The Midnight Witch (35 page)

“I fear,” he begins, “I am not such an able dance partner as Viscount Harcourt. You and he are friends of long-standing, I believe, and now engaged to be married.”

“What has my relationship with Louis Harcourt to do with Freddie?”

“I am merely curious.”

“You have just informed me my brother is in peril, Mr. Stricklend, I have neither time nor interest in your curiosity. Say what it is you have to say.”

“As you wish, I will dispense with niceties.”

“I fail to see how there can be any in this situation!” I snap, causing Charlotte, who has just danced past me, to turn toward me with a worried frown. I must remain calm. I contrive not to meet her quizzical gaze.

“It really is quite simple, Lady Lilith. I am here to ask you for the Lazarus Elixir, for the spell that it requires, and for a list of its components.”

A chill grips me. Such a dread that I am robbed of words for a moment. When finally I rediscover my voice I cannot mask the tension in it.

“Are you quite mad?” I ask. “If you know of the existence of the Elixir, then you must be sufficiently informed about the workings of the Lazarus Coven to know I would never, under any circumstances, relinquish its details. Myself and my fellow witches are sworn to protect the Great Secret, with our lives, if necessary.”

“And with the lives of others?”

The terrible man even manages a polite smile as he forms the question which leaves me in no doubt as to what he has planned. The Elixir in return for Freddie. A simple trade. I glance about the room, but there is no sign of my brother. I am not surprised. I am not being challenged by the sort of person who would fail to put into practice the greater part of his threat. I know that. And now, thinking about what my father taught me, thinking about the dangers and threats he warned me of for so many years, I know who it is who stands before me. Ridiculous tears blur my eyes. I will not cry! I will not let this …
creature
see that I fear him. That I understand the gravity of the situation. I take a breath and raise my chin, putting a little more energy into the dance. I see his expression alter fractionally, registering surprise at my determination, I think.

“I have never, to my knowledge, stood in the presence of a Sentinel before,” I tell him.

“To your knowledge,” he repeats. The thin smile has gone now, and I can see from the lines on his face that this sterner, harsher countenance is more natural to him. “We do not announce ourselves,” he goes on, failing to resist the temptation to talk about his precious group. “Secrecy is the mainstay of our creed. Secrecy and strength. And we are strong, Lilith Montgomery, make no mistake about that. We mean to have the Elixir, and have it we shall. One way or another. You might consider yourself fortunate that I decided to offer you this chance to avoid any … unpleasantness. Leave with me now, take me to your beloved chamber—oh yes, we know all about that, we know all about
you
—take me there, give me what I want, and your pitiful brother will be returned to you unharmed.”

“And if I refuse?”

He pauses for just a few seconds before answering, but the melody suggests the piece is about to end, and I sense he does not wish to prolong our discussion beyond this single, hateful
danse macabre.

“As I said, we will have the Elixir. The time is right for the Sentinels. We will not be denied what is rightfully ours any longer. The only choice you have in the matter is whether you give it to us or you have it taken from you.”

The music stops. I let go of his hand and step back. Around us guests clap with delight, and the mood is happy and carefree, and yet in front of me stands a man who threatens to be my nemesis. I swallow the cry in my voice that would burst forth if I let it. The cry for Freddie. The cry for the girl, the sister, the lover, I cannot ever be. The cry for the fact that no one can ever mean more to me than my duty to the coven. The noise level in the room is enough that I can be confident only Stricklend hears my words.

“I am Morningstar, Head Witch of the Lazarus Coven, and I will never reveal the Great Secret, to you or any other Sentinel, no matter the threat, no matter the sacrifice!”

Before he can respond I turn on my heel and march from the ballroom. From the corner of my eye I see Louis watching me go. I hurry on so that he cannot delay me. The one thought on my mind now is to find Freddie.

In the hallway, maids and footmen scurry to assist me, offering to fetch my cape or call a driver, but I tell them I am feeling faint and I need a quiet room to sit in for a few moments. A sprightly maid leads me upstairs and shows me into a small bedroom. I decline her further offers of help with my clothes or fetching water and suchlike and she leaves me. The second I am alone I stand at the window, eyes closed, and call to my guardians. As they rejoin me I bid them show themselves. At such a time I have a very human need to see them, to make them feel as tangible, as substantial as the threat to me, even though they are not.

My brave captains are the first to come. Their fury at my distress is evident, and they are all for taking off after Stricklend and tormenting him, but I don’t believe he would feel threatened by them. Sentinels are known to have powerful individual defenses against either spiritual or physical attack. Instead I dispatch them to search the house for Freddie.

The Goth I will send to watch Stricklend closely.

Do you wish me to confront him, mistress? I can enter his thoughts and see what lies there.

I doubt even you could breach whatever shields he has in place. No, better you merely observe him.

He will know he is being watched
.

That can’t be helped. At least I will know his whereabouts. If he leaves the ball, tell me at once.

The Goth then fades to nothing before my eyes. I struggle to still my racing pulse and focus my fractured mind. Freddie is still close by, I can sense his presence, but it is feeble, like a fluttering moth that could expire at any moment.

“Oh, where are you, Freddie?” I whisper. “Where are you?” With my eyes closed I can watch my Cavaliers as they charge through the house, room after room, floor after floor, until the youngest and swiftest comes upon a body, supine and inert upon a chaise.

Here, mistress! Here!

Where? Oh, yes! I see him.

I run from the room taking care not to be seen by any curious servants. I have to climb two flights of stairs before I find my way to the guest suite on the third floor. In contrast to Mr. Chow Li’s, this is a pretty place, a place of good taste and refinement and respectability, but the end result is the same, because what has gone on here is the same. I fall to me knees beside my darling brother. He has removed his jacket, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up. His left arm trails to the ground, and from it a thin line of fresh blood that still drips to the floor.

Carefully I turn him over so that I can see his face.

“Freddie! Oh, my poor, dear Freddie!” His skin is a ghoulish green, his eyelids closed, his mouth open. I place my hand against his brow and let out a small scream. He is cold. Dead. Gone. I am too late. Too late! No!

“No!”

Mistress, should he be shaken? Try to rouse him.

Should we call a spirit physician? Or one who treads the earth still?

No. No, there is nothing to be done. I am too late.

My tears fall unchecked now, splashing onto Freddie’s lifeless chest as I lean over him. I have failed him. I have failed Mama. I could not protect him, from himself, or from Stricklend and the Sentinels, and now he is dead, and Mama’s poor battered heart will be broken forever.

“Oh, Freddie.” I gaze at his face, stroking his broad smooth brow.

And in that instant, his eyes spring open.

I gasp, wondering if I can have been mistaken, if, after all, he is still alive and there is still hope. But no, I can see there is no life in those beautiful green eyes. They stare back at me, accusing, reproachful. And when he speaks to me his blue lips do not move, for it is his spirit voice I hear.

Lilith, help me!

“Freddie! Oh, I am so sorry. So very, very sorry.”

You have to help me.

“It is too late. I can do nothing.”

Make me live again. You can, Lilith. I know you can. I’m not ready to die. My life cannot be over, not yet, not like this. It wasn’t meant to be this way. Please, I am so scared. Please, help me!

“Freddie, you don’t know what you are asking…”

Yes I do. I heard you and Papa talking. He told me all about it when I was a boy. At first I didn’t believe, and then when I did I was frightened. But I know you can do this, Lilith. You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to. Father wouldn’t let me die. You mustn’t!

I look down at his ghastly, terrified face. How can I leave him like this? How can I let him go into the Land of Night when he is so very frightened? All of a sudden he is just my baby brother and it is up to me to protect him. It is not fair. He has been made to suffer because of my position in the coven—Stricklend has struck at him to try and get what he wanted from me. None of this is Freddie’s fault. Well, if he must pay a price for my being the Lazarus Head Witch, then it is only right that he should benefit from who I am, too.

I stand quickly, wiping my tears from my face, and hurry to open the door. I shout down for some help and a footman arrives breathlessly.

“My brother has been taken ill and I must see he gets home immediately,” I tell him. ‘Please have my driver bring the carriage round. Is there a door at the rear of the house?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Good, we shall use that. I do not wish to disturb the other guests or cause a fuss. We must do this discreetly, do you understand?”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“As soon as you have sent word to the driver, come back here with another footman. My brother is unconscious and will need to be carried.”

The journey back to Fitzroy Square is barely three miles but feels interminable. I have the driver run in and fetch Withers. We pretend to take Freddie into a room at the back of the house, saying we do not want Lady Annabel worried, but in fact we slip into the garden, Withers carrying Freddie’s limp body in his arms, and hasten down the secret stone stairwell into the catacombs below.

*   *   *

Bram’s attic rooms seem bleak and bare after the opulence of the ball. By the time he slumps onto his bed, still wearing Perry’s second-best clothes, his head is throbbing from a surfeit of noise and champagne. In the distance, the sonorous bells of Big Ben chime four.

The dark before the dawn,
he tells himself.

And yet he has little hope that the new day will bring with it any cheer. He closes his eyes against the gloom of his dreary home and at once Lilith’s face swims before him. She has shunned him, he is certain of it. Going to the ball was a mistake. She did not want him there. He did not fit. It was as simple as that. He watched her dance, first with the viscount, and then with a man he did not know. And then she left. Left the ballroom, left the house, left him. Just like that, without a word. What else could he make of it, other than that his presence was not welcome? Perhaps the truth was that she had only ever considered him someone to be kept a secret. Bram noticed that Louis Harcourt also left the ball, not long after Lilith.

The pain in his head will not let him sleep, so he sits up, rubbing his eyes. He strikes a match and puts it to the oil lamp hanging from a hook above him, turning the wick low to save fuel.

She looked so wonderful, so very beautiful. Among all those glamorous people she still stood out, still shone with some special light.

He reaches over to the table and picks up a sketchbook and stick of charcoal. Narrowing his eyes, he recalls the way she wore her hair, and the cut of her gown. He starts to draw, timidly at first, and then with growing confidence. He can see her so clearly, the tilt of her head, the graceful line of her neck, the neatness of her back, the curve of her hip as she danced. He finishes one sketch, tears it from the block, letting it fall to the floor, and starts another. This time he tries to catch the way she holds herself when she stands still, shoulders back, but not stiff, her dark eyes watchful, always watchful. He draws another picture, and another, and another, until his hands and cuffs are black with charcoal smudges. At last he sketches her mouth, only her mouth, full and sensual, lips slightly parted. As the oil in the lamp dwindles and burns out, Bram lets his hand rest on the paper, his eyes closing again, as he drops into a fitful, dream-ridden sleep.

*   *   *

My senses tell me day has broken, though down here in the catacombs there is not so much as a sliver of daylight to indicate that night has fled. I have been so involved in my magic these past hours I have not been aware of the passage of time. I could never have imagined the power that resides within me, had I not taken the decision to save Freddie from the Land of Night, whatever it takes. The first surprise was the clarity of my own resolve. Since the instant I set upon this path, I have not felt a moment’s hesitation. Freddie was not meant to die; he is too young to have his life so needlessly snuffed out. It was not his fault he found himself caught up in a conflict between rival magic orders. The quarrel was not his, and he should not pay the price. I am his sister, I love him, and I will do whatever I can to help him. Indeed, it was my failing that I could not keep him safe in the first place.

And then there is Mama to consider. She is so very fragile. I fear losing her only son now would send her into a place of such despair that I might never bring her from it.

But, above all this, I am a necromancer. My whole existence is, and has always been, defined by my ability to commune with the dead, to summon spirits to divine the future and gain insight, to use their magic to strengthen my own spells of protection so that I might do good in the world, protect my family, and continue to keep the Great Secret. Surely, it would be denying what I am
not
to use my gift to help my brother. What would be the point of all those years of study and training, all my father’s diligent instruction, all the strength and wisdom of the coven, if I could not use my craft to save someone I love? For centuries, necromancers before me have done just as I am doing now, and many had not the purest motive of all as I do—the motive of love. I can use the Elixir, I can raise Freddie, I can sustain him with spellcraft and regular treating with that precious potion that is at the very center, the heart, of what a Lazarus witch is. There is a price to pay, I understand that. And I will see that nothing is taken that is not paid for. I will not give away the Great Secret, and I will see to it that no one is harmed through my actions. I know I am breaking my coven vows by attempting Infernal Necromancy. Would Father have done as I have done? Would he have sacrificed Freddie? I must follow what I feel to be the right thing. Perhaps, after all, this is a way that my loyalties can be brought together—my loyalty to my family and to the coven. Should not the Lazarus witches be able to withstand such a deed? Will I be cast out for my actions? I cannot know. I only know I cannot abandon my brother.