Curse of the Nandi (Society for Paranormals Book 5) (7 page)

Mr. Timmons released my hand, patted it reassuringly, and rose up. “I believe we have thoroughly exhausted your conversational energy and we should excuse ourselves.”

“Yes, indeed,” Dr. Spurrier said with some hesitation, as if aware that there might’ve been a slight made against his abilities but he couldn’t quite identify it. He rose up and escorted us out.

Just as we exited the office, Mr. Timmons half-turned and said, “There was one last point.”

“Yes?”

“About that Plague…”

“Good day, Mr. Timmons!” Dr. Spurrier shouted and slammed the door.

As we stepped out onto the main dirt thoroughfare, I glanced about the place and the diverse assortment of peoples going about their business: Indians with their long shirts hanging over pieces of cloth wrapped about at the waist; leather-clad Africans with red ochre plastered in their hair; English hunters striding about the street as if they owned it; pullers of rickshaws and handcarts sweating under their labor as they competed for space with oxen and horses. They were all utterly oblivious to the danger lurking in the shadows.

“How much time do we have before the outbreak?” I asked.

Mr. Timmons remained silent, and that was answer enough.

Chapter 9

There is nothing quite like a spot of tea to warm the bones and ignite the soul, except being burned at the stake; that will certainly do a fine job of igniting everything. I don’t speak from personal experience on the matter, of course. In fact, it was most fortunate, I mused that evening on the veranda with my cup in hand, that Mr. Timmons and I had not lived during earlier centuries. Surely, we’d have been denounced as witch and warlock, and summarily executed by fire. In all likelihood, that would’ve promptly put an end to our marriage.

As I was pondering our great fortune to have been born in the somewhat enlightened era of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, I heard a haunting wail reminiscent of a demon being tortured. The cry was promptly followed by a shrill scream. I was more than prepared to ignore both, but when one scream was followed in quick succession by another, it became a tedious task to pretend not to notice the ruckus.

“Oh, bother,” I said as I set my cup down, stood up and gazed out in the direction of the commotion. Not surprisingly, the noise was emanating from the camp. While my new home was farther from the camp than the Steward residence was and thus too far off to make out any details, I could readily discern the agitation by the speed at which torches were being lit. They flared into view like a swarm of fireflies.

“Which reminds me,” I said as Mr. Timmons joined me. “Do you think that’s the work of the Adze?”

“Wouldn’t that be entertaining,” Mr. Timmons quipped as he raised a brass telescope to one eye. After a moment, he added, “I think not, Mrs. Timmons.”

A coy smile played on my lips at his rather unsubtle reminder of my proper name. He passed the telescope to me — a wedding gift from the young Elkhart couple, and a most practical gift indeed — and I peered through it.

The scene was chaotic, as I had surmised from the level of shrieking echoing up to us through the otherwise quietness of the evening. Small figures of half-dressed men darted in and out of my circular view, light and shadow chasing them about. Dingy tents were emptied in short order, resulting in an ever-swelling crowd of African and Indian men milling about and on the verge of outright panic, and still there was no sign of the cause.

“Toward the northern edge,” Mr. Timmons murmured in my ear.

Rather enjoying the sensation, I almost abandoned the telescope to engage in other pursuits, but another chorus of screams and shouts compelled me to study the edge of the camp. Several forms were dashing about, and not all of them were humanoid.

“Hyenas?” I asked.

Mr. Timmons tilted his head in contemplation. “They have the sloping back, but are too big for hyenas.”

Whatever the beasts were, they had surrounded a couple of the workers whose only weapon was whatever noise their vocal cords could produce. As if on cue, the beasts leaped in a synchronized fashion, two on one of the men, three on the other. All fell to the ground, at which point I lost sight of them.

“What did Jonas say those brain eaters were called?” Mr. Timmons asked while sipping at his tea.

“Kerit,” I said.

I swiveled the telescope about and caught sight of Mr. Timmons’ previous abode, a small wooden cabin perched on the edge of the tented camp.

As if divining my thoughts, Mr. Timmons said, “It’s a good thing we moved Cilla to the Stanley after the wedding.”

The Stanley Hotel had been the only viable option we could agree upon at short notice, for we certainly couldn’t allow Cilla to remain as the sole occupant of the cabin. For her part, Cilla had been content enough to move her residence to the hotel and to be placed under the benevolent care of its owner, the irrepressible Mrs. Mayence Bent.

Mrs. Bent was a dressmaker by profession but an impressive business lady by vocation, and so beloved by her patrons that they referred to her as Mummy. Located on Victoria Street (the one and only street Nairobi could boast of), the Stanley Hotel wasn’t a particularly impressive place, but compared to its environs, it stood out as an establishment of prestige, having the ground floor made of brick and with windows filled in with glass.

“It will do,” Cilla had reassured us as we’d handed her over to the care of Mrs. Bent.

“She’ll be fine there,” Mr. Timmons continued, squeezing my shoulder. “The commotion is limited to the camp.”

I couldn’t share in his confidence, for at that moment, my rounded vision settled on a glimmer of light leaking out of the doorway of the cabin. Holding up a kerosene lantern, a feminine figure stood in the opening.

Chapter 10

We stumbled toward the small, roughly made building that served
as our barn, Mr. Timmons cursing abominably the entire way. In any other circumstance, I’d have chided him for his uncouth verbosity. As it was, I held my tongue, not wishing to provoke his ire any further.

“It could be someone else,” I eventually offered with little conviction.

“Of course it isn’t,” Mr. Timmons snapped as he pushed open the barn’s sliding door in one furious motion. “That stupid, flighty girl! What was she thinking, wandering about at night on her own?”

“Perhaps she’d neglected to pack something that was urgently required?” I suggested, before hurriedly adding, “She might not be alone, after all. You shouldn’t be too severe on her.”

At his disagreeable look, I abandoned my feeble attempts to reassure Mr. Timmons with regard to the welfare of his one and only niece and goddaughter. But the heat of his torrential anger couldn’t disguise his anguish from me, and no words of mine, however gentle and sublime, would assuage his fiery emotions.

“Nelly, wake up,” he shouted as he slapped my horse on her neck.

With no apparent sense of urgency, the small, fat, dust-colored beast peered at us through thick eyelashes, yawned and welcomed us with a gaseous eruption. With a flick of her tail and a contented belch, she closed her eyes. Unless there was food in the offering, she had no inclination to disrupt her slumber.

Unfortunately for her, Mr. Timmons had other plans. He jerked a bridle over the nag’s head and climbed up without the benefit of a saddle. With an impatient wave at me, he pulled me up behind him.

“Nelly,” I said, knowing she would pay no heed to Mr. Timmons, even if he was now my husband. “To town with haste. But no flying.” In case there was any confusion on her part as per my instructions, I visualized where we wanted to go and how.

With another yawn, she plodded out the barn and sniffed at the air, her eyes beginning to glow with her paranormal energy. Having once been possessed by a snake serpent, Nelly had inherited the creature’s ability to race across land and through air with alarming speed. While it hadn’t improved her atrocious manners, this unique skill had proved to be useful on more than one occasion.

Just as Mr. Timmons tensed with growing impatience, Nelly snorted, stamped a hoof, and hurtled into the darkness, nearly unseating us both. While she didn’t take to the sky, her speed along the ground was sufficient to stir up a great flurry of dust and leaves in our wake. The world about us was a blur of shadows while sound was obliterated by the whistling wind that pummeled our ears.

Nelly stopped as abruptly as she’d begun. With a cheerful neigh, she tossed her head back with impeccable timing, so as Mr. Timmons’ face thumped against the back of her hard skull. Satisfied with herself, she set to tearing at the few bits of grass that had dared to grow around the cabin.

“Bloody beast,” Mr. Timmons muttered as he jumped off and strode up the few rickety wooden steps to the small patio.

“Mr…. Simon,” I called out softly, my voice subdued by the darkness and the eerie silence that had enveloped the camp nearby. Hadn’t there been a grand scuffling of humans and monsters only minutes earlier? And if not, where was the usual hum of muted conversations and movements amongst the canvas homes? What of the insects’ shrill that should fill in the quiet spaces? My skin prickled, although I couldn’t say if it was from the chill breeze that whisked by me or a sense of imminent danger.

“Shouldn’t we investigate for survivors?” I asked, even as I doubted there would be any. There was no wailing or moaning of victims, no plaintive cries for assistance. There was only an impenetrable quiet.

“Not now,” he growled as he pushed at the door. It wouldn’t move. He flung his shoulder against it, but still it wouldn’t budge. He banged on the door. “Cilla. Pricilla!”

My eyes squinted and energy forms appeared around Mr. Timmons, Nelly and a couple of mosquitos eagerly searching for my veins. I gazed out toward the camp. Several tents had collapsed, but there was no glow of life in the vicinity. Farther out, deeper into the camp and closer to the open plains, numerous humans glowed with fear as they fled in the opposite direction.

From what are they running away?
I could see nothing in pursuit of the crowd and no indication of the Kerit, whatever they really were. There was only silence and darkness, and the sense of foreboding that permeates a field on the eve of a battle. I tightened my grip on my walking stick, grateful that I had also had the presence of mind to sling a bow and quiver of arrows onto my back before racing after Mr. Timmons to the barn.

I was certain I was going to need both before I saw another cup of tea.

“Simon, there’s no light to be seen in there, nor is there any living energy inside,” I said, studying the cracks under the door and around the wooden window shutters. “I don’t believe she’s here.”

He smacked a fist against a window shutter, a final vent of frustration and rising apprehension, before bounding down the stairs. His chest heaved and his energy snapped about him.

“Let’s head toward the Stanley,” I suggested. “She must be returning there, if she hasn’t already arrived.”

If they haven’t as yet found her
.

I quelled the insidious thought, but I could see it reflected in Mr. Timmons’ wild eyes. With a jerk of his head, he grabbed Nelly’s reins and led her down a path between a clump of trees and a few kiosks.

Within a few minutes, we plodded onto Victoria Street. Although better lit than the camp, curtesy of a few oil-burning street lamps, there were still far too many shadowy corners and far too few signs of life for my comfort.