Seventh Born

by Monica Sanz

  “Miss—”

  “I saw someone,” she whispered to Lucas, who quickly climbed down, “on the first floor, but the professor is on the second.”

  The gangly boy drew his wand. “Stay here and scream if you need help.” He jogged toward the townhouse, then slipped in through the slit in the door. Within seconds, his outline became visible through the window as he inspected the first-floor room. It soon disappeared.

  Nerves rattling at her core, Sera kept her own wand tight at her side. Professor Barrington had moved on to the room next door…and in the room next to him was a hooded figure in white. She gasped. Where was Lucas?

  There was a chance Lucas knew the intruder was there, but clearly Barrington did not. Gathering her skirts, Sera ran for the house and squeezed through the partly open door. The dark foyer and first floor were in shambles, all drawers open and haphazardly emptied. Paintings were scattered about the floor, knocked from the walls whose wallpaper was also ripped. Spells were visible in the tears. Discarded trunks, books, and papers left a trail through every room she could see and up the stairs.

  On tiptoes she ascended the stairs. Low muffled voices resounded from the room nearest the staircase—Barrington’s and a woman’s voices.

  “…know more than that. Why play games when we’re after the same thing?”

  Sera peeked through the space in the doorway. The hooded woman stood behind Professor Barrington, her wand pressed firmly at his back. On her sleeve was the signet of a dove. Sera aimed her wand, all hairs on end. A Sister of Mercy.

  “Tell me what he told—” The woman stopped, finally aware of Sera, who entered the room slowly, her wand aimed at the woman’s head.

  “Set down your wand, now,” Sera demanded.

  The woman turned her head slightly, a smirk on her thin lips. She had a willowy pale face, her whitish hair draped over slender shoulders. “I could disarm you while holding this wand at his back.” Her gray eyes glinted with challenge.

  Anger soured Sera’s mouth, but she managed a grin. “I don’t need a wand to kill you, believe me.”

  Their eyes locked, a battle of wills. Sera never wavered.

  “Seems we’ve reached an impasse where you’re outnumbered,” Barrington said. He nodded his head to Lucas at the door that linked the rooms.

  The woman sighed and let her wand tumble to the floor. Professor Barrington spun and kicked it away to Sera’s feet.

  “Would you like to question her here, or bring her with us?” Lucas asked, his fingers clawed into the woman’s shoulders.

  “My Sisters would not have sent me if they didn’t think I could protect myself. I’m not here to fight,” she said.

  Barrington laughed humorlessly. “Is that so? And threatening me with a wand at my back was your invitation to chat?”

  She grunted as Lucas pushed her down onto a chair. A quick flick of his wand and he wound a luminous rope of magic around her wrists, waist, and ankles.

  “All I want is to find out where the man who lived here has gone,” she said. “I’ve been watching him for some time and noticed acquaintances of yours drag him away. I would very much like to speak to him.”

  Barrington leaned back against the windowsill. “I doubt he’ll say anything more.”

  Sera looked to him. The same flash of anger swept over his features, but adjusting his waistcoat, he said, “However, nothing makes a preacher out of a thief like a man under the gallows.”

  The woman arched a brow. “Then how about we share tales? You wouldn’t be here if you knew what they were after. But I know, and I will tell you in exchange for his location.”

  “I’m all for a trade, contingent on the value of your information of course, Miss…?”

  She smiled, clearly not prepared to offer her name.

  “Very well. He did mention a few things, namely that they were seeking members of your cult—”

  “We are not a cult. We have existed longer than your precious Aetherium and Academies.”

  Barrington rubbed his chin. “What do you want with the vile creature who lived here?”

  “He has information regarding something we value greatly.”

  “The Scrolls, I know.” Barrington crossed his arms at his chest. “Seventhborns are dying, the men who lived here were responsible for their kidnappings and murders, and yet you speak to me of myths.”

  “Do I not sit here before you? Trust me, Professor. The Sisters of Mercy and the Brotherhood are very real. So are the Scrolls. I’m sure your father would agree.”

  Barrington slid a cold gaze along her face. “My father is dead. While alive, I admit he had a rather obsessive fascination with these tales—enough to have left him labeled a lunatic. Like him, cults such as yours have tried to find these supposed Scrolls for years and have met no success. Do you see why I have a hard time believing you?”

  “Your disbelief is fear and nothing more. I think you’re afraid to consider the truth for your own sake, and the sake of the memory of your brother and father—who was responsible for a great number of deaths, including those of many Sisters.”

  Barrington’s mouth drew to a thin line.

  “You speak in riddles. While the professor extends you the most patience, I myself have none,” said Lucas as he tightened the binds around the woman’s legs and arms. “Tell him what you know.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, sending a chill down Sera’s spine. There was no doubt she would kill them if given the chance. “I’ll explain it all in exchange for the location of the man who lived here. Now an oath that you will give me the man’s location.”

  Barrington mirrored her smile, a grin Sera could envision as the very devil’s, just as cold and beautiful. “Don’t insult me. I will not give you your wand to swear an oath. But I’m a gentleman, and you can trust my word.”

  She stared at Barrington, and he at her. Sera forced her hand to steady, the tension in the room heavy on her chest.

  “I suppose I have no choice.” The woman settled back. “There are many things that happened before our time that are not mentioned in your beloved books. Yes, when Angus Aldrich’s daughter, Freya, stole the Scrolls from her father, she ran away and never looked back. But it wasn’t for the lies purported by your dear historians. She ran away because it was her father, Angus Aldrich, who wanted to use the spells in the Scrolls to obtain power over time. When she discovered what her father was doing, she locked him inside his mind with a spell, burned his research, and sought sanctuary with our order, the Sisters of Mercy. For years the Brotherhood sought her, scrying for her, but because of our wards and magic, they were unable to find her. However, Freya knew that once she died, a necromancer with enough power could summon her spirit. Once she grew old, she decided the only way to keep the spells safe was to use the Forgotten Spell.”

  Barrington hummed. “So once she told her secret, it would be wiped from her memory. Strong spell.”

  “Precisely. But since the spells in the Scrolls of the Dead were so powerful, she thought it too risky for one person to have them all. She chose seven Sisters of Mercy and appointed each a spell, thus creating the Keepers. Once they memorized their spell, they took a blood oath never to write the spell again, never to try it themselves, never to tell the spell to another until it was time for them to pass it on to the next Keeper, and never to reveal the name of the next Keeper. In passing down the spell, they died for breaking the oath. Broken oath, broken life.”

  Sera sucked in a gasp. Isobel had uttered those same words.

  “These Sisters scattered around the world, protecting the spells with their lives. They carried on this tradition of passing down the spell, forever ensuring it was safe. Over time, the story grew to a myth, but then a Brother arose who once again sought the spells. He breathed new life into the Brotherhood movement, radicalized them with Purist ideologies, and they waged their war against us. We protected Freya’s grave, but we were outnumbered against their black magic.”

  “Why not burn h
er body?” Sera ventured. She hated asking, but Barrington said they were in this together, and she had to know.

  “It untethers the soul from the body and makes it easier to summon. A skilled necromancer could then trap the spirit within another body or object. With a body intact, the necromancer must use the bones to summon the spirit. It’s a good way to protect someone in death,” Barrington explained, his gaze trained on the Sister.

  “Ah, so you’re familiar with necromancy. Why am I not surprised? You are your father’s son, after all.”

  Barrington’s jaw tightened. “You were saying…”

  She sighed. “Yes, yes. He siphoned magic from hundreds of seventhborns in order to summon Freya. You might know this as the beginning of the Persecutions.”

  Barrington scoffed. “Lovely tale, but fear of plague was the reason for the Persecutions, not necromancy or black magic.”

  “Or so your books tell you. Necromancy was still an underground magic during those times; no one knew the effects of it. I’m sure you’ve seen what happens to a witch drained of magic, the rotting skin and emaciated bodies?”

  Sera shivered, remembering her own gaunt appearance at Noah’s hand.

  “When body after body of dead seventhborns began to appear, people grew frightened. They thought it was yet another curse placed on seventhborns and, unless they eradicated them, it would soon spread to other magicians. The Patriarch at the time called for all seventhborns to be killed, and it proved very convenient for our necromancer. He had his choice of seventhborns to syphon. Eventually he amassed enough power to summon Freya and learn what she had done.”

  Sera’s jaw clenched, her hand tight on her wand. The longer a soul was dead, the more magic was needed to summon it. He must have used hundreds of innocent seventhborns whose only crime was their birth order.

  “Thankfully Freya wasn’t able to tell him the spells, as they had been forgotten when she passed the spells on to the Keepers, but they did find out who she appointed as Keepers. Since then, they have been trailing the line of Keepers, using seventhborns to raise body after body, and here we are today.”

  Sera’s blood ran cold, and she glanced at Barrington. Though stoic, his eyes betrayed him; his faraway look told Sera he was putting together the pieces of this horrid puzzle. The murders, the Brotherhood targeting powerful seventhborns…

  “How many Keepers have they found?” he asked.

  “Isobel was the sixth. There is one left.”

  “Dear God,” Sera whispered, breathless at all the pieces coming together in her head.

  “Now you see why I must find this man. If they were desperate enough to infiltrate the Academy and hunt down a powerful seventhborn, then it means they know the location of the next body or are close to it.” She settled back. “That’s all I’ll share. Now it’s your turn.”

  Barrington straightened, a fiery determination in his stare. “A deal is a deal, Sister. The man you seek was a pile of ash the last time I saw him, ashes that have been scattered into the Lore River. Best of luck to you in finding him.” He whirled, slipped on his hat, and motioned for Sera to exit. She moved out of the room, his words ricocheting in her mind, tangled with the memory of his bloodied cuffs, of his controlled fury. She had been right; he had been wild and fallen. Death incarnate.

  “You bastard,” the Sister said through gritted teeth. “What of my binds?”

  “You should’ve thought about that before you shoved your wand to my back, threatened my assistant, and insulted my father.”

  She grunted, struggling against the binds. “We had a deal!”

  Barrington paused at the door. “We did. I said I would tell you where the body was—well, what’s left of it, anyway. I never said I would release you. You said your Sisters wouldn’t have sent you if you didn’t know how to protect yourself. Prove them right.”

  …

  The ride back to the house was quiet, the only sounds the crunch of rolling wheels and hoofbeats on the turf and the faint tinkling of harness bells. The heavy, unsettling silence surprised Sera, considering all they had learned. But however much she wished to discuss things, one look at Barrington told her it wasn’t the time. He sat in the corner of the carriage, his mouth bowed to a frown, staring out the window as the city gave way to shadowy forests that then thinned to moors stretching into the darkness. The faraway look in his eyes told Sera he saw none of it. Wherever his mind carried him pulled down his brow and darkened his stare. His mood made the shadows in the carriage appear darker and the space smaller, or so thought Sera, who stifled a sigh of relief when they arrived at Barrington’s home and Lucas opened the door.

  Snapping from his brooding, Barrington exited the carriage and held out a hand to her, helping her down. She walked a few steps toward the house, but noticing Barrington did not follow, she turned to find he spoke to Lucas, though she could not hear what was being said.

  Sera curled into her cloak and stared out to the moorlands. The stillness was fierce, somehow heavy and crowded, alive and ominous. The snow on the ground had since frozen to a blanket of jagged and cracked crystals, stifling all heather and undergrowth. The land was feral, untouched and dangerous to those unknowing how to navigate it. Sera glanced at Barrington; the land was so much like the man who owned it.

  Barrington approached her, but Lucas did not leave.

  “I won’t be coming in. There is something I need to do,” Barrington said, his gaze fixed on the moorlands behind her.

  “Shall I come tomorrow or await your call?” Sera asked. They had so much to discuss.

  “Yes, wait for my note. We must find where the body is first.”

  “What do you intend to do?”

  He sighed, a cloud of white gathering at his mouth before vanishing. “I’m not certain yet, but I must go.”

  To Gummy surely. A strange twinge nudged her heart, and helplessness answered back. The thought of him finding solace in that place—with that woman—bothered her in the strangest of ways. But she nodded. He was adrift and in need of an anchor. And if Gummy was his anchor, what could Sera possibly do?

  “Of course. Good night, Professor.” She turned away, hoping he didn’t sense the vast disappointment that swelled in her chest.

  Barrington took hold of her hand, his fingers tightening about hers and drawing her back.

  She turned to him, her pulse quick. But he still did not look at her, rather at her hand within his.

  “What I did tonight was inexcusable,” he started, his voice low and weak against the soughing breeze. “I lecture you on self-control, and tonight I had none. Forgive me. If what I’ve done disgusts or scares you…”

  He released her hand and never finished the phrase, though the words echoed loudly between them; if what he did disgusted or scared her, she was free to leave. His eyes remained downcast, shadowed by his top hat, and his frame rigid. Bracing.

  A knot birthed in Sera’s throat, the desire to hold him like electric currents skimming her skin. She forced her hands to remain at her sides. It wasn’t her place to touch or comfort him…and yet, here he was, once again, asking for her forgiveness. Warmth spread through her, melting away her indecision. Her forgiveness meant something to him. And however little or much, she meant something to him, too. It was her place to comfort him, one she had somehow earned in his life, and she would not vacate it so easily again.

  She reached out and touched his arm.

  Barrington lifted his eyes to her, and she couldn’t find another breath. Shame swelled in his stare, and so much pain.

  She shook her head, barely. “He was the monster, not you.”

  He stared at her—truly and fully, as though he sought her soul. “Thank you.”

  Although the cold cut through her layers and bit into her skin, a fierce blush pricked her cheeks.

  A gust wheezed past and blew a strand of her hair onto her lip. He lifted a finger to her face, stroking the tress away. His hand lingered on her cheek, and Sera’s stomach knotted, his
closeness and the rise and fall of his chest a reel drawing her closer. The strangeness that enveloped them in his office emerged once more, fierce and burning. He sensed it, too, his gaze taking in every inch of her face. She saw the hesitation in his stare, felt it in his touch, to not leave her. To stay and discover whatever this was warming the space between them.

  One of the horses whinnied, and Barrington blinked. Seeming to remember where he was, and who they were, he lowered his hand and moved away, the moment broken.

  “I must go,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  Sera gulped, her next breath an agonizing chore. “Of course. Good night, Professor.”

  She turned to leave, a sharp pain jabbing her chest. Her body screamed for her to return to him, to discover more of the intoxicating warmth that had swathed them, but she forced herself forward. It was madness. Nothing good lay that way, not for her heart or for her dreams, however much she wished to discover it.

  “And Miss Dovetail…”

  She stopped and faced him, and her heart throbbed. Whatever existed before was gone, leaving Barrington to his sadness once more.

  “What the Sister said about my father… He was a good man.” He turned his head down and nodded, a weary gesture of someone with the burdens of the world on his shoulders. “A good man.”

  “I know, Professor.”

  He climbed back into the carriage, quickly vanishing behind the shadows within. Lucas mounted and spurred the three black stallions.

  “I know,” Sera whispered to herself, watching his carriage leave the gates. And though he said it to her, she entered the house and wondered whether he said it to convince her or himself.

  23

  necromancy

  Ten days felt like an eternity…until another note requested her presence. Sera watched it burn in her hands, cursing her heart that instantly forgot its function. She’d promised herself his touch that night had meant nothing, neither had his lingering gaze, regardless of how the feel of his fingers lived on her skin in their days apart. Shaking it off, she moved to the corner of her room and transferred to his home. Matters of the heart had no place between them. She would focus on her dream and nothing—not even a handsome professor and his kindred sorrow—would sway her.