Curse of the Nandi (Society for Paranormals Book 5) (12 page)

“Is there any name associated with this body?” Mr. Timmons asked, leisurely stretching his legs before him.

“The big white docta's servant,” came the whispered response.

“We have a white doctor in town?” Mr. Elkhart asked, glancing to Nurse Manton for elaboration.

The nurse frowned at John, as if the entire matter was the fault of his lack of articulation. “He means the Medical Officer. The victim is Dr. Spurrier’s secretary, sir. He’s literally lost his head.”

Chapter 16

In the silence that followed this pronouncement, I couldn’t restrain the comment my mind had summoned: “Well, he was a bit of a pompous nincompoop.”

“Oh, Bee,” Cilla chastised me, her countenance the embodiment of tender concern for a man with whom she’d never had the displeasure of being acquainted.

“Must you be off?” Lady Hardinge inquired as her husband shrugged into his overcoat.

With a peremptory nod, he turned to go.

“We’ll accompany you,” I said, and only Mr. Elkhart Senior reacted with concern at my offer, perhaps not fully appreciating the damage I could inflict with my walking stick and my wit.

“Would you like to borrow a bow?” Lilly asked thoughtfully, not the least fussed by the matter at all.

“I would be most grateful if you could supply me with one,” I said, and in the time it took for the others to prepare themselves, I had in hand a fine bow and a decent set of arrows.

Wordlessly, Mr. Timmons, Mr. Elkhart and Drew stood up and prepared themselves. I doubted it was necessary; after all, the Kerit had a head with which to occupy itself, although I questioned the quality of the brains it would be consuming. Nonetheless, I wouldn’t deny the men the opportunity to join the party, for action was usually preferable to inaction, particularly for the men in this group. Mr. Elkhart requested his father to look after the household, and we departed with assurances that we would take great care not to lose our heads.

John adamantly refused to accompany us, even under duress from Nurse Manton. Thus, Mr. Timmons took up the driver’s seat, and we huddled in the Hardinge’s carriage which was little more than a glorified wagon. The horse-drawn transport would’ve been considered a poor man’s carriage in London, but was the best that Nairobi could offer. Not withstanding its relative grandeur compared to our own modest two-wheeled ox wagon, it still bounced dreadfully along the uneven ground.

“Beatrice.”

The whisper was nearly lost in the breeze caused by our passage, but it was a voice to which I was so attuned that on reflex I discerned the location of the source.

I shook my head at Gideon, wondering how Mr. Timmons, or rather I should say Simon, would react. Gideon wasn’t in the least concerned, for he floated through an unaware Drew and paused before me.

“Go back,” he urged. “Nairobi is no place for the living.”

I shook my head again and delivered a fierce frown which he ignored. Instead, he floated closer, his translucent face a mere hand’s width from mine. “Please…”

“Mr. Knight, I’d appreciate if you would respect my wife’s personal space,” Mr. Timmons said in a deceptively mild tone without turning about to face him.

“Does he have eyes in the back of his head?” Gideon asked me.

“No, but I can sense a nuisance from a distance,” Mr. Timmons replied.

Mr. Hardinge looked puzzled, Drew and Mr. Elkhart exchanged bemused expressions, and I explained, “It’s my deceased husband, Gideon.”

Gideon huffed but refused to leave my personal space. “Your new husband is very possessive,” he complained. “I don’t see why he has such an issue with my presence.”

“Oh where, oh where do I start?” the possessive husband mused.

But before he could launch into his litany of complaints against Gideon, we entered Victoria Street and onto a scene that put all our petty differences aside.

In a puddle of light cast by a lonely street lamp lay a corpse, headless and in a pool of red. Two dark forms hunched over it, lapping eagerly at the liquid. The horses pulled up short and refused to approach. At their nervous nickering, one of the two forms glanced up at us.

“Yao,” I said with a touch of disgust.

Yao licked his lips, unflustered and unrepentant. “Miss Knight,” he replied before returning to his feast.

We descended from the wagon and approached the scene. I was only grateful that no other humans apart from John had noticed the occurrence. We would eventually have to summon the Chief Constable, a Scottish fellow with deep red cheeks that provided visual proof of both his temper and his liking for African brew. For now, though, we could study the situation at our leisure.

“What manner of creatures are these?” Mr. Hardinge inquired.

“Indeed,” Mr. Elkhart murmured.

Yawa hissed. “You dare speak thus, Popobawa?”

Mr. Elkhart started at that, for there weren’t many who knew of his mixed ancestry, and even fewer his ability to transform into a giant bat.

“These are Adze,” Mr. Timmons said. “A sort of vampire sorcerer with an affinity for light, fire and trouble.”

He proceeded to provide a round of introductions, for even in the presence of death, one must still uphold good manners and culture. Yao’s smile widened as he straightened from his crouch. “There’s plenty here. We can share.”

“No, we can’t,” muttered Yawa, her face almost immersed in the puddle of blood.

“Yes, we can,” her brother cooed as he stood up and licked around his lips. “I am full now.”

“That is most generous of you,” Mr. Elkhart said with a gracious nod. “But we too have eaten our fill.”

“Good,” Yawa said just as Yao said, “That is a pity.”

“It’s not safe here,” Gideon warned me as he floated by my side.

“And how is that different from anywhere else?” I quipped.

“Is the Kerit still here?” Mr. Timmons asked, and we all tensed in preparation for an attack.

“The lovely thing is gone,” Yao said with a dramatic sigh. “We would love to play with it. Wouldn’t we, Yawa?”

His sister didn’t bother to reply. Drew however did, by shifting into wolf form with a snap and crackle of bones. He began sniffing about the site.

“You have so many pretty pets, Miss Knight,” Yao crooned, while Yawa studied Drew with more interest than was appropriate.

“He’s my brother,” I said.

“Even better,” Yawa purred.

Drew’s ears pricked up and he let out a howl before bounding off, heading toward the train station at the other end of Victoria Street. Mr. Timmons brushed a hand against my arm to draw my attention.

“Is there any use for us being here?” Mr. Timmons inquired.

“Not a bit,” I said, for I’d already studied the area. While the ground was too dry and hard to allow for impressions of the murderer’s path, I could see several red prints leading away from the body. They were roughly the shape of a hyena’s track but bigger, and leading in the direction of the station.

“I need to summon the Chief Constable,” Mr. Hardinge said, his voice tight.

“I’ll stay with you,” Mr. Elkhart said, eyeing the two Adze.

“And you two had best be off,” I said, shaking my walking stick’s metal fist toward Yao and Yawa. “There’s enough here to fuel the rumor mill for days to come without adding you into the mix.”

Leisurely, Yawa stood, stretched in such a manner as to leave the men somewhat breathless from the view, and sauntered away into the shadows beyond our street lamp. Yao grinned, performed a mock bow and followed his sister.

With nothing more to discuss, Mr. Timmons and I began to walk down the quiet street.

“Shout if you need a pair of wings,” Mr. Elkhart called after us.

The main street of Nairobi along which we walked had the predictable name of Victoria Street; for obvious reasons, such a name could be found in every city of every colony of Great Britain. Our Victoria Street was at least as wide as four ox-drawn wooden wagons. The hard-packed mud was perfectly suitable during the dry season, but come the heavy rains, I was certain the place would become quickly impassable. At one end of the rigidly straight street was the new post office, its location having been shifted from a temporary office at the train station to a suitably impressive brick building. At the other end and hidden around a forested bend in the road was the train station itself.

Lining either side of the road were small, wood framed buildings with sloped roofs made of iron sheeting. Produce, wares and people normally cluttered the shops’ entrances, but at this time of evening, the place had a deserted feel, as if it hadn’t been a bustling business center only a few hours earlier. All the windows were shuttered closed, the doors firmly barred against whatever may roam the place at night.

As we drifted farther down, we passed the Colonial Stores, which was the only shop that maintained a sternly tidy entrance and would allow no wayward product or person to mar the orderliness thus imposed.

We reached the bend in the road without incident, which was a clear indication to me that something was amiss. To not see, hear or smell any indication of the murderer was odd enough. More peculiar was the lack of scuffling sounds from nocturnal birds and beasts that normally rummaged around the refuse piles of the town. The suffocating silence that resulted from their absence left my nerves tingling.

Without speaking on the matter, we both prepared in our own ways. Just as I released the blade from one end of my walking stick, I could feel Mr. Timmons flex his energy in preparation for whatever might await us around the bend and on the other side of the thick stand of trees.

“Stay behind me,” Mr. Timmons murmured.

“Simon, I’m quite capable of handling such situations,” I said with some impertinence.

“Of that I have no doubt,” he said with a bit of a growl in his voice, “but at the least, humor your husband, if you don’t mind.”

My attention shifted from the shadowy trees to Mr. Timmons. “As a matter of fact, I mind very much,” I said. “While you are my husband, I’m still a trained and experienced paranormal investigator.” My agitation caused my wolf energy to appear at my side, and it was all I could do to direct it into my metal hand rather than at the thick head of the man by my side.

Mr. Timmons spun about to block me, his gray eyes darkening into storm clouds. “That’s all well and good, Beatrice, but I'm not about to allow you to rush into the unknown alone. It was bad enough to watch you endanger yourself before we were married. Now, it would be intolerable.”

“Allow?” I repeated, my metal hand glowing brighter with my emotions.

“Perhaps that was the wrong choice of words,” Mr. Timmons admitted. Before I could scold him further, he continued with a mildness I didn’t quite trust. “But it’s perfectly acceptable, even socially required, for a man to wish to defend his wife, and it would be most gratifying if she would allow him to do so on occasion.”

Every fiber of my being tensed in protest, for had I not always prided myself on my willful independence and self-reliance? I began to argue the point when I observed within Simon’s stormy eyes a quiet desperation that forced me into a moment of uncomfortable inner contemplation, an activity in which I was not accustomed to engaging. The discomfort of my inner landscape was as great as my resistance to dependency on another.

“Is it not enough that I thank you for assisting me?” I demanded, not willing to relent.

“No,” he said with finality. “I want you to not only voice gratitude but feel it, rather than expressing a grudging acceptance. You are not immune to the frailties of the mortal frame that Plague us all, Beatrice.”

While I had always been able to observe another’s energies, I was not as competent at empathizing with the emotions therein. Yet caught up in the imploring gaze of Mr. Timmons, I experienced a rawness that was not my own, and a softening of the heart that was.

We stared at each other, silently battling pride and fear. I was the first to relent. My ire evaporated and when I spoke, it was to utter words that surprised my mind and delighted my heart: “Thank you, Mr. Timmons. I truly am grateful for your assistance.”

His eyes closed as if he were offering a brief prayer, and he said, “It’s always my pleasure.”