by Robyn Bachar
“This is Mrs. Emily Black. She is a seer.”
A low hiss sighed through the room. The man in the center of the group leapt to his feet. “You dare bring a member of the Order here!”
“Mrs. Black is not a member of the Order. They have refused her aid. I am not so foolish,” Miss Dubois replied. Foolish. I supposed that word would suffice, though I had much stronger words to describe my feelings about the Order’s rejection.
The councilwoman eyed me. “Is that true? The Order refused you?”
I looked to Miss Dubois, and she nodded permission for me to reply. “Yes. They felt it would set a poor precedent.”
The woman snorted. “Of course they did. Step closer, Mrs. Black, so that your view is not impeded.”
Miss Dubois moved aside, allowing me to pass, and I took a few hesitant steps forward. Choking my anxiety down, I allowed my vision to shift. Miss Dubois was bright as ever, casting a noticeable glow from her spot behind me, but it was amazing how little color there was in the rest of the room. The shadows became thicker and deeper, almost stifling, and the auras of the three masters flickered like the flames of distant candles.
“Another victim was found last evening, and her body was mere inches away from the Undiscovered Country. Do you expect the good people of this city to believe that no necromancer was involved in her death?” Miss Dubois asked.
The gentleman in the middle spoke next, a blond man wearing a hat plumed with a ridiculously large feather. “We expect them to believe it, for it is the truth.”
Indeed, he appeared to be telling the truth, but it was difficult to tell from such a broad statement. “The question needs to be more specific,” I said to Miss Dubois.
“Was any necromancer involved in the kidnapping and death of Mrs. Clara Harding?” she asked.
“No,” the councilwoman replied.
Again, it appeared to be true. “How can you be certain of that?” I asked.
“Necromancers do not kill to feed.” The councilman with the enormous hat sounded quite offended by the idea.
“But they can, and they have. That is no answer,” Miss Dubois said before I could voice that opinion myself.
“We enforce our rules and police our own.” The councilwoman’s energy flared brighter in a fit of temper, and that made her easier to read. “Any murder reflects poorly on us, and this many are simply not possible. We would have caught the person responsible by now.” She was very certain of that, and my brow furrowed as I considered her words.
“There is no way there could be a master you haven’t accounted for? Perhaps a foreigner who arrived and did not announce his presence?” I suggested.
Each of the masters’ magic dimmed at that idea, as though they did not like admitting the possibility even to themselves, and sickly greenish-yellow fear dominated the energy that was left. A shiver ran through me, down to my toes, for the situation must be truly dire to cause fear in ancient vampires. I turned to Miss Dubois and winced at her shining energy, and my vision blinked back to normal.
“If it is a master, it is not one that they know of. They are telling you the truth,” I said.
“Thank you,” the guardian replied.
“Our word should have been enough for you, Miss Dubois,” the councilwoman said pointedly.
“I have been lied to before by council members, Lady Brigid.”
An Irishwoman? She had no discernable accent. How interesting.
“Well, I do not know what sort of practices our godless American cousins keep, but I can assure you, Miss Dubois, that we do not lie to guardians here,” Lady Brigid said.
Miss Dubois smiled politely. “I will remember that for future reference. Now, if you will excuse us—”
“I would like to speak with Mrs. Black. Alone,” Lady Brigid interrupted. I flinched, startled. “Why don’t you two join the celebration?”
The other two masters glared at her, but much to my surprise they rose and left the room. Miss Dubois hesitated. “I would rather not leave my companion in your company.”
“I promise that I will not harm her in any way, nor bother her with spell or touch. I merely wish to speak with her.” The councilwoman seemed harmless, which only served to make me more suspicious, but she also seemed sincere.
Miss Dubois stepped forward and touched my shoulder. “Dr. Bennett and I will be right outside if you need us.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. They left, and I was alone with a member of the necromancer council. I tried to imagine the expression on Simon and Michael’s faces if they had known where I was at the moment. What was worse than fury? Seething rage?
Lady Brigid and I studied each other. “I must admit, Mrs. Black, that I am not surprised the Order does not appreciate your unique abilities. They have always lacked a creative element, and they have never truly appreciated women’s magic.”
Though I agreed, I remained silent.
“As I understand it, your husband recently became a chronicler. It must be difficult for you, facing your mortality alone.”
My spine straightened as I drew myself up. “Do you have a point, Lady Brigid?”
“I do.” She smiled, and I shivered, reminded of a wolf baring its teeth. “I have not met a seer in many long years. I know how it is to be a woman in a man’s world. To have your abilities viewed as less important merely due to the circumstances of your birth. Men prefer to forget that the goddess was a warrior in addition to a mother.”
“I am no warrior,” I said.
“Oh, but you could be, my dear. You would be a powerful necromancer. We each retain a bit of our original abilities, and your visions would be invaluable.”
“Mr. Farrell said something similar to me, the night he murdered two people at Lord Willowbrook’s ball, and just before he tried to kill me as well. I can assure you, Lady Brigid, that power has never appealed to me, and I am certain that becoming a necromancer would not solve any difficulties between myself and my chronicler husband. As I understand it, the Order is not allowed to meddle in necromancer affairs.”
“Quite right, Mrs. Black. In fact, your friend Simon St. Jerome was censured quite severely for his actions in killing Mr. Farrell.”
Startled, I took a step back, and the councilwoman smiled slyly.
“He did not mention the trial to you?” she asked, and I shook my head numbly. “It was the social sensation that year.”
A trial…as angry as I often was with Simon, it was easy to forget that he had saved my life that night, and Michael’s life as well. I had no idea he had been in trouble for his actions. Did Michael know? Surely he must, being Simon’s apprentice. Had they both conspired to keep the truth from me? Simon probably believed it wasn’t important for me to know…
“Perhaps you should ask him about it when next you see him. In the meantime, I suggest you take some time to think about becoming a necromancer. Exceptions could be made for your unique situation, particularly if you allied yourself with the right mentor. Such as myself.” Lady Brigid smiled again, and I didn’t find the expression pleasant. In fact, with the veil covering her eyes it was rather disconcerting. “Oh, and please tell Miss Dubois that I would be glad to aid in her investigation in any way that I am able. My two colleagues are not enlightened enough to willingly offer help to a female guardian, but I would be happy to.”
“Thank you, my lady.” It seemed the right thing to say, though I wasn’t sure of the proper way to address her. She waved a hand and dismissed me, and I retreated from the room.
“What did she want?” Miss Dubois asked the moment I rejoined her and Dr. Bennett.
“Merely to talk. The hour is growing late. I think it would be best if we all retired for the evening.”
“Of course,” she agreed. I knew she would ask again once we were safely away in the carriage, and I did not mind that. At the moment I wanted to be far away from the necromancers and their “celebration”.
Miss Dubois led us out of the brothel, and though I tried to
keep my focus on the guardian’s back I found my gaze tempted away to the goings-on around us. How could Lady Brigid believe that I, a respectable wife and mother, would ever willingly join an organization that thought an orgy was an appropriate way to celebrate Midsummer? Perhaps she didn’t approve of their actions. Perhaps she was different from the rest of her necromancer brethren. Even so, it was a ridiculous idea, and I refused to let it distract me further.
“The council is afraid,” I announced upon our arrival within the carriage.
“Afraid?” Miss Dubois repeated.
I nodded. “Very much so. They fear that the killer is a master necromancer who is outside of their community, and as such his—or her—crimes will continue to damage their reputation, and they are powerless to stop that.”
Dr. Bennett snorted. “It is difficult to believe that they are concerned about their reputation after a display like that.”
“Agreed. However, Lady Brigid did offer to aid you in any way she could, Miss Dubois.”
“That may come in handy. What did she speak with you about?”
“She wanted to recruit me. I politely declined.” I smiled dryly. “What is our next step?”
“I will arrange for you and I to attend the next poetry salon that Mrs. Harding frequented. What name do you publish under?” Miss Dubois asked.
“E. M. Rose,” I replied.
When I returned home I attempted to go straight to my room but was waylaid at the foot of the stairs by Simon, who appeared out of the library as though sensing my arrival.
“Where have you been?” he demanded, but I waved a dismissive hand in his direction.
“That is none of your business.” I started up the stairs.
Simon grabbed my hand and pulled me to a stop, and I shivered at the icy touch of his fingers on my skin. “Did you learn anything from your investigation?”
“Has the Order reconsidered its position on allowing me to aid them?”
“No,” he admitted.
I tugged my hand free of his grasp. “Then we have nothing to discuss.”
He let the matter drop, and I escaped to the quiet of my room. A terrible ache throbbed in my head, right behind my eyes, and I kept dropping my pins as I took down my hair. My fingers felt swollen and clumsy, and every creak and groan of the house reminded me of the sounds of the brothel.
I sighed in frustration as my hairbrush slipped from my grasp and clattered to the floor. For a moment I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to center myself to regain some sort of composure, and when I opened them again I gasped at Michael’s reflection in my dressing mirror. He stood behind me, my hairbrush in hand, and I turned to face him.
“You can’t be in here,” I blurted.
“I know. I won’t tell if you won’t,” he teased with a strained smile. “May I?” Michael raised the brush—I had always been partial to having my hair brushed, and it had been one of our rituals before bed each evening. A few moments of calm to ourselves, without the interference of children or mentors.
A blush heated my skin as I nodded. “We’ll both be in trouble when he finds out.”
“Yes.” He stepped closer and ran the brush through my unbound hair. I blinked back sudden tears at the familiarity of the simple gesture, and I took a deep breath and stared down at the pile of hairpins I had just removed. Though it was a simple thing, I had missed it dreadfully.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
I blushed again, arranging the pins in a neat row. “Thank you.”
“Are you going to tell me where you were this evening?”
“No.”
“I was worried about you.”
“I was in the company of a guardian. There is hardly any place safer in all of London.”
“Perhaps. But it is my job to catch you when you faint from a vision.”
I smiled, for that was true. “Did you get in much trouble for catching me before?”
“Yes, and I’d do it again,” Michael said without hesitation. “I’ve missed you, Em. It’s been terrible living these long months without you and the children.” Michael squeezed my shoulder, and I reached up and placed my hand over his.
“Your hands are cold,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper.
“My apologies. I can raise my body temperature, but that requires more blood, and we have been…frugal in our feeding.”
I thought of the blood brothel and the goings-on within it, and the idea of my husband partaking of that sort of debauchery, particularly with another woman, filled me with nauseous jealousy as I stumbled to my feet, out of his reach.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I can’t…” I trailed off, shaking my head. I stroked my throat with my good hand, as though afraid of finding bites already there, or in an attempt to ward them off. “Who have you been feeding from? Before the ritual Simon fed almost exclusively from you. How are the two of you feeding now?” I wasn’t certain I wanted to know the answer. My imagination was filled with enough scandalous images.
“The Order provides us with donors. Male donors.” He set the brush gently on my dressing table. “I would never do anything to betray your trust.”
“Not on purpose, perhaps,” I muttered in reply. He stepped toward me, and I moved away.
Michael sighed deeply. “Emily, please—”
“You can reassure me all you want, but I can see how different you are. Your entire aura has changed. You are simply not the same man I married.” I bit back the urge to add that he appeared just like Simon, but he wouldn’t understand why that bothered me, for Simon’s eccentricities had never troubled him as they did me.
“But I am. I promise you, my body may have changed, but my heart and my mind remain the same.”
He stepped toward me again and held my face in his hands. I shivered and held very still, but there was no hunger in his eyes, only heartache and sadness. The depth of it overwhelmed my defenses and crashed over me, and I struggled to keep from drowning in his despair. My fingers flexed as I fought the urge to throw my arms around him and let him hold me, but my need for reassurance was quieted by the fear that Simon had hammered into my heart—my husband was not himself, and he could not be trusted.
“I love you. You are my soul mate, and I will love you to the end of my days. Nothing will ever change that,” Michael said.
I swallowed hard, choked with too much emotion. “Your days are infinite. Mine are not. Perhaps it’s best that we prepare for that.”
“No. Nothing frightens me more than the thought of facing a life without you. We should treasure every moment we have together instead of wasting them on petty squabbles.”
“This isn’t a petty squabble.” I drew away from him and rubbed my arms for warmth. “This is a serious matter. You already have a life that I am not a part of. We’ve been living in a fairy tale these past few years, avoiding the inevitable. But the truth is that I am simply not allowed to stay with you. The Order has a prior claim, and their will is more important than mine.”
“That isn’t true. This isn’t about the will of the Order. I became a chronicler because it was the best decision for our family.”
“But it was your decision, and I had no say in it. You never once thought of choosing me over them, and now you have a place of honor within their ranks, and I can’t be a part of that.”
“You’re my soul mate. We belong together.”
“You should go before Simon realizes that you are missing,” I said. He began to argue, and I shook my head. “Please, just go. It has been a long day, and I don’t have the strength to fight.”
Michael paused, and then he drew me into his arms with slow, patient movements like a man afraid to spook a skittish horse. He stroked my hair and kissed the top of my head.
“I don’t want to fight with you about this, either, but I’m not giving up,” he assured me. “I love you too much for that. But you are tired and should get some sleep. Rest well, darling.”
“Tha
nk you,” I murmured. He drew away, and I was torn between the desire to ask him to stay and the fear of what would happen if I did.
After he left I gave up on my hair and climbed into bed. I dreamed of Michael, of being wrapped in his embrace. He sank his fangs into my throat, and the pure ecstasy of it caused me to moan as loudly as the whores had in the necromancers’ blood brothel. I awoke with a start, filled with terrible loneliness, and didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.
Chapter Five
I spent the next few days doing everything in my power to avoid the chroniclers and to appease my sister and her husband, all of whom continued to disapprove of my work with Miss Dubois. There was little I could do to help the investigation until the night of the salon, so I was forced to be patient. Simon and Michael went out during the evening, supposedly conducting their investigation for the Order, but they did not ask for my aid or share their findings. Judging by the ever-increasing degree of Simon’s scowl, I assumed that they were not making progress.
Jo seemed placated by my change in focus, but in truth my mood did not improve. I worried about my future with my husband. Perhaps it would be best if I remained in London in the employ of Miss Dubois. I would be able to put my magic to practical use and be close to my sister and her family. Of course the constant headache that plagued me within the city limits might kill me or drive me mad, possibly both…
No, I would soldier on like a proper English wife while I withered like a dying flower and Michael persisted as he was, ageless. I pondered composing a poem about my dilemma: “An Elegy for My Soul Mate, Who Is Undead”. I could read it at the salon, though it might give away my true identity and defeat the purpose of having a nom de plume.
During the day of the salon I did not see hide nor hair of the chroniclers, but when the carriage arrived after dinner they appeared in the foyer, ready to accompany me.
I paused at the foot of the stairs and eyed them warily. “You are not invited.”
“Yet we are going all the same,” Simon replied.
“And how do you propose that I explain your presence? Neither of you are equipped to travel anywhere incognito.” This evening it would be only Miss Dubois and myself in disguise. She had made arrangements with Miss Thistlegoode to obtain invitations for us, or rather for Miss E. M. Rose and her sister.