Chapter Three
T HREE
Protective wards are witch spells that can be removed only from inside the house—unless you have the “key,” which Lenora does. Warding every door and window is slow going, and nearly thirty minutes later, I’m still at it, with sweat trickling down my face.
Witches and sorcerers have a well of casting energy. Each spell drains it. The greater the magic, the greater the drain. I won’t even feel something like a light spell or lock spell. I feel these.
Still, I remind myself that most witches my age would have dropped of exhaustion on the second floor. I’ve spent half my life working to deepen my well. While it’s good to know as many spells as possible, it’s more important to have the reserves to cast them.
I’m casting the ward at my bedchamber window when the doorbell rings and the spell stops in my throat.
Bishop Daniels.
The name drags a hundred questions behind it, flapping like flags, demanding my attention.
A werewolf?
Working for my father?
Is my father a supernatural?
Is my father a threat ?
I’ve been stifling all these questions so I can focus on my casting. Now they rush in, and I slam down the portcullis against them.
Someone is at the door. Someone who may very well be Bishop Daniels.
An inexplicable part of me wants to stride down and throw it open. Demand to know what he wants. Demand answers.
Madness, of course. But my aunt was right.
Something about Bishop Daniels lulled me into a false sense of security.
I sensed danger in him, but it was—gods save me—an exciting danger, the sort that promises an adventure unlike any you could imagine.
That’s what I sensed, rippling through his intensity.
Come with me. I have secrets. I’ll show you another life, a more exciting—
Damn it, I really need to stop reading adventure novels.
And not only childish adventure novels, either. When I think of Bishop Daniels, there’s another pull there, one that whispers of very adult adventures.
The bell rings again.
A silvery chime, siren-calling me to—
Dear gods. I grit my teeth and give myself a shake.
Be sensible, Cordelia. You’re always sensible.
Er, no, not always. But I can be sensible.
I should retreat to the locked room. Run to it.
But what if that’s not Bishop Daniels? I can’t flee to the locked room without having finished the warding.
I ease soundlessly down the stairs in my silk slippers. When I can see the covered window, I note two heads on the other side, both significantly shorter than Bishop Daniels.
Our message boy and a friend?
When I catch a female voice, my eyes widen. Audrey? Oh, no. Please don’t tell me Audrey is at the door.
I continue along the hall until the voices come clear.
“—not here,” Audrey says.
Henrietta’s voice answers. “She said she was spending the afternoon home with her aunt.”
“A plan isn’t an obligation.”
“I really need to talk to her. Warn her.”
“I understand,” Audrey says. “But we can’t do that if no one is home.”
“Why don’t they have a butler? Or at least a housekeeper. It’s very irregular.”
Audrey laughs softly. “Lenora is very irregular. Let’s leave a note.”
“I really think Cordelia needs to know. I’ve seen that fellow before. I felt as if I had, and I should have said so.”
I chew my lip. I can’t imagine what Henrietta would have to say about Bishop Daniels that I need to know right now. But they’re on my doorstep when Lenora claimed I was with them in the botanical gardens, and if anyone’s watching the house—
I undo the ward. Then, standing behind the door, I open it and whisper, “Inside. Quickly.”
Once they’re in, I close the door to see Henrietta with one brow raised.
“The constables,” I say. “Someone has been asking questions about my aunt’s business, and she swore they were watching the house.”
Henrietta sniffs. “The police have nothing better to do than bother women tending to their health?”
Audrey shakes her head. “Since when do men consider our health our own?” She looks at me. “I didn’t see anyone watching.”
“Neither did I,” Henrietta says.
“Good. Go on into the parlor. I’ll lock the door and meet you there.”
I find Audrey and Henrietta in the parlor. Audrey sits at the solitaire board, her fingers deftly moving the pieces, already caught up in a game. Henrietta paces, gloves off as she nibbles a fingernail.
“Is everything all right?” I ask.
“I’ve noticed him before,” Henrietta blurts. “The man who stopped you today. He was lying when he said he was looking for someone else. I saw him yesterday at the seamstress. He passed the window three times, and I noticed him because…” She clears her throat. “He’s not unattractive.”
“I’ve seen better,” Audrey says, not glancing up from her board. “There’s a look about him I don’t like. He makes me uneasy.”
“The point is that he lied,” Henrietta says. “He was at the seamstress while Cordelia was being fitted. He passed three times. That isn’t a coincidence.”
“No, it’s not,” Audrey says. “I never believed that nonsense about mistaking Cordelia for someone else. He only said that because he was caught.” She waves a game piece my way. “ You didn’t believe him. I could tell. You didn’t seem overly concerned either.”
Audrey pauses and glances at her cousin. “Which isn’t to make light of your concern, dear Henrietta. Following Cordelia on two separate occasions suggests more than a casual interest. She will need to deal with him.”
“Which I will,” I say. “I’ll ask Lenora’s advice.”
Henrietta still looks worried. With a sigh, Audrey finishes her game and sweeps the pieces aside.
“You can’t win them all,” Henrietta says, pausing to kiss the top of her cousin’s head.
I smile. “That wasn’t Audrey’s sound of defeat. It was her sound of dissatisfaction. The game ended too soon. An easy win.”
“Indeed,” Audrey says. “Come play chess with me, Henrietta. I require a challenge.”
“What about Cordelia?”
“My darling Cordelia presents entirely the wrong sort of challenge, one where I must constantly be on guard against her cheating.”
“Cheating is a valid strategy,” I say. “If I’m caught, I’ve failed. Otherwise? A win is a win.”
“Ignore her. Sit, Hen. Play me.”
I glance toward the mantel clock. If Lenora returns to find me entertaining my friends, she might test that suffocation spell on me.
I need to get rid of them. But if I rush them out, they’ll be suspicious.
I settle into a seat as I think up an excuse. Or that’s my plan, but the moment my mind wanders it heads straight into forbidden territory, like a sheep seeing the gate left open.
I met a werewolf today.
Of course it makes sense that he was a werewolf, between his musky scent and viselike grip. I know werewolves are strong, and while I’ve never heard anyone mention the musk, it’d take a high degree of olfactory acuity to detect it.
What else do I know about werewolves? They can transform into wolves, obviously. Large canines that look like wolves. Other than that, my knowledge nestles deep in the land of legend and rumor.
Vampires and werewolves usually exist outside the supernatural community.
Some supernaturals might hire one for their special skills, but they are otherwise objects of mistrust and fear.
Witches and sorcerers, half-demons and necromancers, we can all hide very easily in the human world.
Werewolves and vampires can’t. They’re less human. Monstrous.
My mother was always careful to say that while they can be monstrous, we should not paint an entire species with one brush. Lenora has always been less generous, especially when it comes to werewolves.
Since Lenora refuses to deal with werewolves—and shuts down any conversation about them—I know little.
I’ve heard that the Albion Pack has an estate outside the city, and like wolves, they mostly live communally.
I believe the Albion Pack also has a London residence.
That keeps the city safe from lone wolves, who aren’t as disciplined as their Pack brothers.
Loners skulk through as quickly as they can.
Except Bishop Daniels had hardly been skulking. Is he allowed in London because he’s here on my father’s business? Given permission to trespass on Pack territory?
My father. Not a perfumer, which means my keen sense of smell doesn’t come from—
My stomach drops so fast that I clutch the chair arms, as if I’m about to fall through.
“Cordelia?” Audrey says, frowning. “Are you all right?”
“My monthlies,” I say.
She only nods in sympathy. That’s a wonderful thing about dear friends—one can say such things as freely as mentioning a sore throat.
When Audrey returns her attention to the game, mine flies back to my thoughts.
I presumed Bishop Daniels was a lone wolf. But he walks about London as if he owns it.
He works for my father. But werewolves rarely associate with other supernaturals.
My father isn’t a French perfumer, which means I didn’t inherit my sense of smell from him.
Except I did, the perfumer part being my mother’s explanation for my refined sense of smell.
And my other little oddities? Why I can see well at night?
Why I’m filled with restless energy, always needing to move more, eat more, forever driven by something I can’t name?
Things my family always chalked up to flukes of nature.
When I caught Bishop Daniels’s scent, it felt as if I’d found something, an itch finally scratched, as if I’ve spent my life searching for that particular smell.
That must mean my father isn’t just a supernatural. He’s a werewolf.
And Bishop Daniels works for him. A werewolf frightens my fearless aunt, despite him not being more than a few years older than me. A man like that isn’t going to work for a mere supernatural. He isn’t even going to work for a mere werewolf.
Also, from what I know, werewolves only “work” under one of their kind. The Alpha.
My father is—
A click in the back of my skull. At first, I mistake it for puzzle pieces clicking into place, but then I’m on my feet.
The wards have been broken.