“But what do we do about it? If they’re coming to the gala to— to do something, shouldn’t we be prepared?”
“We will figure out a plan. You will stay out of it,” Peregrine said, his voice sharper than Immanuel had ever heard it.
Immanuel rose from his chair, dwarfing Peregrine as he cried in a harsh whisper, “How can I stay out of it when they’re after me? Mein Gott! They have tried to kill me twice, and you tell me to stay out of it. Do you expect me to sit here waiting for them to come after me and the vivalabe?”
“Look, Mr. Winter, I get it, but you are a fledgling practioner and nothing more. You have never dealt with something like this. The best thing to do would be to lay low and let us sort it out. The Interceptors will deal with Lady Rose, trust me.”
“If you wanted me out of it, then you need to let me know what danger I’m in. Miss Elliott was kind enough not to spare me or give me the brush off.”
Or was that why Peregrine wanted him to keep out? Because Miss Elliott had confided in Immanuel before discussing the Eidolon Club’s plans with him. Immanuel locked eyes with Peregrine. His annoyance was obvious in his straight brows and deadpan stare, but Immanuel refused to sit. Finally, Peregrine released a rough breath and shook his head.
“I don’t know why you’re so insistent about this. You have made it through relatively unscathed thus far.”
“I can’t expect to be saved by someone else every time.”
“Fine, you can borrow this.” Reaching into the inner pocket of his purple plaid jacket, Peregrine pulled out a sheathed knife and dropped it on the desk. It was as long as a letter opener but as thin as an icicle. “Give it back after the gala.”
Before Immanuel could reply, Peregrine was out the door and gone. Sinking back into his chair, Immanuel sighed. He pushed the stiletto around his piles of paper with the tip of his finger. That wasn’t the answer he had expected. He wanted information, not a weapon he could barely wield. Picking it up like it was poisoned, Immanuel dropped the knife into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled the vivalabe from his trousers. He rolled it between his palms. Why did they want it so badly? What did they need to see in the spirit world?
Immanuel scoffed. Magic, the spirit world, practioners, and all under the roof of the Natural History Museum. And what useless ability did he have? Life. He chewed his lip, remembering the feeling of his mind cracking open like a stuck door when Judith probed his mind. That at least was useful. Maybe if he had an ability like that, Peregrine would respect him and appreciate his help, but life… life was useless.
Picking up his pen, Immanuel tried to push all thoughts of magic and nonsense aside. After all, the gala was in two days and he should turn his attention back to his research on the evolution of pinniped anatomy, but his mind had other ideas. His pen flew across the blank page, his mind flickering to bees and flowers, children laughing, his lips on Adam’s, the shiver of life, the beating of a heart. He blinked, the trance rapidly lifting. The page had been covered in overlapping spirals infinitely more complex than the protection symbol he had scrawled all over the house. Helices twisted, dividing into forked curves before dissolving into vines of forget-me-nots flowering into a chain. Within the myriad of inky lines were the vague forms of animals and people. A face. An eye. A sacred pattern. This was what life looked like.
Immanuel traced his handiwork with the tip of his finger, feeling the hum of energy growing beneath it. New details emerged with each pass, but as he grinned and raised his gaze to the clock ticking on the opposite wall, he found Sir William’s tall, stately figure heading toward his office. Without taking his eyes off the door, he opened his drawer and shoved the paper deep into the tea box of cat bones. Immanuel grabbed his pen and turned his attention back to his book on extinct pinniped species. When a knock sounded and the museum director entered, Immanuel rose to his feet, but Sir William gestured for him to sit back down.
“Are you busy, Winter?”
“Just doing a little research for a paper, sir, on seal evolution,” Immanuel replied, hoping the director wouldn’t press him for further information.
“Ah, very good.” Sir William’s hawk eyes sharpened. “Have you, by chance, heard anymore from Scotland Yard about the incident?”
“I—” Immanuel paused at the faint sound of scratching near his feet. “I haven’t, sir. I assumed the case was closed.”
The director nodded, seemingly unaware of the scraping and rapping at their feet, as if a hoard of mice had decided to descend upon his office’s floorboards. “Mr. Winter, since you have returned to your usual duties, I would like you to perform a preliminary inspection of all of the gala exhibits tomorrow. I trust you can evaluate each exhibit and specimen for completeness and make a list of any mistakes you find.”
Something thumped, but this time, there was no mistaking that it came from his desk. Keeping his eyes locked on the director’s, Immanuel replied, “Yes, sir. I’ll be sure to do it as soon as I get in tomorrow.”
“Very good.” Sir William Henry Flower rose to his full height, dwarfing Immanuel as he followed him to the door. At the threshold, he paused at the sound of something thumping and scraping behind them. “Are the pipes always this loud?”
“The pipes? Oh, the pipes.” Immanuel released a nervous laugh. “I hardly notice them anymore. I will make sure to inspect the exhibit thoroughly, sir, and report back any issues I find.”
With a final disapproving look, Sir William swept out. The moment the director was out of earshot, Immanuel locked the door and cautiously approached the desk. He steeled himself, expecting to find a large rat lurking beneath his shelf or desk, but as he bent down and found nothing, the scratching began anew. Swallowing hard, he grasped the pull and threw open the bottom drawer. Papers slid beneath the tea box, which crashed into the front of the drawer at the sudden motion. Immanuel jumped back as the box rocked on its corners. Something skittered and clunked within it, knocking at its lid. A rat. It had to be a rat, and it was probably nibbling at the sigil he barely had the chance to look at. He hadn’t seen the creature when he tossed the paper in, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. Just what he needed after a long, stressful day: a rat eating his notes. Grabbing a heavy tome off his desk, Immanuel squatted beside the drawer, ready to strike if the rodent lunged at him. He drew in a steadying breath and threw open the lid.
The hollow sockets of a bleached cat skull stared back at him within. He leaned closer, looking for the source of the noise when his gaze fell upon a series of jagged claw marks on the lid’s underside. As he reached for his paper, which had slipped under the articulated cat skeleton, he froze at the sound of nails clicking. Sitting back on his heels, the breath caught in Immanuel’s throat as the cat opened its jaw in a silent hiss. Its vertebrae-spiked back arched and its feet flexed on the edge of the box. Immanuel opened his mouth in a scream but all that came out was a ragged breath. With a shake of its hips, the cat leapt from the box. Immanuel dropped the book and fell back into the shelf. His back ached as he scrambled away from the creature on his hands and knees.
The skeleton cat paced the floor, its sightless sockets sweeping over its surroundings before landing on Immanuel. With each step it took toward him, Immanuel backed up until the only place he could go was on his chair. His heart thundered in his ears as the cat placed its bony feet on the seat and sniffed the air at his loafers. It couldn’t be alive. It just couldn’t. Immanuel slapped his cheeks. He had to be sleeping at his desk or hallucinating. Maybe his insomnia had finally caught up with him. He had touched the cat’s skull and seen its final moments of life, nestled in the previous curator’s bed, so maybe it was all a dream.
He watched the cat skulk behind his desk before jumping on top of it. It sniffed his papers and inkwell until finally it stood squarely on his book and flopped onto its side. Cautiously climbing off the chair, Immanuel drew closer. At the bottom of the tea box was the crumpled life sigil. His mismatched eyes ran between the inky figures inscrib
ed on parchment and the skeleton cat who lay on his desk languidly licking its foot with an invisible tongue. Immanuel swallowed hard. This is what life looked like.
“Mein Gott. Was habe ich getan?” What had he done?
Slowly approaching the desk, Immanuel bit back his fear. The cat stopped, watching him as its body tensed and its bony tail flipped in warning. He stuck his hand out, letting the cat inspect it. Cold bone bumped against his fingers as it sniffed. Immanuel’s eyes locked on the spaces between the bones, searching for strings or mechanisms, anything that could have proved it to be an elaborate hoax, but there was nothing. It was as if the bones knew what they once were. As if within their salts and strands of tissue, they remembered how to strut and stretch as they did in life. With a final nudge of its head, the cat rubbed its naked fangs against the side of his hand before rubbing the length of its body against him like a real cat would. Immanuel bit his lip, his hand hovering over its back as it watched him. It’s just a cat and nothing more, he reminded himself, running his hand along the cat’s spine. At the touch of his hand, the cat looped back for more affection. A small smile crossed Immanuel’s lips at a gentle buzzing in the cat’s bones. It was purring.
Glancing at the clock near the door, Immanuel watched shadows pass. Everyone was heading home for the day. The skeletal cat nudged his lamp before swatting his pen until it flew off the side of his desk. Immanuel chewed on his lip. There was no way to leave it there. If a maid came in at night to clean, she would surely see it, and if it got out— He would have to take it with him.
It was time. Adam had to know.
***
Gingerly shutting the door behind him, Immanuel kept his scratched hand tightly on the lid of the tea chest even as the cat thrashed and scratched inside. “Just a few minutes more. I’m sorry,” he whispered into the wood.
The front parlor stood empty, but as Immanuel slipped off his shoes and hung his satchel on the coatrack, he listened in the stillness for Adam’s tread. In the kitchen, a kettle whistled and the faint melody of a hummed tune broke the stillness. Immanuel lurched forward, keeping his hand clamped on the box. The cat threw its weight into the box’s side and nearly jettisoned it from his grasp. He looked from the tea chest to the handsome redhead standing at the stove. How could he ever begin to explain this?
“Adam! Adam, I need you to come here for a moment,” he called, his voice dry and tight in his throat.
His companion’s concerned gaze ran over Immanuel’s form at his tone. “Is everything all right?”
“We have a… a situation.”
Placing the box on the floor, he released the lid and the cat sprang out with a graceful pounce. Adam stared at it for a long moment as the skeletal creature pranced across the rug, flexing its claws into the fabric.
“That’s rather clever, if not morbid. Is this what you have been working on when you were staying late at work?” Adam craned his neck. “It’s fantastic work. You can’t even see the gears. Did Hadley help you?”
“Adam, it isn’t mechanical.”
He looked from Immanuel’s tense features to the creature curled up on the floor. “What do you mean?”
“Look.” Immanuel carefully picked up the cat. Wrapping his hands around its ribs, he held it close enough that Adam could see the spaces between the cat’s ribs and the organ-less hollow beneath it. Immanuel stuck his fingers into them, ignoring the cat as it struggled to kick him away with its hind legs. “No gears. No mechanisms. It’s real.”
Adam stared at him blankly.
“Adam! It’s a real skeleton, and it’s alive.”
He locked eyes with the creature as it opened its mouth in a silent meow. Adam’s breath quickened at the void in its throat and sockets when it stared at him. He could practically see its eyes, yet all there was were empty holes of bleached bone. The more he stared, the more horrifying it became. Every crack and fissure stood starkly against the rug, and as it languidly stretched, Adam could see the spaces between its vertebrae expand. He could see right through them.
“What is that thing? What’s wrong with it?” he cried, stumbling back into the sofa as the cat padded toward him. It went to rub against his legs, but Adam jumped onto the chair, leaping across the room to the armchair as it scrambled up to follow him. “Is it diseased or something?”
“Adam, it’s dead!” Scooping up the cat, Immanuel cradled it against his chest and stroked its smooth skull until it stilled. “See? It isn’t bad or evil. It’s just dead.”
“Why is it moving? Why is it doing that if it’s dead?” Adam asked, his eyes wide with fear.
“Because I used magic.” Reaching into his pocket, Immanuel held up the folded sigil for life. “I drew a symbol imbued with life, and I put it in the box of bones. The next thing I knew it was alive.”
“That isn’t possible. Magic— magic isn’t real, Immanuel. Things don’t come back to life.” When the cat began to lick its paw, Adam cried, “This isn’t funny. Shut it off.”
“Adam, get down and listen to me!” Immanuel snapped. Grabbing Adam’s hand, he put it against the cat’s ribs before placing it over his own heart. “He’s real. I’m real. And you still won’t listen to me. You think I’m going insane, but look at what’s right before your eyes. I did this. I brought it to life.”
When Adam stared at him shaking his head, Immanuel darted into the kitchen and returned with the vase of wilted flowers wrapped in a towel. Ripping away the tea towel, he grabbed the vase and pictured the flowers as they were when Adam gave them to him. His lover gasped as the heads sprung up and the brown pedals suddenly brightened with color.
“How— how did you do that?” Adam stammered.
Immanuel sighed, setting the vase down on the mantle. “I told you. It’s magic.”
“Have I gone mad?”
“If you have, then so have I and a lot of other people.” Immanuel gently laid his arms on Adam’s and coaxed him to come down off the armchair. “I have a lot to explain, but you must believe me. Will you listen and not say a word?”
Adam’s eyes flickered between the cat’s bare skeleton slinking around the sofa’s wooden feet and Immanuel’s pained, earnest gaze. Could Immanuel have been right all along? His head hurt. Nothing made sense. Immanuel’s long fingers trailed across Adam’s cheeks and gently raised his chin until their gazes met. In wordless phrases, a wave of calm passed over him, silencing Adam’s screaming brain until the fear came only as a whisper.
“Please, just listen to me. If you love me, you will listen.”
After a moment, Adam nodded and let Immanuel lead him to the sofa. Sitting at his side, Immanuel told him everything he should have said long ago. How he saved Emmeline Jardine’s life in Oxford with the potion his ancestors made, how he felt his heart stop the moment before she awoke, how he could see the final moments of any creature or person with just a touch of their corpse, how he had seen Lord Rose in the man who attacked him in the museum, how Miss Elliott and the other Interceptors had told him of his magical gifts, and how they feared what ritual Lady Rose and the Eidolon Club might try to perform.
Adam released a tense breath as he scratched his wrist with a wince. The skin had been rubbed raw with each added fact. He swallowed hard, watching as Immanuel pulled the pendant from his shirt and studied the vial filled with forget-me-nots nearly half a year old. How had he not realized it sooner?
“Does it make more sense to you now?” Immanuel asked when he caught Adam watching him.
“Yes. I believe you. I do. At this point, I don’t think I have any choice, but you must admit, it’s just a lot to swallow.”
“I know. Trust me, I had a hard time with it myself. When Miss Elliott forced me to look into myself, I didn’t want to believe what I saw. How could my gift be life when my whole life feels like I have been one step from death?”
A hesitant smile, curved Adam’s mustache. “Because you have made it through. That I believe. Is that why you seemed so much brighter after they ca
me to visit?”
Immanuel nodded. “It was the strangest thing I had ever heard, but it made me feel less alone, less different.” His eyes moistened against his will, but he fought it with a smile. “I have spent a lot of my life feeling like an outsider, and I found more people like me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Why didn’t you tell me why they were really there?”
“Because I didn’t think you would believe me. If I barely believed them, how could I expect you to? You didn’t believe me when I told you about Lord Rose attacking me. I had no proof, and I was afraid you would think I was losing my mind.”
Adam sighed, his features falling as he took Immanuel’s cut-up hands in his. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”
“I know, but I was afraid. I love you, Adam, and I thought I would lose you if I told you all of the strange things that were happening. I thought I was going mad, so why wouldn’t you? Any reasonable person would. I didn’t want you to know about my family’s involvement in witchcraft or that when I touch something, I can see its last moments. It’s morbid. It isn’t normal. And I couldn’t bear to lose you if you couldn’t handle the truth.”
As a wet breath escaped Immanuel’s lips, Adam crushed him to his chest. He clung to him, rubbing Immanuel’s back with one hand and keeping his head against his cheek with the other. Immanuel shut his eyes, tears of relief trickling from their corners as he drew in Adam’s lavender cologne.
“It would take more than a bit of strangeness to chase me away. I love you more than anything.” After a long moment, he let him go. “Now that it’s out in the open, you must tell me about this magic of yours.”
“I will,” Immanuel replied softly, wiping his eyes. “I have been playing with symbols and how they can be charged with energy. There are only two I have tried: protection and life. You see what the latter has done.”
Dead Magic Page 24