by Robyn Bachar
Anger sizzled through me and I leapt to my feet. “No, I can’t bear it. It isn’t fair! Is one child truly so much to ask for?”
Blood. A miscarriage? I had never miscarried. Indeed, fertility had not been a problem with Michael and me after our marriage. We even had a set of twins to show for that. When I looked up at my lover again his face was no longer my husband’s, but the angelic visage of Mr. Paris. I opened my mouth to ask a question, and the vision vanished.
“Mrs. Black?” Miss Dubois said.
“Emily,” I corrected. I opened my eyes and found the guardian seated in a chair next to my bed. I didn’t recognize the surroundings, so I assumed I had been transported to her home as planned. “You must call me Emily, for I have decided that we should be friends.”
She smiled, her expression filled with relief. “Then you must call me Justine. How do you feel?”
I glanced down and discovered that my arm had been bandaged. I was also dressed in an unfamiliar nightgown, which I assumed must belong to Justine due to the pretty pink ribbons. Pink suited her, because it softened the rigidity of her guardian’s attitude. An echo of pain tingled through my arm as I flexed my fingers.
“It hurts a bit, but it is bearable. Is it completely healed?” I asked.
“Yes, though Dr. Bennett warned that the bones will be weak for the next few days as they continue to heal, and you should not strain them. I sent word to your family that you are here. Dr. Bennett doesn’t want to move you just yet, so your husband will take you home tomorrow after nightfall.”
“Michael is here?”
“Yes, he’s in the library with his mentor. They’re both wearing paths into my carpet with their incessant pacing. I hope the news that you are awake will calm them.”
“Thank you.” I smiled, for it reminded me of how the men had worried when the children were born. Said children would hardly miss me in the meantime. Well, Robert would, but a bit of separation would be good for him.
“Dr. Bennett is a remarkable healer,” I commented. Any decent witch could heal a broken bone, but to do so this completely and quickly was impressive.
“He is,” she agreed, a blush pinking her cheeks. “I am sorry that you were injured. I came as fast as I could, and—”
“Don’t worry yourself over it. I knew you would come to my aid, and the injuries were easily fixed. And I apologize for anything Simon may have said while I was unconscious. He has the social graces of a badger.”
Justine chuckled. “It is kind of you to be so forgiving, but your safety was my responsibility. He could have snapped your neck.”
“That would hardly be a useful interrogation technique. He wanted to know who I was, and he harmed me when I refused to answer. Killing me would not have answered his question.”
“That is very pragmatic of you. Did he say anything of interest?” Justine seemed impressed by my cool head, and I in turn was pleased that I had impressed a guardian.
“No, but I had a vision.”
With some aid from Justine I managed to sit up and relate my tale, what little there was of it. I wished I had found out who I was in the dream, for that information would surely have helped our investigation a great deal. We had located another piece of the puzzle, but did not have anything to join it to yet.
Justine fidgeted with one golden curl as she pondered the vision. “Odd. Master necromancers are supposed to be sterile. Mr. Paris could hardly father a child. Is the same true of chroniclers?”
A lump of emotion caught in my throat, and I coughed lightly to clear it. I suspected that the sterility was the reason Michael had rushed to embrace the ritual. After nearly losing both me and our son during Robert’s birth, I knew that Michael was determined to avoid putting me in that sort of danger again. “Yes, it is. Perhaps he and his lover are seeking a way around that, but he did not have the energy of a necromancer.”
“How would you define him then?”
I frowned. “I’m not sure. He was very powerful, but that made him difficult to read. Perhaps a sorcerer? Or a summoner? Do you think he could be a demon?”
“It would explain his affinity for shadows. You’re certain he was not merely powerful for a necromancer?”
With a weary sigh I rubbed my eyes—my constant headache had worsened. “It is possible. I haven’t examined a great many master necromancers. If Mr. Paris had just fed, then that may have affected his energy. Simon’s aura is always strongest after he has fed.”
“I will contact Lady Brigid tonight to see if she is familiar with Mr. Paris. For now, you should rest. We can continue our discussion tomorrow. It has been a long night.” Justine smiled reassuringly at me, and I nodded in agreement. I was weary, and morning would bring a fresh perspective. “Would you like to speak with your husband now?”
I smiled dryly. “I can manage a few minutes, but not a lecture.”
Justine left, and I enjoyed a few moments of peace before Michael arrived. My heart lifted at the sight of him as he hurried to my side. He clasped the hand of my uninjured arm, and I fought the urge to flinch at his icy touch. I wasn’t certain I would ever become used to his change in temperature.
“I’m quite recovered,” I assured him.
“You could have been killed. I never should have let you out of my sight.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It was a poetry salon. There was no way to know I would be injured, and I’m nearly recovered already. It was certainly no more dangerous than childbirth, which you put me through four times.”
He chuckled, though it was a hollow sound. I glanced at Simon, expecting a sermon on the inappropriateness of my actions, but he remained silent as he sulked near the door.
“But now I need to rest. You’re welcome to fuss over me more tomorrow.”
Michael nodded, and he ignored his mentor’s warning glare and leaned in and kissed me goodnight. My chest tightened and I fought the instinct to pull him close and kiss him again. I wanted to believe there would be more time for kisses in the future, but the fear that there wouldn’t be haunted my thoughts until sleep overtook me.
With no children to tend to, I slept to an indecently late hour and was pampered with breakfast in bed. Michael and Simon were shut into an interior room to avoid the sunlight streaming in through the windows, so I was left in peace.
Alone in the library, I closed my eyes and set aside the book I had been reading as I attempted some simple calming exercises to ease my constant headache. Miss Dubois’s home was surrounded by layers of wards that added to the assault of spells already wearing on me.
“Are you unwell?” Michael asked.
I yelped, startled, and opened my eyes to discover both chroniclers watching me with concern from across the room. I hadn’t heard either of them enter.
“As well as I can be in this wretched city,” I muttered in reply.
“You don’t care for London?” Simon inquired.
“No. It is filthy, overcrowded, noisy, and I cannot go five steps without running into a spell of some sort. It’s like living inside a hive of angry bees.”
“Then why stay? Why not return home now?” Michael asked. “We can see to the rest of the investigation on our own.”
I choked on a laugh and made a sound like a strangled hiccough. Home. As though that would miraculously resolve the problems with our situation. Folding my hands in my lap, I studied Michael. “If someone took Lily, or Meg, wouldn’t you want the people looking for her to do everything in their power to find her?”
“Of course,” he replied.
“Then do not ask me to walk away from this investigation. These women deserve justice.”
“And that is not a matter for you to handle,” Simon said.
“Just what is it that you think a seer should handle? Clearly not matters that involve the Order of St. Jerome. Do you think my magic is best served by looking after the children and seeing to the needs of the household?”
“Those are the traditional duties of a wife and a moth
er,” he retorted.
I thought of Lady Brigid and her assertion that men preferred to forget that the goddess was a warrior in addition to a mother. “Are there female chroniclers?” I asked, suddenly curious.
Simon’s eyes widened in surprise. “Not that I am aware of. I have never met one.”
“One might wonder why the gods gave women magic at all, if we are not intended to use it.” Shaking my head, I sighed in disappointment and changed the subject. “Why didn’t you tell me you were censured for killing Mr. Farrell?”
“What?” Michael asked. Judging by his shock, I gathered he hadn’t known either. Interesting.
Simon studied me. “Where did you hear of this?”
For a moment I considered lying, or at least misleading, but then I decided the truth would be worth watching his reaction to it. “I spoke with Lady Brigid, of the necromancer council.”
Priceless. I’d never seen Simon so instantly animated.
“You did what?” he exclaimed.
Justine cleared her throat loudly from the doorway and then gracefully glided past Michael and Simon to sit beside me. Dr. Bennett followed and took a chair near us.
“Emily accompanied Dr. Bennett and me to a necromancer gathering so that she could read the council members’ auras and determine whether or not they were lying to protect the killer. They aren’t. They have no idea who the killer is, and this worries them,” she said matter-of-factly. “We were all granted safe passage, and Emily was never in any danger.”
“You…” Michael sputtered. “Emily! This is beyond irresponsible!”
“It made perfect sense. I was in a position to help, so I did. Plus I’ve had so much experience reading your aura it was hardly a challenge,” I said to Simon, who continued to appear distressed. “You haven’t answered my original question.”
“It didn’t concern you. The necromancers took umbrage at my involvement, Lord Willowbrook explained the circumstances, and the matter was dropped. The two of you were on your tour after your wedding, so I saw no reason to inform you on your return.”
I exchanged a glance with Justine, and though she lacked a seer’s awareness she was shrewd enough to note my annoyance. She smiled politely at them. “Gentlemen, if you would both be so kind as to take a seat, we will discuss our findings.”
“How does your arm feel today?” Dr. Bennett asked me.
“It feels quite fine, thank you.”
“It was a clean break. The bones should continue to heal if left alone,” Dr. Bennett pronounced.
“Which is an excellent reason why you should return home,” Michael said.
Ignoring him, I turned to Justine. “What have you learned?”
Justine glanced at her chronicler guests. “Would anyone like a glass of wine before we begin?”
“I would, thank you.” Normally I avoid alcohol, for imbibing too much interfered with my abilities, but one glass would do no harm.
When we were all settled, Justine began. “I met with Lady Brigid, and she confirmed that they have no record of Mr. Paris, which I assume is an alias. They also have no record of anyone matching his description, apprentice or master.”
“Could he have been disguised?” Simon asked.
“Doubtful. I would have seen through it, as I did his attempt to conceal himself,” I replied.
“Did you see through my glamour?” Justine asked, and I nodded. “Impressive. For the time being I have given Mr. Paris’s description to each of the local councils and warned them of his hunting habits and his preferred type of victim.”
“Would you be willing to recount the details of the previous crimes?” Simon asked.
Justine eyed him thoughtfully. “To what end, Mr. St. Jerome? Have you decided to aid my investigation? Or do you still believe that I am unsuitable?”
Simon leaned back in his seat and steepled his long, pale fingers. “I believe that we have common goals, and that working together is in everyone’s best interests. We should pool our resources.”
“If you can accept my lead, then we should have no further argument. But you should also keep in mind that there are those who would not appreciate a chronicler’s involvement in this case. Particularly the victims’ families, who lost their wives and daughters to a killer who drained them of their blood. Questions have already been raised about Mr. Black’s change in condition, and whether or not he could have been involved.”
“I would never!” Michael exclaimed.
Justine eyed him coolly. “Mr. Black, husband and father, might not do such a thing, but a newly made blood drinker is entirely capable of such an act.”
“From Yorkshire? That seems unlikely,” Simon scoffed.
“Not if the killer is possessed of the knowledge of shadowstepping,” she countered.
“Shadowstepping?” I repeated. “Is that what created the gateway I witnessed?”
Justine nodded. “I believe so. It explains how Mr. Paris was able to abduct the victims from their homes without any witnesses. He stepped in, grabbed them and stepped out again.”
“I don’t know how to shadowstep, and even if I did, I am not capable of murder,” Michael said.
“Good. Though others were concerned because you are still adjusting to your change in condition, I didn’t believe you were guilty. This is the work of an experienced blood drinker,” Justine said.
“Agreed,” Simon said. “Now, the details, if you please?”
The guardian paused for a long moment, and I wondered if she was going to throw him out, but then she launched into the details of the investigation.
“It could be a demon,” Simon suggested after she finished.
“It could be. But considering that only one summoner was among the victims, I feel a blood drinker is the most logical suspect. One does not hear hoof beats and suspect a zebra,” Justine said.
“Mr. Paris didn’t feel evil, as I assume a demon would,” I said. “Then again, he didn’t feel like a master necromancer either.”
“What was your sense of him?” Michael asked. He already knew my sense of chroniclers, for I had expressed my unease with Simon’s energy often enough.
“Hmm… He was charming, charismatic and very powerful. His presence was overwhelming. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it,” I admitted.
“Perhaps there is more than one killer. A master and an apprentice, with Mr. Paris as the living bait to draw the young women in,” Simon suggested.
My last vision flashed through my mind, of the woman’s despair at being infertile. “Are female master necromancers sterile?”
“Lady Brigid confirmed that all masters are sterile,” Justine said.
“Perhaps she is trying to steal their fertility. In my vision the woman had blood on her hands. I assumed it was hers, but what if it was the blood of her victims?”
“Can you describe her?” Justine asked.
“No, I was her in the vision. I have no idea what she looks like. If I had another vision… I’d need something to trigger it, though.” I sighed. Visions rarely appeared when I wanted one, and almost always when I did not.
“Which we may not find until Mr. Paris abducts another victim,” Justine said. I hoped it didn’t come to that.
“If he does, I would prefer that you two ladies not charge in on your own again,” Simon said.
“I am a guardian, sir—”
“—and Mrs. Black is not. You may be well equipped to fight demons and master necromancers, but seers have no offensive or defensive magic.”
Though I wished I could argue with Simon, it was the unfortunate truth.
“I have no offensive magic, and I have always been safe in Miss Dubois’s company,” Dr. Bennett said.
“You’ll forgive me if I do not want the mother of my children charging into battle without me,” Michael said. It seemed more difficult to argue when it was put that way.
Justine gave the chroniclers a slight nod. “I will wait for you both to join me, when possible, but I
won’t hesitate if something happens that requires immediate action during the day.”
“Of course,” Simon said. Michael appeared less than convinced, judging by the furrow in his brow, but he gave a grudging nod.
We discussed a few more theories—insane alchemists, deranged magician hunters, various breeds of demon that could be responsible. Finding the murderer, or murderers, would be so much simpler if they didn’t have the whole of London to hide in.
Miss Dubois promised to keep us apprised of the situation, and my escorts remained silent during the trip home. Perhaps they recognized how I was of value to the investigation—more likely they were plotting their next move.
I continued to ignore them on our arrival, and I attempted to retreat to the safety of my room. Of course I did not make it past the nursery due to Robert’s wailing. Poor dear, he sounded as irritated as I felt. I knew I was encouraging bad behavior, and he would never sleep through the night on his own if I continued to coddle him, but I picked him up as best I could with my healing arm and brought him with me nonetheless. I suppose I needed the comfort as much as he did.
We settled into the rocking chair and I began to sing to him. My poetry is far better than my singing voice, but my children were young enough not to critique my performance yet. With my focus on soothing my son, I didn’t notice that we were no longer alone until Michael spoke.
“He isn’t sleeping through the night anymore?”
I tensed, surprised that I hadn’t heard the door open—it had opened, hadn’t it? My husband couldn’t walk through walls, could he? Perhaps I should put a bell on him, like the one worn by Josephine’s aging calico cat.
“No. He hasn’t since February. The healer claims it is a phase. You’re not allowed to be in here,” I reminded him sternly.
Michael held his hands up in a placating gesture. “I know. I wanted a chance to speak with you. I will keep my distance.”
I frowned as the baby whimpered. I wanted to believe Michael. I never would have believed him capable of harming me or the children, but as I had been constantly reminded, he was no longer himself. What sort of monster could he have become that he couldn’t be trusted to be alone with his own family?
