Necropolis

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Raechel,” Lady Standish said. “This is Gwen, the new maid. She will be your maid. You will take her with you if you leave the house.”

  The younger woman looked rebellious. Gwen found it hard to blame her, even though she knew the risks of being alone and unattended in the streets of London. Rumours didn’t have to be true to ruin a person’s life. Hell, there were stories about the young Gwen turning people into frogs right, left and centre, when anyone with any experience of magic would know that such things were impossible. It was extremely rare for one person to be turned into an animal, let alone dozens of them.

  Gwen bobbed a curtsey, trying to look attentive and obedient. Raechel stared at her for a long moment, her eyes studying Gwen’s face as if she’d seen it before somewhere, then nodded sharply.

  “I will be leaving at eight,” she said, flatly. “Be ready.”

  Lord Standish coughed. “You will have your work completed by then,” he said. “Or you will not be going out at all.”

  Raechel glowered at him. “The work isn’t important,” she said, in a tone Gwen knew would have earned her a slap from her mother. “I have no intention of finding a young man and settling down.”

  The young woman turned and stalked out before Lord Standish could say another word. Gwen found herself torn between amusement and sympathy, although she wasn’t sure who she was actually sorry for. Both of them, perhaps. Lord and Lady Standish had had no children, while his younger brother had had Raechel and then died young. And Lord Standish had been away in France at the time. By the time he’d got home to take his niece into his household as his ward, she’d developed a whole series of bad habits.

  But I couldn’t blame her, Gwen thought, as she bobbed another curtsey and then hurried after Raechel, already feeling harassed. What would I have done if I’d been offered the freedom of the city and plenty of money?

  She heard the sound of banging and crashing as she approached Raechel’s room and hesitated, before reminding herself that she wasn’t scared of anything and pushing open the door. Raechel had removed her dress and started to hunt through the vast hampers of clothing while wearing her underwear, which was revealing enough to make Gwen blush. It was funny, given how little real privacy she’d had at home, but it still bothered her. Raechel simply didn’t act like a young aristocratic woman. Or any sort of woman Gwen had met.

  “You,” Raechel snarled. She turned to face Gwen, dark eyes flashing fire. “You will not get in my way, understand?”

  Gwen knew that any normal maid would be cowering from her mistress’s rage, even if she reported to Lady Standish rather than the raging girl in front of her. But she had enough pride, despite her role, to stand her ground.

  “My ... Aunt does not control my life,” Raechel grumbled, as she picked up a garment and pushed it at Gwen. “And neither do you.”

  That, Gwen knew, was not true. The terms of her father’s will compelled Raechel to seek her Aunt and Uncle’s advice in all that she did until she either married or turned thirty. On the other hand, they also prevented her Aunt and Uncle from touching her money, at least not without Raechel’s willing permission. But she wouldn’t inherit full control until she was too old to marry, at least by normal standards. And yet ... with so much money in her account, Gwen suspected that the rules would be rewritten for her.

  She looked down at the garment and flushed. It was a dress, but one so sheer it might as well have been a nightgown, one far too indecent for her. Raechel snorted at Gwen’s reaction, then picked up another dress and tossed it at her. Gwen stared at her in surprise, then lifted her eyebrows. Raechel produced another snort, then pointed one long finger at Gwen’s demure dress.

  “You’re not coming wearing that,” she snapped. “You can wear one of my older dresses and look as if you belong.”

  Gwen sighed, inwardly, as she took the dress and inspected it. It was marginally more decent than the others, she decided, although it revealed far too much of her breasts for her comfort, along with her ankles. She made a mental note to don a cloak too, something she could wrap around her, as Raechel pulled on another dress that was almost translucent in far too many places. Gwen stared in shock. She could practically see the girl’s nipples clearly outlined by the dress.

  “You ... You can’t wear that,” she stammered. No one, not even the most outrageous of the Trouser Brigade, wore anything so revealing. “Your Aunt will be furious.”

  Raechel gave her a quick, unpleasant grin. “That’s the idea,” she said, nastily. “She may be able to keep me in her house, but I don’t have to make it pleasant for her.”

  “Oh,” Gwen said, feeling as if she had passed beyond shock. “But ... But what if they try to stop you?”

  She swallowed. Legally, Raechel was practically their property. Lord and Lady Standish would be quite within their rights to beat their niece if she kept acting like a common tart – or simply to lock her in the house until she married or turned thirty. But it looked as though they were having real problems coming to terms with their ward. Maybe they should have been more understanding from the start. But they’d never had children to teach them how to handle a teenage girl who’d suddenly been dropped on them.

  “Let them try,” Raechel said. She picked up a cloak, wrapped it around her body, then headed for the door. She tossed a second cloak at Gwen as she stepped past her. “Let’s go.”

  It wasn’t eight, but Gwen wasn’t inclined to point it out as they strode down the stairs and out of the tradesman’s exit. No one barred their way as they walked out of the alleyway and down through Pall Mall, heading towards the river. It would be a while before night fell over London, Gwen knew, but the fashionable men and women were already out, taking the breeze and chattering to one another about the forthcoming war. She gritted her teeth, wondering briefly if she shouldn’t simply Charm Raechel into turning around and going back home. But someone as strong-minded as Raechel would need a great deal of Charm to convince her to give up and she could hardly fail to notice Gwen’s manipulations.

  Raechel stopped outside an unmarked door and knocked three times, counting five seconds between each knock. There was a long pause, then the door was opened by a man wearing a white suit and hat. He nodded to Raechel, then gave Gwen a long considering look. Raechel brushed past him, her eyes fixed on the door at the far end; Gwen followed her, wondering if the doorkeeper would try to stop her. Instead, he just closed the door behind her.

  The second door revealed a large dance floor, pulsing with the sound of a band playing tunes she didn’t recognise and dozens of young men and women, some of them dressed even more revealingly than Raechel. Raechel passed Gwen her cloak and sallied out onto the dance floor, capturing a young man from his partner and pulling him into the dance. Gwen sighed, stood against the wall and watched as Raechel span around the dance floor. Here, free of her aunt and uncle, she seemed almost relaxed and happy. Gwen felt a sudden stab of envy, just as a hand touched her shoulder.

  “You don’t have to stand here,” a voice said. To her shock, Gwen recognised the speaker as one of the more scandalous aristocratic rakes. At least he’d never been formally introduced to her. “You could always dance.”

  Gwen shook her head, firmly. The rake eyed her, his gaze passing over her dress in a manner that made her want to pick him up with her magic and slam him against the wall, then he walked away, twitching his bottom as he moved. Gwen looked away, her eyes following Raechel; one dance had come to an end, but another had started almost at once. Raechel was still dancing with her partner. His hands, Gwen realised to her horror, were creeping down her back towards her buttocks. And he wasn’t the only one groping their dance partner.

  The music changed, becoming more sensuous. Gwen felt her horror rising as she realised that several of the couples were practically making love on the dance floor, their hands exploring one another as they held each other tight. One girl had opened her dress, allowing her bare breasts to bobble free; another had worn a skirt so
high that it barely hid the underside of her buttocks. Gwen flushed brightly, unsure of where to look, remembering how far she’d gone with Sir Charles. But they’d been in private when they’d kissed ... here, anyone could see what happened between the couples.

  She looked back at Raechel and swallowed as she realised that Raechel’s partner was stroking her breasts through her dress. Raechel didn’t appear to be objecting; she seemed to move like a cat, pressing her breasts into her partner’s hand. That was going too far, Gwen knew, yet she found herself unsure of how to intervene. If she’d been there as the Royal Sorceress, she could have cowed Raechel into obedience, but as her maid ...

  But she had to do something. She concentrated, drawing on her magic, and lashed out at the display of expensive bottles at the bar. They exploded, sending pieces of glass and alcohol everywhere. The dancers turned to stare; Gwen took advantage of their attention to knock one of the candlesticks into the alcohol. Flames spread rapidly, glowing an eerie blue colour as the alcohol caught fire.

  She plunged into the panicking crowd and grabbed Raechel’s arm, pulling her away from her partner. He started to object; Gwen braced herself, then yanked at his legs using magic, sending him sprawling to the floor. Raechel offered no resistance as Gwen pulled her away from the growing fire, heading out of the door as fast as possible. The doorkeeper eyed them with some surprise, then heard the sounds of panic from inside the dance room and headed to investigate. Gwen opened the door, led Raechel out onto the streets and tossed her the cloak.

  “Cover yourself,” she hissed. The sounds of panic behind them were growing louder. It wouldn’t be long before the Bow Street Runners and the London Fire Brigade came to investigate. If she knew the government, quite a few young men and women would be very embarrassed if they were found in the hall. “And come on.”

  She pulled on Raechel’s arm until they’d put some distance between themselves and the fire, then relaxed slightly. Raechel stared at her in shock – Gwen found herself wondering if Raechel had some sensitivity to magic – then Raechel found her voice. And then she started to complain.

  “You shouldn’t have dragged me away,” Raechel protested. “I was having fun ...”

  “And you could have been caught in the flames,” Gwen snapped. Honestly! Had her maids seen her as a useless piece of flesh, suitable for looking good and nothing else? Raechel had a great deal of potential and she was wasting all of it. “If you were smaller, I’d put you over my knee and thrash you with a hairbrush.”

  Raechel sneered at her. “My Aunt tried that,” she said. “It didn’t work.”

  “No,” Gwen sighed. “It probably didn’t.”

  But Raechel offered no further argument as Gwen led her back to her home. As they entered the house, Gwen was relieved to hear from Romulus that Lady Standish had gone to bed with a headache. At least it would give Gwen the night to decide just how much to tell her mistress. And Raechel ...

  “Go to bed,” Gwen ordered, sharply. She allowed a little Charm to slip into her words, just enough to make Raechel more inclined to do as she was told. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Somewhat to her surprise, Raechel obeyed without question.

  Sighing, Gwen headed back into the servants quarters. She needed to eat, then sleep, and be up early. No doubt there would be an interrogation from Lady Standish about the night’s events.

  But what could she tell her about what her niece and ward had been doing?

  Chapter Eleven

  Itrust that you are feeling better,” Gregory said, as he bounded into the room. “There is work for you to do.”

  Olivia shook her head, miserably. Ivan had taken her to a smaller room, allowed her to wash and then fed her bread and cheese, but she still felt awful. She could hear the creature she’d created, even though it was a long way from where she’d been taken. Its whispering seemed to echo in her head, taunting her with the sheer danger of its existence. One mistake, it seemed to whisper, and the undead would be unleashed upon the land. And then all hell would break loose.

  Gregory muttered something in Russian to Ivan, who sighed and stood. Olivia saw the writing on the wall and followed before he could compel her, either mentally or physically, to do what he wanted her to do. Outside, there were more armed guards, wearing masks and suits of armour that seemed oddly out of place. But, against the undead, they would provide more protection than the red uniforms that British soldiers wore when they went into battle. The Russians, she realised as she was hustled down the corridor, had been planning how to make use of her for a very long time.

  Or perhaps they hoped to find a Necromancer of their own, she thought, as they passed through another set of solidly armoured doors. Inside, she heard the sound of people crying further down the corridor, but saw no one apart from her two escorts. They might have birthed one of their own, but never known it.

  She gritted her teeth. Necromancy wasn’t as flashy as Blazing or Moving ... and it wasn’t so easy to discover as Charming or Talking. A Necromancer might go their entire life without realising that they had magic, let alone what it actually did. She’d certainly had no idea what she could do until she’d come face to face with the undead, even though Jack had realised she had powers and urged her to develop them. The Russians or French might have a dozen Necromancers and simply not know what they had.

  Gregory stopped in front of another armoured door, smiled at her and then opened it, allowing the stench of death to drift out into the open air. Olivia swallowed hard, trying desperately to breathe through her mouth as he led the way into the darkened room. This time, the corpse inside the cage had clearly been dead for quite some time. Even in Russia’s notoriously cold weather, it had managed to decompose quite badly. Olivia shuddered, recalling bodies she’d seen in the Rookery. Few of them had ever been so bad ... but then, even the hardened denizens of the Rookery had cremated bodies, no matter how they’d died.

  They wanted to avoid giving a Necromancer bodies to play with, she recalled. And it was not enough to prevent an outbreak in the heart of London.

  “This was once a dissident who dared to speak against the Father Tsar,” Gregory said, a note of heavy satisfaction in his voice. Up close, it was clear that the body had been brutally beaten and then strangled. “In death, he will serve the Father Tsar as he never did in life.”

  He looked down at Olivia. “Bring him back to life.”

  Olivia stared at him, mutely. The last thing she wanted was to touch the body in the cage. It stank, far worse than anything she’d ever experienced, and she was sure that touching the body would be very unhealthy. But she knew that, if she refused, Ivan would just compel her to do as they wanted. Gritting her teeth, trying not to throw up as she crept closer to the body, she reached out with her powers and tried to form a link. This time, nothing happened.

  “It isn’t working,” she said. She could feel her magic, pulsing through her body like a second heartbeat, but it wasn’t animating the body. It didn’t seem to want to leave her warm flesh and blood. “I can’t reawaken the body.”

  “Try again,” Gregory ordered.

  Olivia obeyed. Nothing happened, apart from a faint headache that flared into life and then faded away, just as quickly. She’d heard that some magicians developed headaches if they pushed their powers too far, notably Talkers and Movers, but she’d never heard of Necromancy having such limitations. But then, no one had really been interested in studying the power, merely slaughtering anyone unfortunate enough to be born with it.

  Gregory muttered something in Russian. Ivan leaned forward, touching her shoulder with his hand. “Bring him back to life,” he ordered, Charm flowing through his voice. “Bring him back to life.”

  Olivia’s headache grew worse as she tried to carry out the command – and failed. The body didn’t even twitch. There was a sudden burst of pain in her head, sending her stumbling backwards into Ivan’s arms, then she almost blacked out. The next thing she knew was that they were outside th
e room, Ivan holding her and stroking her hair in an almost paternal manner. He looked almost afraid, Olivia noted, blearily. What would happen to him if he were blamed for her death?

  “Most interesting,” Gregory observed. “The body was simply too damaged to be brought back to life.”

  If you can call that life, Olivia thought, through the haze of pain. She wanted to be sick again, but she somehow managed to hold it under control. All they do is kill and eat and spread themselves as far as possible.

  “Follow me,” Gregory ordered. He turned and led the way down the corridor. “There are more experiments to try.”

  Olivia glared at his retreating back as Ivan helped her to her feet, then half-carried her down the corridor after Gregory. Her head felt awful, as if she’d drunk far too much in a single sitting, and yet he wanted to carry out more experiments? Of course he did, she realised grimly, remembering some of the researchers at Cavendish Hall. When they’d managed to get the bit between their teeth, they’d worked frantically to carry out experiments, even if their magician subjects had been tired and pushed beyond reason. At least one researcher had been discovered hanging from a flagpole after he’d insisted on carrying out more and more experiments on an exhausted Mover.

  And he wants to experiment with Necromancy, she thought, as Gregory led her into a new cell. This time, there was no smell of death. He has so many plans and so little time.

  She blinked in surprise as she saw the man sitting against the wall. He was short, dark-haired, with an expression of mild boredom on his face. Olivia wondered if he was drugged, then saw the bruises covering his face and realised that he’d been knocked silly. He cackled, loudly enough to make her jump, then called out something in Russian. Olivia flinched at his tone. It reminded her far too much of the whorehouse madams in the Rookery.