The Perils of Presumption (The Conclave Series Book 1)

by Sarah Sokol

  "But why the elaborate crime scenes, then? Why all the arcane glyphs, the failed rituals around the bodies?" Ben shook his head, frowning deeply. "There must be more to this."

  "Maybe. But it's clear he's as mad as a March hare," Oliver observed. "And as murderous as one. Regardless of his larger plan, we need to summon the constables here to have a look, and we certainly need to apprehend Sutcliffe. We should wait for him to leave the ball tonight. He might be a danger to others if we try to capture him amidst all those people."

  "Yes." Ben felt numb, his mind spinning and jumping from one place to another, trying to make sense of it all. He flipped through to the final journal entry and began to read silently.

  I think they may be onto me. I've been followed the past few days, and Winters has banded up with Hastings. It's only a matter of time before that idiotic dandy says something to implicate me. I will not be able to finish my work, but I can inspire others with a final attempt. I've had my eye on a bird with fine feathers, one whose loss is sure to shake the ton. I can smell the coppery taint of blood magic on her, hidden away under the pretty smiles and wide green eyes. I knew I felt her power at the ball when I killed that fool I hired to steal the list. She will do as a final sacrifice. No matter if the poorest whore in the Devil's Alley, or the loftiest lady in London, no one is exempt from justice. No one is exempt from truth and light.

  "Charlotte," Ben gasped as if coming up for air after days underwater. He slammed the journal shut and looked up at Oliver. "You said Sutcliffe was with Charlotte."

  "Yes, but they're in a public ballroom. She's perfectly safe," Oliver assured him.

  "No," Ben shoved the journal into Oliver's hands, turned, and sprinted for the stairs. "She isn't."

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Thorny Vines

  Charlotte peered down over the room below, appreciating the display of colourful ball gowns. They reminded her of the hollyhock dolls she and Sophie had made as children. They would pluck the hollyhocks and upend them in the river, watching them twirl and dance downstream just like the ladies of the ton.

  "Quite a sight, is it not?" Sutcliffe guided her away from the railing and back to pace down the deep crimson carpet that lined the balcony. "All the canaries, showing off their fine feathers."

  "Yes." Charlotte hesitated. She had to guide the conversation to deeper matters if she wished to get anywhere. "Although I must admit, sometimes it bothers me."

  An arrogant smile touched the corner of Sutcliffe's lips. "Ah, vanity. Your feathers may not be as elaborate as some, but you are still one of the prettiest birds in the room, fear not."

  "Oh, no, not that." Charlotte waved her hand. "For that I could not care less. It is the absence of thought and feeling I speak of. Caring only for appearance, how others see us. If I fell down the stairs, I think only one person might come to help me up, and the rest would giggle behind their fans and read about the 'Petticoat Scandal at Archbishop's Gala' in the papers the next day."

  There was a pause, and she looked up to find Sutcliffe's dark eyes piercing through her. "Indeed, Lady Whitcomb. I suppose the only solution is that I take great care in not allowing you to fall down the stairs."

  "Oh, thank you." She laughed, inwardly groaning in frustration. Perhaps a complete change of subject was in order. "How long have you been a member of the Conclave, Your Grace?"

  "I was thirteen when I first began my apprenticeship."

  They had made their way to the other end of the balcony at this point, and Charlotte released Sutcliffe's arm to peer once more down over the room below. There was Sophie at last, her crimson gown a spot of unusual colour in the other pastels as she danced with Hollis.

  It was so unfashionable to dance with one's own husband. The sight made Charlotte smile.

  "I have always wondered; do you accept any who wish to study? It seems most of the members I have met are nobility." She turned back to Sutcliffe, finding him still watching her with that disconcerting gaze.

  "There are a few members who are not of the elite. It is simply uncommon for a lower-class citizen to be able to read, let alone aspire to understand the arcane. Not to mention the expense." Sutcliffe crossed his arms and studied her. "Enough of this talk. I wish to see a demonstration."

  Charlotte swallowed hard. She'd never had a stranger ask to see her power before, just for the sake of seeing it. "Oh. I'm not supposed to do it in public."

  "Perhaps not, but that ship has sailed, my dear." Sutcliffe nodded at one of the doors behind them which led deeper into the house. "I would invite you to a more private location, but I hardly think that would be appropriate."

  "Indeed not." Charlotte glanced over his shoulder to the back corner of the balcony, where the lamps were casting shadow. She retreated into the relative darkness, safe from the view of the room below. "Have you any wounds, bruises or cuts you would wish healed? I'm told the sensation can be quite invasive, so I wouldn't wish to subject you to it unnecessarily."

  "Aye." Sutcliffe retreated to the corner with her and began to unbutton his sleeve, tugging it up just enough to reveal a small cut on his wrist. It looked a day or two old. "Just there."

  Charlotte took one last glance around. The rest of the balcony on this side was completely empty, and it didn't seem as if anyone was looking. Turning back to Sutcliffe, she closed her eyes and brushed her fingers against his wrist.

  Five vines of power rose as small tendrils, green and new, surged through her fingertips and into his skin. She felt her awareness blossom and gasped, almost pulling away in shock.

  He was completely covered in deep cuts, up and down his arms and across his chest. She could feel the web of pain blanketing his mind, a worn path as if he were accustomed to it. Before she healed, she had to explore. As she sank down deeper, she sensed malnourished, shrunken organs; parched, dehydrated flesh and muscle.

  What would drive a duke to torture his own body this way? As she strained to reach deeper, she felt as if from far away, a piercing pain in the back of her neck.

  Instinctively her body jerked, and she tried to reach back, slap away whatever was causing it. Her arm wouldn't respond, muscles locked and straining. She felt her hand spasm, cramp, and freeze, and as she drew in a deep breath to scream, she could not open her mouth.

  She hurtled her senses back into her own body, trying to blink her eyes open, to see what was happening, but she could not move. Every part of her was paralysed. Panic rose, and she tried to gulp in air, but her lungs would not draw in breath.

  Sparks appeared in the blackness before her eyes, swirling and floating, spiralling in dizzying waves, until she drifted into unconsciousness.

  Air.

  She needed air.

  Charlotte's eyes flew open as she began to gasp, drawing in gloriously deep breaths.

  She blinked rapidly, the darkness fading from her vision. She was lying flat on her back on pale marble, staring up at a dark-blue ceiling. In her periphery she could see the glow of lamplight cast over tall bookshelves and elegant furnishings. To the left, next to her head, she saw a pair of black, shiny shoes.

  As her eyes flicked down, she felt her newly recovered breath begin to come quicker. She was naked except for her soft white bloomers. Completely covering the floor around her were markings, confusing arcane glyphs unfamiliar to her, painted in what looked like blood. She had no cuts on her skin; perhaps Sutcliffe had taken the blood from his own veins. There was a circle painted around her, also in blood, that hummed with enigmatic power.

  Scarlet rushed to her cheeks and she tried to squeeze her thighs together, to scramble upright and cover her breasts with her arms, but she could not. Her limbs were still frozen in place.

  "I wouldn't try to move if I were you."

  Sutcliffe. The shiny shoes near her head began to pace down the length of her until he came into view, staring down over her body with a clinical eye.

  She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound emerged, her throat locked tightly closed. Sh
e began to panic once more, struggling to breathe, but as she closed her mouth, she felt the tension in her throat ease.

  "Wouldn't try to talk, either," Sutcliffe said absently, tilting his head to one side. "Let your vanity be assuaged. Here you are, divested of your feathers completely, and still the prettiest bird I've snared yet." He paused, then snickered to himself. "Though I suppose I shouldn't hold those two-penny whores to the same standard as I would a lady. You're my first high born. Pity you shall be the last."

  It had been Sutcliffe all along.

  He had killed Avery. He had slaughtered all those people, and she had danced with him. She felt sick, wanted to vomit, but she couldn't move, couldn't heave, couldn't do anything but lay there, glaring and simmering with rage.

  "My, my. If looks could kill, I'd have a smoking hole through the chest right about now." Sutcliffe snickered again and stepped in between her legs. Now that the deceitful film he had kept between himself and the world was gone, she could see the mad glint in his eyes, the lecherous smile on his lips, the sickly, yellowed complexion.

  "Fortunately for you, I don't have time to enjoy you as completely as I would like. There is little chance I get out of this alive. But I'd like to assure you, there is no chance you will do the same. I've perfected my paralysers over years of research and study."

  Sutcliffe paused as if waiting for a response, then straightened and shook his head. "Pity. I would like to hear you speak. Beg me to stop. No matter. Enjoyment and suffering are both secondary. First must come the cause."

  Charlotte watched helplessly as he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and removed a very tiny knife, almost like a doctor's scalpel. It glinted sharp and silver in the low lamplight. She trembled, muscles shaking with the effort to move, but Sutcliffe stooped down once more.

  "Generally, I like to take the time and ensure you know what it is that has led you to an early grave. In your case especially, I can see why you might be confused. Pure-hearted little Lottie, just wants to help her friends and save the children, she can't be evil, can she?"

  He tightened his grip around the scalpel, the tip of the blade brushing back and forth over Charlotte's bare knee. When he spoke again, his face darkened, crumpled into an ugly mask.

  "But I'll tell you a secret, girl. The Purcells could heal too. They were just like you. It all started so nice. Don't mind, us, we're here to help. Dying aunt? Let us save her. Broken leg? We can aid you. Later we found out..."

  He exhaled a low, guttural laugh that sounded more like a bark. "They were just sowing the seeds of plague and disease and rot. Allowing them to take root within all those they aided. You've the potential to kill thousands, hundreds upon thousands, bottled up inside that tender frame. You think a thing like you deserves to live? Is it a risk the rest of the world should be willing to take?"

  Charlotte's eyes went wide and her mind raced.

  Could that be true? She always was so careful when she invaded someone's body, so careful to keep everything slow, ease her healing power into them. She had always tried so hard not to hurt anyone when using her magic. It had never even occurred to her that the very fact she had to be so careful meant there was great potential for harm.

  But she had kept her patients safe. None of them had gotten sick. Her brother, her patient for years, had never even gotten a head cold.

  She wasn't like the Purcells.

  Maybe she could be if she tried.

  Just this once.

  She kept her eyes open, fixed upon Sutcliffe, but she tuned out his words and the continued stroking of the scalpel up and down the length of her leg. She had no way of knowing for sure, but she thought she might still be in the same building as the public ballroom. The walls and furnishings seemed similar.

  All she needed was to buy some time or make some noise. Someone would come. Someone had to come.

  She wasn't going to die to the same ratbag scum who killed Avery.

  Focusing within, she began to wake her vines of power from where they coiled deep in her belly. They roused like sleepy snakes, slithering through her limbs. The power couldn't leave the confines of her own skin, not unless she was touching another person.

  They were still green vines full of healing energy. Charlotte closed her eyes and allowed the well of bitter rage to surge up, choking her with its vehemence. She urged the anger into the vines, feeding her power with her own emotions, and the magic gobbled the anger greedily. Thorns began to sprout, prickling the inside of her skin. The thorns emerged small at first, like those on a new rose, but quickly the black fury twisted them into sharp points, wicked daggers that took glee in the thought of killing, of latching onto energy, of feeding upon it.

  There was a small corner of her mind doubting herself. If she went down this road, would she ever come back? She stuffed that part into a tiny box and pushed it far, far into the back of her mind, allowing the rest of the space to fill with the tangled bramble of pure dark magic.

  It was a sinuous, beautiful and wild thing.

  Sharp pain bloomed in her foot, and her eyes popped open. She looked down to see Sutcliffe, drawing the scalpel up from her big toe in a straight line all the way to her ankle. In the wake of the knife came the line of blood, dribbling down onto the smooth tile below. She whimpered, unable to tell with her paralysed limbs if it was serious enough to cause nerve damage, if she could still wiggle her toes.

  "Pay attention, dear," Sutcliffe said. "Can't have you drifting off on me, hm? We're about to start."

  He began chanting in Latin, words Charlotte didn't recognize, and brought the scalpel down to the opposite side of her foot, drawing a curved loop in her skin that overlapped the straight line, and she saw he was beginning to draw more of the same symbols that surrounded her body. The pain was fiery hot, blood running down in multiple rivulets to her ankle.

  Ignore the pain. Wait for his touch. She forced herself to keep breathing, keep watching. His large hands holding the tiny knife began to carve again, another notch on the side of the curved loop. Each movement was so precise.

  Avery's crime scene had been a mess, like a child painting with its fingers.

  He'd had practice since then. All those people. Sutcliffe had made an art of it.

  She hyperventilated, and the edges of her vision began to cloud with shadow. No, no, not good. Must stay conscious.

  All he had to do was touch her. Just one touch of his skin.

  Blood dripped from a new cut on her right foot. Pain grew and spread. She would have whimpered, screamed, cried out, but instead it was just silent pressure in her throat, more agony to feed to her vines as they whipped back and forth beneath her skin, aching to escape and find purchase.

  "Such a pity." Sutcliffe's eyes fixed between her legs, upon her feminine core barely covered by the thin bloomers. His hand moved up towards her thigh, still gripping the scalpel, until finally, finally the rough calluses on his fingertips brushed her leg.

  Instantly, the writhing mass of vines surged towards him, leaping eagerly from her skin and sliding up his fingers. He cried out, tried to pull his hand away, but it was too late.

  She had him, clinging to him with every fibre of power she possessed. She slid the magic into his wrist, his arm, building hooks, allowing the thorns to grip, hold him there while she worked. She brought him closer, made his palm flatten against her thigh, and with the additional contact her power filled him faster, faster.

  The vines raced through his body, wrapping around each organ, constricting his heart, winding up into his brain, and with one great, wrenching heave, Charlotte pulled on the writhing mass of hatred, tightening the vines and digging the cruel thorns into every corner of Sutcliffe's being.

  She strained back as long as she could, but her energy was already depleted from the healings of the past two days. She wasn't strong enough to crush his beating heart, and the light of the living still gleamed in him. The vines had taken root within him, though, and somehow, she knew that a part of her was with
him forever. Once she had more energy, she could... she could...

  She didn't know what she could do.

  She allowed her eyes to flutter open. Sutcliffe was unconscious, slumped backwards, eyes closed. She had that much at least. The blood dripping from both of her feet was slowing, wounds not deep enough to endanger her life.

  Again, she tried to move, testing her muscles. They were still locked in place. Her jaw, still frozen shut, and her throat still closed against any sound.

  So, she fixed her eyes upon Sutcliffe's form.

  How soon until he wakes?

  His chest rose and fell.

  Any moment, he could open his eyes and finish what he started.

  The clock ticked.

  Any moment, someone could come.

  Charlotte waited.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Search

  Ben dashed up the wide steps leading to the open, warmly-lit front door of the public ballroom, Oliver hot on his heels. A footman clad in the Archbishop's livery stepped in front of the door, blocking their approach.

  "Invitation, my lord?" the footman inquired with a deep bow.

  "There's no time, official Conclave business." Ben barged forward, his heart thundering in his chest, growing more frantic with each second wasted.

  The footman stood strong in the face of his attempt to pass. "I'm afraid invitations are required for entry, my lord."

  "Damn you, lives are at stake." Ben raised his cane, staring straight into the footman's eyes and beginning an incantation. "Antequam motum moveat, antequam mot-"

  "Oh dear. Please, don't do anything... My apologies, my lord," the footman babbled as he stepped aside.

  He was still attempting to apologise while Ben stormed past, roughly shouldering his way through the press of people at the entrance and into the large ballroom. There were indignant cries and offended gasps from ladies in his wake, and he heard Oliver muttering 'I beg your pardon' and 'deepest regrets, madam' behind him.