Poison in the Blood (11 page)

As the carriage progressed I attempted to formulate a list of crimes that the Order could accuse me of. My visit to the necromancer gathering was first and foremost, but there were many things I was certain that the Order would find fault with. It seemed unfair that they could censure me without allowing me into their ranks. Then again, there was little fair about my relationship with my soul mate.

If only I had been born a librarian, I could have become a chronicler as well, and we would never be parted. A librarian would be allowed to assist in Michael’s research—or in my family’s research, which I had never been included in. Instead, I found myself on the outside of their circle, looking in, wondering if the lot of them would find my person more interesting or my insights suddenly valuable if I printed them in a leather-bound book.

When we stopped and alighted, I stood in front of an enormous stone building that was heavy with age and surrounded with magic so thick I struggled to breathe. I stumbled back, nearly falling as I collided with the carriage steps. The short amount of distance eased the difficulty a fraction, and I gasped for air.

“What’s wrong?” Michael asked.

“Most likely it is the wards. She is invited, so the barrier should not harm her,” Simon said.

He took my arm and propelled me forward, and I cried out at the sensation of colliding with an invisible wall. The moment passed as he hurried me onward, and I could breathe again. I glared at him, wishing my spiteful thoughts could set the ends of his chestnut hair on fire.

The building was some sort of church. Most magicians, or at least to my knowledge most English magicians, were not Christian, because we worshipped aspects of the Lord and Lady. In general magicians knew enough about Christianity to recognize the holidays and make polite conversation when interacting with nonmagical individuals. I wondered why the Scrivener would reside in such a place, but the simplest answer was likely the cause—no one would ever think to find one of the oldest chroniclers in existence living beneath a church. It was odd, but I was grateful that the Order had the good sense not to meet in a brothel.

The church was silent and dark as we moved through it, the tightly packed rows of wooden pews empty at this late hour. We descended several floors via hidden passages and ancient, crumbling stairs. My heart raced and my pulse pounded in my ears as my anxiety grew with each step.

Though it was my seer’s nature to be curious about our surroundings, I did not want to examine the magic around us. I had only met the Scrivener once before at an official Order gathering, and I found his presence overwhelming despite his chronicler’s nature, for the centuries of his existence hung heavy around him. If Simon St. Jerome was a glacier, then the Scrivener was Antarctica, and I hoped I would not have to read his aura. I wasn’t certain what would happen if I did—he had over a thousand years’ worth of memories to spark any number of visions. The Scrivener was almost a seer’s nightmare.

After we had gone through enough of a maze that I lost my sense of direction we entered a dark, damp, dungeon-like space. Four weak lanterns cast a dim glow over the room, each hanging in the center of a rough stone wall. There were no seats, no desk, no bookcases. Only the Scrivener standing in the center, his features shadowed in the poor light. Considering the severity of his frown, he was not pleased to see me.

On the surface, he appeared younger than all of us. Barely a grown man, in fact, with a slight build, short-cropped dark hair, and a scar that marred the left side of his face. An old war wound, likely some sort of blade judging by the thin slice.

“What did Lady Brigid offer you?” he asked without preamble.

“I declined her offer,” I said.

“That is not what I asked.”

I squared my shoulders. “Lady Brigid offered to mentor me if I wished to become a master necromancer.”

The Scrivener folded his hands in front of him while he studied me, and the gesture reminded me of Simon. “What reason did she give for offering this?”

I hesitated, for her opinion on the Order had seemed as sour as my own, and I doubted that they would appreciate her words. Then the Scrivener’s frown deepened, and I decided that honesty would be the best course of action.

“She said that the Order were fools for not taking advantage of my abilities. That you had forgotten that the Lady was both a mother and warrior, and that she would be appreciative of my magic if I became her apprentice.”

“And you believed her?” he scoffed.

“No. She is a necromancer, and therefore not to be trusted. As I said, I declined her offer. But she was not wrong that my magic is being wasted.”

“We are not about to change our structure based on the needs of one initiate.”

“I don’t expect you to. Is there a reason for this summons?” Despite my attempt to sound brave, my voice was thin and reedy.

“I want you to stop aiding Guardian Dubois. Immediately.”

“We’re all aiding her now,” Michael said. Simon blinked at him and coughed, looking as though he had swallowed an insect.

“What my apprentice is attempting to say is that I have combined our investigation with that of Miss Dubois in order to gain access to her guardian resources,” Simon explained quickly.

“Then you will cease doing so. Mrs. Black’s involvement in this investigation is causing concern among the councils.”

I gaped at him, surprised. “How so?”

“Your visions revealed the identity of a master necromancer who was guilty of murder before, at Lord Willowbrook’s ball. If you uncover a second guilty necromancer, people will begin to wonder if you have an agenda, because your soul mate is a member of the Order.”

“But I am not. You have made it quite clear that I am not welcome among you. My actions are my own, and why aren’t the councils more concerned with the trend of murderous necromancers instead of my visions of their crimes?”

“Because murderous necromancers are to be expected. They are ever present throughout our history, and will continue to be so. Seers are unexpected. There is no way to predict what secrets you will uncover if you charge about through London at the side of a guardian.”

“Such paranoia is unnecessary. Mrs. Black’s involvement with the investigation will be under our close supervision. I can ensure her discretion in her findings,” Simon assured him.

“You did not ensure it in the past, Lord Wroth,” the Scrivener argued. Simon did not react to the use of his True Name, but I sensed a flutter in his energy.

Simon’s chin rose a fraction. “I was found innocent of any wrongdoing regarding my actions in dealing with Mr. Farrell.”

The Scrivener tilted his head as he studied Simon. Though Simon didn’t flinch under the elder chronicler’s gaze, I felt another shift in his energy. Stronger this time, with an undercurrent of concern. There was still more to this story than he had shared with us. “You took up a sword and beheaded a master necromancer at a social gathering. Your exploits may not have been officially censured, but that does not mean you are considered to be free from responsibility for them. You have brought discord into the Order and suspicion of our actions by the necromancer council.”

“Would you have preferred that I did nothing?” Simon asked.

“Yes,” the Scrivener said simply. He turned the weight of his gaze to Michael. “From now on it is our wish that you keep your wife on a shorter leash, Mr. Black.”

I scowled and interrupted with a retort before Michael could manage a reply. “I am not a lost puppy, sir. I do not need a keeper.”

“Judging by the damage you leave in your wake, I disagree.”

“What damage? I did not kill two people, Mr. Farrell did, and he suffered the consequences. Isn’t it the business of the Order to record magician history? Why are you afraid that I will unearth knowledge? That is your purpose.”

Anger flashed through him like a sudden burst of flame. “We record. We observe. We share information when it is to the benefit of the Order and other magicians. But some information is not meant to be shared. It is also our responsibility to ensure that we don’t incite disharmony.” Annoyance crept into the Scrivener’s tone. “And you, Mrs. Black, cause chaos.”

“I prefer to think that I am finding justice for the victims of a terrible crime.”

“Justice is often in the eye of the beholder,” he argued.

“Justice is a guardian’s purpose, and one has sought my aid. Who are you to deny it to her?”

The Scrivener snarled. “Justine Dubois is a mewling, impudent child playing at being a guardian.”

“Better than being a moldering fossil playing at being a politician,” I said hotly.

He reached for me, and Michael snatched his arm before the Scrivener could grab me. We all gaped at my husband in surprise.

“Don’t you dare lay a hand on her,” Michael warned. “This has gone far enough. I understood the Order’s desire to keep membership restricted to librarians, but that does not mean that my wife—my soul mate—is not worthy of your respect.”

Though my heart raced like a frightened rabbit’s, it soared at the sight of the husband I had missed—the man who braved the dark to protect me from a murderous necromancer and who would charge into hell and back to keep me safe. He put himself between us, shielding me from the Scrivener. It awed and terrified me.

Simon separated them. “I would have a word with you in private, sir. Michael, please escort Mrs. Black outside and wait for me in the hallway.”

My husband obeyed without argument, and I was grateful for the escape as I took his arm. The heavy wooden door shut behind us, and though I knew I shouldn’t, I immediately embraced him.

“I love you.” I buried my face against his chest.

Michael held me close and stroked my hair. “I love you, too, darling. I hope you believe that.”

“Of course I do.” Though, admittedly, I did feel more secure about that after having witnessed him stand up for me in the face of the most powerful member of the Order in England, perhaps even in the entire hemisphere. But I also knew that any moment Simon would emerge from the room and part us as though we were naughty lovers engaging in a clandestine affair.

Several moments passed in tense silence until Simon finally joined us. He was displeased but unscathed, and I bit my tongue to prevent myself from asking what had transpired in our absence.

“We will continue as part of Miss Dubois’s investigation as planned,” Simon announced.

“Thank you,” I said, and he glared at me.

“Do not thank me for this. Let’s be on our way before he changes his mind.”

Chapter Eight

A note arrived the next afternoon stating that Miss Thistlegoode had gone missing, and that Justine and Dr. Bennett would meet me at the Thistlegoodes’ home. Simon glared after me as I left, but he wouldn’t leave Michael unattended, and Michael couldn’t brave the daylight. This was a matter that couldn’t wait for the sun to set, for every moment that passed was another missed opportunity to find Miss Thistlegoode alive.

Mr. and Mrs. Thistlegoode were so overwhelmed with fear for their daughter that being in the same room with them almost choked me. Thankfully Dr. Bennett rescued me from their presence and led me to Miss Thistlegoode’s bedroom, where Justine was already investigating.

“I see you are without your stray pups today,” Justine commented.

“Yes. Being averse to sunlight is one of the drawbacks to their breed,” I replied. “When was it discovered that Miss Thistlegoode was missing?”

“This morning. Her maid came in to wake her and found the room empty.”

“And they are sure she hasn’t eloped or run off?”

“We were hoping you would be able to determine that for certain.” Justine held her hand out expectantly, waiting for me to give her my gloves.

I nodded. “Very well.” I obliged her, and then turned my attention to the room.

The impressions were much stronger than they had been in Mrs. Harding’s bedroom. The young women were the same age and shared the same girlish energy. When I reached for Miss Thistlegoode’s pillow I found two dolls hidden in the bedding, tucked in next to where she had slept. My breath hitched at the sight, but the touch triggered a vision. Not an all-encompassing one, but rather a faint impression of recent events. Miss Thistlegoode had been sound asleep, and a noise had awakened her. She sat up and rubbed at her eyes, and then smiled at someone standing behind me. I turned to the spot she stared at and flinched at the echo of Mr. Paris.

“Darling,” she exclaimed.

“Oh no,” I murmured.

“What is it?” Justine asked, and I motioned for her to hush.

Mr. Paris sat on the edge of the bed and took Miss Thistlegoode’s hands in his. “We must leave tonight, my love.”

“Tonight? But why so soon?” she asked, her eyes wide.

“Because it isn’t safe. Your parents are beginning to suspect. You must come with me now.”

She nodded—poor dear, how could she resist the lure of such excitement—and allowed him to draw her to her feet. Mr. Paris led her away, and much to my surprise they both disappeared through Miss Thistlegoode’s full-length dressing mirror. Curious, I approached it, hoping for a clue as to where they’d vanished to. The glass rippled at my touch again, and Dr. Bennett gasped.