Chapter 8
Looking for a death witch in the guts of the Credges would be a breeze. She’d be as easy to find as the proverbial needle in the haystack, as a priest in the skin market, or a truthful income report in Maddog’s books.
Ezra sighed.
Maybe if he asked God for the slightest bit of a break, the witch would appear in the street waving a white flag in surrender? He’d fucking earnt it.
He was mad for doing this. The Unseen never worked alone.
Death witches were dangerous but here he was, traipsing around in the dark, alone, after one that probably didn’t exist. But what if she did?
Ezra had no plan for when, if, he found her.
He flexed his fingers. Sore, but not sore enough to stop him doing whatever necessary to stay alive.
Ezra used to enjoy the thrill of the hunt. He used to be good at it, so good it prompted more than a few people to wonder what he’d traded for his skills.
He’d traded nothing. He’d been born with it.
He was, as far as he knew, unique, but he had no idea where his skill came from, whether it was from his father, a member of the Kingsguard, or his mother, a seamstress.
Both his parents died within a year of one another when Ezra was sixteen.
His mother during the plague that swept its way through London and his father had done his duty and lost his life in service to the Crown.
Tracking a witch wasn’t difficult—magic left a trace, a signal, an actual shift in the air. Some could smell it, some felt it as the hair standing up on the back of their necks, but Ezra saw magic like an aura, a second skin of gold or silver or red.
He took a deep breath and set off. It was late and the streets were quiet, a grey sky hanging above the world.
On a wall up ahead was a smear of gold, but the magic was old, its owner long gone.
Before Ezra could stop them, memories pressed against his mind, faces, voices stirred to life, blood on the stones, trembling lips and bound hands.
For a moment, he could see it all clearly, could taste the guilt, feel the weight of it in his stomach.
Her face shoved against the ground. White hair tumbling over her shoulder, blood from her head wound seeping through it.
He took a deep breath, and pushed it away, continuing down the street. Footsteps echoed behind him, slow, methodical.
Ezra glanced over his shoulder. Half a block back was a man standing beneath a lamp, his face obscured by shadow.
Alarm bells chimed in Ezra’s brain. The Credges wasn’t the sort of place for a casual stroll at night.
He wasn’t Gendarme anymore but he could still pull it off, if only for a moment.
He paused, pretending to examine the plaque on the wall of a boarding house.
Each echo of the man’s footsteps was like a punch in the darkness as they came closer; they slowed and then stopped. Ezra turned, sharp words on his tongue.
Black eyes, no visible whites. Bloodless lips and hollow cheeks, the flesh hanging free of the bones. Dark hair and skin that shone like the moon.
Panic closed its hand around Ezra’s throat. The Familiar grinned, his lips stretching further than they should, before he stepped forward.
Ezra turned and ran.
Why the fuck was he seeing these things?
Jem said he shouldn’t be able to, and yet, that spectre of a man was no figment of his imagination.
Fear was a writhing, twisting thing in Ezra’s gut —and beneath it was the burn of shame.
He’d deal with that later, when that thing was gone and he had a moment to breathe.
He raced down the next street, then another, until he found himself at the mouth of an alley with a body at his feet.
A man, middle-aged, maybe. Ezra crouched beside him, frowning.
There wasn’t a mark on the man—no bruises to his face or signs of strangulation.
No pool of blood beneath him, either, but his body pulsed with residual magic.
A dark grey cloud hung over the dead man like a fine mist, trailing away from him into the darkness.
At the end of the alley was a morgue. Light shone through the glass panelling on the door. Ezra stood; he could barely hear over the pounding of his heart. He took a deep breath and crept towards the morgue.
When he reached the door, his throat tightened—fragments of dark grey hovered around the handle like a decoration. He hesitated, but footsteps cracked along the street.
Ezra threw open the door and tumbled inside.
Magic engulfed him and for a moment, he was drenched in terror.
He breathed a sigh of relief when the magic didn’t rip into him and as it cleared, he was looking at a woman with hair as red as fire.
She had her back to him, hands resting on a body on a metal tray before her.
Streaks of grey wrapped around her head and shoulders, snaking down her arms to curl around her hands.
Ezra backed up, bumping into a small table.
The woman spun around, and for the second time that night, he felt his knees weaken.
For a moment, they stared at one another, her eyes wide and horrified.
Ezra’s gaze dropped to her mouth, to those lips he’d delighted in kissing, the ones that had been playing through his mind on a constant loop.
Shit, shit, shit!
His insides twisted so violently he thought he’d be sick.
How had he not known what she was?
Because you had other things on your mind, a little voice whispered.
He didn’t even know her name, and now, she was Blackwood’s witch.
Fuck.
Ezra cleared his throat, but before he could speak, she edged away from him, pressing herself against the metal sinks.
‘What do you want?’ Her voice ripped across the space between them, as sharp as a weapon. She lunged for a knife that lay on the bench, holding it between them in a trembling grip.
Ezra’s head was spinning. He’d never failed to notice a magical aura before, but this woman had hidden what she was from him.
Even after they left the pub, even in her room, he still hadn’t seen it.
Something that might have been fear crawled over him as he looked at her, unsure of how to do this, because everything was different now.
The woman swayed. Ezra stepped towards her, and she held up the blade in warning. Her face was colorless, her breathing ragged, shadows beneath her eyes. She was looking at him like she’d never seen him before. Despite the situation, he was mildly insulted.
‘Were you really that drunk that you don’t remember me?’
She visibly cringed. ‘I remember you,’ she mumbled. ‘You left without saying goodbye.’
‘You didn’t seem the type to like mushy goodbyes.’
She glared at him as best she could. ‘Why are you here?’
‘It doesn’t matter. You should sit down,’ he said. ‘You don’t look so good.’
‘Thanks,’ she shot back darkly. ‘I’m going home.’ She took a step away from the sink, then crumpled to the floor like a piece of discarded paper.
Making sure she hadn’t smashed her skull open on the tiles, Ezra left her where she was, hurrying to the door to peer through the glass.
His heart sank. The Familiar was in the alley, sniffing the air like a mongrel dog.
Ezra looked around. There was nowhere to hide in this bloody place, and with her out cold, they couldn’t make a run for it.
He spied the cold boxes. That would have to do.
The nearest one was empty, so he slid the body-sized tray free, then turned to the woman.
There wasn’t time to be gentle; he hoisted her into his arms and dumped her on the chilly tray, sliding her in.
She didn’t stir as he swung himself in after her, tucking himself beside her, praying the tray would hold their combined weight.
Ezra pulled the door to the box closed, ears straining. The cold enveloped them, sliding beneath his clothes to grab at his skin.
The door knob rattled then breaking glass tinkled against the floor. Ezra held his breath, heart pounding like a drum. At least he got to die with a woman beneath him, he supposed. There was wine on her breath. That explained the bottles he’d noticed on the floor in her room.
Footsteps moved around the morgue.
Still human, Ezra reminded himself. Which meant he could hurt it. He could fight if he had to.
Ezra had no idea if the Familiar could sense the woman’s magic like he could, if it could see through walls, punch through steel, rip out his throat. His fists curled as he sent a silent, useless prayer. He’d go to church. He’d behave. He’d do anything.
Those footsteps came closer, and then, they moved away at a run.
Ezra exhaled in relief. When he was certain the morgue was empty, he pushed the door to the cold box open. The redhead groaned and reached up to rub at her head. Her hand hit the roof of the box.
‘What the fuck?’
‘You can thank me later.’
She sucked in a breath. ‘We’re in the cold box?’
He nodded, having no idea how to explain the Familiar to her. ‘I’d like to get out of here because it’s fucking freezing,’ he added.
‘Push us out with your feet,’ she instructed. ‘Brace them on the wall at the back. You’re taller—I can’t reach.’
He did as she suggested, and as soon as the tray slid into the open, she shoved him. He toppled to the floor, hitting the tiles with a thump. She was up before he could blink, racing for the door, glass crunching beneath her boots. Ezra was faster, blocking the doorway with his body.
She looked like she wanted to punch him in the face, which, considering what else she could do with her hands, was a relief.
‘Get out of the way.’
‘You can’t go home.’
‘I can go wherever I bloody well like, and you can’t stop me,’ she snarled. ‘What happened to the door?’
‘Whoever broke that door was just here, and is likely to be waiting for you somewhere out there.’ He glanced around the morgue. ‘They already know who you work for. What have you done, I wonder?’
She stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself, blinking furiously.
‘Do you have a name?’ Ezra asked.
Those dark eyes shot to his again, full of anger. ‘Fuck off.’
‘Fuck off,’ he repeated, tapping his chin. ‘Nice name. I would have gone for something a bit better suited, like "fuck me" perhaps?’
She scowled. ‘You were most definitely a mistake.’
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ he mumbled. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’d slept with a death witch. He should go home, tell Jem he couldn’t find her, but he knew he couldn’t do that.
She was watching him suspiciously.
‘Right now, you have two choices. One, go home and see if you can outrun whoever came looking for you.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘And two?’
‘Come with me. I’ll hide you for the night, and then, I don’t know, we’ll work something out.’ He stepped towards her, then froze. Her jaw was shadowed, the first hint of a bruise, and there were marks on her throat.
‘Who did that to you?’
She touched her throat. ‘Some drunk hit me. I hit him back.’
Ezra ran his eyes over the soft, feminine curves of her body. Anger swelled before he could think twice. ‘You’re coming with me.’
‘Am I now?’
‘Someone hit you, someone broke in here, there’s a body out there …
it’s not safe and what sort of man would I be if I let you walk out of here after you’ve hit your head?
’ He leant against the doorway, watching her, wondering if she remembered more than just his face, wondering if she had any idea what he used to be.
‘The sort who minded his own business,’ the woman grumbled, then told him to lead the way.
The front door to the Canem Club was locked. Ezra pulled the key from his pocket and let them in.
‘You live in the Canem Club?’ The woman wrinkled her nose.
‘I live upstairs.’ She’d not spoken a word to him since they left the morgue and he hadn’t seen any more evidence of her magic. His eyes kept drifting to her hands, those delicate, feminine hands that held so much power.
‘You work for Maddog?’ she asked. Then, before he could respond, ‘Figures.’
He didn’t care what this witch thought of him, but she could at least be a little grateful he’d saved her life. When he didn’t show up in the morning, Jem would come to the club, and then, Ezra could get on with his life.
And what about hers? He pushed the thought aside and headed for the stairs, the death witch trailing him, cursing under her breath.
When she didn’t follow him into his room, he raised his eyebrows at her over his shoulder. She stood in the doorway, framed in the dim light from the hall. Her arms were folded, her spine stiff.
‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
She gave him a dubious look, but waltzed in and planted herself in the armchair, much like Father Blackwood had done. ‘Why did you come to the morgue? Were you looking for me, after …’
He lit the lantern on the bedside table; warm golden light reaching across the small room. ‘I realised it was rude that I hadn’t introduced myself. Ezra Tarrenfire,’ he said, pulling back the curtain and peering out the window. No one in the alley below and no sign of that Familiar.
When she didn’t speak, he dropped the curtain and turned to look at her. Her eyes, he decided. They were the most familiar. So brown they were almost black. Then, it was the shape of her mouth, the curve of her top lip, and the blazing colour of her hair. He swallowed.
‘Am I still not allowed to know your name?’
She hesitated. ‘Analise. Analise Delarosa.’
She undid the knot of hair at the base of her neck with a sigh. Ezra remembered doing that for her that night they …
‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.
Analise froze. ‘No,’ she said, unlacing her boots and slipping them off. She glanced up, meeting his eyes. ‘How did you find me?’ she demanded.
‘Asked around,’ Ezra lied, taking a seat on the bed.
She shook her head. ‘Whatever. I’m leaving in the morning, and there isn’t a thing you can do to stop me—unless you’re going to tie me up, or something.’
‘It could be arranged,’ he said before he could stop himself. He bit the inside of his cheek sharply, tasting blood.
‘No, it really couldn’t.’ She stretched, then stood and shrugged off her coat, sitting again and using it as a blanket. ‘If you’ve got nothing more illuminating to say, I’m going to sleep.’
‘There’s a bed,’ he offered, patting the mattress beside him. ‘I don’t bite.’
Analise closed her eyes, tucking her legs up underneath her.
‘Suit yourself.’