“This just came for you,” he said. Agrippa reached for the letter, but the butler handed it to me and left.
“What is it?” I said, bewildered. The envelope bore my name, and nothing else. Agrippa moved, and I pointed my stave at him again. “I won’t let you up until you help me,” I snapped.
“How am I supposed to tell you what I don’t know myself?”
“God save us, if he’s hurt, I’ll—”
“Er, Howel, maybe you should read your letter,” Magnus said. He reached over to take the envelope.
“In a minute. Don’t move!” I cried as Agrippa again tried to rise.
“It’s rude not to read a letter addressed to you. Here, I’ll open it.”
“Well, it’s my letter, isn’t it?” I clutched it to my chest.
“Just open the letter,” Blackwood said, struggling with a sense of urgency.
“Why is everyone so bloody interested in my letter?” I cried, half crumpling the thing in my fist. All the boys responded with gasps and pained expressions. Wolff pulled at his hair, and Lambe reached as if to snatch it from my hands. Mystified, I tore open the envelope. “This had better be something miraculous.”
I screamed as Mickelmas exploded out like a malicious jack-in-the-box. He rolled across the floor, sprang up, and hobbled close to the fire. Groaning, he rubbed his back and straightened his legs, composing a symphony of cracks and pops as he did so.
“Oh, my poor bones. Poor back. And you,” he said, whirling to face me. “The next time you get a letter, open it! Were you raised in a barn, you uncivilized snipe? It’s rude!” I cried out in joy and hugged him, which softened his anger. “Well then, there’s a good apprentice,” he said, patting my back. “I forgot how compressed one feels traveling by post.”
“That is ever so much better than coming through the front door,” Magnus said, watching our reunion with an amused expression.
“You.” Mickelmas noticed Agrippa and walked toward the sorcerer. “I want my cloak and I want my chest, and I want them now.”
“I don’t have them.” Agrippa stood and backed behind the chair.
“Come, a magician’s rune cloak and an enchanted box? Those are priceless artifacts for a collector. This room holds books and paintings and tapestries enough to put the National Gallery to shame. Now, give me my things.”
“Palehook took them when he came to collect the boy.”
“Have you hidden them in the servants’ quarters? Shall we turn each room upside down in a merry investigation?” With a few muttered words, Mickelmas exploded the armchair in splintering wood and fluff. Agrippa stumbled aside.
“I tell you, Palehook has them!”
“Mr. Hargrove. I mean, Mr. Mickelmas,” I said, gripping his arm. “They kidnapped Rook. If you help us get him back, we can find your things.”
“How on earth did you escape?” Agrippa said, staring at the magician with horror.
“That tower is not exactly a challenge for one as skilled as I, particularly when the guards are tired or drunk. In this case, they were both. The thrill of the chase injected some excitement into their otherwise excruciatingly dull lives. Sadly for them, I was uncatchable.” He studied his fingernails with smug satisfaction.
So that had been the shouting and running I’d heard.
“I wanted to swoop in and rescue Miss Howel,” he continued, “but without a runic cloak, my methods of transportation were limited. Fortunately, your young charges,” he said, bowing to the boys, “are far more open-minded than I’d come to believe sorcerers could be.”
And this explained how the boys knew what I was.
“You remembered the porter’s circle,” I said.
“And told your young friends, who sent a disguised Mr. Magnus in to save you, which I thought brave and ridiculous.”
“Well, I’m wonderful like that,” said Magnus.
“Just so we’re clear as to what happened,” Mickelmas said to me, “Palehook rounded up my children. He told me that if I didn’t give myself up and say those horrid things at the commendation ball, he’d kill the whole lot of the little darlings. I wasn’t about to see my charges murdered. Do you understand?”
“Of course.”
“Now, my cherub, let’s move on to more important things. My cloak and box and, yes, your young friend Rook. How are they to be rescued from the vile Palehook?” He tugged at his beard and scanned the crowd of young men. He caught sight of Blackwood and bowed. The young sorcerer nodded in return but looked uneasy.
“Why did they take Rook?” I said.
“My Lord Blackwood,” Mickelmas said, moving toward the boy, “your father was not a nice man.”
“I’m aware of that,” Blackwood said, and we both held our breath. Mickelmas couldn’t reveal his secret here.
“Many years ago, when the war was young, Palehook was charged with discovering a way to create a ward to protect London from attacks. Everything he did failed, and Charles Blackwood, well—” I shook my head, begging him to be discreet. “He knew of my reputation. He knew I couldn’t afford to be handed over to the Order, and so he captured me and forced me to help devise a system. Palehook made me do the most unspeakable things, reach across the farthest boundaries of the spirit world to find an answer.”
“But you found a way to do it,” Wolff said. As the warding expert, this had to intrigue him.
“Oh yes. Purely by chance, we discovered the only force strong enough to protect the city. The Unclean.”
“How?” I said.
“There is a spell, a powerful and very black spell, that allows a magic user to drain a person’s life force, and use that power to increase their own. We tried draining the souls, for lack of a better word, of many people without success. We hunted the gutters, the poorhouses, searching for the lowest citizens to sacrifice. We left them lying in the alleys, certain the great machinery of London would swallow them whole.” Mickelmas stopped for a moment, struggling with the pain of the memories. “No matter how many we killed, there was not enough power. And then one night, while wandering along the river, we came across an Unclean man begging for food and drink. He’d been touched by Molochoron—it was obvious; his skin was bloated and rotted, beginning to fall off his bones—”
“I don’t think we need any descriptions,” Wolff said, wincing.
“Palehook was the one who came up with the idea of using his soul. Why not? He was better off dead anyway. When the Unclean were murdered and their souls sucked dry, that was the only force powerful enough to allow Palehook to create the ward he needed. Something to do with the strength of the Ancients, I shouldn’t wonder. Funny that their poison should prove the most effective block against them.”
I remembered the Unclean man I had seen sitting outside Mickelmas’s flat, and how he’d disappeared. “They’re going to steal Rook’s soul to fortify the city?” I recalled how flimsy the ward had seemed recently, how paper-thin and rotten. Palehook had been running out of support.
“Yes. Charles Blackwood’s colony in Brighton provided ready victims. He knew they would need a steady supply to refresh the ward from time to time. Wonderful man, really.” Blackwood turned to the fireplace, looking ill. “Rook’s strength must have made him a tempting morsel.”
“Where are they now?” I said, tightening my grip on Porridge.
“There will have to be some obsidian present, but it won’t be in an obsidian room. Black arts strip the power from a holy place. I haven’t worked with him in over ten years, so I don’t know where he’s been going.” He spoke to Blackwood as he moved toward the fireplace. Lambe touched my arm.
“I can help,” he whispered, his pale eyes shining with a hazy light. “I need something precious to Rook to make a connection, but I could see where he is.”
“Oh, Lambe, could you? We should go to his room and look for something to use.” I’d no idea what, of course. They’d destroyed everything.
“It needs to be precious to him. If you don’t mind, Ho
wel, I have to do this.” He gripped my hand in both of his, bowed his head, and closed his eyes. I flushed, but before I could object, something tugged at the edge of my consciousness. It felt as though I were falling backward.
Rook lay on something cold, shivering, with his hands bound on his stomach. He was disoriented, almost sick. They had given him something. A black gate was to his left, separating him from the rest of the crypt. Palehook smiled, lighting candles while he spoke to someone. They’d tied rosemary in the ropes around Rook’s wrists, and Palehook dipped his thumb into a small bowl and touched Rook on the forehead. It was cold, and when some of the liquid dripped onto Rook’s stomach, he saw that it was blood.
“Where is the moon? I tell you, if I can’t perform it quickly, the split will occur—”
Lambe released me. We sank to the floor, and the others hovered around us.
“Howel, are you hurt?” Magnus said, helping me to my feet.
“I know where they are,” I said. Lambe lay back in Wolff’s arms. Wolff stroked the boy’s pale hair with a surprising amount of affection.
“Where?” Magnus said.
Lambe raised his hand like we were in the schoolroom. “St. Paul’s Cathedral, on Christopher Wren’s grave.”
“Perfect.” Mickelmas looked surprised. “Why didn’t I think of it? It’s an obsidian slab in the center of town and underneath a dome, which gives the energy something to mold itself after. Well done, my dear boy. Finally, a sorcerer with a useful power.” He clapped Lambe on the shoulder. “We’ve one advantage. The moon’s hidden behind the clouds, probably because of Korozoth. They can’t kill Rook until the sky is clear, or the power won’t take. So to save your boy, we must fly. It may not be too late.”
Agrippa stepped forward. He’d been so silent I’d nearly forgotten he was present. “If you do this,” he cried as the boys ran from the room, “the ward may snap. Korozoth could destroy us all.”
“I might as well add,” Mickelmas said, “that Palehook can easily ward the entire city. He’s chosen not to in order to provide his sacrificial slab with victims.” At this, Agrippa sank to his knees, all his power to persuade gone.
“Thank you,” I said to Agrippa as Mickelmas followed the boys out the door.
“For what?”
“I believed that sorcerers were England’s great hope against her enemies. I believed that you were better and kinder than other men.” There was no emotion in my voice. I was beyond feeling. “Thank you for teaching me not to believe in anything.”
I turned my back on him and went to rescue Rook.
We dropped out of the sky before the steps to St. Paul’s. The enormous entrance was, of course, locked.
“Damn,” Magnus said as the moon appeared from behind the clouds. Above us, dark shapes skimmed the dome, leaving bright yellow streaks.
“What are they doing?” Wolff said, turning in a circle as he watched them.
“The ward is thin, my young friends. They’re looking for a way in, but they won’t find one yet.” Mickelmas cleared his throat.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Agrippa had a point. You realize that if we save Rook, the ward will likely fall. If you do this, you could be executed for treason.” Murmurs passed among the boys. They hadn’t considered that.
“I don’t care,” I said.
“Of course not. You’re attached to the boy. For my part, I’m willing to do it as a way of atonement. But the young gentlemen must understand.” He turned to them. “This isn’t a game. Are you prepared for what you may unleash tonight?”
The boys looked at each other, wide-eyed. Even knowing what Agrippa had said, they’d not thought about this in their zeal to help Rook. Truth be told, I hadn’t really thought it through myself. The idea of all those creatures descending on the people asleep in their beds left me cold.
Blackwood broke the silence. “The outside’s lain vulnerable for years. People have been murdered.” He caught my eye and nodded. “No one innocent life is worth more than another. Ever.” We all murmured our agreement. Every one of us felt the weight of the moment on our backs.
Magnus blasted the wooden door, which opened with a splintering crack. We raced down the echoing nave toward the crypt. I slowed to run alongside a wheezing Mickelmas.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m not in the great condition I once was. Come to think of it, I was never in the great condition I once was.”
“Thank you for coming back for me.”
“I had to. It was the only way to find my cloak and chest.”
“Oh.”
“I suppose I didn’t want you to die, either. There’s something I still must tell you about—”
Blackwood hushed us as we entered the crypt and paced between the pillars. Voices rose and fell ahead of us. We found them by Christopher Wren’s tomb.
Four boys, all wearing their new sorcerers’ robes, stood guard outside the gate. Hemphill was among them. They had their staves out, prepared to defend what was going on within.
Inside the tomb, Palehook stood before Rook, who lay bound and gagged on the obsidian slab. He convulsed while Palehook murmured, “The moon rounds in her virgin glow, the blood is on the stone, both separate the body’s soul from body’s flesh and bone.” A white mist rose out of Rook and hovered in the air. He arched his back, caught in a torturous fit as the mist grew. Palehook leaned forward, a gleeful smile on his face.
“His life force,” Mickelmas whispered.
“Stop!” I ran forward.
Hemphill whistled softly as I entered the room, my friends at my back. “They’re here, Master. First visitors we’ve ever had.” The guards laughed.
Palehook snarled and leaned over Rook, like a perverted version of a mother protecting her child. “Keep them away. They have no idea what has to happen tonight.”
“Let Rook go.” I understood what I had seen. Palehook had used words in his magic. “You can perform magician’s work. You’re like me, aren’t you? A hybrid.”
Palehook’s face twisted in fury. “I’m nothing like you, girl,” he growled, every word soaked in self-loathing. “I’d only pollute myself with magician trickery to save this city. Do you want to sacrifice the whole of London to save your worthless little friend?”
“You mean the chosen parts of London,” I said.
“My wife and children live in those chosen parts. If you think I’ll let you open them up to slaughter, you’re mistaken. Stay back,” he said as I took a step forward. At Palehook’s command, the four guards readied themselves for an attack. “You’ve received commendation, haven’t you? You can’t kill a fellow sorcerer now, not unless you want to join him in death.”
Palehook was right. Behind me, the boys whispered to each other. They sounded concerned.
“I’m not commended,” I said, refusing to back away.
“Nor I. I’m not even a sorcerer.” Mickelmas moved out of the shadows. Palehook shrank back. “Hello, Augustus. You’ve only gotten balder and uglier over the years. It suits you.” Palehook muttered something I couldn’t make out. Mickelmas laughed. “Speak up, old fellow. Granted, you must be tired. Black magic does rather deplete one’s energy.” Mickelmas rubbed his hands together and, with a flick of his wrist, sent a ball of white light sailing at the tomb.
But none of us anticipated how fast Palehook could be. With a swift movement of his stave, he bent one of the iron bars and severed it, sending the pointed tip through the ball of light and directly into Mickelmas’s side.
“Damn, damn!” Mickelmas fell, his blood pooling on the floor. He waved off the boys’ attempts to help.
Palehook turned to the mist hovering over Rook and inhaled deeply, smacking his lips like some grotesque vampire. His skin glowed as he took more and more.
“Come on, then,” Hemphill called as I frantically sought a way to the gate. “If you’re not commended, Miss Howel, then nothing can stop my putting a blade through your heart. I missed the last time, b
ut I won’t tonight.”
Magnus roared and slammed his stave to the floor. The ground shook, throwing our opponents off balance. The battle had begun.
Around me, the sorcerers dueled furiously. They summoned winds that whipped along the corridor, and the bricks beneath our feet rattled and bucked. Lambe and Wolff ran side by side, their wards activated, and smashed into one of the guards. Blackwood collected the fire from a torch and exploded it in someone’s face. Dee pulled stones out of the floor and threw them. Magnus, teeth bared, dueled Hemphill with warded blades.
There was a path open to the tomb.
I took the opportunity and ran, setting myself on fire to keep the guards away. Palehook slammed the door in my face, but I blasted it open and entered, the blue flames rising around me as I reached for him.
“Get out!” He struck me with wind. A tendril of Rook’s life curled out of his open mouth like smoke.
Rook lay motionless on the stone. He looked terrifyingly flat. Please, God, I couldn’t be too late.
“Get away from him.” I struggled to keep my fire from touching Rook. Palehook leaned against the wall, beads of sweat dotting his forehead. He really had weakened, and I used it to my advantage. When he tried to move in any direction, I was there. His only way out was through fire.
“Stop!” he cried. But he was afraid; I could see it.
“If you yield, throw down your weapon.”
Palehook was still a moment, deciding. Then, slowly, he dropped his stave. It clattered to the floor, and he put his hands up. I stopped burning, created a warded blade, and held it to his throat. Palehook kept his chin up. He swallowed, wincing as the blade cut him slightly.
Behind me, the fighting ceased. Glancing quickly over my shoulder, I saw that both sides had paused, watching us, waiting to see who would win.
“Don’t be foolish,” Palehook said. Life force puffed from his lips with each word he spoke. “Think of what you’re doing. You’re condemning all of London to death.”
A Shadow Bright and Burning Page 28
