The Secrets of Blood and Bone

by Rebecca Alexander

  “With the hair-root.” She glanced back at the outside, where a few deer were cropping the grass in the shadow of the trees.

  “Exactly.” He smiled again. “The potion activates the healthy genes inside us, the hunter heritage.”

  She walked toward the fire, keeping an eye on the man. “Hunter?”

  He sat still, the way she did with wild birds, his hands slack on his knees. “We have always been fighters, explorers. That’s my father.” The portrait over the mantelpiece was of a man with a shock of white hair but still bolt upright on a chair. The same chair Sir Henry was sitting in, she realized, against a wall of books. “My father was a general in the second Boer war. He was one of the signatories to the Treaty of Vereeniging, the end of the war and the surrender of the Boers, just at the beginning of the twentieth century. That portrait of him was painted when I was already an adult, with children of my own in the sixties. He died at the age of—well, over one hundred.”

  “And you?”

  “I was a child during the Second World War. But I was a major in the British army in Kenya in the Mau Mau uprising. I saw action there, and again in Aden in the midsixties.” He smiled again, his eyes narrowing as he watched her. “I was decorated for bravery. Twice.”

  She studied the books on the shelves, mostly histories, a few old novels. “So, you are from a family of soldiers.” She walked back toward the doors. “But you have this genetic problem.”

  “I suppose, over the generations, people of my class tend to marry people of the same group. Weaknesses, as well as strengths, tend to get amplified.”

  “Like Queen Victoria and hemophilia?”

  He inclined his head with stately grace, almost ceremonially. “Yes. Or the Hapsburgs and their…mental problems.”

  “So, why the program of inbreeding?”

  He laughed softly, a deep chuckle. “Inbreeding, no. Selective breeding, possibly. Like creating a more powerful racehorse or a healthier bull. Concentrating the hunter genes, the leader genes.”

  She had relaxed a little, but her senses were still telling her she was in the presence of something dangerous. “Except for this genetic illness.”

  “It seems that health and strength are related to this one disadvantage, occasionally seen. You and your knowledge of herbal remedies can overcome that for Callum. Haven’t you witches done much the same? You tend to be attracted to more of your kind, increasing the tendency toward witchcraft in your offspring.”

  Jack didn’t correct him. It was probably better that he believed her a witch. There was still something about him that scared her.

  And then he had made that offer again. Jack had no doubt he would pay more for the book, and the boy’s need was urgent.

  —

  A sound dragged her back into the present, like papers rustling, as the raven shook himself then drew a wing feather through his beak.

  “There you go. I’m not scary,” she said, rustling the bag of nuts, “not like that old bastard Dannick.” She slowly reached for a handful, holding her palm out to the bird, showing him. He cocked his head and hopped forward a few inches. Then a few more, until, by straining his head, he could stab the long beak forward. He snatched a few nuts, pinching a piece of skin from her palm, and flapped to the corner of the room. She swore under her breath, and stretched her hand flat, to make the skin harder to grab. He hopped back, this time pecking more gently, taking a few at a time and wolfing them down.

  “Oh, you are lovely,” she said, smiling at him as he got another few nuts, and sidled closer. She held her breath. He was close enough for her to see the long eyelashes around each golden eye, the little fan of feather strands over his beak. Before she could move, he leaped forward, battering her for a moment with the edge of his wings. She covered her face with her free hand for a second and when she opened them he was back in the corner of the room—with the bag of nuts. He cawed triumphantly, and Jack had to laugh.

  —

  Jack could hear Sadie’s voice before she got to the bottom of the stairs. Ches was in the hall, waiting for the last walk of the day and putting a few scratches on the freshly painted door. She looked into the living room. Charley and Sadie sat on the sofa, feet on the coffee table, the light from laptops playing on their faces.

  Charley looked up. “How did you get on with the crow?”

  “Raven,” Jack corrected. “Fine. He’s bright, and he’ll come round.”

  Charley smiled at her, then her attention was claimed by Sadie pointing something out on her screen, and she chuckled.

  Jack reached for a jacket, hanging on the end of the banisters. “I’m just taking Ches out.”

  Maggie caught her when she was putting her coat on. “Be careful out there.”

  Jack wrapped a scarf around her neck, and looked across the road to the sign for the local footpath. “I will.” It was hard to see what could happen to her with a wolf hybrid at the end of a lead and a knife in her pocket, but she was still spooked by the old man.

  The stars were just popping into brightness overhead as the blues darkened, and the air had a chill that made her pull the sleeves of her jumper over the bare skin of her wrists.

  “Come on, boy.” Sometimes, she thought what a relief it would be to go back to just her and Ches. Whole days with no need to speak to anyone, days without a teenager to look after and entertain. The hillside started to steepen, to catch the breath in the back of her throat with the taste of frost. Ches trotted ahead, sniffing at corners, cocking his leg at gateposts and shrubs that other dogs had marked. He lifted his head and after a moment her eyes made out the low shape of a fox slinking down the side of the hill. She reeled in the slack lead, but Ches wasn’t bothered with foxes, he was snuffling the ground, ears pricked forward. Deer, probably, leaving scat on the path to new grazing.

  Toward the top of the hill she veered off the path to the outcrop of stones where she had heard the howls, which she had half convinced herself were dogs calling back to Ches. This time, Ches was busy scenting the ground around the boulders, huffing in every crevice, exhaling in a cloud of mist. Rats or voles, she decided. Maybe rabbits. She sat on the boulder, and faced the last red glow of sunset to watch it fade. The stars were multiplying as they emerged from the last of the day, filling in spaces between the biggest glimmers. Working on the house had been a relief after the shock events of saving Sadie from Elizabeth Báthory, or Bachmeier, as she called herself, a woman who had chosen to extend her life by taking others. Here, her mind clear of distractions, she could maybe hear the tiny whispers that she had heard from that encounter. It was as if some little doubt had found a voice. Don’t do it, it sometimes whispered. Or even, go on. They had been at their loudest when she was with Felix, urging her to just stand a little closer, touch his skin, smell his scent. She was still confused by his kiss, her body yearning for something that she hadn’t felt before.

  Ches had stopped sniffing and stood in front of her, as if she were part of his pack. He scented the air again, just a shadow in the dark. When he lifted his snout and howled she almost felt the urge to howl too. It was such a wild, free thing, announcing to the world that he was a wolf, and male, and healthy. The eerie cry stilled the air around her, until she wondered if the boulders were resonating with it. He howled again and again, the sky echoing with the broken song. Somewhere down the hillside a fox shrieked and a stag bellowed. Then the air settled on her in silence.

  There, the first answer. A tentative howl, then a second, stronger. Then voices rolling toward them, exciting Ches to call back. Jack could make out individual calls, maybe six or seven at a time. This time, she had to investigate. Wolves in the Lake District, on fells covered with walkers and tourists?

  She started back, Ches hanging back against the lead until she called him and petted him, and she wondered if there was a local zoo with wolves. She had barely gone a hundred yards when another call echoed over the hillside and she froze, this cacophony of voices making her skin prickle as much as Si
r Henry had. It sounded like no animal she knew, calls and shrieks reminiscent of wolf cubs but more…aggressive. Hyenas, maybe, or coyotes? Definitely not adult wolves. Another shriek and she was certain. Someone, some humans, were imitating the wolves.

  Ches was silenced, shrinking against her side. As she strode away down the hill, she felt shaky, nervous, and angry at herself for being frightened. The little voice in her head whispered a question and it chilled her even further. The animal sound could, she supposed, have come from human throats, but why? Why would humans mimic wolves? Answers crowded into her head and she lengthened her stride, almost slipping on loose stones as she reached the field and hurried toward the lights in the cottage window.

  She burst into the house to startle Maggie, who was carrying a tray of hot drinks. “Maggie, where’s Charley?”

  “With Sadie, in the kitchen. She’s got to go back to university in the morning.”

  Jack threw her coat and scarf onto the stairs and brushed past Maggie into the new living room. “What do you know about people who howl like wolves?” she asked, in a low voice.

  “Not much. Just the werewolf legends.”

  Jack closed the door and folded her arms. “Well, I think that’s what I just heard. First wolves, then people.”

  “Probably just kids, teenagers.” When Jack didn’t reply, she carried on. “Well, there were animal cults in Europe but I’m no expert. You should tell Felix. Why do you ask?” Jack knelt on the rug and opened the woodburner. She propped a new log on the top of the glowing embers and closed the door, opening a vent to help it catch. The wood smoke smell reassured her, left uneasy by the baying. “I heard wolves howling out there, on the fells, a few days ago. Six or seven.”

  “Maybe there’s a zoo.” Maggie sat next to the fire.

  “But then tonight I heard humans howling, not just imitating, really screaming and baying. It was creepy. It scared Ches.” She shivered at the thought.

  “Well, there was a spell that led to the legends of werewolves.” Maggie put her hands on her knees. “It was supposed to be invented by the Romans. It’s believed to bring out the beast in the man, or place a bit of wolf spirit in a human, anyway. It makes them super aggressive and powerful.”

  “And long-lived?”

  “Maybe. It’s supposed to bring greater strength. Why?”

  Jack closed the woodburner door. “Do you know the spell?”

  “No. I do know where you could find out more. You could ask Felix, he’s bound to know much more.”

  Jack stopped, her heart unexpectedly jumping in her chest. “I’m not talking to Felix. It’s too complicated. We don’t need him.”

  “So you keep saying.” There was an acid tone to Maggie’s voice that made Jack even more uncomfortable. “But he still knows far more about this stuff than either of us.”

  Chapter 22

  If there are greater demons than are found amongst mortal men, I do not know it. For I have met in Venice such fiends with human faces that will haunt me to my dying day. The wicked hide behind smiling faces, the old behind the smooth skin of youth, the penniless starveling behind borrowed silks and paste jewels.

  —EDWARD KELLEY, 1586, Venice

  My Lord Marinello, in celebration of his bag of gold from the countess, had gambled and whored his way around Venice with me as his reluctant companion. I was able to observe Venice at leisure, the rich and poor alike disporting themselves incognito. When we found ourselves close to Marinello’s house, I pleaded tiredness, endured much jesting about the feebleness of the English, and excused myself.

  When I was granted entry into the house, the servant indicated by much waving and gabbled speech that a letter had been brought for me. I thanked the fellow, which probably seemed as much nonsense to him, and retired to my room with a candle to read it.

  “My dear Signor Kelley,” the letter began. “Upon reflection, I have decided that to allow you to see the tablet, and to show my family your sketches, must be of value to us both. But in private, you understand, not to publish or share abroad. For this reason, I enclose a note inviting you to the palazzo of my good friend as if you visit him, not me. His man will take you to the Padua road. There, my loyal servant Enrico will meet you at an inn called the Seven Soldiers. He will guide you to my own estate. Bring your books and documents, for we may confer and I may benefit from your great learning. Baldassarre Contarini.”

  I was flattered for a moment, then suspicious. Yes, I do have great learning, but the world supposed that such scholarship was simply reflected from John Dee, I admit, the greater academic because of his many years and experience. I am myself becoming his master in sorcery, however, and my experience is growing. I turned the page to see a few last words.

  “For we progress, somewhat, in that matter of ours, and we suspect that you do also.”

  The matter of ours. Transmutation, chrysopoeia. I was intrigued, and while happy to perform Lord Dannick’s commission, the opportunity to further my knowledge of alchemy was seductive. I tucked the letter into one of my books and fell into bed with a feeling of expectation. As was my habit, I balanced a metal cup upon the room handle and performed the simplest of sorceries: a charm for protection.

  I awoke in the dead of night as the spell tickled my face and neck, the darkness pressing upon my eyes, the sounds muffled and confusing. There, someone creeping about the hall outside my room. A sound of steps, high heels tapping along the corridor, a man’s boots perhaps, the shuffling noise beside them. Then laughter, and I recognized the low voice as Countess Báthory’s. I reached under my pillow for my knife, puny defense though it might be. Then Marinello’s baritone, rumbling something to her. They stopped outside my room, and a sliver of flickering light shone under my door.

  “He is my guest,” I heard Marinello say. “I have some fondness for him, I might call him friend.”

  “He is dangerous. But his knowledge is valuable—” The words were stopped, I judged, by the following sounds, by a kiss or some embrace.

  “We shall deal with him on the morrow.” The man’s voice was thickened, perhaps by wine, perhaps by lust.

  They moved on and I lay in the dark, thinking how timely the invitation was to Lord Contarini’s house. I had thought to confide my plans to Marinello, thinking it better that someone knew my whereabouts, but now I knew not whom to trust. I slept badly, woken by the first slanting light off the lagoon at dawn, and the sound of the street vendors beginning to cry their fish and goods from the first barges.

  Upon waking, I jotted down a brief note informing Konrad of the countess’s presence in Venice, lest he did not know, and gathered my belongings. I had decided to travel to the house of Contarini and to get out of this accursed city.

  Chapter 23

  PRESENT DAY: BEE COTTAGE, LAKE DISTRICT

  The garden understands death and birth and death. It does not understand the conundrum of the not-death of the new witch. It scents her footsteps in the grass, her blood on the thorns, and watches her. It sees her weaken, only to recover within the strange symbols scratched upon rocks on the grass. The garden explores the lines and curves, and grows a veil of algae and bacteria over and into them. It fills them with life, and feels the witch grow stronger.

  Jack was hardly asleep when the knock on the front door woke her. She waited to see if Maggie would answer it, but clearly she wasn’t up yet. Grumbling, she wrapped herself in her dressing gown and padded down the bare treads to the ground floor. The knock sounded again, insistent.

  “I’m coming!” she said, fumbling with the lock for a moment. She pulled the door open.

  Felix stood there, no emotion creasing his normally expressive mouth. “Jack.”

  She pulled the dressing gown around her. “Felix. I—we didn’t expect you until this afternoon.” She stared at him, seeing some tension around his eyes, lines creasing his forehead.

  “Can I come in?” He was coolly polite.

  “Yes, of course.” She stood back, feeling the heat
of a slight flush as she realized she was barefoot, her hair probably standing on end. “Here, let me take your coat.”

  It was all so ridiculously formal. This was the first man she had kissed, dreamed about, her heart beating raggedly just because he was near. She pushed the door open to the front room, still a little warm from the woodburner embers. He walked in, looking around.

  “They did a good job. Is this the room—”

  “No. That’s next door, but it’s nearly as good. It still has a bit of a smell, though.” She was babbling, embarrassed. She shook off the feeling. “How did you get on in Paris? Sadie told me you were going there.”

  “I found some useful leads. How’s Sadie?”

  “Good. She’s been getting out a bit more, much better than I was at her age.” A soft footfall on the stairs was followed by the dog nosing the door open. He started to wag, as if pleased to see Felix, and allowed him to stroke his head.

  “He’s mellowed.” Felix’s lips twitched into a small smile.

  “He has. Now—why are you here?”

  Felix pulled off his gloves, and placed them on the mantelpiece. “You. I’m here because of you.”

  Jack filled up with some emotion that simultaneously filled her with tears and heat. Felix’s next words came like a cold slap.

  “Because you are stopping me living my life.”

  Jack sat down, the dog leaning against her, his warm solidness comforting. “How am I doing that?”

  He stood in front of the fire and looked down at her. “In New Orleans I met a woman. Intelligent, educated, beautiful, half a dozen years younger than me. But I couldn’t be with her because I still want to be with you.” He sounded like he was giving a lecture.

  “How is that my fault? You know we can’t be together, and you know why.”

  He took a step nearer. “Because, in the emotional fallout of a time when you and Sadie nearly died, when I could have been killed, you decided you couldn’t cope with a relationship?”