Ravensclaw

by Maggie MacKeever

  A white-haired man bustled out of a back room and murmured soothingly to the bird, referring to it as ‘Styx’.

  A raven named after the chief river of the underworld? She had come to the right place. To make doubly certain, Emily said, “Mr. Abercrombie?”

  He nodded and bobbed and came closer, revealing himself to be of stout middle age, little taller than Emily, with an unnerving wandering eye. His smile faded when his gaze fell on Drogo. “That’s a wolf. We don’t allow wolves on the premises.” Drogo padded toward him, baring his teeth.

  Mr. Abercrombie fell back a step. “In this case, perhaps an exception can be made! What can I do for you, miss? Angelica and rosemary for a domination spell? Caraway seed to discourage your poultry from straying? Sage for cleansing, myrrh or sandalwood?”

  Emily thought of Val and his arcane studies. “Have you any dragon’s blood?”

  Alas, Mr. Abercrombie did not. Perhaps he might interest the young lady in Thor’s nettles or Job’s tears instead. A Love Drawing Oil made with sweet almonds and an infusion of fresh basil leaves. A recipe for Raven’s Feather Ink.

  The raven muttered into its wing.

  Emily shook her head, briefly distracted by the notion of a lust-spell. “I might be of more assistance,” said Mr. Abercrombie, “if I knew what it is you need.”

  Emily drew the vraja from her reticule. “Do you carry items like this?”

  Mr. Abercrombie did. He would have happily showed Emily his entire stock had she not interrupted him mid-speech. “I don’t wish to purchase such a talisman. I do wish to know who has recently bought one.”

  Mr. Abercrombie shook his head. “I can’t tell you that. All transactions are private. I must protect the interests of my clients. Confidentiality is my stock in trade.”

  Judging from the dust and cobwebs all around, Mr. Abercrombie’s clients were few. “I am prepared to reimburse you handsomely for any services you might provide me, sir.”

  Mr. Abercrombie’s gaze moved from the reticule Emily was dangling in front of him to Drogo’s sharp teeth. “I suppose I might make an exception this once.”

  “The transaction would have taken place during the past few days. A man of perhaps nine-and-twenty. Dark-haired. Pale. Well dressed. Michael Ross by name.”

  “Hsst!” Mr. Abercrombie held up a chubby hand. “No names. What a body doesn’t know can’t hurt him, I always say.” He also said that a gentleman of that description had indeed recently purchased a vraja, in addition to some yarrow, mastic pearls, and bloodstone.

  Emily’s spirits plummeted, foolishly, because the shopkeeper had only confirmed her suspicions. She opened her reticule. Mr. Abercrombie’s face lit up at the sight of her assorted charms. He especially admired the tiger’s eye and the seal of St. Benedict. The young lady was well-protected. His eyes moved to the pendant. Well-protected, indeed. Perhaps she might be interested in a spot of trade.

  And perhaps the shopkeeper thought he might snatch the ruby off her neck. Emily raised her umbrella. Drogo growled. The raven croaked.

  Mr. Abercrombie dropped his hand. “No offense intended, miss.”

  “None taken.” Emily placed a gold coin on the counter. “Should the gentleman return, you won’t tell him I was here.”

  “Mum as an oyster, miss.” The shopkeeper radiated sincerity.

  Came those flying pigs again. Given sufficient monetary motivation, Mr. Abercrombie’s oysters would flap tongues hinged on both ends. Emily hoped Michael wouldn’t soon return to the shop. And what did Ravensclaw mean to do with dragon’s blood, which despite its intriguing name, was nothing but an herb? Emily climbed the steps back up to the street. She was thinking of the odd theory that sleeping with a wolf’s head under one’s pillow protected against nightmares when she bumped up against a solid and very aromatic bulk.

  “Och, now we have ye!” said the bulk, and grabbed her by the arms.

  He was overly optimistic. Emily kicked him in the knee; then as he bent over, brought her umbrella down smartly on his head. Drogo leapt out from behind her to sink sharp teeth into the most convenient chunk of flesh.

  “Ow! Ow! Ow!” wailed Oxter. “Get ‘im aff me arse!” The shopkeeper stuck his head out the door to see what the commotion was about and as quickly retreated, a convenient deafness also being required of a person in his line of work.

  Emily pulled her little pistol from her pocket. “Well met, gentlemen. I had hoped to speak with the three of you. Drogo, release your captive and make sure none of them escape.” Flight was clearly on the mind of at least the twitching man, who was pale as a ghost. “Let us introduce ourselves. As you may or may not know, I am Emily Dinwiddie.” She gestured with the pistol. “And you are—?”

  “Oxter,” groaned Oxter.

  “Mowdiewarp.”

  “Dinna— Cannae—” muttered the third.

  Oxter gave him a clout on the head. “Tha’s Twitcher. ‘E’s a dunderhead.”

  “Nae need t’ be fashious, lass,” soothed Mowdiewarp. “We meant ye nae harm.”

  “Nay.” Oxter clutched his bleeding rump and nodded. “We dinna, but somebody else might.”

  “Awa’, ye glaibit bastid!” snapped Mowdiewarp, whose peacemaking tendencies went only so far. “ ‘Tis but a misunderstanding. We’ve ‘ad a wee drappie. I widna wonder if we was no’ richt smeekit. No hard feelings. We’ll just be on our way.”

  “No, you won’t.” Emily aimed the pistol at Oxter. “Not without telling me why the three of you are making a habit of accosting me.”

  Twitcher moaned. “It wis no’ me, I dinna.”

  Oxter smacked him again. “The de’il will get ye for tellin’ lies.”

  “Tha’s enow clishmaclaver!” Mowdiewarp interrupted sternly, one eye fixed on Drogo, and the other on Emily’s gun. “Twitcher’s in a richt pelter, lass. Not t’ mention he’s a windae-licker. Pay nae mind t’ anything he says. Noo aboot this wee stooshie—”

  Twitcher might be embarrassed at having tossed the lass over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and also terrified by the vague notion that it would go the worse for him if he lay a hand on her; but there was a limit to the abuse a lad could take. “Wha ye callin’ a windae-licker, ye eejit?” he demanded, and popped Mowdiewarp in the nose. Caught off guard, Mowdiewarp fell on his own arse, blood streaming down his face.

  “Haud on, ye sumph!” snarled Oxter, and grabbed Twitcher by the arm. Twitcher took offense at being grabbed. Mowdiewarp climbed to his feet. A proper stremach ensued. Emily and Drogo watched. Emily concluded that Jamie’s bajins were fools.

  Fools with a mission. She raised her voice. “Stop that at once or I will shoot one of you!”

  Twitcher pointed at Oxter. Before he could voice the suggestion that danced on the tip of his tongue, a tall figure appeared at the end of the close. Tall as a building, eyes as red as fire. A reluctant closer inspection, and Twitcher conceded that the eyes weren’t red as fire. Yet.

  The face was unnervingly familiar. Twitcher had a terrifying memory of being held far above the ground. Threats involving livers and intestines. Monstrous sharp teeth. “Ah dinna ken ocht aboot it,” he moaned, and sank into a swoon.

  Emily was more interested in the newcomer than in her accostors, the other two of whom were cowering in the shadows of a building. She glowered at Drogo. “Traitor,” she said.

  Val clamped a strong hand on her shoulder, and squeezed. Emily dropped both pistol and umbrella. “I told you to pretend to be a nitwit, not to act like one,” he snapped.

  There was some justification for his comment. Not that Emily would admit it. She jerked her chin at the pendant. “I wasn’t in any real danger. Look, it hasn’t turned dark.”

  Twitcher stirred. Drogo, who was sitting guard, licked his face. Twitcher opened one eye, moaned, and scuttled off to join his comrades by the wall.

  All three were babbling at once. Emily snapped, “Now see what you’ve done!”

  “What I’ve done is nothing like what I’d like
to do to you.” Ungently, Val tucked her under his arm.

  A second figure appeared at the opening of the close. In the blink of an eye he was beside them. Oxter goggled and gasped as Cezar grasped him by the throat. “Wrens making prey, Miss Dinwiddie? Shall I pinch off this one’s head?”

  “Um.” Emily was distracted. Val’s body was solid against hers. Almost as solid as when she’d sat on his lap and nuzzled his neck.

  When he’d given her her first real kiss. For good measure, she kicked him again. “Why is it males must meddle? I wished to find out who sent these men after me. Clearly someone sent them because they haven’t a brain to share among all three! There was no need for you to interfere.”

  Val released her to rub his shin. “How inconsiderate of us. And just when things were going so well.”

  Cezar surveyed the gibbering Oxter. “You believed they would confide in you?”

  Emily bent to pick up her umbrella and her pistol. “Don’t bother pointing out that I can only shoot one of them.”

  “Oxter!” suggested Mowdiewarp. Twitcher agreed. Oxter struggled all the harder in Cezar’s grasp.

  Cezar tightened his fingers until the man’s eyes bulged. “Perhaps you will allow us to assist you.”

  “You assist her,” Val said coolly. “I’m still sulking. She called me a meddling male.”

  Emily glared at him. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

  “On the contrary, Miss Dinwiddie.” Ravensclaw’s smile was feral. “I’m not enjoying this at all.”

  He was truly angry with her. Emily felt like she’d been frozen by a blast of frigid arctic air. “Then go to the devil! I didn’t invite you here.” She turned to Cezar. “Yes, assist me, please.”

  Cezar loosened his grip so that Oxter could gulp in breath, then fixed the man with his stern gaze. Oxter’s face went slack. His eyes rolled back in his head. After a moment passed, Cezar released him. Twitcher moaned as Oxter flopped to the ground.

  Emily surveyed the fallen man. “Will he be all right?”

  “No, but he’ll be no worse than we found him,” Cesar told her. “This one knows nothing, not even how his instructions were received. He experienced them as a compulsion in his mind.”

  Val looked at the other men. “They know even less.”

  “Don’t hurt them,” Emily said quickly. “As you say, they’re merely dupes, and they did me no real harm.” She turned to Cezar. “Perhaps a strong suggestion that they find another line of work?”

  “It’s hardly that simple. Their employer won’t be pleased when he learns his plans were foiled.” Oxter had wakened, and Cezar contemplated the quivering trio. “I suggest we implant some suggestions of our own.”

  “Such as that this never happened?” Val frowned at Twitcher. “I already tried that.”

  Twitcher clasped the top of his head. “Ye’ll no’ chop it off!”

  Emily pushed up her spectacles. “No one’s going to chop off your head. Why would you think that?”

  “Bogeys!” wailed Twitcher, and buried his face in Mowdiewarp’s coat.

  Mowdiewarp patted him. “ ‘Twas no’ these lads. Look ye, Twitcher, they’re tae tall.” His eyes narrowed. “Lest they can shrink themselves. Than bogey wis shorter, smaller. We couldnae see his face, bein’ as he wis wrapt in a dark cloak. An he glowed. Something in his hand.”

  “The d’Auvergne athame,” murmured Emily. Val and Cezar exchanged a glance. She opened her mouth, but Val turned his frown on her, and she closed it with a snap. Clearly he was in no mood to tuck her up against him again. A pity. She was feeling unaccountably cold.

  Cezar made further inquiries. The trio knew only that they had interrupted what they called a bogey at his work not far from that spot. Cezar sent them on their way with the understanding that they had neither seen Emily nor had this encounter, that they weren’t going to see Emily again even if they fell smack on top of her. The three of them shambled down the street.

  Cezar turned to Emily. “Perhaps you will explain how is that you can close your mind to us, Miss Dinwiddie.”

  Emily was feeling ill-used. “Perhaps I won’t.”

  Two pairs of cold eyes rested on her. Drogo bumped against her knee. “Oh, very well! My papa taught me from the cradle how to block my emotions.” She glared at Val. “So that no selfish supersensible creature could make me his dupe.”

  “Enough.” Val moved, and somehow the pistol was no longer in her hand, and her arm was in his grasp. Emily tried to jerk away from him. His fingers were like iron. “We are going home now, Miss Dinwiddie. I am going to lock you in the dungeon until I cease to be annoyed.”

  Emily paused in her struggles to peer up into his face. Val looked as if he might well carry out his threat. “I’ve never explored a real dungeon,” she confessed. “Does yours have a torture chamber? A scavenger’s daughter? Thumbscrews?”

  Val clamped his teeth together. Cezar murmured, “ ‘Where eagles dare not perch.’ ”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Better some of a pudding than none of a pie.

  (Romanian proverb)

  Lady Alberta frowned at Val over the top of her teacup. “Tsk!” she said.

  Val closed his eyes against the pain of the first headache he’d experienced in decades. “Tsk?”

  Lady Alberta selected another piece of shortbread. “It was not well done of you to make Emily cry.”

  Granted, Val had lost his temper, also for the first time in decades. Granted, he had said things better left unsaid. Even so, surely the most critical of observers must admit he’d had sufficient provocation to test the patience of a saint.

  Apparently not. The various members of his household were treating him as if he’d brought home the plague. Zizi, Bela, and Lilian had turned a collective cold shoulder, while Isidore informed him sternly that no garden was without its weeds. Jamie had damn near dumped the tea tray in his lap. All this despite the fact they had all been so caught up in helping — or in the case of Lady Alberta, hindering — Mrs. MacCamish create a hotchpotch that Emily had been able to slip away unnoticed from the house.

  Lady Alberta was still glowering. Val bowed to the inevitable. “Where is she?”

  “In your study.” Lady Alberta pushed the tea tray toward him. “A peace offering might be in order. I know for a certainty Emily has had nothing to eat today.”

  Val picked up the tray. Clearly, Lady Alberta considered Emily’s refusal to take sustenance his responsibility. He supposed he would also be blamed for whatever folly she might next commit.

  He couldn’t fairly fault her for impatience. She must feel that he’d done little, despite her request for his help. Life — or his existence — had been simple once, before Miss Dinwiddie came knocking at his castle gate. Val climbed the stair and pushed open the study door.

  Emily sat at the oak table, the Orimorium Verum open in front of her. Sunlight struggling through the ancient windows made a fiery halo of her untidy hair. Machka was curled up by her elbow. Drogo sprawled at her feet.

  Even the animals regarded him with disfavor. Val set down the tea tray. “Out,” he said. Drogo padded toward the doorway, giving him a wide berth.

  “You, too.” Val picked up Machka and deposited her in the stairway. Emily rose from her chair. “Not you,” he said.

  She sat back down. He closed and locked the door. “Lady Alberta suggested you might like some tea.” Emily shook her head, her gaze fixed firmly on the grimoire.

  He moved toward her. Emily glanced up with a combination of defiance and dread. Val plucked her up out of the chair and sat down, holding her on his lap. She was stiff as several fence posts. He set aside her glasses and pulled her against his chest.

  Gradually, she relaxed against him. He waited patiently. At last a gruff little voice muttered, “You don’t have a dungeon. You lied to me again.”

  “I do have a dungeon. It just isn’t here.” He experienced a sudden urge to take her back to Corby Castle, lock himself with her in
the dungeon, and let the rest of the world go and be damned.

  Emily’s feelings were firmly closed to him. Still, she moved one hand to rest against Val’s chest. “I suppose you expect me to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “You said I was a nitwit. Among other things.”

  “I said you acted like a nitwit. As for those other things—” Val rested his chin on the top of her head. “I was frightened for you.”

  A pause while Emily mulled over this. “Were you, really?”

  “Yes.”

  Emily hesitated. Val felt her reach out to touch his mind. He lowered his guard and let her in. She was cautious, like a babe taking its first steps, exploring the parameters of this new world. It was both endearing and almost unbearably sensual. Val tamped down his emotions, and let her poke around.

  She withdrew, shifted in his lap so that she might see his face. “I shouldn’t be able to do that, should I?”

  “No.” Her soft little bottom was snuggled against him in a most distracting manner. Val stroked one hand along her spine.

  She lowered her gaze to his chin. “I have learned from my reading that for each vampir there is an ailalta, one destined other, who must be proven worthy by meeting a challenge, a provocare. Rather like a knight of old slaying a dragon for his ladylove. Since you and I have a special affinity, I wonder if perhaps I am your ailalta.” She blushed.

  The idea of Emily slaying dragons for him chilled Val to his toes. “I suspect this ‘affinity’ you mention is more likely because your ancestress and I— Well.”

  She stared at him. “You and Iso—”

  “Don’t say that name! I’m afraid we did. Curiosity seems to run rampant in the female members of your family.”

  “I suppose it does.” Tentatively, Emily reached out and touched his lower lip; ran the tips of her fingers over his cheeks, his jaw, his throat.

  Val held very still, and contemplated thwarted lust. If she didn’t soon stop stroking him, Miss Dinwiddie would find out for herself if vampires wept tears of blood.