“I don’t know what to think, Emily.”
But it is then that I notice a feeling of clarity, a clear, bright spot in my head, like a compass pointing the way. I touch the faerie stone. It is warm, and when I look down, I see that it is glowing red.
“It’s trying to tell you something,” Emily says.
“It is, Emily, and we have no choice but to go forward.”
I take a moment to look at the two of them. They have followed me into uncertain danger, based on what? My feelings? My visions? “I’m glad you’re with me,” I tell them. “I’m glad you’re my friends.”
“Of course we are,” Emily says.
“We know a thing or two about sticking together,” Gabriel says, which is the most casually I’ve ever heard him speak. I imagine he is referring to the orphanage—Nowhere.
“Plus, we’ve got to revenge your mum and dad,” Emily adds.
My eyes water at Emily’s words, but I set my shoulders and let out a breath. “Let’s be about it, then, shall we?”
Emily and Gabriel fall in behind me, and we press forward.
The darkness looms like a living thing, dense and suffocating. Emily’s light is dim. We must find water for her soon. I hear her small footsteps behind me, soft and light, but her breathing is labored.
I can’t get the image out of my head—the dead man on the slab. Rise, Malachai. Rise and be reborn.
“Jessamine.”
The voice is as soft as a whisper, and it tickles my ear. “Did you hear that?”
“What?” Emily and Gabriel ask at the same time.
“Someone called my name. Listen.”
We stand still, silent. My heart beats so loudly, I feel it in my ears.
“Jessamine.”
We all turn around at the same time. I look left and right, searching. Emily doesn’t speak, but points straight ahead.
At first all I see is a glowing shape, shimmering and surrounded by silver light. A feeling of peacefulness washes over me. It is a woman.
My heart falls to my feet.
No. It can’t be.
Emily gasps. “That’s your mum!”
I do not answer, only stare ahead.
“It could be a trick,” Gabriel says, making the sign of the cross. “Some dark sorcery.”
The glowing shape becomes more clear. I feel it reaching out to me. It is nothing but pure love, like the time Gabriel played his harp—a joy that seeps into every pore of my being.
It is Mother.
She runs the few short steps and embraces me. I squeeze her tightly, never wanting to let go. The comforting scent of Cameo Rose blooms in my nostrils. And it is then that I am certain. It truly is Mother.
“Mother,” I whisper, breaking our embrace. “How? You’re …” I touch her face.
“Dead?” she says. “Yes, child, I have passed beyond, and I cannot tarry long. You must listen to me, Jess.”
Jess.
“There is something you need to know, dear one.”
“What is it, Mother? Tell me. Quickly!”
Emily and Gabriel move closer, eager to hear Mother’s words.
She steps back, and her eyes—the soft green eyes I know so well—flood to a deep black. “‘Ring around the rosy,’” she cries out. “‘A pocketful of posies. Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!’”
And then she screams.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Rats
Shadows leap from the darkness. Mother fades right before my eyes.
I try to strike out, but cold hands grasp my arms, pinning them back so far, I feel as if they will break. My lash drops to the ground. I struggle with all my might, to no avail. All I see are black shapes within a deeper shade of black. And eyes. Glowing red eyes floating in the darkness.
Emily’s light flares brighter than ever for one brief moment and then fizzles. She falls to the tunnel floor. “Emily!” I shout.
A calming note rings out. Whatever it is that is holding me loosens its grip for a moment but then squeezes again, pinching my forearms with what feel like hot irons.
Gabriel strums another chord, but just as quickly it sours, fading off into a discordant tone that twangs and vibrates, as if someone is wrenching the strings out of his harp. I hear a grunt and then silence.
My arms are suddenly released. I spin around, striking out at an unseen foe, but my fist swings through empty air.
“Emily?” I call again. “Gabriel. Where are you?” I cannot see. I slowly kneel on my hands and knees and scrabble around in the dirt and rocks, trying to find my lash. It is not here. The pain in my side where I was slashed is now burning again.
I shudder. That was not Mother.
It was an illusion cast by Malachai Grimstead.
They can make shadows appear where none exist, and cast illusions that break one’s spirit. Balthazar spoke these words upon our first meeting.
He possessed the power of mesmerism as well, Mother had said, which made him all the more dangerous, for he used his gift to cause pain and suffering.
“Emily!” I call out. “Gabriel?”
No answer.
I walk with my arms stretched in front of me, in the direction of what I think is the tunnel wall. If I can feel the tiles, I’ll at least know where I am in this darkness. But where are Emily and Gabriel?
I want to call out again, but I do not. It could draw more creatures. Why have I been left alone? What is happening?
The stone around my neck glows white. A small pool of light spreads around me. I grasp it and feel warmth spread through my body. I sense something—a thought drifting on the dank air.
Come to me, darkling.
My other hand touches the side of the tunnel and, tracing my fingers along the tile, I lower myself to sit, my back against the wall. I squeeze the faerie stone and close my eyes. Cold, prickly sweat rises on my arms and neck. It is the same feeling I had when I heard the voice from the spirit board. Soon, my lovely. Very soon. Now those words ring in my head, as if from only a few feet away, a terrible echo that floats through the dank passage. SOON … SOON … SOON.
I try to summon the face of Malachai Grimstead—the dark hair, the burning red eyes.
I breathe in deeply, thinking of the terrible man on the slab—my father’s killer. “Malachai,” I whisper. “Malachai Grimstead.”
And then I feel myself falling.
I see a clean white room with tall arched windows. Long, golden rays of sunlight spill onto the marble floor. Gleaming metal tables are set with beakers, tubes, and curious medical devices.
And then there are the rats.
They are enclosed in wire cages along the far wall, running to and fro, their nails clicking and scrabbling.
I am an observer again, the same as when I saw Malachai rise from the dead. But this is different. It is more like the images I saw when the spirit board was used as a scrying mirror to learn about Mother’s death.
Mother. My heart pangs.
The scene fades before my eyes. It is as if I am looking through a kaleidoscope, a tool I once saw at a shop, which reveals myriad colors when you stare through the lens.
I am back in the room again, but now there is a man here as well.
It is the same man I saw on the slab: the dark hair, the strong chin, a face as white as ivory.
Malachai Grimstead.
He is bending over a table, observing the glittering insides of a corpse. An audience is seated around him. Blood rises up to his elbows. “The human body contains wonders to behold,” his voice echoes, although I do not see his lips move. “As doctors, we are blessed with the gifts of life and death. In our hands hangs the balance.”
My head spins.
Now I am elsewhere.
I see a man, sitting behind a large wooden desk stacked with books and papers. The brass plaque in front of him reads Dr. Levy. Daylight streams in through the tall windows and glints off a ring on his finger—a six-pointed star. His brow is furrowed.<
br />
He is facing another man, who is impeccably dressed. Everything about him is clean and orderly, down to his trimmed fingernails.
“I am sorry, Malachai,” the man behind the desk says. “Your … experiments have begun to attract attention.” He rubs his pale hands together in what seems to be a nervous gesture. “I’m afraid we will have to discontinue your education here.”
Malachai fumes. He stands up quickly, scattering papers from the desk. “You call yourself a scientist?” he bellows. “Your mind cannot comprehend the realms in which I delve. My deeds will go down in history!”
The vision passes, like water being sopped up by a sponge. Red splotches burn behind my eyelids.
I feel disconnected from myself, as if I have no physical body here, just my thoughts, floating …
A flash of bright light, and I am back in the room with the rats. Blood drops splatter the floor. The shiny beakers from before are smashed. A foul odor burns my nostrils. A boy sits backed into a corner, wearing only his smallclothes. His skinny knees are drawn up to his chest.
I stiffen.
I know that face. It is the boy from the alley! The Rosy Boy. I hear his voice in my head: Help, he whispered. Please, help me.
From the edge of my vision, Malachai enters the scene, a squirming rodent gripped firmly in one hand. In the other, a thin syringe gleams, a drop of liquid balanced at its tip. In one quick motion he plunges it into the rat’s thick skin. It squirms, trying to break free, but Malachai holds it tightly. After what seems like forever, he drops the syringe on the floor.
Now he approaches the boy, who winces and draws back. Quicker than a striking cobra, Malachai lashes out with his free hand and grabs the boy’s left arm.
“This won’t hurt,” he says in a flat, dead voice. “Just a pinch.”
The boy screams as the rat sinks its teeth into his arm.
“Shush,” Malachai whispers in feigned sincerity as the rat scampers away. “Quiet now.” He cocks his head. “Do you like to sing?”
“I want to go home,” the boy sobs. “I want me mum.”
“I want me mum,” Malachai cruelly mimics, and then leans in close. “I have a song for you.”
I shudder, for I know what is coming.
“Ring around the rosy,” Malachai sings quietly. “A pocketful of posies. Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!”
The monster called Malachai raises his head. “I have given you a rosy gift,” he taunts. “Run along now, and spread it to your family and those who come to visit.”
I awake, gasping, and stare into the darkness.
Rats. The disease is being spread by rats.
And then I hear it again, the dreadful refrain that has tormented me to no end.
Come to me, darkling. Come to me, Jessamine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
M
Darkness looms in front of me. The faerie stone has dimmed. I sit with my back against the tunnel wall, my knees drawn up to my chest.
Rats.
Malachai is using rats to spread the rosy sickness.
I have to stop him. But how?
Only now do I notice faint light a short distance away, near the tracks. Five candles are planted in the earth. They form a circle, and the flames sputter and hiss in the stuffy air.
Someone has been here.
“Emily?” I call, my voice hoarse. “Gabriel?”
I stand up and step away from the tunnel wall, slowly approaching the mysterious circle of candles. The smoke is thin, but it burns my eyes and scratches my throat.
“Jess,” I hear a weak voice call.
“Emily!” I shout, looking left and right.
And then I see them.
There—farther along the tunnel wall, on the opposite side—two figures are slumped. I race to the spot and kneel to cradle Emily’s head in my hands. She is pale and feverish, sweating. Her light is back but pulsing slowly, and her lips are dry and cracked. “Water,” she croaks. “I need something … to drink.”
“We don’t have any water, Em,” I tell her. “I promise I will get you out of here.” And I certainly hope I can.
Next to her, Gabriel is sitting against the wall too, his head lolling on his neck. A long red gash is scored across his face, and his harp lies broken beside him. “Gabriel,” I start. “Are you hurt?”
His eyes open and close slowly. I no longer have my satchel and can’t even give him an acacia leaf.
“Someone is here,” he whispers. It seems as if all the strength has left his body. “We saw him.”
“Who?” I ask. “Who did you see?”
“That would be me,” a calm voice calls.
I turn quickly, back to the circle of candles. A shape, tall and ghostly, walks toward me. It is him, Malachai. I can feel it in every pore of my skin.
I stand up, scanning the ground for my satchel, thinking that somehow it could be here, not taken by the creatures who attacked us, leaving us defenseless for their master’s arrival.
The figure draws closer. “Stay away!” I shout, inching back. My fingertips touch the wall behind me.
And then the words I have heard inside my head for so long are truly spoken aloud.
“Come to me, darkling. Come to me, Jessamine.”
The bearer of the voice steps into the circle of candles.
He wears not the skin of a monster, but that of a human man. His black waistcoat looks to be made from velvet, and the vest within is stitched with red paisley swirls. He has the appearance of a gentleman, and the silken ascot tucked into his high-collared white shirt is elegantly knotted.
I am struck still. Father’s killer is in front of me. My tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth. My hands are clammy. For all my talk of bravery, I cannot move, cannot even speak. Waves of heat seem to radiate from him, and my face sweats profusely.
He looks at Emily and Gabriel for a long moment, and then his gaze falls back to me. I feel as if he is searching my very soul, but I force myself not to look away. “I must say, Jessamine,” he says, “you run with a rather ragged lot.”
The sound of my name in his mouth sickens me.
“Where is the other one?” he asks. “That prancing fop? My old friend Balthazar.”
Fear roils in my stomach, a twisting knot of pain, but somehow I find the courage to speak. “Where’s Darby?” I demand. “What have you done with her?”
He remains in the circle, and I feel the very air around him stir, as if it wants to escape. “You have your father’s look about you,” he says. “Before his head left his body.”
Killed by a creature of the dark. His body rip—
He makes no move to attack, but only studies me, as if I am one of his rats.
I have to concentrate. What can I do?
“Do you know why I call you darkling?”
I do not answer.
“In ancient times, a darkling was a child born with a black soul. Like yours, Jessamine. Death is drawn to you—your father, your dear mother.” He raises his head higher and thrusts out his chin. “Stand by my side, darkling, and I will show you how to walk beyond death. I can teach you beautiful things. Terrible, beautiful things.”
A candle hisses and burns out. Malachai looks down. Only now do I notice that his gentlemanly appearance has a flaw, for his fingernails drip tears of blood, one of which just snuffed out the candle.
I swallow hard.
“I will never follow you,” I reply under my breath.
“Did you like my message?” he asks, ignoring my answer.
He raises his left hand and swirls a bloody finger in the air, as if writing on parchment. “The letter M, revealed on your spirit board.”
“Mephisto,” I whisper.
He cocks his head. “I believe it stands for Malachai,” he says, “for I have outgrown my former colleagues. Every drop of blood gives me strength over the power of the grave.”
My mind races back to the terrible instrument Balthazar pulled from the dead man’s neck.
There have been reports of a creeping shadow at night … one that leaves only a trail of crimson blood.
Why?” I ask, and realize that I sound like a small, lost child. “Why are you doing this?”
He is silent for a moment, and then—“I have mastered death, you see. These servants I have made are only the first step. No longer empty vessels, they have the gift of reason and intellect. They speak and act at my command.”
A speck of red flickers in one of his eyes. “Soon, I will create a race that will not live in fear of God, but will rise up and become so pure and divine, God himself will quake on his throne.”
“You’re sick,” I tell him, trembling as I speak. “They tossed you out of school.”
Malachai cocks his head. “The old Jew? You saw this? My, Jessamine, you are quite gifted. As for my late … professor, he died slowly, as will all his kind.”
He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is quiet, almost soothing. “I have seen the smoke of a great fire in the distance. One that will cleanse the world of the filth and scum. A new world will arise from the ashes, and it will be made in my image.”
“Where is Darby?” I repeat, ignoring him, for I fear his voice might lull me into his web. “What have you done with her?”
“Darby?” he questions. “The servant girl? I will find a use for her. She is quite unique. I have already begun my experiments.”
“Mad nutter,” Emily whispers.
I gasp. Now is not the time for flippant remarks.
Malachai regards Emily coolly. His lips tighten, like the cruel edge of a blade. A thin thread of red smoke drifts from his forehead and grazes Emily’s face. She suddenly bolts upright, and fear blazes in her eyes.
“Dance,” Malachai says.
And just like that, Emily begins to do a little jig, a marionette being pulled by strings, small arms and legs bobbing about.
“Stop!” I shout. “You leave her alone!”
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Malachai says. “This power we possess. Sing.”
Emily’s breath is coming fast, her little dance faltering. She opens her mouth:
“Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool? Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full—”
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