“Do you think anyone would believe a magician over me?” He lets me go roughly. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life in Lockskill Castle, your hands chopped from your wrists? No? Best to speak when I tell you, then, like a good fellow.”
He says it as if I were a dog. He walks away and leaves me crying for William as the afternoon sun moves farther into the sky.
—
MY HAND DROPPED AWAY FROM THE mirror. I didn’t realize I was falling until Mickelmas caught me about the waist and helped me into a chair. He pressed a cup of water into my hand and helped me drink.
I’d been inside Mickelmas’s head. I’d seen the world through his eyes, heard his thoughts as if they were my own. And I’d seen my father. Not his painting; not some wistful dream. I’d heard his voice, seen his face as he smiled and laughed. As he screamed. I’d watched through Mickelmas’s eyes as the rope had been cut, as my father had been swallowed into that churning…I couldn’t. I couldn’t breathe.
I shoved the water away, spilling it onto the rug, and slid to my knees. I heaved several times, though nothing came up. My throat was raw. Once I could speak, I said, “You let him die.”
“For six years, I spent all my money.” Mickelmas sounded deflated and, somehow, horribly relieved. “I traveled the bloody world in search of the correct summoning runes.” He pulled me up by my shoulders, his gaze locking with mine.
“And I found them, the ones that would allow me to call for a specific person or creature. There was something wrong with our original trio: me, William, Blackwood. We should have had a witch. Such a spell requires all three magical races.”
“So you got Mary Willoughby.” My voice was weak and flat.
“Yes. We carved the new circle on Midsummer’s Day—certain rituals work best at certain times of the year. We summoned William. R’hlem answered. He brought his beasts with him, and the sky turned black.” He released me.
I swallowed; my throat felt like sandpaper. “You didn’t find him,” I murmured.
Mickelmas stood. “I thought long and hard. And then I realized.” He walked to the hearth and waved his hand over the fire. Embers lifted into the air. He began to weave words out of smoke.
“William came from a town in Wales called Rhyl,” he said. He wrote,
WILLIAM HOWEL OF RHYL
The words hung in the air. He waved his hand again and the words changed, the letters shifted, before gradually forming a new word.
RHYL WILLIAM HOWEL
RH’WILLIAM WEL
RH’LLIAM E
RH’LEM
R’HLEM
I was standing, though I didn’t recall getting to my feet. I stared at Mickelmas’s ashen words until they dissipated into nothing and left the scent of smoke lingering in the air.
“You told me he left and never came home.” My tongue felt leaden in my mouth. This couldn’t be real.
“William left us that day, and the man as I knew him never returned. You interpreted it as you saw fit.” Mickelmas lifted his head, as if daring me to challenge his logic.
I interpreted it? As though it was my fault for not being clever enough to see?
“Don’t you dare,” I growled. Feeling flooded back through my body. My head hurt, my eyes burned, and flame licked up my spine—Mickelmas stilled when he saw what was coming. I walked toward him, sparks raining onto the carpet. “You were going to tell me the truth the night that Korozoth attacked. Why did you hide it?”
“I thought I’d never see you again,” he said simply. “When I realized how much better it would be with you on my side, I thought the whole truth would be inconvenient.” He held a hand up, as if to appease me. “I’d have told you eventually.”
“After I’d murdered my own…?” The word father failed in my mouth. No, no, this couldn’t be true. Mickelmas was wrong. He’d been tricked all those years ago, when he opened the portal into the sky and R’hlem fell to the earth.
But on the astral plane, R’hlem had been covered in blue flame….
“And now that you know, are you so much better off?” he muttered. With a sweep of his arm, he transported himself to the other side of the room, away from my fire. “This is bigger than any one of us. Magicians can take back this world. Forget this piddling war against the Ancients; we can end the war against our people! You’d throw all that away?”
I killed the fire. My skin was cold once more, slight curls of gray smoke rising from my fingertips. I stepped toward him and slapped him across the face. My handprint was emblazoned on his cheek.
He looked slack with surprise, then bared his teeth and stuck a finger in my face. “If you ever do that again, I’ll turn you into a chair.”
“Go ahead. I’m the last Howel for you to ruin.” How had I ever trusted him?
“It’s because of my warning that your aunt took you to Yorkshire in the first place.” He thumped his chest. “You could show more gratitude.”
Gratitude.
“My father’s a monster because of you. My mother died of grief because of you. Because of you, England could fall!” I screamed. “You’ve lied to me since the moment we met. I hate you!” I conjured those words from the darkest place in my soul, then threw out my hands and unleashed a stream of fire. Mickelmas vanished, and I scorched the wallpaper, the red silk curling into charred flakes. Shaking, I took the water on hand—the tea in Mickelmas’s teapot—and doused the flames. I didn’t want to burn down Agrippa’s house. The wet, burnt odor lingered in the air.
Mickelmas reappeared. “Well, I’m the only one left for you to hate, my duck.” He counted on his fingers. “R’hlem skinned Charles Blackwood alive; Mary Willoughby was burned at the stake; your aunt took off for God knows where after she dumped you at that school. If you want to blame someone, look at your own precious father. He put magicians ahead of your family.” He smirked. “You don’t even have his noble excuse. Tell me, will you go to the Order and tell your darling Imperator what I’ve revealed tonight?”
I hated him beyond anything else in the world. For being right.
“If I see you again, I will kill you,” I spit.
“Then we will not meet again.” There was no remorse in his voice. With a flip of his arm, he sheltered his cloak about me, and an instant later I found myself alone in my bedroom.
Cold. I was freezing cold. I tried to get my shaking under control. I sat on my bed, grabbed the sachet of herbs from my table, and crushed it in my grip, unleashing its bitter floral scent. Why had I gone to the astral plane? Why?
My father is R’hlem.
No, I couldn’t even think those words. A sob escaped, and I bit down on my knuckle to keep silent.
I couldn’t stay in this room; no, I needed something. Someone.
I needed Rook.
I ran out the door and down the hall, into the gentlemen’s corridor. It was improper and impulsive to barge into his room in the middle of the night, but I needed him. I needed his arms around me, needed to listen to his heart beating. I needed to hear his voice telling me I was safe. Turning the doorknob as quietly as I could, I slipped inside his room.
“Rook?” I whispered. He was sprawled upon his bed, asleep. Moving into the room, I shut the door behind me and lit a candle. By the light, I could see that he’d not got out of his clothes yet. His coat was off, and his shirt half-unbuttoned down the front, exposing his chest and a few swollen scars. He lay on top of the covers and gave a soft moan as I drew closer. Sweat stood out on his brow, matting his hair. When I sat down beside him on the bed, I reached out and touched his face…and my hand came away slick with blood.
Blood was smeared along his cheek, coating his arms up to the elbow. He moaned again, his eyes fluttering open. He looked up at me, no pain in his expression. I pulled the blankets back and looked frantically over his body to find the source of the wound, only to find him unharmed.
God, the blood wasn’t his.
“What happened?” I whispered, smoothing his damp brow. He was a banked coal beneath my hand.
“I’m so tired.” His eyes closed again.