunciation of his inheritance, his birthplace—his own being—that he must perform in the morning. And he saw the girl creeping along the outside of a veranda’s railing.

“Good God,” he said to himself. “What can she be about?”

Then his body contorted in cough, as fear for the stranger’s circumstances disturbed the balance of his mind, and allowed the beast within to take control. . . .

DESPERATE GAMBLE

“How far away is Meerut?” Sofie asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know, miss,” Lalita answered, primly, with just that hint of panic in her eyes. After all, she’d known her mistress since they were both young girls and she’d been party to a thousand of Sofie’s plans. She was doubtless thinking of the unfortunate incident with the cat and the bread pudding. “But I’m sure it would be very far away.”

Sofie was aware that many of her more elaborate schemes had failed to come off, but this time she had no room for doubt, and no room for fear. Fear was that thing in the veranda with Papa—the unknown raj who coveted her for who knew what dark reasons.

“Yes, I suppose it would,” she told Lalita, reasonably. Then, quickly, “Find me one of my carpetbags, the sort I brought back with me. We’ll put into it as many outfits as will fit. They will have to do, I suppose.”

Lalita hesitated, her lively face showing something very much like a doubt. “Miss, only . . .”

“Only what?” Sofie asked.

“Only . . . shouldn’t you dress yourself as a boy, perhaps, and cut your hair?” Lalita said, as she got the carpetbag from the wardrobe.

“No time for that,” Sofie said. The thought had crossed her mind, though. After all, it was what girls did when preparing to run away from home in all the novels that she and Lalita had read while in England. But then, she wasn’t running away from home, or not exactly. She was going to find her fiancé. Or at least the man who would be her fiancé as soon as he knew he would be permitted to claim her. As such, it was the height of folly to dress as a boy. William wouldn’t like that. Besides, finding male clothes—they would have to be her father’s, or else servant attire, and she wasn’t sure how that would look since she spoke none of the native dialects and had been away so long that she didn’t know any of the customs, either—and cutting her hair would take time. Sofie had none.

“Any moment now, Mama will come back and demand to know why I’m taking so long.” While she spoke, she hurried to the large, dilapidated wardrobe that took up a whole wall of her room. Opening it, she reached in, grabbing armfuls of dresses and blouses, skirts, shawls and a sturdy traveling cloak, which she proceeded to try to cram into a large carpetbag.

Lalita made a sound of distress, as any would seeing her own profession so dreadfully misperformed, and took bag and clothes away. Folding the clothing swiftly, she said, “You could wait till after dinner. While the men have port and cigars, you could come upstairs and cut your hair. I’ll get a suit of clothes for you while you are gone, and I’ll find out the best way for you to take. Perhaps we could take a boat.”

“That’s quite ridiculous,” Sofie said, sternly. “Since we have no idea if Meerut is near water. As for the rest . . .” She gave it a moment’s thought, then she shook her head. “I don’t trust my parents, Lalita. All of this is so strange—their having accepted an offer on my behalf, and such an offer, from a native whose kingdom they haven’t bothered to describe to me that . . .”

She shook her head. “They could very well decide to imprison me, or perhaps to give me over to this creature, somehow, during the dinner. I’m sure they will if they sense the slightest reluctance, or even suspect that I have intentions of escaping. No, Lalita, I must leave now.”

She could never explain all of it to Lalita. The girl might be her best friend from childhood, but she was also a servant and a native. However, Sofie was thinking of the way her father looked, as though he’d aged thirty years in the seven years she’d been away. That, and the curious darkness around his eyes, spoke of the use of black arts—of employing evil resources such as human sacrifice to augment the natural magical power inherited from his parents. If this was true—if her father had been devoting himself to the unholy—she wasn’t even sure that he wouldn’t attempt to sacrifice
her.