The Darkly Luminous Fight for Persephone Parker (4 page)

And yet they dallied and perhaps would have again lost track of time, reason and moderation, had Lord Withersby the Deceased not swept screaming again through the wall. Percy whirled to him with a firm look and a finger to her lips, shooing him off.

“To be insufferable, I see, runs in the Withersby bloodline,” Alexi muttered, placing Percy’s arm in his. “Shall we to breakfast, love?”

As they were about to leave the room, Percy noticed a colourful scarf upon a brass peg. She slid it through her fingers unconsciously, moving to wrap it around her head; such a habit it was, to hide her pearlescent hair and pallor from full view.

Alexi caught her hands in his. “Miss Parker.” His voice was stern, as though she were in one of his tutorials again.
“I would not allow you your shields whilst in my office at Athens. What gives you the notion you would be permitted to hide now?” He sensuously slid the scarf from her neck, kissing her white throat. Percy’s knees and breath gave way in a swoon and she steadied herself upon him. Smirking with a delighted haughtiness, Alexi recaptured her hand. “Come now. A mysterious group awaits us in the parlour below. You’ll be privy to incredible secrets known only to six people within the whole of London, but that the whole of London depends on. Welcome to The Guard, Miss Parker.”

Alexi and Percy descended the mahogany staircase, and the waiting company fell silent. On the arm of their leader who, despite the fact that his attire was not at its usual impeccable best, exuded enigmatic, compelling power, their visionary snow-white lady wore a delicate, elegant fashion.

“Miss Parker,” Alexi said, sweeping her proudly onto the parlour floor, “allow me to salvage some measure of civility after last night’s…adventure. Some here you know.” He indicated a severe, smartly dressed woman at the forefront of the room who regarded Percy with a detached air. How things had changed from the day she sat meekly in this woman’s office! “The Intuition and second in command of The Guard, Headmistress Thompson.”

The headmistress perched tensely on a cushioned bench, buttoned head to toe in grey wool, her stern and stoic quality so similar to Alexi. Percy bowed her head in a greeting, and her voice sounded awkward in her ears, in striking contrast to the divine commands that had escaped her lips the night prior. “Good Morning, Headmistress.”

“Please,” the headmistress said, her expression cool but her tone soft. “Do call me Rebecca, Miss Parker. I believe we all owe you the utmost familiarity.”

“Indeed, then, do call me Percy. All of you,” Percy beseeched the group, offering a gentle smile that was eagerly
returned. Yet, speaking to the headmistress in this capacity was uncomfortable. Percy shifted nervously on her feet. Something strained and painful surpassed the mere adjustment in their roles.

“And Miss Josephine Belledoux.” Alexi gestured to the beautiful olive-skinned woman. “Our resident Artist.”

“Yes, hello again, Josephine.”

“
Bonjour,
Mademoiselle Percy.
Vous et tres belle,
” Josephine said, proud that her fine fashion had been put to good use. She herself was bedecked in a splendid gown that spoke more of a ball than breakfast, but her good cheer seemed celebratory enough to pull it off.

“Merci beaucoup!”
Percy replied.

“And you and Lord Withersby met in Athens library if I’m not mistaken. The Memory.”

Lord Withersby, a lean, flaxen-haired man in exceedingly fine clothes, was draped somewhat rakishly upon a spinet piano. He bounded to his feet and rushed over, kissing her hand. “Elijah, Miss Percy.”

“Good morning, Elijah. Thank you for your generous hospitality. Your estate is breathtaking, and I hope you’ll do me the honour of a tour. Oh!” Percy’s hand fluttered to her mouth. “Please tell me my touch did not harm you. Nothing burning before your eyes like last time, I pray?”

“None at all, Miss Percy, but thank you for your consideration. I’ll be delighted to show you around the estate. Auntie’s away, allowing us the run of the place.” He turned, his sharp face beaming. “Alexi, old boy, you’ve done well. She’s infinitely more charming than you possibly deserve. At last you’ve found someone to make up for your deficiencies of geniality.”

The company chuckled. Alexi’s dark eyes gleamed as Percy affectionately squeezed his hand. “Might I remind you, Lord Withersby, that you’re hardly in a position to poke fun,” he cautioned.

“Oh, you needn’t be worried, Alexi,” Elijah replied. “If there was ever a doubt about your omnipotence, your Royal Eeriness, rest assured that we’ll never again question the throne. We have been soundly beaten, and bow to our great leader.”

“Bow, rather, to my darling Miss Parker,” Alexi said, guiding her forward a step.

Elijah’s eyes nearly leaped from his skull and his hands rose in dramatic flourish. “My God, Alexi, who are you? Either it’s love or a severe blow to the head—though that’s one and the same. Doth the great Professor Rychman defer to another? I’m feeling faint.” The man turned to Percy and groveled a bit.

Percy giggled and glanced at Alexi, whose sculpted lips were pursed in a familiar expression of irritation. “You may call me Percy, too, Alexi,” she murmured, steering clear of what was clearly an ongoing verbal battle.

Her beloved turned next to a tall, hearty woman in a simple dress, sporting dark blonde hair flecked with a few strands of grey. “May I introduce Miss Lucretia Marie O’Shannon Connor, our Healer?”

The woman bounded forward. “Call me Jane, Miss Percy,” she bubbled in an Irish brogue. “The rest is such a mouthful.”

“None of us know whether that mouthful is her true name or, rather, a more romantic offering she dreamed up when we met.” Rebecca smiled sardonically.

Jane’s wide hazel eyes glittered. “The great mystery of our age.”

“Last but certainly not least,” Alexi stated, “Vicar Michael Carroll.”

Michael came forward, his face amiable and ruddy cheeked, his bushy hair disheveled as if he’d been raking it in every direction all morning. Tears wet oceanic blue eyes. “My dear Miss Percy; radiant as moonlight, kind and gentle, with
such a fierce, loyal heart. Oh, Alexi—if I’d met her, I’d have known she was the one in the instant. I am so sorry. My God, to think we might have lost you, dear girl.”

“Vicar Carroll here, our sentimentalist,” Alexi said. Michael reached out and clasped Percy’s hands. Alexi continued. “He is the Heart—a most valuable asset against the forces of Darkness.”

Percy looked into the clergyman’s sorrowful gaze, unsure what to do other than offer a smile, releasing this earnest soul from any further guilt. He excused himself to wipe his face with a handkerchief.

“That concludes our number, Percy,” Alexi murmured. “If you will have us, my dear, your family awaits.”

Percy looked around the room, feeling her orphan’s heart swell in her chest, a giddy rush of grateful blessing. “I’ve always wanted a family,” she replied, and even the sharp Elijah could not help but be visibly moved.

Alexi leaned close, his long, aquiline nose brushing Percy’s ear, causing her to shiver in delight. “Shall I announce our marriage in the Athens chapel tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Percy blurted. She clapped a hand over her mouth, blushing.

“Is it too soon?” Alexi raised an eyebrow.

“No,” Percy gasped, still incredulous at the idea of any husband, let alone this one.

“Good.”

A maid entered and curtseyed. Surprisingly, she did not start at the sight of Percy’s deathly pallor. Either she had been informed or, perhaps just as likely, had grown accustomed to the unusual company Lord Withersby kept.

“Master, breakfast is ready.” She barely concealed an Irish brogue.

“Indeed, Molly, thank you.” Elijah rose.

The maid nodded, her red hair bobbing, and Jane winked and smiled. “Always good to see you, Molly m’lass.” Hearing
her accent, the girl let loose a broad smile and swept away with additional bounce.

The dining room, off the main foyer, was a white room whose carved ceiling rounded cavernously over a sumptuously set table upon a red silk runner. The very latest in gaslit chandeliers blazed above, making the room nearly as bright as the day outside, hazily visible through fine lace curtains and valances drawn and tied with golden cords. Percy, raised in the Spartan atmosphere of a convent, was unaccustomed to such domestic grandeur. When Elijah made an offhand comment about the estate being fitted within the year for the new electric light, she wondered if her simplicity was too evidenced by her subsequent gasp.

As Molly and a second housekeeper cleared the warming trays and the company was bade sit, Alexi, after placing Percy to his right, smugly took the head of the table. Elijah eyed him from the other end.

Alexi patiently waited for the staff to slide the carved wooden door closed behind them before plucking a luminescent white feather from his pocket and tapping it soundlessly against his crystal goblet. Cued by this action, a sudden symphony filled the air. Percy started, looking around her with wide eyes. Alexi turned to her, schoolboy pride glistening in his eyes as he returned the feather to his breast pocket, and said, “A bit of atmospheric noise to discourage eavesdropping.”

“How magical!”

“That’s the
least
of our parlour tricks that may impress you.” Alexi turned to his company. “Allow me to announce happy news. Miss Parker graciously agreed last night to become my wife. We shall return to Athens this evening, where we will be married on the morrow.”

“Tomorrow? In a hurry, are we?” Elijah asked with smirk. He yelped when Josephine, seated nearby, tried to surreptitiously kick him under the table. “Why is it that, in the last
few days, acts of actual physical violence directed toward my person have increased at an alarming rate?”

“Because,” Rebecca was swift to clarify, “your capacity for the daft and the inappropriate has soared to such alarming heights as warrants a sound beating.” Her upraised glass was clinked by a giggling Michael’s.

“In my own house, no less,” Elijah pouted.

“In Auntie’s house,” Josephine reminded him sweetly.

Alexi turned to his betrothed and Percy grinned; meals at the convent had never been this lively. “You see, Percy, around the age of fourteen we were overtaken by the powers that would forever change our lives. The happening also, however, stunted certain persons’ intellectual growth. I believe some of us never actually matured further.”

“And so did those born insufferably haughty and miserable remain similarly unaltered,” Elijah replied, leveling eyes with Alexi as he took a sip of liqueur.

“But for reaping the benefits of an ever-expanding intellect,” Alexi sallied. Elijah snorted. “And so my mind and my heart—the latter of which Miss Parker has taken upon herself to expand—shall be joined with hers in our chapel.”

Percy, without the faintest idea of what to say, delicately sipped her glass of cordial, a blush burning her ears.

Jane smiled and gave a toast: “To the betrothed.” It was eagerly met.

Percy, trembling, nodded thanks to all. She knew she ought to perhaps say something; they were all looking to her. She opened her mouth and wished her voice weren’t so hard to find, but suddenly she didn’t have to say a word. A black rectangle of a door popped to life behind Elijah, who whirled in alarm. A tall, middle-aged female spirit with intense features, tightly pinned hair and a piercing gaze, clad in a snugly buttoned traveling dress of contemporary vintage, stepped to the threshold. Alexi jumped to his feet, blue fire immediately in his hand.

The woman opened her mouth, staring intently at Alexi,
and said a word in a language Percy did not know and could not place, yet understood; uncanny facility with language was one of her many gifts. “Peace, friends.”

Blue fire extended from Alexi’s hands like water from a fountain. Headmistress Thompson rose, her head cocked to the side, her brow furrowed as if in recognition. Percy jumped also to her feet, realizing her ability as The Guard’s new translator might never be more important.

“She says,
‘Peace, friends,’
” Percy repeated the exact words the others had not heard. The Guard started, recognizing their particular language, and Jane’s cup clattered to her saucer.

“You can hear ghosts, Percy?” Jane squeaked.

“Yes,” Percy said, unsure why that should alarm the Irishwoman or turn her a sudden bright red. The spirit at what Percy could only assume was the threshold of death smirked, as if knowing Jane’s secret, before turning to address the company. She was lovely, in an Amazonian sort of way, her nose a hard, long line with nostrils that flared with strength.

“You likely do not recognize me, but I was one of you,” she began. “My name is Mrs. Beatrice Tipton. Born in London, raised in Cairo, I was the leader of The Guard that came before you. The Guard that put the seeds of Prophecy into place.”

Percy repeated this and cringed as Alexi pounded his fist against the table. “Really? Well, then, you could’ve left us some bloody clues, Mrs. Tipton,” he barked.

Beatrice raised an eyebrow. “Destiny cannot hold your hand; you must find and make it for yourselves, else it will not hold,” she retorted. “Fate means nothing if you do nothing to embrace or honour it. You ended up here together. That’s what matters.” Percy translated, attempting to exchange the caustic tone for something more gentle, so as not to escalate Alexi’s irritation. Her beloved sat, grumbling.

“But…I recognize you,” Rebecca murmured, still standing.

Beatrice sized up the headmistress. “The vast mental catalogue that is your gift, Headmistress Intuition, serves you well. Indeed, you of all people must have seen me most. Though I tried to stay out of your way, I did work to make sure the sacred bricks of Athens Academy would fall under your capable auspices.”

Rebecca’s mouth opened at Percy’s translation, and her body tensed as if there were a torrent of questions waiting to spring forth. But Beatrice continued. “Do you recall your first charge, the day you received this fate?” She looked at each one of them, evaluating them, and they nodded. “You served my circle that day. That woman in the hospital was our Healer.”