by Sarah Sokol
Charlotte swallowed back a familiar bubble of tears rising in her throat. "Yes. Back to London."
He ducked his head, stepping back from her and grasping for his horse's reins once more. "So be it."
Chapter Twenty-One
The Ritual Room
The great double doors of the ritual room had not been opened since the banishing ritual on Ben's fifteenth birthday.
At that time, the leader of the black magic rebellion, Lord Cecil Purcell, and his wife Theodora, were permanently removed from the material plane of existence. For any blood mage, their death curse was the most powerful spell they would ever cast, and it had been too dangerous to risk killing the Purcells outright, for fear their combined death curses would unleash a contagion upon the world. So, the loyal Conclave members had banded together, using all the power they contained as one, to rip the universe open at the seams for just one moment and push the Purcells out of existence.
Ben had been too young at the time to be a full Conclave member, but he had apprenticed with Lord Chandler, the previous Conclave leader. He still remembered Lord and Lady Purcell and their vicious expressions of joy as they leapt through the portal. They had been holding hands. He sometimes dreamed about them, floating in a hellish dimension beyond his comprehension, trapped and unable to truly live or die. He always woke from those dreams in the dead of night, cold sweat trickling down his chest as he tried to convince himself it was just his imagination. Nobody really knew what was on the other end of a banishing spell, only that whatever left the earth that way never came back.
Hastings cleared his throat from behind Ben. "Don't mean to rush you, old chap, but I do have things to do after this, don't you know."
"Things to do? It's nearly four in the morning," Oliver scoffed.
"Aye, and my lovers sleep by day. They'll have a good two hours in them yet," Hastings replied with a wink.
To prevent further argument, Ben took a deep breath and pushed on the double doors. They opened silently, no ominous creaking and scraping, to reveal a large circular chamber with a vaulted ceiling and a floor of polished wood.
Three concentric circles lined the floor, the largest one starting near the wall, the other two moving inwards towards the centre. All three circles were drawn in layer upon layer of thick red wax, poured over mounds of salt, repeatedly until it was caked at least ten centimetres thick.
The room hummed, vibrating with the latent power. Whatever arcane works were committed within the centre of all three circles would almost certainly succeed, with no danger of misfiring or backlash.
A hush fell upon the three men once they entered. Ben knew, at least on his part, the majesty of so many generations of practitioners could be felt in this room of his estate more than any other. It reminded him of how great his current assignment was, and how important it was that he succeed.
"Go on then. Everyone step in." Ben waited for Hastings and Oliver to edge over the first line of salt, then the second, until they stood in the centre of the chamber.
He followed, then drew his satchel forth and removed his own pouch containing salt and a candle. Stepping around the inner circle, he once more intoned, "Vita vero, in hoc circulo, vita vero."
The candle flared to life and he tilted it sideways, allowing the wax to drip down and cement over the salt, another layer in the circle.
Once he completed the ritual, he stepped back to the centre and looked at Oliver expectantly. Oliver followed suit, taking the candle and salt and completing his own circle, chanting the same words, followed by Hastings. As each new layer of the spell was set into place, Ben could feel the lines of magic drawing tight against his skin, surrounding him with a net, a crackling web of arcane power.
It was invigorating, frightening, as he felt heaviness come into his tongue, thickness in his throat, his jaw, his chest. Taking a deep breath of the soupy magical atmosphere, he crossed his arms and turned to Hastings.
The earl tossed the candle back into Ben's satchel, brushed salt off his fingers and straightened. Hastings lifted his chin, looking not at all daunted by the two men looming much taller over him.
"You've got me where you want me, now have your wicked way with me," he murmured with a glint in his eye.
"As a test. Hastings, tell me where you keep your list." Ben watched the earl struggle briefly with the spell.
His struggle didn't last long, however, and after only a few seconds his lips popped open, and out it came. "Top right drawer of my desk."
Immediately a flush of anger rose to his cheeks.
Before he could say something nasty, Ben felt the effects of the spell loosening his own tongue. "I found it there."
"I think we can agree it's working," Oliver said. "Can we focus? Being in here makes my skin crawl."
"Very well." Ben took a deep breath. "It is important to maintain respect and civility, even in these circumstances. Let us try to keep our questions to only what is strictly necessary. Do we all agree?"
Oliver looked a bit disappointed. "No personal prying at all?"
Hastings rolled his eyes. "Pry away, friends. You already know the secret I tried hardest to keep."
Ben pursed his lips. "Very well, then. I shall go first. Hastings, were you responsible, directly or indirectly, for any of the murders committed so far in London, beginning with John H. Turner, and ending with Timothy Fletcher?"
Hastings struggled to maintain a carefree expression, though it took on a sickly cast. "Not directly, or deliberately. However, I do lately fear my investigation and collection of names has led the bastard who did this to more victims."
Ben frowned. Of course, Hastings didn't do it. It would've been so much easier if he had. Damn. "Do you know who committed the murders?"
"No," Hastings replied. "I have no idea."
"Damn," Oliver said, voice hollow in the silence.
"Which leads me to my own question," Hastings continued with a small smile. "Did either of you do it? Oliver? Murder anyone we're not aware of?"
Oliver swallowed hard, and Ben felt a tremor of confusion and fear as he saw Oliver trying to fight the spell. Had his own cousin done this?
"I didn't do it," Oliver finally blurted out. "I killed a man, but it was in self-defence."
"Ah. Well surely we have all experienced that," Hastings said, waving his hand.
Ben stared at Oliver. He didn't know about this. Oliver told him everything. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"It was personal," Oliver said, avoiding Ben's eyes. "Let's move on, it's not related."
Ben glanced at Hastings, torn. "Fine. But we'll be discussing this later."
"Fine," Oliver snapped. "What are we still doing here? Hastings says he doesn't know who did it, he didn't do it, so can we go?"
"No, I have more questions." Ben studied Hastings, stroking his chin. He felt as if there were something here, something more he wasn't quite understanding. "Tell me this. What was it about the people on your list that made you decide they weren't harmful? Most practitioners would say black magic is evil, regardless of how little or much one does of it, and how strong or weak the spell is. Yet you made a distinction."
Hastings laughed. He was fighting this one, though Ben didn't know why. The spell was stronger than all of them put together, in this room. "I've been avoiding answering that question for some time now. The Conclave is reactionary. Anyone says anything about black magic, and people think it's the return of the Purcells or some such. The truth of it is, there is no such thing as black magic."
Ben scowled. The truth spell was only good at ferreting out what someone believed was true, not the absolute truth. "What are you saying? Don't be ridiculous."
"It is true. There are only two kinds of magic, and black is not one of them." Hastings gestured around the room. "All of this, obviously, is arcane magic. It has been studied, the secrets and spells kept for centuries. It requires physical components; salt, herbs, candles, symbols. We speak the words in a language foreign to us so that the
power is muted, controlled. Arcane magic can be practiced by anyone who studies hard enough, who understands it. There are those who are sensitive to magic, of course; I assume you have an extremely high sensitivity, as you've grown to be the leader of us all."
Ben was trying to take him seriously, but it was difficult. "I can feel when magic is present, or a spell is being cast, yes. Usually."
"The other sort is blood magic. It's misunderstood as evil." Hastings smiled. "This is generally when people call me insane, but I am sure. There are books out there, others like me studying the old ways and the new. Those people on my list, they aren't black magic practitioners in my mind."
Ben glanced at Oliver. He was hoping to exchange an incredulous glance with his cousin, but Oliver was listening intently, a fierce frown fixed on his features.
"What is blood magic, then? If it isn't just evil?" Oliver asked, his voice a bit ragged.
"It's the sort of magic people are born with," Hastings replied simply. "Those with the ability running through their veins. They generally have a specialty, just one or two things they can do, and do well. They can no more help it than they can help breathing. So, I ask you, should all those commoners, those thousands of innocents, be killed because of a choice they never made? An evil that never existed?"
Ben gave a hard laugh at that. "How can you say that? You've seen what black magic can do, what it's capable of. The Purcells slaughtered their own horde of innocents in the name of power."
"Ah." Hastings chuckled and straightened his cravat. "That would be the fuel. Arcane magic has the components, the Latin, the circles to fuel it and contain it. Blood magic is pure energy, and it must come from somewhere. Most blood mages use their own energy, their own life force. They weaken if they use too much. But some figure out the secret - how to gain their energy from other sources. I don't know how it works, exactly, open study of it is illegal of course. But I believe from what I can gather, that is what the great so-called black magic practitioners have done. Figured out a way to feed their spells with the energy of other people."
"Suppose that's why it's always better to keep your enemies alive for questioning instead of ending them immediately or muting them until you banish them into an abyss," Oliver muttered. He seemed to be struggling, flushed, throat working as he swallowed repeatedly.
He was fighting something, a truth spilling out. Ben was too preoccupied thinking of Charlotte to pursue it.
Could it be so simple? Could fear of the unknown have kept such knowledge buried for so long? Someone like Charlotte, who had no arcane talent or knowledge, was somehow still able to work such wonders as Oliver had described. Surely, she couldn't be evil. Could she? Ben hadn't yet landed on an explanation for her magic, and this one was clicking into place.
But it was all too much to comprehend. It was completely ridiculous. Contrary to everything he had been taught.
Ben emerged from the mire of his thoughts to find Hastings and Oliver staring at each other, some sort of unspoken tension between them.
"Thank you for answering my questions," Ben said, breaking the silence. "We should take some more time and go through your list thoroughly, now that we can all more or less trust each other."
"Indeed, seems wise. But first, I have a point to bring up." Hastings shifted his stance, looking away from Oliver again. "Those first three murders. They are all on my list, as I told you. What I haven't shared is that they were actually three key contacts who helped my companions when we first went on assignment."
Ben furrowed his brows. "Interesting. Your assignment was before my time, and kept in great secrecy; who were your partners?"
"Roble, Doucette, and of course, Sutcliffe."
"All upstanding society members with no known history of hatred or violence," Oliver mused.
Ben nodded. "Better be safe than miss something, though. I shall have all three of them followed for a time and see what they get up to."
"Solid plan. You can count on me not to mention it," Hastings agreed.
Oliver looked hesitant. "I agree. However, if we truly suspect one of those three - in my book, most likely Doucette - we should find a way to discourage Charlotte from continuing her investigation. If she practices blood magic, and this killer is going after blood mages, it's too dangerous."
"Discouraging her won't work, you said it yourself," Ben said, glum-faced. "I think perhaps she feeds upon discouragement."
"No need to discourage when you can mislead," Hastings offered with a sly smile. "Just send her on a very important rabbit chase that will keep her busy."
"Very well. I can come up with something." It didn't feel quite right, but it wouldn't be the first time Ben had lied to Charlotte. He could do it again.
To keep her safe.
He had to keep her safe.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Supper Party
Charlotte had rushed to get back to London, and now she didn't feel ready to face it.
It was already late afternoon by the time her little family carriage rattled its way down the lane towards Sophie's house. Well, not really her family carriage. She didn't have a family anymore. Just plain old Charlotte's carriage.
She had managed to get a bit more sleep, at least to rid her eyes of their deep purple hollows. After healing all the cuts, scrapes and burns of her staff and getting rid of Duncan's chest cold, her physical energy felt depleted, and after all that nonsense with Henry and Margaret, her emotional energy was gone as well.
When the carriage rolled to a stop, Charlotte took a moment to gather herself before fixing a smile on her face and stepping out of the carriage with her reticule. Duncan perched in the front holding the reins, still looking a bit mopey over setting the fire, so Charlotte gave him a reassuring glance and a nod before making her way up the front steps.
As she reached the door it burst open, revealing Sophie's smiling face and sympathetic eyes. "Back so soon? How wonderful, how gorgeous, I trust this means all is well?"
Charlotte nodded, stepping inside. She tried to match Sophie's energy, but she couldn't maintain the facade, and her shoulders drooped again. "Yes, everything's fine. Complicated."
"Come to the sitting room, I've only just gotten my afternoon tea." Sophie set Charlotte's reticule on the stairs and dragged her by the hand into the open, inviting sitting room. The afternoon sun beamed in over the sofa, and Sophie tugged and pushed Charlotte to sit down right in the shaft of light.
The energy of it warmed and calmed Charlotte, and she closed her eyes, smiling. She could almost fall asleep again now, just lean her head right against Sophie's soft shoulder and...
"You poor thing. You look quite exhausted," Sophie remarked, jolting Charlotte's eyes back open. She handed over a teacup and saucer and gestured to the plate of cucumber sandwiches. "Perhaps I ought to cancel the supper party tonight after all."
"Hmm? What supper party?" Charlotte sipped at the tea, feeling more fortified with each passing moment. The sunshine streaming through the window seemed to soothe the aches in her muscles.
"Are you sure you're all right, dear? You seem tired, but it's more than that." Sophie wrapped one arm around Charlotte's shoulders, rubbing her hand up and down in soothing circles.
Charlotte sighed and took another gulp of tea before setting it down. "It's just visiting home. It was tumultuous, and seeing Avery's things always makes me a little sad."
"I don't know why you stay there," Sophie said with a shake of her head. "You ought to just move away already. You're plenty rich enough to afford it."
"I can't." Charlotte picked up one of the sandwiches and nibbled the corner. "I have to stay there so I don't forget. I get so tired, I think it would be easy sometimes. To just forget about finding the killer, justice, Avery's memory, all that. But I can't let myself."
"You know I don't think--" Sophie cut herself off with a little huff and shook her head. "Very well. You make your own choices, dear, and I'll support you."
"Thank you." Al
ready Charlotte was feeling better. "What was that you mentioned about a supper party?"
"Oh. Well, Holly and I had arranged it tonight; we invited Lord Hastings, as you thought him suspicious, and Lord Stoneworth and Winters of course, and the Duke of Sutcliffe, as he was there during that whole coatroom thief situation. And then to round out the numbers we invited Lady Grayson and her daughters. We needed more ladies." Sophie ate an entire cucumber sandwich in a single bite and spoke through the mouthful. "We dign't bover to canshel."
Charlotte laughed over her teacup. "What?"
Sophie giggled and swallowed her bite. "We didn't bother to cancel when you left town. I thought I could do some nosy questioning, even if you were still gone. But now you're back, and I promise, we can cancel it, no trouble, if you are too tired."
"No. No, that sounds like the perfect distraction," Charlotte said, feeling a surge of nervous energy coursing through her. "It's why I came back, after all. You said Ben and Oliver are coming?"
"Oh, yes." Sophie's brows arched in that superior way of hers. "Lord Winters came to call, in fact, earlier this morning. He was quite disappointed that you had gone home. I'm sure he'll be delighted to see you tonight."
"Oh. Really?" Charlotte kept her eyes fixed on her teacup, ignoring the flush of her cheeks. "I'm sure he'll be no such thing. He'd be happier if I stayed in the country, I know it."
"He said some nonsense about checking to see if he could bring anything tonight, but I'm sure he wanted to speak to you. He asked quite particularly about you," Sophie said. "When he mentions you, I feel as if there's this sort of desperate look in his eyes."
Charlotte couldn't explain why that statement created a warm glow originating in her chest and spreading throughout her body. She had to work to suppress the smile that threatened the corners of her mouth. "Nonsense. You're always imagining things."
"Whatever you say, you blind little mouse." Sophie rolled her eyes and added another lump of sugar to her tea. "Now tell me exactly what happened. How was Margaret? And Henry, any awkwardness?"