The Importance of Being Emily (8 page)

“A small amount,” Simon continued, undaunted. “Chroniclers feed upon the magic within blood, not the blood itself. As such it is possible for a chronicler to borrow the abilities of the magician they feed upon. Temporarily. I have had some success with it in the past.”

“A small amount?” Michael repeated.

“Yes, of course.”

Michael turned to me, and I knew he was about to convince me to allow it. I hid my face against his chest and held out my arm awkwardly to the side. “Fine, but do it quickly before I come to my senses.”

He patted my hair, but this time I felt little comfort, and I squeezed my eyes shut. I tensed as cold fingers brushed my wrist, pushing my sleeve back.

“It’s all right. It only takes a moment,” Michael assured me, but I flinched when the fangs pierced my skin.

To be honest, it did not hurt. In fact it didn’t feel like much of anything at all, as though my wrist had been numbed. There was a bit of an odd sensation as his mouth pulled at my skin, but it wasn’t bothersome, and it was over quickly, as promised. But before it was, a tingle of energy traveled up my arm—not Simon’s doing, but instead it was an impression of him. He was terribly lonely, more than anyone I had ever met before, and I saw that Michael was the first friend that Simon had had in decades. I was struck by the realization that Simon was just as afraid of losing Michael to me as I was of losing Michael to him, only for different reasons. I felt quite sorry for him. It explained why he was unpleasant toward me.

When my wrist was free again, I pulled away from Michael to examine it. There were no marks, not even a hint of a bruise, and I was surprised by that.

“Do you feel well?” Michael asked.

“I feel fine.” I glanced at Simon, but he was quiet and expressionless.

“See, nothing to worry about.” Michael smiled. Only a murderous master necromancer hidden somewhere within the house, a vision of Michael’s death hanging over me and the impossibility of a future with my soul mate. No, nothing to worry about at all.

“How do you feel?” I asked Simon.

He frowned. “I was expecting a stronger reaction.”

“Reading auras is quite complicated. Unlike most magicians I did not have the luxury of a teacher and learned how to control my abilities on my own. The best advice I can give you is to look past your target and allow your eyes to relax. After a few moments you should catch a soft glow around everything. Living things, mainly, though some objects or areas can hold the aftereffects of energy for a time. Like a teacup, or a chair,” I said. The chronicler nodded, and I explained further. “Auras don’t extend very far. Perhaps an inch or two, depending on how powerful the magician is.” I held my palm just above the sleeve of Michael’s coat to demonstrate. He smiled at me, and I blushed and turned to watch Simon as he stared at his hand.

“I don’t see anything,” Simon murmured.

“I wouldn’t begin with your aura. You’re very dim,” I replied. He looked up and scowled at me, and I winced. “I meant your aura isn’t as bright as a living magician’s.” To confirm this I examined his aura again, and to my surprise it was brighter than it had been before. Still not as bright as mine or Michael’s, but its strength had improved.

“You are more vibrant now than you were earlier,” I commented. “I suppose the difference has something to do with feeding.”

“Vibrant enough to pass for a living magician?” he asked.

“No. Even if it was, you’re…unrecognizable. You don’t have a librarian’s aura, yours is something else entirely. Remarkable. Mr. Farrell’s aura should be similarly so—it may not match yours, but it will not match anyone else’s either.”

Simon stared in our direction, and then he nodded briskly. “Ah. Yes, I see it now.”

“How long will the borrowed magic last?” Michael asked.

“Not very. We should hurry.”

Chapter Six

We prepared for battle in the hallway, and all I could do was stare with growing dread at the door to the wine cellar. I knew the necromancer was in there with a certainty that went down to my bones, and I prayed that it wasn’t Mr. Farrell, more for my sake than his. Creeping tendrils of death slipped like fog from under the door. It was evil, plain and frightening—I’d never experienced anything of its like. And I was expected to walk into the dark heart of it, with only the dubious protection of my librarian soul mate and his mentor.

To keep my hands from shaking I folded them tightly, though a slight tremble traveled up my arms. I wanted to cling to Michael for support, but I didn’t want to distract him. He had enough to worry about as it was, for librarians were not known for defensive magic. Really he had no business in a fight such as this—like myself—but he insisted on accompanying me. Worry creased Michael’s brow, but Simon, on the other hand, seemed nonplussed by the situation. Upon arriving at the wine cellar he had removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and politely asked Lord Willowbrook for a sword, which we were now awaiting the arrival of. It was difficult to decide which was more worrisome, the murderous master necromancer or a chronicler with a sword.

When the weapon arrived, Simon drew it, examining the blade’s edge before belting the scabbard on. “Do you want Farrell killed or incapacitated?”

“Killed,” Lord Willowbrook replied. “I would rather not risk him healing his wounds and attacking other guests. I do wish you would take more people with you.”

Simon shook his head. “They wouldn’t be able to see him, and unless there are any shapeshifters in attendance, I am the only one who can match the speed, strength and resilience of a master necromancer. Even a young one will still outpace any of your volunteers.”

Lord Willowbrook was less than pleased by that idea, but he did not argue.

“Keep the door shut until the deed is done. I don’t want him escaping past us.”

“Understood.” Willowbrook handed Michael a lantern, and Simon led us into the darkness.

The wooden stairs groaned as we walked down them, and I clutched my skirts with sweating palms, my heart pounding. The lantern cast a small circle of light, and it was an anemic comfort. Fear made my vision slow to shift, but once it did I was able to see the auras of my two companions, though the rest of the room remained dark. Or at least what I could see of it—it felt like a large space, with shadows that stretched on forever. Simon moved to the right, and we followed, out of obedience and the fear of being left behind.

“It was an accident,” a voice hissed from the shadows.

I jumped, my gaze darting all around us, but I saw no sign of the speaker. It didn’t sound like Mr. Farrell, but that was difficult to judge from the sibilant words.

“Miss Morgan’s death may have been. I doubt Mr. Gryphon tore his own throat out,” Simon replied.

“Oscar would have been a problem. The Gryphons were all problems.” The phantom voice growled, and the sound echoed. “They never appreciated my talent. They wouldn’t let me have Amelia. Said I wasn’t good enough for her. But you, Miss Wright, were acceptable.”

There was no denying his identity now. I felt foolish for not seeing it before, but perhaps I didn’t want to see it. It was easier to believe in the façade. Shivering, I stepped closer to Michael and the imagined safety of the lantern’s light. Long rows of wine racks filled the room, reminding me of the endless aisles of books in my vision. Lord Willowbrook did have a large estate. I suppose he would need to stock a great deal of wine for the gatherings he hosted.

“Why become a necromancer?” I asked, curious.

“Because this is true power. I won’t be denied anything again.”

We reached the end of the first rack, and more rows disappeared into the dark. A few feet away a table leaned against the earthen wall, and Miss Morgan and Mr. Gryphon’s bodies had been laid out upon it. Their corpses remained as blank as before, but an oily black shadow stood next to them, its head tilted as it stared down at Amelia.

“He’s there!” I exclaimed, pointing at the figure.

“Where?” Michael asked, but Simon darted forward.

“Next to the bodies,” I replied.

Simon struck the shadow, and it snarled and hissed, lunging at the chronicler. The two became a dark blur, and I wrinkled my nose at the scent of freshly spilled blood. Michael stepped in front of me, and I peered around him to watch.

“I still can’t see him,” Michael said.

“But he’s right there.” I pointed again for emphasis.

“To me it looks as though Simon is fighting thin air.”

Worried, I frowned as I focused on the shadow. It had Mr. Farrell’s height and build, but his features were obscured by the darkness. I expected Simon to draw the sword he had requested and attack with that, but instead he fought hand-to-hand. Or rather claws-to-claws, for they both had sprouted wicked, deadly claws from their hands like great hunting cats. There was something feral and frightening about their combat, and I gripped Michael’s arm as I tried to keep track of their progress.

Suddenly the shadow darted down an aisle, and Simon froze. “Where did he go?”

“To the left,” I said. “Didn’t you see him?”

Simon shook his head and set off where I had instructed. Michael and I followed, but there was no sign of Mr. Farrell. When we reached the end of the aisle Simon paused, peering in both directions. He turned back to face us, and I saw movement to the side.

“There! To the right,” I ordered. Simon looked to his right, and I pointed frantically in the other direction. “My right, my right!”

Mr. Farrell lunged at me and I screamed, but Michael shoved me behind him. Unbalanced, I tumbled to the floor as Michael took the blow intended for me, and he grunted with pain. Simon grabbed Farrell and threw him into the nearest wall, and their fight began again. Terror gripped my throat as I stood up, staring at the blood staining Michael’s shirt. It gleamed in the weak light as the lantern swung back and forth in his shaking hand. Claw marks tore through the fabric in a long swipe.

“I’m fine,” he assured me.

“You’re hurt.” I took the lantern from him. I tugged off my shawl and pressed it against the wound. “Hold this tight against it to slow the bleeding.”

“Emily!” Simon called out to me. He was alone again, and I hurried to help him. The area was empty and silent. I stood close behind him, holding the lantern as high as I could.

“We should get Michael to the doctor,” I said.

“I’m fine,” he repeated.

“Our task isn’t finished,” Simon pointed out. “Though your borrowed magic seems to be.”

“Lovely,” I muttered. “Lead on, I will point him out.”

We walked forward, passing row by empty row, until we reached the end of the room. A dark glow moved in the corner, and I shouted, “There!” Simon tore off after him, and I continued to direct him as we ran toward John. “To the right, he’s headed right.”

The chronicler was much faster than we were, and Michael and I were almost to the end of the row when we heard a terrific crash. I slowed, attempting to locate the source of the noise, but then Michael shouted, “Look out!” He pushed me hard and I flew forward, dropping the lantern as I fell. The light died as the lantern broke, and another crash sounded behind me, a deafening mix of breaking glass and splintering wood.

When I regained my breath I pushed myself to my feet and turned, only able to make out auras in the darkness. Michael lay still, pinned beneath the fallen rack, and I screamed.

“No! Lord and Lady, no,” I sobbed. I knelt beside him and took his hand. He was warm, and though his aura flickered, it remained bright, living energy. I drew a breath to call for Simon, but a hand clamped over my mouth as I was yanked to my feet. A small squeak was the only response I managed as I was dragged away.

“Be silent,” Mr. Farrell ordered, a harsh whisper beside my ear. “I need your aid. This is all a misunderstanding. Tell Willowbrook that St. Jerome was the killer. That he attacked us. I will pay you any reward. I can give you whatever you want.” I knew it wasn’t true, for what I wanted most at that moment was Michael. “Will you help me?”

I shook my head, and there was an irritated sigh, followed by fangs piercing the side of my neck. This time the bite was not polite or civilized, and a haze of drowsy pleasure coursed through me. I knew I should fight it, but I couldn’t. My thoughts slipped away as soon as they were formed, leaving me helpless.

A white light flared to life and blinded me, but when I blinked past it I saw Simon standing a few feet away. He held the sword in his hand, and the blade blazed with magic.

“Let her go,” he ordered. Mr. Farrell refused, continuing to drain my blood. “There is no escape for you. If you truly meant no harm to Amelia, let Emily go. She is innocent in this.”

Finally he stopped, and blood trickled down the side of my throat when he drew away. “Innocent? She helped you hunt me.”

“Because it is in her nature. Just as the need to feed is in yours. At least she can control herself,” Simon countered. I was surprised by the praise, and my senses began to sort themselves out, returning to normal.

“It was an accident!” Farrell howled.

“That will not buy you mercy. You will either die at my hand or at the guardian’s when he arrives.”

“I can’t surrender. You know what happens to our kind if we die.”

Simon smiled slightly. “Chroniclers do not share your fate. If you feared burning in Hell, you should not have studied necromancy.”

My head cleared enough for me to act, and I stomped on Mr. Farrell’s foot as I elbowed him in the ribs. It was enough to distract him and allowed me to break free of his embrace.

“Get down!” Simon yelled. I dropped to the floor, and a wave of magic rushed over my head and knocked Mr. Farrell back. Simon leapt forward and stabbed the blade through Farrell’s chest, pinning him to the wall. After a moment he crumpled, and Simon withdrew the blade. “Don’t look.”

I considered arguing, for I wanted to see Mr. Farrell dead, but the bloodthirsty desire vanished at the sound of a pained groan from Michael. I scrambled to his side as Simon struck the final blow, severing his opponent’s head. Blood still flowed from the bite on my neck, but I ignored it, focused entirely on Michael. He moved weakly, and in the pale light cast by Simon’s sword I could see that the top of the rack had dragged along the wall, preventing it from crushing him completely beneath its weight. But he was pinned beneath it, and clearly injured.