Ghostlight (The Reflected City Book 1)

by Rabia Gale

  It didn’t feel like Halford’s office at all now.

  “What of the pawnbroker engaged in contraband smuggling whom you discovered this morning?” Winter placed an index finger on the note Trey had dashed off to the Office alerting them to Gibbs and his operation.

  Uneasy, Trey wondered how much intelligence Winter could glean from his missive. He knew only a small extent of his supervisor’s gift. Winter, on the other hand, had access to all of Halford’s documents on him. Trey was grateful for the latter’s abrupt recording style and messy scrawl.

  “He was killed by a ghoul last night.” Let Winter think he’d found Gibbs while following the ghoul. “It’s possible the murder and the smuggling are related. Perhaps he tried a spell that caught the ghoul’s attention. Internal could help us ascertain what he might’ve been doing.”

  A frown bit deep between Winter’s brows. He gave a curt shake of the head. “Internal is just as busy as we are. We’ll have to take a defensive stance until the Rites are over. I’ll ask Sutton to keep watch for ghoulish activity, but we cannot commit to a full hunt right now.” He tapped the aether square, which curled in on itself and dissolved into motes.

  Trey couldn’t let Winter move on just yet. “Lord Atwater was seen leaving Gibbs’s establishment two nights ago. I have yet to obtain an interview with him, though. If you could put in a word, I’d like to see him this afternoon.” He hated to ask the favor but it had to be done. Arabella was running out of time.

  Winter’s eyebrows arched. “Lord Atwater?” he asked, incredulous. “Are you sure of this intelligence? How many of the disreputable inhabitants of the Fleet are even able to identify his lordship?”

  “I have good reason to believe the witness is respectable and the intelligence worth investigating,” said Trey. “A few minutes of Lord Atwater’s time should suffice to tell me if that’s the case.”

  “Very well. I shall see Atwater at a meeting this afternoon and ask him myself.” Winter dipped a pen in ink and wrote out a note to himself on a sheet of linen paper. He appraised Trey out of eyes that gave nothing away. “Will that satisfy you, Mr. Shield?”

  It didn’t, but Trey jerked his head downward into a nod. He didn’t want Winter looking too closely into the identity of his witness.

  And his supervisor didn’t explicitly say that Trey couldn’t question the politician himself. Though saints know that he won’t be very happy to find out I went behind his back.

  “If that’s all, sir…” Trey turned towards the door.

  “One moment, please.” Winter raised a finger. “It’s come to my attention that the niece of a genteel family is being kept in stasis after an accident that occurred Wednesday evening.”

  Blood rushed to Trey’s head, pounding in his temple. He managed a creditable degree of disinterest as he faced Winter again. “Indeed?”

  “Are you acquainted with the Elliots?” What did Winter know? Saints, the man could be nigh on unreadable.

  “Only a little.”

  “Elliot is a sensible man, but his wife is prone to a great deal of sentimentality. Unfortunately, in the matter of her niece he has been swayed by Mrs. Elliot’s importunities. The niece is a Miss Trent.”

  Trey frowned slightly, as if remembering. “I stood up with her once. She’s the girl who proses on about Lady Holmstead’s orphanage.”

  “Precisely,” Winter said with a hint of a sigh. Trey suppressed a quiver of mirth. How many pounds had that chit wrung from his cold-hearted supervisor?

  One day, he’d have to track down the hapless donors she had left in her wake.

  “I’m sorry to hear of her accident, but it is acceptable for victims to be kept in stasis for a few days in the hopes that they will come to.”

  “Three nights.” Winter held up three fingers. “I can give her three nights to return to her body. If she hasn’t woken up by tomorrow morning, you and Father Patrick will perform an exorcism.”

  Trey didn’t even attempt to disguise his shock. “What? But that’s the morning of the Viewing!”

  “Exactly. It must be done before the Rites are completed.”

  “You won’t let me hunt a ghoul, but you’re worried about the spirit of some spoiled debutante disrupting the Rites?” He felt guilty maligning Arabella, but he had to make her sound as unthreatening as possible.

  Winter leaned back in his chair, ice-blue eyes boring into his. “If her spirit still lingers, she is half of this world and half of the next. That makes her more dangerous than a ghoul right now. Remember always the Shadow Lands stand ready to exploit any opening.”

  “Dozens of people die in Lumen every day,” Trey pointed out. “Are we going to exorcise every single one?”

  “Most spirits move on without any help from us. By putting the unfortunate girl’s body in stasis, the Elliots have made it difficult for her to let go. We must remove her attachment to this world.”

  Trey’s eyes narrowed. “You’re trying to make an example out of her.”

  Winter matched him stare for stare. “After last year, you of all people should know how dangerous it is for us to hold onto people long after we should’ve let them go.”

  Trey’s fists clenched. “This is not about Damien.”

  “No, it’s about the indulgence that leads to such situations.” Winter regarded him somberly. “Miss Trent was young, pleasant, and pretty. It’s natural to want to give her as much of a chance as we can. But that kind of thinking—and the latitude allowed to peers and genteel alike—led us to make several costly mistakes during the Incursion. It is my job to ensure there won’t be a repeat of that. I will take full responsibility and the vilification that comes with it.”

  Trey saw the faint grey of weariness under Winter’s eyes, the tiredness his ramrod-straight posture held back through sheer force of will. It made him angry, because he did not want to feel sorry for the man.

  He did not want to admit that there was truth in what Winter said.

  “If that is all, then excuse me. I have work to attend to.”

  Winter nodded. “Dismissed, Mr. Shield. But with two caveats: You are not to hunt the ghoul, and if you come across Miss Trent’s spirit—”

  “I will return her to her body, of course,” interrupted Trey. He dared Winter to naysay him.

  “That would be the happiest outcome. But if it doesn’t work—you know what my expectations are.”

  “Of course, sir.” Trey gave a perfunctory bow and quit the room.

  He felt Winter’s eyes on him the whole time.

  Trey, frowning, closed Winter’s door with a rather decisive click.

  The atmosphere in the office had changed. For one thing, it was rather more crowded. Sutton leaned back in his chair, a rare smile on his face. Morgan, stocky and dark-whiskered and middle-aged, stood guffawing at some joke. A cleaned-up Jem in faded but warm clothes fidgeted uncertainly nearby.

  The fourth occupant was enthroned in Hilda’s chair, left leg propped up on a footstool. A simple walking stick leaned against the chair.

  Trey scowled and strode up to the group. He glared at the man in the chair. “Old man, what are you doing here?”

  “Blunt as ever, ain’t you boy?” Horatio Halford grinned up at him.

  Trey glanced at Halford’s leg. “You shouldn’t be here.” Halford had been lucky not to lose the limb altogether. His wounds had remained half-healed for months, causing much anxiety about amputation. Even now, the signs of ill health showed in his shrunken frame and hollowed cheeks. Halford had been a solid man with a healthy appetite for good food. Now his clothes were too large for him.

  “I’m retired, not dead,” Halford retorted. At least his voice had recovered, booming out the way it used to. For a month after the Incursion, he hadn’t been able to speak above a whisper.

  Trey gave an exaggerated wince. “So I can hear.” But he was smiling now. Halford’s overloud cheer had that effect on one’s spirits.

  “Besides, I know you can use the help around this t
ime,” went on Halford gruffly. His gaze flicked around the room, at the places his people had once occupied.

  “And it’s good to have you back, sir,” said Morgan fervently. Morgan was a darn good agent, with a nose for those pernicious sprites and wraiths Sutton’s scrying couldn’t pick up.

  Halford waggled a finger at his former underling. “Don’t get too used to it, Morgan. I’ll be returning to my roses soon enough. They don’t talk back, unlike you lot.” His brown eyes were full of good humor.

  Morgan chuckled. Halford beckoned Jem. “Who do you have here? An apprentice?”

  “Aye, sir. Mr. Shield was so good as to find him for me.” Morgan put a hand on Jem’s back and pushed the child forward. “This’un’s a seer.”

  “A seer, eh? We can always use them.” Halford and Jem scrutinized each other, Halford with frank examination, the latter with wary suspicion.

  “Yes, he spotted a ghost I came across,” Trey interjected, with a warning glance at Jem. The boy noted it and held his tongue about Arabella.

  So did Halford. He didn’t say anything, but the way he quirked his eyebrow showed that he wouldn’t forget to ask Trey.

  “Does Winter know you’re here?” Trey asked, half-turning towards the supervisor’s shut door. During Halford’s reign, that door was hardly ever closed.

  “Wouldn’t have come if he hadn’t agreed to it,” said Halford. “It’s his turf now, boy.” His gaze held Trey’s. The sooner you come to terms with it, the better, it seemed to say.

  Trey’s lips thinned. He gave a clipped nod. Right. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  “Look like you’ve been through a wine press. All of you do.” Halford looked around. “When did you have luncheon?”

  “Half an hour ago,” said Morgan. Sutton lifted up the newspaper wrappings of his own lunch.

  “I got breakfast,” muttered Trey. “And coffee.”

  Halford grasped his walking stick and heaved himself up to his feet. Trey noted the slight tremor in his hand, the momentary blanching of his weather-beaten complexion as Halford put pressure on his injured leg. “Then you can accompany me to the Lion for a bite.” It was a command, albeit not one that Trey would’ve resisted.

  Some time alone, and he could ask Halford for advice about his ghost problem.

  Chapter Seven

  Arabella drifted through the first story of Trey’s house with far more interest than was seemly.

  She resigned herself to the idea that she was, after all, a rather inquisitive young woman.

  When else in her life would she have the opportunity to examine a bachelor’s living arrangements so thoroughly?

  Trey had refrained from putting her into the pentagram after extracting a promise of good behavior. She had solemnly vowed to stay inside and not test or play with his wards. In his hurry, he had forgotten to give her any rules for her behavior inside his abode. Arabella had not reminded him.

  She’d started with the cellar workshop, her ghostly hands behind her back as she studied the array of weapons, piles of books, and rows of instruments she had no name for. She knew better than to touch, even with insubstantial limbs, any of a magician’s accoutrements.

  Once she’d satisfied herself that he was no practitioner of black magic, Arabella glided up to the dingy hallway. Out of habit, she glanced at her reflection in the spotted mirror that hung by the coat rack.

  Only an empty hallway looked back at her.

  A feeling of unreality nearly overcame her. She had no insides, but they still insisted on tightening anyway. Arabella looked down at her translucent form, doing her best to ignore the floorboards she could see through her lower half.

  She closed her eyes and pictured herself in her favorite morning dress. When she opened them again—how had she not been able to see through her transparent lids?—she wore a spotted muslin gown with lace at the neck and cuffs. This was the first pretty dress she’d ever owned and it gave her courage like no other.

  A thought struck her. Inspired, Arabella called up a mental image of Priscilla Price’s golden curls. She squinted down at her own hair, its tendrils lying on her shoulders.

  Still dark. Oh, well. It seemed that there were limits to what changes to her physical appearance her spirit would accept.

  Arabella chose a closed door at random and dove through it. A shivery feeling of oak and smoke ran through her. She was in a silent, surprisingly clean kitchen. Rows of polished copper pots and pans hung from hooks. An iron sink gleamed. A blackened oven squatted in one corner. Arabella poked her head into the larder to her right. All she saw were a stale loaf of bread, a rind of cheese, and some old potatoes and onions.

  Arabella tried to picture Trey bustling around in the kitchen and failed. This must be the missing Nat’s domain. She had no idea what to expect from the Shade Hunter’s manservant.

  A door from the kitchen opened into a tiny dining room at the front of the house. Mindful of Trey’s instructions, Arabella retreated from the room and its street-facing windows.

  The only other sizeable room downstairs turned out to be a sitting room, with gloomy wallpaper and uncomfortable, prim-looking furniture haughtily avoiding each other and demanding to not be sat upon or used in anyway.

  Arabella didn’t expect much sitting happened in that room. The dust on the mantelpiece confirmed that neither master nor manservant cared overmuch about this chamber. No, if Trey had company, he entertained elsewhere. Arabella speculated that he used this room for meeting with people he wanted to get rid of quickly. It certainly didn’t invite cozy chats.

  Having begun exploring, Arabella was not to be deterred by the stairway leading up to more private areas of the house. Her toes trailing through the age-worn steps, she floated upstairs.

  Three doors opened off the landing. One stood ajar, and through the gap Arabella caught a glimpse of a four-poster bed, a chair piled high with clothes, and a beige wall beyond.

  Do the same rules of propriety that govern the conduct of young women apply to their spirits as well? she wondered. Even after reminding herself that Trey had unceremoniously burst into her own bedchamber twice, Arabella couldn’t bring herself to enter his. Not all the curiosity in the world could embolden her that much.

  Arabella turned away and pushed through another closed door. This turned out to be a closet, and Arabella found herself neatly trisected by shelves and piles of linen. Her throat tasted of lye, and a starched feeling spread over her. She stumbled backwards, shuddering.

  That left only one chamber, the one above the sitting room. Arabella cautiously poked her head through the paneled door and was relieved to find that it was only a library. She edged the rest of the way in, and stood looking about with an air of revelation.

  Yes, this was certainly a lived-in room. Dozens of books crowded shelves free of dust. The tables were covered in volumes and papers. Chairs crowded invitingly around a fireplace.

  Arabella examined the spines on a nearby shelf. The worn and battered books boasted names like The Cardinal Principles of Magic, The Septum Arcana, and Doyle’s Treatise on the Nature of the Aethereal.

  All of them sounded thoroughly yawn-inducing. Arabella drifted past the shelves, her eyes picking out names at random (The Geometry of Wards, Runes for the Advanced Magician) until she came to a glass cabinet.

  Arabella recoiled, not from the warning flare of wards surrounding the cabinet, but from the knife-edged chill that emanated from the single book within it.

  It stood on frosted glass, padlocked shut and chained to columns of silver. Its cover was of tanned hide and its title a single word slashed in letters the color of void: Daemon.

  The very name was a scream in her mind. Arabella clapped her hands to her ears and looked away. The memory of it—along with the tang of blood, the smear of rust, and the taste of despair—echoed.

  At the edge of her vision, the book shuddered.

  Arabella darted a sideways glance at it, unable to face it head on, yet unable to wrench
her gaze away entirely.

  The padlock rattled and the chains clinked. Was it just her imagination, or did the cover itself ripple as if alive? The title seemed to crawl over its surface. The muted rustling of pages came from within.

  Pages? Or something else entirely?

  The book jolted. Arabella froze. The world seemed to hold its breath.

  Wards burned a steady blue, that terrible word washed away in the glow. The echoes in her head died. Arabella found she could move again, and move she did, hurrying to the opposite wall, almost plastering herself across the more ordinary books there.

  That book’s dangerous! Why does he keep it?

  No, it wasn’t merely dangerous.

  It was alive—and evil. Even from across the room, its malice washed over her like acid.

  What did it say about Trevelyan Shield that he kept such a thing in a room he spent so much time in? That he could bear to spend even an hour in its cruel, dark company?

  Arabella had no answer to this. Every time she thought she knew what kind of a man he was, something changed and she had to figure him out again. The remote, haughty nobleman was also the informal young man who made jokes and lounged about in a loosened cravat. The warrior who had saved her last night was also the keeper of an evil whose emanations made her ill.

  Images flashed through her mind, of a wry smile, relaxed posture, grey eyes cool or warm or laughing or gleaming with an excitement she could not share… Arabella shook them all away.

  It’s only natural for a young girl to feel attachment towards her rescuer. But for Saints’ sake, don’t lose your head over him, Arabella!

  No, she planned an ordinary life for herself. She’d enjoy a couple of Seasons before making a suitable match and settling down to the normal duties of a wife and mother.

  Books like the one across the library had no place in that future, and neither did their owners.

  So fierce was her determination that Arabella at first misread the warmth as rising from her rush of emotions. It took her a moment to realize that it emanated from an alcove in the wall next to her.