Poison in the Blood

by Robyn Bachar

  “That’s not true,” Simon replied.

  Folding my hands, I waited for an explanation. He didn’t appear willing to offer one, so I turned my gaze to Michael.

  “We’re going to wait outside, in case there is trouble,” my husband explained.

  “You expect a brawl to break out at a poetry salon?” I quirked a brow.

  Simon shrugged slightly. “It might, if the murderer is there. Michael is worried for your safety, so we are going along, with or without your approval.”

  “You’ll need Miss Dubois’s approval. Whether or not she allows you to ride in her carriage is up to her.”

  I breezed past them without further comment, and they followed me into the night. When the carriage door opened I waved at them in annoyance. “I apologize if I am late. These poor lost chroniclers were wandering about my sister’s foyer, and they followed me like stray puppies.”

  “Emily, please,” my husband said, exasperated.

  “They are insisting on accompanying me,” I explained.

  Miss Dubois snorted. “I thought as much. Andrew did as well. They are welcome to sit with him in the carriage behind us. As I understand it there is a tea house across the street, where they are welcome to wait for us.”

  I chuckled, and the chroniclers left to join Dr. Bennett.

  “Men. They are such stubborn creatures. Now, why poetry, Mrs. Black?” Miss Dubois asked upon our departure for the salon. She was dressed in a ruffled pink ensemble with a matching lacy parasol. I wondered about her habit of carrying a parasol at night, but considering the eccentricities of some magicians it hardly seemed noteworthy. My own obsession with black silk gloves annoyed my sisters, but they were a necessity more than an accessory. I felt clumsy and underdressed in Miss Dubois’s presence, because I’d had to squeeze into one of Josephine’s dresses for my disguise. Jo had always been the slimmest, and having so many children in quick succession had not been kind to my figure. Michael assured me that I was still beautiful—

  I cleared my throat and pushed that thought away. “I needed a creative outlet. Something to occupy my hours while my librarian relatives were buried in research of something or other. I attempted watercolors for a time, but I found myself drawn to poetry. Perhaps I needed to put pen to paper as my family does, even if the intent is different. I imagine life in a guardian household is much more active than a librarian’s existence.”

  Miss Dubois laughed, and I rather liked the sound of it. She had a cheerful, infectious laugh that I was not expecting due to her usual serious demeanor. “Very much so. Dinner often devolved into swordplay. Mother finally forbade weapons at the table.”

  My brow rose as I attempted to envision my sisters armed with swords at the dinner table. Sarah with a rapier was a sight I never wished to see, for her glares were sharp enough weapons as it was, not to mention her acid tongue.

  “Do you come from a large family?” I asked.

  “Yes. I miss them.” Miss Dubois smiled bravely, but I sensed a deep loneliness behind it. Perhaps I was oversensitive to the emotion due to my current situation, but I squeezed her hand reassuringly. As part of my disguise for the evening I had forgone the familiar accessory of my black silk gloves, because they were certain to reveal my identity. My new, colorful pair of gloves did not dampen my abilities, and allowed me to read her energy with much greater ease.

  “It is very courageous of you to start a new life in a new country,” I said. “And you are very fortunate to have such a stalwart friend in Dr. Bennett to accompany you here.”

  The guardian nodded, and this time I was able to discern affection in her feelings toward Dr. Bennett. Of course it would take more digging to determine whether that affection could have romantic undertones, but I noted it and sat back, plotting my next move.

  Before we arrived, Miss Dubois donned a glamour charm, which I had heard of but never previously witnessed. With the use of glamour, faeries could change their forms at will, and an alchemist had somehow distilled that magic into a talisman allowing Miss Dubois to make subtle changes to her appearance. She was immediately disguised as my sister, or rather as Miss Rose’s sister Delia, and after replacing her blonde locks with brunette and her blue eyes with gray she looked much more like my kin than my own sisters.

  Upon our arrival I discovered that there were two types of women in attendance at the salon: young women who were not yet married, like our guide, Mrs. Clara Harding’s friend Miss Thistlegoode, and spinsters who were past their prime. Rather like I had been before miraculously finding my soul mate, so my heart went out to those women. It is a lonely place to be on the shelf, watching younger, more attractive women make happy matches, knowing that you will never experience their joy.

  Miss Dubois was rather past her prime as well, being over thirty, but as magicians our lifespans were longer than those of our nonmagical cousins. She may yet have good childbearing years, and I knew nothing at all of guardian traditions. Their constitutions were far hardier than any other breed of magician. Miss Dubois might breeze through the labor difficulties that had nearly done me in.

  There were a handful of young men in attendance as well, most of the foppish variety. In my humble opinion, I did not want a lover who dressed better than I did.

  “Miss Rose, we were so excited when we heard about your interest in our little group,” the hostess, Mrs. Robertson, exclaimed as she greeted us.

  “I am thrilled that you would allow me to do a reading. I don’t often have the chance to speak about my work,” I replied.

  “Your imagery is so expressive. I’m looking forward to hearing about your inspiration.” Mrs. Robertson’s enthusiasm seemed so sincere that I was unprepared for it and merely nodded and blushed in reply. After being subjected to Sarah’s sneering criticism, compliments made me wary, for I expected them to be followed by a cutting remark.

  “Ah, Miss Thistlegoode, how lovely to see you again,” Miss Dubois said. I turned and smiled at the young woman. She was a witch, like Mrs. Harding, and my fingers itched with the urge to match her. I was certain that there could be a marriage in her near future.

  Miss Thistlegoode beamed at us. She touched my arm, and I felt a strong impression of her urge to help us. She very much wanted justice for her friend, and would do anything in her power to aid our investigation. Her eagerness was encouraging and boded well for the evening. I requested that she introduce us to the other guests in attendance, and we began making our way around the room.

  It seemed strange that there might be a murderer amongst the magicians attending the salon. They seemed an amiable lot, and I began to despair that this avenue of investigation was not going to lead us anywhere. If we could not discover something here, we would need to wait until the killer abducted another victim, which was not an option we wanted to occur.

  With no leads to speak of before my reading, I turned my attention toward doing my best. I had never read to a group before, at least not to a group larger than one made up of my children, nieces and nephews. Thankfully my years of being the eldest sister had blessed me with a loud speaking voice, and my time as a mother had given me a strong constitution. After enduring the irritable antics of colicky twins, little else seemed intimidating.

  I had chosen several short poems to read that had a great deal of personal meaning to me. They were my attempts to reconcile the joy of finding my soul mate with the fear of losing him. Though I tried to focus on enjoying the moment in my time with Michael, every joy had been shadowed by the knowledge that it would not last, as though the Grim Reaper loomed behind each happiness. I poured that pain into my reading, and I succeeded in making my audience teary-eyed, many producing handkerchiefs.

  Fortunately I also succeeded in spotting something interesting. There, just out of the corner of my eye, I spied a shadow against the wall that had no logical reason to be in that particular spot. Thanks to my near-death experience at the hands of master necromancer Mr. Farrell, I knew that masters could hide themselves with
in shadows. Afraid of spooking the shadow, I kept my focus on the room, and continued to watch the shadow in my periphery. I wished that I had some way to signal Miss Dubois and alert her to the shadow’s presence, but it would have to wait.

  The shadow crept closer as I neared the end of my reading, allowing me to spy a few more details. It was in the shape of a slender man, but I lost track of it as I answered questions from the crowd. When I rejoined Miss Dubois I had no idea where the shadow had gone. I leaned close as though about to share a confidence.

  “I saw someone concealed in the shadows during the reading,” I informed her in an excited whisper.

  “Where?”

  I described the spot on the wall where it had first stood, and how it had moved closer. Miss Dubois nodded, her expression stoic, and she asked me to wait while she examined the area.

  Miss Thistlegoode kept me company as the guardian wandered off. I folded my hands tightly as I fought the urge to offer to match the young witch—it was almost second nature to me, because matchmaking was the main outlet I had for my magic.

  “Oh, Mr. Paris, how lovely to see you again,” Miss Thistlegoode exclaimed.

  I turned and spotted a handsome young gentleman. He had the perfect golden curls of a cherub, and eyes that were a singular shade of violet. I had never seen such eyes before, and they sparkled with life and mischief.

  Mr. Paris smiled, revealing gleaming, perfect white teeth, and he bowed politely. “Miss Rose, that was a stellar reading. Simply smashing! Where have you been hiding yourself from our little group before this?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Paris, that is very kind of you. I haven’t had much time to devote to my writing, but with such kind reactions as these perhaps I should rethink my efforts.”

  There was something overwhelming about his presence. It wasn’t the strength that Miss Dubois and Dr. Bennett exuded, but something altogether different from anything I had experienced before.

  “You certainly should. A talent such as yours should be treasured.” Boldly he took my hand and raised it to his lips, brushing a kiss against my fingers. A few years ago I might have swooned at the gesture, but knowing that I had a soul mate, even one that was at the moment a bloodthirsty creature of the night, kept me steady. I smiled politely and batted my lashes and wished for Miss Dubois’s parasol to nudge him away with.

  “Unfortunately my family often feels that my poetry is a petty hobby and not a talent,” I said. It was true enough. “Except for my sister, of course, who has always supported me. Have you met my sister Delia?” I motioned for Miss Dubois to join us, and Mr. Paris tucked my hand into the crook of his arm and began leading me away.

  “There is plenty of time for that. I am sure you must be winded after your reading. The air in the garden will soothe you,” he assured me.

  “Why thank you, Mr. Paris. That should be just the thing I need.” I had already caught Miss Dubois’s eye, and I knew she would be right behind us, so I was not worried.

  Normally stepping into a garden would soothe me, but we were still within London, where there was no comfort whatsoever. I looked up at the night sky and wished I were with Michael.

  “You have the soul of an artist, Miss Rose. It is a rare gift.” Mr. Paris stroked my hand, and I tugged it free of his arm. I folded both hands before me primly and smiled.

  “Again, that is very kind of you.”

  “I consider myself a patron of the arts.”

  “So you attend gatherings such as this often?” I asked.

  “Of course. I am always on the lookout for new talent.”

  “I see. Did you know Mrs. Harding?” I tried to examine his aura to determine his reaction, but his magic continued to be so overwhelming that my eyes watered. Mr. Paris must be unspeakably powerful, and I found myself both worried and intrigued. Perhaps he was a sorcerer? One who specialized in darkness?

  “I did. Poor girl. What a terrible thing to have happened to her and her family… Tell me, are you working on a second collection of your work?” he asked, quickly changing the subject.

  “I am, though I am afraid the subject matter is quite a bit darker.”

  Mr. Paris smiled a predatory grin, and my pulse leapt with a thrill of fear. “I am not afraid of the dark, Miss Rose. Are you?”

  He stepped closer, but I held my ground, studying him with a curious tilt to my head. “What are you?” I asked.

  He blinked, startled. “I beg your pardon?”

  “What sort of magic do you practice?” I clarified.

  “Oh. I am a librarian, of course,” he replied, and I laughed, unable to help myself. “What’s so funny?”

  “You are most certainly not a librarian. Do people truly believe that lie?”

  The smile slid from Mr. Paris’s face as his expression hardened. He stepped forward and tried to grab my arm, but Miss Dubois was suddenly between us, a shining silver blur. With a snarl he turned and ran, and the guardian chased him out of the garden and into the street.

  Uncertain of what to do, I followed. I stood hesitant at the garden gate, wondering which way they went. My vision shifted, and I followed Miss Dubois’s blazing footsteps. I paused next to a blur traced over the high brick wall of another garden. It was another magical doorway, rather like the one I had discovered near Mrs. Harding’s body outside the Undiscovered Country. Foolishly I raised my hand to touch it, despite knowing full well that doing so could trigger another vision, but a hand emerged from the brick wall and grabbed my wrist.

  Overwhelmed with shock, I barely managed a strangled gasp as Mr. Paris stepped through the wall and glared down at me. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “You first.” My voice trembled, and Mr. Paris grinned. He tightened his grip and snapped several small bones in my wrist, and I screamed.

  “Who are you?” he repeated.

  Something bubbled up within me, a bright plume of prophetic magic that became my answer. “I am your end.” That time my voice did not tremble at all, but was filled with terrible certainty. I would cause Mr. Paris’s death, and I knew it with as much confidence as I knew the sun would rise in the morning.

  Something in my gaze must have worried him, because he snarled. Scowling, he grabbed my forearm with both hands and twisted. The bone snapped like dry kindling, and I screamed again. Before he could torment me further Miss Dubois arrived and bashed him with a round silver shield. Mr. Paris vanished into thin air, and the guardian stood near me. One arm bore the shield, while in her other hand she held a sword. How cunning of her. I wanted a sword as well.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  My knees wobbled and began to buckle, but then two dark blurs streaked up to us, and I was suddenly swept from my feet and cradled close in Michael’s arms.

  “Darling! What happened?” he asked.

  “You caught me.” I blinked—however had he moved that fast? Simon sighed and shook his head at his student, and I sensed that Michael and I were both in for a scolding.

  “Of course I did. I will always catch you. Are you all right?”

  “I am afraid my wrist is broken, and my arm.” My heart warmed at his words, allowing me to sound far calmer than I felt, but I tried to reassure myself with the knowledge that this was not the worst pain I had ever been in. Indeed, it was the annoyance of a stubbed toe in comparison to the trauma I experienced birthing Robert, so I would be brave and sensible like Miss Dubois.

  “This is why I don’t want you having adventures without me.” Michael smiled weakly, but his attempt at lightheartedness was overwhelmed by his worry for me, which beat at my senses like the rapid heartbeat of a frightened rabbit.

  Simon stood next to Miss Dubois, the pair of them scanning our surroundings for further danger, and then Dr. Bennett ran up to us. Unlike guardians and chroniclers, witches were not blessed with supernatural speed.

  “Emily is injured,” Michael informed him.

  “We will take her to my home. It is closest,” Miss Dubois announced.


  I watched with fascination as her silver weaponry changed shape, the shield becoming the umbrella of her parasol and the sword the handle. How marvelous. “May I have one of those too?” I asked.

  Miss Dubois laughed. “I’m afraid not. It’s a guardian’s weapon and is harmful to the touch to anyone who is not a guardian.”

  Pity. “I can walk,” I told Michael. “In fact it might be best if I do. You might accidentally jostle my arm if you carry me. Or we might both burst into flames beneath your mentor’s glare.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” Simon muttered darkly. “I am adept at fire spells.”

  Michael chuckled, and as my husband set me on my feet I pondered parasols, shadows and what sort of creature could walk through brick walls. The only thing I was certain of was that Josephine would be furious when she learned I was injured. As I shifted my weight a wave of pain shot through me and I stumbled. My uninjured hand shot out to steady me, and connected with the remains of the magical gateway in the wall. I cursed in a very unladylike manner as a vision welled up and swallowed me whole.

  Chapter Six

  Terrible sobs wracked my body as I wept. Hugging my arms to my chest, I rocked back and forth in the middle of the glen. It was bone-chillingly cold, and everything around me was caught in winter’s spell. No life, no color—the trees were spindly skeletons, reaching up toward a gray sky. Barren.

  “Darling, what’s wrong?”

  I looked up at the sound of my lover’s voice, and my heart shattered again as he approached and knelt at my side. How could I tell him? With the words stuck in my throat, I held out my hands to him, revealing the only color in our surroundings. The crimson stain of blood.

  “It isn’t fair.” Despair filled me until I burst into a fresh round of tears.

  “We can try again,” he assured me.