The Secret Witch

by Harvey, Alyxandra;

  Emma was still wondering why the sight of Cormac lifting heavy buckets and wiping mud off his face made her feel so peculiarly warm. Even her toes in her paper-thin dancing slippers were hot. She must be catching a fever from standing out in the storm. Cold water spilled down her dress but she barely noticed. The rest of her was burning with sweat and screaming muscles. She didn’t look up from the endless parade of heavy buckets until Gretchen came out of a cloud of smoke, grinning and covered in soot and dirt. “Fire’s nearly out.”

  The rain started to fall again, the wind pushing it mostly toward the house. The cousins remained relatively untouched, darting under the widespread boughs of an oak tree.

  “Should rain be able to do that?” Penelope asked, perplexed. “Not that I’m complaining but …” She shook her head. “Do you think someone slipped laudanum in the lemonade? Because this is turning out to be the strangest night.”

  The pink dog leaned against Gretchen’s ankles, looking miserable. She bent to scoop him back up into her arms so they could shiver together. The guests became a river of silks and wilted cravats pushing toward the waiting carriages.

  “I need to find the doctor,” Emma remembered.

  “Why?” Gretchen looked instantly concerned. “Did you burn yourself? You should have left the buckets to me.”

  “I didn’t get near enough to burn myself,” Emma assured her. “But a girl was hurt during the tremor. She’s broken her collarbone.”

  “I thought I heard someone say the doctor was with the ladies near the hideous cherub statues,” Gretchen said. “They sent someone to fetch him as soon as the curtains caught fire. I’ll get this dog back to Lady Pickford, after I inform her the fire was no doubt penance for abusing this poor thing with pink fur and ridiculous ribbons,” she added, spotting Lady Clara self-administering smelling salts.

  “I’ll get your Aunt Mildred to the carriage,” Penelope added to Emma before picking her way through the wet grass.

  Covered in mud and soot, Emma went in search of the doctor. She found him surrounded by pale ladies clutching smelling salts, and a footman with a nasty burn on his forearm. His shirt was charred into tatters. She told the doctor where Margaret was waiting and then returned to join her so she wouldn’t have to wait alone. The main path was currently congested with girls in various states of dismay, both feigned and unfeigned, surrounded by attentive young gentlemen eager to help. Cutting through the garden seemed the path of least resistance.

  She really ought to have known better.

  She’d already had every indication that the night was an unmitigated disaster. She wasn’t sure what made her assume the worst was over. Chronic optimism, perhaps.

  Or chronic madness.

  It did run in the family, after all.

  Chapter 3

  Cormac stalked toward Emma, abandoning a group of soggy men congratulating one another. There was such dark intensity in his chiseled features that she instinctively backed up. She hit the tree behind her but Cormac didn’t stop his advance. He was practically pressed against her.

  She shifted to move away but he blocked her, wrapping his hand around the branch by her head. “Don’t cast any more spells,” he said ominously.

  The smell of smoke clung to him, just like his soot-stained linen shirt. His cravat had been lost somewhere in the mud. She could see a tarnished silver chain around his neck, the pendant tucked under the folds of ruined fabric. She was suddenly viciously curious as to what it might be. She frowned at him. He didn’t deserve her curiosity. She had to remind herself of that. Sternly. And repeatedly. “What on earth are you talking about?” she asked finally.

  He leaned closer, so close she could see the amber in his dark brown eyes and the faint whisper of stubble on his cheeks. So close she couldn’t help but remember the long, dark kiss they’d shared, not so long ago.

  As if she could ever forget it.

  And if he had, she’d smack him.

  She might smack him anyway if he didn’t stop looming. “Have you been practicing?” she asked with false sweetness. “You’ve improved.”

  “Practicing what?” he asked, momentarily distracted. His brow furrowed in confusion.

  “Looming.”

  He muttered something under his breath. “That spell was powerful,” he added tightly. The moonlight made his cheekbones sharp as knives. “You ought to show more care. Considering.” There was a wealth of implication in that one single word.

  Trouble was, she had no idea what he was implying.

  “Considering what, exactly?” she asked.

  He tossed his wet black hair off his forehead. A drop of rain ran slowly down his aristocratic nose. “Don’t play me for a fool, madam.”

  “Then pray don’t act like one,” she shot back, thoroughly nettled.

  “Remember what I said.” He leaned closer still until she felt the brush of his arm on her shoulder. His shirt clung to muscles she tried very hard not to notice. “If you do not wish to be exposed to the Order, you’ll take very great care, Lady Emma.”

  “Cormac?” she asked with exaggerated patience. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Do you think this is a game?”

  “No, I—” She had no idea what she’d been about to say. All thoughts were snatched away by a sudden gust of wind. It slapped at them with enough force to wrench them apart. Emma stumbled back onto the path, trying not to slide across the slick flagstones. Her dancing slippers may as well have been spun out of sugar for all the protection to the elements they offered. The wind was wrapping itself around her, and pushing at her like an invisible hand. She stumbled, trying to find purchase. Her right foot slipped and she flailed.

  “What the hell?” Cormac had her by the elbow. The wind buffeted them both, forcing them away from the crowds. It was colder than any March wind had the right to be. The force of the gust pushed them through the grass and back to Margaret’s side.

  Frost clung to Margaret’s hair and eyelashes and dripped off her fingertips in slender, delicate icicles.

  “Why is she covered in frost?” Emma asked. Margaret twitched. Emma dashed forward, nausea roiling in the cauldron of her belly. “Lord, don’t—”

  She died before Emma finished her plea.

  Stranger still, a small white creature made of mist and frost snuffled out of her chest. It was a star-nosed mole. It lifted its head before hopping down to the ground. Then it paused, flashed red, and darted into the shadows. The ice on the girl’s body cracked.

  Emma’s brain felt like the honeybee trapped in amber that sat in her father’s library. She eventually opened her mouth to shout for help, remembering how to breathe, and what one was supposed to do when faced with a dead body. Besides be ill all over one’s shoes.

  “You saw that, didn’t you?” Cormac asked, his voice dark as the smoke billowing through the broken glass all around them. She could actually feel it, scraping lightly over the back of her neck, like teeth. Something deep inside her shivered.

  She swallowed. “I think I must be ill.” She hadn’t just seen a star-nosed mole. She was in shock.

  His gaze fastened on to hers, as if he’d read her thoughts. “You can tell me.”

  She’d forgotten just how persuasive he could be, his eyes fixed on her as if she was the only girl in the world. As if she mattered. He’d looked at her like that once before.

  But she knew better now.

  Let him think her mad. It was no doubt why he’d refused to renew his attentions. Someone must have found out about her mother and told him. She’d have suspected Daphne, knowing the other girl had chased after him for years now, but if Daphne had found out she’d have told everyone, including the Prince Regent. “A star-nosed mole climbed out of her chest.”

  He nodded, as if she’d confirmed something perfectly sensible.

  She stared at him. “Did you hear me? A mole, made of nothing, climbed out of her chest. How is that even possible?” And why wasn’t he more alarmed? Why was he
so blasted calm, as if this sort of thing happened to him all the time?

  That was not comforting, actually. Not in the least.

  The sounds of the agitated guests seemed very far away all of a sudden. “Her parents … we should …” She trailed off. “Do something.” Shouldn’t they?

  He approached the girl, his jaw clenching when he turned her hand over and saw the symbol. “The mark,” he said softly, stunned. He turned on Emma. “How long did you leave her?”

  “I helped with buckets and then went to fetch the doctor.” She rubbed her arms, trying to get warm. “What does it mean?” she asked. “Do you recognize it?” It looked like a four-petal flower, with the tips unfolding into spirals.

  “Yes,” he said darkly. “Emma, this is very important. Forget what you’ve seen here.”

  A laugh burst out of her, startled and strange. “As if I could.”

  “Hell and damnation,” he snapped when he spotted a footman gaping at the dead girl. It was only a matter of moments before the others came rushing at them out of the damp gardens.

  Before she could make a sound, Cormac’s hands clamped around her arms, keeping her still.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to save you,” he answered sharply. His eyes were intense, searching. “Though you seem determined to thwart my every attempt.”

  That seemed rather unfair, considering all he’d done so far was snap at her for no discernible reason.

  “Now hide!” he hissed. “Before someone sees you.”

  She stared at him. “What are you talking about? I can’t just leave.” Though what she could do for the poor girl now, she had no idea.

  “If you won’t run for yourself, do it for your cousins. They can’t be seen here any more than you can,” he insisted.

  She gaped at him.

  And then he pushed her right into the bushes.

  Chapter 4

  Emma.

  Of course, it had to be Emma.

  People who didn’t believe in luck had the luxury of not having decidedly rotten luck.

  And it only proved what he’d been telling himself all along. He’d made the right decision. If she was going to hate him, at least it would be on his own terms. And if he craved glimpses of her the way the drunks in St. Giles craved cheap gin, she never had to know. It wasn’t safe. Every day he served as a Keeper for the Order of the Iron Nail proved it to him.

  The fire was out and smoke drifted in eye-stinging clouds, but it wouldn’t be long now before someone else noticed the dead girl on the lawn. He pulled a snuffbox from his pocket. Regular gentlemen carried tobacco in them but his was filled with a fine powder of crushed apple seeds, quartz crystal, and mugwort. It was spelled especially for him, to call in reinforcements. When he threw a pinch up into the air, it hung there in direct opposition to all laws of physics and gravity. A glitter of pale-blue sparks arced up into the sky, like a string of stars. They hovered above them, only visible to those who belonged to the Order.

  Luckily his partner and friend Tobias was also at the ball, and the first to find him. He stared at the girl. “Who is she?”

  “Margaret York. I thought she was injured in the tremor.”

  Tobias shook his head. “Earthquakes don’t cover girls in ice.”

  “Exactly.” He crouched next to her body. “She’s covered in bruises. They weren’t there half an hour ago. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Whatever happened, it packs a powerful punch.” Tobias pinched the bridge of his nose, as if his head ached. He wouldn’t have shown even that hint of weakness to anyone but Cormac. “The air is practically shivering.”

  He sounded disapproving. Tobias preferred order in all things, and if he didn’t become First Legate, if not the head of the entire Order, Cormac would eat his hat. Tobias devoutly believed in rules and regulations and strict guidelines for witches. If he hadn’t been born a witch himself, Tobias might have become a Witchhunter instead of a Keeper.

  Cormac, meanwhile, had joined the Order mostly to thumb his nose at them all for not believing he could succeed.

  “Did you see who did it?” Tobias asked. His usually fastidious clothing was marked with soot.

  Cormac thought of Emma dropping a witch bottle. “No,” he replied. He’d been right behind her when she’d been racing back to Margaret’s side. The magical traces on her person wouldn’t link her to the victim. Small mercies. He doubted the Order would think so, or even Tobias for that matter. They’d been to school together and Cormac considered him a brother, but there was no denying Tobias was a bit more starched than he was. He didn’t have five sisters to plague him, to begin with.

  He shook his head over Margaret’s broken body. This might have been her very first ball. She certainly wasn’t trained enough to use magic to protect herself. The Greymalkin family preferred to drain witches before they learned how to fight back. His fists clenched. “I thought the Greymalkin had gone into hiding,” he said, glaring at the unfurled knot on the girl’s palm. It was a scornful imitation of a regular witch knot, which could be drawn with a single unbroken line. The Greymalkin severed the pattern, deliberately unfurling the petal-like points into spirals. “Or were wiped out altogether.”

  “Greymalkin? Really?” Tobias took a closer look at her palm. There were few families who rivaled the bloodthirst of the Greymalkin. Stories were told about exploits hundreds of years old that still held the power to terrify. “They haven’t done this sort of thing since my mother was a deb,” he added. If Cormac recalled his history correctly, Tobias’s mother also used to hunt them. Tobias swore briefly, tones clipped and icy.

  “What do you see?” Cormac asked him. Cormac had charms that allowed him to discern hidden marks but his own magical lineage had skipped him entirely, choosing instead to concentrate its considerable power on each of his five younger sisters. That bad-luck problem again.

  Still, clearly he had better luck than Margaret York.

  Tobias’s blue eyes narrowed to focus on magical residue Cormac couldn’t see, even with his True Sight charm. “Blood curse, I think. It’s hazy.” Tobias was a brilliant tracker. If he couldn’t pick out the magical traces with any certainty, there were few others in London who could.

  Sweat curled Tobias’s hair as he struggled to harness the dark magic swirling around them. Even ungifted as he was, Cormac felt it too. Anyone could. Murder left its own mark, even beyond blood and brutality.

  “It was definitely someone at the ball,” Tobias confirmed, leaning against the tree and panting as if he’d been chased down by rabid dogs. His voice was hoarse as he tugged at his cravat.

  “That narrows it down to nearly three hundred guests,” Cormac said. “Not to mention several dozen servants.” He rose to his feet. “Some of which are coming this way, even now.”

  He jerked his head in the direction of three footmen heading back toward the kitchen with empty buckets. The smoke was no longer thick enough to hide Margaret’s body, or either of them, for that matter. They couldn’t afford to be caught in the web of questions that would inevitably result. They couldn’t even wait for other Keepers to arrive. Once the girl’s family descended, they wouldn’t have the chance to do what needed doing. Magical trails went cold fast. Screaming mothers seemed to make them go even colder, faster.

  “I can track it awhile yet,” Tobias said grimly as they stepped back into the concealing shrubbery. By the time they made their way around several statues, a fountain, and clipped hedges, the first cry of alarm rang through the wet and smoky night. They slipped around the guests crowding together, and pressed against a row of harried footmen who were trying to keep them from disturbing the body. Whispers of murder caught faster than the fire in the brocade drapes.

  The chatter faded in a wave, retreating like the tide, when the rumor of a dead girl was proven to be fact. Someone screamed. A decorated captain who had fought in the Battle of Trafalgar fainted. Cormac stayed near Tobias, all the while searching for anyone who might
look guilty, and for Emma’s distinctive red-brown hair.

  “There’s magic leading that way.” Tobias nodded to the hydrangeas Cormac had tossed Emma into. “It’s connected to the murder.”

  He went cold. “Are you sure?”

  “It’s not a clear read,” he admitted, frustrated. “But it’s there. It’s connected magically somehow.” Before Cormac could suggest it was a simple matter of magic attracting magic, Tobias turned his head sharply. “Ow, bloody hell.” He massaged his temple. “It’s over there as well. And there.” He sighed. “It’s bleeding into the general panic of the guests.”

  “Let’s try past the gates,” Cormac suggested. “If we’re lucky, the murderer has already left the party.”

  “He has,” Tobias confirmed. “He’s just gorged on himself on someone else’s power. He wouldn’t be able to hide the effects, or the residue of violence. Not with so many witches in attendance, even if it is mostly debutantes. And he’d have to know the Order is on its way.” By the time they’d reached the road, Tobias was stumbling. He paused to be sick behind a carriage painted like a peppermint bonbon.

  “Magic leads that way,” he said when he was well enough to lift his head. He pointed straight to a passing carriage. A familiar face stared at them through the window. “Isn’t that Emma Day?”

  Cormac clamped down on his expression, refusing to betray any emotion. The carriage rumbled by.

  Tobias wiped his mouth with a pristine white handkerchief. “The bloodcurse trail goes that way,” he pointed in the opposite direction, much to Cormac’s relief. They followed it around the corner, past several mansions and over to the next street bordering the park. Tobias retched one more time.

  “Blood curses are vile,” he said wearily. “They taste like rotted leeks.” He wiped his face with a grimace. “Nasty business.”

  “That’s not all,” Cormac said steadily, reaching for the dagger in his boot. “If I recall, Greymalkin magic of this kind always unleashes the Sisters.”