The power from the journal rose louder and louder, roaring through her into a bright, molten force. It boiled through Carlston, raging towards his black, squirming prison. It swept up Darby, forging a bond through the blood-soaked binding, her screams joining the song of pain. No! Darby was not a Reclaimer. She would not survive this power. But there was no stopping the roaring voices.
The black mass of vestige above Carlston flared with light, heaving with the journal’s bright fury. The blood power boiled across it like fire across a forest, consuming the foul darkness in a blistering inferno, obliterating the screeching, oily madness. Piercing light sprang around Carlston: his soul, scorched clean of all vestige. He slumped onto his hands and knees, gasping for air like a man who had not breathed for days.
She felt his heartbeat and her own meld into one frantic pulse beneath the molten force — the bond, finally forged, locking them together in an agony of union, the chaotic voices of the journal screaming through them. She had to stop them or they would drag her and Carlston — and Darby too — into the storm of their gibbering pain forever. But how?
She forced herself past her own terror and focused on the voices. So much fear. So much loneliness. She caught an image of a tavern girl, eyes bulging, clawing at hands around her throat. A boy shielding his head from a hammering fist. A baby alone in a crib, screaming. Dear God, a baby. All those voices bound together into one howling wounded creature, striking out with teeth and claws made of burning power. She could not save them from their brutal ends, but she could soothe them. Comfort them. She could sing their lament alongside them with a heart that had felt fear and loss too.
‘I understand,’ she cried. ‘You are not alone. You are remembered.’
There was no change in the roaring, chittering pain. Perhaps an open heart was not enough. Yet did not all hurt creatures seek easement?
She kept on calling, her voice lilting into a chant. ‘I understand. You are not alone. You are remembered.’
The silence came so suddenly that it pitched her backward, the room spinning into a grey haze from the sudden absence of shrieking pain. She felt hands catch her and gather her against the warmth of another body. For now, the journal voices were blessedly at rest, the pain they had brought, gone, but she could feel their presence in her mind like a distant hive of bees, ever shifting and softly buzzing.
Above her, the grey slowly resolved into Carlston’s face, blood-streaked, the pain still etched on his face.
‘Helen!’
She gave a sobbing laugh of relief, touching his jaw, his cheek, the curve of his lips, no longer set into savagery. He was truly back. She could feel the pulse between them; no longer a clawing, desperate need, but a strong steady beat of union.
‘What have you done?’ he said in wonderment. ‘We are connected. I feel it in every part of my body.’
‘The Comte’s cure was a blood bond.’
‘So Louis kept his promise.’ He pressed his lips hard into her hair, the fierce tenderness drawing her closer against his chest. ‘I have never felt anything like it. So much power.’
Part of her knew she should pull away — she could hear a persistent whisper rising from the distant buzz of the journal, its devastating information demanding attention — but she did not move from the circle of his arms. Surely they could have this victory, this sublime sense of completeness, for just a few moments more.
Darby pushed herself onto her knees, dazed, brushing her fingers across her torn and bloodied bodice. ‘My lady, I am healed!’
Helen peered down and touched her side where the nails had ripped through her flesh. Smooth again, just as the cut in her palm had healed when she had struck down Lowry.
‘Are you healed?’ she asked Carlston.
‘Was I injured?’
She hesitated, then with light fingers smoothed back his hair. ‘You had a gash here, on your head, but it is healed now.’ She felt the power that linked them tingling in her fingertips and leaving a trail upon his skin. ‘Your shoulder too; it was laid open.’
She dropped her hand, the break of their touch bringing a tiny loss. He regarded her for a moment, clearly feeling it too, then drew a breath and turned his attention to the ripped and bloody mess of his jacket and shirt. He pulled back the ripped cloth to expose smooth skin and muscle.
‘Everything seems to be healed.’ He gave a tight smile. ‘Not least my mind, thank God.’
‘My lady, do you know what happened?’ Darby’s voice held an edge of panic. ‘After I was shot, all I can remember are voices screaming in my head, and pain, like I was on fire!’
‘The power forged our Terrene bond too,’ Helen said. ‘You did so well, Darby. You were so brave.’
She took her maid’s hand. It was trembling.
‘We are bonded?’ Darby tightened her grip. ‘I am glad, my lady. But will it be a normal Terrene bond? Does it matter that we did not say the right words?’
A good question.
‘I do not know.’ She squeezed Darby’s hand. ‘Normal or not, I am glad we have it.’
‘Helen.’ Carlston’s arms around her tensed. ‘Is that Stokes over there? Is he dead?’
She could not help but look at the prone body in the doorway. Merciful heaven, Carlston did not know what he had done. Darby met her eyes — should they tell him? — but Helen gave a slight shake of her head. Not yet. There was more anguish to come, but not yet.
‘He died as a true Reclaimer,’ she said.
She felt the sorrow bow Carlston’s body. ‘He was a good man. He will be sorely missed.’ He pressed his hand to his forehead. ‘I cannot remember much, but I do remember Benchley’s journal was a Ligatus. Is it destroyed now?’
Helen lifted the blood-soaked book. ‘It is how we bonded.’
He flinched. ‘We bonded through that thing?’
Helen opened it and fanned the pages. Every one of them was blank.
Carlston tentatively touched the smooth paper. ‘But it was full of writing. Full of alchemy.’
‘Not any more,’ Helen said.
It was all locked within her mind and heart. She had absorbed all the voices, all the words, all the power. And very soon — when she could bear to retreat from Carlston’s arms — she would have to tell them the terrifying truth. She was not only one half of the Grand Reclaimer. She was also the Ligatus.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Almost a full hour later, the bodies of the Comte and Comtesse d’Antraigues and their assassin, Lawrence, were carried to the cool rooms of the White Hart to await the coroner. Mr Pike orchestrated the removal, ordering into service a number of local men who had gathered outside the house to watch the spectacle. As ever he was promptly obeyed, his air of authority creating some order within the murmuring shock of the day.
He and Helen stood watching from the doorway of the Comte’s house as the three bodies made their journey across the road, an interested group of shabbily clad children circling the procession.
‘What about Stokes?’ Helen asked.
‘I am dealing with that situation,’ Pike said.
Carlston was right: the man was a bureaucrat to the core and a shrewd survivor. They needed him as much as he needed them. Although it went against the grain, she had to put aside her dislike and distrust.