The Last Necromancer

by C. J. Archer

  Clearly she hadn't ended the relationship then. I needed no further proof than her effusive admiration and the stony expression on his face.

  Chosen. Best. Capable. It all sounded so cold and calculating, yet I supposed it was no different to many gentlemen born into the nobility, raised knowing he would take over from their fathers one day. Even so, it sounded like a dull life. The old me, the dutiful daughter, probably wouldn't have thought so, but the new me did. The thought of being destined to be someone since the day I was born, and never having the opportunity to deviate from that path, sounded like a prison sentence.

  "Was your father the ministry's leader before you?" I asked him. Although Lady Harcourt had told me the story, it didn't seem right to ask her the question. "Is that why you were chosen?"

  "No."

  I waited for further explanation but none came. Yet the air in the room tightened. It took me a moment to realize that the other three people there had gone quite still. Had they also been waiting for an answer? Or did they already know it, and I'd stumbled onto a sensitive topic?

  "You are investigating paranormal curiosities," I said to him. "And you want the necromancer girl to help you. Does that mean you are paranormal, sir?"

  For a long moment I thought I'd overstepped the line; that I'd gone too far. He simply stared at me, unblinking. What was he waiting for? "No," he eventually said.

  "But you got out of the bullet's way. How, if not with an unnatural speed?"

  "I'm observant and quite quick."

  Quite! He was also the master of understatement.

  "No one in the ministry or on the committee has any true paranormal abilities," Lady Harcourt said. "You're our first such employee."

  "I'm not working for you." I kept my tone light, but my tight jaw made it sound harsh.

  "Why not?"

  Because I can't trust you. I can't trust anyone. "I am not a necromancer."

  Lady Harcourt opened her mouth to speak, but Fitzroy leaned forward and she closed it again. She seemed anxious to hear what he had to say. We all were. "We thought there was only one in the world," he said. "But it seems there are two. You and the girl."

  "I am not a necromancer. How many times do I have to tell you?" I pushed my chair back and stood.

  Seth and Gus crowded round me, waiting for an order from their master to grab me and remove me from the room.

  "Sit down," Fitzroy snapped.

  "You have not eaten your jelly." Lady Harcourt indicated the bowl that Seth had set before me. She smiled. "Stay with us. There's more you need to know."

  I picked up my spoon, wishing it were a knife I could throw at Fitzroy. I sat again. "If I must."

  She scooped out some jelly but didn't eat it. It wobbled in her spoon as she regarded me. "Someone wishes to use your—a necromancer's—power to harm the queen."

  "Who?"

  "We don't know. Mr. Fitzroy intercepted a letter from someone in Paris we had been watching. It only bore the man's—or woman's—initials and was addressed to an abandoned house, however we think the letter reached him."

  "It did," Fitzroy intoned. "I made sure of it."

  "The letter mentioned that a particular girl he'd been seeking—"

  "The necromancer?" I asked.

  She nodded. "The necromancer he'd been searching so long for had been traced to the house of a London vicar."

  I shoveled jelly into my mouth, but it tasted like ashes and was difficult to swallow. I forced it down with a gulp as I tried to digest the news too. The London vicar was my father. "There must be dozens of vicars in London."

  "There are. We have not been able to pinpoint which one the letter referred to. We hope he hasn't, either."

  He had. It must be the doctor I'd seen leaving Father's house. I was even more glad that I'd not revealed myself to him now. "What does he want with this necromancer girl?"

  "To use her power to reanimate his…creations."

  I paused, the full spoon at my mouth. "Creations?"

  Her already pale face grew paler. She glanced at Fitzroy and he took over the explanation. "He takes pieces off different corpses and binds them together to make new, more superior ones. All they lack is a spirit that will bring them to life and do his bidding."

  My stomach rolled. Bile and jelly rose to my throat. "Why would he do such a thing?"

  "To build himself an elite force," Lady Harcourt said. "He takes the long, powerful legs of a fast runner, for example; the strong arms of a laborer or pugilist; the heart and lungs of a good swimmer. And the brain of an intelligent man, or one with knowledge he seeks to use to his advantage."

  What kind of monster wanted to do such a thing? The very notion was sickening, but to actually cut up bodies and sew pieces of them together to form a new man… His surgery must be covered in blood and gore…his arms and body too. The very notion was unfathomable.

  "Charlie?" Lady Harcourt rose and came round the table. She placed her cool hand on the back of my neck. "You've gone quite ashen."

  "It's no wonder," Seth said quietly.

  Gus murmured his agreement. "Makes my belly ache, too."

  Fitzroy poured me more wine and handed me the glass. He watched as I drank. "Have you ever heard of such a man?"

  "Why would I?"

  "Street children hear all sorts of things. Perhaps the body of a homeless man has inexplicably disappeared, or someone saw a fellow acting mysteriously near the cemetery. You spend a lot of time at Highgate Cemetery."

  So he'd learned that about me too. "I haven't seen or heard anything. If the man looks like a regular gentleman, he could be anyone."

  It must have been the doctor I'd seen at Father's house. Only a man with medical knowledge could piece bodies back together. But I didn't know his name. I didn't know where he lived. I couldn't help Fitzroy and Lady Harcourt find him, even if I'd wanted to.

  Fitzroy returned to his seat, but Lady Harcourt remained at my side, stroking my hair. "My spies told me what happened at the police station," he said. "Word gets around quickly, particularly when something sensational occurs. I suspect this man's spies also informed him. He will be looking for you now."

  "You've got it wrong, Mr. Fitzroy. It weren't me that did that."

  "We will keep you safe, here, away from him. He can't get you while you are under my protection."

  I snorted. "You don't even know what he looks like." Lady Harcourt's hand drew too close to my fringe and I pulled away. "I ain't a necromancer. I can't help you."

  She returned to her chair. "Not even for a soft bed, food and clean clothes?"

  "I ain't the necromancer," I said again. I hadn't spent five years surviving on the street, doing everything possible to hide my identity and keep safe, to throw it away for a queen who meant nothing to me. "I wish I could help you but I can't. Seems to me you need the girl. Better find her before he does."

  "We will. Now that we know there are two of you—"

  I slammed my palms down on the table, sending the jelly into a jiggling frenzy. "I ain't a necromancer!" I pushed up from the chair, but my passage was blocked by Gus and Seth. Arms crossed, scowls on their faces, they presented an impassible wall. There would be no distracting them tonight. Besides, I had no doubt if I did that Fitzroy would catch me.

  "I think that's enough for tonight," Lady Harcourt said. "A good rest is in order. Take him to his room."

  "Sir?" Seth asked.

  Fitzroy nodded. "I'll follow shortly."

  "Lincoln?" Lady Harcourt arched her perfectly drawn eyebrows at him. "Why do you need to go too?"

  "I've decided he is less likely to escape from me. I've moved him into my rooms."

  "Your rooms? Permanently?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't think that's a good idea."

  "Why not?"

  A little color infused her cheeks and for one awful moment I thought she knew. She must have seen through my disguise and known I wasn't a boy, and that allowing me to stay in his rooms would be inappropriat
e. "Who will trace his origins tomorrow if you are watching him?"

  I let out a long breath.

  "Seth and Gus will be given full instructions."

  "Is it wise to give them such an important task?"

  Gus's mouth flattened, and he looked as if he wanted to challenge her. Seth merely flushed and stared down at his boots.

  "They're capable enough, and they need the practice. Besides, I have a better idea of where they should concentrate on their search now." This last he said to me, and somewhat smugly, if I wasn't mistaken.

  Lady Harcourt frowned. "I still don't think—"

  "I have decided."

  She bristled and glared at him. He glared back at her, their silent battle of wills once more making the air in the room feel tense and tight.

  "Send for my carriage," she said to Seth.

  He seemed relieved to be dismissed and disappeared from the room. Lady Harcourt marched out of the dining room and into the hall. She gathered her hat and gloves, and Fitzroy helped her on with her coat. They didn't speak. Neither his hands nor his gaze lingered at her bare shoulders or neck. It was as if he didn't even notice the silky white skin, or care that she had moved closer to him than mere friends ought. There was nothing of the lover about the way he treated her. I wasn't surprised. I couldn't imagine him consumed with passion for her—or for anyone, for that matter.

  Seth returned and the carriage wheels soon crunched on the gravel outside. He opened the front door for her and bowed. Lady Harcourt offered him her hand and he kissed it. Gus didn't receive the same privilege and he didn't look like he expected to.

  "Walk me out, Lincoln," she said in a mild voice.

  Fitzroy's gaze slid to me.

  "I won't try to escape," I told him.

  "Take him to the library and wait for me there." He followed Lady Harcourt outside.

  Gus nodded at a door leading off from the entrance. "Library's in there."

  Seth led the way and Gus followed behind me. I thought there'd been a great many books in Fitzroy's rooms, but the library held triple. Bookshelves reached to the ceiling on all the walls, leaving some gaps between them for lamps, windows and framed pictures. A circular iron chandelier, sporting dozens of candles, plunged from the ceiling rose, stopping just above the round table. Seth lit some in candlesticks and handed one to Gus.

  "Over here," I told them. "I want to see the books."

  "We ain't at your beck and call," Gus growled.

  I ignored him and strolled around the room, brushing my fingers along the spines of the leather bound tomes, breathing their earthy scent into my lungs.

  "Don't think about throwing them," Seth said, trailing behind me with a candle.

  I paused at the window. Fitzroy and Lady Harcourt stood at the carriage door, talking. Or, rather, arguing, if her expression was anything to go by. His back was to me, but in the light cast by the moon and the coach lamps, her face looked stern, her body rigid.

  "What do you think they're arguing about?" I asked.

  Seth peered over my shoulder. "It's hard to say. You, perhaps, and Death's decision to keep you close. His decision to give Gus and me more responsibility."

  "Or his decision not to take her to his bed," Gus said, coming up behind me on my other side and watching through the window too.

  "You think it was his choice to end their…liaison?" I asked.

  "Maybe."

  Lady Harcourt spun round and climbed into the coach, ignoring Fitzroy's outstretched hand. He pulled it back as she slammed the door closed.

  "If it were," Seth said, as the coach drove off, "he probably didn't end it the way a gentleman should."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "You may not have noticed, but he's not good with people."

  I snorted. "I noticed."

  "I'm not sure he knows how to treat a lady properly. I certainly don't think he understands the fair sex."

  "That don't stop Lady H from throwing herself at him," Gus said. "Other women, too."

  Seth rounded on him. "Lady Harcourt does not throw herself at anyone. She's much too—" He broke off when Fitzroy appeared at the door.

  "Upstairs," Fitzroy said, turning away. "Now."

  Gus and Seth gripped one arm each and led me out of the library. We followed Fitzroy up the stairs and along the corridor, then they shoved me into the room after him and shut the door. He locked it and pocketed the key. I swallowed hard as Fitzroy faced me. It was one thing to pretend to be a boy in his presence during the day, but now I had to spend an entire night with a man who made my blood alternately run hot and cold. A man whose gaze seemed to see everything.

  CHAPTER 6

  Someone had set up a truckle bed in the master bedroom suite, much too close to the main bed for my liking. I usually slept as far away from the boys in our den as possible, while remaining close enough for safety. It wasn't as close as this.

  I didn't complain. I didn't want Fitzroy's suspicions raised. But there were some things that needed to be made clear from the beginning. Best to get them out now.

  "You have to leave when I use the chamber pot," I told him.

  He shot me a flinty glare from the clothes stand, where he stood removing his dinner jacket. I suspected that meant he agreed.

  "And when I wash and change."

  "As you wish." He hung the jacket on the stand and began unbuttoning his waistcoat.

  I didn't look away, but I didn't stare either. Neither would be the sort of thing a boy would do. Besides, I'd seen men before. Or, more specifically, boys and youths. While I never undressed in front of them, they were not so inhibited. They even pissed in front of me, and Stringer had once bedded a whore where the entire gang could see. I was no stranger to a man's parts or their function. Fitzroy's nakedness wouldn't concern me.

  "You have the run of these rooms," he told me, bowtie in hand. "The book is on my desk, spare candles and matches are in the top drawer. Don't burn the house down."

  I blinked. Had he just told a joke? His mouth didn't twitch, so I suspected he was serious and did indeed suspect that I would try and start a fire.

  I left him to his undressing, somewhat disappointed that I wouldn't get to see if the magnificent face was accompanied by a magnificent figure, and found the book. There was no point pretending I couldn't read anymore, so I tried to think of a reasonable explanation for my education as I searched in the top drawer for the matches.

  As my hand closed around the box, a thought struck me. My father used to keep a small knife inside his middle desk drawer. I felt all around, but there seemed to be none in the top drawer. I tried the others, and still nothing. I sat on the chair and checked the desk surface and inside an unlocked coffer. It contained only papers. I groped beneath the desk and my fingers found a small, narrow shelf at the right. It contained one item—a knife.

  I slipped it from the shelf and pressed it to my thigh. I stood and carried the book and knife to the other side of the room where I lounged on the sofa. As interesting as the book was, I didn't even read one sentence as I waited for Fitzroy to emerge from the bedroom.

  He seemed to take forever, and when he finally came out, barefoot and dressed in loose white trousers and an Oriental style shirt, I was already having second thoughts. Not about using the knife, but about my ability to succeed. He was stronger and faster than me. In a close combat situation, I would lose. I had to throw it at him when his back was turned, or not bother.

  The thought of knifing someone in the back didn't sit well. Even more so because Fitzroy had not harmed me, except to save himself. I slid the knife beneath my thigh then openly watched him.

  He stood in the open space between the two different sections of the room and began jumping up and down on the spot, drawing his knees up high to chest. It was such an odd thing to do that I couldn't tear my gaze away. Then suddenly he dropped into a squat, spun round on the ball of one foot, and lashed out with the other at an imaginary foe. I set the book aside and continued to watch a
s he performed more maneuvers, sometimes kicking, sometimes thrusting with closed fist or open hand. His face was set with concentration and he did not once glance at me. He wasn't wearing trousers and a shirt, I realized, or not any that I'd seen before. The clothes were loose, the fabric flowing, ensuring his limbs weren't hindered.

  After several minutes of repeating the moves, he opened a casket on the bookshelf and removed an object. Or was it two? It appeared to be two handles as long as his hands with the end of one connected by a chain to the end of the other. He returned to the clearing and began his moves again, this time incorporating the contraption by flicking it out and back, up and down. Blows from the metal device would cause a lot of damage to exposed flesh. It was something to remember, as was the place where he kept it.

  I continued to watch, fascinated by his smoothness and speed. He exercised for an hour, not once stopping or looking my way. It didn't seem to bother him that he had an audience. Perhaps he liked it. When he finally finished, after almost two hours, his face was a little flushed and the hair at his temple damp, but he otherwise seemed unflustered. I would have been flat on the floor panting.

  Without a word, he padded back to the casket and placed the weapon inside, then returned to the bedroom. He re-emerged after ten minutes wearing nothing but a towel around his hips and carrying another that he used to dry his hair.

  His lack of attention to me allowed me to take in the sight of his chest and shoulders, the left one with a bandage covering it where I'd shot him. The youths in the gangs I’d been in had never had bodies like that. Fitzroy's shoulders were broad, with bulges of muscle rippling down his arms and across his chest. The sprinkle of dark chest hair tapered off before reaching his ridged stomach. From a distance, it was difficult to tell if it was curly like the hair on his head. I found myself wanting to find out.

  Not really aware of what I was doing, I untucked my feet from beneath me and set them on the floor. He looked up and a small furrow connected his brows. I swallowed and reopened my book. I hoped my fringe covered the blush burning my face. Beneath my thigh, the knife point dug into me. I'd forgotten about it. I probably should have used his inattention during exercise to throw it at him.