Even with the package wrapped, there was only a little time before the mist would begin to seep through the paper.
Fortunately, April in London was still a chilly month.
Stephen took off his coat and wrapped it around the sphere, careful not to let his hands touch even the outer layer of the paper. With the bundle in his hands, he stood, walked over to the fireplace, and uttered another invocation, this one to the Flame at the Center of the World.
Then he dropped the ball, coat and all, into the flames.
In retrospect, he thought when his head stopped ringing, he probably should have expected it to explode.
“…and so here I am,” Mina said. She’d told Professor Carter everything that had happened the previous night, though she’d excluded Stephen’s real form. In her version of the story, he’d sent the manes packing with pistol and holy water and wanted to keep her there because she’d seen them.
“Well,” said Professor Carter. He drew a breath and then repeated: “Well.”
“I know it must all sound rather improbable—” Mina began.
“How could it, my girl, when I was there for half of the proceedings?” Professor Carter chuckled, though there was as much ruefulness as mirth in it. “I may have been a skeptic at first, but the Bavarian expedition went a long way toward curing me of that, and it wasn’t the last such experience I had, either! There was a time in Jamaica—but that’s neither here nor there, is it?”
Mina had to admit that it wasn’t. She smiled, though, as she hadn’t been able to do since she’d entered Professor Carter’s office with MacAlasdair at her side. Despite everything MacAlasdair had told her, she’d still worried that the professor would think she’d gone mad. Seeing his face animated by curiosity and without a trace of disbelief did more good for her spirits than any tonic she could think of.
“And if I hadn’t been convinced already,” said Professor Carter, “Stephen would have done it the other day. Bless the man, I’d hate him if I was a vainer fellow. Doesn’t look a day over thirty, does he?”
“No,” said Mina, another admission. “Then—he is a friend of yours?”
“Oh, yes. Not that I know a great deal about him, mind you, but we went on a number of journeys together when I was a younger man. Quite a dependable sort of a chap. If you had to go poking into this affair of ours”—Professor Carter tried for a reproving look—“I’m glad you’ve ended up under his protection while it lasts. He’ll see to it that you’re all right, if anyone can.”
Mina decided to ignore the uncertain postscript and kept herself from bristling at the mention of protection. After all, an evil magician with shadow demons at his command was hardly a figure that even the most independent of New Women could be expected to handle on her own.
“You won’t mind if I work for him, then? Or even if I stay in his house? He does have maids and a housekeeper. It’s not as though we’d be alone—”
“Not at all, not at all.” Professor Carter waved a hand. “The situation’s rather an unusual one, after all, and besides, Stephen’s quite honorable. Never known him to…well, ah…” He coughed. “I mean to say, you’ll be quite safe with him.”
Men didn’t always know these things, Mina reflected, and fifteen years could change a man, or a not-quite-man, considerably. Still, MacAlasdair had so far seemed honorable in that regard at least, though Mina was relieved to hear the professor confirm her impression. She was more relieved to see that the situation didn’t scandalize him.
“Then I’ll still have a place with you, afterward?”
“Well, certainly,” said Professor Carter. “Wouldn’t dream of having things otherwise. If we’re both still alive, of course.”
Downstairs, something went BANG.
Luckily for everyone concerned, Mrs. Evans had been visiting her daughter in Kensington for the last two days. Otherwise, events after the explosion would have included a great deal more panic and secrecy.
As it was, Mina made it down the stairs, Professor Carter’s letter opener in one hand, to find the study empty save for MacAlasdair, who was picking himself up off the floor.
The man who’d accompanied Mina to the professor’s office had been polished and distinguished looking, if also distant and intimidating. His clothing had still seemed like a costume—all the more so, now that Mina knew something of his true nature—but it had been a good costume, and he’d worn it well.
Now his coat was missing, and his shirt and waistcoat were torn in several places. More than that, Mina saw blood matting at least one of the still-whole sections of shirt at MacAlasdair’s side. A few more cuts, though these were not much more than scratches, littered his arms and face.
“I—” she began. Unsure where to go after that, she seized on the injury. “Sit down, will you? And don’t move. Are you bleeding anywhere else? We’ll need some water. Is it safe for me to go to the kitchen? Is it safe for us to be down here?”
“Your inquisition, Cerberus, lacks a wee bit in the way of priorities,” said MacAlasdair.
“My name’s Mina. Miss Seymour,” she corrected herself, irritated. “And you haven’t answered my questions. Or sat down.”
“I’m a man of many failings, I see.” He did sit down, though, and shook his head as if coming back to himself. “It’s quite safe now. You may go anywhere you please—in this house, of course.”
“Trust you to remember that,” said Mina, and took herself off to the kitchen.
She fetched a pitcher of water and several towels quickly, and returned by the time Professor Carter had made his way downstairs. “Are we under attack?” he was asking MacAlasdair.
“Nae more than we were a day ago,” said MacAlasdair. “Someone was tryin’ his hand at spy work. Dropped a cursed little bundle through your letter slot. That’s all.”
“How reassuring,” said Mina. “Does ‘spy work’ generally blow up like that?”
“No,” said MacAlasdair. “That was me. I saw no other way to rid us of the thing.”
He glanced toward the fireplace. Following his look, Mina saw that the flames had turned a dancing blue-silver. It was really quite pretty, though she wouldn’t have said so in front of the two men.
Professor Carter had no such reservations. “For a curse, Stephen, that’s a remarkably pleasant little aftereffect.”
“It wasn’t evil magic in itself,” said MacAlasdair, “only used for evil. And rather showy in its destruction.”
“Yes,” said Professor Carter, and clicked his tongue as he looked at Stephen. “Should we call a doctor? I don’t know of any really discreet ones, but I’m sure we could think of a story—”
“No. It’ll heal quickly enough, once it’s clean. If I may beg your pardon,” he said to Mina, and then began to remove the remains of his shirt.
Mina decided to examine the desk. One never knew, after all, what might have broken in an explosion, or where the bits of whatever had exploded had gotten to. She tried to focus on finding them and not on seeing how graceful MacAlasdair was despite his size, or the slow exposure of his body. If her heart was going faster than it should and her cheeks felt warm—well, that was only natural in the wake of spies and mysterious explosions.
She dipped a napkin in water, went over to where MacAlasdair was sitting, and then could no longer avoid looking at him. His arms were muscular; his pale chest was broad and solid, lightly covered with red-black hair that narrowed to a thin line trailing down his flat stomach. So near at hand, Mina seemed to feel an unusual warmth rising off his skin—or perhaps that was just her.