The sparkling, effervescent beings stared down at their former hosts. Their energies seemed kind, loving, and pleased, but they were moving on. So soon. Too soon? The six could do nothing to stop them. The spirits and their accompanying mass of winged blue fire tore off through London.
“Unprecedented,” Persephone murmured, staring longingly after them. “I’m sorry, I must go,” she cried, with a last look at the six mortals who had been left behind, before she vanished.
Belle began to cry. “I do not understand.”
“It would seem we were useless. The spirits are finding better candidates,” Ibrahim stated, his voice hard, his expression conflicted.
“Now what?” George asked. A mad smirk toyed at his mouth.
Perhaps, Beatrice agreed, it was best to laugh. Was it not best to be rid of this burden that was so hard to grasp? Yet was something still expected of them? And what of their lives? What would fill the resulting void?
* * *
When the unprecedented happened, he was studying in Mr. Absolom’s secret laboratory, working on what he hoped would become a revelation of multiple alchemical chain reactions. The revelation he received was of a far different nature.
Alexi Rychman had been a lonely child, prone to obsessive reading and study. At age seven, his timid mother proclaimed him too intent and intelligent for her comfort. After that, he spoke rarely to his parents, instead reserving his limited energy for socialization to his sister and grandmother.
It was his apprenticeship with Mr. Absolom that had drawn his family to London from Germany eight years earlier, and he felt his parents resented him for it. But it was Katarina Novodevichy whose wealth provided for the family’s comfort, so it was she who made decisions. In gratitude and out of love, Alexi strived to live up to her expectations and felt he had succeeded by all estimations.
As he supposed many intelligent children did, he found numbers, powders, charts, and books more agreeable than people. In the few moments when he cast detachment aside, he would smile at his grandmother, and she would grow misty-eyed and say something in Russian about the grandfather he never knew, claiming that there was hope for him yet. Katarina had always been his champion—in fact, Alexi’s earliest memory was of her staring at him with an intent look, murmuring that he would grow up to be very powerful.
On this fateful day, something very powerful indeed was making itself known. Alexi heard a rush of wings, felt a strong breeze, and for just a moment thought that perhaps his alchemical powders were indeed blazing the trail to a new discovery.
“Hello, Leader” came a firm voice, speaking in a strange language he somehow understood. Looking up from his work, Alexi realized with a start that he was surrounded by blue fire. “This is the only time you will hear my voice, so listen close. You are a chosen one. The chosen one. What tops the alchemical pyramid? Me.
“The Grand Work begins, and the vendetta shall end with you. Treat her well, and make us proud.” These cryptic words were accompanied by an incredible sensation of power, joy, wisdom, and freedom. An ancient, righteous fury told him he was now a defense against evil, a mortal angel in a grand tradition …
Terror struck him, and Alexi jumped back, running his hands down his black suit as if brushing off the intruder. In the next instant, something dulled his fear of this overtaking energy: the sudden knowledge that at the heart of it, whatever now held him in thrall was inherently good.
He had to get to Westminster Bridge. There could be no delay.
The sight of his laboratory table struck him with regret. What about the great work he’d been studying? Would alchemy be supplanted by this Grand Work? Was he no longer his own man? Was his love of science to be sacrificed on the altar of this new duty?
Alexi left Absolom’s offices on Baker Street, his wide eyes filled with phantasmal sights. The dead were everywhere, floating along the busy streets, hovering in bustling doorways. As he passed, walking slowly to a new life, they bowed to him as if he were royalty. A force urged him forward like a bridled horse to Westminster—though a secondary desire burgeoned in Bloomsbury. Something important awaited him there, too: In his blood a treasure map burned and mysteries called to him in voices that he could not deny.
His heartbeat echoed with five others. The word “Leader” echoed in his ears like a betrothal promise. Alexi knew, with startling certainty, that by the time he reached Westminster Bridge and connected with those other hearts, he would have left boyhood behind and donned the mantle of a man.
* * *
Hidden from even the most skilled mortal eye, Persephone kept to the shadows, watching as the fire overtook him.
His intent young face displayed a new gravity as well as the wonder and terror she recognized from her visions. She felt his heart throb and thrum with new force. Such was always the case, but never before had so much been on the line, and never before had she had such personal investment in the Leader.
As she followed him out into the packed, dirty, gorgeous streets of London, she knew there had never been a better time to weave the fabrics of the two worlds together. Gazing about the manic city, she felt a thrill of anticipation. Theater bills announced the appearances of mediums and magicians; bookstands teemed with tracts on Spiritualism and séances. Lecture halls were filled with afterlife postulation. Paintings, sculptures, prints, and cards depicting mythological creatures and gods like Persephone herself were fawned upon by the educated and the mere titillated alike.
It was right that she claimed this world as her own. This gilded age understood sumptuous, glorious beauty, the rites and righteousness of spring. It also understood the dark, purgatorial whispers that defined the other part of her existence. Here and now, even as a mortal, she could be a child of two worlds. This grim and glorious age was her chance to live, love, and die as mortals did. It was an era tailor-made for her and for the Grand Work.
Provided she could follow through with the task, the exact details of which yet eluded her.
At Westminster, the blue-breasted raven was hovering over five of the six chosen mortals, examining them. They gathered in a circle on the embankment, waiting for their Leader. The five were nervous, excited and … too young … but time wasn’t on anyone’s side at the moment. As Alexi approached, the sharp girl from the Quaker meetinghouse, the tall and spindly brunette, drank him in as if he were ambrosia. Ibrahim had rightly pinned her as Intuition.
Ibrahim. Beatrice, Persephone thought. Where were her other Guard? She’d left them there at this very bridge where they had been called; why weren’t they here to see this torch carried?
Alexi spoke in a mature voice. “Good day. My name is Alexi Rychman, and this has turned into the strangest day of my life.”
He and Rebecca Thompson gazed at each other, he the Leader, she his second-in-command. Rebecca blushed. Persephone’s heart sank, for this Intuition would live heartbroken; she was not the companion of Alexi’s future.
“Hello, Alexi,” she said. “I’m Rebecca, and I feel the same.”
“Elijah,” spoke up a thin, blue-eyed blond boy garbed in striped satin finery that bordered on the absurd. He was the Memory, and he and the Artist regarded each other with subtle curiosity.
“Josephine,” said the Artist in a soft French accent. Her lovely, youthful face was framed by two shocks of white hair. Persephone wondered if the Taking had caused them. Sometimes the process had such effects: Eyes changed color, mortals grew more beautiful, more intelligent, more fearsome, whatever traits heightened their powers.
Alexi had been compelling from the first, but as Leader his presence was inescapable. Persephone nearly revealed herself, overeager to address them. But she had to pick her best moment.
“Michael,” chimed in a sturdy boy with a grin that rivaled Ahmed’s. The Heart, a strapping, broad-shouldered youth with ruddy cheeks and the contagious smile that distinguished Hearts from all others, he stared at Rebecca as if dazzled by her prim grace. His oceanic blue eyes were full of wonder.
“Lucretia Marie O’Shannon Connor,” said a dusky blond girl in an Irish accent. She stared at the cobblestones, her hair falling to hide what was a fair but frightened face. Her plain dress spoke of modest means. This was the Healer, the one Aodhan had seen. “I suppose you could call me Jane if that’s easier,” she murmured with a shrug.
The flaxen-haired Elijah laughed. “I’ll say.”
Alexi’s voice was firm. “And here I thought all my life I’d be a scientist. It seems forces at large have other plans. I don’t suppose any of you has the slightest idea what we’re supposed to do?”
Everyone shook their heads.
Give it time, Persephone wanted to urge. Trust your instincts. But that was for them to know, not to be told. She walked a fine line with every Guard; they had to learn to trust their own burgeoning talent in order to truly own their Muses’ gifts.
Alexi continued. “Then let me ask a mad question. Does anyone, all of a sudden, see ghosts?”
“Yes!” everyone chorused. Their relief was palpable.
“Can you hear them speak?”
“No” came the universal reply.
“Neither can I, thank God, or we’d never have another moment’s peace.” Alexi glanced around, sighing. Persephone had witnessed many a Taking, and the scripts were always similar, the mortals struggling to comprehend so many foreign sensations colliding at once.
The raven above fixed its black eyes upon her, seeing, as animals did, past the robes that hid the goddess. Rebecca pointed to the bird, which began to fly away, and the group followed it toward Bloomsbury. It was good that this Guard had a familiar to join them; they’d need all the help they could muster.
The city engulfed them. On they walked, toward Athens Academy, Persephone trailing behind. The empty building would open to students within the year, but for now it was theirs. The sacred space awaited them.
Persephone was fraught with worry for Beatrice and her Guard. Had they returned to their rooms at Athens, feeling strangely hollow? It was unprecedented to have one Guard replaced with another in this manner, and she was certain there would be great confusion if they met. Perhaps bitterness. No, this was for the best. The two groups needed to steer clear of each other.
To make sure of that, she would have to release Beatrice’s Guard from service, get them back to their lives. But Beatrice had become an integral part of her equation. Persephone frowned. The tasks before her were many, and she had no idea how to delegate.
Alexi had already begun to master the phoenix fire. He was proficient enough to open the sacred space, and it was there that the goddess would reveal herself and name each of their individual powers. Like she always did. But this time was different. This time was Prophecy. This time would be the last.
Opening a portal between the worlds, she stood upon its threshold to reveal herself to them, framed by the darkness of the Whisper-world. The jaws of the Guard dropped in wonder.
“My beloveds,” she began, “I’ve not much time, but I must inaugurate you as I have done since your circle began the Grand Work in ancient times. There has never been a more crucial age than this one—this century, this city. Your world is filled with new ideas, new science, new ideas on God and the body … and most important, spirits. There’s never been such talk of spirits.”
She turned to Alexi, willing him to know her heart. She was terribly nervous. “Alexi, you are Leader here. Inside you lives what’s left of my true love, the first phoenix born of ancient times. His great power was splintered, not destroyed. It is your tool. You control the element and are born again within it. My love lives in you, worthy Alexi, and you will fight Darkness by bearing the eternal flame of our vendetta.”
She proceeded through the annunciation, giving each their titles, instructions, and duties. Then she thought of Darkness’s threat to rip the worlds apart for her. It was time to change the usual script.
“Hold fast, for the struggle will worsen,” she warned. “Darkness will seek to destroy the barrier between worlds. To fight this, Prophecy must be fulfilled. A seventh member must join you. She will come as your peer to create a new dawn.”
Persephone glanced behind her, wincing, feeling the Whisper-world lurch in her blood, demanding that she step back into the darkness. But the threshold was different than it had ever been; it sparkled with a very familiar light. The Liminal was present.
As if sensing her discomfort, Alexi rushed forward. Normally she would have welcomed his aid, but now she stilled him with a hand. “You must understand,” she said, “once the seventh joins you, it will mean war.”
“Who are you?” Alexi asked.
The yearning in his voice made her ache—and smile. Her next words weren’t delivered as planned. “I hope you will know her when she comes, Alexi, my love. I hope she will know you, too.”
She. For some reason, the goddess could not say “I.”
Something was disrupting her speech, allowing Prophecy to take on a life of its own. The interference was troubling, for Persephone desperately wanted to offer Alexi Rychman promises of love and happiness and knowledge that whatever sacrifices he made for the Grand Work would not be in vain.
It was the Liminal, she realized. In its infinite wisdom, it wanted Prophecy played out entirely by mortals. All would be left to chance, will, and mortal hearts.
“Await her,” she continued, hearing herself speak words she did not intend to utter. “But beware. She’ll not come with answers but be lost, confused. I have put protections in place, but she will be threatened and seeking refuge. There shall be tricks, betrayals, and second guesses. Caution, beloved. Mortal hearts make mistakes. Choose your seventh carefully, for if you choose the false prophet, the end of your world shall follow.”
All she could promise was hope. Not herself. Not the girl she had seen. Just hope. And she had to hope, as well, hope that he would fall in love with her like a normal mortal man would.
She immediately regretted what she’d begun to cherish. This could lead to such madness and pain. She’d been running after phantom visions, forcing them to come true. But Pandora’s box was open and Hope was the only thing left inside.
“A sign!” the Heart insisted, sturdy, amiable Michael. “Surely there will be a sign. When will she come? How will we know what to fight against?”
“You’ll be led to fight the machinations of Darkness by instinct. But you shall not always be fighting,” she assured them, knowing there was yet time. “You are also as you were. Your mortal lives and thoughts remain unchanged, though augmented by spirits.”
She thought a moment, wondering what she could promise them. What had been consistent in her visions?
“Look for a door. Something like this”—she gestured to indicate the portal—“should be your gauge. But don’t go in.” She gave the Whisper-world a baleful glance. “You wouldn’t want to come here. You’ll see this threshold together, all of you. I cannot say precisely when your seventh will come. I’m powerful, but only the great cosmos is omnipotent. But she will be placed in your path. And once she is, you won’t have much time before a terrible storm arrives.”
In the distance Persephone heard barking. The dog. He had sniffed a threshold held open too long and now moved to guard it.
She heard Alexi ask her name. Guards always asked her name. They had a right, but one name was such a limiting thing. “It hardly matters. We’ve had so many names through the years, all of us.”
Yet, to mortals, a name was so important. Staring at Alexi, at his worried, amazed face, she was compelled to offer one final caution. If she couldn’t give him certainty, at least she could give him this: “Please be careful. Listen to your instincts and stay together. A war is coming, but it isn’t what you think. Hell isn’t down, it’s around us, pressing inward. Your seventh must be there when it comes, or she will have died in vain.”
“Died?” Alexi cried.
“One must die to live again,” she said. Then she blew him a kiss as the portal
snapped shut. She could keep it open no longer, not with the Whisper-world monsters on their way.
Trapped again in shadows, the goddess sighed and slid to the ground, her back against the stone wall, her head in her hands. Moisture kissed her skin with dread. She’d not thought of death until the word left her lips. She supposed it was her turn to be a phoenix and rise from ashes.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Stilled by surprise and pain, Beatrice watched the glimmering, iridescent forms of the phoenix fire and its attendant Muses as they swept from her and her Guard and scattered into the sky in a burst of angelic music. The Muses spread out across the city; the flame congealed into a large ball over the Thames. Like a growing azure sun, it suddenly burst into a wide-winged, glorious birdlike form.
Finding her voice, she shouted up at the great avian vision, “What? No parting words for your unwitting servants?”
The immense cerulean bird immediately descended, and a rumbling voice of thunder and stars, wind and sage calm, poured forth. “We are sorry. We forget mortal courtesy. You justly deserve every accolade, but our commission draws us onward. You have served valiantly and are rewarded with an early end to your duty. Go in peace.”
The departing Muses darted to and fro, visible in the sky, before making dizzying dives toward what Beatrice assumed were new hosts. She wondered if her fellows felt as she did: hollow, wounded, and confused, like a child suddenly left alone in a crowd.
Though their powers had left them, their ability to see the dead had not. In fact, the dead seemed more present than ever, as if they, too, sensed the great shift.
Ibrahim moved toward Beatrice and reached for her, as if she could steady him. She yearned to take his outstretched hand, rare as such an offer was. Before she could move, she felt a sudden chill that rippled through her like a seizure.
The rest of Cairo’s Guard obviously felt it, too. Ibrahim whirled, his eyes wide and his bronze skin pallid.
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