The Bandalore - Pitch & Sickle Book One (Paperback)

Silas Mercer was dying, and sinking ever deeper into a watery grave. Endless torrents of bitter cold fluid breached his nostrils, tearing at his throat and making their way deep inside him. The liquid filled him to the very brim, weighing so much as to make it impossible to pull himself upwards, towards that minuscule pinprick of light that taunted him.
Was it the sun above him? Or was he not so alone as he imagined? Perhaps by some miracle a rescuer peered into the oily depths in search of him. Wherever those depths may be. How had he come to be here?
Help me.
His cries bubbled around him. His lungs ached with a ferocity that felt certain to crack his ribs. He kicked and flailed, struggling to raise arms of lead and reach in vain for the fading light. Ever downward he travelled, where the darkness was ripe with unseen horrors. The pressure grew upon him, threatening to shatter his skull. A dull throb cursed him all the while, an ache at his temple he did not dare explore for fear of finding his bone cracked.
The air — what little of it remained — fled his lungs entirely. And the darkness consumed him, pressing his lids tight against the softness of his eyeballs.
A moment, an hour, a day or a year passed by, and at last his eyelids lifted.
He lay upon his back. The darkness had not fled, but the fiendish waters had done so. Silas sucked in a breath of such magnitude he felt as though he might take in all the air in the world. Releasing an anguished, haggard cry, he threw out his arms—and found a fresh enemy. Barely had his arms left his sides, and they were halted by a solid barrier.
Dear god, not this.
He kicked his feet, only to find he could barely raise them more than an inch. Fear burrowed beneath his skin and made its prickling way about his body. Blind, Silas pressed at his surrounds and found them all too wanting. He lay in this confounded box yet again, a space that offered only the merest of movement. No matter that he recognised the illusion of the mind that trapped him here, his terror could not be stemmed.
The scream tore its way from his core and dug its claws into his innards, bursting from his mouth with all the force of the terror that had birthed it.
Words tumbled from him. ‘Help me! Help me!’
Silas rocked and punched with all the might he could summon, his cries thrust back at him in the confined space, punishing his ears. He was dizzy with panic and desperation. The strangest jangling of a bell came from a distance. What new hell awaited him? The sound was alien to the sharp edges of this old memory. He dared still himself a moment, and was plunged into a silence so deep that he could not bear it. He rocked and punched and kicked anew. But he fought a stalwart enemy. One that did not yield no matter the assault he levelled at it. His energies deserted him, his strength growing as weak as his cries.
Blast this infernal torment, this mindful horror that took him so. When would these memories leave him in peace?
When he at last lay still, sobbing into the darkness, he heard it. A thud above him. Followed by another, and another, so rapid in their succession and clear in their source. Someone dug for him.
A blazing desperation overtook him, and he shouted and punched and cried out: ‘I’m here, I’m here, I’m here!’ His voice, so terribly overwrought and cracked, could barely form the words at all. ‘Here, here. Here!’ He sputtered and gasped.
The next thud was right above him, aimed at the barrier that held him from the world. Hot tears pricked his eyes, burning their way free.
‘Fear not, my lad. We’ll soon have you upright again.’
How heavenly that voice sounded. Silas’s cries hacked at his chest. Blessed salvation had arrived at last to drag him from this nightmare.
The world lightened. The air was cool and caressed his skin like the very feathers of a lover’s fan. A silvery light was gentle against him, but his fragile eyes squinted through his tears. Silas sucked in a new breath. The rich, dank scent of turned earth embraced his tortured nostrils.
‘Welcome back, dear chap.’ Sweeter than honey, the voice was a balm like no other. A face as round as the angelic moon appeared over him. A full-cheeked elderly man of Oriental persuasion, his familiar smile set in place. He had arrived at last to drag Silas free. ‘Do take it easy. Death does take a toll on one.’
But Silas would spend not one more moment in these confines. With a raw sob he launched himself out of his grave, clawing at the rise of earth about him, pulling himself ever higher. His fingers found the coarseness of the rope and clung to it. The jangling of the bell returned once more, not a figment of his burdened imagination at all but clear and crisp upon the air.
‘Do let go of that rope, dear boy. You’ll wake the rest of the dead.’
The amiable man’s request was made politely enough, but Silas would no sooner let loose the rope than he would lay back down in his coffin. Along with the frantic ringing of the bell came the animalistic sounds he made as he clambered back into the world, guttural grunts and hisses mixed with rib-snapping sobs. How he loathed this moment most of all, when fear had rendered him more beast than man. His entire body shook so hard that his teeth rattled in his head. He released the rope and threw himself at the only other fixture of substance he could locate. A simple wooden cross, standing tilted at the head of his grave. Not a marking upon it. No name. No note of the date his fate had befallen him.
‘Mr Mercer, calm down now.’
This voice was new and foreign and most certainly female. But he cared little for it at the moment. Silas had only one purpose. To be free of his grave. The tingling of the bell grew more chaotic as he scrambled from the earth. His fingers found the hard edge of something above him, curling like raven’s claws upon the coolness of metal.
‘Silas, Silas, whatever is the problem?’
He threw his elbows up against the woman who sought to stay him. ‘Unhand me, I’ll not be buried again.’
‘Of course not, you foolish dolt.’
He could not see her amusement, his eyes blurred with tears, but he heard it well enough, bubbling her words.
A shape appeared before him, and Silas bared his teeth. He’d be stopped by no one. ‘I said unhand me,’ he cried. ‘Stop her, Mr Ahari. I beg of you.’
Where the blazes had the old man gone? His saviour had left the job undone this time.
‘Right, that is quite enough, Mr Mercer.’ A sudden blow struck at his cheek. A stinging slap that snapped his head aside.
He blinked, his breath coming in shudders. The world trembled and revealed itself anew. No more did the malodour of the earth fill his senses, rather it was the richness of jasmine upon the air. Silas found himself on his knees, the softness of the earth replaced by the hardness of a wooden surface. The air was pleasantly warm, not tinged with the chill of the midnight hour as it had been that awful night.
‘Mr Mercer?’ The woman spoke once more, her voice as soft as a summer breeze. ‘Are you quite all right? Can you hear me?’
He nodded, somewhat numbly. His hair was damp, drips glancing off his shoulders. He wiped a hand across his eyes. His face was slick with moisture.
The graveyard was certainly gone. That night’s memory chased away once more. But it was not his bed he found himself in as was normally the case, waking in a flood of sweat and twisted sheets.
Instead he knelt in the parlour room of his cottage, the small accommodation he’d come to think of as home these past strange weeks. The fire crackled away cheerfully in the hearth, lit candles adorning the windowsills, his favourite armchair sitting empty and waiting.
‘Mr Mercer?’
The woman who had very likely struck him knelt beside him. Her midnight-blue gown, trimmed with black lace, pooled about her with the fabric almost touching his knees. The skirt was marked with dark patches where dampness clung to the material.
‘Jane,’ he croaked.
The woman nodded, the golden tone of her skin warmed by the glow of the fire, the dancing light catching at the jewels about her slim neck and weighing down the lobes of her ears. Heavy also was the waft of jasmine, for wherever Jane went her perfume dominated.
‘Well then,’ she said quietly. ‘It seems bathing does not sit well with you.’
‘Bathing?’ He frowned.
She fluttered a hand towards him. ‘You can probably release the bath now.’
He turned his head. A copper tub sat alongside him, steam still rising from the waters within, though those waters were indeed rather low. He still clung to the curled lip of the bath, fingers aching, knuckles white. The floorboards about him were drenched, the edge of the rug beneath his favourite armchair saturated.
All at once his jumbled thoughts cleared. ‘Oh my goodness.’
His hands flew to his lap, where his manhood lay nestled between his broad thighs, on glaring display. Silas was entirely naked.
‘You have gone quite red.’ Jane rose to her feet with a coy smile and a rustle of silk. ‘But no need to be so abashed. It is hardly anything I’ve not seen before. I tended you in those first few days after you arrived at Holly Village when you could do little but sleep. And I assure you, you’ve nothing at all to be ashamed of. In fact if I were you, I’d be showing off that splendid body every moment I could.’
His face burned. He’d not known it was Jane who had nursed him through those first confusing days, and the knowledge did not sit well with him. He scanned the room in desperate search of a covering. A towel was draped over the second of the armchairs in the room, a creaky leather chair that he did not favour.
He coughed. ‘Could you please pass me the towel, Miss Handel?’
‘Of course.’ Jane’s gown whispered as she moved, at a pace far too slow for Silas’s liking. ‘Are you quite recovered? That was a rather bad turn you took. I feared you were going to break a bone, you scrambled so madly from the tub.’
Silas swallowed, recalling it all too well now. Dipping his toes into the water, sinking his body into the depths. Curling his knees up to his chest so he might submerge his head beneath the surface.
The wave of panic that rose up to greet him as the liquid covered his nose and mouth.
‘I…I drowned,’ he whispered.
‘There was no chance of that.’ Jane smiled, and what a fine smile it was. ‘You could hardly fit that grand body in the tub as it was.’
‘No, no. Not here.’ Silas stared at the puddle surrounding him. ‘I believe it is drowning that sent me to my grave.’ He could still feel the burn of the water against the back of his throat, the thunderous beat of his heart, the glimmer of light above that taunted him as he sank ever deeper. ‘It came before the other memory this time. I saw my grave, as always, I saw Mr Ahari release me from it. But first I drowned.’ He bit at his lips. ‘Is it possible I could recall such a thing?’
How he hoped he would never recall it again. Every inch of his being recoiled at the mere thought. If his recollection were indeed a moment of his forgotten life, he prayed it would never haunt him again.
‘Anything is likely possible, though Mr Ahari is the only one who would know for certain.’ Jane returned to his side and draped the towel gently across his shoulders. He shivered, the heat of his exertions abandoning him. ‘It must have been a dreadful recall, you were ever so consumed with fear.’ She rubbed at his back, and he leaned into her. Jane was his solitary companion in this place, and since the moment Mr Ahari had introduced them Jane had brought a sense of calm to Silas’s chaotic world. Her smile soothed him, and her perfume left him light-headed with ease.
‘When do you think I might see him again?’ Silas said. His saviour. It was impossible to think of the round-faced gentleman who had dug him from his grave without a peculiar reverence.
‘Oh goodness, that is impossible to say I’m afraid. Both he and the Lady Satine work to no-one’s schedule.’
‘Will he not wish to hear of tonight’s business?’ Silas clutched the towel to him, not certain he was entirely covered, but too distracted to mind. Tonight he was to leave Holly Village for the very first time since Mr Ahari delivered him here, grave dirt still staining Silas’s cheeks.
‘He will indeed, but you may not have a chance to present your questions directly. He has many means of keeping abreast of the Order’s activities.’
Of that Silas did not doubt. He found himself in a most curious place here in Holly Village. There was nothing conventional about his new home, nor the people in it. Though what Silas’s role was to play had yet to be disclosed. All in good time, dear boy. You’ve a place here and you’ll find it soon enough, was all Mr Ahari would say on the single occasion he visited Silas at Holly Village in the month since their graveside encounter.
‘And you are quite certain nothing is expected of me this evening?’ Silas shrugged against the consternation that came with considering the man’s words. ‘What am I to say when I am asked of my place in the Order?’
‘That you are new to its ranks and still in your training days.’ Jane set her reassuring smile upon him. ‘I assure you nothing but your presence is required at the ball. That will be impressive enough. The ladies, and the gentleman will be quite enamoured by you, believe me.’
‘I cannot share your conviction, I’m afraid,’ Silas said. ‘I’d much rather remain here.’
‘Oh don’t carry on so,’ Jane laughed. ‘You’ll quite enjoy yourself I’m sure. Besides, it is high time you shared company other than my own.’
‘I might agree if it were the company of one other on offer, but this is an entire ballroom of scrutiny.’
The notion of setting foot beyond the safe haven of Holly Village frightened him no end. And yet Mr Ahari had deemed his first outing to be one of such grandeur. Silas was to escort Jane Handel to the Marquess of Ailsa’s annual ball.
‘True, there might have been subtler ways of introducing you, we are the guests of honour after all. But this is what has been decided, so that is that.’
The invitation to the ball had been extended to Jane to express the Marquess’s gratitude for services rendered. She was, as was Mr Ahari, a member of the Order of the Golden Dawn. An organisation whose true purpose remained mostly mystery to Silas. Bothersome, considering the expectation that he should one day present himself as a working member. All he had gleaned so far was that the Order purported to deal with society’s more arcane ills and troubles.
‘I suppose you are right,’ Silas said.
If Mr Ahari wished him to attend the ball then Silas felt no compulsion to protest too loudly. Along with the strange reverence for his saviour came a stranger still sense of confidence in the man. Trust, even.
‘Now come.’ Jane rose. ‘You need to dress quickly. And I promise no more baths for you. You are really far too big for the tub anyway. The washbasin will do just fine.’
‘Yes. Yes, it will.’ He forced a smile. ‘Most definitely.’
Jane did not exaggerate to call him a giant. When entering the cottage Silas had to lower his head for fear of cracking his skull. And he had been bestowed the width of a body to match—solid, not portly—with a musculature most defined. In comparison, the petite woman who now leaned over him appeared childlike.
He pressed up onto his knees, catching sight of his reflection in the smooth waters within the copper bath. He appeared every bit as unsteady as he felt, a wildness to his brown eyes. The damp waves of his coal-black hair tickled at the lobes of his ears. He peered at the stranger, for that was what he saw: a man with solid shoulders and muscled arms and torso, a broad face and a solid flat nose, and a decidedly thick neck that he did not much admire – nor recognise. Silas remembered nothing beyond that horrendous moment of his death and rebirth. He could recall no family to wonder about, nor a home to consider returning to. Not the slightest inkling of a history that might anchor him more firmly into this life. It was, according to Mr Ahari, completely to be expected in one who had been reanimated. But the cheery grave-digger could offer little more information that may assist, should Silas have harboured a desire to learn more of his life lost. There was no gravestone, only the simple, lop-sided wooden cross Silas recalled. The only other detail of note that Mr Ahari provided was the location of that sad place. And it was far too close for comfort. That empty grave lay in the cemetery right next door to Holly Village. Silas had, the jovial man informed him, lain between the Potter’s Field and the magnificence of family mausoleums, in a no-man’s land between the forgotten and eternally remembered.
And it was Mr Ahari who had named Silas, for his final resting place did not.
‘I shall fetch us some wine, to aid you in soothing your nerves.’ Jane brushed at the folds of her gown. She was young, he imagined her to be barely twenty years of age, and quite sublime with her sun-kissed skin. Her chocolate-brown hair was pulled up to sit high on her head, curled in a bun held fast with a floral diamond clasp, and her corset pulled in so tight at her waist he wondered how she took a breath at all. ‘How does that sound, Mr Mercer?’
The edge of her corset pushed her breasts high, mounds of soft gold that would sit most perfectly in the palm of Silas’s hands. He dropped his head, mortified by the sudden tightness at his groin that followed such a wayward thought.
‘Yes, yes, wine,’ he said hoarsely, for want of anything better to say.
‘I should think the Marquess of Ailsa’s ball is exactly what you need right now, despite your apprehension. The marquess has a magnificent collection of champagnes, all rather worth dying for.’ Jane pressed her fingers to her lips, the hint of a smile evident. ‘Dear me, I do apologise. That was poor taste. But the champagne is not, I assure you. Raise a smile, Mr Mercer. To be a part of the Order is quite the stylish thing at the moment. Society is alight with talk of the arcane, thanks in no small part to those silly Fox sisters in America. You have timed reanimation perfectly. We in the Order no longer need to skulk around in the shadows, for fear of being named witch or devil and stuck upon a dunking chair or onto a flaming pyre. I cannot tell you how many invitations I have received from lords and barons, and even a prince or two, hoping to outshine their fellow nobles with a seance or fortune-telling party that leaves their guests quite dumbstruck. Once we find your place, I’m certain you’ll find it most delightful an organisation.’
In truth, it did not sound so delightful to Silas’s ears. Seances? Fortune-telling? He could no sooner read a fortune than he could set a decent fire. Fortunately of the latter he had no need to learn, for a marvellously discreet servant tended to all his needs without yet ever having shown sign of themselves. Silas watched Jane sweep from the room, her light feet seeming to float her out of sight. When he was quite sure she was gone, Silas covered himself as best he could with the paltry linen and hurried to his bed chamber upstairs.

He stood before the mirror clad in a crisp, fresh white shirt with onyx buttons and sharply-ironed black trousers. The cut of each was perfect, despite the fact that he had never been fitted for such attire. He had returned earlier today from his post-lunch walk around the grounds to find the suit laid out on his bed. There was no note, nor any sign of the deliverer. Likely it was the same clandestine servant who tended to Silas’s fire and food. Each morning a basket of breakfast items appeared on his doorstep, bread still warm with the oven’s touch and hard-boiled eggs coddled in a gingham cloth. Another delivery came at midday, another early evening. He had never heard a single footstep, nor ever seen the barest hint of anyone else upon the grounds.
He picked up the blue necktie laid out for him, and frowned. The waft of jasmine announced Jane’s always-silent arrival. He had neglected to close his bedroom door, and now she stood in its frame, her full skirts filling the space, two crystal glasses filled with rich red wine in hand. ‘My, don’t you look rather dashing?’ She cocked her head, the long length of her diamond earring touching her shoulder. ‘But you do look rather confused by that necktie. Might I assist you?’
Silas nodded, eyeing the glass of wine with no small desire. ‘I’d be most grateful.’
‘Of course.’ Jane rustled into the room. It was the full skirt to blame he was certain, but yet again she moved as though gliding across ice. After setting down her glass, she exchanged Silas’s wine for the necktie. Her fingers moved deftly with the tuck and fold of material. ‘The Lady Satine spares no expense for clothing for the Order as you can see. Do you not think this attire most wonderful?’
‘It is comfortable, to be sure.’ He crouched to accommodate her much shorter stature. If Mr Ahari were somewhat mysterious then the Lady Satine was doubly so. He knew from Jane’s chatter over their regular evenings of cards and chess that it was the Lady Satine who owned Holly Village, and resided herself in the nearby Holly Lodge which perched upon a hilltop, affording her a prime view down into the village. But Silas was yet to lay eyes upon his benefactor. ‘Is her ladyship attending this evening’s ball?’
‘Oh no, no.’ Jane laughed, as though he’d said something most ludicrous. ‘She’s occupied with far grander things, and probably cares very little about the marquess’s trout pond being rid of its supposed evil spirit.’
The heat of the wine reached his stomach. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Well that is why I’ve secured an invitation. The family were most thankful I sorted out their issue with dying fish. The Marquess was convinced an evil spirit had made its home amongst the waters. He requested the Order investigate the situation. Being as minor an issue as it was, I volunteered myself for the job so as to free up the others for more substantial tasks. Be a dear and lean down a little more for me.’
Silas obliged and Jane resumed the wrangling of his tie.
‘And…was there?’ He took another generous gulp of the spicy wine.
‘What?’
‘An evil spirit upsetting the trout?’ He offered a half-smile, as though he were a party to the joke. For such things must be folly, surely.
‘Oh no, no,’ Jane said. ‘It was a harmless, but rather ravenous, asrai. Pretty creature, very distantly related to the water nymphs I believe, but far more amiable.’ She patted at her handiwork and stood back, hands on corseted hips. ‘There. Lovely, don’t you think?’
Silas blinked, caring very little about his tie. ‘These creatures…they truly exist?’
‘They truly do. You’ll be astonished at what creatures you have always shared the world with. It is thanks to the Order’s endeavours very few humans realise they are not so alone as they might imagine. There is a balance that must be struck, you see, and the Order sees to that.’ She reached to trace a finger along the length of his lapel. ‘But as you are no longer entirely human Mr Mercer, you shall now be privy to both sides of the scale.’
‘Not entirely human?’ His tongue was thick in his mouth.
‘Come now. Do you know many men who have survived the sweep of death’s scythe?’
‘I don’t…well, I don’t recall knowing many men at all. I do not know myself, let alone another. But I suppose you must be right, I am much changed.’ He drained the last of his wine. He harboured no burning desire to find himself. Indeed, the notion of exploring his past left him hollow and uneasy, even more so now after the dreadful bathtub experience, but that was not to say he was not prone to bouts of melancholy and loneliness. ‘I am not the man I was.’
Jane swept about, gathering up a black velvet coat and top hat that completed Silas’s outfit. Her scent drenched the entire room, rich and lush. Perhaps he should be more despairing of his situation but with the heady waft of jasmine it was quite impossible to lament too deeply.
‘Well I rather like what you are. I certainly approve of how you appear.’ Jane beamed. ‘Let us set about building your new life from the ground up. Perhaps this evening we will find someone to warm your bed and smooth away that frown that comes far too easily to you. Come, Mr Mercer. Let us begin simply, and enjoy the dancing and champagne. I can fairly taste the oysters already.’
He slipped his arms into the coat she held and lowered his head so she might press down the top hat to his crown. They were ready.
The gas lamp outside his cottage had been lit. The person responsible for doing so each evening was as elusive as the deliverer of his meals and clothing. By the time night descended, the light burned bright in its glass cage, flames upright and unwavering, a golden soldier standing to attention. Just as it did now. The heat of the wine soothed him and dulled his anxiety well enough that he could almost imagine actually enjoying an evening of frivolity. He strode along, with Jane’s hand resting upon his forearm, the gardens ever-silent around them. Holly Village was the oddest of accommodations. Beautiful for certain, the gated community held stunning gardens of which he was most fond of strolling. He favoured especially the pretty brook that meandered through a thicket flourishing within the village’s high walls, a divine place at sunset. But of its twelve houses, different styles each, only two of them appeared to have residents living within: Silas’s cottage, and Jane’s more elaborate residence with its turreted tower and carved gargoyles beneath the eaves.
They strolled along the crushed-stone pathway away from the dark unoccupied cottages to the imposing archway which framed a pair of magnificent wrought-iron gates. At their approach the gates opened, swinging back in utter silence to reveal an awaiting brougham outside. The lower half of the carriage was painted a pale blue, while the rest was gleaming black. A solitary bay stamped its hooves against the cobbles, setting the tracers tinkling.
‘Isaac, I do hope we haven’t kept you waiting too long,’ Jane declared gaily.
Their carriage driver waited in his seat and did not show any sign he had heard her. He was swathed in dark fabric, a wide scarf around his neck hiding the lower part of his face, and his wide-brimmed hat, black also, dipped over his brow. With the man’s own dark complexion, Silas felt as though he were gazing up at a shadow. He nodded his head in greeting, touching a finger to his top hat.
‘How do you do?’ he said, the wine loosening his tongue.
Isaac settled deeper into the folds of his clothing and did not reply.
‘Wonderful speaking with you as always, Isaac,’ Jane said brightly, managing to board the carriage without having to tug at the generous folds of her gown or accept Silas’s waiting hand to balance her. ‘Never mind him. Isaac doesn’t like anybody; you are not being singled out for special treatment. Now, let us go. We shall be delightfully late. Not so late as to be in bad taste, but enough that the guests will be breathless with anticipation for our arrival. Are you ready, Mr Mercer, to step into the glow of the Order of the Golden Dawn?’
Silas slipped a finger between his starched collar and his neck. Sweat dampened his skin. ‘If I were to answer honestly, I would say I am not sure.’
Jane laid her hand upon his. ‘Well I shall ask you again once the champagne and music has worked its magic and a fine woman hangs upon your arm.’ Her laughter worked upon him like a balm. As light as a wind across a spring meadow.
He returned her smile. ‘Very well then.’
Jane called on the driver to be on his way. Isaac whistled at the bay, and Silas’s foray into the world commenced with a sudden and not altogether pleasant jolt of the carriage.