“I agree.” Magnus frowned. “But I think you have your answer. The warehouse is empty. No traces have been left of what went on there.” He folded his arms, his face dark with displeasure. “There were workbenches beneath the warehouse, and signs that equipment had been in place, but what they were actually doing there remains a blank to me. I do not like that.”
That at least was something Evelina could agree with him about.
His mouth twitched irritably. “I am not convinced the casket is missing.”
That logic puzzled her. “Why don’t you know?” He seemed to know everything about everything. The fact that he was unclear about this point was odd.
He gave her a disgusted look. “I have tendrils everywhere, but I am not quite omniscient.”
“I still don’t understand why Keating would say he doesn’t have it if he does. Won’t it form part of his exhibition anyhow?”
“Perhaps he means merely to keep it from seekers such as I am. Perhaps, like so many collectors, he cannot bear to share that which he has made part of his private hoard. The potential reasons are many. I simply know the man is lying to me, and must draw my conclusions from that.”
“Of course,” she said slowly, fascinated but horrified. So much was sliding together—Nick’s half-understood account of Magnus’s conversation with Bancroft, what she had seen in the warehouse, Magnus’s interest in her bird. More questions exploded in her mind like a flock of startled pigeons, but the doctor spoke again before she could grab even one.
His face softened, his expression almost amused. “And now I’ve given you what information I have to solve this mystery. Will that buy me some trust, my Helen?”
“Helen?”
“A figure of speech. Helen is the wise woman, the divine truth made flesh.”
“You have an odd notion of flattery.”
“I merely seek to win you over to my cause. Your knowledge and mine added together would be a powerful force.”
“Not in this century or the next,” Evelina shot back.
“Never?”
“Never.”
“You sound like the heroine of a bad novel. Never is a long time to shy away from something you do not even understand.” He swayed closer, shrinking the distance between them.
Evelina braced herself, refusing to give ground. “You deal in death magic. That’s what sorcerers do.”
“So I’m a sorcerer. What does that mean to you?”
“That you deal in darkness.”
“You are so very fond of your light, aren’t you?” Magnus replied. “But you have no notion how to preserve it. Perhaps you don’t understand how badly you need me as a teacher.”
The air seemed to congeal around Evelina, raising the gooseflesh on her arms. Her heart began to patter with fear. Dr. Magnus is calling his magic.
But then all logical thought stopped.
The lights in the chamber began to dim. Even though the flames in the gas brackets and the chandeliers burned just as tall, they lost their luster, leaving the atmosphere a dirty and forbidding gray. The sound of the mechanical orchestra in the ballroom seemed to fade, but whether that was perception or reality, she couldn’t tell.
Evelina could feel the rising tide of panic. Her stays felt suddenly tight, her hands clammy and cold. She clutched her arms, hugging herself as the atmosphere whispered of fear. “Dr. Magnus, please!”
His head turned slowly to regard her with the measured pace of a coiled snake. “You need to recognize my strength. You need to understand that you cannot stand against my will.” Then he reached out and grabbed her forearm—the same crushing grip that had forced her to drop the knife.
If the fear floating through the room was soft and insidious, creeping like mist, this was a waterfall. It shot up her arm as if injected, coursing straight to her core. This was death. This was the terror, the moment when the dying knew their fate was sealed—the final breath caught halfway down their throat, the last thrashing thought as darkness closed in.
Evelina gasped, her pulse racing so hard it hurt. Instinct screamed to pull away, to run, but her numb limbs could barely support her, much less move. Like a cornered animal, she bit with the only weapon she had.
Her magic reared up, slamming into the invading horror like a sudden wall. It wasn’t much—there was no flaming sword or blast of lightning, just refusal. “Get out!”
Magnus gave his soft laugh. “No.”
Her barrier wasn’t enough, and she had no training beyond what Gran Cooper had told her as a child. Magnus was right that she needed lessons. The room was growing darker still, dim and murky. Terror pervaded the space, as if it had turned breathable.
Her stomach lurched, panic skittering like bugs past the barricade she had built. Evelina shut her eyes, blocking out as much as she could. Inside was blackness itself, but this was her personal night, solid as mud. She thrust her energy into it, making it thicker still. Magnus pulled back, only the merest fraction, but it gave her hope.
In her mind’s eye, she filled the mud with life—earthworms and burrowing things, roots and rivulets of water. It smelled rich, full of the sharpness of loam and the goodness of bursting seeds. The seeds burst, stretching up and out, driving out of the soil and exploding into leaves.
Magnus pulled back, yanking his hand from Evelina’s arm as if it scalded him. She stumbled, bumping against the wall. Exhaustion flooded her, her lungs barely finding strength to suck in air. She still felt afraid, but this time it was her own emotion. She could live with that.
Surprise lurked in the doctor’s eyes. “An interesting demonstration, Miss Cooper. You would be such an apt pupil, if you would only release your grip on accepted wisdom. Death always trumps life in the end.”
“Life eats death,” she retorted, her voice weak. “Neither way is final.”
His shock turned to condescension. “How little you know of the cosmos.”
The lights came up again. The mechanical tea trolley wheezed to life and began to trundle around the chamber. Evelina shuddered and looked around, reassuring herself the room was still intact. No one was screaming or stampeding through the building. That had to be a good sign.
She had no idea how much time had passed. Probably only seconds, but it felt like weeks. Suddenly she saw Keating and two of the Westlake footmen standing just inside the threshold of the room, staring at the lights in consternation.
Evelina turned, falling back a step at their unexpected arrival. The motion made her bump into Magnus and he steadied her with a gentle touch to her shoulders. That made her skitter to the side.
The look on Keating’s face was one of unholy rage. Evelina might as well have been invisible. Keating looked right past her, his attention fixed wholly on Magnus.
The doctor sighed. “Alas, the prospect of a public unpleasantness erupts. Here comes the villain of the piece.”
A quip about pots and kettles sprang to mind, but the idea died before it was fully born.
Keating spoke. “Get out, Magnus. No one invited you.”
“And on what authority do you order my removal?”
“The duchess is my friend.”
“Come, Keating. Men like you don’t make friends.”
Keating’s face twitched. “Leave. You weren’t invited.”
“And yet here I am, finding exactly what I need.” He gave a sidelong glance to Evelina.
She stepped back, even more uncomfortable than she had been moments before.
Keating filled the room with his anger. “Get out, before I remove you by force.”
“Is this a threat? I think we had a chat about that, did we not, Mr. Keating?”
“I’m calling your bluff. You don’t get to slither through my streets. Not anywhere you see my lights.” Keating voice was hard and steady. He stopped a few feet away, his henchmen a step behind. “To find you accosting a young lady of good reputation doubles your offense.”
There was a pause, then Magnus made a languorous bow to Evelina
. “Good night, Miss Cooper, we shall speak again. No doubt your dance partner awaits.”
Tobias! She cast an anxious glance at the door. He had to be waiting for her. As she looked away, Magnus grabbed her elbow and pulled her close one last time, putting his lips to her ear. “Until next time.”
He spun away, shouldering past Keating and striding through the door. The moment he was gone, Evelina heard the first strains of a lively tune. The regular orchestra was back, like birds bursting into song the moment the storm had passed.
Evelina sagged against the wall, sweat dampening the small of her back beneath the countless layers of muslin and whalebone. Fatigue blanked her mind, except for one tiny idea, small and green as one of the sprouts in her wall. I beat him. Maybe just for this time, but he’s not invincible.
The Gold King gave a nod to the two footmen. They followed after Magnus, no doubt making sure that he actually left.
“Who is Dr. Magnus to you, Miss Cooper?” Keating demanded.
Evelina shuddered again, looking around for Tobias. He was still a dozen strides away. “Dr. Magnus is the Flying Dutchman.”
The Gold King gave her a narrow look. “You know what happened to the girl in that story, don’t you? She finished by throwing herself into the sea.”
She gave a laugh that sounded slightly lunatic. “I like the version where she ran away with the kraken.”
Then some subconscious instinct made her reach for her reticule. Her fingers closed on the soft beaded sack, crumpling the cloth into an empty ball. It was covered with a film of Magnus’s oily magic, and Mouse was gone.
Chapter Thirty-four
Nick cursed. Evie would be safe at a ball. It was public, and the Golden Boy was sure to be there, anxiously hovering at her elbow the minute someone stepped on her toe.
After leaving her at the gate of Hilliard House, Nick had gone back to Ploughman’s. Immediately, he went to the stables, picked up a brush, and began grooming his mare. The light seeping into the stall was dim, the air warm with the horse’s heat. When she whickered, he felt the wash of her sympathy. Anyone who said animals couldn’t talk weren’t listening.
There was no performance that night, and he had time to himself. He had no appetite for carousing, and for once, the routine and the earthy smell of horse failed to soothe him. His jaw clenched as he struggled with resentment. Tobias. Nick knew the type. Pretty boys who came to the theater one night with their sweetheart, the next night with their whore. She deserved better than that.
His hand slowed, breaking the rhythm of the brush. The mare turned her head in inquiry.
“That damned white dress,” he grumbled. “She looked like the virgin from a bloody melodrama.”
The gentle swell of her breasts above the low-cut neck of her gown—it crushed reason beneath the heel of masculine possessiveness. He should let her go. He should move on. But he bloody well couldn’t make himself do it.
The mare flicked her tail.
“It’s not safe. Not with Dr. Bleeding Magnus around.” And not with Tobias Roth looking at her as if she were a pastry in the shop window.
The weary look the mare gave him was every bit as pointed as one of Gran Cooper’s lectures.
The opulent Westlake home was a long way from the Hibernia Amphitheatre, but Nick was on the street outside in under an hour, dodging the crush of carriages. He could hear the faint gabble of merriment from inside the house, and the occasional scrap of music. It should have been reassuring, but his skin itched with apprehension. Or maybe it was just unquenched desire.
Or maybe it was the odd sense of being followed. He had first felt it around Portman Square, and it hadn’t left him since. It left him fingering the knives he had strapped under his jacket.
The Duke of Westlake’s mansion was a fortress, and his place was outside with the errand boys and street sweepers. There was no chance of getting close, so he hung back, keeping away from the pack of footmen sharing an illicit cache of their masters’ brandy. He had no appetite for a fight.
And the distance from the front door didn’t matter. If he did find Evelina, was he going to bundle her back to Ploughman’s like a runaway? She wouldn’t stand for it, and he wouldn’t expect her to.
So what the bloody hell was he doing loitering outside the ball? Irritably, he slouched against a brougham that had been temporarily abandoned by its crew. He wasn’t used to being still, and his fingers itched for something to throw, or fix, or juggle.
Nick was about to give in to reason and go back to the Hibernia when Dr. Magnus hurried down the front steps, still straightening his tall hat as if he had left in a rush. Nick straightened out of his despondent slouch, suddenly alert. As if on cue, a pair of footmen stormed out of the Westlake’s grand entrance and stood there like Rottweilers deprived of their prey. Given Magnus’s penchant for stirring up trouble, it didn’t take much to link the two exits together.
A blur of gold swooped out of the darkness, landing on the wheel of the brougham. Startled, Nick nearly swatted it away.
Hey! The voice shrilled in his head.
Nick blinked, trying to absorb the fact the gold object was actually a brass bird that appeared to be alive. It hopped from side to side, peering up at him with one sparkling eye, and then the other.
“Hello?” he asked tentatively.
The bird fluttered its wings in annoyance. Oh, good, it talks. You’re the only one out here with a drop of the Blood. You must be the one she wanted.
Squinting at the thing, he tried to reconcile what he was seeing with the voice in his mind. “You’re a deva.”
He could communicate with most devas, although he had no talent for calling them—unless it was when he touched Evelina.
And you smell like a horse. She told me to get help if I needed it. Since you seem to have nothing to do, maybe you could pitch in.
“She?”
The one who made me, horse boy. You know, the dark-haired chippy who makes you climb through windows.
“Evelina made you?”
Who else?
It was a valid question. Nick folded his arms, staring down at the bird. He’d seen the brilliance of Grandfather Cooper’s coin-operated wonders. Gran Cooper had been one of the Blood. If Evelina had inherited both talents, why not create a fusion of the two?
That would explain Magnus’s interest in Evelina. Dark hells, what could a sorcerer do with that kind of knowledge?
The thought expanded like a malevolent bloom in his gut. Nick’s skin went cold. He scooped up the bird, stuffing it inside his jacket. He received a peck to his thumb that made him wince.
“Stop it!” he growled. “You have to stay hidden.”
Bag that and smoke it, Gypsy boy. Sorry I bothered you. I just thought since you had enough of the Blood to hear me, you might be useful.
Nick gave up trying to hold the squirming creature still as it crawled out of his pocket and up the front of his jacket. It finished by digging painfully into his shoulder, the tiny talons like needles.
Nick winced. “What do you want me to do?”
The sorcerer.
“Magnus?”
He took Mouse. Neat as a pickpocket.
“Mouse?” Nick was beginning to feel like an echo.
The creature flicked its brass wings, the sound ringing like a tiny chime. Mouse does the indoor work. I’m the outside spy. I can’t exactly fly around a ballroom, so your girl kept me in her shoe bag as backup. Good thing or he’d have both of us.
Nick’s skull clogged with questions they had no time for. He settled for the basics: Mouse. Gone. Bad. “All right. I’ll follow Magnus on foot, you take the air. I know where he lives.”
Got it. The bird was off with a musical whirr.
Nick pictured a map of the streets in his head. He was about two miles from Magnus’s home. It stood to reason the doctor would go there with his prize.
With new purpose, Nick slipped through the streets, ears attuned to every footfall. When he got to the st
eps of Magnus’s townhouse, he slowed. Nick had no intention of blundering into a trap; nor did he relish the thought of cornering a sorcerer without some kind of plan. He knew what Magnus could do.
The home of Dr. Magnus was still and dark. He crept up the stairs on silent feet, scanning the shadows. Either Magnus hadn’t returned home, or he was sitting inside, waiting.
A memory of pain drained his strength, leaving him panting. Forcing his feet up, step by step, Nick slid a knife into his sweat-slicked palm.
When he reached the top, he paused, listening. Nothing. His senses weren’t as keen as Evelina’s, but he probed inside as best he could and found nothing living. He’d just about convinced himself the place was empty when he heard metal scrape on metal. He glanced up, expecting to see the bird. Instead, he felt the kiss of a gun barrel beneath his ear.
“You took my key, thief.”
Frustration blanked his mind as he recognized the voice. Striker. Bloody black hells!
“Didn’t I kill you already?” Nick snapped. Now he knew who had been following him.
“Just left me gammy as an old cart horse, but what’s one more score to settle?” The metal ground against his jaw. “Now where is it?”
Nick pushed away a skitter of fear. “My inside jacket pocket.”
The pressure of the gun went away and a strong hand spun Nick around. Perfect. He pushed away, using the momentum to slam his foot into the wound right where he’d previously thrown Evelina’s paper knife. Once Striker was off balance, Nick moved in and struck again. Striker didn’t scream, but made a choking gurgle as he doubled over in agony.
Nick grabbed the gun. It was a blessedly ordinary revolver, not the bulbous monstrosity Striker had the last time they’d met. He checked it. Fully loaded. “How the blazes do you sneak up on anybody in that metal coat?”
“Give me my key,” Striker wheezed.
The last thing Nick wanted was a prisoner, and the key was no use to him. Exasperated, he fished in his pocket and found the chain he had ripped from the man’s neck. He tossed it to him. Striker caught it midair, his face brightening a moment before resuming his usual scowl.
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