Witchery: A Ghosts of Albion Novel

Chapter Seven

Mr. Roberts, I presume,” William said, stepping out from behind the desk to greet his visitor. “Do come in.”
He shook hands with the stranger, then glanced at his assistant. “Thank you, Ramsey.” The words were a dismissal and Harold took them as such, nodding once before turning to head back to his own desk.
“Mr. Swift,” Roberts said, “a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.” His voice was low and melodious, yet strangely unaccented. He followed William into the center of the room, taking the tall-backed leather chair that stood in front of the desk.
“I appreciate your making yourself available on such short notice, Mr. Roberts.”
They sat across from each other, each man appraising the other. William once again noted how imposing were Roberts’s features, the cool gray eyes punctuated by a long scar that snaked from beside his left ear down into the collar of his white shirt. He wondered how Roberts had acquired that particular beauty. It looked nasty, and extremely painful.
Catching William’s gaze, the man smiled.
“A knife fight on Shadwell Street, a long time ago, when I had more ego than sense.”
How odd, William thought. There truly is no trace of an accent.
“Are you English, Mr. Roberts?”
The man shook his head. “I was born in the Mongolian province of Darhan-Uul, but spent the majority of my childhood in Philadelphia.”
“Mongolia? However did your family find itself there?”
“My father works for the American government.”
Roberts did not elaborate. In fact, his stare dared William to press the subject further. It might have been best to let the matter lie, but something about the vagueness of the answer intrigued him.
“Was your father a diplomat?”
Roberts shrugged. “You could say that. Or you could say that he was a close friend of Thomas Jefferson’s, and did whatever the president asked of him.”
William had never met anyone who knew a president of the United States. He leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his desk.
“That’s quite extraordinary.”
Roberts smiled. “If you say so.” He sat back in his seat, his eyes intent on William’s face.
“Now that we’ve gone through the pleasantries, let’s get down to business. I was told you had need of someone to carry out a discreet investigation into a matter of theft. Is that correct?”
William nodded. “During the past few weeks, I have noticed that things— small pieces of jewelry and the like— have begun mysteriously disappearing from our vaults. Most recently, the bank was relieved of a case full of rare gold coins. I have no idea who the culprit is, nor how he is carrying out the burglaries. Truly, it is a mystery.”
“No suspects at all, then?”
“None.”
“If I’m to help you, I’d like your permission to make a few discreet inquiries here at the bank.”
“Of course,” William said, nodding.
“I think that’s all, then,” Roberts said, standing. He extended his hand.
They shook rather formally. What a curious fellow, William thought as Roberts left the room. William had gotten the man’s name from Ezekiel Ruscht, an old associate of his father’s, who was also a member of the Algernon Club. Roberts had been a peeler before retiring to indulge in more exciting pursuits.
Ezekiel had called Roberts a “jolly fellow with a keen eye and an intriguing mind.”
William had a hard time associating the man he had just met with the word jolly.
SOPHIA’S TROUSSEAU HAD GROWN by leaps and bounds, so that it now took up two wardrobes and an enormous trunk. She had hoped for such bounty, but with no immediate family to help and encourage her, she’d been uncertain whether she’d be able to acquire all the things she needed for married life.
What a surprise it had been when Tamara had offered to help her, taking time from her charitable works to accompany Sophia to several shops in London. Sophia had felt as though the two women were beginning to form a sisterly bond.
After last night, however, she harbored no such illusions. Tamara Swift would never like her, no matter what efforts Sophia made to ameliorate her relationship with her future sister-in-law.
This morning Sophia sat on the edge of the canopied bed in the room that was hers whenever she slept at Ludlow House, and stared into the yawning mouths of the two open wardrobes. Usually, she liked to touch everything inside, counting the assorted linens and bits of clothing and simply basking in the anticipation of her wedding, but she was too tired and depressed.
There were a great many things she was supposed to do today— she had even made a list— but she could not bring herself to do more than get dressed. She sighed, leaning back on the thick pillows that covered the top of the bed, and closed her eyes, wishing William was there to help her.
Sophia knew that he loved her and wanted to be with her, but lately he had been spending more and more time locked in his grandfather’s library, looking up spells and doing research. He was obsessed with finding the spell that would finally free his father from the demon’s power. She had been enthusiastic about the idea at first, encouraging him to continue his quest. She even sat with him in the library while he worked, quietly doing her needlepoint, listening to him as he mumbled foreign-sounding words under his breath.
But the whole business had taken on a sour taste after she had begun spending time with Henry. Tamara and William both insisted that he was completely under the influence of a demon called Oblis, but Sophia wasn’t sure she believed he was possessed at all. To her, he just seemed like a sad old man who wasn’t completely in his right mind.
Certainly there were moments when the supposed demonic influence revealed itself, but Sophia had seen people— particularly older people— afflicted by dementia in the past, and this seemed no different. She believed Henry needed and deserved the love and attention of his children instead of their pity and scorn. Yet she had said nothing of the sort to William. He and Tamara both would resent any interference on her part. Of that she was certain.
No, she would wait until all her beloved’s efforts had been exhausted, and only then would she suggest that he and his sister consider whether perhaps they had been mistaken all along.
Meanwhile, she hoped to provide the mad old man as much comfort as she could.
It was entirely accidental that she had come to spend so much time in Henry Swift’s presence. The ghosts all took their turns guarding the room where Henry was imprisoned, as did Nigel, Tamara, and William. Lord Byron’s ghost seemed to spend more time on guard than the others, but he was also the specter most likely to abandon his post without a moment’s hesitation, lured by his muses to work on some paean to love or lust, or by curiosity to spy invisibly upon the staff. Feeling guilty about his frequent vanishings, he had sought out Sophia and asked for her help to watch over Henry when he wanted a respite.
Upon her arrival at Ludlow House, Byron had been the only ghost who had seemed at all interested in befriending her. He said hello to her whenever they met, and one day in the hall had even struck up a rather long-winded conversation about ladies’ undergarments. Her maid, Elvira, wanted nothing to do with the ghosts of Ludlow House, but Sophia found them fascinating. She cultivated her relationship with Byron every chance she could. If that included helping him keep watch over Henry without letting William and Tamara know that he was shirking his duties, well, she did not mind so much.
Byron, at least, seemed to feel for the old man.
Sometimes Sophia wondered if she was the only one in the household who genuinely cared about the elder Swift’s welfare. She knew William loved his father, but she had recently begun to harbor the fear that his judgment might be clouded by Tamara’s opinion.
Tamara was a powerful magician who also wielded great power over her brother and all of the other occupants of Ludlow House. If William’s sister was foolish or misled or simply guided by an unconscious need to control him— threatened by the arrival of Sophia, the future mistress of Ludlow House— then their father might be doomed to nothing but a half-life, trapped in that horrible nursery forever.
The very thought made Sophia shudder.
Bored and miserable, Sophia stood and walked to the wardrobes containing her trousseau and quietly closed them, before turning and leaving the room. She left the door open in case Elvira came looking for her, though the chances of that were slim. Elvira hated Ludlow House, and spent most of her day locked in her quarters praying to be delivered from its evil. Sophia found the old woman’s antics highly amusing, but she sometimes worried that one day she would wake up to find her lady’s maid gone.
There was only so much a person could take, she supposed, and Elvira was very near her breaking point.
The older woman had not wanted Sophia to come to stay at Ludlow House at all. She had followed her charge grudgingly, making sure that Sophia understood the burden that had been placed upon her. Sophia suspected that Elvira knew about her comings and goings from William’s room, but she never alluded to the fact.
Maybe she’s storing up all her grievances so that she can leave me with a clear conscience, Sophia thought dryly.
She made her way down the hall, careful not to call too much attention to herself. She was not supposed to be in this part of the house, and Martha would shoo her away if she found her there alone. She quickly moved to the nursery door, and pushed it open without hesitation.
Byron floated by Henry’s bed, a ghostly quill and parchment in his hands. He looked up from his work and gave Sophia a mischievous grin.
“My lovely lady,” the ghostly poet said with a flourish, bowing from the waist. He floated toward her, his hand extended as if to take her own and raise it to his lips. Sophia appreciated the gesture, even though she knew his spectral hand would pass right through hers.
It hadn’t taken very long for her to discover the limitations of contact between hosts and humans: the ghosts were ephemeral things, only able to touch human flesh or anything of the human world with great concentration, and even then only for the briefest moments.
Magical items were another thing entirely. Spirits could come into contact with anything that had a trace of magic. That was why the ghosts could fight demons and monsters without facing the same limitations they did with human beings. Sophia had often wondered just how much contact the specters might be capable of having with magicians with the Protectors. Could Byron, for instance, have made love to Tamara if she would allow it?
The thought lingered in her at times, and whenever it did her face flushed with curiosity. And perhaps with other feelings as well.
Now, as the ghostly poet came toward her, pretending to walk although his feet could not touch the wooden floor, Sophia felt herself coloring.
“Hello, your lordship,” she said, raising a hand to her flaring cheeks. She blew him a playful kiss.
Byron giggled happily, pretending to catch the kiss with his hand.
Beyond the ghost, Henry began to stir in bed. Sophia had been the one to suggest that he be moved from the chair to which he had previously been chained. Even if the siblings were correct, and their father was possessed, she had explained, if they did not properly care for his body, he would be physically damaged by the time they managed to exorcise the demon.
“Is that you, Sophia, dear?” Henry said weakly, narrowing his gaze and peering through Byron’s shimmering, phantasmal form. The old man sat up in bed, beckoning to her. She crossed the room, coming to stand beside him.
“Get a chair, my dear. A chair ” Henry said, his voice quavering.
Sophia shook her head.
“Your bedside is a perfect seat.” She perched on the edge, and took the old man’s hands in her own.
Byron floated toward her, his face uncertain.
“You do not wish to tempt Oblis so, Sophia,” Byron said. “Sitting so close, you’ll only— ”
Sophia waved away the ghost’s concern.
“Byron, darling, are you truly frightened of such a kittenish creature as my father-in-law? He needs our love and care, not our cruel words and fear. You go on, then, my friend. I’ll watch over him awhile.”
Byron still looked unsure.
“You underestimate the danger here. Perhaps I ought not leave you.”
“I don’t mind,” she assured him. “How many times have you left me with him? Has Father-in-Law ever troubled me? He sleeps, and sometimes I talk, just to hear myself speak. Come, Byron, do you mean to tell me you have nothing better to do? You, of all within these walls?”
Byron hesitated. “Well, there is a small matter to be addressed on the ghostly plane. An old publisher has need of a few sonnets that he says only I can provide.”
Sophia nodded, Henry’s hand gripping tightly.
“Go then, darling. I’ll stay and guard the prisoner,” she said, dryly.
“Are you sure? I can very easily put out a call to Horatio,” Byron said.
“Quite sure. I shall be perfectly fine. You needn’t trouble Horatio, just as I have never needed to trouble William or Tamara with your past pursuits.”
“As you wish,” Byron said, obviously pleased to be at liberty, but still reluctant to leave her.
“I’ll be back, quick as I can,” he said, and then he was gone.
Henry looked up at Sophia, his face old and disoriented.
“I’ll look after you, Father-in-Law, I promise.” Sophia leaned forward, pressing her soft lips against the cool, paper-thin skin of his forehead.
WITH HER EYES CLOSED, Sophia did not see the malevolent grin that flashed across Henry’s face, before his countenance once more slipped into the slack-jawed confusion of old age.
Tamara stared out the window of the carriage, her mind awash with thoughts of John Haversham, oblivious to the picturesque scenery that surrounded her. This was beautiful countryside. Lush green hills sloped down into clear rivers. Expanses of jagged rock turned dramatically into sheer cliffs that fell away, exposing breathtaking views of the turbulent aquamarine sea.
She barely noticed, her mind’s eye still fixated on the image of John as he looked down at her that last time, his gray eyes alight with frustration. Tamara realized he had come to Ludlow House to warn her that the magical community knew she and William were aiding and abetting Serena. This in itself was evidence that he cared for her.
It was his ambivalence— his unwillingness to acknowledge their mutual attraction— that made it utterly impossible for her own feelings to settle. Some days she thought she loved him with all her heart; others she hated him with all the passion she possessed.
The carriage wheels hit a bump in the dirt road, and Tamara was jostled out of her thoughts, her eyes truly focusing upon the scenery for the first time in hours. The geography had changed so the land was now flatter, and densely forested, making Tamara realize they were almost to Camelford.
In the close confines of the carriage, Bodicea’s ghost floated beside her, the long spear she often carried resting against her thigh. She had died in the midst of casting a spell that had required nudity. Now as a ghost, she could have altered her appearance, but she chose to be seen as she was at the time of her death— naked but for her war paint. Bodicea claimed it distracted her enemies. Tamara had no doubt. Now the specter gave Tamara a grim nod but remained quiet. This close to her, the ghost’s transparency unnerved Tamara more than usual. It was disturbing to be able to see the drapes pulled back from the window, to see the buttons on the seat cushions and the grain of wood in the carriage’s enclosure, all through the gossamer veil of Bodicea’s translucent presence.
The ghosts were staunch allies and had become her friends, but there were times when their presence still troubled her.
Tamara tilted her head down to check on Serena, who lay curled in a ball in her lap, snoring quietly. She still had not entirely recovered from the odyssey of her journey to London. Best let her rest, she thought as she pulled at the folds of her dress, letting the rich fabric cover the sprite’s slender legs and shoulders.
With a yawn, Tamara let her eyes close and rolled her neck to loosen the taut muscles. Her eyes were so dry after the long trip that they stung a bit when she opened them again. She found she had been clenching her jaw so fiercely during the ride that the beginnings of a massive headache had begun to grip her forehead and temples.
She reached up and massaged her jaw as she watched the trees give way again to open spaces dominated by small homesteads, and a small stream that chased along the side of the carriage. The density of the cottages doubled and tripled until Tamara saw that they had reached the outskirts of the village.
What a quaint little place, Tamara thought as she took in the small wattle and daub cottages, their straw roofs glowing golden amber in the fading afternoon light.
The dusty dirt road they traveled merged with a larger path, and soon the road into Camelford became more defined, dirt giving way to large pavestones. At last she saw the Camel River to the left, its current strong and deep. After such a long ride she would have loved to wade into the river. The very thought of it was refreshing. But as a city girl traveling north, she knew she must hew to propriety even more than usual. William would be so pleased.
In the village proper, a stone wall ran alongside the wide main road as it climbed a gentle slope with a row of shops and homes on either side, their roofs and chimneys staggered in height going uphill, like steps for a giant. Wooden signs hung from posts above the doorways of the shops, and most of the dwellings above and beside them had windowboxes full of flowering plants, blossoming with bright spring colors.
They passed a dyer’s and a blacksmith’s and a basket maker whose wares hung from a string of hooks beside the door. A stern-looking woman pushed a pram and did not so much as glance up at their passing. Some of the buildings were whitewashed, but most had faces as stony as that grim mother’s.
The road was cobblestone here, rough and dusty. Several men in slouch caps stood on a cobbled sidewalk with a small girl in a pretty blue-and-white dress, and she turned as the carriage went by to smile and wave. One of the men clutched her hand and pulled her close, and all of them watched the unfamiliar carriage roll by with wary eyes.
Odd, Tamara thought. Unless whatever danger troubles the fairies has imperiled the village as well.
Over the tops of the buildings she could see tall trees, and beyond that to the east, the rocky tors and cliffs. Though she knew that the narrow side roads that branched off this central way must travel into the forest— some on the way to the sea, others across Bodmin moor, and still others due north along the coastal trade route— the center of Camelford was entirely civilized.
They entered the market square, empty now, and passed beneath the long shadow of a large, beautiful stone building. The roof of its clock tower was topped with a golden camel as a weather vane, which Tamara thought amusing, considering that the name of the place had nothing at all to do with camels, and instead had taken its name from the Cornish words for “winding river.”
She sat up and stuck her head out the window of the carriage. Farris sat high upon the driver’s seat and she called to him, her voice low and husky after hours of silence.
“We have rooms at the Mason’s Arms Inn— ”
Farris turned in his seat, and nodded.
“It’s just up the way, miss, across from the Bridge House. Spotted it a moment ago,” he answered, giving the reins a tug to slow the horses.
“Thank you, Farris,” Tamara said, returning to her place back inside the carriage.
She was glad Farris and Bodicea had accompanied her to Camelford. As pretty as any place might be, there seemed to be danger here as well. She would need all the help she could get.
It was reassuring not to be alone.
TAMARA’S ROOM AT THE INN was smaller than she was used to, but it suited her perfectly: from the large bed with its goose-down comforter to the compact writing desk resting below a wide-paned window that revealed a picturesque view of the gurgling Camel River and the small stone bridge that spanned its width. A taste of heaven’s peace right in the middle of Cornwall, Tamara thought as she began to unpack her things.
Shortly she paused to check on Serena, who was still asleep in the middle of a thick woolen horse blanket that Farris had set in a corner of the room. The sprite had wanted to go to the fairy Stronghold that very evening, but the little creature had been haggard and pale and Tamara had insisted that they put the visit off until the next morning so that Serena could rest.
From the visit John Haversham had paid her just before her departure for Cornwall, it was clear that the council that ruled Stronghold was less than pleased with the sprite’s decision to seek outside help. Tamara knew that it likely was going to make her investigations far more difficult, but the council would have to adjust to the idea that they were not alone in this, just as they would have to accept that she would not allow them to punish Serena. The sprite was in her care. Somehow she had become just as much a part of the Swifts’ magical family as Nigel and the ghosts.
At the moment, though, Tamara’s only concern was that Serena rest and regain her strength before they made their way into the forest and confronted the fairies.
The sprite fluttered her wings in her sleep and then rolled over. There was a sweetness and beauty about Serena, but Tamara knew she had other, less admirable, traits. Yes, Serena had a kind heart, and she fairly sparkled with magic, but she had an infernal temper and could be vicious and deadly in battle. Tamara had seen as much in their dealings with Wild Edric in the forest outside Blackbriar the year before. Far better to be her ally than her enemy.
Tamara lifted a chemise from her trunk and placed it in the top drawer of the cherry wood dresser. While her mind wandered, she had nearly finished her unpacking. She didn’t know where the time went these days. With William’s impending nuptials, and all the extra work the Protectorship of Albion had placed upon her, Tamara was so busy that she barely had time for anything else. She knew her writing was suffering, along with her charitable work, but she still hadn’t quite discovered how best to juggle all of her current endeavors.
Closing the lid of the trunk, she sat down heavily on the bed, and wondered how Farris was faring downstairs.
Upon their arrival, he had settled himself at one of the wide oak tables in the middle of the tavern, and happily accepted a pint from the hands of the lusty young barmaid. All the better to learn if the town had been plagued by troubles of late. Tamara had almost joined him there, but she was all too aware that propriety would not have allowed it. She didn’t want people to gossip about her relationship with Farris. He was her employee, and such whispers would make it impossible for her to do her job here.
She wished the world were different, for she greatly enjoyed Farris’s company.
Bodicea had made herself scarce upon arrival. True, Tamara had sent the ghostly queen off with instructions to see what information she could glean from the local spectral populace. But as her majesty had flitted off into the woods, it seemed to Tamara that the pale shade had fled the town quickly, eager to revel in her freedom after traveling in the carriage with Tamara and Serena for so many long hours.
It would have been a simple matter for the ghost to have gone ahead and met them here in Camelford, but Bodicea had not been willing to entertain the suggestion. Once Tamara had shared word of Haversham’s visit and the potential threat to Serena, Bodicea would not be parted from them. The ghost watched over the sprite, and Tamara, and seemed on edge throughout the trip. Tamara had tried to pacify her, explaining that the fairy council was unlikely to attempt to retrieve the sprite since it was obvious they were bringing her back to Cornwall.
Even so, Bodicea remained vigilant.
Now that they had arrived, though, Tamara had given her a task, and Bodicea had pledged to fulfill it. Tamara assured the queen that she was more than capable of handling the Council of Stronghold on her own. She was the Protector of Albion, after all.
In retrospect, she wished she had not been so quick to send Bodicea away. There was no telling just how powerful the council might be. But she would not recall the ghost now. Not yet.
The fairies are vicious when aggrieved, Bodicea had said as they’d set out from Highgate, and Tamara agreed. Her last experience with the beautiful but temperamental creatures had left her quite wary.
Yet here she was, intending to stroll right into a heavily guarded fairy stronghold with only a single ghost, a fugitive sprite, and her butler to help her.
I must be insane.
THE TAVERN AT THE MASON’S ARMS hummed with voices, some of them mere whispers and others braying with drunken laughter. Yet even the laughter seemed strained, weighted with some dark concern.
Farris tried to engage the pretty barmaid in conversation several times. She had smile marks around her mouth and eyes that implied she was no stranger to pleasant conversation, yet tonight she banged his drink onto the scarred oak table with scarcely a glance or a word.
Camelford might not have been a tiny hamlet, but its population could not have been vast. Given the number of men frequenting the tavern this evening, Farris gathered that most of the town’s able gentlemen were out tonight, drinking and talking together in hushed tones. A palpable fear lay beneath their words, and Farris could not help adopting the same frayed, nervous edge. Normally a gregarious sort, tonight he hoped that no one would attempt to defuse their own tensions by initiating trouble with him. He wasn’t in the mood to end a heated verbal exchange in a peaceable manner.
The town itself wasn’t in the mood, really.
“I’m sure she’s long gone and buried,” Farris heard whispered at the table behind him.
The voice was cracked and gritty. Farris suspected its source to be the man with the scruffy gray beard and dark-rimmed eyes whom he’d seen as he’d taken his seat. A glance over his shoulder proved him right.
The man sat talking to his comrades, three older men with dirty, stained shirts, revealing a hard day’s labor outside under the sun. They sat tightly bunched together at one table, quietly discussing the fate of a local girl who had recently gone missing.
“She might’ve run off, y’know. You’ve got to allow for the possibility. Happens all the time, these young girls eager to raise their skirts, or more often taking fright at the thought of raisin’ ’em for someone here at home,” one of the old men said.
Used to lecturing, whether his mates like it or not, Farris thought. The man was small, but taut as a bullwhip. Someone you’d definitely want on your side in a fight.
Farris knew that if something unpleasant plagued Camelford, beyond the magical matters that had drawn them here, Tamara would wish to be apprised of it. Whatever haunted the men gathered in the tavern tonight, it was more substantial than ghosts. Though he took pains not to be discovered, he continued to eavesdrop on the men as they argued about their various opinions regarding the fate of the missing girl.
“Lot of good our brave constables is doin’ these girls and their families,” one of them loudly announced.
The gray-bearded one he’d first seen, perhaps the eldest among them, scowled. “What, those two drunken louts? They’re fine for breaking up a fight or settlin’ a dispute, but they couldn’t catch a fox in a henhouse. If there’s a bit of mystery or danger involved, they’re useless.”
Farris grimaced. So much for any help from the local constabulary.
Evening had turned to full night outside and the coolness of the country air stole around the room, canceling the warm glow of the hearth almost completely. Farris finished his first pint and beckoned to the barmaid for another. She gave him a harassed look, but nodded.
Cheeky wench.
Two men entered the tavern and took the table to his right. They shivered with the coolness of the room and kept their cloaks on, their hoods, it seemed to him, deliberately pulled so their faces went unseen. At first Farris paid them little mind, his focus still on his eavesdropping and on the pint of bitters the barmaid brought him. As he took a long draught from his glass, however, he could not escape the sensation that they were staring at him. He turned to look, and found their attention pressed upon him as though they observed his every move in fine detail.
“Pardon me ? Have you two got some sort of problem?” Farris asked loudly.
The two men, caught unawares, made no reply. They turned away, hiding their faces and behaving as though Farris was not glaring at them. At last Farris stood and took a step toward them. The four old men behind him quieted as they waited for the action to unfold.
“What I asked, in case the two of you are daft, or deaf, was if you’ve got some problem. The way you were staring, I’d wager the answer’s yes. But if it’s no, if it’s only rudeness, then speak up now, or your real problems’re only beginning,” Farris said, the beginnings of real anger starting to stir inside him.
Still the two men made no move to answer.
The tavern’s owner, a short, squat man with gold-red hair and bright pink cheeks, came out from behind the bar.
“I’ll have no troubles here. Take your woes outside.”
Farris nodded at the little barman, acknowledging that he’d heard him, and was more than willing to comply.
“That means the two of you as well, then,” the owner said, stiffly, nodding to indicate the hooded men. A hush had fallen over the tavern and all eyes were upon the standoff.
But only for an instant.
The two men lunged, knocking over their chairs as they hurled themselves at Farris. He parried a blow that would have caved in half his skull, such was the strength of his attacker. In the same motion he struck back, staggering the fellow.
The other reached powerful hands out, grabbing for his throat, but in the same moment the four old men at the table behind him leaped to Farris’s defense, clutching at the man’s robe and helping Farris fend off the two hooded men with a rain of fists that belied their age.
Outnumbered, the hooded men turned and fled, but not before Farris grabbed the edge of the nearest attacker’s hood and caught sight of what lay beneath.
This was not a man at all, but a creature, its features a patchwork of stone and earth.