Chapter Thirteen #2
Elizabeth could not afford to ignore this wrongness.
Her sister was in the house. Colonel Fitzwilliam and William would be returning here.
And the Matlock family and their servants lived here.
Had some evil entered their home? She considered requesting the earl’s assistance but dismissed the idea immediately.
He would undoubtedly scoff if she could report nothing more than a sense of uneasiness.
Perhaps if she could identify the source of the wrongness….
The disturbing sensation definitely emanated from the second story. She had not noticed it on the first floor. Elizabeth followed the feeling down the hallway, past the door to her bedchamber and past Jane’s—then past doors that surely led to other guest chambers.
The sense of wrongness grew, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. Her nerves screamed to run away; nothing good could come from continuing. The sensation was vaguely reminiscent of those from the wight attack, but wights could not possibly manifest during the day. What could this be?
The only door remaining was at the end of the hallway. Unlike the others, this door was slightly ajar. Perhaps that was allowing the profound wrongness to escape. Elizabeth was sure the door had been closed previously.
She hesitated. Entering the room was a violation of her hosts’ privacy. The door might have been left ajar by a maid. What if the chamber was revealed to be Lord Walter’s dressing room?
But the sense of wrongness was so palpable that she could not ignore it. Surely whatever was in there presented a danger to the inhabitants of Matlock House, and she had a duty to discover it. Elizabeth pushed the door gently, and it swung open with a creak that caused her to wince.
Sunlight streamed in from windows on two sides of a chamber that was richly decorated with brocade and blue velvet. No expense had been spared. The enormous bed was covered by a canopy embroidered with gold thread. It could have been the earl’s bedchamber save for the figure lying on the bed.
Elizabeth stumbled to a halt. Had she interrupted someone’s sleep? A second glance told her the person was not asleep. The man’s pose was formal and rigid. His legs were straight, and his hands were folded over his chest like a…like a corpse.
He was dressed richly and formally—in finely tailored clothes complete with a pocket watch, intricately folded cravat, and hessian boots. He was a handsome man, with brown hair brushed back from his face. Elizabeth detected a resemblance to Colonel Fitzwilliam and his father.
Stifling a cry of surprise, she crept closer to the bed, noticing the waxiness of the man’s features and the dust collected on his clothes.
Good heavens! She must be gazing upon a wax version of the Matlocks’ dead son!
How very disturbing. She had read about exhibits of wax figures traveling the country.
A wax figure of a specific individual would be exorbitantly expensive.
But the more Elizabeth stared at the figure, the more she wondered at its composition. It did not resemble wax. Despite being inanimate, the body appeared to be composed of human flesh.
No, it must be wax. The alternative was unthinkable.
But she had to know.
Elizabeth reached out a finger and touched the man’s hand. It yielded to the touch like flesh, even showing a slight change of color from the press of her finger. Wax would not do that. The skin was cold to the touch.
Her heart thudding, Elizabeth searched the man’s wrist for a pulse and found nothing.
His chest did not rise and fall. Her vivomancy detected no spark of life.
And yet his body did not decay. How was it preserved?
What had happened to that poor man’s soul?
Did it inhabit a corpse-like body, forever separated from God?
A cold wave of horror washed through her. Now she realized that wrongness for what it was: the magical residue of necromancy. Somehow Edward Fitzwilliam had been suspended between life and death.
The scrape of a shoe on the floor behind her caused Elizabeth to startle and spin around.
The earl stood in the open doorway. “Miss Elizabeth, you have anticipated my need for you. This does simplify things.” A smile spread over his face.
His eyes were still bloodshot, but his face was now animated with a dangerously wild energy.
Fear paralyzed her for a moment as her mind screamed that she must escape, but Lord Walter blocked the only exit. Elizabeth reached out with her magic to defend herself, but there was nothing she could use in the room. No plants or animals. No living matter that would come to her aid.
The earl laughed and made a gesture to someone in the hallway.
Several young men burst into the room, filling the space between Elizabeth and the exit.
She had originally assumed they were footmen or ruffians, but a second glance told her they were well-dressed and apparently well-bred.
She had discovered the necromancer’s aristocratic followers—and, if she was not mistaken, the necromancer.
Escape was impossible for the moment, but perhaps she might obtain some information. “Why have you preserved your son’s body?” she asked the earl.
The earl raised an eyebrow. “I thought you would have guessed. I intend to bring him back to life.”
Elizabeth sucked in a breath. “That is impossible.”
He regarded her like a particularly dull child.
“No. It is difficult, but not impossible.” He stalked toward her.
“It is difficult because there are two essential elements that are hard to obtain. The first is the power of a vivomancer. Ironic, isn’t it?
The life-giving force of vivomancy is exactly what a necromancer needs for this particular task. ”
“I will never help you!” Elizabeth spat out.
He smiled, showing all his teeth. “Fortunately, I do not require your cooperation; I only require your presence.” He stared contemplatively at his son’s form on the bed.
“I was anxious about how I would gain access to you after Wickham failed, believing it would require a tedious journey to Hertfordshire. But then Darcy obligingly brought you right to my doorstep. I must remember to write him a note expressing my gratitude.”
Chills went down Elizabeth’s spine. “That is what happened to the other vivomancers. You endeavored to drain their power, and it killed them.”
Lord Walter scowled. “Baldwin attempted to fight me and brought his death upon himself. Lady Genevieve proved too old for my needs; when I tested her suitability, her heart gave out. Imagine my delight when I learned there was such a young, ripe vivomancer available. I have high hopes that you might survive…at least until the end of the ceremony.”
Elizabeth strove to keep her face impassive so he would not notice how his callous words struck fear in her heart.
“What is the other element you need?” she asked, not really caring about the answer.
The longer he talked, the more likely it was that William and his cousin might return and rescue her.
“Ah. Bringing someone back to life requires a great deal of energy. Do you know how necromancers power their spells?”
Elizabeth suspected she did, but she shook her head.
“Deaths.” The earl savored the word. “I require many deaths. And the deaths of fellow mancers provide the most power. Tonight is the beginning of a new Council season, and all my fellow Council members will assemble for the tedious ceremony we perform every year. It commemorates the founding of the Council in 1503 by John Chadwick, and it is always conducted outside beside the Thames for various stupid historical reasons. But at least today’s ceremony will be far more interesting. ”
“You are insane,” Elizabeth said. “You truly believe you can attack and kill the most powerful assembly of mancers in the kingdom?”
He grinned at her. “Miss Elizabeth, you should have more faith in me. I have an army of wights. When they drain magical energy from the Council mages, I will funnel it into Edward—quite fitting since they are the ones who condemned him to death.”
Elizabeth shuddered. What a horrible plan! But the eyes of the earl’s followers suggested they were mesmerized by his words. They believed in his scheme and were eager participants.
“Now, we should be on our way before anyone arrives to impede our progress,” the earl said smoothly.
Two of his followers had arranged Edward Fitzwilliam’s body onto a makeshift litter and one was using mancy to gently float the litter into the air. Everyone watched as it glided through the door and into the hallway.
At the earl’s signal, two of his followers seized Elizabeth’s arms. No, she thought. I will not let myself be taken to the Council and be used to kill innocent people. She struggled against her captors, kicking one in the shin and managing a glancing blow on the other man’s cheek.
Unperturbed, the earl said, “Now, now. None of that.” He touched a hand to her head, and instantly everything went dark.