Necropolis (Royal Sorceress Book 3) (34 page)

She started as Gwen touched her shoulder. “Can you hear them?”

Olivia shook her head. “No whispering,” she said. “I can’t even sense their presence.”

“Nor can I,” Gwen said. “They’re completely silent.”

Raechel coughed. They both looked back at her. “Why would you expect to hear them?”

Olivia looked up at Gwen, wondering how she was going to answer that question. One rule Gwen had hammered into her head, time and time again, was never to tell anyone what she actually was. The last thing either of them needed was for someone to try to invoke the Demonic Powers Act – or, for that matter, use the failure to invoke it to bring down the government. With Britain on the verge of war, a political catfight could be disastrous.

“Olivia is a rather unusual Sensitive,” Gwen said, smoothly. “But not much else, I’m afraid.”

Raechel didn’t look convinced, but she held her tongue. Olivia eyed her for a long moment, then turned to look back at the undead. It was impossible to escape the feeling that they were clustering there to keep the foreigners penned into the building – and that they were just waiting for the order before attacking. The Tsar might come to supervise the deaths of the foreigners in person.

“You should have woken me,” Gwen said. She sounded irked. “I needed to see this earlier.”

“You were completely exhausted,” Raechel countered. “And there was nothing you could do.”

Gwen sighed loudly, then walked over and out of the door, still clad in her rumpled dress. A moment later, she returned, carrying two short swords with her. Olivia eyed them with some surprise – she’d never seen Gwen carrying anything other than a pair of pistols – then took the sword Gwen offered her. She’d taken fencing lessons at Cavendish Hall, once the tutor had been convinced that a young woman needed them, but the sword felt heavier than the ones she’d used for practice. Raechel seemed to have no idea what she was doing with the sword at all.

“Remember what I said,” Gwen warned. “Go for the neck and behead them, or make it impossible for them to move.”

She paused, eying Raechel. “Perhaps you should go and ask one of the Russians for fencing lessons,” she said. “I’m sure the one who was waltzing you round the dance hall would be happy to teach you.”

Raechel nodded and left the room, sword in hand.

Olivia eyed her adopted mother accusingly. “You
Charmed
her.”

“I did,” Gwen agreed, looking guilty. “But Raechel would have insisted on staying, if I’d let her, and there are things I want to talk about without someone listening to us.”

She leant forward. “What – precisely – happened to you?”

Olivia frowned, conflicted. Part of her wanted to object, to tell Gwen off for Charming a girl she clearly thought of as a friend ... and Charming her so casually too. The rest of her understood Gwen’s point. Raechel could not be allowed to know everything that had happened since Olivia had been taken from Cavendish Hall. There were details that shouldn’t go any further than Gwen herself.

“They were running tests,” she explained. The whole story came out of her slowly, aided by Gwen asking pointed questions whenever she didn’t understand what she was being told. “I think they were hoping to unlock some of the secrets of magic.”

“Blood transfusions,” Gwen mused. “I don’t believe that anyone has tried that in England.”

“It worked, sometimes,” Olivia said. She smiled, suddenly. “Do you know they found a Master?”

Gwen looked at her, sharply. “How?”

“They killed her,” Olivia said. She grinned, wondering just what the Tsar would say when he found out that a Master Magician had been in the complex ... and never identified. “I don’t think they ever realised she was combining powers.”

“I never did,” Gwen mused. She’d been a holy terror, according to Lady Mary. “But the Russians should have known that talents run in sets, with only a handful of people combining the powers.”

“Maybe they just thought she was an unusual Charmer,” Olivia said, shivering as she recalled the strange girl and her fate. “They wanted to try to get her to use her powers even once she became undead.”

“Odd,” Gwen said. She shook her head. “But they clearly succeeded in making the Tsar into ... what? An undead Necromancer?”

Olivia looked up at her. “Would I still have my powers if I became undead?”

“I don’t think so,” Gwen said. “Would you even have your
mind?
”

Olivia shivered, but said nothing.

“This is just too unprecedented,” Gwen said. She stood. “When Raechel comes back, the two of you can practice with your swords. You’ll probably have a chance to use them, sooner or later.”

“The fencing master liked teaching me,” Olivia said. “Do you think he’ll like teaching her too?”

Gwen smiled, clearly remembering the master’s praise of Olivia, once he’d managed to get used to the idea of tutoring a girl. Olivia, he’d said, had had much less to unlearn than the boys he tried to teach ... and didn’t have their attitude, their automatic assumption that they already knew all there was to know about swordfighting.

“I can see her having a ball,” Gwen said. She looked up as Raechel re-entered the room. “No Russians to teach you?”

“They’re all busy with the defences,” Raechel said. “Sir Sidney wants to see you downstairs, if you’re decent.”

Gwen smoothed down her outfit, then sighed. “See if you can find something suitable for Olivia to wear,” she said. “I’ll go speak to Sir Sidney.”

Raechel eyed her back as she left, then turned to Olivia. “What would you like to wear?”

“Something I can move in,” Olivia said, relieved that Raechel wasn’t going to ask any awkward questions. “Trousers, for preference.”

She watched Raechel leave, then walked back to the window and stared out at the undead waiting patiently for their master to arrive. There were no reinforcements constantly arriving, she saw, just row upon row of the undead. Did the Tsar hope they’d try to sally out and fight the undead they could see, allowing him to ambush them with undead hiding in nearby buildings, or did he have something else in mind? Perhaps his armies were already heading to the south, marching towards the Ottoman Empire. It would take weeks, perhaps months, for them to reach Turkey, but they’d be gathering strength all the while.

“It turned out that the footman has a young son,” Raechel said, coming into the room. “He was convinced to donate a couple of pairs of trousers and shirts. But I suggest you bind up your breasts.”

Olivia turned to see Raechel holding a pair of dark trousers and two white shirts, then glanced down at her chest. On the streets, she had dreaded the day when her breasts first started to appear, knowing that it would mean the end of her life. There was no way she could pass for a boy now. But now, part of her didn’t mind any longer. She would never have to go back to the streets.

“I can try,” she said, as she pulled on the trousers. They felt rough and uncomfortable against her bare skin, but at least they weren’t a silly dress. She struggled with her breasts for a few moments, binding them up with the remains of one of the dresses, before pulling the shirt over her chest. “How do I look?”

“Pretty,” Raechel said. “Adopted?”

Olivia
looked
at her. “Do I look young enough to be her daughter?”

“No,” Raechel said, dryly. “But how did you two meet?”

“Long story,” Olivia said. She stood and picked up one of the swords, hefting it in her hand. “Let me show you how to handle this properly.”

“I think I need a bigger sword,” Raechel said, as she picked up her own blade. “How am I meant to slice off their heads without being grabbed and bitten?”

“You’re not strong enough to carry a heavier blade,” Olivia said, firmly. She still recalled the first time she’d picked up a heavy blade in Cavendish Hall. It had been so heavy that she had almost dropped it seconds later. “And you need to hold the weapon upright at all times, rather than lean on it or put it down when you’re not fighting.”

She gave Raechel a cautionary look, then started to demonstrate the correct way to handle the blade. It felt odd, compared to the fencing blades she was used to using at Cavendish Hall, very clearly a dangerous weapon. There were no Healers in the building, she reminded herself, and the closest Healer she knew was Gregory. It was unlikely he would do anything to heal a foreigner, particularly someone who might fight the army of undead.

Olivia sighed. Normally, she would have fenced lightly with her partner, but now she merely concentrated on how to thrust, parry and defend oneself. The undead weren’t likely to come at them with swords. She’d certainly never seen them using anything more than hands and teeth as they charged their enemies.

“Go for the neck,” she said, again and again. “I’ve seen the undead take blows to the chest that leave them torn in half and yet they keep coming forward, crawling on their hands until they are smashed flat.”

Raechel gave her an odd look. “You were in London?”

“Yes,” Olivia said, flatly. She found it hard to like Raechel, even though she understood what Gwen saw in her. They were very alike, in many ways. “I was at the barricades during the Swing.” She watched Raechel’s expression furrow and sighed, inwardly. “Where were you during the Swing?”

“At my father’s estate,” Raechel said. There was a bitter tone in her voice. “My parents died shortly afterwards, leaving me in the care of my Aunt and Uncle. But they weren’t back in London until recently.”

Olivia shrugged. At least Raechel had known her parents. Olivia hadn’t known her father at all, while her mother had died while she was very young. Raechel looked slightly put out by her reaction, but it wasn’t something Olivia wanted to explain. Raechel was dangerously smart, smart enough to wonder why a mere Sensitive would be considered a suitable adopted daughter for the Royal Sorceress.

“My arm aches,” Raechel said, changing the subject. “Why?”

Olivia smirked. “Are you used to waving a sword about the room?”

Raechel shook her head. Olivia smiled, remembering how much she’d ached after the first few sessions, despite her tolerance for pain and discomfort. Raechel might be a fun person, but Olivia would have bet good money she’d never suffered any real discomfort in her life, even after her parents had died. The young aristocrats might feel the weight of their father’s hand from time to time – or the Sergeant’s cane, if they lived in Cavendish Hall – yet they’d never been starved almost to death. Nor had they had to struggle to find enough money to get a place to stay for the night, or sell their bodies just to stay alive. The little bastards didn’t know discomfort.

“You’ll be fine,” Olivia promised. She’d healed quickly, even without Lucy’s help, but Raechel didn’t seem to have any magic. There was no way to know just how quickly she would recover from anything. “You just need to build up the tolerance to handle the sword.”

Raechel looked oddly hopeful. “Can I pretend they have the face of my Aunt?”

“If you want,” Olivia said. She’d never thought of any of her fencing partners as her tormentors at Cavendish Hall; indeed, her tutor had strongly discouraged it. But now ... she could think of the undead as having Gregory’s face. It would help her behead them before they got to her. “Or think of them as having the face of your least favourite society butterfly, if you wish.”

“Still my Aunt,” Raechel said. She grinned at Olivia, then picked up the sword again, wincing slightly. “More practice?”

Olivia smiled. “Pain is how you know you’re stretching your muscles,” she said, remembering one of her tutor’s sayings. He’d never held back, once he’d finally grasped the idea that he was meant to be training a girl how to fence. “But you have to be careful not to take it too far.”

She paused as a banging sound echoed down the corridor. “What was that?”

Raechel smirked. It wasn’t a pleasant expression. “Oh, just my Aunt,” she said, airily. “She’s locked in her bedroom. I don’t think she likes it very much.”

She shrugged, her face hardening. “She’s locked me in once or twice too,” she added, nastily. “Serves her right.”

Olivia had to laugh. Somehow, she discovered that she quite liked Raechel after all.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I
n the sunlight, Gwen couldn’t help realising that Moscow was almost beautiful. It didn’t have the elegance of St Petersburg, but it had a style all of its own, particularly the core of the city. The reddish-brown buildings, some glittering with gold paint in the sunlight, were strikingly different from London. But the screams – and the hordes of undead moving through the streets – painted a very different picture. Moscow was fast becoming a city of the dead.

A Necropolis
, Gwen thought, recalling just how many plays had been set in infested cities and towns after the first outbreaks of undead creatures.
But there’s no one here to save the day.

She floated in the air, looking down at the dying city below. There were no signs of any humans in view, just the endlessly marching undead, breaking into houses, searching for any traces of the living and then moving on to the next house. It was almost hypnotic; they searched one house, then they searched it again and again, as if they didn’t quite realise that they’d searched the house already. Gwen hoped that meant that the Tsar, wherever he was, was having problems coordinating so many undead at once, no matter how far his mind had expanded. Or maybe he was just thinking of something else.

The undead paid her no heed as they moved about their deadly work. Her blood ran cold as she saw newcomers joining their ranks; men, women and children, some barely old enough to walk. Most of them were dressed in nightclothes, but others were naked, not that it mattered any longer. Their faces were twisted into savage masks, each one displaying a desperate hunger; their eyes burned with eerie yellow light. The only consolation, as far as she could see, was that none of them were carrying weapons. It looked impossible for the Tsar to coordinate an infantry unit made up of undead.

Unless he is just learning how to use his new abilities
, Gwen thought.
He may master it soon enough
.