The Importance of Being Emily (7 page)

We turned a corner into an empty hallway, and after a few steps I paused. “Don’t be.” I looked up at him, feeling that I should say something but without any idea of what.

“Why, were you dreaming of me?” he asked, his tone teasing. I nodded, and he blinked in surprise. “Really? Something lascivious, I hope. Another flight of fancy?”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Sorry to disappoint, but no. It was something quite ordinary, but lovely.” My face heated with a blush, and I looked away. “And unexpected.”

“Emily, I know this isn’t the right time, but I need to explain—”

“You don’t need to explain anything to me.”

“Yes, I do. I need you to know. I have always focused on my studies because my studies were all I had. I have no family or fortune to speak of, and nothing to offer a wife. Especially not a woman of a good family, like you. I knew I couldn’t offer you anything other than conversation, and that is why things have always remained as such between us.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” I asked.

Michael grimaced. “Because that fact hasn’t changed. And because you might refuse to speak to me again after you see Mr. Gryphon’s body. It is much worse than Miss Morgan. I argued with Lord Willowbrook not to involve you, but he insisted that you examine the scene.”

I paled, but then I forced a brave smile. “Then I will count on you to catch me should I faint.”

“Of course.” He offered his arm and this time I took it, glad for the strength of his presence. There was a weariness about him, as though the air was heavier, weighing him down.

Lord Willowbrook was waiting for us, along with Simon and Dr. Bennett, two people I was not eager to see. They watched me closely, and I felt distinctly like a mouse being eyed by a group of hungry cats.

“Are you prepared to proceed?” Lord Willowbrook asked.

“As much as I can be.”

He motioned for us to follow him, and he led us around a corner. The smell hit me first—blood, an overwhelming amount of it. My visions are almost exclusively sight and sound, and because scents are never included I knew this was not part of one. It was real. My suspicions were confirmed when I spotted Mr. Gryphon’s body. For a horrified moment I stared at it, but then I stumbled and turned away, unable to continue. I tried to catch my breath, but the stench of blood overpowered me, and I fought back a dizzy wave of nausea. Michael held tightly to me, probably assuming I was about to faint as I warned I might, but I remained on my feet.

“Are you all right?” he asked. I nodded, afraid to trust that my voice wouldn’t crack if I replied aloud. “Do you want to return to your room?”

“No,” I whispered. A flicker of movement caught my attention, and I looked up to meet Simon’s gaze as he stood near me. Those calculating blue eyes studied me, and I straightened, imagining him belittling my skills and complaining of the inadequacies of female seers. “No,” I repeated, regaining my voice. “I am well. I will continue.” I patted Michael’s hand to reassure him, and then turned my focus to the investigation.

The scene was gruesome, the stuff of nightmares, but I could not allow myself to be distracted by that. Though the blood turned my stomach, I looked past the gore for any signs of magic or any detail that might be helpful. I stepped closer, clutching the skirt of my dress and lifting it to keep it out of the dark pool. There was so much of it…obviously the necromancer had not drained him as he had Miss Morgan. Her death might have been an accident, but this was brutal and deliberate. It almost appeared as though Mr. Gryphon had been mauled by an animal, his throat torn open and ravaged.

Mr. Gryphon’s body was as devoid of energy as Miss Morgan’s had been, but a cloud hovered above him. I stepped closer to examine it. The energy wasn’t familiar, not a spell or emotion. I hesitantly stretched out my hand to touch it, and I jumped at the indignant rage that burned my fingers. The cloud moved, as no residual energy should, and buzzed around me like a swarm of angry bees. I gasped and stepped back, and it followed as I bumped into Michael.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. I think it may be Mr. Gryphon’s spirit,” I guessed.

“Can you speak with him?” Lord Willowbrook asked, and I frowned at him.

“Only a necromancer can speak with the dead,” I replied matter-of-factly.

The cloud moved again, this time rolling away toward a nearby door. I followed as it disappeared through it, and I opened the door. In retrospect, that was probably foolish of me, for the master necromancer could have been waiting on the other side. Thankfully all I found was a servants’ stairwell, narrow and dimly lit. The spirit—if that’s what it was—hovered near the wall. There was the glimmer of a spell there, and I touched it. My hand was burned, and I snatched it away with a hiss of pain. I caught the impression of what had happened. The door had been open, the creature waiting within the shadows for Mr. Gryphon. It was afraid…afraid that he knew something, a damning piece of information. It sprang forth as Mr. Gryphon passed, and he tried to defend himself with a fire spell, but it went wide and splashed against the wall.

I returned to the hallway and relayed the information to Lord Willowbrook, and when I glanced back the spirit was gone. Hopefully it moved on to what lies beyond, though I had no way of knowing its fate.

“Did Mr. Gryphon say anything to you before he parted your company?” I asked.

“No, unfortunately.” Lord Willowbrook frowned.

“I hesitate to mention this, for I don’t wish to make any accusations, but until recently Miss Morgan was fond of Mr. John Farrell. He was not in the ballroom during the time of her murder, and he was not in attendance when I read the auras of the guests there. Perhaps if we spoke with him I could read his aura and confirm whether he remains a sorcerer.”

“I will see that he is brought to you,” Lord Willowbrook said. “First I need to make arrangements for Mr. Gryphon’s body, now that we have determined what befell him.”

“Our rooms are near here,” Simon spoke up. “Mr. Black and I will keep Miss Wright company while you see to that.”

“Is that acceptable?” Lord Willowbrook asked me.

“Yes, that’s fine.” I was not thrilled at the idea of more time spent in Simon’s company, but I trusted that I would be safe with him. Something pricked at my curiosity, and I peered at Willowbrook. “Where did you move Miss Morgan’s body to?”

His bushy white brows rose at the question. “The wine cellar, for the time being.”

I chewed my bottom lip—it seemed a logical place to store a body, but it also seemed a good place for a master necromancer to hide. “Has the wine cellar been searched for the killer since then?”

“I’m sure it has been.”

“Would your men have been able to spot him, if he was hidden in the shadows?” I asked.

“Don’t worry, Miss Wright. I can assure you that they are very thorough.”

I nodded, but unease settled in my mind, and I was plagued with the feeling that there was something I should be doing or had forgotten to do. I took Michael’s arm and let him lead me away, and my distraction continued as I entered Simon’s room. The suite had a small sitting room, and I fidgeted with my shawl as I perched on the edge of a chair.

“You seem unsettled, Miss Wright,” Simon commented.

“It feels…wrong somehow. It is difficult to put into words.”

“The wine cellar concerns you?” he asked.

“Yes. The impression that I had was that the necromancer was not merely lying in wait for Mr. Gryphon, but that he was actually
within
the shadows, as though concealed by magic. If that is true, how could anyone see him without unraveling the spell first?”

The chronicler nodded. “It is within a necromancer’s power to do so. That would explain why no one has had success in locating him… You might be able to do it.”

“Me?” I repeated.

“Yes. You may be able to see the energy of the spell or his aura beneath it.”

“You can’t be suggesting that she search for the murderer,” Michael said, his tone incredulous.

“Miss Wright may be the only one able to see him,” he countered. “But we will wait to hear from Lord Willowbrook. Perhaps we will be fortunate and find that Farrell is the master necromancer, and he is asleep in his room.” Simon smiled dryly, and it was not a comforting expression. “If you wish, I will leave you for a moment. I’m sure you must have matters to discuss.”

“Yes, please,” Michael replied. I frowned up at him, for it was not at all appropriate—though that seemed to be a theme for the evening—and Simon left the room.

I rose, my anxiety demanding that I pace and wring my hands, but I was distracted by Michael’s nearness. I took a deep breath to say something brave and encouraging, but instead I gave in to a need for comfort and wrapped my arms around him, burying my face against his chest.

“That was awful,” I said, my voice muffled.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“I feel most sorry for Mr. Gryphon and Miss Morgan. Their deaths were senseless.”

He stroked my hair, and I closed my eyes and tried to banish all thoughts of blood and murder from my mind. Unsuccessfully. I looked up at him, morbidly curious. “I realize that a master necromancer is quite different from a chronicler, but does it bother you? The thought of drinking blood? It seems so…distasteful.”

“I suppose I have gotten used to the idea. I have never had a problem with giving my blood. It’s quick, simple and painless. Just a bite at the wrist.”

At least it sounded civilized. I glanced in the direction of Simon’s door, feeling a bit better. “Why would they have suspected Simon of killing Miss Morgan, then? There was nothing quick or simple about it.”

Michael blushed. “I have never experienced it myself, but as I understand it a bite can be intimate, under the right circumstances. But as you noticed, Simon isn’t very social. He isn’t the sort to make love to a woman he’s just met at a gathering. That’s more the style of a master necromancer. They are reckless with their immortality. They have no purpose.”

“And purpose is important to the Order.” I smiled weakly. “I know that only librarians can become chroniclers, but do you think the Order would be interested in my aid?”

“Perhaps. It hasn’t been done before that I know of.” He brushed a lock of hair from my face. “I don’t know what to do, Emily.”

“What do you want to do?” I asked.

His answer was to kiss me, and it was a reply I approved of. My worries slipped away, replaced by contemplation of the taste of his lips and the feel of his fingers caressing my hair. I shivered—not from a chill but from the sheer delicious wickedness of it all. It suddenly made sense to me why so many young women risked their reputations for a few moments spent alone with their lovers. If only our situation was less dire, and we had more time…

Time. Don’t forget.

I drew away, intending to tell Michael of my dream. I knew it had been more than wishful thinking, for it had the feel of a vision about it, and I felt he had a right to know. Perhaps we could convince Simon to postpone the ritual, and we could have a short while together. Even if I couldn’t keep him, the shining happiness of that one moment in the nursery would be worth it.

“I need to tell you something,” I began, but before I could continue we were interrupted by a knock at the door. We parted, both looking guilty, and Michael crossed to open it. Simon rejoined us before the door opened, and from the quickness of his response I wondered if he had been listening to our conversation.

Lord Willowbrook entered, frowning darkly. “Mr. Farrell was not in his room.”

“And there was no sign of him?” Simon asked.

“None.”

My heart sank. It had to be Mr. Farrell…or perhaps the necromancer had killed him on the way back to his room after leaving due to his headache. It was less likely, but easier to accept. Less painful than believing that the only men who had ever expressed interest in me were both ambitious to become the living dead.

“Miss Wright thinks that the master necromancer may be concealing himself with magic. If so, she may be the only one who can find him,” Simon replied. All eyes turned to me, and I resisted the urge to hide behind Michael.

“I’m sure the guardian could. When he arrives,” I pointed out.

“Are you willing to risk the possibility of another death in the meantime?” Simon asked.

“No. However, I would like to avoid my own as well. I have no defensive magic.”

“Which is why we would ensure that you are well guarded,” he replied. “I think I may also have a way to aid you in spotting Farrell, but I would prefer to discuss the details of the spell privately.”

I grimaced, not liking the sound of that, and I turned to Lord Willowbrook, expecting him to reject the idea. Instead he nodded slowly, and I wondered if Simon had some sort of mind-control magic I wasn’t aware of. Surely Lord Willowbrook could not be agreeing to endanger my life.

“Where do you wish to begin searching?” Willowbrook asked.

“The wine cellar,” Simon said.

“We will wait for you there.”

I watched in shock as he left the room, and then I turned to Simon. “I did not agree to lead the search for the killer.”

“You are uniquely qualified to do so. We can see that you are protected.”

“How? Does Lord Willowbrook have a spare suit of armor lying about?” Anxious, I stroked my throat and shivered.

Michael touched my shoulder. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I don’t want anything to happen to you either.” His mentor, on the other hand, I might not mind falling victim to an unfortunate demise, though Michael would be upset by it.

“Then I suggest we resolve the situation quickly so that everyone is safe,” Simon said.

I sighed in defeat. “What did you wish to discuss?”

“I think I may be able to aid you in spotting the master necromancer, or at the very least be able to view him as well, with your help.”

“What sort of help?” I asked.

“Your blood.”

“No,” Michael and I said at the same time.

“If you’ll allow me to explain—”

“No.” I stepped away for emphasis, and Michael placed himself between us.