The first book she paged through was a hefty grimoire with faded gold tooling on the spine, a panel-stamped binding, and untrimmed edges. Encyclopedia of Occultism was etched in similarly faded gold on the front board.
There came a niggling thought that no good Christian woman would avail herself of this strange collection, nor should she be intrigued enough to leaf through these ancient-looking manuscripts. But she could not bring herself to leave. Not just yet. What harm could looking do? It was not as if she really believed any of this nonsense.
Thus Emma stayed in that private little section of the De Grigori collection where no one ventured to disturb her, not even time itself. She paged through one treatise, written in German, that claimed to be the ultimate authority on demonology. She told herself it was ridiculous, yet she read it avidly, soaking in such words as might have scandalized even the most jaded cynic. Incubi and succubi, were two amongst them. A premonitory warmth fluttered along her nape like a kiss, evoking the black eyes and forbidden caresses of her phantom lover. “It was not real,” she told herself, closing the book abruptly. She had not been ravished by a specter in the night!
Desiring escape from her ‘memories’, she chose another book and pored over all sorts of fantastic pages, discarding those that were in languages she would never master—Czech, Arabic or Aramaic. Instead, she chose texts that were writ predominantly in Latin, German, or French. Those she was adequately proficient in. She now had a pile of books crowding the little desk she’d availed herself of, paging through one and then another at hazard.
“Malefica.” Although she’d only whispered the word, it seemed to reverberate off the walls and disturb the very motes, so quiet was the room. Witch. Next she came across an interesting codex that made mention of one creature that she had not thought to read about here: Wampyre—blutsaugende todten. The bloodsucking dead. Similar passages in other volumes caught her notice, until she was only reading texts that dealt specifically with les revenans et vampires.
“Sanguisuga,” she said, so disturbed by her own voice that she looked up, alarmed. It was a Latin word commonly used to refer to a leech, and until this moment had never meant more to her. The very idea of a creature drinking the blood of another to survive, slipping each night from the earth, and blighting the living till dawn was nonsense.
Yet the author of this particular book had recorded these weird cases of miracula mortuorum, or vampirism, with a tone of such faithful honesty that she was hard pressed to maintain her incredulity.
Unexpectedly, a scrap of folded paper fell out of the book as she was turning a page. It was discovered to be an old Austrian newspaper clipping, which, by what she could make out of the faded date along a crease, looked to be no older than fifty years.
It recounted the tale of a shepherd of Blov, in the Kingdom of Bohemia, who had died then arisen from his grave and menaced his neighbors. He was staked, but when that did not cease his mischief he was disinterred and burned, and thereby was his reign of terror ended.
Why had she never heard of these reports and investigations from Serbia, Moravia, Hungry, Transylvania, etc? The superstitions had been so rampant that the Holy Roman Empress herself, Maria Theresa had, therefore, passed laws against the exhumation and desecration of corpses.
“My God,” she said, rubbing at her eyes with a grim sigh. How sheltered she had been her whole life. How small her sphere. She was momentarily struck by the frightening apprehension of her own insignificance.
These ruminations were dispelled by the sound of approaching heels clacking against the flags—the death knell to her timeless solitude in this surreal and cloistered section of the world that she had inhabited for these few hours. Hours?! Yes, her repeater confirmed the late hour. The poor coachman had, till now, been forgotten and was likely still waiting outside, wondering at her whereabouts.
Before she could wonder at her own audacity, Emma replaced the newspaper clipping and then snatched one of the unread volumes up from the writing desk and buried it under her wool mantle. The very next instant the door opened and Emma glanced up as Mina stepped into view.
“It is late,” she said.
“Heavens! I quite forgot the time.” Emma hastily began gathering her notes and tidying up, but Mina, who seemed impatient for her to leave, assured Emma that she would see to the task of returning the books to the shelves. “I am terribly sorry,” said Emma, “to have trespassed so long on yours and Monsieur De Grigori’s time.”
Mina picked up one of the tomes scattered on the little table, an eyebrow arching over the title. “My brother offers his regrets, for he would have bid you adieu himself, but a pressing engagement calls him away.” She placed the book onto the shelf whence it came and scrutinized Emma’s face, which was like as not glowing with guilt. “I trust we shall see you again soon.”
“I should like that.” Well, in truth, she’d much prefer seeing the other members of Mina’s family. She gathered her notebook, the purloined tome cloaked beneath her mantle, and looked up to see Mina sailing abruptly from the room.
Emma would have hurried out after her, but she was startled at the door by the raven who chose that moment to raise its wings in a most threatening manner.
“Thief!” it said in a low mutter. “Curse you, thief!”
With a gasp, Emma fled past it before the damnable creature took it into its head to pluck her eyes out. In the main hall, all was quiet. There was no sign of M. De Grigori or Ana, nor indeed any of the other cloaked patrons that she’d noticed earlier.
Mina opened the door and stood by, watching as Emma hurried towards her. “Don’t mind the bird.”
“P-pardon me?”
“A devilish temperament, that bird.”
“Indeed.” Emma forced a smile. The book under her mantle seemed to brand her fingers with fiery condemnation, setting her bones atremble. She dropped her notebook at Mina’s feet and gave a fearful gasp, thinking for a moment that she had dropped that which was misappropriated.
Mina bent down to retrieve it and the letter that had fallen out of the book. Victoria’s invitation. Her countenance darkened as she returned the items. “You know the Winterlys?”
Emma was shocked at the girl’s audacity. She ought to have at least pretended not to have scanned the letter. “We are acquainted with the family, yes.” With a stiff spine, she reclaimed the notebook and the letter with her free hand and marched past the girl.
“Take care, Miss Rose. You walk among monsters…”
Emma wheeled around only to have the door shut in her face with resounding finality. “Impertinent girl!” What a strange thing to say, and to a stranger no less. Still grumbling, she stormed off, eager to put queer street far behind her.
Her little sojourn into the otherworld had been exciting up till now, and the sight of the poor coachman waiting dutifully under his umbrella only added to the guilt and affront she already felt. He handed her in and closed the door, and in a moment they were off.
The book she’d purloined, Vampyris, lay silent beneath her notes and rumpled mantle. The theft was quite unforgivable! “It isn’t theft if I mean to return it,” she muttered to herself. Emma had every disposition of returning it in a few days, after she’d made a few more notes on the subject. Vampirology, it seemed, was fast becoming her new ideé fixe.
Before the coach turned off Great Castle Street, Emma observed two large men dressed in dark coats who appeared unperturbed by the rain. They alone occupied the street, their stillness uncanny. They stared at the carriage as it passed by. For a moment there, Emma imagined she recognized Mr. Valko as being one of the gentleman, but it was too dark to be sure.
That night, before she snuffed her candle out, she brought the flame close to the window latch to assure herself that the single strand of hair was still bound and intact exactly as she’d left it that morning. With a satisfied nod, she extinguished the candle, climbed into bed, and secured her braid to the bedpost with a riband. Thereafter, she fell into a
deep slumber much disturbed by dreams far stranger than the night before.
Chapter Eighteen
The Dream
“Thou forsook me!” The woman turned away when he first appeared at her window. “Thou said thou loved me, god of lies!”
“I was ever thine and I love thee still.” It chilled his blood to know how fiercely he loved her despite her weakness.
He watched, enraged, as she tore at her hair and slammed her fists on the marble till they were crimson—bloody with that which would never wash off no matter how hard she scrubbed them. Those hands were stained with death. There was another she loved, she told him, keening, a mortal that loved her better than he, her god of darkness and lies.
“Love?” His face contorted with hell’s fury. “Bah! Thou hast made a mockery of love!” He gnashed his teeth in anguish. “Wherefore didst thou not wait for me? I would have given thee the sun and moon!”
“Even for thee, my lord, I could not wait forever!” The kohl ran wet and dark from her eyes.
What did she know of the agony of eternity! He kneeled and clasped her bleeding hands in his. Eternity would never wash her hands clean. “What hast thou become, my love?”
She threw her arms out wildly, her beautiful voice ricochetting discordantly in the vast bedchamber. “I am what thou hast made me!”
Emma’s eyes flew open. She sat up so quickly that her tethered braid was nearly torn from her scalp. Her hands shook as she released the riband and sat up to catch her breath, her heart roaring with fear and sorrow. Her hands! So much blood! Emma glared through the darkness, panting, desperate to see her hands. But there was no blood. Thank God! Just a hideous nightmare. Would that the incubus had come to her instead.
The dream had ravaged her so completely that her flesh was damp with tears and perspiration. It was as though she herself had felt the man’s anguish. The creature’s anguish—it was no man that had appeared at the woman’s window. He had been frightening and beautiful, and yet she had seen nothing of his face or figure. All had been obscured as though she’d watched the shadowy scene through hot tears.
There was no sign that Emma had been sleepwalking during the night or that the casement had been meddled with. She pressed her index finger contemplatively to her lips as she considered the clasp with the fine brown strand still twisted securely around it. If indeed she was being beleaguered by a demoniac incubus (the mark on her neck giving that suspicion some verisimilitude), it seemed to have lost interest in her for the nonce. That did not mean it wouldn’t return. The trap would, therefore, continue to be set.
Not for a moment did Emma imagine it was Winterly himself that had slipped into her room. That was preposterous. Her infatuation, which she was forced to own, was being used against her; a wicked spirit had donned the disguise—the face—of the very man who was a constant fixture in her mind.
Emma fell across her bed with a sigh, running her hands slowly along her nightshift, touching each place that her dream Winterly had explored. Almost immediately, though, she dropped her trembling hand to the side, ashamed. Let the ache of her body serve well to remind her that she must overcome her darker half.
Whatever Winterly’s interest in her, if such interests existed at all, they were not of a romantic nature. He just enjoyed shocking her. The disparities between them were vast: he was of noble birth and exceedingly wealthy, whereas she was neither. Winterly was exceedingly handsome and she was only halfway pretty on her best day…when the sun was not too bright.
Her lack of beauty had never bothered her before and she had never begrudged Milli her winsome face. Her father was right, Emma had been formed for philosophizing and scholarly pursuits. Marriage and romance were Milli’s destiny, not hers, she thought as she leapt out of bed to retrieve her diary. There were a few minutes to spare before she would need to dress for breakfast.
At least Winterly would not be joining them today. According to Victoria, her brother was not residing at his Mayfair address at present. Emma was glad of it, truly she was. Or so she told her diary. Those secret pages were the receptacle into which she emptied her soul of all her fears, greatest wishes, and all her confessions—the theft of a book being the subject of this mornings confessional. This diary bore the anthologies of her heart scrawled in ink and tears.
Once she was done, she bound her diary and tied a pretty knot before hiding it in an old, scuffed bandbox with all the rest of her gimcracks and whatnots. Whether or not she’d confess her thievery to Mary remained to be seen.
It was some hours later before Emma and her sister were in the coach headed to Mayfair. Milli had been quite in the fidgets all morning in anticipation of their departure. One would have thought they were headed off to take tea with the King himself! The coach rattled and tottered along the London streets as Emma leaned her head back to rest her eyes. She hadn’t slept well at all. But at the sound of Milli’s tongue clicking with disapproval, she turned to look a question at her sister.
“Do you never look in the mirror when you dress?” Milli’s lips tightened as she dropped her gaze to Emma’s neck. “Of all the days to smudge yourself with ink! What will Victoria think of you.”
The truth was that she hadn’t checked her reflection this morning, her mind had been burdened with greater matters. In answer to her sister’s reproof, Emma readjusted the little kerchief she’d tucked into her dress. The high neckline was already démodé as it was, she knew that, and the fabric she’d tucked around her throat made it only more so. “I’m sure I don’t care what Miss Winterly thinks.”
“You look ridiculous. Here…” Milli licked her thumb and made to rub her sister’s neck, but Emma forestalled her with a light slap on the knuckles. “Faugh!” Milli folded her arms over her chest and turned away. “You look like great Aunt Hyacinth, I hope you know that.” She was visibly ashamed of Emma and said not another word to her sister.
The silence was not long endured, however, for they arrived in Half Moon Street only moments later and were quickly ushered into the house. The grim butler seemed to hide behind the door, as before, relaxing only once it was shut.
“My dears, how good it is to see you.” Victoria advanced like an exotic princess and gave them each a friendly kiss on the cheek when they entered the drawing room, although her lips lingered overlong upon Milli’s. The curtains were drawn against the sunlight and the lamps were glowing. Victoria was proving to be a very eccentric young woman. “How beautiful you both look.”
Milli blushed and aimed a brief and an inconspicuous scowl at Emma, doubtless thinking Victoria was all politeness. Even Emma admitted she was not worthy of the compliment.
The women availed themselves of the chintz sofa and Victoria and Milli were soon engaged in one of their usual, lively tête-à-têtes. At length the footman and the butler appeared, one carrying a salver of cheese and fruit and the other a tray which bore the silver coffee pot and chinaware. And right behind them came Mr. Valko unannounced. Millli’s hands immediately flew to her hair, patting any wayward strays into place.
“Ah, ladies, good morning.” He spared a quick bow and glanced at Victoria. “I wonder if I might have a quick word, Cousin.”
She offered the sisters an apologetic smile and then rose to follow Mr. Valko from the room. The door was shut firmly behind her.
“I wonder,” said Milli, “what they are talking about.”
Emma hardly heard her sister, beset suddenly by muffled voices seeming to echo in her head.
“They’ve agreed to meet us?”
Emma’s eyes flew wildly about the room. “I’m going mad,” she said.
Milli snorted and pushed a bonbon in her mouth.
“They won’t see Markus or Gabriel, only you.”
“The terms?”
“To be discussed at Vauxhall, tomorrow a week.” The words became disjointed after that. Emma squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “…o’clock…agreed…the younger sister then…”
“Are you listening to
me?” Milli waved her hand in front of her sister’s face.
“What?” Emma looked up, bemused. What had just happened?
“I said, do you think he’s asking her about me?” Milli looked towards the door with growing excitement. But when it opened again, only Victoria entered.
“Will your cousin not be joining us?” asked Milli, shooting a hopeful glance behind Victoria.
“I’m afraid he has another engagement.” When Milli enquired about Lord Winterly, Victoria replied that he had gone to Winterthurse, their family estate which was situated not far from Whitby.
“Whitby?” Emma had always longed to visit the famous abbey ruins.
“Yes, have you been there before?” Victoria took up her cup but appeared in no rush to drink it, content, it seemed, to let the brew warm her hands.
“Not at all, but I have always longed to visit Yorkshire.”
“And should you like to visit Winterthurse while you are there?”
But it was Milli who interjected. “More than anything!”
“What about next month?” Asked Victoria. “Could you bear the journey?”
The half masticated bonbons nearly tumbled from Milli’s mouth as her jaw dropped. “Yes!”
“You are too hasty, Milli,” said Emma, lifting a stern brow, “you cannot accept without first discussing the idea with our aunt and uncle.”
“I won’t hear of your not coming,” said Victoria. “My brother and I will be at Winterthurse for our annual Midsummers Ball, and I defy anyone to miss the ball of the season.”
Milli turned to beam at Emma. “A ball! And on your birthday no less, what could be more serendipitous?”
Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1) Page 12
