Whisper the Dead (The Lovegrove Legacy) (2 page)

She was already having more fun than she could ever manage at a musicale.

Even when she found her brother in a stone alcove permeated with the unfortunate stench of the river. She’d expected him to be cornered by some strange magical beast, or at the very least fighting off a gang of thieves. Not drinking whiskey from a flask and holding a bundle of what looked like bird bones. “Oh, Godric, honestly.” She sighed.

He blinked blearily. “What are you doing here?”

“You sent your wolfhound to fetch me.”

“I did not. I sent him to find more port.”

“Well, then, your familiar is smarter than you are,” she said. “And I’m pretty sure magic dogs can’t fetch liquor.”

“Worth a try.” His blond curls fell over his forehead, and there were grass stains on his sleeves. This wasn’t her cheerful, clever brother. She pinched him hard.

“Ouch!” he squeaked. “What the bloody hell was that for?”

“You know what.” She pinched him again. He was too drunk
to evade her; he just looked mournful. It was like pinching a puppy. “You smell like a tavern.”

He scrubbed his face. “I can’t stand it, Gretel,” he said, using his old nickname for her, from when they’d played at being Hansel and Gretel trying to escape the witch’s house. Before they’d found out they were witches themselves.

“You’re going to have to get a handle on it eventually. You can’t go on like this. It isn’t healthy.” She kept her tone brisk. If she showed the barest trace of pity, she was afraid he’d dissolve away right before her eyes.

“The Prince Regent can drink fifteen bottles of port in a single day.”

“The Prince Regent is sweaty and smells like the bottom of a wine bottle. Is that what you want?”

“You used to be nicer,” Godric complained.

“You used to be sober,” she returned, grabbing his arm when he started to tilt to the left rather dramatically. “I can’t believe—
gah!
” She’d forgotten that Godric’s talent for seeing spirits transferred to her if she was touching him.

The broken body of a man in a Roman toga sprawled on the cobblestones, the ragged chafing of rope burns around his throat. The back wheel of a carriage rolled over him. He didn’t notice, only stood up and crossed the pavement to the nearest house and walked through the wall. She caught a glimpse of him on the roof moments later, a glowing rope in his hand. He was stuck in the ghostly loop of his own suicide.

A second ghost, a woman in a Tudor-style gown Gretchen’s cousin Penelope would have coveted, glided over the sidewalk,
the pearls around her neck gleaming sharply. She left a trail of frost like a lace train behind her and seemed perfectly happy to be a spirit. She even tossed a smile at Godric. He clenched his jaw and looked away.

He pulled back from Gretchen, severing the magical connection. “They’re everywhere. You have no idea how crowded London is.”

She couldn’t see the ghosts anymore, nor the winter they left behind. She noticed the scorch on his sleeve and the raw burn on the side of his hand. Ghosts pulled so much energy from the world around them that their touch scalded even as their presence froze everything else. The Greymalkin Sisters’ spirits had done the same thing when they attacked, only they were powerful enough that any witch felt their touch. These ghosts were just on regular ghost business, haunting their graves or whatever it was ghosts did instead of traveling on.

“What are you doing here anyway?” she asked. “Besides feeling sorry for yourself?”

“The Order is sending Ironstone students to reanimate the remaining gargoyles that fled the city last month. After that night with the Sisters, no one wants to take any chances. We need all the extra protection we can get.” He didn’t sound impressed. She was wild with envy.

“That is deeply unfair,” she grumbled. “Rowanstone girls don’t get to have any fun. I’m meant to learn embroidery. And rhyming couplets.” She shuddered.

Godric laughed so hard he had to grab his head when the sound clattered like knives.

“Serves you right,” she said primly. “Anyway, why are they sending
you
? You’re not a Keeper and you’ve only been an Ironstone student for a few weeks.”

“Most of the experienced Keepers are overseas fighting old Boney.”

“They’re fighting Napoleon with magic? Brilliant.”

“All it’s done so far is leave London vulnerable to the Sisters.”

“But Napoleon was captured just last week,” Gretchen pointed out. There had been an impromptu parade with burning effigies and barrels of gin liberated from some poorly locked tavern. Godric told her all about it. “The Keepers should come back soon enough, shouldn’t they?”

“I suppose so.” He blinked. “Why is your hair glittering?”

“It’s glass dust.”

He blinked again. “In your hair? What for?”

“I found a magic sigil on a lamppost and it very rudely exploded.”

He didn’t look surprised. “Again? We’re run ragged trying to keep control of all of the magical wards in the city lately.”

“So the Order already knows about it?”

“Of course.”

“Prats,” she muttered, because she couldn’t resist a good insult at the Order’s expense.

Godric shrugged and nearly toppled over.

“Oh, honestly, Godric,” she added, keeping her tone to that of an annoyed little sister to hide the worry. “Is it really worth it? Being in your cups all the time?”

“It only hurts when I stop.”

She kicked him in the shin. “Don’t be such an arse.”

“Ouch. Can’t you let me die in peace?”

“Certainly not. Now where’s this gargoyle?”

He walked out of the alcove with the exaggerated care of one who is not entirely steady on his feet. He pointed to the rounded dome of the alcove, on which crouched a stone gargoyle with monstrous teeth and surprisingly delicate wings. “I was trying to find a way to climb it without landing on my head.”

“No wonder you’ve been out here so long.” Gretchen had always been the one to scamper up trees and ladders, whereas Godric went green if he looked out a second-story window. “How do we animate it?”

Godric nodded to the wooden box on the bench inside the alcove. When Gretchen opened it, the smell of cedar and honey fought the iron and dead fish of the Thames. Inside the box were dozens of gray silk pouches. She opened one carefully, unfolding the edges to reveal the pale bones of birds. “That’s barbaric.”

“Apparently, the bones are from birds that led happy lives, raised by Bird Witches on the coast of Dover. They died of natural causes.” He shook his head before remembering that he was drunk and it might fall right off. “This magic is rather rum business, wouldn’t you say? I mean, can you see Mother chanting over dead birds?”

Gretchen grinned at the image. “I suspect that’s the real reason she turned her back on the witching world. It’s too messy.” She tried to use the cracked stone as a foothold but her gown was too constricting. She glanced at her brother. “Godric, make yourself useful.”

“I’m not talking to anything dead.”

She rolled his eyes. “Just give me a boost, muttonhead.”

He handed her the silver flask first. “Apparently, they need whiskey as well.” He laced his hands together and she leaped up onto the makeshift step. He’d been lifting her for years, especially inside the pantry to steal biscuits. She steadied herself on the curve of cool stone and then clambered up, stretching to jam the pouch into the gargoyle’s mouth. The creases of the stonework were dark with soot and one of its nostrils was chipped. She added a splash of whiskey. Godric released his hands, and she dropped back down to the ground.

“That’s it?” she asked.

“For now. At midnight, another witch will animate it.”

“Why can’t they feed it too?”

“She’s eighty-seven years old, to begin with,” Godric told her.

“Oh. Well, that was brilliant, but I’m already late for the musicale.”

“Mother will marry you off to some old man without his own teeth if you insist on provoking her,” Godric said as he bent to retrieve his hat. The brim was slightly dented.

“Mock all you like,” she said. “She’ll marry you to a girl who giggles and doesn’t know where India is on the globe.”

“There are worse things, if she’s pretty.”

Gretchen ignored him, knowing he was joking. He didn’t want to be forced into a marriage any more than she did. The difference was, he was so much more amiable and disposed to like people; the odds were in his favor. And, more importantly, he would retain his autonomy and wealth after marriage. Gretchen was legally and socially expected to obey her husband.

Obey.

“I bloody well don’t think so,” she muttered. She must have looked a little wild-eyed as Godric nudged her with his elbow.

“Don’t fret,” he said. “You know I won’t let them bully you.” He paused, frowning. “Did you hear that?

“We only want the girl,” one of the Rovers said, as though it was perfectly reasonable. “She’s already dead, what do you care?”

“Go to hell,” Moira seethed, grief and rage leaving a sour taste in her mouth. She could have spat fire. “Because I
care
.”

He lunged for her. He was built like a bull, with shoulders wide enough to rightfully belong to three people. She dodged to one side but didn’t have anywhere to go, not if she meant to stay close to the boat. His fingers closed in her hair. She’d left it loose, as tradition demanded, to ensure magic wouldn’t get caught in her braids. She’d wanted to save every whisper for Strawberry.

The Rover jerked her to a halt, and her scalp prickled painfully. She angled her elbow up and smashed it into his nose. It barely stopped him, even when blood dripped from his left nostril. Her little gargoyle attacked, leaving more gashes. She jabbed backward with her boot, aiming for his groin. He grunted in pain and cuffed her on the side of her head. She fell to her knees, ear ringing. His friend handed him an iron chain that glowed like blue fire, a contraband jet-inlaid iron spoke pendant on one end. No one made a binding charm like the Order, even in the hands of petty magical criminals.

The other Rovers turned toward Strawberry’s body, the boat bobbing on the end of a frayed rope.

“Gretchen, wait!” Godric stumbled after her, cursing. From beneath the bridge came battle sounds and worse, the sound of a girl fighting off someone far larger than herself. Gretchen barely made out their silhouettes, a rowboat, and a torch sputtering on the ground. She had no idea who she was supposed to be rescuing since the girl with blood on her teeth was laughing.

“I need a weapon!” Gretchen demanded. She was never attending so much as a tea party without a dagger again. Her mother had confiscated her reticule because it was too bulky. It was bulky because it was filled with iron nails, a dagger, and packets of protective salt. Useful things. Not smelling salts and dance cards as her mother insisted was a reticule’s proper contents.

“Wait for me, damn it,” Godric said, but he tossed her the iron dagger he was given when he first joined the Ironstone Academy. When Gretchen joined Rowanstone, she’d received a ring set with tiny pearls and painted with an eye to ward off the evil eye.

Fat lot of good it did her now.

“Rovers,” Godric warned. “Watch yourself.”

Gretchen recognized the girl as Moira, the Madcap witch who had helped them defeat the Sisters. Moira leaped to her feet, flipping over one of the bodies on the ground and kicking a Rover in the face as she landed. Gretchen jumped into the fray, smashing the hilt of her dagger on the back of a Rover’s head.
He grunted and fell. Godric was suddenly beside her, ducking punches.

Gretchen knocked a Rover into the river. The resulting splash arced black water into the air. Two more Rovers thundered down the slope toward them. Gretchen whirled, enjoying herself immensely. Every lesson in pugilism and fencing that Godric had ever taken, he’d passed on to her. Her curtsy might be dismal, but her right hook was sharp as a bloody embroidery needle. Better than Godric’s right hook, it had to be said. A Rover sidestepped his assault and retaliated so viciously Godric sailed through the air, bleeding. He landed hard and rolled out of the way of the next strike.

“Don’t die!” Gretchen shouted at him, kicking the Rover in the back of the knee. “That’s an order!”

“You always were bossy,” Godric muttered, getting back to his feet. He winked at her, catching her worried expression. “That was my favorite hat,” he said mournfully as Moira knocked an angry Rover into another equally angry Rover.

The last Rover cursed and made a run for it.

Moira pushed muddy hair out of her face. “Brilliant timing. Gretchen, inn’t it? You’ve torn your gown.”

Gretchen grinned. “Good. It’s hideous.”

“Who’s he?” she demanded.

“That is my idiot brother,” Gretchen said.

“I prefer to go by Godric Thorn, Lord Ashby, actually,” he said formally, with a perfectly executed bow. “How do you do?”

She looked at him as if he were addled. Her eyebrows lifted when she realized he was serious.

“What did those Rovers want?” he asked. “Should we summon the Order?”

Moira bared her teeth at him. “No Greybeards. And they wanted Strawberry’s bones.”

“Why?” Gretchen frowned, recognizing the name as one of the victims Sophie had murdered to summon the Sisters.

“That’s the real question, inn’t it?” Adrenaline made Moira’s hands shake as she picked up the fallen torch. It was more smoke than fire.

She waded into the spring-cold water, steadying the boat as she lowered the torch. The hay packed under Strawberry’s body caught instantly, hissing smoke. Moira gave the boat a shove and magic pulled it along, flames licking up the sides.

When Moira lifted her hand to display her witch knot, Gretchen and Godric did the same, not sure of the etiquette when it came to crashing a Madcap funeral.

Silently, they watched it drift away until it was a column of fire, golden flames snapping and flickering at the night sky. It finally collapsed, sinking into the dark river, far outside the borders of London. The smoke lingered, fennel-scented and thick as fog.

Moira clenched her fist around her witch knot. “Farewell, Strawberry.” She turned, chin up and eyes ruthlessly dry. “Thank you,” she said to Gretchen and Godric before walking away.