Whisper the Dead

by Alyxandra Harvey

  It was silent and beautiful and wrong. And it was stealing her family away. What if they didn’t wake up? What if they stayed that way, draped artfully and uselessly like decorations?

  “This way.” Tobias turned sharply down the sidewalk. He walked with purpose, his teeth clenched as though he was in pain. She wondered why the magic he used for tracking would hurt him.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. He just nodded. “How will you find the spell?” Gretchen asked, hurrying to keep up.

  “I’ll find it.” He was grimly confident. “It’s what I do.”

  They passed several Keepers who were already blocking the streets so no one would inadvertently stumble into the eerie tableau. She could hear all the ordinary noises of London in the near distance: horse hooves, men shouting, violins from a house window. It made the frozen silence behind her all that much more sinister.

  They walked for a long time. Tobias’s strides were long and hungry, and he turned left and right according to some inner map she could not see. She followed, unable to do anything but trust him. She couldn’t break the spell if she couldn’t even find it. The magic snaked its sinister way through Mayfair, leaving the aristocracy sleeping in their finery in carriages, walkways, and gardens.

  Tobias eventually led them to a fashionable house with black iron gates. Tobias went down the mews, past the stables and into a garden filled with pink snapdragons and foxgloves. Pebbles crunched underfoot. He stopped in front of a decorative stone pillar framing an opening with banks of lilies on the other side.

  Blinding white light burst out of a small fissure in the stone. It widened, sending more splinters of light through the stone. Everything in its path fell away, melting gracefully like ice into water. The shield charm Tobias had given her grew uncomfortably cold. She held on to the pain, knowing it kept her from sagging to the ground like the man in a blue evening coat sprawled half in the lilies. His left hand was flung out toward the pillar, witch knot stark against his moonlit skin.

  “Lord Giles,” Tobias said, after ascertaining that the other man wasn’t harmed. “This is his house. There’s a passage under the pillars to the goblin markets. He must have been trying to mend it.”

  “My aunt has a secret passageway too,” Gretchen said. “It doesn’t do this.”

  He turned his head sharply, sensing something she didn’t. He crouched to dig through the lilies, pulling out a hollowed adder’s stone. The spiraling marks of long dead creatures etched the fossil. It was cracked open like a bowl, the inside painted with gold dust.

  “This wasn’t an accident,” he said. “Someone’s gathering this magic.”

  “For what?”

  “This much power? Nothing good. I’ll alert the Order.” To do that, he added something in what sounded like a cross between Old English and Latin, while drawing a symbol on the stone. He used a piece of charcoal he unwrapped from a scrap of white silk in his pocket. “Ember from a fire that burned at midnight on the grave of a witch skilled with psychical communication,” he explained.

  In the push of his magic, Gretchen could have sworn his shadow fell over the flowers in the shape of a wolf.

  Clearly, she was letting the strangeness of the night get to her. This much magic had the hairs on her arms lifting and the taste of salt burning in the back of her throat. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Warily, she waited for the onslaught of voices, for the insistent scrape of pain.

  Nothing.

  She scowled at the light that seared through her eyelids. It was glowing brighter, rushing more powerfully.

  Exactly the opposite of what she was trying to do.

  “How do I seal the ward and wake everyone up?” she whispered, imagining all of the witches speaking their spells over the centuries. Surely one of them had dealt with something similar.

  The silence stretched from unnerving to downright vexing.

  For all her talk of not wanting to be a girl who waited to be asked to dance or who counted the days to her wedding, here she was finally with a chance to prove herself and nothing. Just her, awake to enjoy her miserable failures while her cousin and her mother slipped further and further away.

  It would not do.

  These infernal dead witches seemed perfectly happy to tell her when she was doing something wrong, in great and painful detail, and yet were decidedly less helpful with advice on how to do it right in the first place.

  She’d just have to trick them into cooperating with her.

  “Do you have salt?” she asked Tobias.

  “Of course.” He handed her a small glass vial. “What are you doing?”

  “Making it up as I go along,” she replied with grim determination. She plucked a foxglove blossom and filled it with salt. She pressed it against the crack of light, knowing there was no magic to what she was doing, only random acts.

  A cacophony of voices exploded.

  Her eyes rolled back but she refused to give up. She sifted through the whispers and shouts as though she were sorting through beads. It was slow and arduous work. Her teeth chattered and her neck muscles cramped. She knew she would shatter into pieces if she so much as moved an eyelash.

  She listened for particular words: sleep, wake, ward.

  “Alas, no witch’s rhyme.”

  That wasn’t particularly helpful and she must have bitten her tongue because she tasted blood. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered except sleep, wake, ward.

  There, just under the press of incantations.

  “Wake.”

  She clung to it, refusing to let it go.

  “Three red roses.”

  The voice was soft and it had a lilt. Irish, maybe.

  “Like Sleeping Beauty.”

  Gretchen’s eyes flew open. “I know how to break the spell.”

  “How?”

  “With a kiss.”

  He arched a brow. “I doubt that very much.”

  She refused to blush. “It’s like the stories of Sleeping Beauty and Snow White. A kiss breaks the spell. It’s the easiest and quickest way.” She pushed aside the snapdragons. “I need three red roses.”

  Frowning, he leaned over, brushing her elbow to pluck rosebuds from a scraggly bush hidden in the shadows. They were the first of the season, struggling to open. She hoped it would be enough. She tucked them into the ribbons in her hair, feeling foolish.

  He watched her, expressionless. He was going to think she was asking him to kiss her. It was mortifying. More mortifying was the horrible pause as he stayed where he was, still watching her. “It’s for the spell,” she added again. “No need to get missish.” There, that was better. She didn’t sound as though her heart was pounding at a mad gallop.

  “Indeed,” he replied, and his tone was just as cool and un-affected as ever.

  It really made her want to punch him.

  He took her hand gently and politely while she told herself that feeling nervous was ridiculous. He peeled off one of her gloves, untying the tiny ribbon that held it in place and sliding it down to her wrist. He folded it neatly and slipped it into his pocket, ever courteous and proper.

  His skin against hers did not feel particularly proper.

  His fingers were warm and strong, skimming over her witch knot. There were answering tingles in her belly. She felt as frozen as everyone around them. She couldn’t have moved even if she’d wanted to. His blue eyes never left hers as he bowed slowly over her hand and brushed his lips softly over her knuckles.

  The light grew brighter until it was painful to look at. It outlined everything in fire—flower, tree, Tobias’s cheekbones. It flickered once, contracting, and then shone even brighter.

  The wards had not been mended. And no wonder.

  “You call that a kiss?” Gretchen mocked, before fisting her hands in his coat and yanking him closer. She pushed herself up on her toes to kiss him fiercely. As her lips touched his, he froze for a brief stunned moment.

  “Kiss me back, you idiot,” she ordered, her mouth
brushing his as she spoke.

  His hands slid up to grasp her upper arms, leaving a trail of delicious shivers in their wake. Her eyelids fluttered shut, and there was only darkness and their lips against each other. Gone was the icy restraint, the haughty refusal to show anything but elegance and calm. Their kiss unleashed something beneath the surface, something she would never have guessed could even exist. It scorched her down to her toes.

  His tongue touched hers and she forgot about the spell, about proving herself unaffected. She could only kiss him back until their breaths were ragged and entwined.

  When they finally pulled away from each other, the eerie unnatural light of the magic spilling out of the broken ward had faded away. There was only moonlight and gas lamps flickering on the street filled with the sounds of horses’ hooves, carriage wheels, and violins.

  The spell had been broken.

  When Gretchen snuck out of the house the next morning, she ran into Godric coming up the front steps, hat in his hands. “Bloody hell, Gretchen,” he said, staring at her starkly. “I just got word. Are you hurt?”

  “Not a bit,” she assured him.

  “Word has it you sealed a broken ward.”

  She smiled proudly. “I did.” So there, she thought to the Order.

  “You’re preening.”

  “Only a little.” She looped her arm through his. “Can you drop me at Penelope’s?”

  “I’m on business for the Order,” he said apologetically. “I just stopped by to be sure you weren’t hurt. There’s a swarm of gargoyles on the loose.”

  “Well, that sounds like much more fun. I’ll come with you.”

  He groaned. “Gretchen. It might not be safe.”

  “Safety in numbers then,” she called over her shoulder, having already scrambled into the carriage. She grinned through the open door. “Come along.”

  “Mother will kill me if you get caught that close to St. Giles and the Seven Dials. They’re not exactly neighborhoods fit for a debutante.”

  “So let’s not get caught.” She barely waited for him to sit down before she rapped on the ceiling. “Drive on!”

  “You’re rather cheerful for someone who was caught in a magic leak.”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “It was refreshing to be the one with a solution.” She very specifically did not mention the kiss. “Instead of the one being blamed.”

  He snorted. “I’m sure it won’t last.” She snorted back in agreement.

  When the carriage pulled to a stop in front of a lane too narrow for the horses to navigate, Gretchen and Godric got out and walked. She skirted a puddle of dubious origin and tried not to breathe in the stench of cat and cabbages and chamber pots.

  The lane narrowed to an alley, leaving only a slice of overcast sky. A shadow crossed between the rooftops, leathery wings extended.

  “We’ll have to climb,” Godric said reluctantly. “To track them.”

  Gretchen knotted her skirts, and scampered up a wooden staircase, using a small balcony at the top to pull herself up on the roof. Godric followed with considerably less enthusiasm.

  “Shite. This is high,” he muttered, wiping sweat off the back of his neck with a handkerchief. He steadied himself on the surprisingly large clay gargoyle crouched on the rain-damaged roof. Another circled overhead with the sinister laziness of a vulture.

  “I don’t see any broken wards or anything,” Gretchen said, shading her eyes as she looked around. She’d forgotten her bonnet again.

  Moira strode toward them across the peeling shingles, scowling. A small fat gargoyle bobbled behind her. Gretchen smirked at her brother, nudging him to look away from the gargoyles.

  He followed her gaze, straightening. “Shut it, Gretchen,” he muttered. His cheeks were ruddy.

  “You again.” Moira raised her eyebrows. “What the bleedin’ hell are you doing on the edge of the Dials?”

  “Chasing gargoyles,” Gretchen replied as her brother bowed politely. Moira just shook her head at him, bewildered by his fine manners.

  When the gargoyle beside them stretched, Godric nearly plummeted to his death.

  Gretchen grabbed the back of his coat. The gargoyle opened its wide mouth, magic crackling in its jaws. Pigeons shot into the air, squawking in alarm. “Now what have you done?” Moira demanded.

  “You tell me,” Gretchen gasped as the pigeons wheeled in panic. Feathers drifted by as the gargoyle flew between them, chomping its stone teeth together. “Where is it going?”

  The sun threw spears of light, glinting off copper flashing, windowpanes, and the leathery sheen of the gargoyle’s wings. “Gargoyles only chase magic, and they almost never leave their rooftops altogether.”

  “They left a few weeks ago,” Gretchen pointed out. All of the gargoyles in London had abandoned their posts the night Emma accidentally dropped her mother’s old spell bottle.

  “He’s tracking something,” she said, watching him grimly.

  “Perhaps another ward has broken,” Gretchen suggested. “Or there’s still magic loose from last night. Does magic do that?”

  “He’s heading east,” Moira said, before turning away.

  “Wait, we’re coming with you!” Godric called out, stepping up on the edge of the roof. He turned green, then gray.

  Gretchen grabbed the back of his collar. “You don’t even like climbing trees.” When he eyed the gap between the buildings she tightened her hold. “You’ll never make it. Unless you can grow wings now, as well as talk to the dead.”

  “For the love of …” Moira snapped. “You’ll give us away with all your bother. Gargoyles can be shy.” She lifted a plank of wood and slid it across the roofs. “Cross on that and keep your bleeding mouths shut.”

  The gargoyle flew on, graceful despite his bulk, but slow. Something shivered in the air. The hairs on Gretchen’s arms stood straight up. Moira’s familiar leaped between her shoulders and vanished, hissing. Godric crossed the makeshift bridge with all the alacrity of blind man with a broken ankle. He tottered for a long, sickening moment before his foot slid off the edge completely and he fell. He caught himself with a very painful connection with the board. His hat toppled off his head and was plucked up by the wind. It landed in the road and was run over by a donkey pulling a cart of onions.

  “Come on, pretty boy.” Moira held out her hand to help him up onto the roof. Gretchen followed quickly. He hoisted the plank over his shoulder and they followed Moira. She ran easily, comfortable with every type of roof underfoot—steep, flat, thatched, or shingled. Her black hair was like a pennant behind her. Godric was so intent on watching her that he tripped and nearly decapitated himself with the board.

  “Godric,” Gretchen snapped. “Stop trying to impress her and start trying not to get yourself killed.”

  The gargoyle was joined by another, this one considerably smaller, with dragon wings and scorched talons. They rode the air currents, dipping and soaring until they dove suddenly, like hawks catching sight of a mouse in a field below.

  Moira led them two buildings over to a ladder propped against the eaves. They descended into a warren of alleyways and balconies. Laundry fluttered, drying in the reluctant sunlight. A baby wailed from an upper window. Litter chased itself into corners.

  “Can you see them?” Gretchen asked, trying to see between the sheets flapping on the crisscrossing lines. They squeezed into an alley barely wide enough to accommodate Godric’s shoulders. A gargoyle flew so close its wings scratched the wall, pelting them with bits of brick and plaster. It had a small white bird in its mouth, glowing faintly. “I didn’t know they ate birds,” she added.

  “They don’t,” Moira replied grimly. Glowing feathers drifted between them. A gargoyle made of cheap river mud broke away from a balcony overhang. Another followed from a soot-stained cornice. “That’s curious,” Moira said. It was clearly more than curious as she was suddenly holding a dagger, a charm made of iron nails, and a pouch of salt.

  And then it became very
apparent as to what was agitating the gargoyles.

  “Who’s that?” Gretchen goggled. Her throat went dry. Godric’s hand slipped into hers, and she honestly wasn’t sure which of them he was comforting. She held on tight regardless.

  Moira let out a sigh that was half reverence and half fear. Her voice, usually all sharp attitude and sarcasm, trembled. “The White Lady.”

  A woman glided into the courtyard between several buildings tilting together as though they had secrets. Not a woman, Gretchen corrected herself, a spirit. She glowed violently, outlined in frozen moonlight and fire. She wore an old-fashioned white dress with panniers under the beaded silk, and diamond pins in hair powdered and piled high with ringlets. Ropes of diamonds hung from her hair and looped to chandelier-like earrings. From these chains a white veil fluttered, obscuring her features—all but her eyes, which were lined with kohl and stared savagely. They were gray as ice, nearly colorless with their vicious focus.

  Gretchen shivered, even before the white birds followed, flying in from all of the alleyways, the sound of their wings like ice falling from a church steeple. They seared the air behind them as they passed. A cat yowled from an upper window, swiping at one.

  “Don’t let them touch you,” Moira warned.

  “Why not?” Godric asked, waving his hat at them when they flew too close.

  “Because they’ll steal your memories away. Knew a girl once who forgot her own name. She even forgot she was a witch.”

  Gretchen angled herself shoulder to shoulder with her brother. “Is this more magic leaking from the wards?”

  “Reckon so. The White Lady’s meant to be confined to the markets, inn’t she? And yet here she is.” Moira shook her head. “Best pray the others don’t get loose too.”

  “Why, what do they do?” Godric asked, even as he searched for an escape.

  “The Grey Lady will steal your thoughts, and the Red Lady … Well, you don’t want to know what she steals.”

  The gargoyles swarmed. Chimney pots were clipped by stray wings and talons. They dodged the missiles, covering their heads. “How do we banish her?” Gretchen asked, rubbing her ear where a chunk of brick had bounced of the wall and scraped it. The White Lady turned her head sharply, spearing her with a glare. There was a red heart-shaped patch at the corner of her left eye.