Council of Souls

by Jen Printy

  Leah cuts me off. “No one has persuaded me to do anything. Quitting school is my idea. Like you said, I need to become good at this. Until I realized I was good at the hocus-pocus mind-control crap, I wasn’t sure that was a possibility. I have hope now, and don’t you dare try to take it from me.” Her gaze falls away. “Besides, I will keep painting. I never said I wouldn’t.”

  Frustration swells inside me, but I stamp it down. “All right. If this is what you believe you need to do, so be it. I’ll support you in your decision.”

  “But you don’t agree.”

  “No,” I say with a shake of my head.

  “Your support’s enough for now.” Leah gives me a little smirk. “At least Artagan agrees with me. He said I have all the time in the world to pursue art school later if I want to. And for the foreseeable future, my focus needs to be on my new job.”

  Her words take me by surprise. “Artagan agrees?”

  Leah runs her hands along her jeans as I do on mine when I’m nervous. “Artagan found me here. He claimed it was a coincidence.” She shrugs, looking skeptical. “I told him about the feelings and my decision to quit school. He didn’t think I was crazy. He listened and agreed it would be best for now. He even suggested he might be able to pull a few strings and get me into École des Beaux-Arts in Paris. Down the road, of course, but can you imagine? Art school in Paris!”

  My jaw tenses. “Did he now?”

  Leah nods and draws in a quick breath.

  “There’s more, isn’t there?” My throat constricts in anticipation of her answer.

  “Yes.” A faint redness blooms across her cheeks.

  “Give it to me. I’m sure my imagination can conjure far worse things than reality. Then again, maybe not, since not in a million years would I have dreamed up the possibility of you quitting school.”

  She scowls at me. “He’s renting a house in the West End. And since I can’t live in the dorms any longer, he suggested I move in there.”

  Inhaling, I push from the crates and move to the pier’s handrail. Resting my hands on the splintering wood, I glower at the dark water. “I was going to suggest you move in with me. You’re there most of the time, anyway. I know it’s not much, but whatever I have is yours.”

  “Mr. Traditional wants me to shack up at his place?”

  “Well, I…” I feel the tips of my ears growing hot. I turn to face her, leaning back against the rail.

  Leah stares at me, lips puckered into a teasing smirk.

  “You said all the kids are doing it nowadays,” I say and then chuckle, feeling uncomfortable in my own skin. When I continue, my voice is formal and stiff. “I figured I could sleep on the sofa if need be. But it appears you and Artagan have it all figured out.”

  “You need to learn to let people finish before you get all pissy. I told him I couldn’t move in unless you came, too.” Leah slips off the crates and walks to my side. “I should have talked to you first. I get that. And if you’re not comfortable with the living arrangement, we won’t go. Moving in with you sounds like heaven, even with you sleeping on the sofa. I just never thought you’d think officially living together was a good idea. With appearances and all,” she adds, grinning, but the smile doesn’t touch her eyes.

  Cupping her cheek in my palm, I run my thumb over the soft curve of her lower lip, eyeing her mouth. She bends her head into my touch. I kiss her on the forehead then between her eyebrows.

  “When you move in, we can set up a studio in the living room. By the windows so you have natural light. I know my apartment’s small, but we’ll make it work.” I pause. “I’d suggest checking with your mum first, but I get the distinct impression that matters little these days. And whatever will Grady think?” My expression twists into teasing horror. “Maybe it’s best we don’t tell him.”

  “We’re engaged. He’ll expect it,” Leah says. My brows dart upward. “Everyone expects it, Jack.”

  “Well, I realize your friends won’t care, but I’m sure your mother will.”

  She laughs. “My parents lived together for three years before they got married. She was pregnant with Grady.”

  “Oh… I see.” I swallow hard. My sense of propriety was losing against everyone, including my growing libido, not to mention Leah’s sex appeal. Maybe suggesting she move in wasn’t the best strategy for my abstinence-until-marriage plan.

  Leah stifles a laugh, probably prompted by my horror-struck expression. She rolls up on her tiptoes and brushes her lips along my cheek, igniting a fire deep inside me. I breathe in her perfume, causing my heart rate to speed up. Yup, definitely a bad idea.

  “If it makes you feel better,” she says, saving me from improper thoughts, “I’m holding on to the job at the coffee shop as long as I can. I owe it to Rachel.”

  “At least that’s something.” I rest my chin on top of her head. “Just promise me you’ll remember who you are. We can make it through anything as long as you do that.”

  “I promise. And you promise never to let me forget.”

  “Never.” I smile.

  A little past one, Artagan strolls into the bookstore, all smiles as if he just won the lottery. I grimace and turn, pushing the heaping book cart toward the back of the shop, its squeaky wheels only adding to my annoyance.

  “I can tell by the look on your face, Leah filled you in on her decision,” Artagan says, following me.

  “She did.” I turn to face him. “École des Beaux-Arts?”

  “What?” Artagan raises his hands in surrender. “An old friend of mine is the dean of students.”

  “Right.” I roll my eyes and resume my course toward the back.

  Rare Books is an awkward place for the conversation I’ve been rehashing in my head all morning. No matter his reasoning, some faux pas have carried through the centuries, and one of them is asking another’s betrothed to move in, whether he extended the invitation to me or not. Artagan is older than I am. He shouldn’t need an explanation in proper etiquette. However, our man-to-man chat is a conversation best saved for private. Despite the quiet corners, with Sally in the back room and the occasional customer, the shop holds no privacy.

  “Call it a preemptive strike,” he persists. “Leah believes the decision to quit school was her own. Maybe it was. But in case it wasn’t… ever played chess?”

  “Ages ago,” I say, walking into the darkened aisle with rows of classics stacked to the ceiling.

  “Then you know sometimes you have to sacrifice a pawn or two to capture the king. If this isn’t Leah’s own decision but Death manipulating her, the promise of École des Beaux-Arts will keep her dream alive in her heart.”

  “So you’re lying to her. Don’t promise things you can’t deliver.”

  Artagan looks offended, an annoyed frown wrinkling his stern brow. “Who says I can’t deliver? Antoinette would do just about anything for me.” He winks and lifts a leather-bound copy of Wuthering Heights from the book cart. Flipping through the yellowed pages, he smiles. “Hmm, the Brontë sisters. Such a delightful pair.”

  If the comment is a distraction tactic, the ploy works. One of my eyebrows rises in speculation. “You’re suggesting you knew Charlotte and Emily Brontë? No. You know what?” I say, snatching the book out of his grip. “Call it a hunch, but I have a feeling I don’t want to know. And you wonder why moving in with the likes of you is bothersome. Your bedroom probably has a revolving door.” I shove the timeworn book onto the shelf with the others, using more force than needed.

  “Revolving door. It’s not a bad idea, you know.” Grabbing another book off my cart, Artagan hums an old pub favorite—a song about long nights and women with loose morals—while perusing its antiquated pages.

  “It’s a good thing you’re the way you are,” I say, interrupting his melody. “Immortal, I mean. With your kind of behavior, I’m sure you’ve been at the wrong e
nd of a blade defending your dishonor and the ruined reputation of some lady too many times to count.”

  Artagan chuckles as if laughing at his own private joke and leans against the shelf. “Aren’t we high and mighty today?” His tone is condescending. “I see my little proposal of moving in has rubbed you the wrong way.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re overreacting. Not to mention being a bit childish.”

  I mutter an unrepeatable suggestion of what he can do with his opinions, not bothering to look at him.

  He laughs again. “Just so you know, I fully expected you to join Leah. Mi casa es su casa. I’m surprised you haven’t scurried home to that rathole of yours and started packing as we speak, since you’re not the type who’s comfortable with his betrothed living with an unattached man as dashing as myself.” He pauses. “In my house of depravity.”

  I glare at him but say nothing.

  His attention wanders back to the book. “Before you make any rash decisions, though, you may want to hear my news. The council is arriving within the week. Including Domitilla, I might add.”

  “I didn’t expect them to come so soon,” I say.

  He shrugs, seeming not to notice my reaction. “There’s no formal meeting set as yet, though Thanatos has acquired our new temporary headquarters—an abandoned church on High Street. So we can expect them all very soon.”

  Nothing unexpected, I reassure myself, ignoring the lump lodged in my throat.

  There’s no trace of any grave concern in Artagan’s expression, but I can tell he’s carefully monitoring it. “Having Leah move in is a precaution. That’s all.”

  “Jack,” Sally says, appearing at the entrance of the aisle. “I need you to—” She glances up from her papers and stops dead. Her gaze narrows, crinkling the fine lines around her eyes and across her weathered cheeks. Her thin lips twist from a smile into a grimace. Just as abruptly as she appeared, Sally turns and walks away, disappearing behind the tall shelves.

  Artagan cocks his head. “Well, that was interesting.”

  “Yeah.” I step forward and then spin around. “Please tell me you don’t know her? Tell me she is not one of your many conquests. I think I’d have to scrub my brain with lye.”

  “Both you and your brain will be happy to know I’ve never seen your boss before in my life. And if her virtue isn’t intact, it has nothing to do with me.”

  “You sure?”

  “Why would I lie about that? Fear of you?”

  My eyes roam back in the direction Sally disappeared. “She’s a good judge of people. She probably can tell you’re a philandering asshole from a mile away.”

  Artagan tosses the book onto the pile. “And she’d be right. Looking forward to being roomies.” He is still grinning from ear to ear when he vanishes into the shadows.

  The remainder of the day is quiet—categorizing books, packing shipments, and waiting on customers. All conversation between Sally and me is casual. Although I catch her staring at me now and again—her eyebrows drawn together, expression tightened—she doesn’t mention Artagan. I am more than happy to let the topic drop. I have much heavier matters on my mind. Besides, if Artagan’s lying and they have shared some tawdry romance, I have no desire to know even a smidgeon about the details.

  However, to my dismay, as soon as the open sign swings to Closed, Sally turns to me. “Who was that man with you earlier?” she asks, her voice devoid of emotion.

  “He’s my uncle,” I improvise. If she’s aware he’s family, that may keep her questions to a minimum. I hope.

  Her stare is unmoving. “I thought you said all your family had passed?”

  “Yes, he and my mother had a falling out long ago. She told me he was dead. Apparently, she lied.” Not bad for on the fly. Although I hate diminishing my mother’s good character, desperate times sometimes demand casualties.

  “Take care, Jack. There’s something about him I don’t trust. Maybe it’s what your mother saw in him as well. The reason she lied.”

  “He’s okay. But thanks for worrying about me.”

  Sally pats my arm. “You’re a good boy. I’ve always had a good vibe about you. I’d hate to see you fall in with the wrong sort.” With that, she wanders off toward the back room.

  I shrug off Sally’s warning. With her keen awareness of people, it’s only natural she’d notice Artagan’s dark nature. Artagan’s revelation, however, sticks with me. The Concilium Animarum is coming, descending upon Portland like the last plague of Egypt.

  Later that night, as I lie in bed with Leah nestled to my side, my stomach churns. Wide awake, I stare at the ceiling throughout the night. Although not a shock, the predictability of this event doesn’t prevent the dread burrowing its way into every cell of my body.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Subtle. Understated,” I say, my tone landing somewhere between sarcastic and amused. I walk up the wide granite steps of the Georgian Revival, with my black duffel slung over my shoulder and a couple of boxes that belong to Leah in my arms. Portland’s West End is the affluent side of town, stocked with elegant mansions and stately brick townhouses. Artagan’s new home is what I expected. With its towering white granite columns and ornate honey-colored facade—a hue bearing a striking resemblance to the buildings of Lidcombe—the house is lavish and completely over the top.

  Part of me believes this little arrangement is more about keeping tabs on me than a watchful eye on Leah. Although I’ve stifled my instinctive reactions, it’s possible Artagan doubts my recent turnabout will last under the added pressure of the Concilium Animarum’s arrival. After the behavior I displayed the last time I encountered the council, ending with me socking Death in the jaw, I suppose any prudence on his part is justified. If I’m right and this is Artagan’s motive, game, set, and match to him because his little ruse worked. I’m here, bags in hand. While I cannot fault Artagan for any unease, I’m determined to prove him wrong. Leah’s well-being demands it.

  I turn.

  Leah stands frozen on the sidewalk, a carton of books clasped in her hands. Her eyes squint into the Sunday midmorning sun, and her mouth hangs open. I cannot help laughing at her expression.

  “I kept the lease on the old apartment if you’ve changed your mind,” I tease.

  “I’m coming.” She climbs the stairs, hesitating after each footfall to gawk and study the old manor further. “Are you sure this is the address he gave you?”

  I nod.

  “Of all the places Artagan could have chosen, he picked Westward Mansion. I mean, when he mentioned the place was on the Western Promenade, I knew it would be roomy, but holy crap.”

  I huff. “Why am I not surprised? Of course it has a name. The monstrosity is big enough to have its own zip code.”

  “And it’s haunted. A group of ghost hunters did a show on the mansion a year ago. They caught a bunch of evidence, some noises, and even a few orbs.”

  “The house is old. It’s bound to make some groans and squeaks.”

  She flicks her hand, waving away my interruption. “Captain Abram Andrews, the man who had the house commissioned, killed his wife and one of their servants in an upstairs bedroom after discovering they were hooking up.”

  I grimace up at the upper-floor windows.

  “According to the show, the captain went on to murder everyone else in the house—his kids, the rest of the servants, even his mother. Thirty-four in all. There’s a poem, too.” Leah smiles and recites the poem.

  “When Captain Andrews found his wife,

  He grabbed his blade and took her life,

  But when the captain killed her lover,

  He slaughtered them all, including Mother.”

  “Well, that’s cheery.”

  Leah grins. “The stories also say no man between the ages of nineteen and twenty-two has survived living
in the house since. They all died mysteriously.”

  “By the captain’s ghostly hand, no doubt.”

  “That’s what they say. And you don’t look a day over twenty.” She cringes in mock horror.

  I laugh. “Under the circumstances, I believe the old captain has met his match,” I say with a wink.

  On the porch, still chuckling, I juggle the boxes and shift most of the weight onto one arm to ring the doorbell. A muffled sound of chimes tolls from inside, and the massive oak door swings open. Artagan’s beaming face greets us, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

  “Captain Andrews, I presume,” I say, bowing my head.

  Leah snorts.

  “Hitting the sauce a little early, huh, Jack?”

  “That would explain my lack of judgment. I am moving in here of my own volition, remember?” I say.

  “True.” Artagan’s grin widens. “Welcome home.”

  The grand foyer is dusky for an entrance hall as imposing as this one. Constructed of dark tiger oak, the trim and wainscoting diminish any brightness cast by the sconces. The only furniture, a grandfather clock, ticks from the far side of the sweeping staircase.

  Despite the beauty, an unmistakable heaviness weighs on me. Although I’ve never been what you’d call a believer, I can’t shake the feeling I’m being watched by unseen eyes. Hairs rise on the nape of my neck and the back of my arms. The only haunting I’ve ever experienced came from memories, not ghostly apparitions. Nevertheless, I’m beginning to wonder if Leah’s stories might hold truth in them after all.

  From the brightness in Leah’s eyes, I can tell she’s a staunch believer. She studies the room, her expression teetering between wonder and trepidation.

  “Lovely, isn’t it? The place cost me plenty, but it’s worth every last cent,” Artagan says, mistaking her sentiment as one of awe and not eerie curiosity. “All this, not to mention a carriage house around back. There’s room to park both your vehicles in there, if you like.”