Tomb of Ancients Read online

  “She is very much alive,” Khent assured me with a smirk. “Concerned—and talkative—but alive. She went to find a carriage to take us home.”

  “We should keep her away from me,” I said, sullen. “Just to be sure.”

  “She will not like that at all. I thought she was going to faint when you collapsed,” Mary added. “But we will make some excuse, and hopefully we can avoid being seen on the way out. Are you strong enough to stand?”

  “I’m sure our host is delighted,” I muttered and nodded. “More gossip.” Releasing their hands, I swung my legs around to stand, placing the cloth on a tray beside the sofa. “I wish I could tell her the truth. All of it. These damn secrets are more trouble than they’re worth, but the poor thing would never believe it all—”

  “I would never believe what?”

  All three of us froze, then looked to find Justine watching us from the open door. I gazed around at the narrow, cozy library, the walls covered floor to ceiling in well-maintained and dusted volumes. Justine was holding a small wine decanter and took a few bold steps into the room, setting her jaw.

  “And I resent that, being called ‘poor thing’—I am capable of understanding a great deal. So what are all these strange and terrible secrets?”

  “Ey, now is not the time for—”

  But Justine interrupted Khent, shaking her head and striding toward us. “Don’t do that. I will not be discarded so easily. Am I not your sister?”

  “Half sister,” I corrected her gently, standing.

  Justine met me halfway, then went to a decorative table near the sofa, where a neat set of brandy cups had been set out. Later, the men attending the ball might retire to that library to enjoy a cigar, but Justine made use of the serving set, retrieving two small crystal cups. She poured us both a bit of wine and handed me a glass, then pushed her own against it.

  “To the truth,” she said. “And to courage, which means I must ask: Was our father a criminal?”

  Behind us, Khent vented a high whistle.

  “In a sense . . .” I drank the wine, hoping the burn of it down my throat would indeed inspire courage. “How to even begin?”

  Should I even begin?

  But Justine’s huge brown eyes were imploring, and when I looked at her, at what I might have been had I been born to kinder circumstances, I couldn’t help but want to trust her. Had I not come with the express purpose of trying to forge a sisterly connection? If that connection mattered, then so did protecting her. I trailed away from her, back toward the sofa.

  “’Tis so bad you cannot even meet my eye?”

  “Mary,” I murmured, ignoring Justine for the moment. “If anything goes wrong . . . can you shield her from me?”

  With a slight nod, Mary crossed to stand between us. When I reached a safe distance, I turned back and spun the cup with both hands nervously. Justine fidgeted and then quickly poured herself another glass.

  “I suppose you believe in God?”

  Her eyes blew wider at that. “Oh! What an unusual question. Yes, of course I do.”

  “That will make this difficult.”

  “Good heavens, can it really be so awful?” Justine yelped. “Then he was not a godly person?”

  I almost had to laugh at that. “He was tremendously powerful, like something out of a fairy story. He could command beasts and insects, and he ruled over a kingdom of fantastical creatures.” And there I glanced first at Mary and then Khent. “Wonderful creatures. And he could change his form at will, becoming anyone or anything.”

  Is that how you describe me? Pathetic.

  Cringing, I shook my head and willed him to be silent. The threat of another headache pulsed at the base of my neck, and I wondered if that was his attempt to keep me from sharing the truth with Justine. What did it matter now? He was locked away in my head, and she was his daughter, which gave her a right to the full story.

  Justine lingered over that information for a long moment, unblinking. She had gone dangerously pale. “Surely you jest! How could such a thing be true?”

  “It’s true, Justine. I did not come all this way to tell you lies.”

  “I do dearly want to trust you, half sister, but f-fairy tales,” she stammered, shaking her head. She went quiet again, then slowly said, “I . . . believe my governess told me stories of such things. Little oddlings that scurried through the woods, stealing babies and shiny things, turning into tomcats or birds to fool people.”

  “Just so,” I told her. “But all those wild tales for children are true. I’m one of those things, too. I can change my own visage.” The details of how did not seem relevant, and Justine already looked very pale.

  “You? You. Then does that mean I can . . .”

  “I’m afraid not,” I interrupted. “At least, I don’t think so. Our father hunted around for all of his children, his daughters, hoping that some of us would inherit his powers, hoping that he could consume us and our power to sustain his life for . . . well, for eternity, I suppose. He had grown weak over the ages.” With a flurry of breaths, I tossed up my hands. “Forgive me, there is so much more. Wars and grudges. Other godlike beings all mixed up with one another.”

  She twined one finger around a black curl near her ear and looked at me askance.

  “This all sounds like an elaborate joke.”

  “I realize that,” I said.

  “And yet you all look so deadly serious, it makes me want to believe you.”

  I took Mary’s shawl from the sofa and handed it back to her, then nodded toward the door leading out from the library. “There is no need to believe me, Justine. You asked for the full truth, and I’ve tried to give it. All I can do is offer what I know. What you choose to do after that is up to you.” Mary wrapped the shawl tightly around herself, walking next to me as we gave Justine a wide margin on our way to the door. “This is not a trick or a joke. I wanted you to have the truth because we’re blood.”

  Khent met us as we passed Justine, and she put up a trembling hand.

  “Wait,” she murmured. “Do not leave just now. I . . . Will you continue?” She turned to us with those huge, glossy eyes and gave us a wobbly smile. “Please. I can’t promise I’ll believe you, but I can promise to listen.”

  “Listen.” Khent lifted his hand, too, but pressed it to his lips, silencing us. His purple eyes narrowed to slits, and I could see his ears perk. Our glances crossed, and I felt a cold shiver pass between us. “Ewhey charou—hur seh eshest? Chapep.”

  Listen. Not a sound. Why so quiet? Strange.

  He only spoke to me in that language for secrecy. Something was the matter, and his keen, canine-accentuated senses had caught it. And he was right—the ballroom had gone completely silent. Before, the steady hum of chatter and occasional bright peal of laughter could be heard, but now? Silence. No clinking of punch cups, no shuffling dance feet, no merry string quartet.

  “It’s awfully quiet,” Mary murmured, noticing the eerie silence, too.

  “How very odd—” Justine began.

  “No,” I told Justine. “Something is wrong. It should not be that quiet at a ball.”

  Her eyes widened with fright. Her voice became a whisper. “Mrs. Langford! I hope nothing has happened to her. We must investigate.”

  “I will look,” Khent told us, removing his restrictive jacket and letting it fall to the floor. He rolled up his shirtsleeves quickly, revealing a crosshatch of scars and faded tattoos. “You will stay.”

  There was a sudden crash and grunt of pain from the direction of the ballroom. The chill in my spine spread quickly, unnaturally, and I realized with a gasp that this was not just fear inside me but a warning. I had felt this specific brand of uneasy iciness before, at Coldthistle House, when the shepherd’s Adjudicators had begun falling from the sky.

  “I think this sad English party just became much more interesting,” Khent whispered, before dashing around the door and leaping into the hall.

  Chapter Four

 
Sharp, unforgiving ice replaced the blood in my veins as the house shook, rattled as if thunder exploded overhead. That was enough. With one slippered foot already out in the corridor, I turned to Mary and Justine.

  “Protect her, Mary,” I said sternly. “Hopefully I will return in a moment.”

  “I should come, too,” Mary insisted, loosening her shawl. “Three is better than two.”

  “Undoubtedly, but Justine needs you just now. I will be fine. Remember? There’s a monster lurking inside me.”

  That did not seem to soothe her, but she remained, ushering Justine back into the library and closing the doors. That at least made me feel a little better—Mary’s ability to use her magic as a kind of shield had astounded me at Coldthistle, and I trusted her to keep the innocent Justine safe from whatever was happening in the ballroom. My stomach roiled as I ran toward the commotion, an array of terrible and violent possibilities springing to mind. Foremost, of course, was the idea that those warnings on our doorstep had not been idle threats. Even before I had left Coldthistle, Mr. Morningside himself had warned me that anonymity was a ridiculous notion for one such as me.

  “Pretend you can run all you like, girl, but ancient wheels have a way of turning, and old, ugly wounds have a way of opening up again.”

  I could only wonder for that brief moment before I reached the ballroom which old wound exactly had split.

  There was little time to worry as I raced through Lady Thrampton’s gilded halls; I soon found the ballroom. Its tall, grand doors were shut, and a few confused guests milled about outside, their voices rising with confusion and squeaky complaint. The evening had been intolerably ruined. Such a waste! This was all very shocking to them, of course, their soft, rich hands having known nothing more vexing than a late tea.

  When I was nearly to the doors, they blasted open with a noisy gust. Dust and a woman’s nosegay flew at me with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs. The guests screamed and scattered, their slippers, fans, and punch cups forgotten in their haste to flee. But not all who had been invited left, for I discovered a few lingering in the ballroom. Those remaining were dressed in stark white, their backs to the walls as they watched the conflict unfolding in the center of the room, just under an immense crystal chandelier.

  A fine layer of plaster dust, ivory as snow, had fallen around the two figures circling each other. The ceiling above had been cracked by the force of whatever had caused that initial noise. That horrid frost in my veins had thickened for a reason—one of the shepherd’s Adjudicators had come, dropping from the heavens and landing like an anchor on the parquet. The wood where she had fallen was splintered, almost ground to shavings.

  “Sparrow,” I said softly, drawing to a stop.

  Her yellow hair had been cropped short, and she had abandoned her gray suit for what looked like a set of ancient leather armor. A clean white bandage was wrapped around her throat, and a brace hugged her arm, remnants of her encounter with Father at Coldthistle House. For all the wounds she had suffered at his hands, she now looked capable. And furious.

  “Ah! The prodigal daughter is here.” She darted toward Khent with unnatural speed, shoving him out of the way with her hip. “I knew this flea-bitten mutt was lying. I’m sure he couldn’t help it; he’s barely more than a dog. Does he come to you with a whistle?”

  I found myself striding toward her. Ordinarily, the sight of her—tall, golden, and immensely strong—would make me think twice about an open confrontation. The only thing that gave me pause now was the number of innocent onlookers in the ballroom.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” I told her. Off to Sparrow’s side, Khent bristled, and it did not take a keen eye to notice the way the muscles in his forearms strained against his skin, the beastly form below bursting to get out.

  “We snuffed out his kind ages ago,” Sparrow said, shooting him a glare. “Shame we missed one.”

  The sound Khent made put my hairs on end. It was not a growl a man could make. Any moment now, he would explode into his other form, a doglike creature, eight feet tall and with razor-sharp claws. The noble ladies in the corner might actually die from the shock of it.

  “Don’t!” I cried out. “She wants to provoke you. She wants to provoke us both. We have to be better than her.”

  “Unlikely,” she said, rolling her bright blue eyes. “A cur and a chambermaid.”

  Sparrow drew herself up to her full height, letting her human form melt away like candle wax, revealing the blazing, golden body beneath. Her facial features became difficult to divine, her skin and bones turning into molten gold. One arm, the uninjured one, flashed as it turned into a long, pointed lance.

  I expected to hear gasps from the remaining guests, but none came. My jaw set, the cold dread in my belly no longer just from Sparrow. Her presence was frightening, yes, but more was amiss. Khent seemed to notice, too, glancing around in every direction, and as he did so, the men and women waiting near the walls began to close in around us. How could it be? Why were they not afraid of her?

  Sparrow laughed in the face of our confusion, as haughty and irritating as ever.

  “Did you think it would all just go away?” she taunted, waving the golden lance her arm had become. “You swallowed the soul of the Dark Father. The book—all that pathetic Fae knowledge? It’s in you. Did you not receive my warnings, love? I thought the spiders were a nice touch, considering you’re mere moments away from being a sad, dead little insect, too.”

  She charged, her golden skin so fantastically shiny it hurt my eyes to look at her. But I had to defend myself. I stumbled back but found that a row of guests was walking slowly to meet me. Their faces were all similar masks of fearlessness; one mustachioed gentleman even smirked. I felt the heat of Sparrow’s body as she raced toward me, but I dodged at the last second, hurling myself out of the way. She skidded to a stop, then spun gracefully, a flicker of wings sprouting from her back before they were gone, before ultimately landing in a defensive position, lance lowered across her body. The point of that weapon, glittering with lethality, had almost punctured the mustachioed man’s side.

  “Stop this!” I shouted. “You’re going to kill someone!”

  Sparrow laughed again and shot herself like an arrow toward me. “That’s the idea, darling!”

  She was mad—madder than usual—and as she charged at me like a weapon made flesh, I heard the men and women surrounding us begin to chant. God, they were all the shepherd’s chanters, no different from the bizarre crowds I had noticed spreading across London like a pale rash.

  The shepherd will guide, the shepherd provides, for him we will live and for him we will die. . . .

  They chanted it over and over again, low and rumbling, but growing louder. Sparrow bobbed her head along to the beat of their slow singing, raising her lance as if to conduct them with a baton.

  I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to remember that they might have any number of reasons for following the shepherd. Perhaps they truly were lost and needed something to believe in to steady their hearts and give succor. Or maybe Adjudicators like Sparrow had found a way to convert them against their will. I did not know enough, and I had no proof that these humans deserved to be harmed.

  “I will not hurt them,” I told Sparrow, but she did not slow her pursuit. Her lance punched toward me, close, so close the blade’s end ripped the shoulder of my gown. The contact startled me, and I fell to the side, rolling to avoid her weapon as it came down again, the lance burying deep into the floor. Sparrow struggled to extract it, and I used that time to roll back to my feet and join Khent at the opposite end of the ever-tightening oval. The chanting was almost hypnotic, but I forced myself to focus.

  “Ideas?” he hissed. “Because they certainly will hurt us.”

  His arms keep out the wind, he forgives all who sinned . . .

  “Let me think,” I whispered back. But we both knew there was no time for thinking or for hesitating. A familiar tightness in my skull meant that
Sparrow and her ring of believers were not our only problems. Like Khent, Father was ready to retaliate.

  The chanting persisted, but one of the guests behind me darted forward, grabbing at my arms and trying to hold me. I wrestled against them, screaming, thrashing, but Sparrow took the opportunity to throw herself toward me, spear raised high.

  “Do it,” I told Khent.

  He needed no further instruction. As I fought against the human pinning my arms, I heard his fine shirt tear to pieces, his beastly form pushing through his skin. That startled Sparrow, but only for an instant, one I took advantage of, letting my mind spin with possible defenses. I no longer had my beloved little spoon, but the memory of it did give me an idea. Metal. Armor. Closing my eyes hard, I went silent, all of my thoughts bent toward altering the state of my gown. The desperation of the moment must have helped, for at once I felt the silk shift and grow heavy, and Sparrow’s spear scraped against a sturdy breastplate. Sparks flew up in front of my face from the impact, red and gold showering me in glittering heat. I heard the man holding my arms gasp in surprise, and I slammed down my foot on his, no longer clad in a soft leather slipper but in steel.

  Twisting away from them both, I watched the crowd around us scatter toward the walls, but Sparrow remained undeterred. She spun her spear once and then leveled it across her middle, her sapphire eyes darting between the hulking form of Khent and me in my armor.

  “Friends,” she called, raising her spear arm to rally them. “Followers of our great shepherd, do not be afraid! Tear the fear from your hearts as weeds from a garden. To me! With whatever you can find, to me!”

  We watched as the guests—the followers—in their draped finery and beautiful suits masked by white cloaks, scrambled to find serving knives and utensils. Bottles abandoned by bewildered butlers were taken up and smashed, the sharp, wet ends glinting in the chandelier light. And then they did as Sparrow demanded, rushing toward us, screaming, their monotonous chanting abandoned for shrieks.

  Too late I felt Father’s presence surge in me. Perhaps it was my own fear, which I had not even attempted to tear from my heart, that allowed his coming. Or maybe I had longed for this moment since surviving Sparrow’s torment at Coldthistle House. Whether it was my own weakness or desire for revenge, I could not say, but I heard a sound like heavy cloth tearing inside me. The armor stung, for the boundaries of my body expanded rapidly, twisting and reshaping, until my legs were longer and stronger, dark leafy vines twining around my arms as my fingers elongated and sharpened into black claws.