Sojourn’s End

By Mikala Ash

London, 1861. In the fog shrouded streets, powerful magic stirs, and three tortured souls collide.

More than ten years have passed since newlywed Lady Carlyle used magic to save her unborn children, and every day she dreads the return of her demonic husband.

Linked by death, the gallant Captain Justin Quin and his troubled lover, Lady Julia Molyneux, are on the hunt for a killer. When their paths come together, malignant forces of undreamt power are unleashed -- forces that will shake an empire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Changeling Press
• Release date: Mar 25, 2022

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Chapter One

September 1861

Narrative of Captain Justin Quin

Formerly of the 93rd Regiment of Foot

(Sutherland Highlanders)

A sensible man would have been lying between the luscious thighs of Lady Julia Molyneux, enveloped by her sensuous aura, breathing in her intoxicating scent, kissing her red pouting lips, and drowning in her unconditional love, not chasing revenge through the cold soulless streets of London.

Thick cloying tendrils of yellow fog, the city’s renowned particular, clung to my legs and followed me into Mistress Keene’s Fashion Boutique on Curzon Street. Euphemistically called an Introduction House in the latest edition of The Adventurous Swell’s Night Companion, the three-story building wedged between a respectable haberdasher and a reputable stationer was simply one of the thousands of discreet bawdy houses boasted by the heart of the world’s greatest empire. Like many other establishments of this type, Keene’s masqueraded as a successful business by day, a modiste in her case, to be transformed after the streetlights flared into an even more successful house of debauchery. It had the added attraction of an upstairs gaming room which supplemented its fleshly appeal with the fickle charms of chance.

The odious miasma, the unwanted and seemingly permanent feature of the city for the past few years, lingered billowing about like platform steam as the colossus of a doorman, a Cumberland automaton, slammed the oaken door shut behind me. Dressed as a liveried footman he was at least six inches taller than I, and broad across the shoulders. The men of iron were becoming more common despite the riots following the attempt on the queen’s life only the year before. Rumours of their involvement in the attack which left Prince Albert severely wounded and on his deathbed had inflamed the patriotic fervour of the mob against artificial men. Personally I didn’t like them. They had no aura, no colours pulsing around them reflecting their emotions for they had no feelings, nor a soul for that matter.

He turned to face me with his dead fisheyes staring right through me. I wondered what he actually saw. Welcome, sir, he said. His voice was deep and resonant, a recording of a famous actor’s voice playing on some sort of reel. I could hear the squeaking of the mechanism behind the mask that was its face.

As if by magic an artfully rouged hostess, thankfully human and wearing a silken nightgown that clung possessively to her natural hourglass form, appeared before me. Now here was life! Her aura was jumping from her skin, a roiling rainbow of colours that danced merrily about her, vibrating with mischievous energy. To her outstretched hands I divested myself of cape, overcoat, gloves and hat. I retained my ebony stick which housed within its stout shaft a silver-tipped blade.

The hostess deftly passed my trappings over to a pair of pale disembodied mechanical hands which reached out from between heavy crimson curtains. With a courteous smile, she appraised me with practiced eyes. Welcome, my lord, she said after assessing the quality of my attire. She offered a deep curtsey, providing a full view of her deep bosom.

Not a lord, I corrected. Captain will do.

She dipped her head. Forgive me, sir. It is an easy error to make, for you have the manner and elegant bearing of the aristocracy. The syrupy compliment rolled sweetly from her tongue. Her voice was unexpectedly cultured. I briefly wondered what chain of ill-fated events had led her to this place.

May I fetch you a glass of champagne before introducing you to my friends?

I let my gaze sweep across the richly decorated parlour taking in the dozen or so young gallants smoking and drinking beside the pianoforte. Several laughing girls in various states of dishabille cavorted about while singing The Tomcat’s Dance, a bawdy ditty currently popular in the music halls. My quarry was not among the group, and I returned my gaze to my attentive hostess. Thank you, no.

My response was met with an expansion of her aura, a slight purse of the seductively curved lips and a flash of anticipation in her bright grey eyes. Perhaps you have more pressing needs?

My friend, I said, dropping a sovereign into her palm. He entered some minutes before me. A gentleman. Short, slim build, well dressed.

Feigned disappointment was followed by a small nod of recognition. Cards your fancy then, Captain?

Cards. Of course. Aye.

Upstairs, second door on the left. Her aura quivered with an urgent pulse, and she gave me an encouraging smile. May I serve you there, my lord?

She no doubt had a strict earnings target set by her employer, and tonight’s heavy fog would probably adversely affect business. I supposed from her point of view a gent in the hand was worth two in the street. Nothing would please me more. First though, are there many players in attendance tonight?

Only a half dozen, sir.

My friend, he is a regular presence?

An occasional chancer only, is Mr. Phelps.

I held out my arm in which she looped hers. I drew her close, breathing in the scent of Paris, and whispered into her ear. What would the pleasure of your company in the gaming room be worth to Mistress Keene?

A guinea for taking me from my role as greeter, she replied, her lilting tone encouraging, and her limpid eyes promising much more. Another guinea for anything more.

Double that if you will accompany me to the card room and provide me with something extra. Your abbess Mistress Keene needn’t know of my generosity if you don’t wish it.

Her aura momentarily blazed. She pouted again though playfully this time. Extra, my lord?

Information. I would be grateful if you tell me all you can about the players. Just between you and me, that is. Whispers in the ear, so none can hear. I slipped another sovereign into her palm. Is that acceptable?

She deftly dropped the coin into an inside pocket of her nightgown. I am yours to command, my Captain.

Then you may escort me upstairs, miss?

Genevieve, sir.

Then Miss Genevieve. Let this be the beginning of a mutually rewarding relationship.

As we entered a smoke-filled room I immediately saw the fellow I’d been tracing through London for the last week. Phelps was settling himself at a table with four other men of varying degrees; a down on his luck toff, a cruel looking moustached want-to-be toff, an ambitious clerk by the cut of his coat, and a rough looking bearded cove more suited for the gambling-hells of the East End. Ladies of the house, wearing only corsets and stockings, their breasts free and jiggling, were busy entertaining them. One was on her knees her head bobbing in the lap of the moustached gent, another sat on the arms of the chair and was biting the aspiring swell’s ear, and another sat on the edge of the table while the clerk nuzzled noisily between her full breasts. The dockworker had two girls in attendance, one on each chair arm. They were laughing and drinking from the same glass of champagne.

A girl approached Phelps, but he discouraged her with a wave of the hand and an apologetic shake of the head. Now that I had a close look at him I must admit I was somewhat surprised. Given my only knowledge of him was from bookshop owners I had expected Phelps to be a hardnosed man of business, a dealer of sharp practice. Instead what I saw was a slight lad of maybe five and twenty, with slicked down black hair. He was clean shaven, his skin soft and pale, almost translucent. His impossibly bright green eyes, sharp and intelligent, briefly surveyed the room. They lingered for a moment on me, and to show I was indifferent to his existence I pulled Genevieve close and nuzzled her neck. Satisfied I was not showing him any undue interest Phelps relaxed, his aura calmed, and he extracted a gold cigarette case from his inside coat pocket. He busied himself for a half a minute removing a cigarette and having it lit by the girl who was instantly at his side with a lucifer. He laid the case carefully beside the three tall stacks of sovereigns arrayed in front of him.

As Genevieve cooed and moulded herself to me I committed to memory the arched eyebrows, a nose that was short and narrow -- dainty came to mind -- and the mouth which was definitely feminine in construction.

The name Phelps had cropped up in my investigation too many times to be mere coincidence. Esoteric booksellers, spiritualists, even a Gypsy fortune teller had met with Mr. Phelps over the course of many years and answered his probing questions. That his interests overlapped with mine guaranteed my close attention.

Genevieve, misreading my intention, opened her thighs to allow her gown to part and my leg to find its way between them, so that her naked quim pressed into my thigh. Her round eyes looked into mine in a beguiling fashion that would make her a favourite with the establishment’s clientele. I kissed her cheek and released her.

Genevieve’s aura fluttered in disappointment as she signalled the girl carrying a tray of glasses. She handed me a glass of wine. Compliments of the house, she said.

I glanced in Phelps’ direction. Tell me what you know of my friend.

She cast me a conspiratorial look. He’s a quiet one. Softly spoken, polite, causes no trouble. That’s about all I know. I wager he’s a Ganymede, what with a face like that and the scent he wears, and the fact he’s never taken a girl for his pleasure, even when he wins a great pile.

He wins regularly?

I’ve not seen him lose once. Which is odd.

What’s odd about it?

He’s gone up against some of the best players around, you know, men of sharp practice, and cleaned them out to a man.

Dishonest players expect to win, I said. They wouldn’t like that, I’d wager.

They don’t, but he wins fair and square, and Mistress Keene doesn’t abide trouble among the gents. She tilted her head to a mechanical hulk even larger than the one at the door standing half shadowed in the corner, his steel arms folded across a barrel chest. Aldos bides no funny business.

I returned my gaze to the table. Who is the black moustache? He’s a winner I can tell.

He is, an’ all. How’d you guess?

The fellow’s truculent aura screamed arrogance and confidence of a man who knew what he was about and usually achieved it. I couldn’t say that, of course, Genevieve wouldn’t understand what I was talking about. The gold watch and chain, the emerald rings, the cigar. He’s cashed up.

She nodded in agreement. Bill Addey, a cruel bastard. Rough with the girls, and easy with his fists. He’s a big spender, so Mistress puts up with him.

The beard next to him?

Cox. He’s an overseer down at the India Docks. He likes to throw his weight around.

The clerk beside him?

How’d you guess? Mr. Dawkins. Works at one of the India Company banks. Doesn’t win very often. In debt something frightening.

Phelps extracted another slim cigarette from a gold case and a girl struck a lucifer and offered it to him. He leaned back his head and blew a plume of smoke assuredly into the air. He gave a coin to the girl. His demeanour spoke of overconfidence. His aura, however, was calm and settled which, if he was successful as Genevieve said, was warranted.

As the night progressed I realised that Phelps was indeed a cunning player. He did not overbid, but won gradually, showing an uncanny sense of the run of cards and his opponent’s tactics. He lost occasionally, deliberately I felt, so as to not alert his opponents to the fact that he was in total control, as if he could see their hands or their auras. Could Phelps possess the ability to read a person’s colours like I could? It was most likely. I wondered how he’d come about his gift. He certainly made good use of it if that was the case. Addey wore a perplexed expression punctuated by his agitated aura, his colours dark and roiling, as he tried to work out why he was losing. After I realised Phelps had some sort of advantage I walked about the room, my arm about Genevieve’s waspish waist, and positioned us behind and off to one side of Phelps so I could watch him more closely. Meanwhile Genevieve played her role of attentive hostess, caressing my cheek, and kissing my earlobes, her hand straying to stroke my trousers stretched tight against my thickening cock.

There were no mirrors or assistance from other bystanders or girls, that I could detect. Phelps was winning fair and square, as Genevieve had said. After an hour it was clear to the other players that they were all losing steadily, and Phelps was amassing a sizeable pile of coins in front of him. The East Ender was the first to drop out, then the poor toff, then the clerk. Addey glared at Phelps, his frustration and anger growing with every hand, his aura pulsating with streaks of iodine spearing through the various layers of colour.

Finally it was over. Addey had lost all. After the shock passed he downed his brandy and pushed away the girl who’d been on his knee. He abruptly rose out of his chair sending it toppling to the floor.

Phelps was busy shovelling his winnings into a blue cloth bag he’d pulled from his inside coat pocket. Unaccountably, the furious Addey was paying him no heed. The least I would have expected from a belligerent fellow like him would have been