And then, like mist fading away, he was floating on the ceiling. But when he looked down at what was happening to his body, he startled, and he felt himself start to fall.
Soft hands pulled him back and led him away to sit on the top of the window. As it had in Rose Cottage, the ceiling lifted to accommodate his head and that of whoever had reached for him. Charles heard himself scream below, and he shuddered and shut his eyes.
The hands touched his face gently. “Hush. It’s all right. Hush.”
He knew that voice. He looked up, wishing he could cry out, but he was too weak, too tired, too full of despair. He could only whisper.
“Goddess.”
She smiled—so beautiful—and leaned forward to kiss him.
There was another scream from below. Charles startled so hard he nearly fell off his perch. But the Goddess only drew him in close, pulling him against her shoulder, tucking his face tight against her breast.
“I tried to run,” he whispered. “I tried to run, but I couldn’t.” He gripped her dress, feeling its strange fabric shimmer beneath his hands. “I don’t want him to find the others. I don’t want him to find Madeline.” He swallowed hard and shut his eyes so tight he saw stars. “Timothy.”
She kissed his hair. “You have already won, my beloved. You’ve pulled part of yourself away. He will bind you tighter to him now, yes, but he cannot bind this part of you. And it is because of this you will defeat him.”
“I should have stayed with him,” Charles whispered, his heart aching. “With Timothy. I was a fool to run. I should have stayed with him.”
“Hush, my love.” She stroked his cheek. “Hush.”
He heard a crack and a sickening snap as Smith began to beat his body again. He let his head fall onto the Goddess’s transparent shoulder and wrapped his arms around her waist.
“Soon,” she whispered, kissing and stroking his hair. “We will be together, beloved. Very, very soon.”
Chapter Eight
sho
male
The male is the second gender created by the Goddess.
The male expands, always seeking.
The male moves in a straight line, and he moves quickly.
The male is the energy of change and motion.
Jonathan was waiting for Madeline.
It had been some time since she’d healed him with her spell, but he had yet to see her. He assumed she would come and check on him as he was her patient, but he had yet to encounter her since that night in the tower despite making several trips across the moor to find her. Emily Elliott had politely told him her sister was not at home, and her tone had implied that even if she were, she wouldn’t be to him.
So he’d stripped to his shirtwaist and started scrubbing the abbey.
For weeks Jonathan made the abbey his project: he cleared debris, applied stone plaster to the front stairs so that it wasn’t a risk of life and limb to use them, and did anything else involving manual labor that needed to be done. His body was wasted from years of disuse, but it responded as it ever had to good, hard work, and when it had been almost three weeks since he’d arrived in Rothborne, he felt almost as fit as he had when he’d left. It felt good.
Timothy worked beside him at the abbey off and on, though he was oddly silent. He still seemed bothered by something, but he would not speak of it. He also took frequent trips into town, often for hours on end, and he returned nearly exploding with frustration. Jonathan was concerned, but he decided to let it be, for now.
There had been nothing further from the alchemist. Timothy said he’d looked for him, but he’d found nothing, not even a trace that he’d been there at all. Jonathan assumed the weasel had gone back to Boone, and he was glad for it.
His brother Stephen was something of a puzzle. Despite his request for a serious discussion, he had not approached Jonathan for anything other than oddly stilted chats. He was still in the parish, staying at Whitby Hall, but why, Jonathan did not know. He wasn’t precisely clear on what his brother was doing in the north at all, in fact, short of reminding Jonathan daily that their grandfather was unhappy he was here and wished he would go. But Whitby himself, despite repeated threats in writing and hints through Stephen, did not appear.
And this was fine. As Jonathan told Stephen and urged him to tell Whitby, he was going nowhere.
He hoped the news made it all the way around the gossip chain back to Madeline.
Eventually, he reasoned, she would have to come to him, or at the very least they would run into one another in town or on the moor. And so every day, after a morning of making order of the house, Jonathan made order of his body, hauling up the water for the bath himself as the plumbing was rotted, ironing his own shirt and polishing his own boots. When Jonathan considered himself sufficiently made ready, he would take a walk into town, come back through the moor, linger near Rose Cottage and the Goddess tree, and at last would retreat to his study, where he would spend the afternoon leafing through the ledgers, sipping a brandy, and glancing constantly out the window toward the moor, watching to see if today would be the day that Madeline would come.
On this particular afternoon, when Timothy had been gone less than half an hour, Jonathan was leaning on the casement when he heard the door to the study open and close, and his heart kicked up a beat. No horse had been heard in the drive, no carriage, and he hadn’t even heard a footstep on the stair. That was Madeline’s way, and that meant she was here at last. He turned around, ridiculously giddy at the prospect of seeing her again.
But it was not Madeline who stood before him. It was his grandfather.
Augustus Perry, Lord Whitby filled the doorway in height and girth and also in mere presence, a trick Jonathan had early identified as a handy skill and spent much of his life attempting to emulate. He had come close, but he never quite managed the pressure on the back of the throat his grandfather could elicit simply by being present. Old Whitby, it was often bragged, could frighten the Continental Pope without even trying.
He was more than trying now. Whitby never gave in to his anger. He wore it instead, letting it radiate from him like a foul fog. At best his hand would tighten against the silver knob of his cane, his jeweled rings glistening, his knuckles sharp against his fists. He did not frown or scowl, but rather, the more furious he became, the more bland and calm he seemed, like a snake retreating before it snapped and went for your throat. As Whitby stood in the doorway, his expression was so absent he seemed made of glass. On his cane, his knuckles were white.
But this was always the problem with family. Others might very well tremble at the sight of Lord Whitby in full court mode, but Jonathan had grown immune to the sight by the age of four. He scowled, slammed his ledger shut, and waved a hand at his grandfather before turning away.
Whitby said nothing. He simply prowled the room, his jowls rippling softly as he bore himself along, his cane punctuating the heavy creak of the great wide, ancient planks. He stopped at the window and shoved the worn old drapes aside before planting himself before the opening, staring out across the ruined gardens.
“Why the devil did you come here, you stupid fool?” Whitby demanded.
Jonathan glared at his grandfather’s back. The old bastard must have had his driver let him off at the road, which meant he’d known Jonathan would try to duck out if he heard him arrive. He’d likely waited until he knew Timothy was out as well.
“I sought the witch,” Jonathan replied. “I couldn’t stand the pain any longer.”
“The witch.” Whitby snorted derisively. “I wish I had known this earlier. If your aim was to come here, you’d have been more use to me dead.”
“I tried to die. It didn’t work.” Jonathan crossed to the fireplace and kicked idly at the coals.
“Pity.” Whitby reached for his snuffbox and took a pinch. He regarded Jonathan with visible distaste. “Did you even think before you came up here? You came to an Elliott to be cured?”
“I came for the Morgan, bu
t she was dead,” he snapped.
Whitby laughed. “Yes, and you played directly into Smith’s hands.”
Jonathan did not enjoy being reminded. “You cannot seriously be concerned about Martin Smith. He’s a fifth-rate alchemist. He couldn’t even pass the standard license exam.”
“No, he couldn’t—which is why he is so dangerous.” Whitby replaced his snuffbox and smiled without humor. “He has nothing to lose. He seeks power, and he intends to drain all the Houses of what they have left.”
Jonathan snorted. “There is no power. We are all nothing now.”
Whitby’s answering smile was thin. “You look fit, boy. Some might say younger than when you left.”
Jonathan reached for his brandy and gave Whitby a dark smile. “Is that your veiled way of asking how I look this good while carrying a demon?”
Whitby nodded, unabashed. “It is. How have you managed it?”
Jonathan tossed back the shot and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He’d known. Whitby had known. And he’d known it was the demon too, the family daemon turned dark. A question that had hovered at the back of his mind for a decade was answered. Whitby had known Jonathan left the country with the demon. And yet he wouldn’t even admit it, not even now, unwilling to pretend it was anything more than an Elemental spirit.
“I don’t carry it any longer.” Jonathan stilled his tongue to keep himself from saying more.
But now he had his grandfather’s attention. “Don’t carry it? What the devil did you do with it?”
“I don’t know where it’s gone to. And I don’t care.” Jonathan didn’t meet his grandfather’s eye. “Madeline removed it. I didn’t ask her where she put it.”
Whitby began to turn purple. “You stupid fool.”
“She’s a witch now,” Jonathan shot back. “She knows what she’s doing.”
“That magic is older than that watered-down Craft nonsense.” Whitby lifted his cane and waved it angrily at Jonathan. “Two Houses! Two Houses contained in that daemon! And you’ve given it to an Elliott! To the last Elliott!”
“Demon, Whitby. And there’s a world of difference in that missing vowel.” Jonathan leaned over the desk and glared at his grandfather. “There are no more daemons, no more benevolent guardians of magical elements. The Houses are all but dead, old man. The spirits are turned to rot, or worse, they are mad. And it’s just as well, because our blood is nearly spent. Carlton is already gone. Unless Charles and Stephen start popping off bastards or take wives, the Perry and Whitby blood ends in my generation. Madeline is a witch. She is celibate, and so Elliott is gone too.”
He thought briefly to the other night, to their lovemaking during the spell, and he paused, realizing for the first time the sorts of laws they had broken. Jonathan straightened, worried now. Could the Council find out? What would they do to her?
Whitby curled his lip in distaste. “Celibate. Yes. Odd you should mention that, given the rumors flying around town. Did you think people would forget what the two of you were to one another?”
Jonathan ran a hand through his hair, torn between worrying about her and throwing his grandfather off her scent. “This is all nonsense. Madeline will do nothing with the Perry demon. Even you must admit that.”
“You keep forgetting the alchemist,” Whitby said tightly. “He’s roped your half brother into his schemes. I thought it was just more of that nitwit’s perversion at work at first, but that little runt Smith knows the old magic, and he’s using it on your brother. He doesn’t know much, but what he does, he knows well. And now he has you and Charles performing like his monkeys in the middle of the damned inn yard!”
“I was ill,” Jonathan said. “I vomited blood and passed out as soon as we left. I didn’t do anything.”
“Witnesses say you attacked him,” Whitby said darkly. “In fact, they say you turned into a monster.”
Jonathan ran a hand over his face and stared worriedly into the fire. He’d forgotten about that. “Smith is gone, and so is Charles, so stop worrying about Smith. As for the demon, it’s fine. It’s contained.”
“Fool!” Whitby hissed. “Contained by an Elliott!”
Jonathan jerked up his head and glared at his grandfather. “Don’t you preach to me, Whitby. You didn’t carry it.”
“You worthless creature. How the devil this line has produced so many spineless males is beyond my comprehension.” Whitby aimed his cane at Jonathan, his face red with anger. “You don’t think I carried it? You don’t think so? Who the devil do you think gave it to your father?”
Jonathan drew back. “What?”
“Every Whitby heir has carried it, boy, for over two hundred years. That is how we survived. That is why we are still strong and the others have died. We have cared and tended our daemon, while the others have lost theirs or been consumed or imprisoned.” Whitby sneered. “I gave it to your father with pride, thinking it would make a man of him, as it made me. But he was weak.”
Jonathan gripped the edge of the desk, struggling not to reach out and wring his grandfather’s neck then and there. It hadn’t turned demon inside his father. It had been demon for two hundred years! “It’s a wonder he lasted as long as he did! And it’s a miracle I haven’t followed right after!” Jonathan’s fingernails cut into the wood. “That was what drove him mad. You. You put that beast in him, and you destroyed him. You let him kill and rape and hurt—You knew!”
Whitby rolled his eyes. “Fool. Sentimental fool. You always were. At least your father went mad with some dignity. You are hiding behind that bitch’s skirts.” Whitby snorted and took a few steps forward, punctuating each step with the point of his cane. “She’s an Elliott, boy. And she’s not a witch yet. Not in full. If she were the Morgan, it would be different. But she isn’t, largely through an odd twist of fate—and isn’t that just like the Houses and their damned magic, to fuck everything up at the last second?” Whitby shook his head. “The Elliott daemon is still out there. Don’t believe that tripe about it being lost or dead. It’s alive, and it’s hiding. It won’t let its last champion get away, and with an Apprentice’s power on its side, it’s nothing to dismiss. Our numbers are nothing if she chooses to go dark. And now you have given her our daemon!”
“She would never turn dark,” Jonathan said. But then he remembered the Elliott daemon in the bedroom, and he wondered if Madeline could withstand it.
He wondered if any of the daemons were anything but demons now.
Whitby looked at him with distaste. “You carried the Perry daemon, and you still pretend hers won’t try to convince her? It won’t let her slip away into the Craft. It will use the Craft against her. It will use her against you. And it will use your pathetic affection.”
“I resisted it,” Jonathan said, but he was beginning to feel doubt creep in. Only because of Madeline’s spell had he survived. Would her magic be enough? Or would that be what drew her in? He did know how strong the demons could be. He knew Madeline was strong, but he also knew where she was weak. Pride. The demons’ favorite feast.
Whitby grimaced. “And once again, there is the alchemist. He isn’t gone; he’s hiding so well not even those I’ve hired can find him. He’s biding his time, but he will strike again, boy, mark my words. He will use you all if he can. He already has your brother. He’ll come for you next, Jonathan, to tap the Whitby and Perry power and milk you dry.”
Jonathan frowned. “But I’m not the whole of the family power. There’s you,” he pointed out. “And Stephen.”
Whitby’s countenance darkened. “The alchemist must be stopped. And you must take the daemon back. Use the Elliott witch before she uses you.” When Jonathan stiffened, Whitby tapped the floor insistently with his cane. “You don’t have the luxury of sentiment, boy. She might well be our only chance.”
Jonathan stared into the fireplace. “I absolutely will not use her, not for anything.”
Whitby snorted. “Ten years in the army, and you’re still full of romantic de
lusions. Do you think she still loves you, you fool? Threaten her. Charm her. Confuse her. And if you discover she’s a legitimate threat, you take her out before she has a chance to do us any further harm.”
Jonathan set his jaw. “No.”
“Then you damn us all.” Whitby stalked across the room. “Goddess save us if that alchemist finds the sword too—”
Jonathan shook his head, relieved at least on this point. “He’ll never find the sword. No one will.”
Whitby looked dubious. “You’re certain of that?”
“It’s as lost as the Elliott talisman. There is nothing anyone can find on either score.”
Whitby nodded, looking pleased. “That’s a blessing, at least. But there is still plenty of danger here.” He waved his cane at the door. “Go back to the Continent if you won’t fight. You’re free of the daemon now. Marry and have children. Go and keep our family name alive. I’ll deal with this myself.”
Marry and have children? First Stephen, now Whitby. Jonathan shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, then lifted his head and regarded his grandfather head-on. “I’m not leaving.” I will absolutely not leave Madeline alone near a man who would drive his own child mad just for the sake of the House.
Whitby stopped halfway to the door. “The line is nearly ended. Do your part and continue it. I don’t care how you do it. Just have a son. Many sons. Many, many sons, and far, far away from here.” His face turned to glass again. “I look forward to hearing of your departure.”
Jonathan watched him go. Then he sank down weakly onto the edge of the desk and reminded himself to breathe.
Danger. He had been so deluded by his recovery that he’d failed to see it, but now, after one visit from Whitby, the darkness was surrounding him again. If even one of Whitby’s portents of doom was true, they were all at risk. He was. Stephen was. Even Timothy was.
Madeline.
Jonathan picked up his hat and coat from the chair by the door and bolted down the stairs, his heart pounding in his chest. She might not be ready to see him, but it was clear now he could wait no more.
The Etsey Series 1: The Seventh Veil Page 23
