Spellbreaker

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  “I believe the viscount’s sister is married to him. He was visiting.” He looked up as though waiting for permission to continue.

  Elsie stepped to the side so she could lean on the bookshelf. It took every ounce of courage she could muster to keep her face smooth. Hadn’t she disenchanted a hidden door on the back wall of a Mr. Turner’s home? So someone could sneak inside, find his room, and use a lightning spell . . .

  The constable read three more names before another caught her attention, and she again requested he repeat it. He did, with dwindling patience. “Alma Digby, missing person, believed to be potentially connected.”

  “You cannot share the details?”

  He sighed.

  “Just for this one, and I’ll leave you to your meal,” she promised, hearing the desperation in her voice. “E-Even if it’s only what I’d find in the papers, should I take the time to research.”

  Mr. Bowles leaned onto his fist, and Elsie thought he was trying to remember. “She was—is—a spiritual aspector traveling for a holiday. Went missing en route. I believe there was evidence of a highway robbery. Miss Digby had ordered a magic-armored carriage, which we found, but the spell protecting it had been removed.”

  Elsie couldn’t breathe.

  Mr. Bowles stood. “Are you quite all right?”

  She managed a nod.

  “Let me get you something to drink—”

  “No.” The word was too forceful. Her lungs felt like blacksmith bellows. “No, I’ll see myself out. Thank you.”

  She stormed back through the house, not even bothering to thank Mr. Bowles’s family for their time. The hot afternoon air slapped her as she stepped outside. She kept walking, unsure of her destination, needing to expend the energy building inside her.

  She had snuck into a carriage house and broken spells on its vehicles.

  She had created an easy path into Mr. Turner’s home.

  She had broken the water staffs that could put out the fire at the academy.

  She had cleared a path into the London Physical Atheneum, where Professor Clive was murdered.

  Pausing, Elsie gasped for air, her ribs aching. A cab passed by her.

  How many more was she connected to? And each one assigned to her by the Cowls.

  By Ogden.

  “Oh God,” she whispered, holding her middle. “It’s him.” He was behind it all. He had sent her those letters. He had never once complained about her time away, because she’d been doing his bidding.

  The American had been right. She was a pawn.

  And the attack on the stonemasonry shop . . . It didn’t match the other crimes. It had happened shortly after Elsie expressed her worry about the stolen opuses. Had it been a cover? Had Ogden attacked himself, or hired someone to do so? Then what, paid off the truthseeker? Used an opus spell to thwart his interrogation?

  She hunched over, sure her stomach would upturn the remains of her breakfast—she hadn’t eaten since. Wasn’t sure she’d ever want to eat again. She was a tool in the greatest crime spree of the century. She’d blindly followed all of it, thinking she was doing good, thinking—

  How long had he been using her? She . . . She’d loved Ogden. He was the father she couldn’t remember. Always kind, always ready to listen. He’d never made her feel small or useless. And yet, just like all the others, he didn’t truly care about her. He was simply a dot in a network Elsie didn’t understand, a puppet master pulling her strings to do awful, heinous things in the name of good—

  “Miss, are you all right?” asked a voice, but Elsie waved the person away with a sharp jerk of her hand. Footsteps faded behind her.

  Her body shook as she held it all in. The information, the questions, the screams, the tears. Straightening, Elsie hobbled to a lamppost and leaned against it, trying to digest the truth, poisonous as it was, and decide what to do about it. She had to say something to the authorities. Come up with a story that wouldn’t indict her. She had to stop him somehow—

  Oh God in heaven. Emmeline.

  She was still there. Sharing a roof with a murderer. And despite her world turning inside out, Elsie knew one thing for certain: Emmeline was an innocent in all of this.

  Elsie had to get back to Brookley. She had to get back now.

  CHAPTER 22

  The train gave her time to reflect, and she hated every minute of it.

  Am I a murderer?

  Thank the stars I didn’t ask Ogden about the seal.

  Is Nash part of this? Is that why Emmeline is so uncomfortable around him?

  Does Emmeline know anything? No, of course she doesn’t . . .

  How many more crimes am I connected to? No, I don’t want to know.

  I want to know.

  I don’t want to know.

  How will I convince Emmeline to come away with me without Ogden overhearing?

  Should I send a telegram ahead, pretending to be a buyer, and set an appointment with him?

  Where will I go when this is all over?

  She wrung her hands together until they were sore and dry. When the train stopped in London that evening, Elsie grabbed her valise and dragged herself to the platform. She’d barely slept, and the only food she’d eaten since breakfast was a bite or two of what was left of Emmeline’s packed morsels. Her stomach was a tight knot, and not one she knew how to dis-spell.

  “Goodness, is she traveling alone?” Elsie turned slightly to see who’d spoken, and saw two women watching her. Women in fine dresses with their hair meticulously curled. A mother and daughter, if she guessed right.

  Elsie averted her eyes and picked up her pace, but she still caught “This thing will bring in anyone, won’t it?”

  But Elsie didn’t have time to care about gossips. Valise in hand, she kicked her skirts as she hurried from the station. Lugging her things about was becoming bothersome, but what else could she do? At least she wouldn’t have to linger at the masonry shop to pack a bag.

  She thought of all the things she’d have to leave behind, for she’d need to get Emmeline out of there as quickly as possible. Dresses, books . . . Her heart hurt, not for the things, but for the home she would have to leave behind. The stonemasonry shop was her life, and despite it all, it was a very good life. Deep down, she still couldn’t accept that Ogden, her Ogden, could have . . . but there was no other answer for it. And if by some grace of God there was, it would have to come out after she and Emmeline were safely away.

  Where? To Juniper Down, perhaps. The Halls had kicked her out before, when she was merely another mouth to feed, but she was a capable woman now, and she could work crops and clean a fireplace. Emmeline as well. Or they could go far away, to Liverpool or the like, and get a job in service. They wouldn’t have a reference from Ogden, but times were changing. Maybe they wouldn’t need one.

  There was also Bacchus. Unless the duke had passed while she was away, he might still be in Kent. Perhaps, if things got ugly, she could steal away to Barbados—

  Stop thinking like a fictional character. She switched her valise to her other hand. She had her savings, and Emmeline would have something, and Elsie had already mentally listed anything she might be able to sell. They’d get by, one way or another—

  A flash of yellow caught her eye, and Elsie paused right there in the street, earning a curse from a factory worker as he ran into her.

  Nash.

  The way was crowded despite the evening hour, but Elsie was sure it was him. His usual smile was nowhere to be seen, his face tight and serious. Perhaps he was innocent of any wrongdoing, but the way Emmeline had always felt so cowed in his presence bit at Elsie. And so, when he turned the corner, Elsie found herself picking up her skirts and hurrying after him, taking one turn and then another when she saw the bright flash of his hair disappearing down a side road. She pardoned herself countless times as she took off after him, accidentally swinging her valise into passersby or nudging them with her shoulders. The throng thinned, and soon she was following Nash much mo
re covertly, though she felt she stuck out like a whale in a bathtub with her luggage.

  Finally, the man turned into some downtrodden flats in desperate need of repair. Third door, two-story. Elsie dipped around the side, stowing her valise out of sight. Should she confront him head-on? Act like she was in town on some sort of business, and Ogden had told her where to meet him? Should she be stealthy and sneak up behind him? Perhaps ask the neighbor if she might come in and press her ear to the wall? That wouldn’t be strange at all—

  She deliberated for several minutes before Nash made the decision for her. He re-emerged with a bag over his shoulder, his strides more purposeful now. He took off down the road quickly.

  Elsie, coming around the building, eyed his door.

  Then she snuck around back. She used her hatpin to unlock his window, and lifted it.

  This was utterly the least elegant thing she’d ever done.

  When Elsie dropped into the narrow, filthy kitchen beyond, her skirts toppled over her head, and if Nash had any roommates, they’d certainly gotten a good view of her knickers. Fortunately, the flat appeared to be empty once she righted herself. Empty and dark. And dank.

  Something about the atmosphere raised gooseflesh on Elsie’s arms. She proceeded quietly, though the floorboards creaked like an old woman’s jaw. This was most certainly the dwelling of an unrefined bachelor. The furniture was sparse, belongings few, and yet the place looked untidy. Mold grew in one of the corners. A half-eaten plate of something sat on a nearby chair. It had to be at least two days old.

  Elsie eyed the thin stairs leading to the second floor. After ensuring the front door was locked, she carefully ascended them.

  There was only a single bedroom up top. A narrow bed, a window that had never been washed, a side table that looked to be used as a desk, a narrow wardrobe without doors, and a chest. Elsie shifted to the wardrobe, looking inside. Nothing except clothes. There was a single drawer, but it was empty. Just her luck—she really was a criminal now. Best Bacchus never hear of it . . . not that it mattered. She couldn’t add him to the tangle of her thoughts, not now, or she’d douse the entire flat in a new rain of tears.

  Focus. She crept to the chest, and a familiar shimmer danced on its lid.

  “Hello,” she whispered, crouching before it. No lock, but a spell that fused the lid to the base. A lock Nash likely undid with an enchanted key. A lock that was unpickable.

  Except to her.

  Grasping the ends of the simple rune, she pulled them apart, and the spell puffed into the air like face powder. She lifted the lid.

  Her stomach sank.

  It was full of firearms. Enchanted weapons. Lockpicks, cudgels, a few things she couldn’t identify. Touching one of the blunt rods, Elsie spied a physical spell. Parts of the rune were familiar to her, but she wasn’t quite sure . . .

  She swallowed. If she had to guess, it was a lightning rod. Not one used to diffuse a storm, but to bottle it. Viscount Byron’s demise instantly came to mind.

  Was this Nash’s true job? He was not a delivery boy, but an . . . an . . .

  Assassin.

  Elsie practically leapt from the chest, and the lid smacked loudly down. Pulse racing, legs desperate to flee, Elsie turned for the stairs—

  —but in her peripheral vision, she spied a familiar parchment on the side table. It was thick, gray. Cowls.

  Her fear flared into anger. How dare he be a part of it, too. How many people did she dance for?

  Three strides were all it took to cross the room. She recognized the writing on the letter. It matched every other letter she’d ever gotten from the “Cowls.” Now that she knew, it did look like Ogden’s—if he were trying to disguise his hand. The flourish on the T . . . something about it was painfully familiar.

  Again at Seven Oaks. Disregard the heirloom opus and go for the Master. He’s too much of a distraction.

  A chill rushed through Elsie’s body.

  Seven Oaks was the Duke of Kent’s estate. And the only master there was . . .

  The Cowls’ next target was Bacchus Kelsey. The duke must have owned another’s opus. That had been the first target. But now . . .

  “Oh God,” she muttered, dropping the letter. “Oh God, oh God.”

  Nash had been in a hurry. Night was falling. Perhaps he was heading to Kent even now, as Elsie rifled through his things.

  Not Bacchus. Not Bacchus.

  She flew down the stairs and unbolted the door, too anxious to care if she was seen. But she made it only a few steps before turning back. She’d forgotten her valise and didn’t want to leave anything connecting her to Nash. Snatching it, she hurried to a busy street and nearly got herself run over trying to flag down a carriage that had no intention of stopping. But she stepped right in front of the next cab, forcing the driver to stop or run her over.

  “Are you mad?” The man had long gray sideburns poking from beneath his hat, and his two black horses stamped nervously.

  “Where are you going?” Elsie did sound mad, but she didn’t care. She even grabbed the reins so the driver could not leave her.

  The man sputtered. “What’s it to you? I’ve passengers heading for the train.”

  “They’re close enough! Let them out here and take me to Seven Oaks. I’ll pay you three times your asking price.”

  He paused, considering.

  “Now, man!” Elsie cried.

  The driver jumped from his seat, and though his passengers had likely heard the entire exchange, opened their door and said, “Way’s too crowded, but the station’s just ahead! Out you go!” He grabbed their luggage and practically chucked it onto the cobblestone. The passengers—two women and a man—gawked, and one of the women complained in an accent Elsie couldn’t place. But to her relief, they got out, and she got in.

  “As fast as you can go,” she pleaded, pulling her gloves off her sweating hands. “Please. It is a matter of life and death.”

  “Duel?” the driver guessed, but he didn’t wait for an answer. Returning to his seat, he whipped his horses forward.

  Elsie could only pray she wouldn’t be too late.

  “Well, it was quite a scare, nevertheless.” Master Lily Merton raised her spoon to her lips. She sucked the white soup down, dabbed her mouth with a napkin, and added, “I would have so hated to see our dear Miss Ida join our ranks out of necessity. A career of any sort is much more enjoyable when chosen through passion.”

  It was unsurprising that the Duke of Kent’s health was the primary subject of conversation for the first course of dinner—the first meal the duke had been able to take with the entire family in a while. Bacchus couldn’t have been more relieved to see him well. The temporal aspector’s spell had taken well enough, and the duke had gradually regained his strength. Master Merton of the London Spiritual Atheneum was an unsurprising addition to their dinner. She had nearly cemented herself into Ida Scott’s future. Indeed, in the past week, Miss Ida had practically assaulted Bacchus with question after question regarding aspecting, until he’d given her a gentle reminder that physical aspectors studied different subject matter than spiritual, and so her experiences would greatly differ from his.

  “I wouldn’t say necessity,” chimed the duchess. “Do not mistake me, I love my husband”—she passed a tender look to Isaiah, who had finally gotten his color back—“but we would not fall into shambles upon his passing. I may not have a son, but our nephew is kindhearted and well meaning, and there are sufficient funds set aside beyond that.”

  The duke raised his glass. “Though I have decided I would like to see Ida utilize her talents.”

  Bacchus couldn’t tell who beamed more: Miss Ida or Master Merton.

  “Bacchus,” the duchess said, perhaps to steer talk away from her husband’s near demise. It had troubled her greatly, and even now, with the duke’s recovery, she worried he’d relapse. They all did. “Are you sure you won’t stay with us a while longer? I’m sure Ida, at the very least, could learn from you.”r />
  “Master Merton would likely do a better job of teaching her.” Bacchus stirred his soup. He’d had an appetite, but it seemed to have been scared off by the duchess’s inquiry. And of his future trip in general. He craved home, with its familiar faces, privacy, and balmy weather. And yet something about the plans made him feel uneasy.

  The uneasiness made him think of Elsie.

  “Our alignments are very different.” He swallowed back the thoughts. “And I’ve lands to manage back home.”

  Which was true, though he had full confidence in his manager. And the voyage was no quick journey, as it took three weeks to cross the Atlantic to Barbados.

  “When do you leave, Master Kelsey?” asked Master Merton.

  “Within the week.” He finally lifted his spoon to his mouth.

  “It must be very beautiful.” Miss Josie, the younger sister, rushed in, likely eager for a chance to join the conversation. “The island, I mean. Always sunny.”

  “And often rainy,” he pointed out, “but it’s a different rain than here. It’s warmer and has more purpose.”

  Miss Ida chuckled. “Do you mean to say English rain has no purpose?”

  Bacchus shrugged. “Is there a purpose to watering stone?”

  “I’d love to feel warm rain,” Miss Josie said dreamily. “Even in the summer, the rain isn’t warm.”

  “I think,” interjected the duke, “that it is. Perhaps one day a year. Next month we might be lucky.”

  The duchess smiled behind her napkin.

  “I think,” Master Merton began, but a thud from elsewhere in the house—Bacchus thought it might have been the front entry—vibrated up the exterior hall. Everyone paused in their dining and turned toward the door. There were sounds of an argument, though Bacchus could make out only one speaker, and it was a woman.

  A few of the words carried through the silence that filled the dining room: “—don’t understand! . . . see him . . . might die!”

  Bacchus stood. Elsie?

  The duchess followed suit. “I think someone is bullying Baxter,” she said, naming the butler.