Whisper the Dead (The Lovegrove Legacy) (35 page)

“Don’t you know better than to—” Moira broke off with a soft curse. Gretchen was kneeling beside Godric’s broken body, her face expressionless. She might as well have been carved out of ice; cold and beautiful and without a flicker of animation.

“Bollocks, what happened?” Moira glanced up at the edge of the roof. “He was rubbish at rooftops,” she added, surprised at the clench of anger and sorrow in her throat. She might not have been in love with him, but he’d been kind. “What was he thinking?”

Gretchen didn’t reply. She simply stayed on the dirty ground, her cheeks dry and her eyes red as embers.

Moira didn’t need Strawberry’s warnings or the sudden prickling pain in her feet to know it was time to leave.

“Gretchen, we have to go.
Now
.”

When Emma and Cormac stepped out of the carriage, twilight was wrapping blue shadows around the city. Emma stared across the river to the massive ship with its painted scrollwork and
figurehead. She pushed at her magic faintly, whispering the words of the Fith-Fath spell to glamour her antlers. Pain raked over her, singing under her skin. Her bones melted. She gasped, sweat dripping into her eyes.

“I wish you’d stop doing that.”

“I can’t help it.” It was like the most painful loose tooth ever, and she just had to poke it. Still, the bleak inevitability of her situation lent her a sort of courage.

“Ready?” He held out his hand and she slipped her fingers through his. “Remember, if anyone asks, I’m interrogating you. Pretend you’re scared of me.”

She squeezed his hand tightly before letting go. He took her to a narrow dock, half sliding into the dark, fetid waters of the Thames. A rowboat was tied up, a single blue eye painted on the prow. Cormac loosened the rope, which gleamed briefly, like silver.

The ship bobbed on the water, wood polished to a sheen and cannon mouths gaping darkly through the gunports. The eyeballs set in bottles along the rail turned in unison to watch their approach. Cormac rowed them to the ladder where he tied off the little boat. He climbed up first, disappeared over the railing, and after a long, tense moment, popped his head back over and gestured to her. She climbed carefully, her leather satchel across her shoulders and her riding habit skirt billowing around her ankles. Cormac helped her over the side and then stood apart, chin tilted and legs spread arrogantly. Two Keepers on the deck looked up from the game of dice they’d been playing.

“You got the short end too, did you, Blackburn?” one of them asked. “Sitting here while the others drink themselves silly with pretty girls. Some May Day for us.”

“Caught this one lurking about,” Cormac replied easily, with a jerk of his chin in Emma’s direction. She swallowed and tried to look frightened and fragile.

“Blimey,” the Keeper whistled. “Look at the antlers on her.”

Cormac’s hand closed over her upper arm. “Move it,” he barked at her, tugging her roughly. When the others didn’t follow or raise a cry of alarm, Emma released a long, shaky breath. There were other Keepers on the ship but they didn’t pay them much mind. Cormac was one of them after all, and he’d gone to considerable effort to conceal his regard for her.

He took her down another ladder and into the hold. She saw the familiar carved wooden screen behind which the magisters had sat to proclaim judgment on her. The hold was empty this time, except for the cages, chains, and nets securing witch bottles. Feathers, paws, and eyes pressed at the glass. The bottles made from clay were sealed with wax, with only a leering gargoyle to hint at their contents.

They ducked under the low ceiling, passing piles of ballast stones for the cannons, coils of thick ropes, and the general clutter of the underbelly of a massive ship. Cormac stopped in a cramped narrow space with an apothecary cabinet built into a cubbyhole. It had dozens and dozens of slender drawers with unicorn horn handles.

“This was meant to be the shot locker,” he explained. “But it
was converted. Measures are worse than witch bottles. Those will just make you mad, but if the wrong person damages your cord, they can work magic directly against you. They can kill you.”

“And mine is in there?” she asked, adrenaline making her stomach drop. There were only a few hours left until midnight. She had to get to the portal before then. “Which one is it?” she asked, looking for brass name plates or painted letters.

“That’s the thing,” Cormac said. “Only Lord Mabon knows for sure. The rest of us aren’t technically allowed to handle the measures.” He peered around once more to make sure they were alone. “But they keep underestimating me because I have no magic,” he said. She suddenly knew exactly how he felt, and she found she really didn’t care for the feeling of being so vulnerable. He tossed her a self-deprecating smile. “The magical wards down here won’t react to me.”

He pulled a drawer open to prove his point. The ship continued to rock gently, the water barrels stacked in the hold creaking faintly. There was no burn of magic, no bells ringing or gargoyles suddenly attacking.

Inside the drawer was a black cord, exactly like the one used to measure her, only judging by the layer of dust on it, it had been here for considerably longer. He opened another drawer and another, revealing more black cords. There was something sinister about them, like venomous snakes that might wake at any moment.

She swallowed. “How am I supposed to know which one’s mine?”

“I’ll open all the drawers and you hold your left hand over the ropes. Your witch knot will glow when we’ve got the right one.”

“And then what?”

“And then we untie it and run like hell, because that will definitely set off the alarms.” He shrugged, grinning comfortingly. “I told you it was a bad idea.”

She grinned back, feigning insouciance. “I’ve known Gretchen all her life. This doesn’t even rate as a bad idea.”

She wiped her slightly damp left palm and then held it over the rope. Nothing.

Cormac opened another drawer, revealed another rope. Still nothing.

It went on for a dozen more drawers, until he was yanking them out as fast as he could. Twilight darkened outside the port holes, and they could barely see. He rifled the cabinet until panic beat at her like bat wings.

The drawer in the bottom left corner held a black rope with a knot tied in the center. Just seeing it made her stomach clench. Bile burned her throat. She knew even before her witch knot glowed faintly, searing her hand, that it was the right one.

Cormac stopped her when she went to grab it. His fingers were warm around her wrist. “Wait.” She tugged impatiently. “The moment you touch that, the wards will break. They’ll know we’ve been tampering with it. Let me carry it until we get to shore.”

She knew he was right but everything in her protested. The need to untie the knot was physically painful. “Hurry,” was all she said.

They skirted the barrels and the ropes and the sacks of salt. Lamplight fell down the ladder, a single small shaft of light that bled brightly into the quiet shadows of the hold.

“Well, well,” someone sneered. “What have we here? A traitor and a thief.”

Virgil.

At first Gretchen barely noticed
when Moira slipped a long chain with a locket over her head.

“Gretchen,” Moira snapped. “Don’t let her win. She killed Strawberry and your brother and don’t you bleedin’ dare let her win.”

Gretchen blinked slowly, realizing that her eyes were burning. Ice glittered on the walls of the building in front of her. Frost covered Godric’s coat, creeping up his neck. His hair froze like needles. Her fingernails ached, turning blue until she stopped clutching at his shoulders. A flash of light scalded the snow drifting around them. It melted almost as fast as it formed.

Gretchen looked up, seeing Strawberry’s flickering silhouette. The snow turned to hawthorn petals.

“Your brother cut a lock of his hair so that I could see her whenever I wanted to,” Moira explained softly. “I keep it in the locket.”

“Godric?” She sat back on her heel, hope slashing through her like a dagger. Desperately she searched the alley, the frigid air above his body, the pavement running along the road beside her. When she didn’t see his spirit, she nearly gagged on the disappointment.

When her shoulders sagged, Moira spoke again. “He said that sometimes ghosts aren’t strong enough to show themselves fully.”

She nodded, biting down savagely on her lower lip so she wouldn’t cry. A cold wind, cobbled together of snow, frost, and hawthorn petals, slapped at Gretchen so hard she was shoved away from Godric. She staggered to her feet. Her arrowhead pendant was fringed with tiny, delicate icicles. It wasn’t protecting her the way it had when she was attacked, it was more that it was recognizing it used to belong to Godric, that he was using it to signal to her that he was still here.

And that he wanted her to leave his body behind and follow Strawberry, who whirled around her and Moira, screeching silently, her mouth full of icicles.

Strawberry’s edges blurred, and Gretchen couldn’t be sure if she was leading the way or being dragged.

Cormac stepped in front of Emma. “Back off, Virgil.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. Not this time,” he said. “I know everything now. She’s a Greymalkin, you fool.”

Emma froze. “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” he snapped. “I know your secret.” He produced a folded letter from his pocket. “I was sent word. And as your Keeper, it was my duty to stop you.”

“You
bound
her,” Cormac hissed. “You left her vulnerable when Sophie is out there.” He lunged suddenly and Virgil staggered back, his nose cracking with the sound of splintered driftwood. He grunted in pain but didn’t fall. They grappled viciously, fists smashing into kidneys, ribs, cheekbones. Cormac was a better fighter, but he had no magic.

When Virgil’s fist hit Cormac in the face, the blow smashed his head back against the wall. It wouldn’t have stopped him for long if Virgil hadn’t followed with a puff of powder that billowed, all pink fire and the smell of burning.

“Emma, run,” he coughed out, even as Emma pushed the magisters’ screen into Virgil. It clipped his shoulder but didn’t knock him down. He kicked Cormac in the kidney.

“If you run, I’ll kill him,” Virgil said.

Emma, who had been lunging for Virgil, stopped dead.

“Sod him,” Cormac said, trying to get up, but he kept slipping on his own blood. The cloud had faded, but he was covered in a fine gold powder. It was leeching strength from him. He was already turning an odd shade of gray.

“You stay right there,” Virgil ordered her.

She had no magic. She couldn’t sear him to ashes with lightning. She couldn’t even make it rain on his head.

Yet.

As Cormac fought the effects Virgil’s spell, he thrashed in agony. The black cord slipped off his shoulder.

“I can tie him up or I can kill him, it’s your choice,” Virgil warned.

Emma wove on her feet.

“What are you doing?” he snapped. “Stop it.”

“I’m—” She let her eyelids flutter and then crumpled. She let her arm fall at just the right angle, covering her face so she could open her eyes just enough to see him. He was turning red. The black cord was by her hand. She could nearly reach it. She stretched out slowly, carefully, as Virgil closed in on her. Cormac used the last of his strength to kick at Virgil’s ankle, tripping him. It bought Emma just enough time to catch the end of the cord.

The ship rocked violently to the left, then righted itself. Cormac slid a few inches toward the ladder. Virgil fell hard to one knee, his footing already compromised by the hit to his ankle.

Emma clawed at the knot until magic exploded inside her. It filled her up until her rib cage may as well have been made of paper. Her skin stretched, her veins burned, her bones creaked. She wasn’t able to move, let alone fight Virgil off.

He yanked Emma up by the back of her riding habit. She snarled at him but too much was happening inside her own body. Magic shackled her before it could release her. Her antlers glowed so fiercely they might as well have been made of fire. Virgil squinted but did not let go. He dragged her toward the collection of witch bottles.

Cormac pulled a talisman off the chain around his neck, trying to break it into pieces off the wooden floorboards. He moved weakly, slowly, his eyes rolling back as he fought to stay conscious. The amulet finally cracked, blowing away the poisoned mists.

As magic continued to shudder through Emma, the bottles responded, shivering in their cages. Emma tried to push her power out, tried to turn the Thames into a stormy ocean, tried to bring lightning down into the hold, tried rain, sleet, anything. Her magic wasn’t ready, all it did was pour more light into her antlers. Virgil hauled her up against a bird cage wrapped in iron chains. There was a dagger in his hand.

The iron lock was open. The chains were loose, rattling against each other.

Inside was a single clay jug.

She recognized it and was instantly full of pain again, as she pushed her magic into its proper place. Her teeth chattered.

Cormac hauled himself up by using the ladder. He looked dizzy and nauseous. And furious. He lurched toward them. “Get away from her.” The amulets around his neck sparked and hissed.

Virgil forced open her left hand and sliced through her witch knot with his blade. He pushed her forward, dragging her palm over the witch bottle. Her blood smeared the clay.

The jug rattled and shook. Misty light leaked through the cracks like icy needles. The iron stopper vibrated, as the force of the magic inside slowly pushed it out of the neck. Silvery smoke followed the light, forming luminescent moths, snakes, and a giant white bird with jagged talons.

Emma tried to back away, but Virgil still had hold of her. She drove her elbow sharply into his sternum, even as Cormac grabbed the back of his collar and hauled him off her. Virgil
used the momentum to drag Emma off balance as he fell, shoving her into Cormac so that they had to steady each other.

“What did you do?” Cormac spat at Virgil, using his arm to keep Emma behind him. She crouched to snatch the black cord off the floorboards and stuffed it into her satchel.