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Authors: Robyn Bachar
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breath to say something brave and encouraging, but instead I gave in to a need for comfort and wrapped my arms around him, burying my face against his chest.
“That was awful,” I said, my voice muffled.
“I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“I feel most sorry for Mr. Gryphon and Miss Morgan. Their deaths were senseless.”
He stroked my hair, and I closed my eyes and tried to banish all thoughts of blood and murder from my mind. Unsuccessfully. I looked up at him, morbidly curious. “I realize that a master necromancer is quite different from a chronicler, but does it bother you? The thought of drinking blood? It seems so…distasteful.”
“I suppose I have gotten used to the idea. I have never had a problem with giving my blood. It’s quick, simple and painless. Just a bite at the wrist.”
At least it sounded civilized. I glanced in the direction of Simon’s door, feeling a bit better. “Why would they have suspected Simon of killing Miss Morgan, then? There was nothing quick or simple about it.”
Michael blushed. “I have never experienced it myself, but as I understand it a bite can be intimate, under the right circumstances. But as you noticed, Simon isn’t very social. He isn’t the sort to make love to a woman he’s just met at a gathering. That’s more the style of a master necromancer. They are reckless with their immortality. They have no purpose.”
“And purpose is important to the Order.” I smiled weakly. “I know that only librarians can become chroniclers, but do you think the Order would be interested in my aid?”
“Perhaps. It hasn’t been done before that I know of.” He brushed a lock of hair from my face. “I don’t know what to do, Emily.”
“What do you want to do?” I asked.
His answer was to kiss me, and it was a reply I approved of. My worries slipped away, replaced by contemplation of the taste of his lips and the feel of his fingers caressing my hair. I shivered—not from a chill but from the sheer delicious wickedness of it all. It suddenly made sense to me why so many young women risked their reputations for a few moments spent alone with their lovers. If only our situation was less dire, and we had more time…
Time. Don’t forget.
I drew away, intending to tell Michael of my dream. I knew it had been more than wishful thinking, for it had the feel of a vision about it, and I felt he had a right to know. Perhaps we could convince Simon to postpone the ritual, and we could have a short while together. Even if I couldn’t keep him, the shining happiness of that one moment in the nursery would be worth it.
“I need to tell you something,” I began, but before I could continue we were interrupted by a knock at the door. We parted, both looking guilty, and Michael crossed to open it. Simon rejoined us before the door opened, and from the quickness of his response I wondered if he had been listening to our conversation.
Lord Willowbrook entered, frowning darkly. “Mr. Farrell was not in his room.”
“And there was no sign of him?” Simon asked.
“None.”
My heart sank. It had to be Mr. Farrell…or perhaps the necromancer had killed him on the way back to his room after leaving due to his headache. It was less likely, but easier to accept. Less painful than believing that the only men who had ever expressed interest in me were both ambitious to become the living dead.
“Miss Wright thinks that the master necromancer may be concealing himself with magic. If so, she may be the only one who can find him,” Simon replied. All eyes turned to me, and I resisted the urge to hide behind Michael.
“I’m sure the guardian could. When he arrives,” I pointed out.
“Are you willing to risk the possibility of another death in the meantime?” Simon asked.
“No. However, I would like to avoid my own as well. I have no defensive magic.”
“Which is why we would ensure that you are well guarded,” he replied. “I think I may also have a way to
“That was awful,” I said, my voice muffled.
“I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“I feel most sorry for Mr. Gryphon and Miss Morgan. Their deaths were senseless.”
He stroked my hair, and I closed my eyes and tried to banish all thoughts of blood and murder from my mind. Unsuccessfully. I looked up at him, morbidly curious. “I realize that a master necromancer is quite different from a chronicler, but does it bother you? The thought of drinking blood? It seems so…distasteful.”
“I suppose I have gotten used to the idea. I have never had a problem with giving my blood. It’s quick, simple and painless. Just a bite at the wrist.”
At least it sounded civilized. I glanced in the direction of Simon’s door, feeling a bit better. “Why would they have suspected Simon of killing Miss Morgan, then? There was nothing quick or simple about it.”
Michael blushed. “I have never experienced it myself, but as I understand it a bite can be intimate, under the right circumstances. But as you noticed, Simon isn’t very social. He isn’t the sort to make love to a woman he’s just met at a gathering. That’s more the style of a master necromancer. They are reckless with their immortality. They have no purpose.”
“And purpose is important to the Order.” I smiled weakly. “I know that only librarians can become chroniclers, but do you think the Order would be interested in my aid?”
“Perhaps. It hasn’t been done before that I know of.” He brushed a lock of hair from my face. “I don’t know what to do, Emily.”
“What do you want to do?” I asked.
His answer was to kiss me, and it was a reply I approved of. My worries slipped away, replaced by contemplation of the taste of his lips and the feel of his fingers caressing my hair. I shivered—not from a chill but from the sheer delicious wickedness of it all. It suddenly made sense to me why so many young women risked their reputations for a few moments spent alone with their lovers. If only our situation was less dire, and we had more time…
Time. Don’t forget.
I drew away, intending to tell Michael of my dream. I knew it had been more than wishful thinking, for it had the feel of a vision about it, and I felt he had a right to know. Perhaps we could convince Simon to postpone the ritual, and we could have a short while together. Even if I couldn’t keep him, the shining happiness of that one moment in the nursery would be worth it.
“I need to tell you something,” I began, but before I could continue we were interrupted by a knock at the door. We parted, both looking guilty, and Michael crossed to open it. Simon rejoined us before the door opened, and from the quickness of his response I wondered if he had been listening to our conversation.
Lord Willowbrook entered, frowning darkly. “Mr. Farrell was not in his room.”
“And there was no sign of him?” Simon asked.
“None.”
My heart sank. It had to be Mr. Farrell…or perhaps the necromancer had killed him on the way back to his room after leaving due to his headache. It was less likely, but easier to accept. Less painful than believing that the only men who had ever expressed interest in me were both ambitious to become the living dead.
“Miss Wright thinks that the master necromancer may be concealing himself with magic. If so, she may be the only one who can find him,” Simon replied. All eyes turned to me, and I resisted the urge to hide behind Michael.
“I’m sure the guardian could. When he arrives,” I pointed out.
“Are you willing to risk the possibility of another death in the meantime?” Simon asked.
“No. However, I would like to avoid my own as well. I have no defensive magic.”
“Which is why we would ensure that you are well guarded,” he replied. “I think I may also have a way to
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