George reached up and pawed at Cressida’s breasts, and the girl moaned. George was always impetuous and driven by his basest instincts, but had he always been this bad beneath the surface? Or had Influence changed him?
“Faster,” he said and groaned with pleasure.
Gosha’s skin prickled as Cressida’s gyrations sped up, but this time she didn’t lose consciousness. The command wasn’t directed at her.
She wanted to scream at George, to curse at him in outrage and demand he explain how he could do this to her. She wanted to fight back and hurt him the way he hurt her, but she knew she couldn’t. One word from him and time would skip, and who knows how she would wake up. She had to get away.
“Gosha,” he said, “kiss me.”
* * *
Excitement in the small conference room of the record company as Gosha spreads out a series of large presentation boards across the table.
Happiness with a small dog in a park by running water.
Confused terror in the decrepit men’s bathroom as the demonic creature looms over Mick and he grows weaker and weaker, fading away into oblivion.
23
She awoke to find herself seated at the kitchen table, a mug of tea and an open magazine in front of her. Her body ached, and her nerves throbbed through her limbs. In her pocket still, the wode sump was heavy and warm.
The house was quiet. George must be upstairs. Was Cressida still with him? The poor girl. Did she even know what he was doing to her?
The phone rang. Gosha darted out to pick up the kitchen extension.
“Hello, may I speak to Mrs. Armitage,” said an imperious voice on the other end of the line.
“Yes,” Gosha whispered into the receiver. “This is she.”
“Mrs. Armitage, this is the Prescott School. We take your children’s education very seriously, but we are not a boarding school. Please come and take your boys home.”
The children! Cressida was supposed to pick them up, but she must still be upstairs with George.
Gosha’s keys and purse lay on the side table by the door. She could collect the boys and find a hotel somewhere they could take refuge while she figured out what to do next.
But that would leave Cressida alone with George. She clenched her fists and dug her nails into her palms. She couldn’t leave the girl, but who could she call to help? Not the police. What would he do to them if she convinced them to come?
She stood by the front door, bag in hand, suspended between flight and the foolish urge to go back upstairs and help Cressida. A key turned in the lock, the tumblers clunking. The front door opened, and the round and comforting shape of Mrs. Dearing blocked out the afternoon sun. She squeaked with surprise and took a step back.
“Why, Mrs. Armitage, you scared the daylights out of me,” she said with a titter.
It was one of her afternoons to help make the boys’ tea and put them to bed.
“Mrs. Dearing, you’re a lifesaver. Cressida’s sick and the boys need to be picked up. Can you get them from school?” Perhaps she could convince the housekeeper to take them home with her for the night.
Mrs. Dearing’s bright cheeriness dropped like a cloak from her shoulders. Gone was the jovial matron, brewer of unending cups of tea, replaced by someone else entirely more solemn.
“What’s the matter, dear?” She pushed past Gosha into the house.
“Wait.” Gosha flailed, stammering, to hold her back, but the housekeeper waved her off. “George just got in from a trip. He’s sleeping upstairs and I don’t want to disturb him.”
“That’s a lie, for starters.” Mrs. Dearing narrowed her eyes and removed her hairbrush from her purse to brandish before her like a knife. “Something’s changed in here. I can feel it in my waters.”
“Please, Mrs. Dearing.” Gosha tried her best to seem nonchalant and reasonable. “The school just called. No one’s picked up the boys. Perhaps you can get them and take them home with you as a special treat for them. I’ll pay for their meals and any other expenses.”
The housekeeper waved the brush up and down in front of Gosha like a metal detector wand at airport security.
“What’s that in your pocket, my dear?” She pointed at the wode sump nestled against Gosha’s thigh and sighed, shaking her head. “What have you got yourself into?”
Gosha opened her mouth to speak, but no plausible explanation came. She didn’t expect this from the round, jovial woman.
“I told your mother she had nothing to worry about, but obviously she was right, and I was wrong. You just know she’ll love hearing that.”
“My mother.” Gosha narrowed her eyes to slits of suspicion as the path of her life took yet another about-face. “You know my mother?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And you’re spying on me for her?”
“Spying?” Mrs. Dearing grimaced and shook her head at the idea. “Oh, hedges, no. She wanted someone to make sure trouble didn’t find you. I keep telling her you’re a strong, competent woman who knows how to take care of herself, and I leave it at that. A hard-working woman’s house is her own to clean. She entrusted your care to me, and she can say no more about it.”
“So you’re a witch?”
“I’ve always preferred ‘cunning woman,’ but yes, and proud of it.”
“Goddamnit!”
“Ain’t no god’s got nothing to do with it, my dear.” Mrs. Dearing patted her on the arm. “Just good solid Craft. Now what’s the business here?”
A loud creak came from upstairs. Gosha knew the sound well: the squeaky floorboard on George’s side of the bed.
“I can’t even begin to explain. Will you pick the boys up and take them somewhere safe? Please.”
“I’ll take them to your mother’s house.”
“Can’t you take them home?”
Mrs. Dearing cocked an eyebrow at her.
“You have a wode sump in your pocket and your mother’s sigils are crackling like fat on a piece of pork.” She waved her hairbrush at Gosha, eyebrows raised. “With whatever complication you’ve got going on here, I would have thought you’d want the security of knowing your little darlings are in the care of family.”
George’s footsteps fell heavily on the stairs above them.
“Okay, fine. Take them to my mother’s. Just go.”
“Are you certain you have this under control?”
“Not remotely, but what’s the saying you people use? A hard-working woman’s house is her own to clean. It’s my complication to take care of.”
Mrs. Dearing smiled, and cupped Gosha’s cheek.
“Ah, bless, but that saying’s not for you to use. Your mother’s proud of you, you know. She’s a dreadful old harridan, for sure, but I can see the emotion in her eyes when she asks about you.”
She wrapped her arms around Gosha and crushed her in a bear hug. The woman was surprisingly strong.
She turned back on the front steps.
“Just remember. You may have no betrayal to work in your favor, but you are your mother’s daughter. If in doubt, just ask yourself what she would do. And don’t you worry. Your little angels will be safe with me.”
24
“Gosha?”
George stepped into the foyer as she closed the front door.
“What are you doing?” He frowned. “This is much harder than I expected. Gosha, sit in the kitchen and stay there until I say you can move.”
* * *
The images come fast, too fast to make sense, the only constant Mick: curious, hopeful Mick; creative, inspired Mick; playful, adventurous Mick. She doesn’t know if she’s getting used to the visions, or if the hant is losing power, but this time she can separate herself from Mick’s emotions and memories as the images fly past. The grief is terrible, a physical pain, a rip in both her body and her soul. This young man with an infinity of possibilities stretching out before him will know none of them. She will always feel his absence in her life.
* * *
&nb
sp; She awoke as the sun set behind the rooftops beyond the garden. From her seat at the kitchen table, Gosha heard voices in the living room. She could risk moving, but the living room door was open. The likelihood of her being seen if she tried to slip upstairs and check on Cressida was too great. She needed George to think he could still control her if she was to get Cressida out.
“Everything went as we planned,” said George. “I couldn’t have done it without you, old friend.”
Someone chuckled, the voice too deep to be George.
“And the Emperor?” The other voice spoke with clipped, aristocratic enunciation. “Did you meet him? The other spheres are so insular and secretive. I’ve never spoken to another saint’s experience of taking the oath.”
“He was terrifying. He appeared in the middle of my father’s study riding an eagle with a lion’s head and wolf’s paws.”
“What did he look like?”
“A giant. He towered over me, even once he’d dismounted from the creature. Like something out of a medieval painting with armor and furs and a giant crown.”
“And the form of your petition? Was it correct?”
“He accepted my oath without question.”
“Good. A lot of money and a lot of lives were spent to get you that information. Robert Armitage was a powerful man, as befits the sphere of authority.”
“Now that I’m going to inherit his wealth, I’ll pay you back for everything.”
“That’s kind of you, my boy, but unnecessary. And, besides, it may take time for your father’s money to pass to you if he proves to be as much of a miser in death as in life. Although, now we can appeal to the Lord Chief Justice to expedite any legal proceedings. You are a member of a privileged elite now.”
“The Lord Chief Justice of Great Britain is also a saint?”
“Oh, yes. Saint of the sphere of law. But don’t worry. I shall make the proper introductions in due time.”
“Emerson, forgive me, but you have horns.”
Emerson! Gosha’s heart pounded in her chest. Emerson Margrave is in my house!
She forced herself not to bolt. If she were careful, she could make it to the garden through the basement flat and over the back fence into the neighbor’s without them seeing. A surge of panic gripped at her. The flat was locked, and the keys were in her bag by the front door. She breathed deeply to steady her nerves. If George was in his favorite chair by the drinks cabinet, she only had to worry about being seen in the reflections of the many mirrors in there. She could manage it. But what about Cressida?
“And you have a crown.” Margrave laughed. “These emblems are how you will know another saint of the spheres. And soon you will have followers of your own. Your father’s acolytes were stripped of their access to Influence the moment the Emperor accepted your oath. They’ll be the first to seek you out. Accept no one’s oath of fealty without talking to me first. Just because they draw their power from you, it doesn’t mean they can’t stab you in the back with it.”
“Of course. Where would I be without your generosity?”
“I am merely helping you achieve what you deserve. Robert Armitage was a poor example of a man of Influence and saint of authority for far too long. Now his throne is yours, as is only right. Great things lie ahead of you, dear boy. Now, on to important matters. Do you have the torc?”
“Yes, let me get it for you.”
George emerged from the living room. Margrave followed him out to watch him from the bottom of the stairs as he went up.
Once George was out of sight, Margrave made a gesture with one hand: a small, flamboyant turn of the wrist. The hair on Gosha’s head bristled and the wode sump in her pocket shivered.
“Cressida, my dear, will you join me downstairs?” He spoke softly, as if she were already by his side.
A few moments later, Cressida crept down from above, dressed in one of the oversized, faded t-shirts Gosha found in her dresser, and a pair of purple leggings.
“How did you freeze him like that,” she whispered as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
“You may speak normally, my dear. He can’t hear you. His sainthood is fresh upon him, and he is ignorant of his capabilities. However, that will change. The window of opportunity is small. How is the boy-king behaving?”
“More like a boy than a king.”
“Brave girl. I’m sorry he’s treating you like this.”
Margrave reached out and squeezed her arm with affection.
“I’ll be fine, Emerson. I know it’s for a good cause.”
“Yes, it’s clear he is far too ambitious. Thankfully, unlike his father, he is also reckless and self-indulgent. We must take advantage of that while we can if I’m to depose him and merge his sphere with my own. I must summon the group and begin to charge the kind doctor’s device immediately if it’s to be powerful enough to perform the fusion. The risk is immense, but the doctor has convinced me it can be done.”
He placed his hands on Cressida’s shoulders.
“But these are things about which you need not concern yourself. I have marvelous news.”
He took from his jacket pocket a carved box like the one Gosha saw him give Mick in the hant’s visions.
“You’re ready.” His eyes twinkled in the gloom.
Cressida’s face lit up with joy as he showed her the torc inside, identical to the one that sucked the life out of Mick, and gave her the envelope containing the magic word and the tiny bottle of poison.
“Do you take this gift I have offered you freely?”
“Yes, Emerson. I take it freely. Thank you so much.”
“I am so proud of you. Now go back upstairs and hide these things from our boy-king. And remember, you must do everything as I’ve told you, to the letter.”
“Yes, Emerson.”
She turned and skipped up the stairs, smiling with glee as she clutched the box to her chest.
When she was gone and the clunk as her bedroom door closed echoed down from above, Emerson made another gesture and George came bounding down the stairs with his own carved box.
“Here you are.” He passed it to Margrave.
Margrave opened the box and took out the torc. She had no direct proof, but she was certain it was the one Margrave gave Mick.
“Excellent, my boy.” The old sorcerer turned it around in his hands to inspect it before returning it to the box.
“My father was so powerful. The entire house shook. How was that little thing able to protect me from him?”
“Influence is a power of the soul, my boy, and this, I am told, stimulates and harvests enough of it to act as an invincible surrogate. When your father turned his power against you, it met the Influence stored within the bracelet, enough Influence to match that of any saint. Your father’s power became locked in a battle he couldn’t win, leaving you free to take his life.”
He tapped a fingernail against it.
“And spent though it may be, it is still dangerous, if only that it might give away to the other spheres what you’ve done. Succession by murder, no matter how necessary and just, is frowned upon by the Convocation of Saints.”
Margrave put it into the box and slipped the box into his jacket.
“I fear I must leave you. I have more converts to initiate into the mysteries, for which I have you to thank. You are my greatest recruiter.”
“It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done for me.”
George is providing victims for Margrave to prey upon! This must be how Mick got caught in his clutches.
“Emerson, I still hear him,” said George as he walked Margrave to the door.
“Who, your Lord, the Emperor?
George nodded.
“That, I fear, is the price we pay for power, one your followers will never have to suffer. He will always be with you, nagging at the corners of your awareness. Sometimes he’ll demand to be heard no matter how much you try to block him out, and sometimes you will be grateful for his counsel, but in t
ime you will learn to manage him. Don’t worry. I will be here to guide you.”
They embraced. It would have been a touching scene were it not that people had died to make it happen.
Cressida was in league with Margrave. That changed Gosha’s plans. The girl wouldn’t go willingly, and Gosha had no way to force her. Could she somehow steal the torc Margrave gave her? Margrave would presumably give her another, but maybe it would delay their plans long enough for Gosha to figure out how to stop them from killing George.
No, Miranda had to come first. She was innocent in all this. Gosha had to get her away from Margrave’s clutches.
Out in the foyer, George closed the front door. She had only seconds to act. One command from him and she’d lose time again. She tiptoed to the counter in search of anything she could use to get herself out of the house.
Mrs. Dearing told her to think what her mother would do. Gosha remembered the cellar in Poland and her mother coming down the steps to get her, bedraggled, bruised, and bloody. She never discovered what happened to the witch hunter.
“Gosha,” said George from the hall. “Where did you go?”
She grabbed a bag of flour from the counter and ripped off the top. As he walked in from the hallway, she snatched a skillet off a hook on the wall and ran at him, screaming. She threw the flour at him, a cloud of white exploding in his face, and swung the skillet with all her might. He raised his arms in time to shield himself from the blow, but the skillet still thudded into his skull and he went down, groaning.
Without a second look, she ran from the kitchen and snatched up her keys and handbag on the way out. She was in the car within thirty seconds. When the engine started up on the first try, she whispered a thanks to whatever power might be watching. Without looking back, she tore away onto Manor Road.
Waking the Witch (The Witch of Cheyne Heath Book 1) Page 14
