Chapter Thirty
Saide
Fifteen months ago.
Rook will not let me hold him. He had me do the spell, even though shifting through space is hardly my forte because he will not let him go.
Not that I would fare better in his stead. I got us to the edges of the city, and then we have followed the repulsive pulse of death magic right to the necromancers’ door.
If I were in a better frame of mind, I might be inclined to say that the house is nice. Or, at least, adequate. It is one house in a long row of them, kept neat and tidy, and the iron gate sitting in the stone wall is half open as though we are expected.
We cannot be.
“What if they refuse?” I ask, and Rook’s jaw tightens.
He is always like this when he is truly terrified, and I have only seen him as terrified once before. My mouth goes dry and I push the thought away. Dwelling on the past will not help right now.
There are wards, but only on the front door itself, and that puzzles me.
The witches and mages in London generally wield their wards almost haphazardly, but then, I suppose the witches within have no need to worry about a stray vampire or even the fae.
Fae avoid necromancers, too. Wolves might be our true nemeses, but necromancers are a close second.
Rook turns a baleful gaze on me. I take another step forward and knock on the door.
For a moment, there is no sound or movement from within. That is hardly unexpected. Even with magic, it has taken us some time to get here from London, and the attack happened early in the morning. Perhaps the witches are asleep, or not present at all.
The door swings open. The witch standing there is probably the same height as—Well, shorter than me or Rook, and he does not pause to gape or be astounded by our presence. He narrows dark, kohl-lined eyes and wraps the satin robe he is wearing a little tighter around his waist.
“The fuck do you want? We don’t do deals with fae.”
His words are clipped, and my ear has trained to various human accents in this country over the years. This place may not scream of money, but his voice does. It would explain his lack of fear—that and being a necromancer would give him little opportunity to experience it.
But we need him. We need him and any other witches who may reside within.
Rook speaks before I can, and his voice is just as curt. “We require assistance.”
The necromancer peers around me, and when I step aside, his face falls. “Fuck. Tell me you didn’t kill him.”
The fury that rises within me at the mere thought ricochets down Rook’s and my bond. His own rage is a tsunami that might level this street in an instant. If the witch realises it, he does not care. He is still looking at Jamal’s broken body with a sympathy in his eyes I am not expecting.
It is all that has me coming to my senses. “We did not. We would never.”
His eyes snap to my face. They narrow in distrust, but I fear he can read me better than I would like because after a moment, his shoulders soften. “Look, as much as I like to boast about just how powerful I am… He’s dead. Already dead. And we can’t just—”
“Felix.” Another voice comes from behind the witch, another man walking down the hall.
If Felix is in his early thirties, then this man is a little older, with an affable, open face.
He wears shorts and a T-shirt, despite the chill air of the night, and when he gets close, he reaches up and ruffles the back of his own blond hair. “How long has he been dead then?”
“You can’t—” Felix begins, but the blond shrugs and he falls silent with a scowl.
“Three hours at most,” Rook says. “If you cannot help us—”
Then we have nowhere else to turn. Fae are not found in the company of necromancers; it is mere chance we had heard of this coven at all. Necromancers are often shunned by other witches. They make themselves hard to find.
“I can try,” the man says.
Felix all but growls, crossing his arms over his chest.
“You’ll kill yourself trying.”
“Nah, probably not.”
“I’m going to tell Sora.”
“Get him,” the man says, and now his tone is firm. “I’ll see them down to the cellar.”
The cellar? I look at Rook, but he is not looking at me. His eyes are on Jamal’s face, and perhaps the witches cannot see the grief in his features, but I can. Even if I did not feel for Jamal as he does, I would do whatever is necessary to end that suffering for him.
Felix turns on his heel and pushes back down the hall. The other man steps back, beckoning us to enter.
I step inside before Rook does because that is safer for both of us.
My hands are free, and I am often faster with my magic, even if my senses dull the moment I cross the threshold.
The death magic in this house is so heavy I can taste it, and the answering death magic inside of me rears and begs for escape.
No. No. We are as safe as we can be here. We can escape, even if all the witches in this house turn on us.
I do not believe they mean to. The blond witch leads us agreeably down into the cellar, which is a large, open room with cabinets around the walls and an empty table in its centre. He gestures, and Rook hesitates.
“If you’re touching him when I try to bring him back, it’ll kill you,” the man says, almost absently. He is rummaging in a cupboard, looking for something. “Hold him if you want, I guess.”
Rook looks at me, and I nod. Slowly, reluctantly, he lays Jamal’s body upon the table.
Blood still streaks his clothes. His side has been torn open, and his throat… It hurts to look at him, even if his face is peaceful. I do not know if Moreau closed his eyes before we arrived.
Moreau was there first, of course. I bite back a growl. If Rook and I had never joined the Hunt, then finding Jamal would have been far more difficult and we would have had little opportunity to spend time with him.
That does not mean I am not furious. If this does not work…
“Can you do it?” Rook asks. Can the man hear the desperation in his voice? He does not turn around. “Can you bring him back?”
He finally steps away from the cupboard, carrying a bowl and a candle over to the table. He sets the candle next to Jamal’s right hand and his eyes flick over him as though he is completely unconcerned that there is a body in his cellar.
I suppose he might well be unconcerned.
Footsteps on the stairs. Rook bristles, and I brush the back of my hand against his. We are here for a great favour. As much as we can, we must keep cool heads.
“How long has he been dead?” the new man asks. He is dangerously pale, though his eyes and hair are so dark as to appear black. He pauses on the final step and eyes us with the same suspicion Felix showed at the door.
“No more than three hours.”
“I already asked, Sora,” the blond man says. He is bustling about again, patting his pockets. “Do you know where I put—”
“Here.” Sora holds out a lighter, which the blond takes with a quick grin. He sets to lighting the candle and then wanders off for something else. Sora pauses at the foot of the table. He takes Jamal in with a cool, detached gaze.
“A vampire attacked?” His eyes cut to us. “Not one of you. He was a donor?”
I’m surprised he’s managed to put it together so quickly, although I suspect I should not be. Rook does not jolt like I do. He is still scared, and his fear always manifests as anger.
“Yes,” he bites out, then adds charitably, “He was Crai Vasile’s donor.”
The name does not seem to faze either of the witches, though Sora mulls it over for a moment. He looks between the two of us, then studies Jamal’s face. “Are you certain about this, Florian?”
The blond, Florian, waves a careless hand. He returns with a slim black book, which he sets next to the candle. As lackadaisical as his movements seem, at no point does he so much as brush against Jamal’s skin.
“As certain as I can be. Just need you here in case I go too deep.”
“Longer than an hour is too deep,” Sora replies. “Last time…”
“Was different.” Florian lifts the bowl he put next to Jamal’s hip and looks at me and Rook. “I need some of your blood.”
Rook reacts before I can. My head spins as he spits out, “What?” Florian simply cocks his head to one side and watches us as though he does not quite understand why we would protest.
“We—That—”
“Look, Sora’s right about the length of time. If I go too far into the realm of the dead, then I’ll just end up stuck there, and anything longer than an hour dead is… dicey. Not to mention what you’re dragging a consciousness back to, okay? You know how decomp works. You’re vampires.”
“Fae,” Sora mutters, and Florian waves him off again.
“The only way for this to work is to turn him as I bring him back.”
For a moment, I cannot breathe. Not that I need to, but the thought of that. The idea.
It is the reason Rook and I hesitated when it came to telling Jamal the truth. It is the reason we hesitated in speaking with him more than was necessitated by his own curiosity.
He has always made it clear he did not wish to be turned. I shake my head. “I-I thought…”
The look Florian gives me is pure sympathy. “Look, I get it, okay? But we don’t have time. Every second here is another second he gets further away. Either he stays dead, or he comes back as a vampire, and that’s if it works at all.”
Our chances are slim. Rook tangles his fingers in mine, and his desperation is palpable. We both know what he would choose, but I have accused him of being too impulsive before, especially when it comes to the people he loves.
When it comes to me. When it comes to Jamal.
And would he… I know he was prepared to die, at least in the abstract.
He had to know that placing himself between Tamesis and the rest of the donors, even standing shoulder-to-shoulder with others, would only end one way.
But when he told us that he had come to the vampire clan for the curiosity of it, and that he shared no desire to be a hungry vampire like the rest of them, that was honest.
Would he have changed his mind in those final moments? If he were here now, would he ask us to save him?