Authors: Candace Camp
He seemed lost in reverie for a moment, but then he went on. “The most significant change was the renovation of the cellars beneath the house. Gerard has turned them into one large empty room, where he has placed a marble altar. It is here that he conducts his worship of the goddess.”
“You have been there? You’ve seen it?” Rafe looked hopeful.
Ashcombe nodded. “He wanted me to join his group of worshipers.” He grimaced. “I found it appalling, and to call what they do ‘worshiping,’ I suspect, is largely inaccurate. God knows what all they do down there—smoke opium and drink and cavort with prostitutes, I imagine, and pretend it’s all some sort of religion.”
“Why aren’t you there, then, for this ceremony?” Reed asked.
“I refused to join. I told him I was too old for such nonsense. As he was still avidly searching for the reliquary at the time, I think he needed me too much to force me to do it against my will. Besides, he probably decided I would just throw a damper on the proceedings.”
“But you can get us into that room,” Rafe said.
Ashcombe nodded. “Oh, yes, at least, I know where it is. One goes in a side door. There will probably be a guard or two.”
“We’ll take care of them,” Theo assured him grimly.
The estate was indeed in a run-down area close to the Thames, an area that had been fashionable hundreds of years before. Stone walls surrounded the house, with tall iron gates barring the drive. There was no one standing guard, but Rafe quickly climbed the gates and opened them to let in the others. They left them open and instructed the hansom cabdriver to wait on the street. A gold sovereign and the promise of more to come ensured his compliance.
They hurried down the driveway, moving as fast as they could without leaving Ashcombe behind. The square, stone house loomed up in front of them, dark and foreboding. There were no lights burning in any of
the windows. Ashcombe went around to the side, where a tower jutted out. A black-robed guard stood outside the tower, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed.
Rafe grasped Ashcombe’s arm, halting him, and glanced at the other two men. They nodded to him, and the four men spread out and began to creep closer to the guard. The guard did not see any of them until they were almost upon him. He glanced to the side and saw Theo, and he let out a cry, yanking a knife from a scabbard at his waist. But before he could lunge at Theo, Rafe brought down the butt end of his pistol on the back of his head, and the man crumpled to the ground.
Quickly they stripped him of his weapon, robe and a ring of keys, then tied his hands and feet together using the ascots Theo and Rafe wore. Rafe donned the robe and unlocked the door to the tower. Inside was a round room, empty except for another guard, who stood at an inner door. He turned questioningly toward Rafe when he entered. Rafe crossed the floor in two quick strides and felled him with a swift blow to the jaw. The others came in behind him. They used Ashcombe’s and Reed’s neckties this time to bind the man, then unlocked the inner door. A dark, narrow staircase wound down in a spiral before them.
“The room is at the bottom of the stairs,” Ashcombe whispered.
“All right, let’s go,” Rafe said. “Ashcombe, you can stay here or go, whichever you wish.”
The man’s face firmed. “I am with you.”
“Good, then. Come on.”
They went down the stairs, moving as quickly as they could along the dimly lit staircase. After a time, they began to hear the faint murmur of voices. The
sound grew steadily louder until at last they emerged onto a large landing. They stared down at the vast room before them in amazement.
Its very size was awe-inspiring, but what riveted their attention was the dais in the center of the cellar room. On it stood a dark altar, and at one end of it was Kyria, chains linking her hands to the marble slab. Her hair was down, with a simple gold band around it like a tiara. She wore a white robe, and in the flickering torchlight, she looked like a figure straight off of an ancient vase. Beside her stood Lord Walford, wearing a white tunic with a purple train. A narrow gold circlet sat on his head, matching Kyria’s. His hands were closed over something, and he was chanting.
Hear us, oh, Goddess.
Mother of Heaven.
Mother of Earth.
Hear the cries of your children
Who wait here in the dark for you.
Hear us and come.
Rafe and the others looked at each other, swept with relief that Kyria was alive and seemingly unharmed, but at the same time wondering exactly how they were going to set her free. They were greatly outnumbered, at least twenty to four by Rafe’s reckoning, and he wasn’t sure exactly how much help the older, opium-addicted Ashcombe would be to them in a fight.
They were, of course, well armed, with at least twenty-four shots between him and Theo without their having to reload. However, because of Walford’s close proximity to Kyria, the shotgun Reed carried was effectively useless, and Rafe was reluctant even to use
the pistols, given the ease with which a stray bullet could hit Kyria.
He leaned closer to Theo and Reed and murmured, “Look, I’m a pretty good shot. I figure I can hit one or two on the edge of the crowd, farthest from Kyria, and that’ll send them into a panic. Then we can charge down the stairs and—”
Rafe stiffened, hearing the scrape of feet on stone behind them. He whirled around, as did the other men, and went down into a crouch, pistols up and aimed at the opening to the staircase. There were more muffled noises, and a white-robed figure emerged quietly onto the landing.
The Keepers! Rafe sagged in relief and lowered his guns as the four remaining Keepers filed silently out of the staircase, sticks in hand. Bringing up the rear of the group was the Russian Prince, Dmitri Rostokov, dressed in formal attire with some sort of sash across his chest and a long-barreled pistol in his hand.
Theo glanced at his brother questioningly, and Reed nodded, gripping his arm and leaning close to whisper, “These are the Keepers of the Holy Standard. They’ll help us. I don’t know who that other chap is.”
“Don’t ask.” Rafe moved silently over to Brother Jozef, who looked as surprised to see Rafe’s group as they were to see his. Rafe glanced toward the Russian, but decided to follow his own advice. Whatever reason had brought the prince with the monks, this was no time for questions.
“The reliquary has called to us,” Brother Jozef whispered to Rafe. “Great harm confronts it, and we have felt this. So we have come.”
Rafe saw no reason to dispute whatever strange homing instinct had drawn the Keepers. “Good,” he said.
“Now we are nine.” He drew the other men over to witness the bizarre scene below them.
Kyria watched Walford as he continued to call down the goddess. His face was rapt, his eyes wild. Suddenly he turned and grabbed Kyria’s hands, forcing them onto the diamond, his own hands on top of hers holding them down.
Sacred Goddess, hear me.
Come to us in all your glory.
Come now to the sacred marriage bed.
In light do you walk. At your appearance do we rejoice.
Honeyed are your lips. Your mouth gives life.
Come to me, oh glorious Goddess.
Come to this sacred couch and all your myriad charms reveal.
Your humble servant, I call on you.
Come and restore all life.
Bring to me your divine and unending power.
Let me join with you and reign forever.
Bathe me in your sacred blood. Give to me your unending life.
Kyria gripped the reliquary, the huge diamond digging into her palm. She closed her eyes as an idea came to her.
“Oh, sacred Goddess!” she cried. “Glorious Inanna.”
Beside her, Walford’s voice stumbled to a halt, and he turned to look at her. Maybe, Kyria thought, she could catch him off guard and crack him in the head with the box. She struggled to remember all the things
she had heard Walford and Ashcombe say about Inanna.
“Mother of Heaven!” she shouted, standing tall and straight and flinging back her head. She opened her eyes and looked intently up at the top of the far columns. “Mother of Earth! Pay heed to me. Thy daughter calls you. Come to me and endow me with thy strength.”
Kyria could sense that she had the attention of everyone in the room. Walford was staring at her, and his hands fell slowly away from Kyria’s on the box. Kyria curled her fingers more tightly around the diamond. It felt strangely warm against her palm.
“Come to thy handmaiden’s aid, oh, Mother of the Gods!”
Warmth seemed to flow from the diamond into her hand and up into her arms, and Kyria was aware of a tremendous surge of power. She felt faintly dizzy as words rushed up from her throat, pouring out of her in a hoarse voice quite unlike her own.
Sovereign Goddess, come to me in my hour of need.
Goddess of Love. Goddess of War.
Lady of the nether abyss.
You brought life out of the darkness. Power out of weakness.
Now give me thy power.
The diamond seemed to throb in her hand. Her fingers curling around the large stone, Kyria lifted her hand and the diamond came away easily. It glowed with a strange, dark light, red pulsing in its depths and shining through her fingers, the glow permeating her
palm so that it shone deep red, as if her blood had turned to fire.
Walford took a step back, staring at Kyria, his jaw falling open in awe.
“Mother of all the heavens, help me now,” Kyria cried, raising her hand. “Destroyer of the wicked, help me now!”
With a final, primal shriek, she threw herself at Walford, bringing her hand down and slamming the magnificent stone with all her force into Walford’s forehead.
He staggered back and fell to the floor with a crash. And at that moment, all hell broke loose.
Wild cries came from above them, and shots rang out. Kyria dived to the floor, crawling up against the end of the altar, seeking its shelter, as a gang of men erupted down the staircase, screaming.
They plowed into the group of worshipers, already demoralized by Kyria’s performance and the sudden loss of their leader. Confused and slowed by drugs, the men barely put up any resistance as Rafe, Kyria’s brothers and the Keepers laid about them with fists, sticks and the butts of their guns.
The fight was over in a few minutes, and Rafe shoved his way through to the dais. He bent solicitously over Kyria, who was crouched on the floor, leaning weakly against the cool marble of the altar.
“Kyria. Kyria, my love?” He reached out and gently brushed his hand over her hair. “Are you all right?”
Kyria looked up at him. She felt suddenly weak, and she started to tremble uncontrollably. “Rafe! Oh, Rafe!”
She flung herself into his arms, tears pouring from her eyes. “Oh, Rafe, hold me! Don’t leave me.”
“Never,” Rafe promised solemnly, his arms tightening around her. “Never.”
“I doubt we’ll ever know the whole story,” Reed said, standing beside the fireplace, his arm stretched across the mantel.
“No, probably not,” Theo agreed.
They both looked over at their sister, who was curled up on the sofa, Rafe by her side, his hand in hers. Kyria had been unusually quiet since Rafe had unfastened her manacles and carried her from Walford’s house last night.
Rafe had taken Kyria straight up to her room and put her to bed, telling her brothers that he would spend the night with her, his eyes daring them to deny him. They had agreed without a murmur, and after a few minutes of holding the twins to her, Kyria had lain down, and Rafe had closed the door, shutting out the rest of the world.
Reed and Theo had taken care of the rest of it, sending for the police and leading them to Walford’s mansion to show them Walford’s trussed-up followers, as well as Walford himself. He, it seemed, had died in a freakish manner, his forehead, right between his eyes, crushed. The police could not imagine what had hit him with such force at precisely the right spot to kill him.
The Moreland brothers had merely shrugged and said they had no idea.
The Keepers had just visited Kyria and the others at Broughton House, once again bringing along the Russian prince. They had left the house with the sacred reliquary, but the huge black stone they had insisted that Kyria keep, saying only, “It belongs with you, madam.”
“I was surprised to find that Prince Dmitri was actually helping the Keepers,” Kyria commented.
“Yes. He explained it to me last night after the fight,” Reed said. “The Keepers moved onto his lands a long time ago when they moved farther northward to escape the Islamic Ottoman Empire. His family has been their protectors ever since. He took the loss of the reliquary hard.”
“His family’s honor and all that,” Theo added.
“What about Habib and the Frenchman?” Rafe asked.
Reed shrugged. “The peelers have questioned them both. Habib finally cracked and admitted that it was he who tracked down Kousoulous all the way from Turkey and killed him at Broughton Park. He had been working for Walford for several years, his primary task being to find the reliquary. He admitted Walford’s entire scheme to get the box, including hiring those men to invade our house. Apparently, Walford decided that hired help were too untrustworthy and incompetent, so he got his own men to kidnap Alex. I suspect when they track down the ownership of that warehouse, it will turn out to belong to Walford.”