Poison in the Blood (7 page)

“Merely to talk. The hour is growing late. I think it would be best if we all retired for the evening.”

“Of course,” she agreed. I knew she would ask again once we were safely away in the carriage, and I did not mind that. At the moment I wanted to be far away from the necromancers and their “celebration”.

Miss Dubois led us out of the brothel, and though I tried to keep my focus on the guardian’s back I found my gaze tempted away to the goings-on around us. How could Lady Brigid believe that I, a respectable wife and mother, would ever willingly join an organization that thought an orgy was an appropriate way to celebrate Midsummer? Perhaps she didn’t approve of their actions. Perhaps she was different from the rest of her necromancer brethren. Even so, it was a ridiculous idea, and I refused to let it distract me further.

“The council is afraid,” I announced upon our arrival within the carriage.

“Afraid?” Miss Dubois repeated.

I nodded. “Very much so. They fear that the killer is a master necromancer who is outside of their community, and as such his—or her—crimes will continue to damage their reputation, and they are powerless to stop that.”

Dr. Bennett snorted. “It is difficult to believe that they are concerned about their reputation after a display like that.”

“Agreed. However, Lady Brigid did offer to aid you in any way she could, Miss Dubois.”

“That may come in handy. What did she speak with you about?”

“She wanted to recruit me. I politely declined.” I smiled dryly. “What is our next step?”

“I will arrange for you and I to attend the next poetry salon that Mrs. Harding frequented. What name do you publish under?” Miss Dubois asked.

“E. M. Rose,” I replied.

When I returned home I attempted to go straight to my room but was waylaid at the foot of the stairs by Simon, who appeared out of the library as though sensing my arrival.

“Where have you been?” he demanded, but I waved a dismissive hand in his direction.

“That is none of your business.” I started up the stairs.

Simon grabbed my hand and pulled me to a stop, and I shivered at the icy touch of his fingers on my skin. “Did you learn anything from your investigation?”

“Has the Order reconsidered its position on allowing me to aid them?”

“No,” he admitted.

I tugged my hand free of his grasp. “Then we have nothing to discuss.”

He let the matter drop, and I escaped to the quiet of my room. A terrible ache throbbed in my head, right behind my eyes, and I kept dropping my pins as I took down my hair. My fingers felt swollen and clumsy, and every creak and groan of the house reminded me of the sounds of the brothel.

I sighed in frustration as my hairbrush slipped from my grasp and clattered to the floor. For a moment I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to center myself to regain some sort of composure, and when I opened them again I gasped at Michael’s reflection in my dressing mirror. He stood behind me, my hairbrush in hand, and I turned to face him.

“You can’t be in here,” I blurted.

“I know. I won’t tell if you won’t,” he teased with a strained smile. “May I?” Michael raised the brush—I had always been partial to having my hair brushed, and it had been one of our rituals before bed each evening. A few moments of calm to ourselves, without the interference of children or mentors.

A blush heated my skin as I nodded. “We’ll both be in trouble when he finds out.”

“Yes.” He stepped closer and ran the brush through my unbound hair. I blinked back sudden tears at the familiarity of the simple gesture, and I took a deep breath and stared down at the pile of hairpins I had just removed. Though it was a simple thing, I had missed it dreadfully.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

I blushed again, arranging the pins in a neat row. “Thank you.”

“Are you going to tell me where you were this evening?”

“No.”

“I was worried about you.”

“I was in the company of a guardian. There is hardly any place safer in all of London.”

“Perhaps. But it is my job to catch you when you faint from a vision.”

I smiled, for that was true. “Did you get in much trouble for catching me before?”

“Yes, and I’d do it again,” Michael said without hesitation. “I’ve missed you, Em. It’s been terrible living these long months without you and the children.” Michael squeezed my shoulder, and I reached up and placed my hand over his.

“Your hands are cold,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper.

“My apologies. I can raise my body temperature, but that requires more blood, and we have been…frugal in our feeding.”

I thought of the blood brothel and the goings-on within it, and the idea of my husband partaking of that sort of debauchery, particularly with another woman, filled me with nauseous jealousy as I stumbled to my feet, out of his reach.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I can’t…” I trailed off, shaking my head. I stroked my throat with my good hand, as though afraid of finding bites already there, or in an attempt to ward them off. “Who have you been feeding from? Before the ritual Simon fed almost exclusively from you. How are the two of you feeding now?” I wasn’t certain I wanted to know the answer. My imagination was filled with enough scandalous images.

“The Order provides us with donors. Male donors.” He set the brush gently on my dressing table. “I would never do anything to betray your trust.”

“Not on purpose, perhaps,” I muttered in reply. He stepped toward me, and I moved away.

Michael sighed deeply. “Emily, please—”

“You can reassure me all you want, but I can see how different you are. Your entire aura has changed. You are simply not the same man I married.” I bit back the urge to add that he appeared just like Simon, but he wouldn’t understand why that bothered me, for Simon’s eccentricities had never troubled him as they did me.

“But I am. I promise you, my body may have changed, but my heart and my mind remain the same.”

He stepped toward me again and held my face in his hands. I shivered and held very still, but there was no hunger in his eyes, only heartache and sadness. The depth of it overwhelmed my defenses and crashed over me, and I struggled to keep from drowning in his despair. My fingers flexed as I fought the urge to throw my arms around him and let him hold me, but my need for reassurance was quieted by the fear that Simon had hammered into my heart—my husband was not himself, and he could not be trusted.

“I love you. You are my soul mate, and I will love you to the end of my days. Nothing will ever change that,” Michael said.

I swallowed hard, choked with too much emotion. “Your days are infinite. Mine are not. Perhaps it’s best that we prepare for that.”

“No. Nothing frightens me more than the thought of facing a life without you. We should treasure every moment we have together instead of wasting them on petty squabbles.”

“This isn’t a petty squabble.” I drew away from him and rubbed my arms for warmth. “This is a serious matter. You already have a life that I am not a part of. We’ve been living in a fairy tale these past few years, avoiding the inevitable. But the truth is that I am simply not allowed to stay with you. The Order has a prior claim, and their will is more important than mine.”

“That isn’t true. This isn’t about the will of the Order. I became a chronicler because it was the best decision for our family.”

“But it was your decision, and I had no say in it. You never once thought of choosing me over them, and now you have a place of honor within their ranks, and I can’t be a part of that.”

“You’re my soul mate. We belong together.”

“You should go before Simon realizes that you are missing,” I said. He began to argue, and I shook my head. “Please, just go. It has been a long day, and I don’t have the strength to fight.”

Michael paused, and then he drew me into his arms with slow, patient movements like a man afraid to spook a skittish horse. He stroked my hair and kissed the top of my head.

“I don’t want to fight with you about this, either, but I’m not giving up,” he assured me. “I love you too much for that. But you are tired and should get some sleep. Rest well, darling.”

“Thank you,” I murmured. He drew away, and I was torn between the desire to ask him to stay and the fear of what would happen if I did.

After he left I gave up on my hair and climbed into bed. I dreamed of Michael, of being wrapped in his embrace. He sank his fangs into my throat, and the pure ecstasy of it caused me to moan as loudly as the whores had in the necromancers’ blood brothel. I awoke with a start, filled with terrible loneliness, and didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

Chapter Five

I spent the next few days doing everything in my power to avoid the chroniclers and to appease my sister and her husband, all of whom continued to disapprove of my work with Miss Dubois. There was little I could do to help the investigation until the night of the salon, so I was forced to be patient. Simon and Michael went out during the evening, supposedly conducting their investigation for the Order, but they did not ask for my aid or share their findings. Judging by the ever-increasing degree of Simon’s scowl, I assumed that they were not making progress.

Jo seemed placated by my change in focus, but in truth my mood did not improve. I worried about my future with my husband. Perhaps it would be best if I remained in London in the employ of Miss Dubois. I would be able to put my magic to practical use and be close to my sister and her family. Of course the constant headache that plagued me within the city limits might kill me or drive me mad, possibly both…

No, I would soldier on like a proper English wife while I withered like a dying flower and Michael persisted as he was, ageless. I pondered composing a poem about my dilemma: “An Elegy for My Soul Mate, Who Is Undead”. I could read it at the salon, though it might give away my true identity and defeat the purpose of having a nom de plume.

During the day of the salon I did not see hide nor hair of the chroniclers, but when the carriage arrived after dinner they appeared in the foyer, ready to accompany me.

I paused at the foot of the stairs and eyed them warily. “You are not invited.”

“Yet we are going all the same,” Simon replied.

“And how do you propose that I explain your presence? Neither of you are equipped to travel anywhere incognito.” This evening it would be only Miss Dubois and myself in disguise. She had made arrangements with Miss Thistlegoode to obtain invitations for us, or rather for Miss E. M. Rose and her sister.

“That’s not true,” Simon replied.

Folding my hands, I waited for an explanation. He didn’t appear willing to offer one, so I turned my gaze to Michael.

“We’re going to wait outside, in case there is trouble,” my husband explained.

“You expect a brawl to break out at a poetry salon?” I quirked a brow.

Simon shrugged slightly. “It might, if the murderer is there. Michael is worried for your safety, so we are going along, with or without your approval.”

“You’ll need Miss Dubois’s approval. Whether or not she allows you to ride in her carriage is up to her.”

I breezed past them without further comment, and they followed me into the night. When the carriage door opened I waved at them in annoyance. “I apologize if I am late. These poor lost chroniclers were wandering about my sister’s foyer, and they followed me like stray puppies.”

“Emily, please,” my husband said, exasperated.

“They are insisting on accompanying me,” I explained.

Miss Dubois snorted. “I thought as much. Andrew did as well. They are welcome to sit with him in the carriage behind us. As I understand it there is a tea house across the street, where they are welcome to wait for us.”

I chuckled, and the chroniclers left to join Dr. Bennett.

“Men. They are such stubborn creatures. Now, why poetry, Mrs. Black?” Miss Dubois asked upon our departure for the salon. She was dressed in a ruffled pink ensemble with a matching lacy parasol. I wondered about her habit of carrying a parasol at night, but considering the eccentricities of some magicians it hardly seemed noteworthy. My own obsession with black silk gloves annoyed my sisters, but they were a necessity more than an accessory. I felt clumsy and underdressed in Miss Dubois’s presence, because I’d had to squeeze into one of Josephine’s dresses for my disguise. Jo had always been the slimmest, and having so many children in quick succession had not been kind to my figure. Michael assured me that I was still beautiful—

I cleared my throat and pushed that thought away. “I needed a creative outlet. Something to occupy my hours while my librarian relatives were buried in research of something or other. I attempted watercolors for a time, but I found myself drawn to poetry. Perhaps I needed to put pen to paper as my family does, even if the intent is different. I imagine life in a guardian household is much more active than a librarian’s existence.”

Miss Dubois laughed, and I rather liked the sound of it. She had a cheerful, infectious laugh that I was not expecting due to her usual serious demeanor. “Very much so. Dinner often devolved into swordplay. Mother finally forbade weapons at the table.”