by Robyn Bachar
“Did Mr. Gryphon say anything to you before he parted your company?” I asked.
“No, unfortunately.” Lord Willowbrook frowned.
“I hesitate to mention this, for I don’t wish to make any accusations, but until recently Miss Morgan was fond of Mr. John Farrell. He was not in the ballroom during the time of her murder, and he was not in attendance when I read the auras of the guests there. Perhaps if we spoke with him I could read his aura and confirm whether he remains a sorcerer.”
“I will see that he is brought to you,” Lord Willowbrook said. “First I need to make arrangements for Mr. Gryphon’s body, now that we have determined what befell him.”
“Our rooms are near here,” Simon spoke up. “Mr. Black and I will keep Miss Wright company while you see to that.”
“Is that acceptable?” Lord Willowbrook asked me.
“Yes, that’s fine.” I was not thrilled at the idea of more time spent in Simon’s company, but I trusted that I would be safe with him. Something pricked at my curiosity, and I peered at Willowbrook. “Where did you move Miss Morgan’s body to?”
His bushy white brows rose at the question. “The wine cellar, for the time being.”
I chewed my bottom lip—it seemed a logical place to store a body, but it also seemed a good place for a master necromancer to hide. “Has the wine cellar been searched for the killer since then?”
“I’m sure it has been.”
“Would your men have been able to spot him, if he was hidden in the shadows?” I asked.
“Don’t worry, Miss Wright. I can assure you that they are very thorough.”
I nodded, but unease settled in my mind, and I was plagued with the feeling that there was something I should be doing or had forgotten to do. I took Michael’s arm and let him lead me away, and my distraction continued as I entered Simon’s room. The suite had a small sitting room, and I fidgeted with my shawl as I perched on the edge of a chair.
“You seem unsettled, Miss Wright,” Simon commented.
“It feels…wrong somehow. It is difficult to put into words.”
“The wine cellar concerns you?” he asked.
“Yes. The impression that I had was that the necromancer was not merely lying in wait for Mr. Gryphon, but that he was actually within the shadows, as though concealed by magic. If that is true, how could anyone see him without unraveling the spell first?”
The chronicler nodded. “It is within a necromancer’s power to do so. That would explain why no one has had success in locating him… You might be able to do it.”
“Me?” I repeated.
“Yes. You may be able to see the energy of the spell or his aura beneath it.”
“You can’t be suggesting that she search for the murderer,” Michael said, his tone incredulous.
“Miss Wright may be the only one able to see him,” he countered. “But we will wait to hear from Lord Willowbrook. Perhaps we will be fortunate and find that Farrell is the master necromancer, and he is asleep in his room.” Simon smiled dryly, and it was not a comforting expression. “If you wish, I will leave you for a moment. I’m sure you must have matters to discuss.”
“Yes, please,” Michael replied. I frowned up at him, for it was not at all appropriate—though that seemed to be a theme for the evening—and Simon left the room.
I rose, my anxiety demanding that I pace and wring my hands, but I was distracted by Michael’s nearness. I took a deep breath to say something brave and encouraging, but instead I gave in to a need for comfort and wrapped my arms around him, burying my face against his chest.
“That was awful,” I said, my voice muffled.
“I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“I feel most sorry for Mr. Gryphon and Miss Morgan. Their deaths were senseless.”
He stroked my hair, and I closed my eyes and tried to banish all thoughts of blood and murder from my mind. Unsuccessfully. I looked up at him, morbidly curious. “I realize that a master necromancer is quite different from a chronicler, but does it bother you? The thought of drinking blood? It seems so…distasteful.”
“I suppose I have gotten used to the idea. I have never had a problem with giving my blood. It’s quick, simple and painless. Just a bite at the wrist.”
At least it sounded civilized. I glanced in the direction of Simon’s door, feeling a bit better. “Why would they have suspected Simon of killing Miss Morgan, then? There was nothing quick or simple about it.”
Michael blushed. “I have never experienced it myself, but as I understand it a bite can be intimate, under the right circumstances. But as you noticed, Simon isn’t very social. He isn’t the sort to make love to a woman he’s just met at a gathering. That’s more the style of a master necromancer. They are reckless with their immortality. They have no purpose.”
“And purpose is important to the Order.” I smiled weakly. “I know that only librarians can become chroniclers, but do you think the Order would be interested in my aid?”
“Perhaps. It hasn’t been done before that I know of.” He brushed a lock of hair from my face. “I don’t know what to do, Emily.”
“What do you want to do?” I asked.
His answer was to kiss me, and it was a reply I approved of. My worries slipped away, replaced by contemplation of the taste of his lips and the feel of his fingers caressing my hair. I shivered—not from a chill but from the sheer delicious wickedness of it all. It suddenly made sense to me why so many young women risked their reputations for a few moments spent alone with their lovers. If only our situation was less dire, and we had more time…
Time. Don’t forget.
I drew away, intending to tell Michael of my dream. I knew it had been more than wishful thinking, for it had the feel of a vision about it, and I felt he had a right to know. Perhaps we could convince Simon to postpone the ritual, and we could have a short while together. Even if I couldn’t keep him, the shining happiness of that one moment in the nursery would be worth it.
“I need to tell you something,” I began, but before I could continue we were interrupted by a knock at the door. We parted, both looking guilty, and Michael crossed to open it. Simon rejoined us before the door opened, and from the quickness of his response I wondered if he had been listening to our conversation.
Lord Willowbrook entered, frowning darkly. “Mr. Farrell was not in his room.”
“And there was no sign of him?” Simon asked.
“None.”
My heart sank. It had to be Mr. Farrell…or perhaps the necromancer had killed him on the way back to his room after leaving due to his headache. It was less likely, but easier to accept. Less painful than believing that the only men who had ever expressed interest in me were both ambitious to become the living dead.
“Miss Wright thinks that the master necromancer may be concealing himself with magic. If so, she may be the only one who can find him,” Simon replied. All eyes turned to me, and I resisted the urge to hide behind Michael.
“I’m sure the guardian could. When he arrives,” I pointed out.
“Are you willing to risk the possibility of another death in the meantime?” Simon asked.
“No. However, I would like to avoid my own as well. I have no defensive magic.”
“Which is why we would ensure that you are well guarded,” he replied. “I think I may also have a way to aid you in spotting Farrell, but I would prefer to discuss the details of the spell privately.”
I grimaced, not liking the sound of that, and I turned to Lord Willowbrook, expecting him to reject the idea. Instead he nodded slowly, and I wondered if Simon had some sort of mind-control magic I wasn’t aware of. Surely Lord Willowbrook could not be agreeing to endanger my life.
“Where do you wish to begin searching?” Willowbrook asked.
“The wine cellar,” Simon said.
“We will wait for you there.”
I watched in shock as he left the room, and then I turned to Simon. “I did not agree to le
ad the search for the killer.”
“You are uniquely qualified to do so. We can see that you are protected.”
“How? Does Lord Willowbrook have a spare suit of armor lying about?” Anxious, I stroked my throat and shivered.
Michael touched my shoulder. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to you either.” His mentor, on the other hand, I might not mind falling victim to an unfortunate demise, though Michael would be upset by it.
“Then I suggest we resolve the situation quickly so that everyone is safe,” Simon said.
I sighed in defeat. “What did you wish to discuss?”
“I think I may be able to aid you in spotting the master necromancer, or at the very least be able to view him as well, with your help.”
“What sort of help?” I asked.
“Your blood.”
“No,” Michael and I said at the same time.
“If you’ll allow me to explain—”
“No.” I stepped away for emphasis, and Michael placed himself between us.
“A small amount,” Simon continued, undaunted. “Chroniclers feed upon the magic within blood, not the blood itself. As such it is possible for a chronicler to borrow the abilities of the magician they feed upon. Temporarily. I have had some success with it in the past.”
“A small amount?” Michael repeated.
“Yes, of course.”
Michael turned to me, and I knew he was about to convince me to allow it. I hid my face against his chest and held out my arm awkwardly to the side. “Fine, but do it quickly before I come to my senses.”
He patted my hair, but this time I felt little comfort, and I squeezed my eyes shut. I tensed as cold fingers brushed my wrist, pushing my sleeve back.
“It’s all right. It only takes a moment,” Michael assured me, but I flinched when the fangs pierced my skin.
To be honest, it did not hurt. In fact it didn’t feel like much of anything at all, as though my wrist had been numbed. There was a bit of an odd sensation as his mouth pulled at my skin, but it wasn’t bothersome, and it was over quickly, as promised. But before it was, a tingle of energy traveled up my arm—not Simon’s doing, but instead it was an impression of him. He was terribly lonely, more than anyone I had ever met before, and I saw that Michael was the first friend that Simon had had in decades. I was struck by the realization that Simon was just as afraid of losing Michael to me as I was of losing Michael to him, only for different reasons. I felt quite sorry for him. It explained why he was unpleasant toward me.
When my wrist was free again, I pulled away from Michael to examine it. There were no marks, not even a hint of a bruise, and I was surprised by that.
“Do you feel well?” Michael asked.
“I feel fine.” I glanced at Simon, but he was quiet and expressionless.
“See, nothing to worry about.” Michael smiled. Only a murderous master necromancer hidden somewhere within the house, a vision of Michael’s death hanging over me and the impossibility of a future with my soul mate. No, nothing to worry about at all.
“How do you feel?” I asked Simon.
He frowned. “I was expecting a stronger reaction.”
“Reading auras is quite complicated. Unlike most magicians I did not have the luxury of a teacher and learned how to control my abilities on my own. The best advice I can give you is to look past your target and allow your eyes to relax. After a few moments you should catch a soft glow around everything. Living things, mainly, though some objects or areas can hold the aftereffects of energy for a time. Like a teacup, or a chair,” I said. The chronicler nodded, and I explained further. “Auras don’t extend very far. Perhaps an inch or two, depending on how powerful the magician is.” I held my palm just above the sleeve of Michael’s coat to demonstrate. He smiled at me, and I blushed and turned to watch Simon as he stared at his hand.
“I don’t see anything,” Simon murmured.
“I wouldn’t begin with your aura. You’re very dim,” I replied. He looked up and scowled at me, and I winced. “I meant your aura isn’t as bright as a living magician’s.” To confirm this I examined his aura again, and to my surprise it was brighter than it had been before. Still not as bright as mine or Michael’s, but its strength had improved.
“You are more vibrant now than you were earlier,” I commented. “I suppose the difference has something to do with feeding.”
“Vibrant enough to pass for a living magician?” he asked.
“No. Even if it was, you’re…unrecognizable. You don’t have a librarian’s aura, yours is something else entirely. Remarkable. Mr. Farrell’s aura should be similarly so—it may not match yours, but it will not match anyone else’s either.”
Simon stared in our direction, and then he nodded briskly. “Ah. Yes, I see it now.”
“How long will the borrowed magic last?” Michael asked.
“Not very. We should hurry.”
Chapter Six
We prepared for battle in the hallway, and all I could do was stare with growing dread at the door to the wine cellar. I knew the necromancer was in there with a certainty that went down to my bones, and I prayed that it wasn’t Mr. Farrell, more for my sake than his. Creeping tendrils of death slipped like fog from under the door. It was evil, plain and frightening—I’d never experienced anything of its like. And I was expected to walk into the dark heart of it, with only the dubious protection of my librarian soul mate and his mentor.
To keep my hands from shaking I folded them tightly, though a slight tremble traveled up my arms. I wanted to cling to Michael for support, but I didn’t want to distract him. He had enough to worry about as it was, for librarians were not known for defensive magic. Really he had no business in a fight such as this—like myself—but he insisted on accompanying me. Worry creased Michael’s brow, but Simon, on the other hand, seemed nonplussed by the situation. Upon arriving at the wine cellar he had removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and politely asked Lord Willowbrook for a sword, which we were now awaiting the arrival of. It was difficult to decide which was more worrisome, the murderous master necromancer or a chronicler with a sword.
When the weapon arrived, Simon drew it, examining the blade’s edge before belting the scabbard on. “Do you want Farrell killed or incapacitated?”
“Killed,” Lord Willowbrook replied. “I would rather not risk him healing his wounds and attacking other guests. I do wish you would take more people with you.”
Simon shook his head. “They wouldn’t be able to see him, and unless there are any shapeshifters in attendance, I am the only one who can match the speed, strength and resilience of a master necromancer. Even a young one will still outpace any of your volunteers.”
Lord Willowbrook was less than pleased by that idea, but he did not argue.
“Keep the door shut until the deed is done. I don’t want him escaping past us.”
“Understood.” Willowbrook handed Michael a lantern, and Simon led us into the darkness.
The wooden stairs groaned as we walked down them, and I clutched my skirts with sweating palms, my heart pounding. The lantern cast a small circle of light, and it was an anemic comfort. Fear made my vision slow to shift, but once it did I was able to see the auras of my two companions, though the rest of the room remained dark. Or at least what I could see of it—it felt like a large space, with shadows that stretched on forever. Simon moved to the right, and we followed, out of obedience and the fear of being left behind.
“It was an accident,” a voice hissed from the shadows.
I jumped, my gaze darting all around us, but I saw no sign of the speaker. It didn’t sound like Mr. Farrell, but that was difficult to judge from the sibilant words.
“Miss Morgan’s death may have been. I doubt Mr. Gryphon tore his own throat out,” Simon replied.
“Oscar would have been a problem. The Gryphons were all problems.” The phantom voice growled, and the sound echoed.
“They never appreciated my talent. They wouldn’t let me have Amelia. Said I wasn’t good enough for her. But you, Miss Wright, were acceptable.”
There was no denying his identity now. I felt foolish for not seeing it before, but perhaps I didn’t want to see it. It was easier to believe in the façade. Shivering, I stepped closer to Michael and the imagined safety of the lantern’s light. Long rows of wine racks filled the room, reminding me of the endless aisles of books in my vision. Lord Willowbrook did have a large estate. I suppose he would need to stock a great deal of wine for the gatherings he hosted.
“Why become a necromancer?” I asked, curious.
“Because this is true power. I won’t be denied anything again.”
We reached the end of the first rack, and more rows disappeared into the dark. A few feet away a table leaned against the earthen wall, and Miss Morgan and Mr. Gryphon’s bodies had been laid out upon it. Their corpses remained as blank as before, but an oily black shadow stood next to them, its head tilted as it stared down at Amelia.
“He’s there!” I exclaimed, pointing at the figure.
“Where?” Michael asked, but Simon darted forward.
“Next to the bodies,” I replied.
Simon struck the shadow, and it snarled and hissed, lunging at the chronicler. The two became a dark blur, and I wrinkled my nose at the scent of freshly spilled blood. Michael stepped in front of me, and I peered around him to watch.
“I still can’t see him,” Michael said.
“But he’s right there.” I pointed again for emphasis.
“To me it looks as though Simon is fighting thin air.”
Worried, I frowned as I focused on the shadow. It had Mr. Farrell’s height and build, but his features were obscured by the darkness. I expected Simon to draw the sword he had requested and attack with that, but instead he fought hand-to-hand. Or rather claws-to-claws, for they both had sprouted wicked, deadly claws from their hands like great hunting cats. There was something feral and frightening about their combat, and I gripped Michael’s arm as I tried to keep track of their progress.