Forget knowing his mind; R’hlem had potentially given me something much more vital than that, and he didn’t even know it.
Unlike the lesser Ancients, R’hlem did not choose to display himself much on the battlefield. If he emerged, it was after the fighting was done so that he could creatively flay and dismember the unfortunate survivors. Pinpointing his exact location had been slippery, to say the least.
Knowing where Molochoron was, perhaps we could uncover R’hlem’s location as well. Then, if we moved fast, perhaps we could attack with the weapons and—
Are you truly prepared to kill your own father?
There was no good answer for that thought, save for the knot in my stomach.
—
WHEN THE MORNING CAME, I’D BEEN awake for hours. I needed to speak with Blackwood at once to discuss the bell patterns, though I’d have to be smart in how I went about it. I didn’t want him to know everything that had happened—not just yet.
He wasn’t at breakfast, which was odd. Eliza drank a hasty cup of tea, toying with the half-eaten toast on her plate. Tonight was her debut; she should have been excited. The past few days, there’d barely been a moment’s rest in the house. Bushels of roses and flares of orchids were artfully arranged throughout the halls. Rugs had been taken up, furniture had been moved, floors had been waxed and scrubbed, and through it all Eliza had sat as quiet as the eye of the storm.
Since the shouting match with Blackwood, we hadn’t heard a word about Aubrey Foxglove.
“Are you ready for tonight?” I asked, taking some eggs and keeping an eye on the door for Blackwood.
“I’m nervous,” she said. But she looked rather resigned. I should have done more to argue in her corner against the engagement. Perhaps Blackwood could still be reasoned with.
“I’ll speak to your brother about Foxglove,” I said. Eliza looked up, as if properly noticing me for the first time that day.
“You’re sweet.” She chewed on her bottom lip, the first hint of nerves. “I’ll have something to tell you later.”
Mysterious. “Why not now?”
The clock struck eight, and Eliza pushed her chair back.
“The timing’s not right. Later, I promise.” She left the room. Odd. I would never understand the Blackwood family.
He never came to breakfast, and I skirted around the servants as they continued their whirl of preparation for the ball. Great rows of beeswax candles were being lit in the chandeliers and planted all along the walls and tables. Ivy symbolizing Sorrow-Fell decorated the staircase banisters, and faerie lights softly glowed among the tendrils. The Blackwood mansion would be the best-lit building in the city.
Blackwood wasn’t in his study or the parlor. The thought occurred that he’d be at practice, but it wasn’t like him to miss a meal for it. As I walked toward the obsidian room, I noticed that the air felt…off. Thick, somehow. Strange noises emanated from behind the obsidian room’s door: high, keening whining like a dog’s, followed by a grunting, grinding echo.
Gooseflesh spread over my arms. Pushing in, I discovered Blackwood with one of the swords in his hands.
He’d removed his coat and cravat and undone the top buttons of his shirt, the front of which was damp with sweat. Going into a deep crouch, his legs shook ever so slightly—he was tired. Had he even been to bed? He raised the sword perfectly over his shoulder, arms prepared for a mighty swing, and twisted the blade counterclockwise as he went. The deep, unsettling whine sounded once more.
He finally noticed me in the room’s black reflection. “What are you doing here?” He placed the sword against the wall, and the obsidian warped when the metal made contact.
Whatever these weapons were, they were against the rules of this place. Blackwood’s appearance reflected that: his eyes were glassy. His normally pale skin was red and blotchy at his face and neck.
I nodded at the weapons—the sword by the wall, the coil of the whip on a small table. “What are you doing here?”
“Practicing.” He picked up a cloth from the table and wiped his face.
“Mickelmas warned us.” I noted how he watched the weapons out of the corner of his eye, rather like a dragon guarding its hoard.
“You don’t get stronger without practice.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, his eyes closed. Putting down the weapon had drained the bright color from his face; he looked exhausted. Tossing the towel aside, he picked up the whip. Sparks exploded as he cracked it twice.
I noticed a pile of books on the other side of the table. Pulling the stack closer, I recognized them from his father’s private study. As I flipped the pages, I discovered small, fine handwriting in the margins.
“You’ve been making notes.” I turned the book to him. Blackwood glanced quickly.
“My father wrote those. He was obsessed with magician craft.” Crack. He handled the whip with the air of an expert. “He was a bastard, but ahead of his time. He recognized the importance of mastering these forces.” Crack again.
Mastering was a word Charles Blackwood would have used, not his son.
“You should be careful with what you find.”
“When we go up against R’hlem, I want to be ready.” The idea made me ill. Blackwood stopped, the whip coiling limp at his feet. “He killed my father, you know.” He said it quietly, an admission. “Skinned him alive. When they brought the body back, Mother wouldn’t let Eliza or me look.”
Dear God.
“So you want revenge.” I understood.
“No.” That haunted look crept over his face once more. “I want to be the one who wins.” He cracked the whip again, and again, and again. Each time, the magic washed over my body, soaking my skin. Rolling the whip up, he placed it back on the table and traced his fingers over the handle, a loving caress. “I found myself in the parlor yesterday evening, looking up at Father’s portrait.”
Yes, I knew the one. It looked disarmingly like Blackwood himself, only with an easier smile. “He never noticed me when I was a child. I think the first time he truly looked at me was the day he went off to die. He seemed to know it, too; that spurred him to tell me what he’d done. He passed the burden of our family shame onto an eight-year-old boy. Do you know what he said then?” Blackwood closed his eyes. “His final words were ‘Try not to be so disappointing, George.’?”
Crack. He took the whip once more and used it. Breathing heavily, he stared at his own dark reflection. “I hope he can see me from wherever he is now. I want him to choke on my victory.”
Blackwood’s intensity unnerved me.
“We’re going to win,” I told him, trying to soothe. He wheeled about to face me.
“Is it wrong to want more?” His eyes searched mine.
“More what?”
He paused, as if afraid. Then he whispered, “Everything.”
Blood trickled down his face. His nose had started bleeding afresh. Still, he didn’t move as he gazed at me.
“Why shouldn’t we take what we can?” he breathed.
I saw in Blackwood’s cold smile his father as he cut the rope—
I gave him my handkerchief to stanch his bleeding.
“Forgive me.” Blackwood blinked as if emerging from a dream. Turning away, he lined up the weapons on the table. “I should have asked when you came in. Do you want something?”
“I’ve been considering ways to attack the Ancients, and I can’t recall where they’re all located at the moment.” I paused. “Molochoron, for example.”
Blackwood considered, then snapped his fingers. “York. Whitechurch had a dispatch two days ago asking for more men.”
So R’hlem was in Yorkshire. I suppressed a shudder at the thought of him near Brimthorn, even though it wasn’t close to the city. The sooner I moved on this information, and the sooner I established where R’hlem was, the sooner the girls at my old school would be safe. I had to keep telling myself that. I had to believe it.
Blackwood held open the door for me. Once we were out in the hall, the thick magic bled away, and my head felt lighter.