by Monica Sanz
“I fear that I won’t be able to see anything again.” Her list of questions became a tidal wave that rushed to the forefront of her mind. “Has anyone ever lost the sight?”
He hummed in question while perusing his notes.
“The second sight. I stared at the picture for days, but nothing happened until I unlocked it somehow.”
He arched a brow from over his book. “Unlocked?”
Sera nodded and divulged all that had happened that night, from the drain of magic, to the gates, to the burn mark that had since healed over. With each of her words, Barrington slowly lowered his book until it rested on his lap.
Moments after she had finished, he had yet to speak. The horse’s hooves beat on the earth, and disturbed ravens squawked, but Barrington remained silent, his gaze fixed on her.
“I take it from your silence that this is also a mystery?”
“A seventhborn’s second sight, like the ability to perform certain spells, manifests as your powers and reserves increase,” he said finally. “I was certain you had reached the threshold. When I first asked you to look at the photos and you were unable to see anything, I thought it was your temper and impatience that blinded you, but now you tell me your powers were in fact bound.” He tapped his chin in thought. “You mentioned there were many doors?”
“Gated doors, yes. Black ones. More doors than I have years.”
His eyes narrowed. “Peculiar. Sadly, binding magic of that caliber is an ability beyond my expertise.”
Sera sighed and molded back into the plush velvet seats, dejected. “Yet another mystery to add to my list.”
“I said it was beyond my realm of knowledge, Miss Dovetail, but I’m a scholar. Quite a fantastic one at that. If there’s something I don’t know, it will not remain a mystery for long. Don’t lose hope. We’ll uncover what it all means.”
The carriage stopped rocking. Barrington slipped the pencil and notebook into his inner pocket. “But, my little anomaly, it appears your mystery will have to wait, as we have arrived.”
The scent of fish and cold met her nose, as did the sound of roaring oceans her ears. Lucas opened the door, and she lowered her veil. Murky puddles reflected the moon on the pier, the flags atop the ship sails waving like phantoms. It had been a long time since she’d been to a harbor. A shiver tore down her body, bringing with it very present memories and pain. She took hold of Barrington’s offered hand and stepped out of the carriage.
A darker expression claimed his eyes, his look no longer that of a scholar but of a man alert and ready for danger. “Whatever you do, keep your veil down, your gloves on, and mind your magic. You must listen to what I say, and do only what I ask. There is no room for argument. Is that understood?”
She swallowed deeply. “Yes, Professor.”
“Well, well, if it isn’t the great Barrington,” a deep voice spoke from behind.
A man leaned back against a waist-high stone wall, a ramp behind him leading down to the pier. Curls, blond and unruly, peeked from beneath his hat. He flashed a smile and walked over, his rakish, confident air preceding him.
Barrington met him halfway. “Rowe. Thank you for meeting us here.”
“Whatever Gummy wants.” He turned emerald-green eyes to Sera, and his smile widened. “Now, Barrington, you know better than to bring a lady to these affairs.”
Barrington cleared his throat. “This is my assistant, Miss Dovetail.”
“A pleasure, Miss Dovetail. Tell me, what on earth possessed you to work with Nik of all people?” Rowe leaned closer to Sera and said in a stage whisper, “I heard he can be quite moody.”
Sera grinned, to which Barrington arched a brow. “I thought we were here to discuss something about a body. First time one has been found away from a cemetery. What made you think to contact me?”
“Yes, yes,” Rowe said. “You shall see.”
He led them down the damp stone ramp and onto the pier. Docked ships dipped in the water that sloshed against the port pillars. Briny breeze wheezed past, then thrust them into an echoing quiet, cut only by their respective footsteps.
“Any word from the Aetherium?” Barrington inquired.
“They’re just as baffled as the last time we met and can’t fathom why these witches are so adamant about raising these bodies when their results have been dismal.”
“Then they’ve gathered nothing from the impressions? No identifying facts about a culprit, perhaps?”
Rowe shook his head, to which Barrington gazed down at Sera and nodded once, a small grin at his lips. Warmth bloomed in her cheeks, and she mirrored his smile. They were ahead of the Aetherium in their investigations, and it was all because of her summoning abilities.
“All they know is that the witches aren’t alone, since the scenes are cleansed afterward,” Rowe added.
Cleansed. Sera gulped. Only one beast was known to devour lingering magic. A Barghest. She knew about these hellhounds, demon dogs said to be tortured into submission by warlocks who used them for their own dark deeds. Rumor was magicians rarely lived after an encounter with them, and those who did were haunted by nightmares of them forever.
They rounded a corner to a gated tunnel. Two questionable characters stood beside the gate. The men were haggard, their beards wild and unkempt, and their coats, riddled with holes and muck, hung from their gaunt frames.
Rowe stopped a distance away and jutted his head toward the men. “These are the two who discovered the bodies and reported it to Gummy.”
Barrington handed him the small velvet bag to which Rowe tipped his hat. “One second.” He walked to the men.
Sera eyed the men’s dingy and wan appearance. It seemed unlike someone of Barrington’s standing to associate with vagabonds. “How do you know these men?”
“The two there are employed by Gummy. Rowe was a friend when I was in the Academy. After some…incidents, he was the only one who remained true. Some years later, he encountered problems of his own and, well, it would be terribly wrong of me to leave him in distress, no?”
“Then he’s this friend you have within the Aetherium, the one who secured you the impressions?”
“He’s not a magician—well, not a magician anymore. Now he’s a thief-taker and a drunk, amongst other things, but a damned good source. I wouldn’t work with him otherwise.”
She nodded, pity settling in her heart for Rowe who seemed to be a sibling of hers in ill fate. To have been born and raised in magic only to come of age and lose those powers was nearly as difficult as being a seventhborn.
She spoke no more of it and turned to where Rowe shared some words with the vagabonds. He handed them the bag. They pulled it open and surveyed the contents. Satisfied, they handed Rowe their lanterns and walked away.
Rowe waved them over. The gate screeched as he pushed it aside. He turned the knob at the base of the lantern, and shadows came alive along the stone walls. “Just through here.”
Lantern raised before him, he ushered them into the tunnel cut by streams of light. In one of the patches of light, Sera noticed Barrington had, at some point, drawn his wand. She quickly drew hers as well and held it tight at her side. Her other gloved hand she pressed against her mouth. The stench of mold, urine, ash, and brine burned her nostrils and squeezed at her stomach. Not to mention these soft mounds and fetid puddles she was stepping in.
Several minutes later, Rowe held out his lantern, and Sera’s hand dropped from her mouth. Whereas in the previous crimes, the burned victims lay beside the graves of the exhumed corpses, the scorched figure before her now rested beside another dead body in perfect state, that of a young woman with her throat severed. She lay slumped against a wall smeared with her blood, vacant eyes glazed over in death.
“I told my men to let me know if anyone came round asking about burning witches or necromancy like you instructed. They say this girl here, Isobel Weathers, went to the Aetherium, claiming she had information on the exhumed graves and dead witches but refused to speak
to anyone but the chancellor. She visited offices in nearly every province, demanding the same. Most thought she was mad and turned her away, but she claimed her life was in danger.”
Barrington gritted his teeth. “Damn it.”
“Sorry, Nik. I tried to get to her as soon as I heard, but it was too late.”
Barrington approached Rowe and the corpses, but Sera stared at the streaks of blood and the charred corpse, unable to will her body to move.
“So she was killed, and then our necromancer tried to raise her instantly,” Barrington said.
“Not just killed.” Rowe moved his lantern and shifted open the girl’s cloak. “She was tortured as well.”
Sera recoiled beneath her veil. Cuts split the girl’s skin in various places, the other parts of her skin marked by bruises and burns. The scent was disturbing, but no more than the thought of the poor girl screaming as the criminal sliced her skin coupled with the seventhborn’s cries as she burned to death.
Barrington illuminated his wand and surveyed the body. His scrutiny stilled over the signet of a dove on her cloak sleeve. His brow gathered. Straightening, he pulled out his notebook and flipped through the pages, examining each sheet with a finger. “Yes.” Another sheet. “Yes, yes, of course. The files mentioned a bird on the headstones, another had a bird necklace, but it wasn’t just a bird. It’s a dove.”
Rowe arched a brow. “And that matters because?”
“It’s the signet of the Sisters of Mercy—a group of nuns devout to the seven guardians of magic. They helped shelter many seventhborns during the Persecutions. In short, they were sworn enemy to the Brotherhood, but they’re an enigma. You do not find them unless they want to be found—or so it’s claimed, as I doubt this Sister wanted to be found, much less killed. It seems all the bodies our necromancer has raised have been Sisters.”
“Do you think it was a vendetta?” Rowe asked.
“No, this is more than a grudge. Torture and necromancy are both extreme ways of getting information by force, one while alive, the other while dead. Our victim here was tortured and killed, and then”—he pointed to the burned seventhborn—“our necromancer forced this seventhborn to raise her. Whatever the Sister refused to talk about in life, he forced it from her in death. Just as he’s done with the other exhumed corpses. There is some valuable knowledge our necromancer seeks, and the Sisters of Mercy have it.”
He looked at Sera, a small smile on his lips, but her mind could process only the girls.
Barrington straightened, awareness in his stare. “A minute, Rowe, if you please.”
Rowe nodded and walked down the tunnel to an iron ladder a distance away leading up to a manhole cover.
“I know, I know, I will see things that will shatter and break me,” she said before he could speak, “but how are we supposed to control our emotions when someone felt it okay to do this?”
Barrington reached into his coat breast pocket and retrieved a vial of Rhodonite dust. “We remember that their pain is done, and our job is to find their killer. These victims have trusted you. I trust you.” He met her eyes through her veil. “You can do this.”
She nodded and took the vial. She could do it. She had to.
“What do I channel my magic on? Before, I used the impressions.”
“It was more than the impressions, Miss Dovetail, but what was in them. Their pain, their blood, their deaths—that was your link to them then. That is your link to them now.”
Sera uncorked the vial and sprinkled the crystals over the bodies. She slipped off her wand casing and handed it to Barrington. “I am here. I am your anchor,” he said, folding his hand over her casing. “Focus and let them come.”
She stooped beside the girls and held her wand between them. Her magic churned in her belly, but she hauled in a calming breath and forced her heartbeat to steady. She looked at Isobel. At the burned seventhborn. They were different, yet the same. Witches. Murdered.
Pain, blood, death…
She gazed down at the girl, at her vacant expression.
Pain, blood, death…
At the seventhborn contorted and charred.
Pain, blood, death…
She eased her grip on her magic. It pulsed out from her stomach, up to fill her chest and her limbs. She directed it down toward her wand, and her fingers burned. She hissed at the magic gathering in her fingertips but swallowed down her discomfort. The bodies before her had endured more pain. The fibers of her wand ignited, every strand white and filled with her magic. Smoke whirled out from the tip slowly.
Pain…
Her magic covered the bodies, and the Rhodonite crystals illuminated, shading the tunnel in pink.
Blood…
The fog encircled and shielded the world around her.
Death…
Her own memories threatened to invade her mind, and her pulse quickened. The crystals brightened, but she pushed her memories aside. They had no place here. Neither did Noah. The crystals dimmed to a steady, pink glow.
“Wonderful,” Barrington whispered, but his voice sounded far away, lost to the smoke that washed out the world from around her.
Pain, blood, death…
Her body felt like it would dissolve around her, leaving her but a soul in the sea of warm mist. Ciphers floated in the fog, but unlike before, the ciphers were linked together as they floated past. Sera trailed them, committing every loop and line to memory.
A whisper breezed past. Puppet, puppet, puppet.
She spun and gasped. A shadowy figure lingered in the shadows. Fear gripped her bones. It wasn’t Noah, and if it was, she would order him to leave.
Puppet, puppet, puppet…
“It’s okay,” she whispered. She would not force it. “Come to me. I am listening.”
The mist pulsed and billowed, revealing a young girl not much older than Sera. She was lovely, with a heart-shaped face and golden-brown skin. She wore a simple brown dress, her hands clasped before her. A seventhborn tattoo marked her wrist.
Ophelia Crowe, she whispered, though her mouth didn’t move. She lingered by the mist, as if afraid to step out.
Sera reached a hand to her. “Come, Ophelia Crowe, you can trust me. I’m listening.”
Ophelia’s eyes lifted, and she slid her hand into Sera’s, cold and firm. Show you…
Cold washed through Sera’s veins at once, and she sucked in a breath, feeling her soul pulled within Ophelia. She glanced down. She no longer wore her black dress and veil but Ophelia’s brown dress and golden skin.
“What is this?” Sera stiffened and struggled to get out of the vision. The wall of fog encircling them trembled and pulsed, agitated like Sera’s heartbeat. “What did you do?”
Show you, Ophelia spoke into Sera’s thoughts. Though she could barely breathe through her panic, Sera nodded. She could do this. Barrington would bring her back if she fell too far into the vision. He was her anchor, and he asked for her trust. He wouldn’t fail her.
Warm fingers wrapped around her wrist, a firm, savage hold. She gasped and looked down. The same hand from her previous summoning held her. She gazed up to a tall, cloaked figure wearing a plague mask. She struggled to pull her hand away, but black binds whipped around her wrist, tethering her to the necromancer. Nausea clenched her stomach, his magic worming into her consciousness. She felt him everywhere—in her soul, in her blood, in her thoughts. Her will to fight waned, and her magic grew cold and acrid—foreign. Not her magic anymore, but his.
No longer in control of her body, Sera reached to the other side of her and gripped something firm, warm, and slick. She turned her head, and a scream wedged in her throat. Isobel stood beside her. Streams of blood poured from her severed throat and melded with the blood seeping from her other wounds. Sera wished to release her, to no longer feel Isobel’s open skin and blood beneath her fingers, but her intentions fell into a void.
Tell me the secret you keep, the hooded man whispered into Sera’s mind, his voice ragged and raspy
.
“Tell me the secret you keep,” Sera echoed aloud, compelled to repeat it.
Isobel shook her head. Blood spewed out with each wrench of her neck.
Tell me your secret…
“Tell me your secret.”
Isobel turned her face away, her mouth clamped shut. Sera winced, sharp pressure pushing down on her temples. She wished to release Isobel, but her body didn’t understand the command, and if it did, it had no power to execute it.
The hooded man growled. Your secret, now! I order you.
“Your secret now, I order you!” Sera cried out, her pain that of a thousand knives being stabbed into her stomach.
I raised you, you cannot deny me. What is the secret you keep?
“I raised you,” Sera struggled to say, her lungs collapsing within. She coughed out sprinkles of blood. “You cannot deny me. What is the secret you keep?”
Isobel clutched Sera’s arm, her chin trembling. A tear spilled onto her cheeks, and in her stare was an apology, echoes of regret, and stark fear. “My broken oath, your broken life.”
Tentacles of fire crawled from where Isobel held Sera. Whips of fire wound about her arm, dug into her pores, and wrapped around her bones. A scream grew in Sera’s chest as the flames broke her bones and melted her joints. Fire, blue and white, engulfed her. Consumed, she screamed until empty of air and her throat raw.
Her guttural cry became the shrieks of many in her ears, a chorus of agony and laments. The mist shivered and rippled as the shadows writhed within it. Peaks formed in the fog as hundreds of dead spirits reached for her, and Sera knew deep within that they wanted her to understand their anguish. But she couldn’t bear that much pain, or she would die, too.
“Release the spirit, Miss Dovetail,” Barrington screamed from somewhere in the mist. But Sera couldn’t see him—only the shadows and the licks of flames as her body burned. “You must order it to leave!”
Sera clenched her teeth, another feral scream gathered in her chest. You…are…released!
The flames vanished with a hiss, and the vision burst into wisps of smoke and fading cries. Air rushed into Sera’s lungs, sharp and burning, and she rounded upward with a deep gasp.
