Chapter 13
Analise knew enough about the human body to understand what was happening to her.
Her brain was charged and racing. Her nerve endings were burning.
She was dreaming the terrible, tormented things she hadn’t seen in years: a graveyard under the moonlight.
A thin wailing cry in the air. Hands pushing through the soil, fingernails caked with grave dirt.
A blood-red moon, the ground beneath her feet as hot as coals and a face, skin shining and bloodless lips curled into a smile.
She needed a drink; tea would do. Hurrying into the kitchen, she crashed into Ezra, jumping back quickly. She met his eyes, and looked away, biting her lip.
Ezra, who used to be in the fucking Gendarme.
‘Are you thirsty?’ he asked, gesturing to the table, and the bottle of whiskey and two glasses. ‘I found it in a cupboard. I have no clue how old it is but—’
‘I don’t care,’ Analise breathed, then realised how desperate she sounded. It was too late to take it back, so she lifted her chin, daring him to say something, but he didn’t, just told her to sit.
She shook as Ezra poured her a glass and their fingers brushed when he handed it to her.
Analise caught the quick flush of colour on his cheeks before he sat opposite her, and her heart accelerated.
She usually avoided touching people, live ones anyway, unless she was drunk.
Alcohol created a barrier between her and her magic and now, without it, she was on edge.
It made her remember the gloves she’d worn as a child, when her magic was fresh and terrifying.
‘Here I was, thinking you were an unfriendly person, but now I understand. Your eyes are glassy, your hands are shaking, you’re sweating … no one can spot an addict better than another addict,' Ezra said softly.
Relief flooded her. There was something liberating about him knowing. She didn’t need to lie or make excuses. That he could recognise it made her realise he wasn’t lying. He didn’t say anything else, but Analise wanted to talk about it. Maybe, sharing this one thing with someone, would help.
‘I drink because life is shit. It … helps. I live in the worst slum in the city. I work in a morgue. I barely have enough to eat, and I don’t know how to be around people because what do I say to them?
My name is Analise and I have a drinking problem because I can talk, I mean I work with dead people? ’
Fuck. Ezra was watching her.
Never let anyone know what you are.
‘I get it,’ he said, lowering his gaze to his glass.
‘What’s your poison?’ she asked.
‘It was opium.’ Ezra shot her a quick, slightly defiant look, and she remembered the pipe she found, and her silent accusation.
‘How did you stop?’
He huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh. ‘Maddog.’
Analise’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Maddog Pierce helped you break an opium habit?’
‘Maddog Pierce put me in a boxing ring, and I found a strange sort of solace in beating the shit out of people—and in being hit back. The same sort of high I got from the drug, the same level of forgetting.’
Analise’s gaze dropped to his fingers, still clutching the glass. The knuckle of his index finger had been broken before, the bones not set properly, and his little finger was bent. ‘And that truly helped?’
One corner of his mouth lifted. ‘Thinking of beating me up, Analise?’
The way he said her name, the gentle ‘A’ and the lingering softness on the rest, caused her insides to tighten. Apart from the Gendarme and the boxing, she knew hardly anything about him, and found she wanted to know. ‘Tell me something true, something about you that no one else knows.’
‘I like poetry,’ he said eventually.
Analise couldn’t help it—she burst out laughing, then laughed harder at the look on his face. She finished her drink, holding out her glass for a top-up. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, chuckling, as he splashed a too-small amount of whiskey into her glass. ‘That was not what I expected.’
‘You shouldn’t be so judgemental,’ Ezra said with mock hurt. ‘People have layers, you know. I, for one, happen to be a complicated person. To be honest, I’m offended you’re implying otherwise. I told you I was educated, didn't I?’
She smiled. ‘Alright, Ezra. I apologise. I’m sorry I assumed you were a shallow, vapid person who likes tormenting others with his bad jokes and innuendo. I’m sorry I assumed a gangster's prize fighter was without layers, or education. I was wrong.’
Ezra shook his head. ‘That’s the worst apology I have ever heard. Did your mother not teach you any manners?’
‘My mother left me on the doorstep of a convent, so no.’ She watched as the truth sank in, then spoke before he could. ‘I don’t need you to pity me. People always pity me for it, which is why I keep it to myself.’ She hesitated, licking her lips. ‘Will you teach me?’
‘Teach you to do what?’
She shrugged. ‘Cook.’
Surprise flitted across his face. ‘If you wish.’
‘Thank you,’ Analise said quietly. The soft words and lack of jokes was a different side of him and she got the feeling she could like this version.
Ezra went to say something, then stopped, his brow furrowing.
Moments later, the front door opened and footsteps plodded into the safe house.
Jem strode into the room, his face as stern as it usually was.
Someone was standing in his shadow, someone small and slightly built. Then, a voice Analise knew.
‘Get out of the way. I want to see her.’
‘Lira?’ Analise whispered as her friend shoved Jem to the side. A smile spread across Lira’s face at the sight of Analise.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ she quipped.
Her dark hair was braided and dangling over her shoulder like a snake, and she was wearing trousers and a man’s waistcoat.
Lira pulled a smoke from her pocket and lit up.
‘You haven’t, have you? Can you? I know some Daughters who can.
I always said this place was haunted.’ The last words were to Jem, who shook his head.
Analise’s blood ran cold. ‘How did you …’ Her eyes darted to Jem. There was nothing on his face, no shock, no anger, she swallowed. ‘You knew?’
He nodded; she thought she might faint. ‘Why am I alive?’
Lira fetched a saucer to use as an ashtray, then joined Analise and Ezra at the table. Jem remained standing. Analise had no idea why Lira was here, or how she’d known Analise was a death witch. Her head was spinning. Lira reached over and gave Analise’s hand a squeeze.
Somehow, that simple gesture cleared away any doubts she had about whether the petite brunette was her friend. Unexpected tears pricked at her eyes.
Ezra and Jem exchanged a look, leaving Analise with an overwhelming sensation that everyone knew something she didn’t.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
Lira exhaled a plume of smoke. ‘Jem’s my brother.’
Analise made a choking sound. ‘Brother?’
‘Don’t hold it against me. Can’t choose your family,’ Lira said lightly. ‘And this is what’s going on.’ She pulled a scrap of paper from her pocket. It was the sketch Analise made of the mark she found on the bodies in the morgue. Her death magic tingled.
Analise snuck a look at Jem. He and Lira had the same eyes.
Lira stubbed her smoke out and sighed. ‘I haven’t been truthful with you, Analise. You need to understand it wasn’t because I wanted to deceive you, or didn't trust you. I couldn’t tell you.’
Analise kept her eyes on Lira’s. While she could understand Lira not wanting to advertise the fact her brother was Gendarme around the Credges, she’d thought they were friends.
The hurt took her by surprise. She folded her arms, muscles bunched, anger creeping in.
‘What else? Has it got to do with that drawing?’
Lira nodded.
‘What does it mean?’ Analise’s head was spinning, but focusing on this—on the mark, and what it meant—was the only thing she could do to keep from screaming. Here she was, an illegal death witch, sitting around a table having a chat with a member of the Gendarme, and his sister, her kidnapper…
Her eyes shifted to Ezra, and then away. He hadn’t reacted, at least not visibly, to the knowledge that Analise was a death witch.
Or had Jem already told him?
‘It’s a demon mark,’ Jem spoke, taking a seat. ‘Those people were killed—’
‘By demons,’ Analise cut in. It made sense now. When Jem gave her a suspicious look, she rolled her eyes. ‘I was raised in a convent, which I’m sure you know. You think the nuns didn’t speak to me for twenty years?’
Jem nodded. ‘The dead made a deal with Asmael and, when they couldn’t fulfil their end, they died for it.’
‘How do you know that for sure?’ In her mind, she turned the pages of a book, fingers trembling at the face that haunted her nightmares for months. The nuns told her what the picture was, and they’d told her what was coming for them all, eventually.
When he comes to you, do not speak to him. Never speak to him.
‘My brother and I are part of an organisation that has existed for generations. Part of the Church, if you want to call it that—which I don’t, because Blackwood is completely useless,’ Lira added.
‘We’re called The Order of the Dawn. We hunt demons.
Our parents did the same, and their parents, going back hundreds of years.
That’s how I knew what that mark was. I knew the moment you showed me but I couldn’t tell you. ’
Shock joined the anger surging through Analise. ‘And you didn’t think to mention this?’
‘It isn’t something I can freely talk about,’ Lira said quietly.
‘But you can now, I take it? Why? What do you want from me?’ Analise’s voice was hard and she didn’t care.
‘Want? Nothing,’ Lira said.
Analise snorted, then, to her utter dismay, felt her bottom lip begin to tremble. She got up and fled the room, sitting at the bottom of the stairs, trying to calm her racing heart.