by Robyn Bachar
“And your apprenticeship is almost over, isn’t it?”
Mr. Black nodded. “It is. It will end on Samhain.”
My shoulders slumped in defeat, and I covered my face with my hands, hiding my sorrow behind a wall of black silk. I knew that the higher powers could be heartless and that having a soul mate did not guarantee happiness or true love, but this… I would have been much happier continuing through life believing I did not have a soul mate, rather than living with the knowledge that my soul mate was a man I couldn’t have.
“I am sorry. You know that I am very fond of you, but…” He trailed off. Dropping my hands, I shook my head, certain that crueler words had never been spoken.
“Don’t bother. I understand. Your work is important to you.” I smiled weakly. I had heard it often enough from my family, when they could not be bothered to spend time with me or listen to what I had to say. As a seer I recognized their obsession, but I didn’t understand it.
“Surely there must be some way,” he began again, but before he could continue he was interrupted by the library door opening. I glanced toward the noise and spotted Lord Willowbrook, the gathering’s host and owner of the estate. He stepped into the room and frowned at the scene before him as I hastily wiped away my tears.
“Mr. Black, what is going on here?” he demanded.
Mr. Black rose and stepped away, and I fished through my handbag for my handkerchief.
“Forgive me, Lord Willowbrook,” I spoke up. “I was momentarily ill from a vision, and Mr. Black was concerned about my welfare. But I feel much better now.” The lie twisted my stomach, but I dabbed at my eyes and put on a brave smile. I looked up at Mr. Black. “If you would be so kind as to help me up?”
“Of course.” He eyed me warily as he helped me to my feet, and I took hold of his arm. Though I did not want more contact with him, my legs were weak and wobbly beneath me and I needed the extra support.
“Mr. Black was about to escort me to Miss Morgan’s body so that I may examine it. Would you lead the way please, Lord Willowbrook?” I suggested.
Mr. Black’s gaze pricked my skin as he peered down at me, but I kept my focus on our host, intent on the task at hand. There was no point in dwelling on foolish things when there was a serious matter to resolve.
Lord Willowbrook’s bushy white eyebrows knit together as his frown deepened. “You wish to examine the body?”
“Yes. To determine the events that caused her death. It is important to do so as soon as possible while the energy remains.” Though my tone was reasonable, from the burning of my eyes I probably appeared a hairsbreadth away from hysteria.
“You’ll do no such thing. This is not a matter appropriate for a lady to investigate.” Lord Willowbrook shook his head as though he considered the matter closed, but I continued.
“I am afraid I must insist. I do understand that you would prefer to work with a male seer, but there aren’t any in all of England. The interests of justice supersede those of propriety in this case. You wouldn’t want one of your guests wrongfully accused of murder, would you?”
It was risky appealing to the honor of a summoner, considering that as magicians who consort with demons they are not known for it, but Lord Willowbrook turned a bright shade of red and nodded shortly. “Very well. This way.”
“That was brilliant,” Mr. Black whispered as we crossed the room.
“Pray that it works,” I whispered in reply.
I clung to his arm as we followed Willowbrook down the hallway, and I stared at the back of our host’s head and tried to regain my control. I knew I must have looked awful, but there was no remedy for that. My personal shields were in shambles, allowing stray thoughts and emotions of the party guests to flit about me like insistent butterflies. Fear was chief among them—fear that a monster had slithered into their safe celebration.
We drew to a halt outside the door, and I stepped away from my escort. The two men watched as I took a deep breath, centering myself. Once all the fluttering concerns were silent again, I nodded.
“I am ready.”
Lord Willowbrook opened the door. I followed him into the room and glanced about. It was a pleasant enough sitting room, though like the rest of Willowbrook Hall the furnishings were several years out of fashion. Two men stood inside, one of whom I recognized as Mr. Oscar Gryphon, a member of the prominent sorcerer family of the same name. He was fair haired and bad tempered, and I rather disliked him. Mr. Farrell was also in the employ of the Gryphons, though he was a member by allegiance instead of blood. The other man was a stranger to me, and he knelt next to the couch. From this angle I couldn’t see the body, but from the spill of golden curls over the arm of the couch I assumed Miss Morgan must be laid upon it.
“What is she doing here?” Mr. Gryphon asked.
“Miss Wright intends to use her abilities to aid the investigation,” Lord Willowbrook informed him.
“We already know what happened here,” he countered.
“Obviously you don’t,” I said, “and I would prefer that you leave. You are interfering with the residual energy.”
“Amelia is my cousin, I will not leave her.” Mr. Gryphon folded his arms across his chest. I quirked a brow—interesting. Miss Morgan was a sorceress, but I didn’t know she was related to the Gryphons. If I remembered correctly, like many sorcerers their family did associate with necromancers. Perhaps she knew her killer…
“Then as her cousin I’m sure you want the right person to be punished for her death,” I replied.
“We know who did this!”
“Simon could not have—” Mr. Black started, and I held my hands up.
“Gentlemen, please,” I interrupted. “If you must argue, do it in the hallway.”
“I am not leaving,” Mr. Gryphon repeated.
“Fine. Then please stand over there and be quiet.” I pointed toward the door, feeling a bit like my mother ordering my sisters about. Her iron will must have rubbed off on me, for Mr. Gryphon did as he was told. That only left the gentleman kneeling next to the couch, and I frowned sternly at him. He appeared to be about my age, perhaps a bit older, with neatly trimmed red hair and vibrant green eyes. Healing energy radiated from him in a soothing wave, and I realized that he was the most powerful witch I had ever encountered. Impressive.
“I don’t believe we’ve met, Miss Wright. I am Dr. Bennett.” He rose and approached me, extending his hand in greeting, which I stared at suspiciously. The doctor spoke with an odd accent—American? It would explain his poor manners.
“Forgive me, sir, but I prefer not to be touched,” I informed him. “You determined the cause of death?”
He winced. “I did, yes.”
I nodded, words failing me as I forced myself to walk toward the couch. It was high-backed, upholstered in pale blue fabric and trimmed in dark wood. The pleasantness of the piece added to the strangeness of seeing Miss Morgan lying upon it. At first glance she appeared to be sleeping. Her head rested upon the arm of the couch, and her heart-shaped face was turned toward the fireplace, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted. One arm was bent above her, as though reaching to rearrange her hair, and the other hung lifelessly off the side of the cushion. Two clear puncture wounds pierced the side of her exposed throat, but there was no evidence of blood.
I licked my lips, my mouth suddenly dry, and I clasped my hands in front of me. My sight shifted, allowing me to read the auras in the room. Miss Morgan did not have an aura, and the lack of it was jarring. Her life’s energy was gone. I had never tried to read a corpse before, and I was not prepared for the experience. Nausea gripped my stomach, and I quickly looked away. My gaze travelled over the four men near the door, recognizing their auras in turn—summoner, sorcerer, witch, librarian—but I stopped when I reached Mr. Black. A silver cord stretched between us like a tightrope, connecting our auras. Would I have noticed it before if I had read his aura in the many times we spoke together in the past?
Ignoring the quest
ion, I continued my investigation. The rest of the room was quiet, subdued. It was probably too much to hope for blatant evidence of a spell, that perhaps a demon had ripped a hole into the room or a faerie had left a trail of mischief. There was an impression of anger left where Mr. Gryphon had been standing, and a general sense of shock permeated the air like the moment after a hunting rifle is fired.
“Do you see anything?” Mr. Gryphon asked.
I fought the urge to glare at him and returned my attention to the body. “Her spirit did not linger, if that gives you any comfort.” Not that I could communicate with her if she had. Spirits of the dead fell into the study of necromancy, and seers could only speak with living spirits, such as elementals.
Though Miss Morgan was devoid of energy, the couch around her seemed to retain something, which was odd. With her body in the way I couldn’t tell if it was a spell or an emotion, and I tugged my right glove off and placed my hand against the upholstery, expecting to feel the fading remnants of it. Instead, I foolishly triggered a vision as a rush of pure lust traveled up my arm and through my body. My eyes blurred, and as I struggled to focus, the sound of Miss Morgan’s voice startled me. She moaned in a very inappropriate fashion, and my cheeks burned bright red as the image formed to reveal a scene that no proper lady should view. Alarmed, I stepped back and spotted her undergarments piled on the floor next to her and the skirts of her gown hiked up around her waist as her lover…
“Oh my,” I whispered. I knew I should look away—it was the right thing to do—but I needed to get some idea of the man’s identity. Dark hair, the back of a dark vest, white shirt sleeves…
Miss Morgan moaned again and I jumped, but this time she breathed a name. John. I took another step back and bumped into the coffee table, and the vision ended. Thank the powers.
“Oh my,” I repeated. My face burned as though it was aflame.
“Are you unwell?” Dr. Bennett asked.
“I am fine. May I speak with you, please?” I stared down at the floor and the hem of my gown, and noticed that the undergarments I had seen in my vision were not there. Her lover—her killer—must have redressed Miss Morgan, perhaps in an attempt to hide their activities. John was a very common name, and there were at least a dozen men with it in attendance, perhaps more. It was a pity the man didn’t have a more unique moniker.
Worry creased my brow as I wondered if Mr. Farrell had left the ball to rendezvous with Miss Morgan instead of joining my father’s card game, but it only lasted a moment. Mr. Farrell might be a bit distant, but he couldn’t possibly be a necromancer, much less a master. I would have noticed the change in his disposition.
The doctor joined me, and I tugged my glove back on. “I believe,” I began, and then lowered my voice to a scandalized whisper. “I believe if you examine Miss Morgan again you will find a second set of bite marks. On her inner thigh.”
Dr. Bennett blinked at me as his eyebrows rose to his hairline. “Are you certain? Her family will be upset if I examine her and you are mistaken.”
“Oh, I am not mistaken. I witnessed her in the midst of…a passionate embrace.” I was quite certain that my face was indeed on fire, and I expected to smell smoke, but I continued. “She appeared to know her killer very well.”
“You saw him?”
“Yes, but I did not see his face. He was…otherwise occupied.”
“Ah. I understand.” Dr. Bennett nodded and glanced back at Mr. Gryphon, who was speaking in hushed, angry tones with Lord Willowbrook. “I will speak with Mr. Gryphon for his permission to perform a more thorough examination. Did she seem enthralled to you?”
I frowned. “Enthralled?”
“A blood drinker can weave a spell over his prey that clouds the person’s judgment and weakens their will to fight,” the doctor explained.
“A necromancer, you mean,” I corrected.
“Chroniclers can do it as well.”
“Why would one need to?”
Dr. Bennett chuckled. “You must come from a family of librarians.”
“Yes, why?” I asked, feeling insulted for some reason.
“Not everyone holds chroniclers in such high regard, Miss Wright. They do on occasion go rogue.” His expression was grim, and though I could scarcely believe him he seemed sincere.
“I see. I think I will take the air while you continue your investigation.” Flustered, I crossed to where the men stood glaring at each other near the parlor doors.
Lord Willowbrook turned toward me. “Did you find something?”
“I did, yes. Dr. Bennett should be able to confirm it,” I said.
“Did you see the murderer? Was it St. Jerome?” Mr. Gryphon asked.
I winced. “No, Miss Morgan called him John. I did not see his face, but I should be able to recognize him.” I hoped. More accurately I should be able to recognize the aura of a master necromancer, if he was still in attendance. “Have you checked that all the guests are still in attendance? The murderer may have already fled.”
“I believe so.” Lord Willowbrook nodded and clasped his hands behind his back. “I have reinforced the wards around the estate, and I have men patrolling the grounds. We will find the culprit.”
“I am not convinced it wasn’t St. Jerome,” Mr. Gryphon said. “You may have misheard the name.”
“If I can speak with Mr. St. Jerome, I can confirm whether he is telling the truth.”
“I will take you to him.” Lord Willowbrook reached for the door, intending to lead me away, but I held a hand up.
“Wait! I would like to take the air in the garden first. That was very difficult for me.” I blushed, embarrassed to admit any weakness, but I needed a reprieve to clear my head before continuing.
“I will escort Miss Wright.” Mr. Black turned to me and offered his arm. “I can take you to Simon when you are ready.”
I hesitated, for Mr. Black was the very last person I wanted to be alone with at the moment, but I nodded reluctantly.
“Very well.” I kept my hands folded in front of me and swept from the room.
Chapter Three
The night air held a damp chill that was blessedly soothing after my skin had been seared by the bonfire of embarrassment. Though I knew I would regret not stopping for my wrap within a few minutes, I closed my eyes and enjoyed it. For a moment everything was cool, quiet and peaceful, and then Mr. Black interrupted my calm.
“What did you see?” he asked.
Sighing, I opened my eyes and looked up at him. “I would rather not discuss it. I assume it was not your mentor, but I cannot say for certain. I did not see his face.”
Not eager to continue the discussion, I walked deeper into the garden. Some of the braver plants had begun nosing their way from their beds, but for the most part the barren clutches of winter still gripped everything around us. The potential hummed beneath the surface, waiting impatiently for a few warm days to free it. In summer everything would be lush and green again, but for now bed after bed was empty.
Like the cradle. An empty cradle for my empty life.
Shivering, I rubbed my arms above the tops of my gloves. Without a word Mr. Black removed his coat and draped it over my shoulders. It was warm, but it also carried a strong impression of him—his thirst for knowledge, his dedication to his studies and his loyalty to his mentor. The corners of my mouth twitched as I pictured him as a very tall Labrador dog. If only Mr. Farrell shared a few of Mr. Black’s honorable qualities.
“Thank you,” I said. He stood close to me, and I hesitated, torn between moving away and staying still to see what he intended.
“Simon would never do this,” he assured me.
“I believe you. Once I am able to prove that, we can focus on finding the true killer. With your tight schedule I’m sure you are anxious to return to your studies.” I winced, feeling guilty for my unkind words. It wasn’t his fault that his dreams for the future were so very different from mine. What could the higher powers be thinking by connecting us?
“I apologize for involving you in this.”
“Well it has certainly been revealing, but don’t be silly. I wanted to help you. Your mentor was not…acquainted with Miss Morgan, was he?”
“No, I don’t believe they ever met. Why?”
“That will be in his favor then. It appeared that she knew her…” I trailed off, searching for the right word, “…companion well.”
“Oh.” Mr. Black’s eyes widened at the implication.
“I shouldn’t have been so blithe earlier about being unconcerned about the subject matter of visions. But it was necessary to help vindicate your mentor.” I shrugged, and the hem of his coat rustled against the skirts of my gown. If I rejected Mr. Farrell, it was likely that the vision was the closest I would get to experiencing that sort of passion. Unbidden, my mind whispered that when Mr. Black became a chronicler, he could bite me, and I could feel the same lustful pleasure for myself…
I shook the thought away and hastily removed his coat. “We should go back inside,” I said as I returned it to him.
Michael shrugged the coat back on. “Wait. I want to discuss what you mentioned earlier.”
“There is nothing to discuss. In a few months you will be a chronicler, and I will still be a matchmaker. Our paths are star-crossed.” This time I held tight to my control, afraid of falling apart again, and I turned to walk back to the manor. He caught my hand and pulled me to him, wrapping his arms around me. I gasped and shook my head.
“Please, don’t do this,” I whispered.
His lips hovered above mine. “Don’t you want to know?”
Yes. Every fiber of my seer’s body wanted to know more. Why were we meant for each other? How could we possibly make this work? What would it be like to share his life? To finally know the happiness that I found so often for others? “But you are spoken for,” I blurted.
He frowned. “By whom?”
“The Order.”
Michael laughed. “The Order is not a jealous wife. There are no rules prohibiting relationships, or even marriage.”
“No? What sort of marriage could we have? Should I offer you a vein instead of bringing you tea, until I fade away while you remain unaging? Immortal?”
