James moved the candle closer. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said. “Could be a distant cousin to the wolf hound, though it’s larger by half. What was it doing in here?”
“I don’t know,” I said, finally recovering the use of my voice. “It broke through the door and attacked me.”
James poked the hound with the tip of his sword. “Is it dead?”
“I think so. I had the knife from my apothecary. The hound fell on the blade when it lunged at me.” I held back how the blade had slid into the creature’s chest, melting its flesh and bone like butter.
James leaned over for a better look. “This wasn’t its first fight.” He pointed towards the hound’s head, “Something has taken a bite out of its ear.”
My knees buckled and I braced myself against the wall to keep from falling. James was right. One ear looked severely mangled, a portion of cartilage gone and the remainder covered in a thick layer of scabs. The wound was unmistakable, as was the nature of Mr. Chubais’s urgent message—to kill the goddess born.
The body began to quiver and James jumped back. A blue flame sprang from the bloodstained chest, barely missing my skirts as it raced over the fur, encasing the hound in a blanket of icy fire. It was over in seconds, the carcass reduced to a pile of white ash.
“Merciful God!” James exclaimed.
His words mirrored my thoughts exactly.
Stooping, I picked up the knife from the ash, marveling at how good it felt in my hand. It was a formidable weapon, forged by the smith god for one purpose—to defeat the enemy.
Chapter Two
A Person of Interest England, November 1730
From the upper deck of the Callisto, I stared out at the most extraordinary sight. London, a city so vast and crowded it sprawled for miles in every direction to accommodate its half-million residents. The thought boggled my mind—a half million people living together in one place, and all but one complete strangers to me.
The dark water of the Thames meandered like a lethargic snake, its cumbersome body winding a wide path that separated north and south London by more than a furlong. Ships dotted the river as far as the eye could see, three and four mast giants casting long shadows over the smaller fishing craft and ferryboats. Just past noon, the time appeared much later due to a thick layer of smoky haze that covered the city. A crisp breeze passed by me, strong enough to ruffle my woolen cape and to turn the river’s already noticeable stink into a powerful stench.
I wrinkled my nose and held up a scented handkerchief to help cover the odor. The mass of humanity, though exciting to behold, had left its mark on the city’s air. Even from the ships position in the middle of the Thames, throngs of people were easily discernible milling about on the docks. After months at sea, the crowds seemed a small price for the freedom to move about beyond the tight confines of the ship’s deck.
Only a little bit longer, I reminded myself. Captain Saunders was due back at any moment from the customs house where he had gone to declare the ship’s cargo before ferrying the passengers to shore. Another few hours were inconsequential when considering how long Henry and I had already been apart. Fifteen weeks had passed since our last goodbye, each day feeling significantly longer than the one before.
In the midst of an impatient sigh, my breath cut short when a different number wormed its way forward. Eighty-six days.
Tomorrow would mark eighty-seven, followed by eighty-eight, every sunrise adding another day to my last visit into the Otherworld. Try as I might to minimize the truth, Brigid’s last warning clung like a stubborn child to my thoughts.
“Refusing to drink from the spring will result in your death.”
Lack of opportunity might not equate to outright refusal, but the reason, I assumed, had no bearing on the ultimate promise of death. As Brigid only came to my specific garden about once a year, all I knew for certain was the tidbit she had tossed in with the warning, that it would happen, “over time, depending on the circumstances.” Nothing more had been offered, not even a hint whether she meant six months or six years.
Anxiety bubbled in my stomach. When I had first agreed to join Henry in London, I drew comfort from the knowledge that my grandparents had survived a similar journey years ago. But as the weeks wore on, this comfort began to wane as my power grew more and more sluggish with each use, and it became increasingly difficult to ignore the many challenges that awaited me on a distant shore. Now the Callisto had arrived, the questions I’d pushed aside refused to remain quiet any longer.
Would I know if I were dying? Or just drop dead one day without the least warning? And where in this vast tangle of people and buildings would I find another altar to crossover? Assuming one had been opened at all.