The Etsey Series 1: The Seventh Veil Page 11

  Timothy braced himself against the casement and looked down just in time to see the figure disappear around the corner to the front of the house. “Madeline? This is his Madeline? The witch’s Apprentice?” Hope fluttered in his heart. “He did not trick me? He sent his friend to help Jonathan, as he promised?”

  The ghost put her hand on Timothy’s; his skin tingled at the touch. “She brings harm! She is arrogant and untried! She will unleash the beast inside him! It will kill him and her and you, Raturjula, and then it will use this man’s body to seek out the beloved!”

  Timothy’s fingers tightened on the stone of the windowsill. He did not want to remember the demon, but he doubted he would ever be able to completely forget it. “How do you know?” He turned back to the ghost. “How do you know this is what will happen? And why is Charles Perry your beloved? Were you his lover when you were alive? Why are you trying to control me? Am I the only one who can see you? Why do you keep appearing to me?”

  He was shouting now, but his agitation seemed to quiet her. She smiled, gently tightening her hand on his as her other reached up to stroke his cheek. Timothy’s breath caught; he lifted his free hand and captured hers against his face, drawing it away, but he did not let it go. He flattened his palm against her fingers, and she did the same, pressing her fingers against his, his palm of flesh meeting hers of light. The world around them seemed to dim and fade, even as the space between Timothy and the ghost concentrated, then slowly began to expand. When she spoke next, her mouth did not move, but her words echoed softly inside of Timothy’s head.

  “Time is a river, its currents fast and slow, with bends and curves that double back upon itself. It reached for stagnant pools, trying to draw them into the flow and take them home to the sea.” Her fingers slipped to the side of Timothy’s own, then curled against the back of his hand. “Your current is your own, but we share the same waters. Look into my heart; see what I see. Look back to the source and ahead to the sea. Look and you will understand. You will see, and you will know. You will know everything.”

  Timothy felt dizzy and light, as if he truly were floating on a river. He could see it in his mind, and he could feel the truth of what she said. He felt a door within him begin to crack, felt himself drawn inexorably toward it. It was glowing gold, and he knew if he stepped through that portal, he would see, he would know—he would know everything—

  On the bed, Jonathan let out a ragged cough.

  Timothy drew back, dizzy and fogged; as his hand came away from the woman’s, Jonathan coughed again, this one more of a wheeze. Timothy stepped farther away, feeling shaken.

  “No,” he said. “No, I do not want to know.” He nodded to Jonathan. “I must save him. I don’t care how, but I must save him or find someone who can.”

  She nodded, looking disappointed but not surprised. She held out her hand in surrender.

  “If you will keep your will, then use it. Test this witch and learn the truth. Do not let her dismiss you. Make her answer your questions. Do not fear for the heir of the House; he will have time enough. Time will be fluid everywhere tonight.” She smiled, but it was a sad smile, and she ran her hands gently over her skirts. “Almost everywhere.”

  Timothy closed his hand and pressed it tight against his thigh. He had felt this too when she had taken his hand: her sorrow and her loneliness. He didn’t know who she had been or why she ached so for Jonathan’s half brother, but he had felt the ache, and so he ached with her.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “Atachurla, Raturjula,” she replied, but with a sad smile. “You have no reason to regret.”

  She continued to smile as she faded away, and Timothy thought he saw the echo of her eyes hover longer than the rest, glowing like a silver set of stars. Then they too were gone.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Timothy turned toward the door, reaching for his broad knife. On the bed, Jonathan’s labored breathing shifted into a rattle. The handle on the door turned, and the barrier swung open, admitting a tall figure swathed head to toe in black, carrying a lantern in its hand. It did not look like healing. It looked like death itself. It advanced.

  Timothy drew his knife. “Hold,” he said, raising the blade before him as he stepped into the figure’s path. “State your name and your purpose, or I will strike.”

  The black-robed figure only raised a white palm as strange, dark words hissed in a susurrus from the shroud of its veil. Timothy raised his knife higher and shut his eyes as the lantern in the figure’s hand exploded and the dark, dreary bedroom became alive with light.

  The light faded.

  The figure in black lowered its hand, but slowly, with a hesitation that told Timothy whatever had just happened had not gone according to plan. The lantern lowered, and the pale hand came out again, aimed this time at the cold hearth. There was another sibilant hiss; more light flashed, and this time the hearth responded, bursting into brilliant, perfect flame. The figure paused, then swung the white palm back at Timothy. It spoke more words, and there was more light, brighter this time. When the light faded again, Timothy shifted his grip on the handle of the blade, still waiting to see what was going to happen.

  The figure lowered the lantern, setting it down on a table near the door. Then both hands rose to lift the heavy black veil and pull it away.

  The figure was a woman, as the ghost had said it would be. She was young, or rather, she was not old. Jonathan had told Timothy a bit about the Etsian witches, and he made them seem gruesome and grisly things. But this one was not. She was not bald or ugly; she was, in fact, very, very beautiful. She had high cheekbones, wide, dark eyes, and thick, curling tresses of dark brown hair that hung in the sort of sultry tangle around her shoulders that would send most men’s blood straight to their groins and make them forget their reason. She looked at Timothy, actually, as if she were hoping he would have that reaction.

  He couldn’t stop a brief grin at the thought, but he checked it as quickly as it came, keeping the knife high as he spoke. “State your name and your purpose here.”

  She held out her empty hands and made a sort of half bow. “I am Madeline Elliott, and I am here to help.” Her eyes darted to Timothy’s knife. “You?”

  “I am Timothy Fielding. Equerry to Jonathan Perry. Formerly third lieutenant of the Etsian Army and special agent for the Death Unit.”

  She lifted a quizzical eyebrow and tucked her headgear under her arm. “A very Etsian name for a man whose appearance insists he must be a full-blood Catalian. You are also the first Catalian alchemist I have had the pleasure of meeting.”

  Timothy lowered his knife and aimed an angry finger at her instead. “I am no alchemist. I hate magic, and after today I particularly hate alchemists. As for my name, the army general gave it to me when I was liberated. My prior name caused too many sniggers among the ranks.” He tilted his head to the side, taking his turn at examining. “You are the one the half brother sent?” He pursed his lips and raised the tip of his knife so it flickered in the lantern light. “After where he sent me to wait for you, you might understand my hesitation at accepting your ‘help.’”

  Her brown eyes flashed briefly in anger, but she quickly tempered herself, producing a basket from beneath the heavy robes. “The abbey was a strange choice, I will grant you. But outside of Whitby Hall, there was truly nowhere else.” She propped the basket on the edge of the table and stared at the wall for a moment, as if a thought were just occurring to her. “He could have sent you to my cottage. I wonder, actually, that he didn’t. I suppose he wasn’t certain of my reception.”

  Her expression was guarded, but something in it urged Timothy to speak. “He said, in fact, that he was certain you would want to help. That you would insist.”

  The sudden softness that spread across the woman’s face startled Timothy. “Well.” She did not look at him. “Well.”

  Timothy liked the tenderness he saw in her eyes. “You were acquainted with Jonathan before?”


  “He courted me.” Her smile turned sad. “But then there was unpleasantness with my cousin, and then his father—” The last of her smile died. She straightened and leveled steady eyes at Timothy. “Yes, we were acquainted. I wish him no ill will. In fact, I want to help him. Please let me tend to him. I am competent and powerful, even though I am not a full witch. And to be blunt, Mr. Fielding, if what I have seen is correct, there is no one besides me who would arrive in time to save him.”

  “What you have seen?” Timothy shifted to the side and glanced at the bed.

  “In a vision,” Madeline Elliott said. “I entered a magical trance, and I saw Jonathan. What he faces is grave. We are wasting time.”

  Timothy’s grip on his knife’s hilt was growing damp with sweat, and he shifted hands so he could rub the right on his tunic. “I was told you might do him harm unintentionally. And I will be honest with you—I do not trust magic.”

  “I can do no worse than what will happen to him by doing nothing,” she said flatly. “As for disliking magic—it is magic that ails him, and only it can be his cure.” She took a step forward, her brown eyes burning into him. “Please, Mr. Fielding. You may observe if you are nervous. And I assure you I do not normally allow this.”

  Timothy shifted the knife back again. He turned, looking worriedly at the bed. He half waited for the ghost woman to reappear, but she did not.

  He sighed and sheathed the knife, nodding curtly. “Do what you can. And yes, I will be watching.”

  She made another bow, picked up her basket, and swept around him toward the bed.

  He followed, cutting a wide path around the foot of the bed, glancing back at her as he moved. She, however, had eyes only for Jonathan. She had played it cool at the door, but it was plain that she was affected personally by Jonathan’s pain. It was not the grotesqueness of his body but the fact that it was his body in this state that disturbed her, as if his pain hurt her too. But all this was the expression of a moment. She masked her pain and placed the basket on the foot of the bed, sorting brusquely through her supplies.

  Timothy came up to the foot of the bed, still watching her unload candles, strings of dried herbs, and things in jars, and even a skull. She arranged them with the skull in the center, making a macabre sort of creature out of knives and twigs and bone and jars of dried clay, and she set a candle on the top of the jar just behind the skull.

  “What is it you do?” he asked, not bothering to hide his wariness.

  She lit the candle as she spoke. “I am creating an anachi, which is—”

  “A decoy.” Timothy smiled crookedly when she glanced at him in surprise. “It’s a Catalian word.”

  “It’s from a much older language, in fact.” She looked puzzled, but though she shook her head, she continued. “It’s a decoy, but only of sorts. It’s more of a surrogate. I hope to remove something from inside Jonathan and place it inside the anachi.”

  Timothy’s eyes fell on Jonathan’s leg, which was still festering. He felt a cold wind whisper over his spine. “Remove something. You too believe he has a demon?”

  “I do not believe it. I know it.” She shoved her sleeves up, then glanced around the room. “I need something of his. Something metal would be good. Or something stone.”

  Timothy wanted to push at the idea of this “demon,” but he went first to Jonathan’s jacket and fished about in the pocket. “He told me he had a demon, but I would not believe him.” He withdrew a coin and brought it back to her. “I still don’t.”

  “Demons rarely require belief to exist.” She frowned at the coin and shook her head. “No. Money is too communal.” She glanced up at Jonathan’s torso. “A necklace will do nicely.”

  She was reaching for the silken cord that disappeared behind his neck; Timothy saw this and scrambled around the other side, reaching out to stop her even though he was too far away. “No!” he cried. “No, don’t—He’ll—”

  But she had already stopped herself. The heavy stone medallion lay in her hand, but she made no move to lift it over his head or worse, cut the string. She was staring down at it as if it were about to bite her. Her face had been pale since she’d first seen Jonathan, but now it was ashen. Men on the battlefield staring at acres of corpses did not look as blindsided as Madeline Elliott looked as she beheld the simple stone necklace lying in the palm of her hand.

  “He has had it since I have known him,” Timothy said. “He will not have it taken off, not for anything. He clings to it, especially when he is ill. He would be more upset than I can say if you remove it.”

  She closed her eyes briefly, then let the medallion fall back down against Jonathan’s chest. “A button would do.”

  Timothy went back to the coat and took a small knife out to cut one of the gold knobs off the cuff, but he collected it somewhat absently, still thinking of the witch’s reaction to Jonathan’s medallion and what that might mean. He was still thinking of it when he rose and made to return to the bed, which was why he did not see that the ghost woman had reappeared until he ran directly into her.

  Into was a frighteningly apt description, he discovered; he was halfway through her before he could go no farther, and when he backed up, he felt her slide against his skin, leaving it numb where she had touched him. He hissed, then choked as he inhaled her as well. She took a step backward, apparently unaffected by their encounter. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Timothy.

  “You do nothing to stop her.” She pointed an angry finger back at Madeline Elliott. “You are helping her.”

  Timothy coughed again, then shook himself in hopes of dislodging the unpleasant sensation of having walked through someone. He said nothing, only glared back at the ghost before stepping around her and returning to the bed. It didn’t surprise him that she followed him, and though he harbored hope, he could tell the witch could not see or hear the ghost woman.

  Shoving up his sleeves as she had done, Timothy held out his hand. “Your button. Now what else may I do to assist you?”

  He was watching the ghost out of the corner of his eye, enjoying her outrage as he not only ignored her but also defied her, which was why when the witch took not the button but his whole hand, he startled in surprise. She was running her finger over the tattoos and scars on the inside of his arm, but there was comprehension on her face, not just curiosity.

  “You were a concubine of the court,” she said with surprise, then stilled as her finger traced the royal mark. “The Cariff court.” She looked up at him as if he were a ghost. “You should be dead.”

  Timothy considered yanking his arm back, but he made himself leave it there. “You can see that I am not. But yes, I was a court concubine.”

  She was shaking her head. “The Cloister monks tortured all of you to death. You were the first captured. It was your deaths the witches saw and caused them to rouse the army. I watched this when I was but a novice.”

  “You saw me?” Timothy asked, impressed despite himself. “In your visions?”

  She nodded. “I saw the concubines. The men and the women, down in the pits—” She traced the brand above the royal mark. “I saw them give you this. Then I saw—” She shut her eyes and said no more.

  If she truly did see, Timothy had pity for her. He closed his free hand over hers on his wrist. “I was a prisoner of the Cloister, yes. But I escaped. They tortured me…differently. I don’t know why I was kept alive.” He nodded to the bed. “It was he who rescued me. And now it is he who needs rescuing. Please. Help me help him.”

  He hadn’t meant to accept her so completely just yet, but he found her pain at the memory of her vision or whatever it was she had seen all those years ago was testament enough for him. He pushed the now furious ghost from the corner of his focus and opened the rest to the witch, telling her the full, strange story, all that he knew and could understand.

  “He cannot die—or, at least, it is very, very difficult for him to.” Timothy gestured to various scars across Jonathan’s body. “
Each of these should have been fatal; this punctured his liver. This, a lung. A bullet once went directly into his heart; he was in a coma, and the doctor tried to tell me there was no hope, but I made him operate. The surgeon made the incision, but I had to remove the pellet myself, as the physicians were so undone by the sight of a man’s heart beating even with three aortas severed that they had to be admitted into their own hospital.” He gestured to Jonathan’s neck. “This was the last. We were ambushed, and the bandit who grabbed Jonathan tried to cut his throat. I couldn’t reach him, and I had to watch as the knife cut a wide swath. It bled like nothing I have ever seen. He should have died there in my arms. He did not. The army hospital discharged him and put him on a boat home, thinking he was nearly gone—hoping, I suspect. They couldn’t look at him. The thick tubing of his vessels, his windpipe—all were severed, visible through the gaping hole in his neck from the butchery, and yet he lived. I watched his insides knit slowly back together day by day. But he has been weaker each time, and since we have come back to his homeland, he has been nearly rabid with paranoia. He says he is possessed of a demon. He says he will turn into an agent of death and destruction if he is not cured of it. He says the longer he is here on this soil, the more power it claims and the more lost he becomes.”

  The witch let go of Timothy as she moved to the head of the bed and began moving her hands over Jonathan’s body, shaping the air above him as if she were touching a ghost body that hovered above his flesh and bone. Timothy dared a look at the ghost at the foot of the bed, but to his relief, he saw that she had vanished again.

  When the witch came to Jonathan’s bandaged groin and thigh, she stopped.

  “How did he come by this one?” she asked.

  “He brought it with him to the Continent. It’s from a fight with his father, he said.” Timothy glared at the wound. “It has never fully healed. It reopens almost daily, and it has grown over the years.” He pursed his lips, then rubbed the gesture away before he spoke. “He says this is where the demon lives.”