Jack passed the cola to Sadie. “We have.”
Sadie opened the bottle and sipped the drink. It wasn’t too bad, and the sugar gave her a little energy. “We met Callum.”
“He’s a nice boy. He used to go to the local primary school. That was before he had to use the wheelchair, of course, but I knew, even then.” Maisie slurped her tea.
Jack was staring at Maisie, her green eyes almost glowing with concentration. “They want Thomazine’s book.”
“Ah. Well, Ellen always knew that was what they really wanted. That was why they killed her, I told you.”
Sadie looked from one face to the other, but they were staring at each other like two cats and didn’t notice.
Jack spoke first. “If I had a friend I trusted my animals to, I would probably trust her or him with my most precious belongings.”
“I suppose so.” Maisie slurped a little more, her eyes down.
Sadie looked at Maisie. “So, do you have the book?”
“I know where it is. You know, where she put it for safekeeping.” Maisie put her cup down and looked at Jack. “Drink up.”
Sadie smiled as Jack cautiously picked up the tea. She looked as though she were being poisoned, but tasted it, and sipped a little more.
“We can take the bird off your hands now,” she said, putting the cup down with a frown.
“About time.” The little lady stared at Sadie, so it didn’t seem rude to look back.
Maisie Talbot was tiny. Her shins, clad in support tights like Sadie’s Nan’s, were bowed, as if she had had rickets or something. Her feet had spread out into shapeless tartan slippers.
“And the book?” Jack leaned forward to stroke a thin ginger cat that had wandered in.
Maisie looked back at Sadie, and suddenly shuffled forward until she was gazing straight at her. One hand reached out, stained orange and smelling of cigarettes, and Sadie jumped as the old woman grasped her chin, turning her face toward the light from the window…
“Another witch,” she said softly, then her cold, hard fingers released Sadie’s chin. “I suppose that Magpie is here, too?”
“Magpie—oh, you mean Maggie?” Sadie shot a look at Jack. “Maggie’s staying for a few days. Then we expect another friend, Felix.”
“Felix? Who’s that, then?” Maisie shrank back into her seat, curled up like a soft, wrinkled fruit.
Sadie answered. “He’s my friend. He’s our friend. He knows a lot about Dee and sorcery.”
Maisie snorted. “What does a man know about witches and magic, blood and bone?” She shunted forward and put her slippers to the ground. “I better meet this Felix, and see Magpie, before I tell you where Thomazine’s book is. And you can take that blasted bird with you.”
Sadie followed Jack into the kitchen, her trainers sticking to the floor, and the room stinking of dishes piled in the sink, old cat food and the contents of two overflowing litter trays. The blast of cold air from the back door came from a kind of scruffy conservatory, cracked glass and peeling paint suggesting the same kind of decrepitude as the kitchen. The cage gave the huge crow inside maybe room to turn around, but no more. It swiveled its head toward Sadie, and stared with orange-brown eyes. The feathers were black, but gray at their tips where they were splintered and ragged. The feathers under its tail were white with droppings.
“Oh, poor thing.” Sadie moved forward without thinking, then stopped beside Jack. “Does it bite?”
“Yes.” Jack’s voice was cool, and a tightness around her mouth suggested she hated seeing the bird locked up as much as she did.
“Where are we going to keep it?” Sadie watched the bird dip its head a few times, toward Jack.
“I thought we would just give him the back bedroom, until he gets used to us. He remembers me.”
Maisie spoke. “You fed it. It’s hardly eaten since. I don’t like putting my hand in there, even with the glove.”
Jack slid her bare hand in the door, and touched the metal bowl inside. The bird, lightning fast, hammered the dish with its long beak with a loud “dink.” “I’ll just get some food for him.” She frowned. “And water.”
The old woman was by the kitchen door. “I’ll be glad to see the back of it,” she grumbled, and went inside.
Sadie stayed, watching the bird, as he inspected her. “Hello, bird.” She looked at the mess of torn and fouled newspaper scraps all over the floor. Grimacing, she bent to pick some up, and seeing an old carrier bag, stuffed the rubbish inside it. A wave of weakness swept over her so she leaned against the door to the tiny back garden, overgrown but still dotted with daffodils reaching through the long grass. She caught the bird’s gaze, and he suddenly made a deafening knocking noise, then a rumbling squawk. She turned to see Jack carrying two bowls.
“Hold this.” Jack handed the bowl to Sadie, opened the door a crack and held the water bowl just inside. After a long moment, when the bird swiveled his head to look at one, then the other, he dipped his beak into the water, then leaned back to let it run down his vibrating throat. He drank a dozen times. Sadie could almost imagine him sighing with relief.
Then he hopped forward, jarring the bowl until it spilled a little and looked over at the food Sadie was holding. Jack removed the water and took the food.
“That’s better.” Jack smiled at Sadie. “He’ll associate you with food as well, that’s what will help him adjust.”
“Will he be able to go back to the wild?” Sadie watched the bird gulp down beakfuls of food.
“No. He’s already imprinted.”
“What, like tame?”
“Not exactly, but he isn’t scared of humans. I don’t know how much he likes them, though.” Jack slowly removed the dish, getting a peck from the bird as she did so. “Ow.”
Sadie, despite the cold weakness creeping into her muscles, managed to support one end of the cage while Jack carried the other, the bird shuffling about and hitting the bars as she did so. When Jack put the cage down to open the back of the car, Sadie leaned against a door, feeling the sick, choking feeling, and closing her eyes as the sky whirled around above her.
A hand caught her arm, half lifted her away from the side of the car. “Come on, you need to sit down.”
Sadie managed to open her eyes enough to see the gutter, and leaned to spit a mouthful of cola-streaked sick into it. She let Jack half carry her around to the passenger door, and help her in.
Although the car was cold, the energy from the two circles of sigils warmed Sadie. Her chest and stomach started to feel warmer, waves of heat slowly creeping outward. She dropped her head back onto the headrest and breathed out with relief. Jack put a bottle of water into her hand, and she drank deep, cleansing the taint from her mouth.
When she opened her eyes, Maisie was watching her, unblinking like a cat, dressed in a lurid pink checked coat at least a size too big. Sadie wound down her window.
“We really need to know where that book is,” Jack said. “If you could just tell us—”
Maisie looked up and down the road as if someone would hear. “Won’t help even if you do know.”
“Why not?”
Maisie seemed to hesitate, then glanced at Sadie. “You’ll need witches to get it. It’s hidden in the garden.”
“Well, I have a witch in Maggie.” Jack sounded frustrated. “Please. It’s important to keep it safe, if nothing else. If it’s worth killing for, even dying for…”
The old woman gestured for Sadie to open her window more, and leaned in when she did. “They’ll listen to you,” she said, in a hoarse whisper. “They’ll let you take it. But be careful.”
“Where is it?” Sadie whispered back, caught up in the drama.
“It’s in the garden, my girl. It’s under the bees.”
Chapter 19
PRESENT DAY: PARIS
Felix sat in the lobby of a hotel, surrounded by flowers and antiques. Gina sat beside him, staring at the décor. Off Montaigne Avenue, the Hausmann-era building dripped
late-Victorian prosperity and luxury. The flight to Paris had been long, and he had found it difficult to return to a casual friendliness with Gina after they had shared a bed.
“Monsieur Guichard?” A smiling receptionist called him over to the desk and told him the number of the suite where Julian’s contact was staying. “Madame Ivanova will receive you now.”
The lift whispered up a few floors, surprisingly modern in the old building, and Gina leaned up against him.
“Is it crazy to be nervous?” she whispered.
He smiled as the doors opened, and he stepped onto deep, patterned carpet that silenced any footsteps. A single sign indicated the Auvergne suite. He tapped on the door, and an older woman opened the door and indicated that they should enter.
“Madame will see you now,” she said, in a Russian accent.
“Thank you, Evgeniya.” The voice made him turn. A woman, maybe in her fifties, approached him in sensible shoes and a smart wool suit. Her hair, a muted gold, was caught up in a bun on top of her head, and her eyes were the color of caramel. “Professor Guichard?” She pronounced it in the French way, Gee-shar.
“Madame Ivanova.” He took her small gloved hand in his. “This is Dr. Gina Larabie from New Orleans.”
“Please, join me in my salon.” The suite of rooms, each more lavishly decorated than the last, was tastefully resplendent with antique furniture. They passed one man sitting by a fireplace, talking to a much younger woman in an evening dress. In the next room, a small group of older men and women sat around and talked in French. They stopped when they saw Felix and Gina, eyes following them as he crossed the room, and the conversation resumed as they passed. Their hostess didn’t introduce them as they walked through. A waiter opened a final set of double doors.
The inner hallway led to a number of rooms, but she led them to the far end and into a smaller area with a corner window.
She offered them drinks, made sure they were comfortable before abruptly opening the conversation.
“I understand you have some knowledge of those some call revenants, professor?”
He nodded slowly. “My knowledge is fairly new. I met someone last year, Elizabeth Bachmeier or Báthory, and she claimed to be one.”
She leaned forward and picked up a box of sweets, and offered them, before taking one herself. While her gaze was on unwrapping the chocolate, she said, with studied casualness: “I had heard something of this.”
“You knew of her?”
She smiled, then bit into the sweet. He waited while she finished, looking around the room. It was richly decorated with what he was fairly sure was authentic Louis XV furniture. He ran his hand over the smooth carving of the arm of the chair.
“We met each other,” she said. “She was a member of an exclusive little gathering of friends.” She licked her top lip, claiming a crumb with enjoyment. “We rarely spoke, however. It was better if we were not here at the same time.”
“You were not friends?”
“She brought us all into disrepute with her exploits.” The woman’s accent was some sort of mixed European, as if she had spent a lot of time in Eastern Europe. It sounded a little like Báthory’s. “Her extreme tastes brought us all into disrepute.”
Felix didn’t know how to express the question he wanted to ask. Did this pleasant, rather plain lady drink blood? Gina fidgeted beside him.
Ivanova smiled. “You wonder, I think? At my own involvement?”
He nodded. “I only know what Julian Prudhomme suggested. That there are networks of people who explore that lifestyle.”
She waved away the suggestion. “Ah, non. The dabblers, the weak, the children who explore. To drink blood is to take life force at its most pure into one’s body. For a human, that would be a sexual fetish, an experiment. And blood is not very digestible, non?”
“And for a…nonhuman? Or rather, more than human?” He watched her mobile face, expressions twisting her mouth, creasing her forehead as she tried to explain in English.
“Ah, you understand. It is sacré, you understand? It is the ritual that is special.” She took another sweet from the box. “Now these,” she said, her pale eyes narrowing with humor, “these are food.” The woman’s face seemed to change expression so fast she was twitching. Finally it settled into a serene smile.
Gina leaned forward and spoke. “But for you, blood is…?”
She shrugged. “For those that have crossed over from mortal life, blood is energy, joy, warmth.” She waved a hand almost like a dancer. “It is immortality.”
Gina put a hand briefly on Felix’s. “We are interested in that process, of crossing over.”
Ivanova glanced at her, then her attention returned to Felix. “You understand that it is given only to a few to cross into the new life.” She pursed her lips. “It is not a cure for earthbound illnesses.”
Felix leaned forward. “I have heard the Inquisition’s definition—”
Again, the expressions shifted from calm to stern, through twitches of something less serene. “Our enemies! You speak of our enemies in my house?” Her voice was quite different, strident, forceful, half an octave lower. Her lips softened into sadness, her voice became almost childlike. “They would kill us, if they could.” Her expression changed, then again, as if emotions were running behind the calm façade.
“I’m sorry if we gave offense.” Felix looked down, trying to find the right words. “I have a friend who is also a revenant, and in danger of persecution. She is sustained by a magical tradition of symbols.”
Ivanova smiled and pointed at the ceiling. “Like these?”
The plaster was ornately patterned, with a molded border and ceiling rose, but between the raised features a painting of a summer sky complete with swallows and clouds hung overhead. It took a little studying to see, woven among trails of cloud and the tails of swallows, a circle of symbols.
“Well, not exactly like those, but I suspect they are used in the same way.”
A light tap at the door was followed by the waiter, this time with a decanter and three glasses. She murmured her thanks and the man placed the tray within reach, on a low table.
“A glass of wine, Professor? Madame?”
Felix looked at the decanter. The wine inside was so ruby red it could almost have been opaque. Something in his expression must have betrayed his thoughts, because she laughed.
“I promise, it really is just wine.”
“But you do consume blood. May I ask, where from?”
She poured wine into the glasses, and sat back, holding her own by the stem. “There are those who wish to give, and those who wish to receive. This little club, and others around the world, allow that exchange equitably. Some are honored to serve, others hope to be transformed.”
Gina leaned forward. “Ascended. That’s what a young woman in New Orleans called it.”
Madame Ivanova dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand, and sipped her wine. He took a single taste. It was just wine, and very good, but he needed his head clear.
“They have their own mythologie, these young people.” She glanced at Felix over the glass, her eyes narrowed.
He put the glass down with a clink that echoed in the silence. “A belief that makes them willing donors until they die.”
She shrugged. “They choose to die. They are foolish.” She shrugged. “I choose to live.” She drained her glass with an unladylike vigor and filled it up again.
“And what side effects does this blood have upon the revenants who drink it? People like you?” Felix said.
For a second she looked crushed with sadness, then a cool expression replaced the anguish. “It is not without cost. Yes, life, health, energy. But then—” She drank again, and ran one finger along her lower lip. “Then—it is a whisper at first. A tiny voice that tells you what you want to hear.” She stood, and pointed to a portrait over the fireplace. It was of a young, well-dressed woman, head held high, her eyes looking down at the artist from under hooded lid
s. As he scanned the features he could see it was a younger version of Madame Ivanova. The clothes were in a style of maybe a hundred years ago.
“That was painted two years after the third time I ‘died,’ ” she said, with emphasis on the word. “Living as an immortal, one has to fake one’s death from time to time.” She adopted the same pose as the picture. “Can you still see the resemblance?”
“I can.” The woman in the picture had a kind of arrogant beauty, lost in the older woman, but there was still something powerful about her.
“I was born in seventeen thirty,” she said in a soft voice. “I was from a good family, and I married well. But the typhus that killed my husband and one of my children also had me in its claws. For nine days, I raved and sweated and my servants despaired of my life. But Queen Catherine, who became our empress, sent a doctor to me who specialized in raising curses and curing ills. He made me swallow many potions and laid poultices upon me, many with silver charms inside. I was adorned by these for many months and it was he, referring to a manuscript supposed to be by an English sorcerer, who first drew the circles for me.”
“Dee?”
She smiled again, and finished her wine. “Well, that is why I agreed to see you. With the countess dead—and there are few who will mourn her—there is interest in her methods, her magics. She shared none of her secrets—except, perhaps, with you?”
“She didn’t explain. But I was there when she died.”
A shudder ran through Madame Ivanova’s frame, and for a second, her eyes flicked toward the door involuntarily. Then the smile returned as if nothing had changed. “You were not alone. An inquisitor was there?”
“He was.” He watched her more closely. Expressions crept across her face like clouds across the moon, so fleeting he could almost have imagined them. Among them was a look of spite, a look of fear, one of childlike amusement. For a long moment, no one was in the ascendant, then she looked down, and when she looked up she was calm. “And two others,” he added.
The Secrets of Blood and Bone Page 14