“I must have made a terrible fool of myself. I complain about Nostra, and then, I do this,” she replied, spilling frazzled curls as she shook her head.
“It isn’t your fault. You said a spirit accosted you. Who was it?”
She opened her mouth to speak and was surprised to find her tongue had gone dry. There were no words to describe the thing she saw, and if she wanted to keep Lord Hale, there were things she couldn’t say.
“Just tell me. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
“I don’t know what it was. I’m most vulnerable when I’m doing a reading, but it was probably just a spirit trying to frighten me. Maybe something malevolent was attached to one of them or someone else here.”
“Does that happen often?”
Emmeline shook her head. Honestly, she couldn’t remember a time it ever had. Her mother had mentioned dealing with malevolent spirits before, but they came only when lured or invited by a medium. She had done neither. She swallowed hard. There was one explanation: the book, and the thought was as terrifying as the monster.
“Miss Jardine, you’re shaking. Let me fetch you some tea.”
Pulling the bell-rope near the door, he waited until one of the maids appeared. With a curt whisper, she disappeared down the hall and Lord Hale returned to the cushion beside her, taking her hands in his. Warming them between his palms, he gave her a weak but hopeful smile. Emmeline’s stomach flitted at the closeness of his body to hers and the heat radiating into her hands in small bursts in time with his heart. Her skin prickled and the roots of her hair rose to attention as he ran his fingertips along her palms. As he closed his eyes, a wave of heat pulsed through her form, bringing a flush to her cheeks.
Lord Hale straightened at the reverberation of energy. Hers trailed somewhere far away. A blood bond. That was not what he had expected. Cecil glanced toward the door before leaning close and whispering, “Have you ever thought of leaving the Spiritualist Society?”
“Of course not. My mother was head of the Oxford branch. It’s been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. Why would I leave?”
Emmeline studied his features, which had softened with thought. Did he want her to leave because he wanted her hand? Plenty of married women attended the spiritualist gatherings and worked as mediums, but a man of his standing might prefer his wife to be at leisure. She suppressed a smile at the thought, but a voice that sounded vaguely like her mother’s nagged at the back of her mind. Would you really give it up for him?
“I think your powers are wasted in spiritualism.” He held her hands tighter as she stiffened. “Don’t misunderstand me, you do great work. I have never seen anyone leave one of your readings without getting answers, but you could do so much more. Just look what you did when Nostra was gone. You practically ran the place, and yet they gave it all back to her. They would rather have a charlatan run the Spiritualist Society than give it to you. You should be somewhere your talents are appreciated.”
She shook her head. Her eyes burned bitterly at the thought because it was true. No matter how much she did, they still saw her as a child. “And where would that be?”
“At the Eidolon Club. It’s an exclusive establishment that caters to people with extranormal abilities. People like you and me.”
“What extranormal abilities? You aren’t a medium.”
He chuckled. “Emmeline, there is more magic in this world than you could possibly know.”
Closing the gap between them, Lord Hale held her gaze. The flecks of amber in his eyes glinted in the afternoon sun as his hand came to rest upon her cheek. He gently traced her cheekbones before sliding back into her loosed coiffure. Her heart pounded and she swallowed hard at the intimacy of the gesture. His eyes traveled to her lips. Leaning close, his breath skimmed her skin and suddenly his lips were pressed to hers. Warmth flooded her breast, traveling up her neck and cheeks until it tugged every hair on end. Emmeline slipped her hand into his hair, feeling the slick of pomade and the prickle of where it had been freshly cut. This was what she longed for all season. Even when the parties and balls lost their charms, he never did.
From the moment she spotted him, she wanted him. Tall, auburn-haired, with a decent fortune, and good-breeding, Lord Hale was all she could have asked for. What surprised her most was that he enjoyed the company of a girl like her. Dark hair, dark eyes, wide hips, and small breasts didn’t make her the most attractive woman in the room, but at every dance, he appeared at her side with an outstretched hand, paying little heed to anyone else. After the social season ended, she had expected to not see him again under her aunt’s strict rule, but one morning she arrived at the Spiritualist Society to find him standing in the parlor asking how to join. He had found a way to see her again.
When they finally drew back with hooded lids and quavering breaths, Emmeline lingered in his arms with her fingers tangled in his jacket and hair. As their gazes hesitantly met, matching smiles crossed their lips. In that moment, he seemed so young.
“And what do you call that, Lord Hale?” she asked breathlessly.
“Magic.”
At the sound of a knock at the door, they scrambled apart. Lord Hale stood, waiting for Emmeline to finish straightening her hair and gown before letting the maid in. The dowdy woman eyed Emmeline and Lord Hale suspiciously as she placed the tray on a small table in front of the window. When she glared at Emmeline with a disapproving frown, Lord Hale drew to his full height and loudly cleared his throat. The maid quickly left but not without giving Emmeline one more strident look.
“Nosy servants. I will have a word with Nostra about that woman,” he said as he poured Emmeline a cup of tea.
Handing her the cup and saucer, he let his hand linger on hers. They locked eyes, and Emmeline felt the stirring of heat and flutters in her core.
“I apologize, but I must go. I do hope you will consider my proposition, Miss Jardine. You have an extraordinary gift, and you should be with people who recognize it.”
With that, Lord Hale let go of her hand and disappeared into the hall.
Emmeline’s mind raced as she curled her toes in her slippers and bit down the smile that refused to leave her lips. She couldn’t wait to tell Cassandra what happened, even if she would roll her eyes and chastise her for not resisting his charms. As Emmeline brought the cup to her lips, she stopped halfway to her mouth. Sitting where the cup had been was a black square. Emmeline set the cup on the cushion beside her and studied the strange card. On the front was an drawing of a grim tree with snarling roots that wove into symbols, some created several at once, while the leaves formed a star. Flipping the card over, it read, You are cordially invited to the Eidolon Club.
Chapter Eight
The Eidolon Club
Cecil Hale walked down Sloane Street, passing from the glow of each streetlamp without raising his gaze to determine how far he had wandered. He didn’t have to. If he sent out a wave of energy, he could see the glow of the Eidolon Club from the outskirts of the city. Sweat trickled down his neck at the murky air seeping into his clothes. He should have paid attention to who was lurking in the alleys and shadows, especially in a heat that stirred violent blood, but he didn’t care. Let someone try to rob him. It would be a satisfying way to channel the guilt and anger gnawing at him.
He had kissed Emmeline Jardine, and while he had wanted to for months, he felt as oily and disgusting as the gunk that seeped from Duke Dover’s corpse. All through the season he had wanted to kiss her, but he hadn’t been given a chance to with her aunt and uncle always nearby. He told himself he had ultimately done it because he fancied her. Deep down, he knew it had been a way to sway her to his cause. Emmeline was stubborn, but if he played on her need for love and reciprocated her feelings, she would listen. Jerking his hand into a fist, he cursed himself. He shouldn’t have done it. He shouldn’t have let Lady Rose get in his head. He should have just talked about Nostra and given her the card. Instead, he let his feelings get muddled with this mess
with the book and—
Before Cecil could finish his thought, the streetlamp over his head blew out in a shower of broken glass. Darting out of the way, he let out a hiss as a tiny shard sliced across his cheek before dashing to the pavement in an explosion of dust. Muffling a string of profanities, he wiped the blood away with his handkerchief and kept walking. It had been a long time since that happened, since he lost control.
Ahead of him, just beyond the fog, he could make out the grey stone façade of the Eidolon Club. Like many secret things, it was hidden in plain sight among the rich who had so many of their own secrets that they didn’t dare pry into theirs. With his free hand, Cecil rang the bell and tried to stifle his feelings lest anyone inside notice. He steeled himself. In front of them, he was Lord Hale, the youngest practioner to earn a place at the Eidolon Club.
Light streamed onto the steps even at that late hour as the butler stepped aside to let him in. Unlike the cheery atmosphere of the Spiritualist Society, the Eidolon Club’s decor fit its purpose. Every room was trimmed in dark wood with crenelated arches and lined with hazy paintings of men or tempests. While there were plenty of cathedral-like windows punctuating the ceiling of the foyer, they did little to brighten the gloom. No matter how many electric lamps or fires were lit, the Eidolon Club never lost its chill, but that was a hazard of having so many practioners in one place. Passing through the front room, Cecil caught sight of Lord Sumner standing against the stone mantle, explaining something to another wizened gentleman in hushed tones. Cecil kept his eyes to the ground even as he felt their gazes upon him. On every story and in every room, extranormal people like him moved within, studying ancient texts, safely practicing magic within rooms that could withstand their power, or simply enjoying the company of those they didn’t need to hide from. It was a place he had loved until he introduced his aunt. She brought something with her that he couldn’t explain, something that made him feel as filthy as that stolen kiss.
Descending the stone steps to the catacombs, Cecil braced himself for what he would find at the bottom. Stale air tainted with dust and moldering water rose from below, carrying with it the reek of corpse flesh. It was a smell he wished he didn’t recognize. A faint chant carried through the air, but as he grew closer, he realized it was the lilting melody of an ancient song. Slipping into the half-closed chamber, he found Lady Rose carefully arranging a series of mirrors and bowls around her in a loose circle. From a bag at her feet, she withdrew half a dozen tallow candles followed by a hunk of quartz crystal as long as her hand and a vial filled with a murky liquid.
“If you’re going to stand there, you had better have something to say,” Lady Rose murmured without looking up.
Lord Hale shifted uncomfortably at the glint of the wicked obsidian knife in her hand. “I have made progress with Emmeline Jardine. I invited her to join us here, and I think she will accept.”
“That doesn’t help us if she doesn’t have the book. Mediums are useless anyway.”
Gritting his teeth, he resisted the urge to kick the nearest bowl and ruin whatever ritual she was setting up. “If the book does what you say it does, then I know she has it.”
He could still picture Emmeline’s energy. Only a week before, it had been a short, compact flame with a trailing wisp, but today, he had seen a much different shape within her soul. It had been stretched until it fanned around her like a mandala. A catalyst was the only thing he knew of that could cause such a sudden change. What surprised him was how she could do it without the book on her person. Surely, it couldn’t have fit in her reticule.
“Do you know how you will get the grimoire from her?”
“Not yet, but if I rush her, she will cut me off.” He shook his head. “Then again, I haven’t seen it. Maybe she doesn’t have it.”
Lady Rose stopped mid-turn as she traced a circle around her knees in chalk. “Then, why have you come if you have nothing useful to tell?”
“I want information.” When the bronze-haired woman laughed and struck a match, he added, his voice edged in anger, “I have a right to know what I’m getting a dear friend into.”
“A dear friend. You should have asked me when you agreed to help find the book.”
“Well, I didn’t think finding a book meant I would be crawling through graveyards and desecrating corpses. I’m not going to help you anymore unless you tell me what you want with the Corpus Grimoire.”
“Fine, you’re dismissed. I will just have a talk with Miss Jardine tomorrow,” she said sweetly with a smile that was anything but. Wiping the jagged knife on a rag, she locked eyes with Cecil. “How does that sound, Cecil? Shall I talk to her myself? I don’t think you or she will like our conversation, but I’m sure I will get the book.”
Cecil’s hands shook at his side as the cords in his neck strained. He pictured himself seizing Lady Rose by the front of her silver gown and slamming her into the catacomb’s wall. As much as he wanted to see her skull smashed, he couldn’t imagine Lady Rose at the mercy of anyone, especially him. If he touched her, it would be the last thing he ever did.
“I will speak with her, but I’m not going to do anything that will bring her harm. She’s innocent in all of this,” he said.
“We will see about that.” Looking up at Cecil, her eyes softened and her face lost its feral edge. “Keep your heart out of this, Cecil.” She filled one of the bowls with a pale, murky liquid and put it only inches from her knees. As she closed her eyes and leaned back, she added, “If you must know, the grimoire may be the main part of the ritual, but there’s more to find so we must act quickly. There are others in London who would love to find them before us and we’re running out of time.”
His eyes ran over the circle of mirrors and candles. It all made sense now.
“So you’re scrying to find what remains.”
A wry smile crossed her lips. “Clever boy.”
Ignoring her comment, he asked, “And what else are we looking for?”
“An artifact, a compass of sorts, and a plant.”
“What sort of plant?”
“Silphium. The oracles used it to get closer to the gods, and I fear if we don’t have it and the artifact, the ritual will fail as it has in the past. No one had all of the pieces. Then again, no one had practioners like us. Have you heard of the Interceptors?”
“No.”
“They are after the book and vivalabe but only because we want them. They want to stop us, Cecil, and we can’t have that, can we?”
The candles sputtered around him, a wind fluttering the end of his coat. “But who are they?”
“Sometimes I forget that you are so young.”
Heat rose in Cecil’s cheeks, burning with anger to mask his embarrassment.
“If you had left England, you would be well acquainted with them. They live normal lives, pretending they have no abilities, and the moment any of us step out of line, they impose their morality upon us. They believe they have the right to tell us what is right or wrong.”
Cecil watched her eyes steel again as she reached for the knife. His pulse quickened. Someone wants to stop us. He hadn’t thought about the repercussions of what they were doing. Could it really be so grave that others outside the Eidolon Club cared enough to try to stop them? When he began studying magic as a boy, it had begun with a spark of talent, a bit of hedge witch blood from his mother’s side, but what kept him at it was that magic had been limitless, taboo. It was uncharted territory where few dared to venture.
When he stumbled upon the Eidolon Club, a world of companions opened to him, and suddenly, the seclusion that had unnerved him at first only made it feel more exclusive. He was special and his diligent work and devotion to the subject quickly raised him in the ranks. Cecil swallowed hard, watching as Lady Rose chanted under her breath and stared deeply into the bowl at her knees. Suddenly the idea of rituals and magic books left a sour taste in his mouth.
The chanting grew faster as she brought the bowl closer until her no
se and chin nearly dipped below the water. Just out of sight in the darkened corner of the catacomb, a shadow condensed until Cecil could discern a pair of broad shoulders and a towering frame. He had seen that shadow several times, lurking in dark corners or breathing down the back of his neck in ashy gusts when Lady Rose was around. As he turned to watch the mass of shadows, it seemed to glare back at him. Cecil knew who lurked beside her. He didn’t like him when he was alive, and he most certainly didn’t like him dead.
“Cecil, come here,” Lady Rose whispered, beckoning for him to her side while holding the scrying bowl level in her other hand.
The nobleman knelt beside her, his eyes locked on the dark liquid churning in the shallow bowl. It pulsed, rocking with an unseen tide before settling into place. For a moment, the bowl was blank. Lady Rose’s lips moved silently with the proper incantation, and as he cocked his head and drew closer, colors began to condense in droplets beneath the surface.
A room formed, grey and soaring with massive columns. Cecil drew in a tight breath at the thought of having to steal the necessary relic from a cathedral and hoped it wouldn’t come to that. The building on the other end tilted, revealing rows of glass tanks housing an array of pinned butterflies over the fronds of a plant that had been set in resin. The image wavered, but through the murk, a man appeared. His face was thin and pale, and cutting through his eye was a long scar that tainted his iris with old blood.
“That man. He— he can’t be. Can he?”
“He is,” Lady Rose replied, lowering the bowl and blowing out the nearest candle. “We have been meaning to pay him a visit. Now that we know where he is, I will make certain we get what we need before the Interceptors have a chance to reach him.” A thin smile graced her lips. “Cecil, please leave me. There are things I must attend to, and I doubt you will want to watch that ritual.”
Dead Magic Page 7