Apexology: Horror Page 4

  Marsh made a face as his impeccably polished boots sank into the translucent slime that coated the stone floor. The Marsh mansion’s ancient tunnels ran all the way down to the ocean. The familiar scent of tidal pools and rotting seaweed greeted him as he drew near the audience chamber.

  The elder Deep Ones were already there, crouched on their glistening, moist stone chairs like breathing batrachian idols. Marsh made a leg.

  “Well, son, here we are,” his father croaked, disgusted. “Sacred Mother Hydra, are you still dressing like a demmed molly? Tell me them pantaloons ain’t purple! You look like bloody Froggy-Gone-A’Courting.”

  “They’re not purple, Father, they’re lilac. And I thoroughly intend to enjoy myself while I’m still capable of wearing clothing, so you may as well not bother reanimating that old argument again.”

  His father snorted, an unpleasant, gurgling sound that wasn’t quite as intimidating as his human snort had been.

  “Your letter said something about Carcosa,” he grumbled, dissatisfied.

  “So it did.” Marsh pulled out his scented handkerchief and carefully laid it on the seat of the damp wooden chair that stood before the circle of thrones. Between the slime and the salt spray, being a cultist of the Old Ones posed an indisputable sartorial challenge.

  “There is a young lady in London for whom I find that I’ve developed a tendre,” he explained as he sat, “but she is being pursued by Lord Neely Chambres, the ambassador from Carcosa. I need to know more about the Carcosans.”

  “Why?” croaked one of the elders. “Just kill your rival and abduct the breeder.”

  Marsh gave his ancestor a strained smile.

  “Abducting one’s intended is no longer the thing, Most Ancient One,” he replied, evenly. “And although killing the Carcosan isn’t out of the question, I would like to know how dangerous he is, first. Is he a cultist? A wizard? Can he change shape? Would killing him offend the Great Old Ones?”

  “The Great Old Ones don’t give a rip for any of us,” Marsh’s father gurgled.

  “As well they shouldn’t!” another of the Elders snapped, shifting with annoyance on his stone seat. “They’re the Old Ones! Ancient, powerful denizens of the timeless cold reaches between the stars! We mortals are as nothing to them!”

  “That’s not what the prophecies promised,” his father muttered sullenly. The rest of the Deep Ones shifted and cleared their throats, looking around with marked discomfort. “When R’lyeh rose, things were supposed to change. Cthulhu was supposed to rule Earth and we’d be right there beside him, lording it over all the dryskins.”

  “Dread Cthulhu acts in his own time,” the Elder rebutted, “and if you don’t cease your croaking, the rest of us will be enjoying a batch of extra-large les cuisses de grenouille at dinner tonight.”

  Marsh rolled his eyes at the old argument. The Deep Ones hadn’t been happy to learn that their Lord Cthulhu had apparently spent the strange aeons of his imprisonment contemplating the perils of over-hasty action. When R’lyeh had burst to the surface during Napoleon Bonaparte’s dark rite only to face a fleet of the Royal Navy’s bravest, the octopoid deity had swiftly realized that the world had changed since the good old days of acquiescent Elder Things and psychically controlled slave-races. He had retired into his monolith-crowned citadel to consider his options.

  Like the madness of King George, the hesitation of Great Cthulhu was a bit of a social embarrassment.

  “O Most Respected and Feared Ones,” he murmured diplomatically, “what can you tell me of Carcosa and its ambassador?”

  The disgruntled Elder looked back at him, his great round eyes glimmering.

  “Carcosa is a backwater from the Hyades. Pretty lakeside property,” the Deep One said, begrudgingly, “but it doesn’t get along with its neighbor. Dynastic monarchy, political connection to Hastur, some unsavory rumors about the royal family. The usual.”

  “History of black magic? Pacts with alien races?”

  “Some runic folderol about a yellow sign. I don’t know all the details. Carcosa hasn’t been on Earth that long,” the elder grunted. “Bunch of cultists-come-lately.”

  “Mushrooms,” another sniffed.

  “So, who is this girl, anyway?” Marsh’s father asked, bringing the conversation back to the important point. “Good family? Wide hips?”

  “Lady Camille Wilmarth. Lord Daniel’s daughter.”

  “Hmph. Not wealthy.”

  “Beautiful, though.”

  “Beauty.” The former baronet dismissed the term. “Is she intelligent? Adaptable? Can she swim?”

  “She’s bright enough, and judging from her social success with the ambassador and the Prince Regent, I wager she’s proved herself a quick learner,” Marsh sighed. “I haven’t any idea whether she can swim, Father. It’s not important, is it?”

  “Of course it is. Your mother could swim like a fish. Had us some fine old times in these very tide pools,” his father boasted. Marsh shuddered and raised a hand in an attempt to forestall any further reminiscences. His father plowed on. “Besides, times are changing. Don’t need to be ashamed of the family anymore, hey? You can bring her down to meet the rest of us.”

  “I’ll be certain to do that,” Marsh murmured, standing. “But only if I can pry her out of the grasp of that infernal Carcosan. If I do, will you raise any objections, Father?”

  “Make sure she can swim,” his father said, waving him off with one clawed, webbed hand.

  “This will be an adventure,” Camille Wilmarth told her reflection in the mirror. Her voice wasn’t as confident as she might wish it to be, and her expression not as happy.

  In fact, she felt a little frightened.

  A month had passed since she’d met Lord Neely Chambres at Almack’s, and during that time she’d found herself gradually drifting away from her former circles and being engulfed by his. The company was lofty but intimidating, as the Prince Regent’s companions were a hard-drinking, gluttonous, gambling lot. Until tonight, Lord Chambres had only taken her to the most reputable of the royal occasions—nothing at all like the debauched parties she’d heard whispered about by her simultaneously thrilled and scandalized peers.

  But two nights ago, over cards, talk had turned to a private ball to be held by the mysterious ambassador from R’lyeh itself, Lord Mgl’nath, a man who did not usually entertain and seldom accepted invitations. It was to be a small affair in honor of the new friendship between England, R’lyeh, and Carcosa. Camille had indulged her curiosity about the reticent R’lyehian ambassador by asking Lord Chambres for more information, and he had promptly invited her to attend the ball—a masque—with him.

  She smoothed her dress with her hands, all too aware of their slight tremble.

  She was no green girl; she’d read enough novels to comprehend the sorts of scandalous things that might occur at a private ball, especially in a racy crowd like that of the Prince of Wales. But it was that sense of risk, of taking the plunge into the unknown that had attracted her to Lord Chambres in the first place. The world had changed; the stars had changed. How could she possibly stay the same?

  Not to mention, attending a private ball with the cream of society would surely secure her place in the Prince Regent’s circle and make her a much more desirable marriage prospect.

  She studied her costume in the mirror.

  Her dressmaker had assured her that her gown was the dernier cri in fashion, influenced by the Egyptian Cultist fashion that had swept the ton. It was supposed to be the dress of an Egyptian queen, although Camille doubted the Egyptians had worn petticoats, or quite the amount of golden embroidery that had been sewn over the panels of her gown. Her hair had been piled on top of her head and bound with golden chains, and a delicate gold mask rested on her bed.

  “My lady?” Her maid appeared in the doorway. “Mister Harolds sent me to tell you that you have a visitor. Lord Marsh.”

  Camille frowned and picked up her mask, heading downstairs.

&
nbsp; Lord Marsh’s expression was distraught as he stood in the salon, holding his hat under one arm. His bulbous, slightly protruding eyes swelled even further as he straightened from his bow and took in the magnificence of her gown.

  “Thank you for receiving me, my lady,” he said, after a speechless moment. “I apologize for the hour.”

  “I can only assume you have something urgent to convey, my lord,” she said, walking to the divan and sitting.

  “I do.” He perched on the edge of a chair, setting his hat on his knee. “I’ve come to warn you about tonight’s ball at Lord Mgl’nath’s.”

  Camille felt a prickle of apprehension that she defiantly shrugged away.

  “What warning is that?”

  “The ball ...” the dandy hesitated. “I have recently made a point of acquainting myself with the customs of Carcosa, and tonight is a special occasion in the country. They call it the ‘Night of the Living God,’ and I fear its celebrations aren’t entirely wholesome.”

  Camille looked down at her mask, then lifted it by its handle and set it over her eyes.

  “It is an ambassadorial affair, Lord Marsh,” she said, gazing at him through the eyeholes, “and the Prince Regent shall attend. I’m certain that nothing terrible will happen there, and if anything remotely scandalous should occur, I shall be masked and unrecognizable.”

  “I’m not afraid for your life or your reputation,” Lord Marsh declared, rising. “I’m afraid for your sanity.”

  Camille stood and turned away, lowering the mask. The homely dandy’s warning struck a strange chord in her heart, but she would not, could not, pay it any regard.

  “I thank you for your concern,” she said, stiffly. “You have acted as you thought best. But I believe your concern is misplaced. Lord Chambres will keep me safe from harm.”

  “Damn Lord Chambres!” Marsh burst out. Camille gasped as he grabbed her arm and spun her about. “He’ll rob you of your sanity and sacrifice you to He Who is Not to Be Named!”

  “Lord Marsh!” she protested, dropping her golden mask and trying to push him aside. He pulled her against his impeccably fitted clothes, heedless of how her struggles might wrinkle or crease them. She gasped.

  “Let me protect you,” he pleaded, holding her with more strength than she had imagined could exist in his stocky frame. “My blood may be mixed with the protoplasm of the deepest ocean dwellers, but at least I belong to this Earth. Do you think it’s an accident that Lord Mgl’nath is holding a masque? Those ambassadors are both wearing masks!”

  Camille fought to escape, certain the dandy had gone mad at last—that some latent insanity acquired while he was on his ship during the rising of R’lyeh had come round at last to be born in his fevered brain.

  “Lord Marsh, release me at once! This is utterly improper!”

  “I swear I should abduct you, after all!” He pressed his lips down upon hers.

  Camille froze. How could the polite, delicate Exquisite who’d been her casual companion for so long possess such ferocity beneath his limpid exterior? The expensive fabric of his coat wrinkled beneath her hands as she clutched him for balance, her head spinning. Had she been fooled about his true nature all along?

  For a moment her eyes closed and her lips parted as she allowed herself to forget the Douglas Marsh she knew, the frivolous fop peering through his quizzing glass, and imagine another Douglas Marsh entirely, the much-decorated commander in the king’s navy who’d been in the Pacific when R’lyeh had arisen and had lived to tell the tale. Without a straitjacket.

  Why, even now she could almost smell the ocean on him....

  Then, abruptly, she collected herself and thrust him away. Marsh staggered backward.

  Camille gave him her most withering glare. Lord Marsh’s eyes were a limpid blue and reflected her furious face back at her like a clear pool on a bright day. His gaze held no danger, no whiff of the foreign and forbidden. He was comfortable, commonplace, and, in short, uninteresting.

  “Leave,” she ordered. “At once.”

  He leaned over to pick up his hat and cane, which he’d let fall. His cravat had come loose and his coat was wrinkled.

  “I apologize, my lady,” he said, his large eyes downcast. “I can’t imagine what came over me.”

  “I have no desire to see you again,” she declared, although even as the remorseless words left her mouth, she wondered if she meant them. Surely he was nothing but a harmless fop who’d suffered a momentary lapse?

  Then she remembered the almost inhuman strength in his arms and shivered. No, he was not harmless.

  Lord Marsh bowed and wordlessly took his leave.

  Still shaken, Douglas Marsh threw himself into his carriage, heedless of his already-damaged finery. What in heaven’s name had overcome him? He pulled off a glove and looked down at his fingers, half-expecting to see webbing growing between them, even though he should still be decades away from the Change.

  Nothing. He was still human, and therefore he had no excuse for his irresponsible behavior.

  No excuse but love.

  He rubbed his brow, then stared blindly out the carriage window. Lord Mgl’nath hadn’t invited him to the masque, but by Dagon, he’d be there, and he’d keep those two unscrupulous, inhuman ambassadors away from his Lady Camille!

  Lord Mgl’nath’s house on Park Lane seemed quite the proper English abode, but as soon as a visitor approached the door, its subtle differences began to be felt. The old-fashioned bronze knocker on the door was fashioned in a peculiarly squidlike shape, and the servants who awaited at the door to take his guests’ coats and wraps had an oddly xanthous tint to their skin and a saturnine cast to their features.

  The interior was alight with black candles that were reflected from a multitude of mirrors on the walls, making Camille feel as though she and the other guests were striding through an endless multitude of possible worlds, gazing at their reflections as if at strangers. She shivered as Lord Chambres drew her closer.

  Tonight the ambassador wore long, formal robes of a strange cut and a deep yellow color that he told her was traditional in Carcosa. A yellow silk mask covered his face, startlingly bright against his dark hair. His hands were encased in yellow gloves. The unconventionality of his garments made Camille uneasy; they seemed less costume than pagan vestment. She was relieved, when they entered the grand ballroom, to find that the other guests were wearing costumes as conventional as her own.

  The ball seemed a most original event. Lord Mgl’nath had left his gas unlit, and instead two great, old-fashioned chandeliers covered with burning black candles hung over the ballroom floor. His musicians also wore masks, and the music they were playing sounded off-key — a quaint, foreign tune, Camille guessed, from the ambassador’s home of R’lyeh. But card tables had been set up in an adjoining room and a multitude of drinks and refreshments were available, giving the strange setting a welcome breath of normality.

  “Come,” Lord Chambres said, doffing his mask and tying it to his belt. “Let me introduce you to the ambassador.”

  Lord Mgl’nath was another tall man, like Chambres, but his skin had a sallow cast and his narrow skull was completely bald. He was thin to the point of emaciation, which made his limbs seem unusually long, and Camille wondered if, between his sickly color and build, the ambassador were suffering some grave illness. That would, she thought, explain why he so seldom left his house.

  The ambassador’s costume was that of an Egyptian priest, and he bowed upon seeing Camille’s matching dress.

  “Lady Wilmarth,” he rumbled, in a low and carrying voice. “Well met. As we are a pair, you must permit me a dance this evening.”

  “That would be lovely,” she said, flattered and pleased by the reclusive man’s manners. The ambassador turned his gaze on Chambres.

  “I have made all the arrangements for tonight,” he said. Chambres bowed, and then another couple approached and they took their leave.

  “What’s happening tonight?” Camille
asked. Chambres laid a long finger over his lips.

  “It’s a surprise,” he said. “Ah, there is the regent, dressed as a sultan. Shall we pay our respects?”

  The evening passed quickly, and after the musicians shifted to more recognizable tunes, Camille enjoyed the dancing. She daringly danced twice with Lord Chambres and of course gave one dance to Lord Mgl’nath, whose gait she found stiff and jerky. She was also asked for a turn about the floor with two dukes, an earl, and a general. Her mother would be pleased — she only had one Season left, after all. It was important she secure a good marriage as soon as possible.

  Although ... Camille drifted to the balcony and gazed outside. For some reason, she couldn’t shake the memory of Lord Douglas Marsh’s rude and entirely unwanted kiss.

  Was Lord Marsh wearing a mask, as well? The mask of a dandy, hiding a far rougher and more passionate nature? He wasn’t handsome, of course. Not at all like Lord Chambres. But he’d always been entertaining company, until tonight. Tonight he’d been ... more intriguing.

  “My lady.” Lord Chambres stepped out next to her and she started, feeling a touch of guilt. A proper lady did not fall silent in the midst of a ball. “There you are. Lord Mgl’nath has prepared a special surprise for us all in the park.”

  “These must be the arrangements you were speaking of earlier,” she said, resting a hand on his arm and smiling up at him. “At last, the mystery is to be revealed.”

  “I trust you will find it diverting,” the ambassador said.

  The guests, perhaps thirty or so, made their way in crowded carriages from Lord Mgl’nath’s estate through Grosvenor Gate to Hyde Park. A midnight picnic in costume, they all agreed, was a unique idea, and the group’s spirits were high as they rattled down the paths to the Serpentine, shouting and calling to each other from carriage to carriage. They arrived at the boat house to find the ambassador’s servants waiting for them with a line of pleasure boats. Mgl’nath insisted everyone don their masks again for the watery jaunt.