The Midnight Witch (38 page)

“How could you do it, Lilith?” His voice is scarcely more than a whisper. “How could you bring yourself to do it?”

I know that he is not simply asking me how I found it within myself to undertake such a difficult piece of magic. He is questioning my loyalty to the coven. My integrity. As well he might. I have justified my actions to myself, but I will not as easily convince others that I did what I
had
to do.

The driver turns down Tottenham Court Road, slowing the speed of the vehicle so that we might better scour the pavements and the roads and the alleyways we pass in the hope of spying Freddie. My guardians were caught out by his incredible turn of speed. They reported back to me that, despite their best efforts and the considerable advantages they have moving about in spirit form, they were unable to keep up with him. I have even consulted the earl’s Goth, who has confirmed fleeting glimpses of him in various places but has been unable to pinpoint his whereabouts.

With each passing minute I begin to doubt the wisdom of what I have done. I do not doubt my motives: I wanted only to help my dear brother. And when I first saw the work of the Elixir! I was in a state of awe; how could anyone fail to be? To see the Great Secret brought into being before my eyes—the giving back of life to one who has had it taken—nothing could have prepared me for it. The reanimated Freddie who stood before me in the Great Chamber was not some ghoulish revenant, but Freddie restored. Living again. Moving, breathing, feeling, thinking, speaking as freely and with as much force as he had done before his heart had been stilled by the wretched poppy. Indeed, if what my captains recount of him since is accurate, his physical capabilities seem greatly improved. Magnified considerably, in fact.

What concerns me, what troubles me so greatly now, is the possible state of his mind. He seemed to tolerate the strangeness of finding himself … awake again, but oh, how terrible it must have been, to be dragged down into that pit, to see what he saw, to smell the fires of the Darkness, to be mauled and held, and very nearly stolen away, by those fiendish creatures! Freddie has never had the steadiest of characters, how will he withstand such an experience? By the time I had brought him back out of the chasm he was forever changed. He looked so terribly afraid, as if he would never know peace again. And I am responsible for that.

“We must find him, Louis.” I cannot stop myself stating the obvious. I know it is pointless to say this, childish even, but I need my friend’s support now so very much. I expect him to reach over and take my hand. To comfort and reassure me. But he does not. I have stepped too far away from him. I have done something too dreadful.

Without looking at me he says, “Of course we must. Can you imagine the scandal if he is discovered, raving and shouting at any who will listen? What a tale the newspapers would make of that!”

“No one will believe him. They will think him ill.”

“They will think him mad. As he most probably is.”

I flinch at the harsh truth of this but can think of nothing to say to it.

Louis goes on. “Besides, it is not just your family reputation you have to concern yourself with, you realize that, surely? The coven members will soon know what has happened, that is obvious, but the minute word of this gets out
others
will know.”

I stare down at my gloved hands. He is right. This is where the real catastrophe could lie. I have been so overwhelmed by my personal tragedy, by the prospect of losing Freddie, that I have closed my mind to the greater stakes being played for. For we are no more than pieces in a terrible game, I see that now. A game of Nicholas Stricklend’s making. He must have known I would never simply give him the Elixir. He must also have known that I would, if it came to it, use it to save my brother. The Sentinels were the group of sorcerers my father feared most. Every Lazarus witch is taught to be on their guard against those who would take the Great Secret from us, and the Sentinels were always the lurking terror in the dark, the inhabitants of our nightmares, the greatest threat to the coven. If they find Freddie before I do, I will have to go to them, too. For if Freddie does not receive the Elixir … it is too horrible to contemplate. I would be in no position to bargain with them then. How could I let Freddie meet such a horrifying end? My loyalty to the coven would be broken forever. I would be an outcast. And the Sentinels would have what they wanted, to use for whatever nefarious deeds they have in mind, without a care for the weak whom they have all been taught to despise.

A dreadful thought flashes through my mind. If Freddie is taken, then the route to the Great Secret lies with me. The Lazarus Coven cannot allow me to give it away, whatever my reason. The surest way to stop that happening would be to stop me. I study Louis once more. No wonder he will not look at me. If we do not find Freddie, will it be he who sees to it that I no longer threaten the coven? Has he been chosen to make certain I am silenced forever? Could he do it? His father could. No doubt, it was his father who made sure he came to me. Oh, Louis, what have I done to you, to all of us?

“There must be someone he would go to,” Louis says. “Some friend…”

I shake my head. “Freddie had only fair-weather friends. There is no one he could turn to now. Nowhere for him to run…” I stop suddenly. “Of course! Mr. Chow Li. He would go there.”

“Where? Who are you talking about?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just tell the driver to take us to Bluegate Fields.”

Louis does not question the unlikely location but taps his cane on the glass in front of us and instructs the driver as I have asked. We swerve violently to make a sharp left turn, and I notice a motor cab behind us doing the same thing. I watch for a moment and am certain it is following us.

Three men, my lady.

My Cavaliers have seen it, too.

Who are they?

We cannot say. But they are dangerous men. And they are armed, mistress.

Stricklend has sent them, I am certain of it. He means us to lead him to Freddie.

I lean forward and call to the driver. “Please, you must go faster. Turn here, yes, this little street. It will lead us where we want to go.” From the corner of my eye I notice Louis regarding me with astonishment, no doubt puzzled by my acquaintance with the route to such a place. The car turns again, just as quickly, throwing me against Louis. He steadies me, but does not use the moment, as he surely would have only yesterday, to hold me close or kiss my hand. Through the rear window I see we still have not rid ourselves of our unwanted escort. I am anxious that we do not play into the Sentinels’ hands, but we have no choice. We must find Freddie.

I continue to give directions as we leave the district of Westminster and travel east through Holborn and toward the docklands. Passing the Fenwick clock tower I notice it is nearly one o’clock. An hour after I should have met Bram at St. Pancras station. How long did he wait for me? What must he think of me now? After all the tumultuous events of the night, it is the thought of how badly I have treated Bram that brings unwelcome tears to my eyes. Will he forgive me? Could I ever make him understand? I cannot see how.

We leave the more prosperous areas, and soon Louis’s fine automobile stands out as something ostentatiously expensive against the drab backdrop of the grimy terraces and warehouses. The sun shines here just as brightly as it does in Fitzrovia and Bloomsbury, but that light is sucked into the dullness of the dark brick and stone of these mean, dirty streets. The colors are dulled with grit and poverty. The clothes people wear seem a uniform of drudgery and utility, save for the occasional scarlet ribbon or gaudy petticoat on show from women of a certain type still plying their trade on street corners.

“Are you sure your brother would come here?”

I nod sadly. “It is the only place he could come. Tell the driver to stop. We shouldn’t take your motorcar farther, and anyway, the lanes will soon be too narrow and rough for it.”

As we climb out of the comfortable cocoon of the vehicle I see that we have at last evaded our pursuers, at least for now. I urge Louis to hurry, and we scurry down a side alley toward the Thames. My guardian spirits stay close, swords drawn. Though unseen, their presence will deter opportunist rogues, who will sense danger, even if they do not know why. More importantly, the Cavaliers will ward off any spirits Stricklend may see fit to send after us. I cannot rule out such a tactic. I am sure he is capable of it.

“Lilith, are you certain you know where you are taking us?” Louis is becoming increasingly unnerved by the curious stares and unwanted attention we are garnering. In our fine clothes we are unhelpfully noticeable. I do not answer, but press on quickly, not wanting to speak any more than is absolutely necessary. If our appearance draws interest, our voices would do so also.

We are rounding the corner into the street which contains Mr. Chow Li’s house when I see Freddie.

“There he is!” I cry out, unwisely, forgetting in the excitement of finding him that we do not wish to alert our followers as to where we are. “Freddie!” I call to him. “Please, wait!”

But the second he sees us he turns and runs. My heart constricts at the thought that I now inspire such fear in him. We scramble after him, tripping over the pieces of a broken cart and slipping through all manner of rubbish and detritus. Freddie is incredibly quick, but his progress is slowed by the obstacles, both inert and human, that are in his path.

I call again, but he is not listening. We chase him down through the storehouses and inns, past a tannery and a glove factory. Small children scatter as Freddie tears through them, and then they regroup to taunt us as we hurry after him. We are getting closer and closer to the river, so that soon I can see it as well as smell its dank, sour odor. Freddie’s flight takes him along its banks toward Tower Bridge, which is the only crossing here for some distance if he is not to find a rowing boat or a ferry. As he reaches the bridge, Louis shouts out.

“Montgomery! Have a care, man—you are being hunted!” he yells, pointing wildly to the three figures who are closing fast on Freddie from a side street.

“Oh, Louis, they will reach him before we do!”

Frustration at my own lack of speed drives me on, but I cannot keep pace with the men. By the time I set foot on the great stone bridge Freddie has reached the first of the two towers which house the lifting mechanism that raises it for taller ships. He hesitates, and in that instant his would-be abductors move into place so that they surround him. He backs up against the railings of the bridge, desperately looking this way and that, searching for a means of escape. Louis catches up and shouts at the men to leave him alone, tackling the nearest one. I stop and steady myself. I am no use to my brother running like a flimsy girl. I must use what strength I have more effectively. I take a deep breath and bring all my thoughts, all the power of my mind to one point, so that I see only the tall, bony figure who is now striding toward Freddie. With a prayer to Hekate for strength I send a swift spell of movement that snatches up a small stone on the road and hurls it through the air. My first attempt falls wide, but my second finds its mark, and the man shrieks, clutching at his head, and is sent reeling backward. Louis has struck a fierce blow to the first man’s jaw, and he lies on the road clutching his face, spitting out teeth. My poor brother is transfixed against the railings of the bridge, seemingly incapable of either fleeing or defending himself. The third man lunges at him, at precisely the moment Louis reaches him. There is a brutal fight. I hear Freddie cry out, and catch the glint of sunlight on a blade. Louis screams, and the three are tangled together in a desperate struggle. What happens next occurs with the speed of a lightning flash, and yet the movements of all those involved are somehow leaden, heavy, slowed to an unnatural rate, so that I see every tiny detail, which will remain forever seared into my mind. The assailant raises his knife toward Freddie. Louis attempts to grab his wrist. Whether or not this affects the action of the henchman I cannot tell, but the result is catastrophic. The shard of steel slices across Freddie’s throat, opening the flesh. All three men are put off balance by the violence of the movement and tip, as one, over the top of the railings. To the shocked cries of onlookers, they tumble from the bridge, down, down, down, narrowly missing a laden coal barge, so that they enter the metallic-gray water of the Thames locked in a deadly embrace.

20.

1917

It occurs to me it is unlikely this shabby building that has leaned against St. Mary’s Convent in Holborn for so many years has ever before attracted such interest. A queue three people thick and easily threescore long winds back from the front steps down the drizzle-rinsed street. Those standing in line might have been chosen for the uniform drabness of their clothes. Watching them now through the grubby window of the makeshift kitchen it is as though I am witnessing all the color in the world dissolving in the rain, to be replaced with the browns and grays of misery and struggle. And surely there can be no better picture of both. Women, old people, and children, compelled to stand for hours waiting for the charity of the convent to provide them with the only hot meal they will see today. And while their bodies are starved of food, their hearts ache for absent loved ones, longing for the day they will return, dreading the knock on the door that brings a telegram to mark the end of hope.

“Lilith, dear, have you finished those pots? Sister Agnes is about to open the doors,” Sister Bernadette tells me as she passes, puffing slightly under the weight of the basket of bread she is carrying.

“Goodness,” I say, wiping my hands on my apron and hastening after her, “where did all those wonderful loaves come from?” Shortages have affected all manner of food, but none more so that wheat, now that the U-boat campaign has a stranglehold on the supply ships from America. The sight of a whole baker’s tray of fresh, white bread is rare indeed.