Chapter Two
T WO
Audrey and Henrietta leave me at the steps of the town house I share with my aunt. As I step through the door, I finally relax. I’m home, where I can be myself.
The thought comes with a nudge of discomfort, the reminder that I can’t be myself with my friends.
Lenora warned me about this when I met Audrey.
There are advantages and disadvantages to having human friends.
To Lenora, the main advantage is that it helps us blend into human society.
That’s never been a consideration for me.
I prefer to keep my fellow supernaturals on the professional side of the fence, so I never have to feel the sting of betrayal if they turn on me.
In our world, someone is always turning on you.
Which is why, when I walk through the door, I head straight for Lenora’s office to tell her about the stranger.
The house is silent. We have staff, of course.
For a widow of Lenora’s wealth and social standing, society expects a full staff, outnumbering us by a factor of at least three to one.
We employ only a maid, a cook, and a “boy” for running errands, and they all live elsewhere.
We can’t have humans in the house, hearing our business, and we can’t risk hiring supernaturals.
At this time of day, the maid has gone, the cook hasn’t arrived, and the boy only pops by now and then to see whether we need him.
I didn’t grow up here, in this world of town houses and domestic staff.
My mother and I had a little house by the sea, where she was a healer, like my grandmother, who’d lived with us until her death.
Lenora was the fascinating and fashionable aunt who swept in every other month with presents and tales of the city.
It was the stories I loved best, glittering jewels of a very different sort of life, one that had me secretly planning to run off to London as soon as I was old enough.
And then, the year I turned fourteen, my mother died, and for a time, I’d been certain I’d somehow magically caused it.
I’d wanted to go to London and live with my aunt, and that’s exactly what happened.
I know now that my mother’s death was not my fault, but as I pass her portrait in the hall, grief still seizes my heart.
Will I ever follow in her footsteps, leave the city for a quiet life, using my powers only for good?
No. I can understand my mother’s and grandmother’s choice, but it’ll never be mine. No more than my aunt’s will be mine. At twenty-three, I’m still in my apprenticeship stage, learning the business and learning magic… though maybe not the sort that I find Lenora practicing.
When I backpedal from her office, her sigh wafts after me. “I’m not going to hit you with this spell, Cordelia. Not unless you give me a reason.”
I peek around the doorframe. “Can we clarify that? What could I possibly do to make you suffocate me to death?”
She tilts her head, considering, as a smile plays over her lips. “Well, if you tried to murder me in my sleep, I’d feel justified suffocating you.”
“Unless I were justified in murdering you,” I say.
“And what could I do to deserve that?”
“Trying to murder me. ”
“If I tried to kill you, I’d succeed, and your ghost would need to take revenge.”
I lower myself into a wingback chair. “Hardly. You’d attempt it.
I’d thwart the attempt. You’d claim it was all a terrible misunderstanding, and I’d pretend to accept that, only to murder you in your sleep before you could try again.
You’d then attempt to suffocate me with that spell, but it would be too late, since you’re nowhere near mastering it. ”
“Maybe you should try.”
I shake my head. While I do cast the sort of spell that would get a Coven witch exiled, I draw the line at the sort that would get a Coven witch executed. That’s not to say I’ll never learn them. I’m still considering the matter.
Lenora believes in mastering the darkest magic in case she ever needs it. I believe in foreseeing a situation where I might need it before I learn it. Perhaps that says a little about each of us.
Lenora returns her grimoire to its case.
Despite the fact that she has no intention of seeing visitors today, she’s dressed as if she’s entertaining for lunch, in a gorgeous gown of washed silk.
She still wears a bustle pad. I don’t, proclaiming such things belong in the past. Also, I—ahem—have my own built-in padding.
Lenora hasn’t embraced a lighter corset, either, and hers is cinched tight around her tiny waist. Her true pride, though, is her black hair piled high, not a strand out of place.
When I was young, everyone accepted that we were aunt and niece. The older I get, the more often it’s subtly questioned. Am I her secretary? Her very dear friend… or her, er, “very dear friend”? Anyone who looks closely sees our similarities, but a less discerning eye sees only our differences.
We’re both tall. That’s a distinguishing feature of Levine women.
Most have black hair, like my aunt. My own hair started as pale gold and mellowed into a honeyed blond.
Lenora is the willowy sort of tall. I tend toward an odd mix of softness and muscle.
Lenora’s eyes are brown, while mine are “cerulean blue” according to the last young man who penned an ode to them.
Beyond that, though, our facial features are very similar, with wide-set eyes, strong noses, and matching dimples on our left cheeks.
My coloring comes from my father, the nameless and face less French perfumer who did nothing more than contribute to my making.
Once Lenora has locked her grimoire case, I say, “A man followed me today.”
“Men are always following you, Cordelia. It’s high time you consider the time-honored solution open to all witches. You’re the proper age. Past it, even.”
She could mean the solution of leaving the country for a few months and claiming widowhood when I return.
Or she could just be encouraging me to take a lover.
I’m certainly ready for that. Working for my aunt, I’ve spent enough time in brothels to know I’m interested—it’s been years since I blushed and stammered catching a glimpse of two people coupling.
I am quite ready for a lover. Finding one is just damnably difficult at my age—still young enough that men want to fit me for a wedding trousseau first. I am a witch. We do not marry.
“This was a supernatural,” I say.
Her hands still as she realizes I mean the man wasn’t an admirer.
“What sort?” she asks.
I unbutton the cuffs of my dress, too warm in this windowless room. “I don’t know. He didn’t display any powers, but he referred to me as Miss Levine.”
“He had the gall to speak to you?”
“He even called me Cordelia, as if we were old friends, but I’m sure I have never seen him before. I’d have recognized his scent.”
Her brow furrows. “Scent?”
“He wore cologne, applied with a very light hand, but underneath there was a musky odor. Oddly pleasant.” I roll my sleeves up my forearms. “It was very strange. I felt as if I should know the scent, but I didn’t.”
“Tell me what he looked like,” she says, and her voice sounds almost strangled.
I look up from adjusting my sleeves to peer at Lenora. Her face is slack with something I have never seen on it before.
Fear.
A chill tickles up my back.
“Lenora…” I say.
“Tell me everything about him. Now.”
I give a quick description, which she turns into a proper interrogation, plucking out every detail and digging for more until she sits back in her seat, her expression unreadable.
“You know him?” I say.
“Tell me what he said. Every word.”
I do, and the more I speak, the paler she becomes.
When I finish, Lenora pushes to her feet. “Is your bag ready?”
“My…?”
“Bag,” she says sharply. “The one you must always have ready.”
“Of course.” The witch hunts might have ended over a century ago, but we remember. We will always remember.
“Get the bag,” Lenora says. “Pack your grimoire and anything else you need. We leave in an hour.”
She marches past me toward the door.
I vault up from my chair. “What’s going on?”
“I’ll explain later. Get your bag—”
I stride into her path. “I’m not a child, Lenora.”
“There’s no time to explain.”
“You can spare two minutes to tell me what’s going on. I have already had to deal with one person today trying to drag me off for my own good. I expect better from you.”
Her mouth opens.
I cut her short. “Don’t ask whether I trust you. I do. But you need to give me something. Otherwise we walk out that door into an unknown situation, where we’re apparently under threat from a supernatural, one I know nothing about.”
“Bishop Daniels.” She seems to spit the words. “His name is Bishop Daniels. He’s a werewolf… and he works for your father.”
I follow Lenora down the hall. “My father ? My father is a human perfumer my mother met in Paris. She didn’t even know his surname.”
Lenora keeps walking. “With every moment you delay, you have less time to pack. You need all your magic supplies and grimoire. We’ll have room for two bags each.”
“You know who my father is. You lied. You and my mother. For my entire life, you’ve lied. ”
Tears spring to my eyes, hot rage and hurt, and Lenora spins, her hands gripping my upper arms. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know you’re furious right now, but it’s not the time—”
“Not the time?” My voice rises, even as the fear in her face tells me she’s right. I squeeze my eyes shut. “Why is a werewolf working for my father? And you know this Bishop Daniels? Are you in contact with my father?”
“I haven’t seen your father in years, which suits us both. I’ve never met Bishop Daniels, but I know of him. I must know. For exactly this situation.”
“ What situation? My father is a threat? A supernatural? What—”
“This is why I didn’t want to say anything until we’re gone, Cordelia. Because you’ll have questions. Endless questions, all of which I can’t answer now.” She takes my hands in hers and meets my gaze. “I’ll answer them. All of them. I promise.”
When I nod, she squeezes my hands. “Thank you.”
We’re on the second level of the town house. Our rooms—with our emergency bags—are two floors up. Lenora steps back to let me climb the narrow stairs first.
I’m halfway up the first flight when the front doorbell rings. I turn carefully. Lenora stares down at that door, having gone perfectly still.
“He wouldn’t ring the doorbell, would he?” I say.
She casts a privacy spell, as if worried he’ll overhear.
“He’s a werewolf,” she says. “And, from all accounts, brilliant, bold, and ruthless. I wouldn’t put anything past him. I’ve heard stories.”
“Stories?”
“Bishop Daniels seems like a gentleman, persuasive and restrained, even civil. He’s not. He’s preposterously young for his position, and he hasn’t earned it by being gentle.”
“What position—?”
I stifle my questions and rein in my thoughts. Later. I can ask everything later.
As Lenora descends the stairs, I follow. She glances back, as if ready to tell me to stay where I am, but then she continues on. Only when we’re halfway down the final flight does she turn.
“Stay here,” she says. “If it’s him, get to the secret room. Don’t hesitate. Run and lock yourself in.”
I bite my tongue. Yes, we have an actual room where we can hide. As Levines, we despise hiding. As witches, we know sometimes we must. Hide now to fight later.
I pause on the lower steps while Lenora continues on. Halfway to the door, she stops and exhales in annoyance. When she turns to me, I lean over the railing to whisper, “Not him?”
She shakes her head but still motions for me to stay back.
A moment later, the front door opens with a click and a whoosh, the sounds and smells of the street rushing in.
“Mrs. Carter,” a male voice says. “Lord Wilkes requires your presence at his quarters.”
“My presence? My niece was just there.”
“Yes, and there’s a mistake with his order. He’s most displeased. He has been a loyal client for years.”
“I know that, which is why I’m sure there’s no problem with his order.”
“Then I’d suggest your niece isn’t as competent a craftswoman as yourself.”
I bristle but only grip the railing.
“I’m the one who prepared his purchase,” Lenora says. “So it’s my craftsmanship he’s questioning. I know what I sent. It was exactly what he ordered. But, in light of our long relationship, I’ll stop by later today, in case he requested the wrong items.”
The man’s voice goes brittle. “He didn’t, and he won’t wait. I’m to escort both you and your niece to him immediately.”
A heartbeat of silence. Lord Wilkes wants us both? Drawing me out of the house? After this Bishop Daniels fellow intercepted me on my way to Lord Wilkes’s home? That can’t be a coincidence.
Lenora continues, “I’m afraid my niece isn’t here. She stopped in to say the delivery was complete and then went off with her friends. You know how young ladies are.”
I cast a quick blur spell and silently climb to the next level.
“She’s with friends?” he says. “Where?”
“Strolling around the botanical gardens, hoping to catch the eye of handsome young men. I could bring her with me when she returns—”
“No need. You’re the one Lord Wilkes needs to speak to about this mistake.”
So Lord Wilkes doesn’t need me… but his messenger asked where I am? Asked specifically where I am? This lout must think us fools.
“There’s no mistake,” Lenora says. “But I’ll come and set this straight, in deference to our long professional relationship. Let me get my hat and boots.”
I continue down the hall, only to stop short at the clack of boots below.
“Excuse me?” Lenora says to the messenger.
“I’m stepping inside. Out of the sun.”
She huffs. “Don’t come any farther. I’m being polite about this intrusion on my time. An intrusion on my home is very different.”
“I won’t come any farther… as long as you’re back here in five minutes or less. I’d suggest less.”
Another huff, and she marches up the stairs. I retreat to her bedchamber. She enters, slaps the door shut behind her, and casts another privacy spell so we can speak.
“I’ll handle this.” She sits to pull on her boots. “I can’t imagine Lord Wilkes consorting with a werewolf, but there must be a connection. I’ll find out what it is.”
“But—”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve been doing this for many years, Cordelia.
I can protect myself. My concern is for you.
Luckily, they’ll be looking for you in the botanical gardens.
Once I leave, ward the exits and the windows and then retreat to the locked room.
” She snatches her gloves from the dresser.
“Stay in here until I’m gone. Then start warding. ”