The Imp Prince Read online

  “He is nothing but a bespawler, spitting and drooling over everything!”

  “Where am I expected to go? What will I do?”

  “The shortsighted mumblecrust! Does he not fathom that I too care for his mother? That I drink not out of disrespect, but to dull my senses? Does he not remember that I lost my family as well?”

  And more, a new pronouncement at irregular intervals until the third bottle was done.

  Then, abruptly, he let go of the serving maid and collapsed onto the divan. He held his head in his hands and bawled out loud.

  “What am I going to do?”

  The servants had been through much during Lady Ivy’s illness. They’d had to cope with her paranoia and irrational urges. They’d kept her bedding and lace-trimmed nightclothes free from the stains that came with both her sickness and the cures that her physicians prescribed.

  They’d endured her mad ravings of distrust that in the early phases of her malady had come with thrown crockery as well as her temper.

  They had also suffered the sour disposition and noxious nature of her son.

  Despite this, they all reached toward Lyndon in his moment of need. From their perspective, he was a different sort, more worthy of their support.

  The serving maid and the housekeeper took a seat on either side of him and gave what comfort they could. The others stood close.

  “It will be all right,” said the serving maid.

  It was enough to encourage Lyndon to bring his hands away from his face. His eyes were as red as his cheeks, and tears were welling.

  “How will it be all right?” he asked. It wasn’t a challenge. He was just desperate. He was hoping to hear a valid answer.

  It was the housekeeper, a matronly woman of robust health and good cheer only slightly soured by exposure to Lady Ivy’s spite, who provided one.

  “I will talk with Ferdinand when I can. Perhaps I can get him to listen to reason. Maybe he will change his mind.”

  Lyndon nodded sadly. He knew his cousin well and understood that once Ferdinand had a thought in his head, he seldom let it go.

  Perhaps the housekeeper knew this as well.

  “However, I cannot talk with him until he rises, and his words to you were clear. He wishes you gone by morning,” she said. “We will help you pack your trunk.”

  Again, Lyndon nodded. He knew her words to be true and was grateful for her assistance. With the wine he had consumed affecting his state of mind, he couldn’t help himself. He started to weep once again.

  The young serving maid sought to comfort him. “Perhaps you should find a place not far away so that we can get word to you should Ferdinand have a change of heart.”

  The others agreed.

  “There is a path that leads to a ruin in the woods,” one of them said. “I’ve heard that the basement is unbroken. Perhaps you might stay there.”

  Chapter 5: Ruins

  It was mid-morning, and Lyndon had reached the ruin he sought.

  He had been walking through the gloom and persistent drizzle for a couple of hours, pushing his trunk on a wheeled cart before him. Though adequately marked, the path had not been free from challenge.

  Through most of the year, the darkwood forest was as it appeared then. A never-ending grove of blackened trees that reached no more than three times the height of a man, twisted and leafless and perfect for spawning nightmares of demons and supernatural beasts.

  For a couple of months every year, however, their spindly branches gave rise to a multitude of tiny, pale leaves — which then dropped to form a slippery carpet of decomposition that Lyndon struggled to find purchase upon.

  The ground was also uneven, and within the leaf litter, there were occasional rocks and roots that caught at his cart’s wheels.

  Lyndon would have struggled to push his cart along it on his best day. With his head aching once more due to a combination of Ferdinand’s ill-treatment and too much wine, various aches and bruises left over from the fight, and a general feeling of sour malaise, Lyndon was cursing and straining for much of the journey.

  Nor did the ominous trees do anything to lighten his mood. They added a dimension of unwelcome shadow to the ever present murk. Hidden crows would occasionally call raucously and launch themselves into the sky. Every so often some small creature would scurry about unseen in the leaf litter.

  The drizzle had seemed light when he started. Yet within very few minutes, his face was wet beneath the brim of his bowler, and his overcoat had become heavy with moisture. And with every step he took, he could hear fat droplets of water that had gathered on branches land heavily in the mulch.

  The damp and dismal nature of the forest should have frightened him, even though there was as yet little to fear. But his anger protected him.

  By the time he laid eyes on the ruin, Lyndon had taken to mumbling curses fit to melt his cousin’s ears should he but learn of them.

  Nor did the sight of the ruin give him cause for good cheer.

  While it might once have been a building to rival the Keep itself, there was little left of that former majesty. Much of the stone and wood had been scavenged. That which remained was blackened as if the structure had been caught in a fire.

  The whole was as unappealing as Ferdinand’s ugliest expression.

  Lyndon stood for a time, just looking. He cursed sourly under his breath. How could he stay here, even for just a short time?

  Almost, he decided that he would not. Almost, he turned his cart about and headed away.

  But he had nowhere else to go. And he was tired, and miserable, and filled with despair.

  Instead of leaving, he poked around, looking for a way into the basement.

  He found a separate entrance set to the side of the main ruin. A trap door, partially hidden behind collapsed masonry and held closed by a chain that had rusted almost through.

  Lyndon didn’t even need to look for a tool to pry it open. A single tug on the chain was too much for the rust. It snapped in his hand, and then Lyndon swung the trapdoor open to reveal a wide set of stairs leading into darkness.

  He took a few moments to dig his oil lamp out of his trunk and light it. Then, warily lest the stairs had been weakened by rot, he made his way down.

  <<<>>>

  It was as promised, and more so.

  Judging by the outside, Lyndon had expected no more than piles of rubble and dirt. He had expected the basement to be unusable. Such an outcome would have been fitting given the trials he had recently endured. He pictured himself standing at the base of the stairs and laughing in bitter despair, the basement no better than a cave.

  But perhaps his luck was changing. Perhaps, without Ferdinand’s hostility and his mother’s madness creating an aura of doom that loomed over all in the Keep, Lyndon’s fate had started to smile.

  Aside from a small section where blocks of stone had collapsed from above to fill the internal stairway, the basement looked largely undamaged.

  As his eyes began to adjust to the minimal light, he saw that it was partly a storeroom. One-half of the basement was filled with gardening tools, including wooden buckets and spades and shears, and a scythe attached to the wall.

  Even covered with a thin layer of dust, the scythe’s blade still looked wickedly sharp. It was as long as Lyndon’s arm, and there was no sign of rust.

  The pervasive dampness from outside hadn’t made it within. It even smelled drier. Still old and dusty like the Keep, but not as damp.

  Randomly, Lyndon wondered if Lady Ivy’s illness might have had something to do with the moisture in the air of the Keep.

  Then he shrugged. He would never know.

  The other part of the room was even more extraordinary. It had been done up like a parlor, complete with multiple padded chairs and pair of small tables. Although the furniture was also were covered in dust, Lyndon could see hints of crimson and gold showing through.

  The sight of it was enough to lessen Lyndon’s despair. Perhaps his stay here
would be more comfortable than he had imagined.

  But even that wasn’t what caught his eye most of all. Against the far wall, there was a large bookshelf packed with thick volumes. As he drew nearer, Lyndon could see that many of those volumes had been bound in dark leather.

  He raised his lamp and saw that some of them sported weird symbols embossed into their spines. Others were so old that the leather was crumbling. The titles that Lyndon could read included references to demons, necromancy, and worse.

  It was enough to set Lyndon’s heart pounding faster than usual. He felt the first tingling of anxiety settle in the pit of the stomach. What was this place? What had the people who lived there been up to?

  And did it have anything to do with the ruin upstairs?

  He continued his survey, and what he saw next made his eyes bulge, his anxiety rising to a new level.

  There, burned into the carpet between the two tables and completely untouched by the dust, was a pentagram, with thick candles placed at each corner.

  For a moment, all Lyndon could do was stare. Then he barked a laugh, and his anxiety was gone.

  He didn’t know much of occult workings. He didn’t know whether the books and the pentagram indicated the work of a true aficionado, or someone simply playing a joke.

  Either way, he couldn’t help but consider the possibilities. Maybe he should raise a demon and set it upon his cousin. Maybe he should make all of Ferdinand’s fears come true.

  He laughed again, then turned back to the stairs. He would stay there for at least a couple of days. Until he knew his fate for certain.

  Chapter 6: Footman

  Lyndon had packed little beyond his clothing, a couple of dozen bottles of wine, and his music box. He set the latter upon one of the tables, and soon the air was filled with a metallic, mournful melody.

  With nothing better to do, Lyndon plucked one of the weighty tomes from the bookshelf, poured himself a full glass of red, and sat in one of the chairs.

  He didn’t intend to read so much as to flick through the pages so he could see what those who studied the dark arts might know.

  Then he waited. The housekeeper had promised to send food to him as soon as she could. Lyndon didn’t know how to cook. Nor did he have the facilities in the basement with which to do so.

  As time passed, however, Lyndon’s frustrations grew. Who was he fooling? He would go mad if he stayed here. He was not built for living alone, even for just a short time. Nor did he have a real interest in reading about summoning demons, and there was little else to do.

  Already, he found his mind wandering back to his cousin.

  Already, his melancholy was growing stronger. His life was over. What his future might hold, he didn’t know. Yet it would be unlikely to ever again offer the sloth and indolence he had enjoyed. He didn’t believe that Ferdinand would ever recant his words. Lyndon was banished from the Keep, and that was as it would be.

  Nor could he stay in the ruins forever. Even if he knew how to hunt, he doubted there was sufficient game in the bleak and gloomy forest to keep him alive. So, as long as he stayed there, he was dependent on the largess of those in the Keep.

  A single word from Ferdinand would be all it took to stem the flow of that largess.

  It was far from an ideal situation.

  As he listened to his music box and drank, his frustrations and melancholy turned into anger. He wished that he had done more than back away from Ferdinand’s blows the day before. He wished he had fought back, beating his fists against Ferdinand’s face, mashing it even further than it already was.

  Perhaps the outcome would have been the same, with his cousin banishing him from the Keep. Perhaps it would have been worse. But at least he would have been able to look back with fondness at the memory.

  As the hours slowly passed, Lyndon drank and worked his way into a well of self-pity. He was again at the point of muttering imprecations when he heard someone call out.

  “Halloo! Is there anyone about? I’m looking for Lyndon!”

  The voice was one Lyndon recognized, but not one of those he had been expecting. He had thought the young serving maid might be the one to bring his dinner. He had hoped it would be. He had also hoped that she might be willing to help him pass the time more pleasurably.

  But this voice was male. One of the footmen, he thought, although not one with whom he was particularly friendly.

  Jules was his name. A scurrilous type if ever there was one.

  Why had the housekeeper sent him?

  Not that it mattered. He’d had nothing but wine to fill his stomach since before he’d left the Keep. Food would be welcome no matter who brought it.

  With that thought in mind, Lyndon heaved himself out of his chair and staggered back to the trapdoor, his head swirling and thick through too much drink.

  He had to clutch at the wall for balance as he stumbled up the stairs. He’d left the trapdoor open, and wondered why the man hadn’t seen it.

  Or maybe he had.

  As soon as Lyndon was high enough to poke his head out, he heard a grunt of effort and felt a sharp pain on his shoulder. Surprised more than scared or hurt, Lyndon flinched back and almost fell down the stairs. He saved himself by virtue of unconscious grace and sheer luck, and turned to see what had happened.

  Jules was at the top of the stairs. He’d come in from the side where he’d been hidden in wait. Had Lyndon been leaning against the other side or walking up the middle, Jules’s knife would have buried itself in Lyndon’s throat.

  Only his drunken need for support had saved him.

  “Huh? What?” It was all Lyndon could manage to say. He was confused. “What are you doing?”

  Jules’s expression was murderous. He stalked toward Lyndon with his knife held in front.

  “What does it look like?” Jules sneered. “I’m offering you a parting gift from your cousin. Now stay in place, and I’ll see it delivered!”

  With that, he lunged at Lyndon with lethal intent.

  Lyndon didn’t have any time to think. All he could do was skip away, which he did with surprising agility. He still didn’t understand what was happening, but one thing got through. Whatever Jules was planning, it was at Ferdinand’s instigation.

  It should have been Lyndon who stumbled. After all, it was he who had consumed two full bottles of wine with no food to soak it up. But it was Jules who misjudged a step. He didn’t fall, but for a moment or two was unbalanced.

  It gave Lyndon all the time he needed to back into the basement.

  Slowly, his sodden brains began to function. He started to understand why Jules was there. Why he had brought a knife.

  Why he had slashed his shoulder so viciously and followed it up with a murderous lunge.

  Jules was there to kill him.

  And it was at Ferdinand’s bidding.

  All at once, Lyndon’s uncertainty and frustration coalesced into hate.

  By rights, he should have been petrified. He should have been so aghast, so shocked at what his cousin had done that he should have been frozen in place.

  He should have been an easy target for Jules’s knife.

  But perhaps it was the wine he’d consumed. Or perhaps it was all he’d endured over the last couple of days. Either way, Lyndon felt no fear at all. And instead of freezing him in place, the danger presented by Jules and his knife spurred him into life.

  He didn’t need to think. Didn’t need to plan what he intended to do. All Lyndon needed to do was act.

  He did so, with a fluidity and speed that should have been impossible in one so roundly drunk.

  Two quick steps took him close enough to the scythe that he could grab it from the wall. He had barely a moment to get a feel for its heft and balance. Then Jules was at the base of the stairs.

  The footman never knew what hit him. Perhaps he didn’t even see it coming. His eyes would likely not yet have adjusted to the gloom of the basement.

  Lyndon didn’t care. All he knew was
that this man whom he had known for more than half of his life had come to slit his throat or plunged his knife into his heart. In Lyndon’s view, that negated any positive feelings he may have had for the man. Even if Jules had been a true friend, still it would have sufficed.

  When Lyndon swung the scythe, it was with his full strength, and nothing holding him back.

  He let out a primordial yell of anger and rage as the scythe connected.

  He had been aiming to lop off Jules’s head. But the scythe was an unfamiliar weapon. Its balance was strange. He’d only hefted its weight a moment ago.

  So instead of whipping cleanly through Jules’s neck, the tip of the blade entered his skull above the man’s ear and punched a hole through to the other side.

  Jules uttered a whimper that could have only been reflex. He loosed his bowels and bladder, filling the air with a repulsive smell. Lyndon saw quite clearly that the man’s eyes had become unfocused. Each of them pointed in different directions

  Jules’s knife clattered to the floor. Then he collapsed, wrenching the scythe from Lyndon’s hands.

  Lyndon stared in horror at the corpse of the man he’d just murdered. He could scarcely believe what had happened. Had he really defended himself with a scythe?

  The evidence was in front of him.

  Lyndon thought he might be sick. The wine he had consumed felt uncomfortable in his stomach, and the smell of Jules’s death made it worse. It was as if he was being tossed about on a boat, as if the liquid in his stomach was sloshing back and forth. It took all of his will to bite down on the reflex, and even then, he wouldn’t have succeeded if he hadn’t turned away.

  His legs were unsteady. The grace and fluidity he had shown barely moments before deserted him. Once more his brain felt thick and heavy. He staggered over to his music box and slammed the lid closed so that he would no longer have to hear the metallic notes of its melancholy tune.

  Then he turned to one of the chairs and sat down, burying his head in his hands.

  For the longest time, he stayed there, trying to process his thoughts and feelings.

  His cousin had tried to kill him. That much was certain. Jules had admitted it and had no motive to attempt such all by himself.