Ravensclaw

by Maggie MacKeever

  She scrambled to her feet. The palms of her hands stung. Emily pulled off her torn gloves.

  Michael had hung his lantern from a rusted hook set high in the old wall. Laid out on a rickety table, a collection of instruments gleamed in its sickly light. Spring-loaded lancets, fleams, a scarifier with a series of twelve spring-driven blades that when cocked and released would cause many shallow cuts, a sharp curved sword—

  The room stank of fish oil, and worse. Pungent herbs smoldered in a brazier. What was that, tossed so carelessly into a corner? Emily choked back bile. From the grisly stack of severed heads came the stink of rotting meat.

  Ravensclaw would have her head for putting herself in this position. If only she had her pistol, lost in the encounter with Samael. Or even her umbrella, which Lady Alberta had insisted be left behind, because to carry it in such lovely weather would seem odd indeed. At least she had the pendant. And her necklace of charms.

  She couldn’t just stand here, quivering like a trapped rabbit. Emily attempted to sound stern. “What is this place, Michael? Why have you brought me here?”

  “You left me no choice.” Michael pressed one palm against his temple. “Deuce take it, Emily, why are you so determined to be a thorn in my flesh?”

  Was it the headache that caused him to appear unwell, so feverish and gaunt? “How?” Emily asked.

  Michael looked confused. “How what?”

  “How am I a thorn in your flesh?”

  He glared at her. “You shouldn’t have come to Edinburgh. All this is your fault.”

  “How can you say that? I’m not the one who broke into the Society’s vaults. Were you also responsible for Papa’s accident? Was it you who sent those men to snatch me? Who summoned Samael?” Emily almost wished the demon would pop up now. She would rather bargain with Samael than with Michael, which gave rise to the question of which was the greater fiend.

  Michael wrinkled his brow. “Summoned who?” he said. “The gull-gropers had got their talons so deep in me I thought I’d never manage to row myself out of the River Tick. But then the professor— You know how he went on! He was waxing enthusiastic about Jean Baptiste Lamark’s theory of Transformisme, and not paying me attention, at least I thought he wasn’t, and so I grasped the opportunity to pocket his keys. Unfortunately, as it turned out, he may as well have had eyes in the back of his head. I meant him no harm, I swear it. If you weren’t so damned unreasonable you’d admit I had no choice.”

  If Emily had been unreasonable, it was in giving this horrid man the benefit of the doubt. “Of course you had a choice. You could have chosen not to murder Papa. Michael, you must give me the athame.”

  “I must, must I?” It was as if a stranger stared at her through his eyes. “What I must have is your pendant. Now.”

  Emily felt the amulet flare to life. “I’m not wearing it today.”

  “Liar.” Michael raised his hand. His sleeve fell back. Lamplight gleamed on leprous flesh, glittered off the sharp edge of a blade.

  Independence and so forth were all well and good in their place, but it was clearly time to call for assistance. Even though she wasn’t speaking to him. I’m sorry! I’m a peabrain! Please help me, Val!

  Michael started toward her. Emily edged away from him, stumbled over something lying on the floor. A large something, lean and muscular, with chestnut hair half-hiding a harsh, scarred face. She knelt beside him, saw no obvious injuries. “Mr. Torok?”

  “It is not so difficult to snare an old fox. Give me the pendant, or I will take it from you.” Michael raised the knife.

  Emily didn’t doubt he’d try. Fluttering her eyelashes, she said, “Does this mean you no longer wish to marry me, Michael?”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Curses, like chickens, come home to roost. (Romanian proverb)

  Val would have been first to admit that he was very old. Just recently he had attempted to reckon his own age, using human lifetimes as a measuring stick: if he counted four generations to a century, he could be Emily’s grandfather how many times removed?

  The resulting answer caused him to swear off higher mathematics. Val and Emily weren’t May and December, they were this century and the dawn of time, and why was he tormenting himself? He couldn’t have Emily, and that was the end of the matter. He couldn’t let her have him. And he would be eternally damned before he allowed anyone to do her harm.

  Not that he wasn’t already eternally damned. And damn Lisbet as well for showing up before he’d found an opportunity for explanations and then keeping him with her until well past dawn.

  He’d left her now, and without a word of explanation. Let Lisbet make of that what she would. She was already displeased with his performance, or his lack thereof.

  Emily was frightened. Val experienced her emotions as if they were his own, and with them a great rage. Emily was his — well, not really, but if he wasn’t what he was she damned well would have been — and if anyone was going to frighten her, it should be him.

  He didn’t wish to frighten her. He did wish to shake her until her teeth rattled in her head.

  She served as his beacon. In less than the time it took to think his angry thoughts, Val was in the vaults beneath the South Bridge.

  Into the gloomy abandoned tunnels, where his keen eyesight and heightened senses guided him more surely than any light, around one last corner, down a treacherous pathway— Emily’s presence was so vivid Val could almost touch her. Her voice came to him through an ancient barred door.

  She sounded calm, all things considered. “You can’t get your hands on all my lovely money unless you marry me, Michael. And you can’t marry me if I’m dead.”

  Val paused, poised to break down the door, as Michael spoke. “You shan’t tell me what I can and cannot do! Anyway, I’m not the one who wants you dead.”

  “Then who?”

  “I can’t say.”

  A moment’s silence, while Emily ruminated. Through her eyes Val saw the small stone chamber, the table with its grisly instruments, the grim corner display — and Andrei? What was Andrei doing here? Emily appeared to be in no immediate danger, so Val waited to hear what she would say next.

  Which was, “Do you remember the Phantasmagoria, Michael?”

  “The Magic Lantern. Adjustable lenses and ventriloquism and moving slides. I remember everything, Emily.” A pause. “Almost.”

  “Then you may also remember that people believed the forces of darkness and sorcery were responsible for the lantern’s ability to project images where none had been before. Which was so much twaddle. Whatever you believe, Michael, the athame must be returned to the Society.”

  Val felt the athame, stronger now than he remembered, even more dangerous. It was the nature of the thing to feed off the person who wielded it. Michael Ross was no longer the young man who had courted Emily.

  “The knife belongs to whoever holds it, and I’m holding it now. See how it gleams in the lamplight, Emily.” His voice was almost pensive. “Feel how sharp it is.”

  Val felt the sting of the blade as it pierced her skin. Furious with himself for delaying, he kicked in the door.

  Emily glanced at him. Her wrist was bleeding. I apologize for wishing you to the devil. Thank you for coming anyway. Michael took advantage of the distraction to slip his knife under the clasps of her pelisse. They melted like soft butter, exposing the pendant to view.

  He reached for it. Emily clasped her hand around the ruby and backed away.

  Marie d’Auvergne’s athame and her pendant in one place at last. The air throbbed with unfocussed power. Val felt as if his feet were mired in sludge.

  He couldn’t move. Not only power, but something else had him in its grip. Burning in the brazier were pungent herbs. As Val tried to identify them, Michael spun and sprang at him, athame upraised to strike.

  Val! Emily hurled herself in front of Michael. He shoved her aside. She slammed against the instrument-laden table. It collapsed, taking her with it to the f
loor.

  Val recognized the unfamiliar smell then, as his limbs refused to obey him. “Adder’s tongue,” said Michael Ross. “So much for vampiric powers. You walked into the trap, just like your friend.” The young man feinted and jabbed, putting Val in mind of a whirling dervish he had seen lifetimes ago.

  Mr. Ross was fortunate that Val couldn’t move, else he would have snapped the bastard’s neck. He stood frozen while Michael slashed at him with the athame, and the sharp blade drew blood.

  One hand emerged from the table wreckage, then a leg. Emily was swearing, viciously, in his head. What in all the hells is the matter with you, Val?

  The herb burning in the brazier. It renders us helpless. See if you can rouse Andrei.

  Michael paid no attention as Emily scrambled out from under what was left of the table. Her scalp was bleeding now, as well as her wrist.

  The adder’s tongue hadn’t affected Val’s vision, or his ability to appreciate the sight of Emily’s sweetly upturned bottom. If this was to be his last sight, it was at least a pleasant one. He regretted both his prudence and his forbearance, now that it was too late.

  Over her shoulder, she scowled at him. Never did I think to hear such drivel from the great Ravensclaw. As Michael brought down the knife again, she jerked open her reticule, uncorked her vinaigrette, and stuck it under Andrei’s nose. The sharp scent of vinegar mingled with the other odors in the room.

  Michael danced around, slicing and chanting until Val felt like a maypole being wound about with ribbons of blood. “Stinking motherwort grows upon dunghills. Moonwort will open locks and unshoe horses. Dead nettle— I forget what dead nettle does, but it will come back to me.”

  Emily said, irritably, “Stop this foolishness at once!”

  Ignoring her, Michael pricked Val again with the athame. “How do you like your adder’s tongue, Ravensclaw? The juice of the leaves, drunk with the distilled water of horse-bait, is a singular remedy for all manner of wounds. The leaves, infused with the oil of unripe olives, set in the sun four days, make an excellent green balsam. Not that either will help you now.”

  There was something wrong here, Val realized, beyond adder’s tongue and lunacy. He concentrated all his effort on holding the madman’s attention fixed on him as Emily reached stealthily for the sword and Andrei climbed unsteadily to his feet.

  Emily propped Andrei up, shoved the sword at him, and pressed the vinaigrette into his other hand. He looked disheveled and disreputable, and no whit less dangerous for the vinaigrette held to his nose. Flickering lamplight lent his scarred face a diabolic cast as he stared Val in the eye and smiled. Andrei’s smile at the best of times was chilling. In this moment he resembled the Grim Reaper responding to a bad joke.

  “What do you think, Emily? I could pour boiling oil on him, make a paste of his flesh and feed on it, cut off his toes.” Michael’s feverish gaze was still fixed on Ravensclaw.

  Emily edged closer to them. “Cook his heart with vinegar, oil, and wine? Prevent him from straying by stabbing nine spindles into his grave? You are carrying this too far.”

  Michael reached out for Emily. “If you drink the lifeblood of your enemy, you will gain his powers. You and I should drink the blood of Ravensclaw.”

  “I already have. It was quite tasty.” Emily raised her hand and threw the contents of a paper packet into Michael’s eyes.

  “Gaaah!” Blinded, he lowered the athame. Emily dropped to her knees as Andrei swung the sword.

  Blood sprayed as metal shredded flesh, shattered bone. Michael screamed and fell. Dragging his useless arm, he crawled toward the broken table of instruments. Andrei swung the sword again, and once more for good measure. Michael’s head rolled to rest among the others stacked up by the walls.

  The fresh air — ‘fresh’ being a relative term in a place like this — had begun to sweep away the poisonous smoke. Val found that he could speak. “You can open your eyes now,” he said weakly, as Andrei, still holding the vinaigrette to his nose, extinguished the brazier and carried it into the passageway.

  Emily snatched up the athame, dropped to the floor beside Val. She had lost her bonnet, and her hair stuck out in all directions, and she was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. “You have rescued me again, elfling. What was that you threw into his eyes?”

  “Dirt from the grave of an innocent. I had fetched it for another use, but it turns out to be very handy stuff.” She frowned at his numerous cuts. “You’re not healing.”

  “It’s the adder’s blood.”

  Emily pulled her sleeve away from her still-bleeding wrist. Val tried to turn his head. She threaded her fingers through his hair and made him look at her. “Yes, I know. You don’t trust yourself to take me again without taking me too far. Well, I trust you. Don’t be so stubborn, Val.”

  Val had meant to keep Emily safe, at least until he was certain she suffered no ill effects from her misadventures. If Val were honest with himself, he wanted to keep her safe longer than that. For Emily, forever wouldn’t be enough time.

  But he didn’t have forever. Or if he did, Emily did not. What she did have were both the d’Auvergne athame and its matching pendant. Val could no more have resisted her than the earth could have refused to orbit the sun.

  Not that he wanted to resist her. This is becoming a habit, little one.

  A pleasant one, I hope. She drew him closer. Pleasure me, Val.

  Her skin was sweet against his lips. Her scent rolled over him. Val pressed his mouth to her wrist, and drank. She sprawled atop him, her head resting against his chest.

  The adder’s tongue had worn off. Val could have moved, had he the inclination. Emily’s riotous curls were tickling his nose.

  He knew he should stop. He didn’t want to. She moaned.

  That little sound undid him. Rules be damned. Val would take Emily home and make love to her as she deserved. Flesh to flesh. Heart to heart. He would introduce her to all the forms of loving that he knew, and then make up some more. He would—

  She thumped him in the ribs. Val.

  He groaned. What now? If Ana had interrupted them again he’d find a way to make her corporeal long enough that he could wrap his hands around her throat.

  Andrei’s ruined voice roused him. “The Stapana, Valentin.”

  All the warmth drained from Val’s body. He set Emily aside and rose.

  Lisbet stood in the doorway. “Iubiera ca moartea e de tare. I warned you, baiat.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Women are the devil’s nets.

  (Romanian proverb)

  Lisbet threw back the Persian shawl she wore draped over her head. Her pale skin glowed in the lamplight. Dark hair tumbled loose over the shoulders of her muslin morning gown. “What a cozy gathering. All we lack is Cezar. How very vexing of him to refuse to rise to the bait.”

  Val stepped forward to face her. Andrei bowed his head. Emily slid the athame into the small pocket of her pelisse as she climbed slowly to her feet.

  Tension lay thick in the room. Tension and dark energy.

  Lisbet prodded Michael’s lifeless body with her toe. “A faulty tool, but useful for a time.” She fixed her eyes on Emily. “Troublesome chit, you have been playing with my toys.”

  Emily was feeling more than a little vexed herself. “Your toy has been killing people. Was that your intent?”

  Lisbet moved closer. “You misunderstand. I was speaking of Ravensclaw.”

  Emily glanced at Val. His mind was closed to her, his face as cold as the stone walls. He said, “Lisbet. Let her go.”

  “No.” Lisbet’s tone bit like a whip. “You disobeyed me. To take your little English miss away from you would be a fitting punishment, I think.”

  Val was trying to protect her, Emily realized. He didn’t want Lisbet to learn of their shared bond. She said, “You consider Ravensclaw your toy?”

  Lisbet circled Andrei. He made no move of protest when she trailed her hand along his arm, took the sword from his hand. “
Val, Andrei, and Cezar. Pretty, are they not? A pity they are equally flawed. Cezar’s failing is arrogance, Andrei’s pride, while Val cares for nothing but himself and his pleasure.” Lisbet snapped the sword in half and tossed it aside. “I wonder, Miss Dinwiddie, how well he has pleasured you.”

  Not well enough, not yet. Emily didn’t dare look at Val.

  “Don’t try and deny it.” Lisbet ran her finger along the sword’s sharp blade. “Val has set his mark on you. Cezar might have stopped him, but he did not. Andrei appeared to remain loyal to me but is nothing of the sort. I would have dealt with them before this, had not other matters taken up my time.” Blood welled from Lisbet’s finger, dripped down her hand.

  Val hadn’t stirred. Andrei stood impassively. Emily felt like a rabbit cowering in a forest of tall, motionless trees.

  Lisbet raised her bleeding finger to Andrei’s lips. “I grow weary of this conversation. You will give me the pendant now.”

  The sight of Andrei licking Lisbet’s blood was beyond unsettling. “The phrase ‘over my dead body’ comes to mind.”

  Lisbet threw back her head and laughed. “You think to challenge me?”

  Emily thought someone should challenge Lisbet, and she appeared to be the only one so inclined. Brave little bunny that she was. Her body hummed with the combined power of the pendant and the athame. “It seems I don’t have a choice.”

  Lisbet stepped away from Andrei. Her dark, bottomless gaze pulled at Emily with tangible force. Emily stared back, caught up in that slumberous, seductive spell. Lisbet’s dark eyes were mysterious, mesmerizing—

  As bottomless as the pit, came Cezar’s voice in her mind. And as dangerous. Draw back, Emily. Now!

  Emily blinked. Lisbet stood so close she could feel the heat of the other woman’s body. Emily hadn’t seen her move.

  Lisbet stroked a cool finger down her cheek. “Give me the pendant, child.”

  Emily almost wished she could. The thing was searing her flesh. She reached out for Cezar, and struck out with all their combined mental strength.