In the center of the four gardens stood a statue of a woman bound in chains. She appealed to the heavens for mercy, marble arms suspended in the air. An unusual lawn ornament and an unruly landscape for an American senator, but Munroe had said her father was never here. If Mrs. Ranulf was an aging beauty queen, she was definitely an eccentric one.
A hundred yards away, on the other side of the gardens, flowed the James River. Fiona frowned. Of course they’d live near the James. It was named for the Purgator King who’d made a hobby of torturing witches in Scotland. In fact, much of the landscape around here seemed to be named for the witch-hunting kings, James and Charles. They weren’t far from where the Jamestown fort had once stood, a colony settled even before Plymouth. Something had gone terribly wrong there, but she couldn’t remember what.
If she pressed her face against the glass and looked far to the right, she could see a lone willow on the river’s banks, surrounded by untamed woods of ash and magnolia. She pressed her face against the cool pane in the other direction. A hedge labyrinth stood between the house and the river, and more magnolias lined the river’s banks.
Mariana rose from her bed and began cramming clothes into a drawer. “The Ranulf mansion is kind of perfect. Apart from the Ranulfs. And apart from the fact that we’re only here because half our schoolmates burned in a fire.”
Fiona winced. “You do have a way with words.” She turned to her friend. “Well, I’m glad we’re alive, but I never thought we’d end up beholden to Munroe. What was that argument you had freshman year?”
“She tried to recruit me for her abstinence club.”
“What happened?”
“I told her I’d rather die of syphilis.”
Fiona smiled. “Nice.”
“Then she told everyone I got syphilis off that homeless guy who sells finger paintings in the Common.” Mariana jammed her T-shirts into the dresser before peering in the large mirror hanging above it, rearranging her black hair.
“Imagine the fight that would have gone down if you’d known magic then. Munroe would have come at you with her blood magic.” Fiona stood and approached to the dresser. “Do you think they’re a cult? I just overheard Mrs. Ranulf saying that something is off limits, and she sounded really urgent. And Tobias said they drink the blood of a god named Blodrial. I don’t even want to know where they get the blood from.”
“Thomas would probably know.” Mariana pulled out her black eyeliner. “If he doesn’t find his way out of Maremount, we’re gonna have to go after him somehow.”
“How will we know if he makes it out? They took our phones.”
“Maybe they thought we’d use them to arrange defilement meetings.”
“Oh, don’t be crass!” Fiona’s hand flew to her chest in mock horror. “I have my secretary schedule my defilement appointments.”
“You’re a fallen woman, Fiona. That can only end in death.” Mariana traced black swirls under her eyes. “Then again, everything ends with death.”
Fiona gazed at her roommate’s reflection. “Mariana, did you notice anything weird about Tobias when he got on the bus?”
“He’s a crow shifter from a Puritan-witch universe. He’s bound to be a little weird.”
“Yeah, but he seemed different. Like he’s almost a different person.” How could she explain that the way he held his shoulders had changed? It would make it sound like she’d been paying too much attention.
“It was weird that he was chatting to Munroe like they were buddies. But it makes sense for him to act weird. He just saw his girlfriend murdered. By your boyfriend.”
“Jack is not my boyfriend,” she snapped.
“Sorry. Ex-boyfriend.” Finishing her liner, Mariana blinked in the mirror.
“Just the thought of Jack fills me with rage.” Fiona stared at the frizzy mass of honey-brown curls that emanated from her head. There was something depressing about an undersized and faded princess T-shirt. “I’m not convinced the Ranulfs are much better, though.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Thomas
Oswald gaped. Clearly he hadn’t expected Thomas to change his plans.
The Theurgeon picked up Thomas’s watch, one eye bulging as he inspected the silver. “As you know, there is no cure for the Black Death. Though it is treatable.” He gave them a tight-lipped smile. “Is it you who have caught it?”
Oswald crossed his arms, leaning forward. “If ye hasn’t the cure, then how’s it none of ye pearly-caps gets the tokens?” William had been training him in the dialect of the literate classes, but to use it in front of the Theurgeon would betray his illegal education.
Asmodeus’s mouth twitched. “We maintain our health through proper hygiene.”
Oswald snorted.