Her Majesty's Witch: Bayla and the Golem, #2

By Eva Gordon

Her Majesty's Witch, a member of the secret society of the Grigori, and married to Emmet, a former angel with the capability to transform into a golem, Bayla's life is complex, to say the least.

As if her life was not complicated enough, Bayla's beloved husband is plagued with becoming a golem without notice while unconscious. A trip to visit Herr Doctor Sigmund Freud becomes necessary to get to the root of Emmet's spontaneous golemness.

Add in a greedy archaeologist, an awakened malevolent Egyptian mummy, and an uninvited trip to the Ottoman Empire's harem, and matters are complicated to the point of having global consequences.  

Can Bayla and the Golem defeat an evil Egyptian Priest and his horde of flesh eating revenants before he turns Her Majesty's Empire into the Nile Valley?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eva Gordon
• Release date: Jun 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524233440

Eva Gordon

Eva Gordon writes genre bending paranormal/fantasy/steampunk and historical novels with a strong romantic element. She loves to create stories that combine her passion for mythology, steamy romance, and action/suspense. Her imagination takes her from one universe to the next. Thus far, she has several series lined up as well as single titles waiting in line for production. Eva has a BS in Zoology and graduate studies in Biology. When not in her den writing, she can be found teaching animal lore at writing conventions, at work at the raptor rehabilitation center, wolf sanctuaries, or to satisfy her inner Hemingway on some global eco adventure.

Book preview

Professor Augustus Spratt checked the silver bullets in his blaster and nodded to his men. At last, he would have what he wanted, a real werewolf’s brain. His rigorous hike through the treacherous mountain range had been worth the effort. The key to the power to shift was ingrained in the werewolf’s brain. Combining it with various other herbs and immortal vampire blood would reanimate the mummy of Kek Minhotep, Magician of Koptos. The formula to awaken the corpse was written in a rare papyrus book of spells. The scroll was not part of the Book of the Dead and considered so dangerous, the Pharaoh’s priests buried it in the desert. Minhotep found it as a youth and used it to rise to power. So too would he.

To obtain the scroll, months ago, Spratt had the archaeologist who found the papyrus killed. Hired thieves stole the mummy from renowned archaeologist, Professor Erasmus Hix. The professor had found the mummy isolated from other tombs and excavated the sarcophagus. The ancient casket was now on its way to the Sultan’s Palace in Istanbul. Minhotep’s mummy would be Spratt’s reward for bringing the Sultan a European woman to add to his harem, a task he had yet to complete. Once he had the mummy, he would reanimate the notorious magician who had been executed for casting a spell that killed a powerful priest. The magician’s touch was said to bring back the dead. If this was true, Spratt could use Minhotep to get rich by bringing back departed loved ones for a price. Even the queen might hand over half of her assets to bring back her beloved, Prince Albert.

He lit a torch. Let’s go in. His two guides eyed one another nervously. They held their rifles close as they cautiously entered the cave. The small abode had a cooking area, kitchen table, and on the opposite side a straw bed. He scanned the humble home. Empty. Along the wall hung furred skins of foxes, wolves and weasels. In the back, a leather hide partitioned perhaps another room.

He pulled back the cover. Hah! The huge cage and remains of animal bone that littered the enclosure was enough to convince him. On the floor of the opened cage was the key. Designed to only be used by a human. A werewolf, lacking an opposable thumb, would be unable to unlock the door. He shook the wrought iron cage. No creature could break out. A shiny object on a table within the cage caught his eye. A silver dagger. Why would a werewolf keep silver around? He picked the blade up and tucked it under his belt. Interesting. He barked an order. Let him enter the cage.

One of the guides turned to him. Sir, what if he does not go in?

If he attacks we shoot, but first we must make sure he is indeed a werewolf.

But once he shifts he’ll be too strong.

He already is too strong, you imbecile. Professor Spratt cared little for the moral dilemma of murdering an innocent man, but rather his obsession with killing a real werewolf. The local villagers attested to its existence. Nonetheless, he had to be certain. A human’s brain would not work. They stepped out of the cave and hid behind a boulder. We’ll wait here.

A deep growl echoed. But from where? He froze, frightened, before bracing himself to shoot. It was not dark yet, so the creature must at least be partially human. He was wrong.

The immense werewolf’s loud roar boomed from a boulder above. Its lingering growl and spewing saliva dribbled from his maw.

Bloody hell! He had never heard of a werewolf shifting before the rise of the full moon. Aim and fire on my command! He expected the monster to leap and evade their shots but instead the immense wolf stood still, its head bowed as if presenting itself as a target. What matter of trickery was this? Hold your fire!

It snapped its jaw open and in a half-growl half-human voice, it spoke. Spratt didn’t understand the local dialect and he turned to his men. What’s it saying?

The man on his left answered. He wants us to kill him.

Spratt lifted his brow. That’s my bloody intention. Was it drawing their attention away from possibly more werewolves? The creature straightened, exposing his heart as a target. Sprat raised his gun. Too damn easy. He looked around furtively.

The werewolf angered by their seeming hesitation, growled and sprung at one of the guides, ripping him in two.

Fire!

It charged. The assault of bullets riddled its body. The large werewolf fell and shifted to his former body, an aging, balding man.

Bayla glanced across the ornate ballroom over a sea of fashionably attired people. She smiled as she spotted her husband, Emmet. Tonight was their first time as guests at Buckingham Palace. Queen Victoria had invited them to the State Ball Banquet and one never said ‘no’ to Her Majesty. Speaking with Lord Chilcott near the entrance, Emmet gave her a reassuring nod. She sighed, who could not at his breathtaking splendor. His dapper fine suit, six-foot six-inch frame and roguishly handsome face drew the attention of every lady and earned him a respectful glance from the gentlemen in attendance. She, too, received some approving nods at her choice of attire. Her dressmaker had done a brilliant job designing her two-piece mint-colored duchess-satin gown, trimmed with Venice lace, and decorated with rose-pink silk ribbons. The bodice and skirt exquisitely adorned with crocheted rose petals. She wore a matching rose hairclip tucked over her uplifted hairstyle with three single long curls draping her nape.

Bayla smiled, relieved that Lord Chilcott temporarily took the role of Emmet’s custodian. He would ensure her husband did not do or say anything too unseemly. Especially since her beloved husband was until recently a 16 th Century golem and former fallen angel with an annoying propensity for only speaking the truth. Only six months had passed since she had awakened him to her modern world of industry. She had conjured the golem to protect her from dangers incurred from being gifted with the Hand of Miriam, which allowed her to detect evil. At the time, she hadn’t known they were soul mates. She lifted her skirt and slowly made her way towards Emmet.

The banquet included various foreign dignitaries and she made the rounds with polite conversation. Bayla recently became a member of Her Majesty’s inner circle and many members of high society stopped to formally introduce themselves. All they knew was that she helped stop Jack the Ripper, the murderer who had plagued London's Whitechapel district, killing countless prostitutes. Before she reached Emmet, Princess Louise, Duchess of Argyll, pulled her aside for a private chat. Is it true you used your psychic powers to find and dispatch Jack the Ripper?

How much did the queen’s fourth daughter know? After Bayla had pulled the trigger that killed demon-possessed Jack the Ripper, Emmet and she had been instrumental in foiling the demon Asmodeus’ attempt to morph into the likeness of Prince Edward. The demon’s plan had been to murder Queen Victoria and rule as King Edward. No one outside the Grigori and Her Majesty knew the entire truth. As the newest member of the Grigori, a secret society of watchers, Bayla was not at liberty to discuss the matter. The public thought the killer vanished, to remain a mystery. Rumors had surfaced that Bayla had cast a spell to stop the murdering fiend. I used my gift to exonerate an innocent man.

I see. She smiled. Nonetheless, whoever stopped the brutal killings deserves my greatest thanks.

Their conversation turned to the plight of poor women until the Duchess of Argyll was called away.

Bayla continued to make her way toward Emmet and Lord Chilcott, the head of the Grigori. Chilcott was also Her Majesty’s long-standing advisor about Grigori affairs and the otherkind.

Emmet sighed and beamed a smile. I worry when you’re not by my side. He frowned and lowered his voice. Should you not remove your gloves and make sure there’s no trouble?

Her overprotective husband had a suspicious nature; danger lurked everywhere. The last few weeks had been uneventful. No demons, wraiths or the many otherkind and certainly no danger from regular humans.

Lord Chilcott patted him on the back. Relax old chap. Buckingham Palace is the safest place in the world.

She glanced at her white silk gloves. Besides, being bare-handed would not be proper. With so many people around, she was happy not to read everyone’s negative thoughts. Nobody but the Grigori and Her Majesty knew about her gift, or rather curse. Better to keep the Hand of Miriam, or knowing eye, that branded the palm of her right hand hidden. Though, her palm did prickle. Most worrisome, gloved or not, when evil prowled, her hand developed a heated itch in warning.

A dignified looking Englishman wearing an Ottoman Naval uniform and red fez, veered toward them. Lord Chilcott?

Chilcott raised a brow and smiled in recognition. Admiral, or is it Pasha now?

Both actually.

Chilcott bowed. Admiral Henry Felix Woods, may I introduce Lady Bayla Gesher and Lord Emmet Gesher.

The Admiral bowed. How that fez stays on his head defies the laws of gravity. As he straightened, he smiled and whispered. You are the veillier.

Bayla’s eyes widened. You must be…

Before she finished her sentence he hastily whispered, Grigori. He turned to Emmet. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sir Gesher.

Emmet narrowed his eyes in silence. Always suspecting everyone of nefarious intentions. Bayla cleared her throat.

Her husband raised his brow at her and then remembered his manners. Pleasure indeed, sir.

Lord Chilcott chimed in, Admiral Woods was released from the Royal Navy to serve under Sultan Abdul Hamid II.

A second Ottoman approached, a non-military Turk wearing a gold and red embroidered silk jacket and fez. He had large, dark bug-eyes, and a black handlebar mustache. Admiral Woods stiffened. She did not need to read his mind. This little man was not a member of the Grigori and perhaps a foe. May I present Mahir Pasha, the Sultan’s advisor.

Quite a pleasure to meet such a beauty and her dashing husband. Mahir’s voice sounded tentative and breathy as if each word was confidential.

The conversation turned to Balkan politics, yet Mahir stared at her with his bug-eyes as if trying to figure her out. She excused herself to visit the Ladies lounge. On her way, she noticed the tiny in stature but lofty in authority Queen Victoria talking to Prime Minister Gladstone. Odd, catching a glimpse of Her Majesty made her gloved hand burn as if she had picked up a sample of Urtica dioica, stinging nettles. Inside the Ladies lounge, she surreptitiously removed her glove and glanced at the knowing eye. Though it felt inflamed, nothing appeared different.

Exposing the hand to air offered instant relief. She tried not to read the thoughts of the two women preening over their hair and hats before the opulent mirrors. Since acquiring Rebecca of Worms’ Grimoire that detailed how to shut out other’s thoughts, her life had improved. With a brief effort, she cleared her mind. Nonetheless, she picked up their fleeting thoughts of anti-Semitism on a Jewess given a title and invited to such an event.

Bayla smiled graciously and they nervously returned the gesture. Improper or not, she kept her gloves off and rushed out of the lounge. Something was afoot; perhaps even danger to Her Majesty. She looked for Emmet. Despite his towering frame, she could not spot him amongst the crowd. Lord Chilcott and Admiral Woods were in absentia as well. Perhaps they left for more privacy. There was a secret office where Her Majesty met with her Grigori contacts.

A snake-like voice startled her. Lady Gesher, I wanted to talk to you.

Bayla twisted around. Bug-eyed Mahir grinned at her. Rather a smirk. Why? Without her gloves, she discretely faced her palm to read the man’s thoughts. He found her attractive and wondered if she would consider leaving her husband. Not for him but to join his sultan’s harem. Really, give up freedom? Not likely. But there was more. The real reason he had tagged along. Apparently he was a spy sent by the paranoid Sultan to keep an eye on Admiral Henry Felix Woods Pasha. Though the admiral was a loyal servant of the Ottoman Empire, as a member of the Grigori, his allegiance belonged to them above all. Did the Sultan know Henry served the secret society? A few worldwide monarchs knew of the Grigori. Mr. Mahir, have you seen my husband?

As a matter of fact, he whispered, or rather hissed, I was about to ask you the same thing. I went to talk to a young lady. When I returned, Mr. Gesher, Lord Chilcott and Admiral Woods were nowhere to be found.

She wanted to correct him, Sir Gesher, but thought better of it. My husband is not fond of crowds, I’m certain they stepped out for a breath of fresh air. Rather, circumventing the man’s spying efforts.

His eyes grew bigger, if that was even possible. Would they pop like bubbles? Your palm. The Hand of Fatima!

Bayla waved a dismissive hand. Oh, just hand art.

Before she could protest, he grabbed her hand. No, this is not paint. It’s Hebrew.

She tugged her hand from his grasp. I’m Jewish and I fancy having a symbol to ward off evil.

Ah, so that explains your subtle exotic look.

Yes, well I really must find my husband. Reminding him of her marital status, she turned and waltzed off in pursuit of said missing spouse.

Let us both find him.

Bayla didn’t want to be impolite but before she could protest she sensed imminent danger. She instinctively turned her palm toward where Queen Victoria stood chatting with Prime Minister Gladstone. A young man approached carrying a tray of sweets. Beneath the cover was not food but a blaster with an odd syringe. A toxin!

Assassin! Bayla hurtled into him and knocked him to the ground. She landed on top of him, nearly drowning him in her sweeping skirts. She reached for his weapon.

He shoved her aside and grabbed it. He stood and aimed.

She shouted. NO!

A nearby guard sprung in front of the queen and covered her with his body as the assassin fired a dart from his odd weapon. The poor heroic man took the hit and fell, dying only moments later. The rest of the queen’s guards barged into the fray and held the man down.

As the young man was dragged away, Bayla closed her eyes and picked up his motivation. He blamed the queen for his parent’s poverty and had apparently planned the assassination for nearly a year. Her head spun and she caught bits about an Irish Brotherhood to take down the queen.

Is she dead? asked a concerned guest.

Bayla, sprawled on the floor like an animal rug, blinked up. Dead on my back, she muttered, imagining she looked like a turtle on its shell.

Several men hoisted her onto her wobbly legs and then sat her in a provided chair. A kindly woman began fanning her as if preventing a faint.

Another man turned to the crowd. Lady Gesher saved the queen!

Bayla smoothed her gown and adjusted her skewed coif. Queen Victoria curled a smile at her. Bayla returned Her Majesty’s silent thanks with a nod before her staff whisked her away from the guests. A crowd gathered around her, many with praise for her heroism, others with questions on how she knew. Many of the onlookers seemed satisfied with finally seeing the queen’s witch in action. She glanced at Mahir Pasha. He knew the truth. The bug-eyed man had seen her lift her knowing eye and thought what a wonderful addition she was as protector of the queen, but so much more suited for his sultan.

She felt the dizzying effect of the thoughts of many people crowding her mind with further curiosity and some with malice about The Witch of Scotland Yard always being present during trouble. I must leave.

Bayla! Emmet’s deep baritone voice boomed. As if avoiding a stampeding elephant, people rushed from the path of the worried husband racing to his wife’s side. Never mind that he addressed her by her first name in public, she was happy to see him. And even happier he had not shifted into golem form and terrorized all of Buckingham Palace.

Good. She was safe. Yet, Emmet brooded about her brush with death. During the entire hansom ride, he kept his arms folded in front and remained silent, his thoughts distant. Odd, he had an urge to turn into the golem. He darted a glimpse at his hand. His thumb turned into stone and then back to human form. His fear of losing her must have caused the reaction.

Bayla huffed. You are cross with me and I won’t have it.

He was the one person she could not read with her knowing eye. Yet his aloofness, clenched jaw and furrowed brow did not require her gift to read how upset he was. Woman, do you realize how close to death you came? You promised not to take needless risks. It could have been you lying on the floor, stiff in death.

Bayla frowned. Would you have preferred I had done nothing to save the queen?

He would not ruin her proud moment with his solemn concern. Emmet sighed. No! I mean, yes. Why didn’t you call the guards?

She raised her voice, Where were you? There was no time, besides I searched for you to tell you about my premonition.

Bayla was right. He was the veillier’s protector. He swallowed his pride. I’m sorry. I should not have left you alone.

That’s not what I meant. I can’t expect you to always be by my side.

He raised a brow. Why not?

Because, it’s not how couples live. You are more than a golem conjured to protect me. You are my husband.

Emmet wrapped his arm over her shoulders and pulled her closer. I’m both.

Bayla rested her head on his chest. And I’m both wife and veillier. I have duties to Her Majesty and the Grigori.

He lifted her chin and honed in on her lovely face. Bayla was angel touched and gifted with the Hand of Miriam, which allowed her to never age. An immortal. However, unlike him, she could still die of illness, from an accident or by murder. How will you serve if you’re dead?

I suppose you have a point. She poked his chest. Remember, you taught me how to use a sword. Honestly, I can protect myself.

Emmet brushed his thumb over her enticing heart-shaped lips. Bayla, I fought heaven and earth to be with you. I love you and all that matters is you, nothing else. Don’t ask me to wait another lifetime to be with you.

He captured her soft pink lips with a possessive kiss. Dear Almighty, she tastes as sweet as Arcana mead. She welcomed him with a soft moan. He released her mouth and kissed the soft flesh of her throat.

She smoothed her tongue over her beautiful swollen lips. Husband, I love you too.

He captured her mouth with renewed hunger and she responded in kind. Lost in their passionate kiss, until interrupted by the driver, knocking on the cab’s wall. They had arrived in front of their London flat.

It was late and in haste because of the evening’s peril and love’s elixir, he almost broke the door down and they entered. Bayla flung her coat on the hanger, and ambled to their room. He followed her in.

Their housekeeper called, Is that you, sir?

Emmet cleared his throat. Yes, Miss Parsons, you may return to bed.

Thank you, sir.

He drew Bayla in and unpinned her hair. It cascaded down in long dark tresses and his arousal strained against his trousers. He fingered a lose curl. "Meine shayna maidel. You are so beautiful. Wait here, while I check the house."

Bayla batted her eyes and sighed. "Meine guapo golem." She said mixing Yiddish, the language he spoke for hundreds of years with Ladino, her Sephardic tongue.

Emmet kissed her and left to secure their home. He’d no fear of men, but rather demons who could surpass normal security and harm his Bayla. There were sporadic attacks from the otherkind but fortunately, the werewolves and vampires signed a peace treaty with the Grigori on promise Bayla wouldn’t identify their presence to the populace. There was even talk that Bayla could be the next liaison between the Grigori and the otherkind. The last diplomat had been a traitor. Many factions of otherkind were not so trusting on finding another human liaison to replace him. Better they find someone else. He wished to lead a quiet life with Bayla. She would serve as an infrequent consultant and occasionally include an archeological expedition. Maybe even have children, if they were so blessed.

After making sure all the sigils were in place and activated, he headed to their bedroom. Ready to ravish her glorious body. On entering, he smiled. Too late. Bayla had undressed down to her camisole and bloomers. Exhaustion had taken her and she lay on her side of the bed, sleeping with her white boots still on.

Emmet moved closer, reaching toward, but not touching her round soft bottom. What harm would it do to gently arouse her? A tender nibble on her nipples or prodding finger on her cleft between her silk-smooth legs. She would be damp in no time. His throbbing flesh ached for her delicate moist softness. His breathing slowed. He undid his pants and gently turned her on her back. So beautiful with her tousled dark hair, reminding him of a sea siren. She remained asleep. So trusting and angelic. Vulnerable. Shame and guilt overtook his primal senses. What’s wrong with me? I’m not an animal in rut! She is human and needs to rest after the night’s ordeal.

He carefully unlaced her boots, gently pried them off and then tucked her in. She responded with a soft mumble, before returning to her slumber. He removed his clothing. Long ago as an angel, he preferred sleeping in his natal suit, as Bayla called complete nudity. He quietly joined her. He rarely slept but was tired tonight. However, he would not sleep well knowing he could have lost her again. He gave up his wings for her, his ordained soul mate and vowed to protect her for all of eternity. He snuggled up into her sweet warmth. Comforted with her safe in his arms.

Ahh. For nearly a thousand years, he’d longed to be in his corporeal body, to feel, taste and enjoy all the pleasures of life. She had freed him from remaining in golem form. Bayla was no longer his master but his wife. Pleased he could still shift into golem form to protect her and others. He leaned over and kissed her. Nothing will happen to you my love. Only sweet dreams.

He listened to her soft breaths and dozed off.

Gesher flew through dark clouds. His wings large and silver and his body covered in polished silver armor. Once again, he was second in command in Archangel Michael’s Army. No! This wasn’t right! He had given up his wings. He belonged with Bayla.

Her pleas seared his soul. Gesher! Help me!

The cloying smell of smoke accosted his nose. He had to find her. He soared down through the dark clouds. Ash burning his eyes. People gathered around a burning figure. His head spun and the scene below changed.

Bayla ran between long trenches in an empty field. She looked ethereal with her flowing white robe and long dark tresses drifting behind her. Explosions boomed and Bayla ducked inside the furrow. The trenches disappeared, the blasting cannons stopped. The field filled with blooming flowers. Spring. She sighed in relief, but from beneath the earth, a hand broke through the soil and grabbed her ankle. She screamed. Like homunculus saplings, the undead rose. Soon the entire field sprouted with revenants.

Bayla! Before he could reach her, two angels grabbed him. Let me go!

Archangel Michael’s voice boomed. You must stay.

No! He ripped away from their grip. He fell, crushing the lush pastures in golem form. He roared and raced toward Bayla as the revenants pulled her underground.

Emmet! Wake up!

He stirred, opening his eyes and recognizing his surroundings. He was not on some far off field but on the floor beneath their crushed bed.

Bayla sat in the corner of their bedchamber, waving her hands about the dust in the air from her pulverized bed. The golem’s mass had crushed the bed with the force of a large boulder falling from a granite cliff. She shuddered to think what might have happened had she not leapt from the broken brass bed when Emmet roared. Moments after his sorrowful yell, he turned into his colossal, solid, red-rock body. A one-thousand-pound, seven-foot-tall indestructible golem ready for battle and destruction. The thought of being flattened like a sardine can by her own husband was gruesome indeed. It was a miracle he hadn’t crashed through to the first floor. The golem with the Hebrew word, Emet for truth, glowed inferno-red, blinked his eyes open and slowly sat. She inched closer and demanded again. Wake up! He rumbled an irritated groan. Emmet?

He rose like a mountain and took up half the room. His gray eyes menacing, he turned to her. You disobeyed!

His fierce tone made her practically jump out of her skin. A chill ran down her spine. It was the same stifling fear when she first released him from his slumber back in the archives. Bayla was tempted to tell him that a golem must obey his master, not the other way around, however, he was no longer under her command. He’d been given free will and was her husband. They were bersherts, soul mates. Half of one soul, not better or smarter but equal. She stood and narrowed her gaze in justified defiance. Must I remind you, the phrase ‘to obey’ was not part of our wedding vows?

He tilted his head. You promised not to risk your life.

Bayla glanced at their ruined bed. Was he in his right mind? It appears my biggest risk is bedding with you.

He turned and gaped at the demolished bed. He moaned. Oh, Bayla, what have I done? He sat on the ground, causing the floor to creak and the room to shake. He lifted his granite hands over his face in remorse. I’m so sorry. I could have killed you.

Bayla placed a hand on his bedrock hard shoulder. Oh, Emmet, I understand. You had a nightmare. Was it because of her ongoing occasional night terrors? The last two months she had suffered a recurring nightmare. A war devastated