The Midnight Witch (27 page)

“I understand.”

Druscilla pauses. In the darkness I can sense that she is looking at me as only she can.

“Are you frightened, child?” she asks.

I have to fight to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Nervous, perhaps. Anxious to deal with this … situation.”

“You are right to acknowledge the seriousness of being haunted by someone from the Darkness. Particularly now, with the Sentinels threatening our coven. And if it is true that they are somehow using this spirit … well, that is a grave situation. Imagine how difficult it would be to maintain any secret, let alone the Great Secret, for any length of time, if they have managed to find a Dark Spirit to infiltrate our thoughts. But fear not, we are well prepared. All will be well.”

We ready ourselves by reciting the Lazarus creed and a prayer to Hekate for protection. Then we sit in silence. In the treacly blackness I can hear my own blood pulsing through my veins, my heart thudding a little faster than it should, the air dragging in and out of my lungs. I empty my mind, letting down my guard, an open invitation for the Dark Spirit to visit. Druscilla, meanwhile, is silently summoning him as best she can without knowing his identity. She suspects he is a witch or sorcerer of some kind, and I have told her I think him very ancient, but it is not much to go on. Without more specific information it will be very easy for him to resist the summoning, however skillfully done.

We need not have worried. He does not wait to be summoned, but springs into my mind the instant my barriers are lowered.

I knew you would come to me, little sister, I knew you would seek me out.

Druscilla hears my gasp.

“Is he with you, Lilith?”

“He is.”

You had no need to bring the crone. If you wish to talk to me you have only to let me into your feverish little mind.

“I do wish to talk to you tonight. Now, here, at the moment and place of my choosing, not whenever it suits you in my private life.” I speak aloud so that Druscilla will be privy to at least half the conversation. It is quite likely she will also be able to pick up the spirit’s voice, she is so attuned to the Land of Night. It depends how strongly he resists her.

I believe you are enjoying your status as Head Witch. I believe it is making you arrogant, little witch. You imagine your precious coven to be so powerful. You have no idea what true power is.

“Are you a witch, Spirit?”

Witch! How I hate that word. I have no need of your petty spells and conjuring. I am a sorcerer. When I trod the earth I was the greatest sorcerer the world had ever known. I was lauded and respected. There has not been my equal since.

“When was that? When did you walk in the Land of Day?”

Centuries ago, when your witchery was young.

“I don’t understand,” I tell him cautiously. “If you were so powerful, so revered, how is that now you are content to serve such a dishonorable group as the Sentinels? Why would you ally yourself to their cause?”

I choose the masters I consider most advantageous to myself.

Druscilla puts her hand on my arm. “Ask him who is the Sentinel who has infiltrated our coven,” she whispers. But the spirit has heard and needs no asking.

The old woman is a fool to think I can be so easily swayed! My purpose is not to bargain, not to help the Lazarus witches. I come to state my demands, clear and simple. She is like all Lazarus witches; she sets herself above those who wielded true power with their magic! Such arrogance. There was no greater sorcerer, than I … Men, witches, sages of the ancients, all trembled in my presence! All deferred to me! Had I not been betrayed I would be ruling them still!

I am trying to take in all I am being told when beside me Druscilla utters a sharp cry of pain.

“Druscilla?”

She cries out again. It is the most pitiful, heartbreaking sound, and I know she must be suffering greatly to let herself cry so.

“Druscilla, what is it? What is happening?

I hear the Dark Spirit start to laugh. It is a rasping, dry, unholy noise.

Druscilla gasps, “Oh! Lilith, you must send him away!” Her voice is distorted with effort and pain. “Quickly. He is too strong … he will stop my heart…”

Without hesitating to question or to speak to the spirit further I begin chanting the words of banishment. Over and over, with as much passion as I am able, I speak the antique phrases that will send the spirit back to the Darkness. Still I hear his laughter. Druscilla clutches at me, and I pull her to me, holding her close, willing her frail body to stay strong, to withstand the evil that is inflicting such suffering upon it. She has ceased crying out but is breathing very quickly now, and I fear I will be too late.

Do you think you can protect them all, Lazarus witch? I will turn on all those you love, do you hear me? If you refuse to do my bidding, I will seek out the one who is dearest to you, for I know where your heart lies, and I will crush him, like a beetle beneath a giant’s heel.

“Be gone, Dark Spirit! Leave us! I am not afraid of you. I will not heed your threats, and I will not have you hurt this gentle soul. If you wish to fight, then you must do so with me, not this frail old lady.” I wait, muttering beneath my breath a prayer for Hekate to come to our aid. Then, in an instant, the presence vanishes. The quality of the air in the chamber changes. The Dark Spirit has gone.

“Druscilla?” I clap my hands. “Light! Light now!” The torches in the wall sconces burst into flame. Druscilla is slumped against me, her face pale and pinched, her skin clammy, but she holds my gaze and squeezes my hand.

“Fear not, Morningstar. I am … I am unharmed.”

“Oh, Druscilla, I am so sorry. I should never have agreed to let you help me.”

“Nonsense. What am I for … if not to help my coven leader? Here, help me sit up a little. That’s better.” She takes a moment to regain her breath and her composure. “Thank you, Lilith. Your swift action—your very able action—it saved me.”

“Why would he cause you such terrible pain? I don’t understand.”

“I’m afraid I do, because I know now whose presence we have just withstood.”

“You know who the Dark Spirit is?”

She nods slowly. “His name is Edmund Willoughby. Your Dark Spirit was not just some lowly sorcerer dabbling in spiritualism, Lilith. He was what he says, the most powerful sorcerer of his day. Of any day.”

“The name is familiar.”

“You were always an attentive student. You will have heard him mentioned during your instruction.”

“He said there has been none like him. No one since. Is that true?”

“It would be hard to either argue with him, or to disprove the claim, because Infernal Necromancy is no longer practiced.”

“He raised the dead from their graves?”

“All necromancers of his time would have attempted to do so. Not all were successful. He was. Though he did not have the Elixir, he does not know the Great Secret—the magic he used, the rites and spells, all were of a very different nature to ours. But he was powerful, and because of that he made powerful enemies. His story is a warning to anyone who underestimates the lust for power the Lazarus Elixir can inspire. Whatever his high position, Willoughby was not satisfied. He became greedy. He knew there was a strength of magic that could surpass his own, and he believed it was within his grasp.”

“The power of the risen necromancer…”

“… is surpassed only by the power of a risen witch.” Druscilla nods, finishing the quotation from our Book of Divine Wisdom. “It has always been known that a necromancer who is successfully risen would wield phenomenal power. History tells us that Willoughby instructed his assistant to aid him in the process. He was to administer the Elixir. But Willoughby had jealous enemies. They bribed the assistant, and he did not perform the rites. He failed to raise his master, and Willoughby was left to roam the Darkness. Until now.”

“Now he has found a way back. Through the Sentinels. He spoke of me doing his bidding. The Sentinels’ bidding, do you think? He expects me to give them the Elixir?”

Druscilla’s face is serious. “Tread carefully, Morningstar. He is a fearsome adversary. Whatever he wants, he will not care who suffers in order for him to obtain it. Be aware, child. Do not ever let your guard down again.”

As she speaks I hear again the words the wicked spirit hissed at me as he tortured poor Druscilla so—
the one who is dearest to you.
Bram! He means to get at me by hurting my darling Bram. When I think of the suffering he has just inflicted on Druscilla, an experienced witch, my blood chills. I cannot leave Bram defenseless against such a creature. I cannot.

*   *   *

Bram holds his hands over the small, enameled, paraffin heater he has just had delivered to his room. It is modest, and old, and not sufficiently large to properly heat his drafty attic studio, but it gives a blissful point of heat. Now he will be able to thaw his frozen paints and restore life to his numb fingers when he is trying to work. At first such a purchase had seemed rash, given his worryingly meager finances, but he has convinced himself it is a necessity.

At least poor Lilith will no longer shiver as she sits for me to paint.

He turns to regard the unfinished portrait on the easel. The lamplight offers only tantalizing glimpses of the face he has come to know so well. The face he adores. He longs to continue with the portrait, but to do so in such feeble light would be a mistake. He steps closer to the canvas and reaches out to touch her cheek, and as he does so he senses he is no longer alone in the room. Wheeling around, he is astonished to see Lilith herself, real flesh-and-blood Lilith, standing in the doorway.

“Bram, forgive me, I did not mean to startle you.”

He hurries to her. “You need never apologize for visiting me, any time of day or night. But how do you come to be here?” he asks, leading her by the hand to stand by the heater. “It must be two in the morning … I did not hear you arrive, no voices downstairs … how did you…?”

“Mangan let me in,” she explains. “He was still in his studio and heard my knocking. It seems we are all nocturnal creatures; you were not asleep.”

“I find it harder and harder to still my mind sufficiently to sleep,” he tells her, running a hand through his unruly hair.

“Oh?” She seems concerned. “What is troubling you?”

He laughs at this, sliding an arm around her waist and pulling her to him. “
You,
Lilith Montgomery.
You
are what is troubling me. Either I am utterly taken up by trying to paint you, or by berating myself for not succeeding in painting you, or for not succeeding in painting anything at all because all I can think of is you!”

She appears relieved at his answer. “Ah. So it is my fault.” She smiles briefly, but is quickly serious again. “Bram … I need to talk to you. It is … it is about what I started to tell you the other day. It is important. Very important.”

Still holding her in his arms he resists kissing her, sensing that this is not the moment. “I cannot imagine you would have gone to the trouble of sneaking out to see me at night if it were not for a very good reason. Here, let me take your coat. Look, I have joined the modern age and installed heating!” He gestures at the potbellied stove, but Lilith does not remove her hat or undo the buttons of her winter coat.

“I need to take you somewhere. To show you something. I can’t explain until we get there. Will you come with me? Please?”

“Of course.” He nods his agreement, snatching up his own outdoor garments, before taking her hand in his. Quickly and quietly they descend the stairs and go out into the dark street, where Lilith has a cab waiting. They sit together in silence as they speed along the empty roads. London slumbers through the cold winter’s night. The gaslights give off scant illumination through the freezing fog that billows about them. The density of the air muffles even the clanging of the horse’s iron shoes as it trots on, heading north out of Bloomsbury. Bram has not the slightest idea where Lilith is taking him. Nor can he summon comforting words for her, because he cannot begin to guess what it is that has brought her to him in the dead of night, alone. He squeezes her hand tightly and lifts it to his lips, but even then she does not speak, only responds by leaning closer into him, and continuing to gaze out of the window of the cab into the milky miasma.

At last the cabdriver reins in the carriage horse and opens the door for them. Lilith pays him but instructs him to wait, and then leads the way through the tall iron gates that stand at the entrance to the cemetery. The fog has thickened, and the number of streetlamps lessened, so that the interior of the graveyard is rendered a place belonging to some other, liminal kingdom. Tombstones and funereal statuary loom into view as Bram and Lilith pass them. Droplets of the water-laden night air have frozen onto the needles, twigs, and branches of the many yew trees, so that they appear to have grown gray and whiskery with age. Flowers placed at headstones have likewise acquired a patina of ice that will have chilled the life from them by morning. The distortion of all sounds pulls out of shape even the screech of an unseen owl that protests at the unfamiliar presence of people at such an hour. Bram detects movement off to his left and fights revulsion at two squabbling rats which have dug a tunnel beneath the broken lid of a neglected mausoleum. It is only when Lilith bids him stand beside a grave on the far side of an immense cedar tree that Bram recognizes the place as the very spot where he first laid eyes on Lilith.

How transformed the cemetery is. From the sun-filled garden of remembrance I recall it was on the day of her father’s funeral, to this … this unearthly realm of the dead.

Lilith turns to him now.

“I told you, darling Bram, that I am a witch who speaks to spirits.”

“Is this where you come to do so?”

“No. Ordinarily, no.” She pauses, choosing her words with great care, then continues. “Do you remember, the other night, I was … I was afraid? You saw that I was.”