New Blood (26 page)

Crow appeared at the hotel window late the next day and squawked to be let in and petted, but he disappeared again after only an hour or so. Apparently he had much business, of one crowish sort or another, in the city.

The dressmaker was delighted with the coin showered upon her establishment for the rush job. So were the milliner, the glover, and the shoemaker, who blinked at the order for walking shoes in snow-white calf leather. Jax also bought white satin slippers for their meeting.

“I'll never keep them clean,” Amanusa complained as they walked down the hotel corridor to the private parlor where the meeting had been arranged. “Not slippers or shoes. With my hoops, no one will ever see them. Such an impractical color.”

She stopped to look at herself in one of the massive mirrors spaced along the hallway. Her fingertips
brushed the white feathers of her hat sweeping along her cheek. “Why white? You never did say.”

Jax took a deep breath, counseling himself to have patience. Arriving late could be interpreted as having more power, rather than being inconsiderate. “So that any spilled blood can easily be seen. Blood is precious, not to be wasted. It shows on white so it can be retrieved.”

“Oh.” She looked at him in the mirror. “Why didn't you tell me before?”

Why indeed? Because he'd enjoyed being in charge of things for once in his possibly-far-too-long life? “Because you didn't ask before.” He was the servant. Nothing more. Nothing else. Blood servant to his sorceress.

Amanusa blinked at her reflection. “I suppose I didn't.”

“Shall we go?” Jax gestured down the hallway. He would rather arrive on time.

Amanusa looped her arm through Jax's, putting herself at his side rather than in the lead, where he knew she should be. “I'm a little nervous.”

“Understandable.” He scarcely got the word out before she laughed.

“No. That's a lie,” she said. “I'm very nervous. You know what everyone thinks of blood magic, of sorcery. And here I come, presenting myself as the new, the one and only sorceress and practitioner of blood magic. What if they decide to burn me like they did Yvaine?”

“I wouldn't let that happen.” Jax's hands tightened into fists as he drew Amanusa closer.

“You couldn't help Yvaine.”

“She wouldn't let me.” And her fate hadn't mattered so much to him. “She was old, and tired. The magic had hollowed her out over all the years. And it wasn't council magicians who burned her. It was a mob of civilians.”

“How old was she?”

They'd reached the parlor. Jax didn't have to plumb the gaps in his faulty memory. “Remember. You are the sorceress. You hold the magic. You call the power. Don't let them intimidate you. I am your servant. I'll speak for you. You have better things to do than dealing with such mundane matters.”

“Do you mean I have no idea how things are supposed to be done, or that I don't know how to deal with other magicians who aren't trying to kill me?”

Jax winked at her, trying to lighten her mood—though he was surely as nervous as she. “Both.”

He knocked on the door, and when the sharp
“Come,”
rapped out, he opened it and bowed his sorceress into the room.

She swept inside, looking so beautiful, so delicate and powerful and magnificent, that he thought for an instant his heart might burst. It didn't, of course, but it felt too full to hold everything he wanted to put in it.
Would
she ask him to marry again? She hadn't so far. Did he want her to? But this was not the time to consider the matter.

Jax closed the door and surveyed the space as he stepped to the center of the private parlor. Four men rose to their feet at Amanusa's entrance. The tall gray-haired man with the mustache as massive as his head was bald was undoubtedly their leader. The three younger men—a taller, thinner blond; a shorter,
dapper dark-haired gentleman, and a burly man with sandy-brown hair and rough edges not quite knocked off—Jax identified as the representatives for the wizards, the conjurers, and the alchemists, respectively. He didn't know how he knew, but he was certain of the identification. The head of the council was a wizard as well.

“Gentlemen.” Jax bowed and stepped to one side as he spoke. “May I present to you Miss Amanusa Whitcomb, blood sorceress and apprentice to Yvaine of Braedun.”

“Good God!” exploded from the older gentleman.

“Preposterous,” sputtered the blond wizard as he crossed himself.

The stocky alchemist stared silently, intently at Amanusa.

“Goody.”
The splendidly dressed conjurer leaned against the mantel and folded his arms as if preparing to watch a show.

“Get out.” The younger wizard hurried forward, hands out to catch hold of Jax and his sorceress and propel them from the room. “How dare you? How
dare
you bring this, this whore of Babylon to—”

“ 'Old on there, Nigel.” The alchemist caught the wizard's coattail and stopped him cold, though the wizard—Nigel—struggled. “No need to be callin' names and insultin' ladies.” The alchemist's voice carried the unmistakable accents of London's East End.

“She's no lady! And he's spouting lies,” Nigel shouted. “Nothing but lies. Yvaine of Braedun was burned at the stake outside Yorkminster Cathedral in 1642. This woman cannot possibly be her apprentice.”

Ice ran through Jax, from the base of his skull to the end of his spine, and shot out to his extremities. He suppressed the shudder. He didn't know what year this was exactly, but he knew it was 1860-something. More than two hundred years after Yvaine's death. It didn't matter. It was still the truth.

“We're dealing with magic here, Mr. Cranshaw.” The council head seemed to have recovered his composure. “It would behoove us to step carefully before we declare anything impossible.”

The other wizard stopped struggling, but the alchemist kept his grip anyway. Jax approved.

The older man performed introductions, then looked pointedly at Jax, who swept into a low bow, one hundreds of years out of fashion.

“I, gentleman, am Jax, who was blood servant to Yvaine and set upon the task of finding her successor, whom I now serve.”

“You expect us to believe you're two hundred thirty years old?” Cranshaw protested.

“Older'n that,” Tomlinson the alchemist said. “If 'e was just two hundred thirty, he'd've been a babe in arms serving Yvaine, wouldn't he? I'd say he's two hundred sixty, at least.”

Jax wanted to turn around and look at Amanusa, see how she was taking all these revelations. Better than he was, he hoped. His stomach felt twisted into knots. No wonder he couldn't remember things. He had more to remember than any human mind could store. Though he did remember more now than he had when he'd found her.

“In truth,” he said, “I am closer to three hundred and sixty years old, for I served Yvaine almost a
century before her death. And she was old when I was bound as her servant.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Cranshaw jerked himself free of the alchemist and flopped into a chair in an act of deliberate rudeness. “You have no proof. No proof of any of this.”

“Proof's in the magic,” Tomlinson said.

Sir William shook his head. “He could be telling the truth.”

“You cannot possibly believe any of this preposterous claptrap—” Cranshaw began, sitting up in his chair.

“There is a portrait.” Sir William ignored the other wizard's outburst. “There are always portraits of current council members in the great hall, as you know. The old ones are not destroyed, simply moved into storage, or into other places in the council buildings. There is a picture of Yvaine in the library, where the books on sorcery are shelved.”

“Yeah, that's right.” Tomlinson nodded. “I've seen it. You seen it too, ain't you, Grey?”

The conjurer raised one bored eyebrow. “What, pray tell, does a portrait of the last sorceress have to do with the current conundrum?”

“Because Yvaine isn't the only person in the portrait.” Sir William spoke ponderously, almost ominously. “The portrait has a brass plaque on it, dating it to 1557, the year Yvaine bound a blood servant upon the death of her previous one, when she was already more than a century old, so that he could be identified by council members.”

“I remember.” Tomlinson looked hard at Jax. “Bloody hell, it's
him.
That's the man in the painting.”

“You are out of your bloody be-damned minds!” Cranshaw exploded from his chair. “This impostor might resemble the man in that painting, but he is not the same man. He cannot possibly be. The man in the painting died. He died, and has been dead for over two hundred years, set free from the abomination of serving that female.”

Amanusa edged behind Jax, as if for protection. Good. Then she seemed to realize what she'd done and stepped back out. Jax moved to keep her shielded at his back.

“This is a plot cooked up by these two to get their hands on Yvaine's gold,” Cranshaw ranted on. “They recognized the resemblance and—”

“How?” Tomlinson interrupted. “How could they recognize it? Nobody gets into the council library except students of the council school, magicians recognized by the council, and their apprentices. I ain't—I have never seen either one of these two anywhere on council grounds.”

“Yvaine's blood servant is dead,” Cranshaw insisted. “He was killed in the fire when the witch was arrested. You've studied the same history I did. The servant was struck down and left behind in the house when it was burned.
He died.
”

“No, I didn't.”

Amanusa's skirts pushed at Jax's ankles when she moved closer to him. He hated these hooped monstrosities and the distance they imposed. Did she come closer for reassurance, or to offer it? Jax took whatever he could get.

Even Cranshaw fell silent at Jax's words, though more arguments were visibly building up behind the
wizard's eyes. Jax dragged the memories out of the abyss where they'd fallen. “I was struck down, yes. But I didn't die. I wasn't in the house when it burned. I lost my senses for a few moments only. They'd shut me in my lady's dressing room to burn, but it had a small window. I had to dislocate my shoulder to get out, but once I got my shoulders through, the rest of me slithered out behind.”

Amanusa's tiny whimper should have been too quiet for him to hear, but it cut straight through him. Was she distressed on his behalf? The shoulder had hurt like the very devil when he'd done it, but better that than burning.

“I went to liberate Yvaine. Instead, she gave me her knowledge and sent me forth to find her successor. Because of the lies told about sorcery and the women who practice it, I have been this many years at the task. But it has ended. Amanusa Whitcomb is successor to Yvaine.”

“No one has ever told lies about sorcery. It is all truth,” Cranshaw sputtered. “Blood magic is spawned by the devil. It relies on pain and death and torture for its power.”

“How do you know?” Amanusa's voice startled everyone.

J
AX TRIED TO
interpose himself when Amanusa stepped out from behind him, but she caught his arm and pinched it in a silent
no.
He eased to one side, keeping himself closer to Cranshaw's threat.

Amanusa shared her attention among all four men. “How do you know where blood magic gets its power?” She arrowed her gaze at the younger wizard. “Have you ever used blood magic?”

“No, of course not—” Cranshaw sputtered.

“Then how do you know?”

“Everyone knows that—”

“Oh?” Amanusa cocked her head. Jax tried to watch her without taking too much of his attention from the men. “Just as everyone knows that all spirits called by conjurers are from the devil? Just as everyone knows all alchemists are greedy, and all wizards steal babies and trade them to the fairies in exchange for magic?”

“Myth.” Cranshaw dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Fabrications of fearful minds that—”

“Then why is it impossible to believe that what ‘everyone knows' about sorcery might also be the fabrication of a fearful mind? If blood magic draws its power from death, why can only women—who bear the life of each new generation—practice it? Doesn't new life come in blood and pain? Pain willingly borne, blood willingly shed by those who bring forth life?”

“Whore! Abomination!” Cranshaw was almost
frothing at the mouth. The other magicians stared at him with various expressions of disgust, worry, and amusement. Jax watched him for the first sign of attack.

“Good Gad, Cranshaw, there's no need for histrionics.” Sir William frowned at the younger wizard. “Get hold of yourself, man. We don't know anything about blood magic or where the power comes from. That knowledge died with Yvaine. The witch burnings took more than enough of our numbers. It wasn't just Yvaine who fell. Plenty of conjurers and wizards went up in smoke as well. We do not want to start that nonsense up again.”

“Why don't you know anything?” Amanusa sailed a bit farther into the room, Jax doing his best to stay ahead of her. “Didn't you say you had books of sorcery in your library? Doesn't anyone read them?”

“I thought you said you were Yvaine's apprentice,” Cranshaw said scornfully.

“Only a magician with a talent for sorcery can open 'em.” Tomlinson ignored the wizard. “An' there 'asn't been any since Yvaine. We been lookin', but apparently not in the right places. Where did 'e find you? Yvaine's servant, I mean.”

“Jax is
my
servant now.”

Jax liked the way she said that. Quick. Possessive.

“Abomination,” Cranshaw muttered. “No man should serve a witch.” Everyone ignored him.

“I was born in Vienna to an English father and Romanian mother,” Amanusa continued. “After the 'Forty-eight, I lived in Transylvania, where Jax found me.”