Beasts of london, p.20
Beasts of London, page 20
“When did he die?”
“In 1716, during the last witch trials.”
Cecil flipped through the pages until he reached the log of the eighteenth century. He used all of his effort not to appear too interested as he asked his next question in a measured voice. “And where are his bones buried?”
“They’re buried in a—” She broke off. “Why do you need to know?”
“I’m going to resurrect the beast.”
She shivered, and it was not from the cold air seeping through the open window. “What you’re suggesting is necromantic magic. It’s dark, and it’s far more advanced than any witch alive, besides the High Priestess, could attempt. It could kill you.”
“Then I simply won’t fail.”
“Why on earth—? I thought we had given up magic after—”
He shot up. “I cannot give it up because you need a protector, Emily. We need the Moorland Beast. If those soldiers came for us again, or if witch hunters or any of the other monsters out there decide to harm us—”
“They won’t.”
He pressed his hand to his mouth. “It was my fault. I was such a fool to think—I put your life at risk because I was foolish enough to believe I could take care of us. I failed you.”
“You’re making yourself ill, obsessing over what happened.” She placed her hand over his own. “You simply need to rest and let this go, for both our sakes. Tell me you’ll let it go?”
He did not look at her or answer, but he closed the book.
Emily refused to help him find the Moorland Beast’s remains. Weeks passed since their discussion, and Cecil tried his hardest to let her believe he had given up. But all the while, he stole books from Mother’s library and roamed the moors, searching for the fabled burial grounds of the Moorland Beast.
He left no stone circle unsearched, no mound undisturbed until he found the grave in a small underground limestone cave. He would need a large sacrifice that equaled the Moorland Beast’s power for the ritual. For that, he needed to summon an Unseelie Noble.
He had hunted for Knockers, Pixies, and Dryads for weeks in the wild until he had enough blood for the summoning circle. He expected to feel sorrow when he killed them, but all he felt was a pervasive numbness. The beauty of the creatures and the moorland was lost to him now. He saw everything tainted through a grey, bleak shroud.
After he poured the blood in a circle on the grassy, rocky moor, he cut his arm to finish it. The blowback from such a powerful spell knocked him backward, and when his head struck the ground, he fell unconscious as pain exploded in his skull. When he awoke, there was a wolfish Unseelie with wiry patches of white fur on his narrow, snout-like face, pacing restlessly in the circle and whispering dark threats.
It worked! Cecil was giddy and dizzy as he pushed himself upright. I’ve done it!
“A boy summoned me?” the creature growled. “A boney little scrap of a human? I’ll bite his arms off.”
“You’ll do as I command,” Cecil said firmly, though his knees wobbled under his grey witch robes. “You will act as my sacrifice, wolf, and your magic will revive the Moorland Beast.”
The wolfish faery howled a laugh, gesturing one clawed hand to the bones. “You’re in over your head, little witch. Even if that dusty pile of fossils could be revived, just how do you imagine you’ll come close enough to kill me?”
In response, the boy summoned a ball of Fire Magic in the palm of his hand. He smirked when the wolf took a step back. “You’re trying to trick me. The revival ritual is difficult, but it’s not impossible.”
“With the Winter King’s aid, you wouldn’t have to perform a ritual at all.”
“The Winter King?” Cecil lowered his hand. “You’re in contact with the king of the Unseelie Fae?”
The faery’s mouth split into a wide grin, revealing his yellowed canine teeth. “Why do you want to revive this ancient beast anyway?”
“He was a defender of witches and my family’s coven for centuries. With him alive again, we would be protected.”
“Beasts like us are hard to control. Unpredictable. You would have no way of knowing if it would turn on you as beasts often do.”
“What’s your solution then?” Cecil jerkily pointed to the creature, an uneasy smile twitching on his lips. “I imagine it involves letting you live.”
“If you were to possess the power of the Moorland Beast yourself… well, then you would be in complete control of it.”
He felt faint. When he went to sit, he collapsed on the ground, laughing hysterically. “I never considered—oh, but it’s brilliant. That’s the answer.”
“I am so pleased that you see things my way, little witch. Now, if you let me go, I shall contact the Winter King with your request.”
“Contact him now,” Cecil demanded. “Then I’ll let you go once I have his assurance you will not slaughter me when I do.”
The wolf snarled. “Fine.”
The Winter King was more magnificent than Cecil imagined when researching the Courts throughout his life. He was exceedingly tall, broad, and well-muscled. His skin was marble-white and just as taut and cold-looking. A contrast to his paleness was his flaming red hair, out of which grew large spiraled ram-like horns. He was as handsome and fearsome as a sculpted Hades.
“What is your request?” The king spoke in a voice like rumbling thunder. “The leader of my Varg, Bleddyn, tells me you are a skilled witch who needs my assistance.”
Cecil started. He’d almost forgotten the king was even a living thing. He really is like a statue… He hardly seems to breathe! Oh, gods, have I been gawking like a fool this whole time?
“Y-your Majesty,” he began, bowing jerkily at the waist, “I was told you could give me the power of the Moorland Beast. The beast is an ancient creature who—”
“And what will you give me in return?”
Of course. Faery deals, like magic, must always have an equal exchange.
“I—I will offer my services to you. You said yourself that I am quite skilled, Your Majesty.”
“You will ally yourself with the Winter Court?”
He almost nodded but caught himself. “No, Your Majesty. I will agree to serve you however you see fit, but I will not join the Winter Court or be bound to you. I will continue my own pursuits, and I am maintaining my right to be neutral.”
“Neutral?” The king looked less handsome with a cold smile twisting his mouth. “You speak in terms of Fae.”
“Humans are quite like Fae. They have dual natures. Seelie, Unseelie… I know about them all. Every strength. Every weakness.”
As the Winter King studied him, his smile softened into something almost friendly, like a lion suddenly considering a baby mouse. Not worth eating but precious and amusing to toy with. His scrutiny made Cecil want to hide. “I am so curious to see what the other side of your nature is capable of, young man. The power of the Moorland Beast is yours.”
“So that is how it happened. A deal with the Winter King.” The Ifrit’s voice pierced through his mind. “What did you use that power for? Show me.”
When the cobra attempted to slither deeper and deeper, instead of finding the memory, Cecil ran after it. The creature came face to face with a large iron door. There were many locks and bolts to keep it shut. Something inside rattled and thundered against it, but the door did not open.
The chains holding the door groaned, and Cecil threw his back against it to hold it closed with a cry. “Get out of here,” he panted. “You don’t know what will happen if it breaks loose. The king lied—he promised I could control it, but he lied.”
With each passing moment, the cobra was shrinking. Its venomous hold on his mind was weakening. “One day that door will open,” it warned him. “I wonder what kind of beast will claw its way out.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Vera broke away from Miss Lucy’s grasp and ran down the hall. She skidded to a halt in the doorway of Mr. Morris’s bedroom and froze. He was lying on his back on the bed. Witherbones stood on a stool and leaned over his master, dabbing his flushed, sweating face with a damp cloth.
Her breath caught. It was just like when Momma was on the ship to England. The fever came first. Then she never woke up. The room swayed in her vision, and she felt as if the museum was the same boat rocking on a tumultuous sea.
When Miss Lucy grabbed under her arms from behind, trying to pull her away, the child struggled. If she had been the matron, Miss Lucy would have shaken her or had a doctor sedate her. She was stunned when the young woman knelt down beside her and pulled her into a fierce embrace, pinning her arms to her sides.
“Let go of me,” Vera demanded, but her body went limp. “He promised. He promised he wouldn’t die.”
Miss Lucy shushed her softly. “Come now. We must let him rest. Come away with me, Vera.”
After some coaxing, the child followed her with halting steps to her room. When she meekly begged Miss Lucy not to shut her in, the governess left the door open under the condition she would not bother Mr. Morris.
Vera lay curled up and sniffling on the bed. Sitting beside her, Miss Lucy awkwardly patted her back. “It’s my fault,” the girl croaked.
“What’s your fault?”
“He’s dying because of me.”
Lucy flinched. “That is absurd. You are not to blame for any illness. Mr. Morris may be sick, but that does not mean he’s…”
“I brought the likho with me,” Vera continued, stifling a shaky yawn with her hand. “Momma told me to be a good girl, but I wasn’t.”
The woman did not seem to hear her. “If anyone is to blame, it’s likely me,” the woman whispered hollowly. Then she forced a pained, half-smiling expression and covered the girl with her quilted blanket. “Rest now, Miss Vera.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Just for a little while.”
Too exhausted to protest, Vera kept her eyes on the open door until she drifted into a fitful sleep.
* * *
Witherbones padded outside the room, his head hanging so low that the tail of his cap dragged on the floor. When Miss Lucy asked him how Mr. Morris was faring and what had happened, the Brownie explained wearily, “Master Cecil was bitten by a foul snake, milady.”
This confirmed what she already feared, and her blood turned icy as images of her nightmare flashed phosphorescent through her mind. “But he will recover?”
“Aye, but the fever has its fangs in him.” The Brownie shuffled onward, his clawed feet clicking on the floor like an old dog’s. “You may sit with him if you like. He’s hardly conscious, mind you, and in a fitful state. Perhaps speaking to him will help. If you’ll excuse me, miss, I must fetch his medicine.”
Lucy hesitated outside of the door, a misplaced sense of propriety keeping her momentarily from entering a gentleman’s bedroom. Honestly, Lucy, you rifled through the man’s belongings last night. How much propriety do you have left? With a chiding shake of her head, she walked inside.
The room was dark. Thick curtains blotted out the natural light, and the gas lamp sconces were set low. Besides the ornately carved mahogany canopy bed, a tattered, faded Persian rug on the floor, and a floor-length brass mirror partially covered by a cloth, there were few decorations in the room.
A faint whimpering sound reached her ears. “Mr. Morris?” Lucy rushed over and sat down on the stool beside the bed. There was a bowl of water with a damp cloth on the bedside table.
His eyes were tightly shut, and his face was contorted in agony as his body twitched. One arm was draped over his bare chest, and the other was flopped out across the bed and marked with black, spidery veins spreading from a central point at his forearm where two fang marks oozed. The ghoulish sight made her cover her mouth.
Though his skin was shining with sweat, he was shivering. Wanting to relieve his pain somehow, Lucy dunked the cloth into the bowl of water and dabbed his forehead. She started when her fingers brushed his skin. His fever was hot enough to burn her.
“Emily?” he murmured weakly, moistening his lips. A tear rolled down his jaw.
Her tongue felt leaden in her mouth, heavy and stuck. She glanced helplessly at the door, praying Witherbones would appear and excuse her. She did not know how to comfort anyone. She’d traveled all the way to Italy to avoid facing her own ineptitude and cowardice in the face of Mother’s illness.
“It—it’s Miss Lucy, sir,” she stammered finally. “Witherbones will return shortly with your medicine.”
“Lucy? Will you stay with me?” His features crumpled like a lost, confused child. She had never seen him so vulnerable. Usually, he was dressed in outlandishly colorful jackets, waistcoats, and ties too dressy for what the occasion demanded, with far too many rings adorning his fingers. Now he was stripped down to his barest self in a literal sense, his costume gone and his mask of a smile wiped away with it.
She realized how young he seemed now. He was a grown man who had far more experience than she. Yet, despite his travels and worldly knowledge, he had been unprepared for the attack this morning.
“I am sorry that I did not warn you,” she whispered tightly. “You only ever wanted to help me. I should have told you the truth when you asked about the horned woman, but I was too proud to admit I was afraid.”
He stirred. “Water. Please.”
“Yes, of course.” Quickly soaking the cloth in the water basin, she brought it dripping over his parched mouth and squeezed some of the water over his lips. When she moved to soak the cloth again, he grasped her hand and held it like it was the only thing tethering him to the waking world.
“Lucy…” he murmured.
Before she registered what she was doing, she brushed his damp hair away from his flushed face. He leaned into her touch. She traced the lines of his cheek and the bridge of his nose as if she were sketching them in charcoal. It occurred to her distantly that this might be the only time she would ever touch a man’s face.
Witherbones scurried back into the room, and Lucy dropped his hand guiltily and stood so fast the stool scraped against the floor.
The Brownie climbed up on the stool with a silver goblet in his clawed hands. Snapping his gaze over his shoulder at Lucy, he asked gruffly, “Will you help Witherbones lift his head, miss?”
Though it took some coaxing from Witherbones, and some of the medicine dribbled down his chin messily, Mr. Morris downed the strange, herby potion. Soon after, he was much improved. He was no longer shivering.
Miss Lucy retreated to a chair in the corner of the room, staying close by in case Witherbones needed her assistance again, and began to sketch. She flexed the hand he’d grabbed, still feeling the sensation of his strong fingers like a phantom hand.
Eventually, Mr. Morris awoke and sat up in bed. When he looked blearily around and spotted her, he stiffened and went pale. A look of pure fear flashed across his face, his eyes going wide, and Lucy flinched.
Witherbones fluffed up his master’s pillow behind his neck. “You gave me a scare, Master, thrashing about like that. Bad dreams?”
“Nightmares.” Mr. Morris’s features hardened as he asked suddenly, “Were you touching my face earlier, Witherbones?”
“Witherbones did nothing of the sort, Master.”
“No need for embarrassment.” There was a wild, unreadable golden spark in his eyes made wilder by the lingering fever as he briefly met her gaze. “I thought it was quite sweet if not a bit opportunistic of you.”
The momentary rush of heat Lucy felt quickly turned to ice in her belly. Nausea followed as she mulled over his words and was sickened by them. Opportunistic? He cannot be suggesting that I only comforted him for my own sake.
While the faery scratched his head through his cap, Lucy asked the servant stiffly, “Will you check on Miss Vera, Witherbones?”
“Do as she says,” Mr. Morris ordered, waving him off with a scowl. “I suppose someone must watch her.”
Snatching up the covers, he pulled them up to his neck and crossed his arms as Lucy approached. “I appreciate you taking care of me, Miss Lucy. However, I recall asking you to watch over the girl.”
“I was watching her, sir, but she’s sleeping now.”
With a tired sigh, he asked, “Well, what is it you wanted to tell me?”
Bracing herself, she produced the sketchbook from behind her back. “I should have shown you these from the start. You asked me after Madam Hazel’s tarot reading if I knew about a horned woman. I lied when I told you I hadn’t.”
She held up a dark and messily outlined sketch of the horned woman in silhouette. “The truth is, I’ve seen her in my nightmares since I was a little girl. Until a few days ago, my dreams had no bearing on reality.”
When she thumbed to the page depicting Lord Danvers’ corpse, Mr. Morris straightened and held his hands out for it. He took it gently from her as if holding an infant, the softness from before returning to his features. He flipped through the sketches.
“You drew these from your dreams?” He was breathless. “These are skillfully done, Miss Lucy—far superior to your landscapes and still lifes, if you don’t mind me saying. These have a real passion in them!”
Though she initially balked at his casualness, she went on, “I saw Lord Danvers die the night before it happened. Last night I saw a man named Professor Menes Tadros wounded, and I saw a cobra strike you. I take the blame for not warning you, sir.”
She cringed, waiting for his reaction. When he merely studied the sketches with interest, she bristled and snapped, “Well, say something!”
“These are beautiful.”
“What?”
“Your artwork is beautiful, Miss Lucy. It’s a gift.”
“A gift?” She scoffed in disbelief, and her voice shook as she continued. “How are these terrible nightmares a gift? They’re horrific and paralyzing. Since I was a girl, I’ve done nothing but try to block them out with sleeping draughts and lucky trinkets.”
“Why on earth would you do that?” He placed the book on his lap, his focus entirely on her. “Miss Lucy, you are clearly connected to this creature somehow, and I believe you can help us stop it and save many lives. How is that not a gift worth using?”
