Where It All Began
1724, England
Thunder rolled dully over the plain. Jupiter glanced up, mildly
surprised because he hadn’t commanded thunder tonight. He shrugged. What
else could he expect of such a godforsaken country as England?
The great stones on one side of the road called to him, speaking of
mysteries not his, a time not his. He ignored them. He would head back
to Italy and the sun as soon as this meeting finished. What maggot had
got into Bacchus’s head, to call a meeting here? And why did the man
decide to become an Englishman? They didn’t even make their own wine,
and since that was the one thing that kept Bacchus sane, his decision
didn’t seem rational. He kicked his horse into a canter. You could never
tell with Bacchus. Unpredictable to the last.
The house at the end of his destination glowed with golden candlelight,
every window gleaming in welcome. Hoping for a warm fire, Jupiter left
his mount in the care of a groom, tossing him a coin in thanks. He
strode up the shallow stone staircase to the open door.
Better, much better. A fire blazed in the hearth, and Jupiter walked
towards it, not checking his pace, a smile of satisfaction curling his
mouth. The doors clanged shut behind him. He must be the last to arrive.
People cleared a path for him, but he hardly noticed, because he was
accustomed to the deference. One of the oldest of the gods left alive he
was the original Roman incarnation of Jupiter. He’d seen much, lived
through times strange to him, suffered the falling away of his support,
but he continued. He felt good.
Jupiter turned as a tray bearing a steaming mug of something fragrant
appeared at his elbow. Bacchus bore the tray. Jupiter smiled in greeting
and accepted the offering. “It’s good to see you again. It must be ten
years.”
Bacchus looked the same, but then, Jupiter expected him to. The gods
never aged, unless they wanted to. The man wore his dark hair longer,
tied back from his face in the current mode in a glossy queue, and was
dressed a coat of deep red satin, embroidered elaborately in green and
gold with a cream waistcoat underneath and breeches the same color as
his coat.
Bacchus grinned. “Ten years and more, sir.” Currently known as the
Marquess of Stretton, Bacchus was one of the leaders of London society,
which meant he was of the particularly debauched and half-crazed
variety. It suited him well.
This Bacchus was a lithe, clever man who managed his special gifts with
skill and humour. A necessary and unfortunate result of being the god of
wine and madness was to occasionally suffer madness oneself, but at
least it was subject to his own will. Bacchus was far from mad today.
Intelligence lit his light grey eyes and he amusement that was part of
this man. Every vessel the god took added something of its own to the
essential character of the god. Jupiter liked this one.
People thronged around Jupiter, eager to greet the only one of the
original Roman Pantheon left alive. Although immune to disease and
aging, other factors could and did kill them, but they always
reincarnated, their essence migrating to the nearest unborn child.
The remaining gods searched for the babies, discovered and carefully
reared them, showed them their attributes and taught them to conceal
them. Men no longer wanted gods, and the Olympians had survived by
realizing this and living among them unrecognized. Times had changed.
Some would never accept that, but they weren’t here tonight, and
wouldn’t be welcome.
It had been a good life so far. Jupiter hoped it would continue in the same way for many years to come.
He’d enjoy this reunion. So many of his kind had survived, despite
opposition by The Ancients and fanatical humans. Time to savour their
survival and celebrate it.
A short distance away in Hill House, the Duke of Boscobel stared out the
window of the Gold Salon at the fast darkening sky overhead. The
festivities in the old castle must have begun by now. The building had
been long derelict, but the central hall remained intact, and the
cellars underneath. He’d had the house constructed in the ruins, a
picturesque folly for parties.
A perfect place for the private gathering of old friends. And a perfect place for murder.
Boscobel had discovered the real identity of Jupiter quite by accident.
Ironic that the very people he’d spent years hunting had eventually
found him. The Italian nobleman had not recognized him as their old
enemy Kronos, and after his first wariness, Boscobel had known himself
safe from discovery. Jupiter showed all his old arrogance and
superiority. This time it would be his downfall. Everything was in place
and tonight would see the culmination of his carefully laid plans.
Nothing could go wrong now. He wouldn’t allow it to.
When he heard a female groan from the room above Boscobel grinned
broadly. He glanced across the room at his friend Manningtree, who sat
uncomfortably in one of the fashionable salon chairs. “Not long now.”
“It had better not be,” Manningtree replied grimly, shifting in his seat. “One of mine has podded already.”
Boscobel shrugged. Another cry came from above. “If they can hold on for
half an hour longer the thing will be done and we’ll have at least half
of them.”
Cosgrove strode the room, like any eager, expectant father, except he’d
personally impregnated three of the women in the bedrooms above. “God,
you’re a cool one! Anyone would think your own wife wasn’t involved.”
“She is there to serve the same purpose as the others,” Boscobel stared
at the plasterwork ceiling above him as though he could see right
through it. “If she doesn’t succeed, I’ll kill her. She knows that.”
“Are you sure this will work?” Sulgrave asked, voice strained with anxiety.
Boscobel turned on him, a sneer curling his thin mouth. “Yes of course.
I’ve been planning this event for years. While you enjoyed your
endeavours of nine months ago, there was far more to this than putting a
few women in the family way. There’s no mistake. We will have them,
gentlemen. For the glory of England.”
His fellow Titans had been only too willing to help him. “After all,”
Manningtree had said, “If we’re wrong, we just have a few more brats to
cope with.”
Not long now. With the gods safely locked in their prison, and the
pregnant women upstairs as receptacles for the new gods, at last Kronos
would regain control. He should never have lost it in the first place.
A practically clad middle-aged woman burst into the room, and without preamble addressed Boscobel. “Another one, your grace.”
Ire rose in his breast. “Damn! Can’t you stop these women? Hold the babies in somehow?”
The woman gave Boscobel a narrow eyed stare. “Your wife is in the third
stage of labour, your grace. With any luck your heir will be born within
the hour.”
He turned away. “Good.” He hoped it would be, and his child would be in
time to inherit. More power under his roof, more control. Sons were the
very devil. In a previous incarnation, his son had taken everything from
him. He’d never trusted them, but this time he’d control the child from
the start. Make him his, instead of hiding him away and trying to
destroy him.
When he turned his back, he heard the woman leave in a soft shush of skirts.
Kronos wondered how Jupiter would feel just before he died when he realized he’d betrayed his fellow gods.
Not long now. The gunpowder he’d seeded under the castle would be primed
by the grooms. They’d die with the explosion, since the slow matches
he’d installed weren’t as efficient as he’d led them to believe.
His watch still in his hand Boscobel consulted it once more, but as he
did, a new light flashed across the sky, followed by a dull booming
sound.
Just like thunder and lightning. Very appropriate. Everyone in the room
rushed to the windows to see a great sheet of golden flame arch up to
the heavens, a cry for help, a cry of despair that no one would ever
answer.
He had done it.
|
|
