A Breath of Frost (33 page)

Another hellhound pushed out beside the first, tearing the gate wider.

“You girls should run,” Cormac ordered, slashing with his dagger.

“You need us!” Emma argued.

“Idiot,” Moira added, muffled through her cravat.

“Just like my bloody sisters,” Cormac muttered back. “Take the rest of the nails from that pouch and throw them if the hounds get loose—argh!” A tooth scraped through the sleeve of his coat, the saliva burning the material, the tooth drawing blood. He stumbled back.

“Cormac!” Emma began to throw nails as fast as she could.

The first hound pushed through and darted past him, the second gurgled, Cormac’s iron dagger in its throat. The hellhound fell apart like smoke and was sucked back in through the gate. The dagger clattered to the shingles. Cormac reached for another.

“Got fire!” Moira yelled, her cravat now around her neck as she puffed frantically at the small spark burning in the hay twist. She slid under the hellhound as it leaped for Emma, tossing the hay twist with the others. The spark caught. But the roof was angled down slightly and still slippery from the rain and Moira kept sliding. Emma grabbed for her but missed.

Moira tumbled over the edge.

Emma was running out of nails and the hellhound was between her and Moira. She looked around frantically. Cormac was too far away and fighting hellhounds. Emma threw her last iron nail and it cut through the beast, burning through him so he yelped. His body, being made of smoke and magic, re-formed instantly.

Emma tried a bolt of lightning. It blinded her momentarily, lifting her hair up and shooting sparks off the ends. The shingles melted at her feet.

The hellhound didn’t seem to mind in the least.

“Emma, don’t move!” Cormac threw himself forward, catching the beast by the tail. He pulled, dragging it backward, even as it snapped its jaws at Emma. Its claws left deep burning grooves in the shingles. Cormac’s sleeves were smoking.

Emma launched herself at the end of the roof, practically toppling over herself. Moira dangled, fingers tightly clenched around the cornice, her hair billowing around her.

“I’m slipping,” she grunted, digging her nails into the wood until they broke and bled.

“Hold on.” Emma leaned down to grip Moira’s wrist. She inched back, wrapping her ankles around a gargoyle’s toppled head to steady herself. She hauled with all her might, pulling until her arms felt as if they would snap. Moira scrabbled for a foothold, finally finding enough to brace herself for a launch. She pushed off, flipped sideways, and rolled back onto the roof.

“You’d make a decent Madcap,” she told Emma, wiping sweat out of her eyes.

Behind them Cormac was still battling the gate. The small fire burning on the salt would soon go out. Emma met Cormac’s eye and he nodded, even as he reclaimed his dagger and stabbed the air in front of the hellhound’s nose. The beast reared back, closer to the gate. Another swipe and it had backed right into the violet-edged opening.

“Now!” Cormac yelled, tossing a red bundle into the flames.

Emma jumped forward, squeezing her thumb and flinging a drop of blood at the fire. The fire shot up briefly, like a faulty gas lamp. The gate shimmered, burning edges peeling wider, shooting out vicious light and the gagging stench of sulfur. The gate pulsed, growing bigger and bigger.

“I think we’ve made it angry,” she said, unable to look away.

“That’s never happened before,” Cormac said grimly.

A whip of magic, shining with all the colors of twilight, snapped out of the gate and wrapped around Emma’s ankle, yanking her off her feet. She landed hard on her hip. She clutched at the roof frantically as her body was dragged inch by inch, closer and closer to the burning gate. She leaned back, trying to fight it. Moira pulled on Emma’s arm but it only made pain shoot through her shoulder. The magical tether didn’t snap.

Cormac stepped in front of her, trying to break the magical connection with his body, but the power of it flung him away. The charms around his neck slipped free of his shirt, burning brightly. He landed hard, breaking shingles. He was already struggling to get back to his feet, blood at the corner of his mouth, before Emma had moved another step. He tossed salt
and flower petals and nails and anything else he could find in his charm bags.

Emma continued to be dragged over the shingles toward the maw of the gate. The tether of magic burned through her stockings. The portal ripped open farther and a man was suddenly there, wearing a sweep of antlers far wider and more magnificent than Emma’s. His eyes were green as dandelion leaves in spring.

“You,” he said softly, gently, as if he knew her. Emma didn’t have time to wonder why he looked familiar. She kicked at the rope of light singeing her dress and crushing the delicate bones in her ankle together.

“Not her!” The horned man shouted into the portal behind him. “Close the gate!” he ordered Cormac, who was already bounding forward, iron dagger in his hand.

Greenish-black smoke shot out of the portal, wrapping around the man’s throat, and strangling him. He toppled back into the shadows on the other side of the gate. The magical whip loosened around Emma and fell away. “Now!”

Cormac slammed his dagger down in front of the gate, driving it through the fire, the salt, and the roof. The portal edges singed and scorched, making the sound of hot water hitting cold metal. The violet light flared with unbearable brightness, forcing them all to drop down and cover their faces. There was silence for a long stunned heartbeat.

Cormac was the first to speak, pulling his arm away from his face. “Is anyone hurt?” he demanded, getting to his feet and pulling Emma up. She shook her head mutely, eyes wide. “Who was that man?” he asked. His sleeve was shredded, blood
seeping through the linen shirt underneath. There were scratches on his hands and dirt on his face. His hat was long gone, his hair tousled and dusty.

“I have no idea,” Emma replied.

“He seemed to know you.” He cast a speculative look at the smoke lingering over the remains of the burned salt. “I’ll have to call in the Order to seal that up properly.”

“I already summoned them,” Emma said. “Before I left.”

Moira shook her head. “I knew I should have stayed clear of Mayfair.”

Cormac’s mouth quirked in a brief smile as he handed her a red bundle like the one he’d thrown into the fire earlier. “Take this.”

“What’s in it?”

“Powdered bones of dead witches, graveyard dirt, pepper, and other secret ingredients the Order uses against dark magic.”

“The Order doesn’t share with Madcaps,” Moira said doubtfully, tucking the pouch in her belt.

“You’re quite right, so I’d appreciate it if you kept it to yourself. But if you find another gate, use that.” He handed her a calling card. “And send word direct next time, if you would.”

“I’m not getting involved.”

“It’s too late for that it seems,” he returned lightly.

She frowned over the edge of the rooftop. “Here come the rest of the Greybeards,” she said. “If it’s all the same, I’d rather not be here.”

“Go on,” Cormac said. “And take Emma with you. She can’t afford to be further associated with the gates.”

Moira was already running back along the gangplank. Emma had just enough energy left to keep tatters of a glamour on her antlers but she knew it was thin and transparent in spots. Not to mention that they were all covered in soot and blood. But Cormac still bowed over her hand as though they were back in Gretchen’s mother’s parlor, dancing a forbidden waltz. He kissed the back of her knuckles. When he straightened, he was a Keeper again, dark-eyed and stern-mouthed. “Go.”

As she limped along the plank bridge, Emma finally realized why the horned man had looked familiar.

It was Ewan, the man from her mother’s spelled memory.

Emma went straight
to the academy roof.

She cleared the clouds away until the bowl of the sky was painted with swirling masses of stars. They twinkled down at her, constant and familiar. She found she could breathe again. Nothing compared to their sheer number. She was tiny and insignificant and so were her problems.

Well, maybe not
all
of them.

Margaret and Alice likely didn’t feel it insignificant that they’d been murdered.

Emma went back to counting stars. Just last month she’d have been wrapped in shawls on her balcony, eating biscuits and jam and watching the same stars through her telescope. She’d have spent the evening at some ball or soiree, trying to pretend that she wasn’t bored and lonely. Her father would have ignored her. She’d have danced, drunk tea, and read novels while Penelope practiced
on her pianoforte. They’d have shopped on Bond Street and Piccadilly, and gone to the theater. It would have been pleasant enough, on the surface. But she found she didn’t miss it, not nearly as much as she’d have expected. Especially factoring in all the ways she had nearly died horribly.

She liked the bustle of the house around her, even with the suspicious whispers. She liked learning and pushing herself to explore different ideas. She was even getting accustomed to the antlers. She had a new life now and she’d best get about sorting it out.

One:
her mother had defied the Order and no one seemed to know why. At least no one likely to speak to Emma. She felt certain Daphne wasn’t about to invite her to tea with her Legate father, and he likely wouldn’t know anything anyway. Her mother, by all accounts, had been a remarkably powerful witch, as evidenced by the smudged journal entries. How was the mysterious Ewan involved? Who was he, besides her mother’s first love? He’d clearly died, or else he wouldn’t have been on the other side of the gate.

Two:
her mother had felt the need to bind her daughter for her own protection. So whatever it was she was hiding, she knew it would be a threat, even decades later. And again, it had to involve Ewan. Why else would a memory of his have been spelled into the antler charm?

Three:
the spell had broken her mind and she no longer recognized Emma, never mind any complicated witch bottle she had worked eighteen years ago.

Four:
her father was no help at all.

Five:
she’d grown antlers.

Six:
the gates between the living and the dead had been opened.

Seven:
which was her fault.

Eight:
they needed to be located and locked.

Nine:
they’d already released ghouls, vengeful ghosts, hellhounds, and who knew what other kind of creature.

Ten:
witches were being murdered. Girls specifically, if the two so far created any kind of pattern.

Eleven:
for some unknown reason, Emma kept finding their bodies.

Twelve:
an antlered dead man recognized her.

Thirteen:
Cormac. Just Cormac.

And she had absolutely no idea what to do about any of it.

Was it any wonder she was overwhelmed and had to resort to counting stars to calm her whirling mind?

“
I think she’s up here
,” someone whispered loudly.

And that, she felt sure, was not going to help matters.

She stayed very still, hoping she looked like just another shadow. Footsteps padded cautiously out onto the shingles.

“Why would she be up here?”

“Shh, you’ll wake the gargoyles.”

“I don’t see her. Are you sure about this?”

“I used a pendulum. I’m sure. Did you look—ooof.”

One of the girls stepped on Emma’s foot and they both yelped. One of her friends yelped even louder, and nearly fell off the roof altogether. Emma sighed, rubbing her ankle bone, already bruised from the tussle on the roof with the gate. Five students
stood in a clump, staring at her. They were all in their nightgowns, hair twisted in rags or hopelessly sleep-tangled.

“Is it true?” asked the girl who had stepped on her.

“Is what true?” she asked, seeing the girls’ gazes drawn toward her antlers.

“That another girl’s been murdered! And you found her!”

Emma drew her knees up to her chest. “Yes. It’s true.”

“Truly?” There was an odd kind of awe in her tone. “Was there much blood—?”

“Grace, let some of us get a word in.”

“I can’t help it if you’re too slow.”

Emma groaned, dropping her forehead onto her knees.

“Get away from her,” Daphne interrupted angrily, striding across the roof.

The girls shifted guiltily. Two of them moved away. “Why?” Grace asked. “We want to know what happened.”

“I can tell you,” Daphne replied. “Since I saw
her
with the body.”

“Yes, you saw me,” Emma retaliated, getting to her feet. “Because
you
were there too. And don’t you think if I’d killed her I’d have had the foresight not to fall on her?”

The gawking looks swung back to Daphne. She crossed her arms. “I still don’t trust you.”

Sophie joined them. “Girls are dying, Daphne. We shouldn’t be fighting among ourselves.”

“You’re too soft.”

“Or you’re too hard,” Emma pointed out, grateful to have someone speaking up for her, even though she didn’t know
Sophie very well. Daphne just glared at her again, spun on her heel, and stalked away. The others drifted after her, still whispering.