way.
As she got to the landing beneath the attic, she paused. Was it her imagination, or did the shadows seem somehow deeper... darker, even?
She shook her head, clearing the fears from her mind, and progressed up the stairs, disappearing into the darkness of the attic.
The shadows closed behind her like mist. A listener would have heard the movement of the lock and door as she entered the room, and the clink of plate and cutlery as the tray was set down. Then there was silence.
***
The Butler had begun to clean his shoes when he heard the sound of the Cook re-entering the room. The stiff brush scraped across the black leather as he cleaned off the dirt of the day, and he glanced up at her.
“Everything alright? That was awfully quick.”
The Cook ignored him, and headed for the counter. The Butler shrugged, and turned back to his work.
In the kitchen the only sound was the scrape of brush on leather. Behind him, the Cook took a cleaver out of the wooden block. She hefted it a couple of times for weight, and turned towards the Butler. She walked across the room towards the fireplace. Instinct spoke to the Butler, and he half-turned towards the Cook. The Cook took pride in her tools, and the cleaver was sharp. It sliced into the Butler's skull as if it were a ripe melon, splitting bone and digging into the man's brain. The Butler stiffened, then went limp, his body slumping in the chair. The Cook raised one foot, planted it on the former Butler's chest, and pulled the blade free of his skull. The body tumbled to the floor, where it lay bleeding. The Cook returned the stained cleaver to the block, and withdrew a carving knife. Slowly, she raised the steel blade, and drew it across her own throat.
***
Up in the drawing room, the master of the house sat reading a text on the behaviour of wild cats in deep Africa. He reached up without looking, and tugged the bellpull to summon the Butler.
When no-one appeared, he looked up, his brow furrowing. He raised himself from his armchair, and walked to the door. Pulling it open, he shouted down the corridor.
“I say, where is everybody?”
He glanced up and down the hallway, frowning at the darkness.
“And why are all the damned lanterns out?”
He stepped back into the drawing room, grumbling to himself, and walked over to the bar. Pouring himself a brandy, he turned back to his armchair.
He stopped as the lantern by the door sputtered and went out. The glass fell from his hand as the darkness poured into the room like a liquid thing, tentacles and strands reaching out towards him. He backed into the corner, his eyes wild, and reached for the hunting rifle that stood there. Raising the gun, he fired wildly into the encroaching darkness. The black tendrils flowed around him, enfolded him, and pulled him into its depths.
There was a single scream.
Then silence.
***
Far across London, the great clock in the main hall of the Guild of Mages tolled midnight. The hallway was quiet, most of the members of the Guild having long since retired to their beds, But a few lonely souls were still hard at work within the building's depths.
Callum Drake looked up as the bell rang, then turned back to the task at hand. A tall, well-built man, his bald head smooth and dry, despite the difficult task facing him.
“Alright, drop the wards.”
To his left, Nathaniel Wittington-Smythe nodded. The rangy, brown haired agent waved his hand, dropping the protective ward that covered the front of the Cell. Behind him, Elizabeth Cartwright, her long black hair tied back into a ponytail, cocked her rifle. Callum shot her a look.
“Try not to shoot me.”
“That was an accident.” she snapped.
“Well, just don't do it again!”
The tall man flicked his wrist, and a long silver sword appeared in his hand. The sword wasn't a magical item – it was far beyond that. Six months before, in India, Callum had absorbed a voidstone, a jewel that channelled the infinite power of the universe
As she got to the landing beneath the attic, she paused. Was it her imagination, or did the shadows seem somehow deeper... darker, even?
She shook her head, clearing the fears from her mind, and progressed up the stairs, disappearing into the darkness of the attic.
The shadows closed behind her like mist. A listener would have heard the movement of the lock and door as she entered the room, and the clink of plate and cutlery as the tray was set down. Then there was silence.
***
The Butler had begun to clean his shoes when he heard the sound of the Cook re-entering the room. The stiff brush scraped across the black leather as he cleaned off the dirt of the day, and he glanced up at her.
“Everything alright? That was awfully quick.”
The Cook ignored him, and headed for the counter. The Butler shrugged, and turned back to his work.
In the kitchen the only sound was the scrape of brush on leather. Behind him, the Cook took a cleaver out of the wooden block. She hefted it a couple of times for weight, and turned towards the Butler. She walked across the room towards the fireplace. Instinct spoke to the Butler, and he half-turned towards the Cook. The Cook took pride in her tools, and the cleaver was sharp. It sliced into the Butler's skull as if it were a ripe melon, splitting bone and digging into the man's brain. The Butler stiffened, then went limp, his body slumping in the chair. The Cook raised one foot, planted it on the former Butler's chest, and pulled the blade free of his skull. The body tumbled to the floor, where it lay bleeding. The Cook returned the stained cleaver to the block, and withdrew a carving knife. Slowly, she raised the steel blade, and drew it across her own throat.
***
Up in the drawing room, the master of the house sat reading a text on the behaviour of wild cats in deep Africa. He reached up without looking, and tugged the bellpull to summon the Butler.
When no-one appeared, he looked up, his brow furrowing. He raised himself from his armchair, and walked to the door. Pulling it open, he shouted down the corridor.
“I say, where is everybody?”
He glanced up and down the hallway, frowning at the darkness.
“And why are all the damned lanterns out?”
He stepped back into the drawing room, grumbling to himself, and walked over to the bar. Pouring himself a brandy, he turned back to his armchair.
He stopped as the lantern by the door sputtered and went out. The glass fell from his hand as the darkness poured into the room like a liquid thing, tentacles and strands reaching out towards him. He backed into the corner, his eyes wild, and reached for the hunting rifle that stood there. Raising the gun, he fired wildly into the encroaching darkness. The black tendrils flowed around him, enfolded him, and pulled him into its depths.
There was a single scream.
Then silence.
***
Far across London, the great clock in the main hall of the Guild of Mages tolled midnight. The hallway was quiet, most of the members of the Guild having long since retired to their beds, But a few lonely souls were still hard at work within the building's depths.
Callum Drake looked up as the bell rang, then turned back to the task at hand. A tall, well-built man, his bald head smooth and dry, despite the difficult task facing him.
“Alright, drop the wards.”
To his left, Nathaniel Wittington-Smythe nodded. The rangy, brown haired agent waved his hand, dropping the protective ward that covered the front of the Cell. Behind him, Elizabeth Cartwright, her long black hair tied back into a ponytail, cocked her rifle. Callum shot her a look.
“Try not to shoot me.”
“That was an accident.” she snapped.
“Well, just don't do it again!”
The tall man flicked his wrist, and a long silver sword appeared in his hand. The sword wasn't a magical item – it was far beyond that. Six months before, in India, Callum had absorbed a voidstone, a jewel that channelled the infinite power of the universe
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