Dead Magic

by Kara Jorgensen

  For a long moment, he merely stared at the coffered door, half expecting Adam to come bursting in declaring that he had changed his mind. When Immanuel finally headed into the parlor after locking and double checking the front door, he found that his mind was horribly clear. The night before, he had fallen asleep in Adam’s arms, utterly exhausted from his breakdown and the ordeal at the museum that preceded it. Somehow he hadn’t expected sleep to help so much. No longer did his thoughts come in dissonant bursts, but what happened the night hadn’t changed. He knew what he saw, and his heart quickened at the thought that Emmeline was going about her day without knowing the truth. He would have to remedy that at a more reasonable hour.

  Taking a half-empty sketchpad from the shelf, Immanuel retreated to the hatbox of gifts now sitting on the end table. Pawing through the box, he found the tin of brilliant pastels. The stitches on his side itched and stung with each step, but he needed to occupy his mind. At the back of the house, Hadley’s old studio sat untouched. The last of the autonomous dioramas had been sold not long after her marriage to the earl, but hints of her past productivity remained in the loose bolts or stray porcelain body parts that littered the room.

  Immanuel inhaled the fading scent of saw dust and oil. Beneath the surface, the workshop still hummed with her energy. Shutting his eyes, he drew in a deep breath, trying to level his mind with hers. His hand closed around a pastel, turning it over until the awkwardness dissipated and the chalk found its natural groove. After a moment’s hesitation, his hand deftly swept across the blank page. From the random scratches, an eye appeared, followed by a familiar set of lips. For a moment, Immanuel was certain Adam’s face would surface from the handsome lines, but the chin grew too wide, the eyes too narrow. Before the man’s features could fully materialize, Immanuel tore out the page and ripped it to bits. His heart thundered in his ears as he sat staring at the new page. He needed something else to take his mind away from dark things.

  His eyes roamed over the clockwork pieces in a box beside him and the pale disembodied limbs next to them until finally his gaze came to rest on a bee. Pressed against the glass of the alley window, the bee’s fuzzy body lay on its side. Its legs curled inward while its wings jutted stiffly behind it. There was something sorrowful about the creature’s pristine corpse. Bees were meant to be in motion. They were meant to work, to fly between flowers and produce something as beautiful as themselves, a self-portrait in sugar. They were never meant to die.

  Immanuel reached for the gold pastel but let it drop. It felt wrong to draw it. With the edge of his hand, he carefully pushed its tiny body onto his sketchpad. He stared at the fluffy collar surrounding its neck, gently stroking its ruff with the tip of his pinky until the patch turned grey from a dusting of pastel residue. It deserved to at least be outside one more time. As he took a step toward the door to the flat’s meager garden, the bee’s legs twitched. Its limbs curled and flexed until it finally righted and drowsily staggered forward. Keeping the paper and bee ahead of him, Immanuel pushed open the window. It flew from the paper to the windowsill, its antennae twitching as it gazed back at him. With a shake of its body, it buzzed into the alley and disappeared.

  Closing his eyes, Immanuel leaned into the sunlight. His lips curled into a hesitant grin at its reassuring warmth. Some things were worth living for.

  ***

  Emmeline reached under her bed, her hand creeping along the planks holding up her mattress. Beside her lay a sloping stack of books with titles and stories she would never want her aunt to discover, but they weren’t what she was looking for. Squirming further under the bedframe, her hand brushed the soft, fleshy surface of the tome’s cover. Carefully pulling it free, she laid it on the rug. It seemed larger than she remembered and more ordinary. Innocently latched, no one would have suspected that it could crack windows and shatter gas lamps. She quickly tucked her other books safely beneath the mattress and turned her attention to the Corpus Grimoire. Since it destroyed her room and sent her powers into overdrive, she hadn’t dared to open it for fear that it would happen again. There was no way she could explain away a broken window to Aunt Eliza a second time, but she had to do something with it. After breakfast, she had reread the letter. Someone was after it who wanted to corrupt the knowledge within it, and she didn’t want to run into whoever wanted it. But what knowledge was so important that it was worth chasing across the continent?

  Running her fingers along the vision of Eden etched into the cover, Emmeline drew in a resolute breath. It had to be done. Just to be safe, she opened the windows and carefully removed the glass globes from her lamps, wrapping them securely in a shawl. Emmeline centered the book in front of her on the bed, holding her breath as the lock sprung open at her touch to reveal the bone and sinew man on the first page. Where her blood had been sucked in, all that remained was a sea of inky rings that rivaled a galaxy. Cautiously, she turned each page, her eyes running over handwritten rows of Latin with drawings of fantastical creatures and diagrams of circles containing queer shapes. The carefully lettered tome at times reminded her of a cookbook with lines of what she could only guess were ingredients, followed by instructions. One such page contained a woman lying prone with her arms crossed over her chest while another showed a man with his eyes alight like lamps, his lips parted as if in ecstasy. A thrill laced through her at the thought of what it could mean.

  As the tome fell open to its middle, her eyes widened and her heart pounded up her throat. The creature she had seen during the reading stared up at her from the page. The shape of the horns and the intensity of the eyes were different, but there was no mistaking what she saw. It had stalked her nightmares since she fell into its lair, but what did it have to do with the book or the people who wanted it? Staring at the jumble of words, Emmeline picked out the few she could discern. Life, death, creature, sacrifice. Her years of French lessons were utterly useless against Latin. Flipping the page to escape the creature’s intense gaze, she found a drawing of a man. His form had the hallmarks of Renaissance masters with an over-muscled torso and prominent Roman features. She would have believed he was created by Raphael or Michelangelo except for his eyes. They glared from the vellum at an unseen foe. At first glance, she thought the ink had merely run around his lids, but then she realized his eyes had been blacked out when a moment ago it had only been the irises. Emmeline lifted the next page to see if there was anything among the lines of Latin that could help her understand. When she returned to the man, his eyes merely stared without an ounce of venom.

  She swallowed hard and shut the book. The moment she let go, the urge to snatch it up returned. Her hands faltered between attraction and repulsion. Emmeline, it whispered. She shouldn’t be afraid of it. It was just a book. There had been so many books before it that had been infinitely more dangerous, but she wasn’t supposed to have this one. Pushing it away, an idea sparked in her mind. Lord Hale had to know Latin, and his friends in the Eidolon Club would surely be better equipped to protect it from the dark forces the letter mentioned. She stared down at the cover, resisting the urge to stroke it. It had chosen to find her after all. Maybe… maybe she should keep it anyway.

  Her body lurched at the sound of her aunt’s light tread in the hall. Grabbing the book, she tucked it under her skirts and pretended to study her nails. The door creaked open to reveal Eliza Hawthorne’s tightly bound red hair and subdued grey gown. Across her apron were minute spatters of something Emmeline would rather not identify. She looked disapprovingly from her niece’s relaxed pose to the curtains flapping in the murky breeze.

  “Miss Ashwood is downstairs waiting for you. She said you were supposed to go for a stroll in Hyde Park.” When she noticed Emmeline cock a confused brow, she added, “Did you forget?”

  “I—” Emmeline blinked. They hadn’t made plans. “I lost track of time. Tell her I will be right down.”

  Eliza gave her nod, and as she backed out of the room, her gaze swept over every surface. Emmeline stared her
down. She could look all she wanted, but she would never figure out what was going on if Emmeline didn’t want her to know. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, Emmeline dug through her dresser to find her shopping bag. It was bulky and garishly tapestried with a bold Asian print, but it was the only one large enough to hold the grimoire. Quickly stuffing the book into the bottom of her bag, she covered it over with her neglected sewing sampler and a half-knit sock she had given up on months ago.

  Pausing at the mirror to adjust her hair and check her reflection, Emmeline frowned. She swore she hadn’t arranged to spend the day at Hyde Park with Cassandra. Part of her wanted to go downstairs and send Cassandra off with an excuse of ill health. Soon, she would be moving on from the Spiritualist Society, and she wouldn’t need to feel inferior or slave away doing readings to please someone else. Cassandra wouldn’t understand. For days, she had avoided her. Drawing in a deep breath, Emmeline steeled herself against the argument she was certain was to come. At least if they fought early enough, Cassandra would leave and she could get to the Eidolon Club before dark.

  As Emmeline opened her door, she could hear her aunt and Cassandra talking animatedly in the foyer. She hated how they could discuss suffrage and careers while Emmeline stood awkwardly beside them once again feeling the sting of their judgment. Even with her best friend, she felt out of place. With Lord Hale, that was never an issue.

  Upon seeing Emmeline appear on the steps, Cassandra’s features brightened, but before she could invite her aunt to join them, Emmeline grabbed her wrist and pulled her away. “Cass, you’re late. We must be off, mustn’t we? Bye, Aunt Eliza. I won’t be home for dinner. Cassandra and I will be going to the Dorothy instead. Sorry for not telling you sooner.”

  Stumbling outside, a cheeky grin spread across Cassandra’s lips as Emmeline slammed the door shut and released a relieved breath at having a layer of brick between her and her guardians. For a few moments, they walked down the street in silence, but as they turned the corner from Wimpole Street, Cassandra slipped her arm into Emmeline’s and pulled her closer.

  “So we’re going to the Dorothy, are we?”

  “Certainly not. I’m cross with you,” Emmeline muttered, eyeing the people around them for any sign of a thief who might try to steal her book.

  “I’m sorry for springing this on you, but I’m awfully glad to see you.”

  “What was that about anyway? Couldn’t you have just stopped by instead of luring me out? Now my hair is going to expand. I’ll look like a poodle by the time we get home.”

  “You weren’t at the Spiritualist Society, so I thought maybe you were ill. It seemed like a good reason to visit you. You’re my best friend after all, and I was beginning to worry. I’ve never seen you away for more than a day.” Her tawny eyes searched Emmeline’s face, but she kept her head down. “Is everything all right?”

  “I guess. I just wasn’t in the mood to deal with Madam Nostra.” The words hung in her throat, weighing as heavily as the purse on her arm. “I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be part of the Spiritualist Society.”

  Cassandra stopped in the middle of the pavement, causing a man to bump into her and his companion to nearly run into Emmeline. “You’re leaving?”

  “I can’t stand Madam Nostra, and I certainly will not stay in a place where I’m completely overlooked. I’m a real medium, yet people like Nostra get ahead by using cheap theatrics. It isn’t fair.”

  “Then, let’s change it. The Fox sisters were exposed and removed from their local chapter. We could do the same and get Nostra kicked out. Just don’t leave,” she said softly, gently squeezing Emmeline’s hand.

  “It might not work.” Shaking her head, Emmeline looked in the direction of the park and hoped her resolve would hold out. She had to do this. “Besides, when the Fox sisters were exposed, it nearly killed spiritualism. It’s already on shaky ground. Exposing Nostra as a fraud could ruin the London branch. No one would trust us if another major medium was a fraud.”

  Cassandra’s round eyes took on a damp sheen. “Wouldn’t you miss doing readings? Wouldn’t you miss helping people get through their grief?”

  “It isn’t that I—”

  The words died in Emmeline’s throat as she spotted a familiar face cutting through the crowd. A long scar bisected his left eye, tinging it with a dark brown blotch where it should have been blue. What the devil was he doing there?

  “Not him again.”

  The moment Immanuel Winter spotted her, he quickened his pace, grimacing as he politely pushed past a pack of older gentlemen filing into waiting cabs. “Entschuldigung! Emmeline! Emmeline, please wait!”

  “Who is he?” Cassandra whispered, her eyes running appraisingly over his form. “Does Lord Hale have competition?”

  Emmeline released a derisive snort. “Certainly not. He’s merely an old acquaintance from Oxford.”

  “He looks like more than an acquaintance.”

  “Emmeline,” he panted as he reached them. Grimacing, he stooped with his hand clutching his side and his eyes clenched tight against the pain. After a moment, he straightened, rubbing his ribs over his jacket. “I thought I had missed you. Dr. Hawthorne said you were going to Robin Row.”

  “Rotten Row,” she corrected. “What is it you want, Immanuel?”

  “Emmeline!” Cassandra hissed, elbowing her in the ribs.

  As if seeing Cassandra for the first time, he gave her a quick bow and continued, “I need to speak to you. Something very strange has happened that you must know about.”

  “What is it?”

  Stepping closer, Immanuel shot a glance toward Cassandra before dropping his voice. “I can’t say here. Is there anywhere we can go to speak more privately?”

  She sighed. “We’re on our way to Hyde Park. If you insist, you can speak to me there.”

  Immanuel frowned, looking over his shoulder at the people streaming around them. Going toward the museum was not something he wanted to do so soon. “All right.”

  ***

  By the time they reached the lush lawns of Hyde Park, Immanuel’s side was aching. He held his breath, biting down until the pain arced and passed through his ribs. The other girl cast him sidelong glances. Several times he caught her watching him with a sympathetic frown as if she could sense his discomfort or the fear quietly lurking beneath the surface. Emmeline merely charged on without a glance. If he hadn’t been so accustomed to her demeanor, he might have been offended.

  The park bustled with vendors selling cold drinks and snacks, calling out to men and women out for a stroll among the gardens. Immanuel tried to keep his head down as Emmeline led them through the clumps of people and into the more deserted paths, but he found his gaze sweeping over every half-shadowed face for Lord Rose. As Emmeline slowed her pace, the knot in Immanuel’s gut loosened. The only person around was an older gentleman throwing bits of bread to a swan. Closing his eyes, Immanuel leaned against a tree to catch his breath. Before he could banish the stitches’ sting, a hand closed around his arm.

  “Are you all right?” the brown-haired girl asked.

  “Yes, thank you, Miss—?”

  “Ashwood, Cassandra Ashwood, and you are?”

  He flashed a pained grin. “Immanuel Winter.”

  “Enough with the introductions,” Emmeline snapped. “What is it you want to tell me?”

  “Are you sure I should say it in front of—?”

  “Out with it!”

  “Lord Rose is back. He’s alive.”

  Cassandra’s eyes widened, her gaze running between Emmeline and Immanuel. “Lord Rose? I thought you said he was dead.”

  “He was.” Against her will, Emmeline’s throat tightened as she shook her head. “That isn’t possible. We saw him die in the basement.”

  “I know. That’s where it gets strange.”

  Beneath the shadow of the oak-lined path, Immanuel recounted the whole story: the chase in the museum’s storeroom, the unmistakable look in
the man’s eyes, the way he mentioned both of them before sinking the tip of the knife into his flesh. The whole time he watched Emmeline’s face. She listened with her arms folded across her chest and her lips pouted in annoyance, but her feigned attitude couldn’t dispel the quaver of fear in her eyes.

  “This is ridiculous. He couldn’t just come back from the dead in a new body. When they did it with Prince Albert, it required all sorts of machines and chemicals. No one would revive him to stick him in some vagabond’s body.”

  “I don’t know how or why they did it, but I know what I saw. He’s alive.”

  Emmeline shook her head, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “I don’t know what you think you saw, but—”

  “Listen to me.” Immanuel’s voice sharpened as he leaned closer to Emmeline’s face. “This is the clearest my head has been in weeks, and I know I saw Lord Rose last night. His face and body were different, but it was his filthy soul on the inside. I came because you need to know. I couldn’t, in good conscience, let you walk around unaware—unprotected—while he’s on the loose. If he could try to kill me, he could certainly go after you next.”

  “I’m fine, and I certainly don’t need your help. Come on, Cass, let’s go. We have wasted enough time.”

  “Em,” Immanuel said softly, reaching for her arm but never touching it, “please don’t discount what I saw. Last time you thought I was crazy for suggesting Lord Rose was Spring-heeled Jack, but in the end, I was right. Even dead, Lord Rose is dangerous. I wouldn’t come to bother you unless I thought it was important.”

  “But what does he want from you?” Cassandra asked. “Revenge? Spirits are supposed to move on to peace.”