It is Mother.
She runs the few short steps and embraces me. I squeeze her tightly, never wanting to let go. The comforting scent of Cameo Rose blooms in my nostrils. And it is then that I am certain. It truly is Mother.
“Mother,” I whisper, breaking our embrace. “How? You’re . . .” I touch her face.
“Dead?” she says. “Yes, child, I have passed beyond, and I cannot tarry long. You must listen to me, Jess.”
Jess.
“There is something you need to know, dear one.”
“What is it, Mother? Tell me. Quickly!”
Emily and Gabriel move closer, eager to hear Mother’s words.
She steps back, and her eyes—?the soft green eyes I know so well—?flood to a deep black. “‘Ring around the rosy,’” she cries out. “‘A pocketful of posies. Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!’”
And then she screams.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Rats
Shadows leap from the darkness. Mother fades right before my eyes.
I try to strike out, but cold hands grasp my arms, pinning them back so far, I feel as if they will break. My lash drops to the ground. I struggle with all my might, to no avail. All I see are black shapes within a deeper shade of black. And eyes. Glowing red eyes floating in the darkness.
Emily’s light flares brighter than ever for one brief moment and then fizzles. She falls to the tunnel floor. “Emily!” I shout.
A calming note rings out. Whatever it is that is holding me loosens its grip for a moment but then squeezes again, pinching my forearms with what feel like hot irons.
Gabriel strums another chord, but just as quickly it sours, fading off into a discordant tone that twangs and vibrates, as if someone is wrenching the strings out of his harp. I hear a grunt and then silence.
My arms are suddenly released. I spin around, striking out at an unseen foe, but my fist swings through empty air.
“Emily?” I call again. “Gabriel. Where are you?” I cannot see. I slowly kneel on my hands and knees and scrabble around in the dirt and rocks, trying to find my lash. It is not here. The pain in my side where I was slashed is now burning again.
I shudder. That was not Mother.
It was an illusion cast by Malachai Grimstead.
They can make shadows appear where none exist, and cast illusions that break one’s spirit. Balthazar spoke these words upon our first meeting.
He possessed the power of mesmerism as well, Mother had said, which made him all the more dangerous, for he used his gift to cause pain and suffering.
“Emily!” I call out. “Gabriel?”
No answer.
I walk with my arms stretched in front of me, in the direction of what I think is the tunnel wall. If I can feel the tiles, I’ll at least know where I am in this darkness. But where are Emily and Gabriel?
I want to call out again, but I do not. It could draw more creatures. Why have I been left alone? What is happening?
The stone around my neck glows white. A small pool of light spreads around me. I grasp it and feel warmth spread through my body. I sense something—?a thought drifting on the dank air.
Come to me, darkling.
My other hand touches the side of the tunnel and, tracing my fingers along the tile, I lower myself to sit, my back against the wall. I squeeze the faerie stone and close my eyes. Cold, prickly sweat rises on my arms and neck. It is the same feeling I had when I heard the voice from the spirit board. Soon, my lovely. Very soon. Now those words ring in my head, as if from only a few feet away, a terrible echo that floats through the dank passage. SOON . . . SOON . . . SOON.
I try to summon the face of Malachai Grimstead—?the dark hair, the burning red eyes.
I breathe in deeply, thinking of the terrible man on the slab—?my father’s killer. “Malachai,” I whisper. “Malachai Grimstead.”
And then I feel myself falling.
I see a clean white room with tall arched windows. Long, golden rays of sunlight spill onto the marble floor. Gleaming metal tables are set with beakers, tubes, and curious medical devices.
And then there are the rats.
They are enclosed in wire cages along the far wall, running to and fro, their nails clicking and scrabbling.
I am an observer again, the same as when I saw Malachai rise from the dead. But this is different. It is more like the images I saw when the spirit board was used as a scrying mirror to learn about Mother’s death.
Mother. My heart pangs.
The scene fades before my eyes. It is as if I am looking through a kaleidoscope, a tool I once saw at a shop, which reveals myriad colors when you stare through the lens.
I am back in the room again, but now there is a man here as well.
It is the same man I saw on the slab: the dark hair, the strong chin, a face as white as ivory.