Necropolis (Royal Sorceress Book 3) (11 page)

That’s why they insisted on giving me a history with young girls
, she thought, sourly. But Heather had been thirteen, young enough to be biddable, thanks to the age gap between her and her maid. Raechel was eighteen, a year older than Gwen herself ... and probably not inclined to listen to someone she knew would be spying on her. Gwen might not be under her direct orders, but it could still get unpleasant. Very unpleasant.

“If she refuses to cooperate,” Lady Standish added, “you will take whatever steps you deem necessary.”

She nodded to Romulus before Gwen could ask for specifics. “Take Gwen to the servant’s quarters and introduce her to Janet,” she ordered. “I shall expect them both to wait on us at suppertime.”

“Yes, My Lady,” Romulus said. He looked at Gwen, then gave her a half-smile. “If you will come with me ...”

Gwen curtseyed again to Lady Standish and Madame Hampton, then followed Romulus out of the room. The door closed behind the aristocratic women with an ominous thud.

“A word of warning,” Romulus said, once they were safely out of earshot. “Lady Raechel is no easy person to handle. But she does have a sense of justice.”

Gwen frowned. What the hell was
that
meant to mean?

“But Her Ladyship expects the very best from everyone,” he added. “Don’t fail her.”

Chapter Nine

O
livia slept very poorly after her meeting with Gregory. Her dreams were full of crawling hordes of undead, the nightmare she remembered from London, but made worse by the whispering that followed her as she tried to flee. Normal people, mundanes and other magicians, heard nothing from the undead but moans. The researchers, according to Gwen, believed that the moaning was a form of communication. After all, the greater the number of undead, the greater the level of intelligence they showed.

But Olivia knew better. In her nightmares, as on the streets of London, she could hear the whispers, the endless chant of the undead. She couldn’t make out any words, but the sense was unmistakable. The undead wanted to kill everyone, to build an army so large that they were utterly unstoppable. There was no way to negotiate with such creatures, no way to talk them out of their ambitions. All the living could do was destroy them all and hope they never rose again.

She jerked awake and stared around the dim room, cursing her powers under her breath. It had taken her months to get used to Cavendish Hall; she’d almost killed a maid who’d come into her room on the first day, just to light the fire. Even afterwards, when Gwen had pointed out that she was in no danger, she hadn’t been able to relax for a long time. These days, the maids were always careful to knock first and go away if they received no answer. But there was no one in the room.

Gritting her teeth, she sat upright and wiped the sweat from her brow. Her body ached, both where she’d been beaten by the Cossack and where the cuffs had been wrapped around her wrists. Clearly, she’d been too frozen earlier to feel pain, she decided, as she carefully flexed her muscles. She needed another soak in hot water, she told herself, as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Her legs almost buckled beneath her weight and she hastily sat down. The skin, when she looked, showed far too many nasty bruises that had developed overnight.

There was a knock at the door. Olivia glanced down hastily to make sure she was decent, then called out for the visitor to come in. The door opened, revealing a pale-skinned girl wearing a long dark dress and carrying a small tray of food. Her hair hung in ringlets down to her shoulders. Olivia looked at her face and recognised the signs of someone who had been beaten into submission, just like the whores she’d seen and feared on the streets. They hadn’t been scary, not in and of themselves, but she’d known she was looking at her future. If Gwen hadn’t adopted her, if she hadn’t had any powers, she would have been forced into the brothels when she could no longer pose as a boy.

“Thank you,” she said, trying to keep her voice down. “Please put it on the table.”

The girl obeyed, although it was hard to tell if she really understood or was merely following someone else’s orders. Olivia hesitated, then motioned for the girl to sit on the bed facing her. The girl’s face seemed to pale still further, torn between two sets of orders, then she finally complied with Olivia’s wishes and sat down on the bed, smoothing down her dress in one smooth movement. Olivia felt a moment of pity, followed by the angry realisation that she wasn’t the only prisoner in the complex. But then, she’d seen enough of their experiments to know that it could be far worse.

“My name is Olivia,” she said, remembering the days when she’d been Oliver. Now that she’d filled out, she couldn’t be Oliver any longer. “Do you understand me?”

The girl hesitated, then nodded, so slightly that Olivia almost missed the motion. It was interesting, she noted, that the girl spoke English – or at least understood English – when the Cossacks had clearly not understood a word she’d said. She rubbed her stomach absently, cursing them under her breath. They hadn’t needed to speak to her to get their point across.

Olivia smiled at the girl. “What is your name?”

The answer was so quiet that Olivia had to strain to hear it. “Esther.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Olivia said, holding out a hand. Esther ... it sounded familiar, although she wasn’t sure from where. It certainly wasn’t the name of anyone she knew personally. “How did you end up here?”

The girl shook her head frantically, then scrambled to her feet and practically ran towards the door. Olivia stared after her, realising that Esther had probably been given very strict orders to have as little to do with the prisoner as possible, then turned to the tray of food. It was a stew that tasted of beef and vegetables, with a hard bread that she had to soak in the stew before it became edible. When she’d finished eating, a different girl entered and removed the tray, then nodded towards the door. Ivan was standing there.

“Good morning,” he said, in his unaccented English. “I trust you slept well?”

Olivia glowered at him. The Russian didn’t seem too bothered by her disdain; he merely held out a hand, inviting her to come with him. Olivia hesitated, remembering the pain in her ankles, then stood up anyway. If she refused, he would simply compel her to come to him. But the pain was so overpowering that she fell to the floor, trying desperately not to scream.

“Now, that won’t do,” Ivan said. She felt him walking over to her, then picking her up effortlessly. “Don’t worry. We will fix the pain.”

“You caused it,” Olivia muttered through clenched teeth.

“Yes, we did,” Ivan agreed, dispassionately. He carried her towards the door, then through it and down the long stone corridor. “But we can fix it too.”

They entered a smaller room that was as bare as the others, apart from a long stone table. He placed her down on it, told her to stay on the table and walked out of the door. Moments later, he returned with Gregory in tow. The monkish man smelt as bad as ever, Olivia realised, as he touched his fingers to her ankles. But she started to feel better almost at once.

“I was blessed by the Father Tsar,” Gregory said, when she gave him a surprised look. A Healer. He had to be a Healer. “Where else does it hurt?”

Olivia hesitated. The last thing she wanted was him touching her, not when he smelt as if he hadn’t taken a bath in his life. But her body hurt badly ... she swallowed her disgust and pointed to where her body was aching, hoping he would heal them all. One by one, he touched them and the pain faded away to nothingness. In some ways, she realised mutely, he was a more capable Healer than Lucy. And Lucy was among the best in British service.

“Thank you,” she said, when he’d finished. “But it wouldn’t have been necessary if your men hadn’t beaten me.”

Gregory laughed, unpleasantly. “And would you have done as you were told if you hadn’t been tied up?”

He helped her to her feet, then headed out the door. Ivan pushed Olivia towards it, gently, then followed her down the corridor. They passed through a pair of armoured doors, each one reminding her of the ironclad she’d seen on the Thames, then deeper and deeper into the complex. Finally, they reached a room with a pair of Cossacks standing on guard, holding sabres rather than rifles. Olivia puzzled over it for a long moment – no matter how good they were with swords, a child with a pistol could kill them – and then felt her blood run cold as she realised the truth. Swords were the best weapons, short of flamethrowers, against the undead.

“Once we’re inside, I suggest you obey orders,” Ivan muttered, as Gregory spoke to the guards in Russian. “This is not the time to play games.”

Olivia felt sick as the door opened and the stench of death wafted out at them. Inside, illuminated only by a set of torches on the walls, was a stone prison cell. No, she realised mutely; it was far more than just a prison cell. Iron bars allowed the occupant to be watched by his captors, while preventing him from reaching them without permission. Indeed, the bars were far closer together than was strictly necessary. As a child, she’d wormed her way through iron bars that would keep out grown adults, but it wouldn’t be possible here. A cat would have problems getting through the bars.

But it made sense, she realised numbly. The undead had no sensitivity to pain. They wouldn’t hesitate to break bones, just to fit through the bars. In the cage, they couldn’t escape without crippling themselves permanently. She shuddered, remembering the undead crawling forwards, pressing themselves against the barricades. Even crippled, they were still dangerous.

A sudden flare of light made her blink and cover her eyes in surprise. When she pulled her hand away, she saw a chubby man standing in the corner, producing glowing balls of light. A Blazer, she noted, cursing once again under her breath. She might have managed to defeat a Healer, but Blazers were notoriously dangerous unless one had the advantage of surprise. And if there was one Blazer, there might be others.

She gritted her teeth as she felt despair sinking into her mind, latching on to the commands Ivan had left in her head. It was hopeless, part of her mind argued; there was no way to escape, not even into death. The very thought of suicide was somehow unthinkable. No, all she could do was obey the Russians and give them what they wanted. She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it was the result of Ivan’s commands, yet it was so hard to fight. One day, she realised, she would be theirs ... and she wouldn’t even know that anything had changed. She glared over at Ivan, who smiled back at her.

Damn Charmers
, she thought, remembering Gwen’s tales about Lord Blackburn. He’d come close to molesting
Gwen
, an aristocrat, Master Magician and Master Thomas’s ward. If he’d been prepared to do that, what else had he
actually
done
?
None of them are ever decent people
.

“Look inside the cage,” Gregory said. There was a note of grim ... enthusiasm in his voice that chilled her to the bone. “What do you see?”

Olivia scowled as she saw the body lying on the stone floor. It had once been a young man, but someone had killed him ... judging from the marks on his throat, she deduced that he had been choked to death. Someone had just wrapped their hands around his neck and squeezed, hard. It was impossible to be sure – the room was cold enough to slow the decomposing process – but she had a feeling he’d died only a day or two ago. Perhaps even only a few hours ago ...

“So,” Gregory said. “Bring the body back to life.”

Olivia stared at him. “I can’t bring him all the way back to life,” she protested. Only Jesus had ever been able to bring a man back from the dead. Necromancers could imbue corpses with a shambling mockery of life, but it wasn’t the same. “All I can do is ... make him one of the undead.”

“Then do it,” Ivan said. “Now.”

There was an undertone of command in his voice that reminded her that Charm was always an option. Olivia hesitated, wondering if she shouldn’t force him to compel her anyway, then she pushed the thought aside before it could solidify. If she let him work on her mind again, the eventual collapse into mindless surrender would come sooner, rather than later. Instead, she stepped forward, wishing she knew more about how to use her powers. But Gwen had flatly forbidden her to experiment and it was one rule she’d never even
considered
breaking.

A young girl in Edinburgh had a pet mouse that died
, she recalled, bitterly.
She brought it back to life and took it to her mother, expecting to be praised. Instead, she was killed and her family transported to Australia, just to make sure no word of the affair leaked out. If the population had known that a Necromancer had been born in Edinburgh
...

“It will take time,” she hedged. In truth, she wasn’t even sure where to start. The undead hordes she’d faced before might have obeyed her, but they hadn’t been raised by her. God alone knew who’d turned them into the government’s secret weapon. Gwen had speculated that it had been Master Thomas, but no one knew for sure. “Let me try ...”

“We are patient,” Gregory assured her. There was a faintly mocking tone in his voice that suggested he knew precisely what she was feeling. “Take your time.”

Olivia moved as close to the bars as she dared, then closed her eyes, recalling what little she knew about the actual necromantic process. There had been almost nothing in the books; Gwen had never tried to use the power, while the male Master Magicians had left those pages blank, preferring to pretend they didn’t have the power themselves. No one had really tried to interrogate a Necromancer before killing him, Olivia knew; they’d been too scared of the possible consequences. But it had also left them alarmingly ignorant of how the power actually worked.

“Of all the magical arts,” Gwen had said, months ago, “necromancy is the least understood.”

Olivia tried to feel out her magic. The girls at Cavendish Hall had spoken of feeling their magic crackling through their bodies, as much a part of them as their hands or feet, but she’d never really tried to use her magic. She slowed her breathing, concentrating on her heart beating within her chest, then tried to feel for something new. For a long moment, there was nothing new or unfamiliar ... and then she heard a whisper. It echoed through her mind, as if someone was talking loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to be understood.