“Who?” I ask. “Who did you see?”
“That would be me,” a calm voice calls.
I turn quickly, back to the circle of candles. A shape, tall and ghostly, walks toward me. It is him, Malachai. I can feel it in every pore of my skin.
I stand up, scanning the ground for my satchel, thinking that somehow it could be here, not taken by the creatures who attacked us, leaving us defenseless for their master’s arrival.
The figure draws closer. “Stay away!” I shout, inching back. My fingertips touch the wall behind me.
And then the words I have heard inside my head for so long are truly spoken aloud.
“Come to me, darkling. Come to me, Jessamine.”
The bearer of the voice steps into the circle of candles.
He wears not the skin of a monster, but that of a human man. His black waistcoat looks to be made from velvet, and the vest within is stitched with red paisley swirls. He has the appearance of a gentleman, and the silken ascot tucked into his high-collared white shirt is elegantly knotted.
I am struck still. Father’s killer is in front of me. My tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth. My hands are clammy. For all my talk of bravery, I cannot move, cannot even speak. Waves of heat seem to radiate from him, and my face sweats profusely.
He looks at Emily and Gabriel for a long moment, and then his gaze falls back to me. I feel as if he is searching my very soul, but I force myself not to look away. “I must say, Jessamine,” he says, “you run with a rather ragged lot.”
The sound of my name in his mouth sickens me.
“Where is the other one?” he asks. “That prancing fop? My old friend Balthazar.”
Fear roils in my stomach, a twisting knot of pain, but somehow I find the courage to speak. “Where’s Darby?” I demand. “What have you done with her?”
He remains in the circle, and I feel the very air around him stir, as if it wants to escape. “You have your father’s look about you,” he says. “Before his head left his body.”
Killed by a creature of the dark. His body rip—?
He makes no move to attack, but only studies me, as if I am one of his rats.
I have to concentrate. What can I do?
“Do you know why I call you darkling?”
I do not answer.
“In ancient times, a darkling was a child born with a black soul. Like yours, Jessamine. Death is drawn to you—?your father, your dear mother.” He raises his head higher and thrusts out his chin. “Stand by my side, darkling, and I will show you how to walk beyond death. I can teach you beautiful things. Terrible, beautiful things.”
A candle hisses and burns out. Malachai looks down. Only now do I notice that his gentlemanly appearance has a flaw, for his fingernails drip tears of blood, one of which just snuffed out the candle.
I swallow hard.
“I will never follow you,” I reply under my breath.
“Did you like my message?” he asks, ignoring my answer.
He raises his left hand and swirls a bloody finger in the air, as if writing on parchment. “The letter M, revealed on your spirit board.”
“Mephisto,” I whisper.
He cocks his head. “I believe it stands for Malachai,” he says, “for I have outgrown my former colleagues. Every drop of blood gives me strength over the power of the grave.”
My mind races back to the terrible instrument Balthazar pulled from the dead man’s neck. There have been reports of a creeping shadow at night . . . one that leaves only a trail of crimson blood.
Why?” I ask, and realize that I sound like a small, lost child. “Why are you doing this?”
He is silent for a moment, and then—?“I have mastered death, you see. These servants I have made are only the first step. No longer empty vessels, they have the gift of reason and intellect. They speak and act at my command.”
A speck of red flickers in one of his eyes. “Soon, I will create a race that will not live in fear of God, but will rise up and become so pure and divine, God himself will quake on his throne.”
“You’re sick,” I tell him, trembling as I speak. “They tossed you out of school.”
Malachai cocks his head. “The old Jew? You saw this? My, Jessamine, you are quite gifted. As for my late . . . professor, he died slowly, as will all his kind.”
He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is quiet, almost soothing. “I have seen the smoke of a great fire in the distance. One that will cleanse the world of the filth and scum. A new world will arise from the ashes, and it will be made in my image.”
“Where is Darby?” I repeat, ignoring him, for I fear his voice might lull me into his web. “What have you done with her?”
“Darby?” he questions. “The servant girl? I will find a use for her. She is quite unique. I have already begun my experiments.”
“Mad nutter,” Emily whispers.
I gasp. Now is not the time for flippant remarks.
Malachai regards Emily coolly. His lips tighten, like the cruel edge of a blade. A thin thread of red smoke drifts from his forehead and grazes Emily’s face. She suddenly bolts upright, and fear blazes in her eyes.