The Alchemist's Flame (19 page)

“Your coat, my lady?” The doorman’s question jerked my attention back to him. He regarded me with neither interest nor distain.

Rowan stepped around behind me and helped me out of my coat, then passed it to him.

“The name?” the man asked. He didn’t look dead.

“Brant,” Rowan answered. “Are we late? Has the Deacon begun without us?”

“No, sir. You have arrived in plenty of time.”

“Excellent.” Rowan gave the man a smile and once again offered me his arm.

I laid a hand on Rowan’s sleeve, impressed with his apparent ease in this situation. But unlike me, he was used to servants and high-society manners. He also dealt with all things magical much better than I did.

We moved away from the door, my heels clacking against the glossy black tile. A wide, curving stairway led to the upper floor, the steps carpeted in a deep burgundy that reminded me a little too much of blood. Doorways opened off the foyer to either side, both filled with Xander’s well-dressed guests. I was reminded of Edgar Allen Poe’s
The Masque of the Red Death
. I hoped this evening ended better for us and the other partygoers.

The chatter of many voices and the occasional burst of laughter echoed out of each room. Rowan steered me toward the one on the right. I gripped his sleeve more tightly, steeling myself for my first introduction to necromancer society.

I wasn’t sure what I expected. Maybe an autopsy table in the midst of all the finery with well-dressed necromancers fighting over who got the victim’s heart. I found nothing of the sort, of course. It was the typical party. People stood around in small groups, chatting about innocuous things. It wasn’t all that different from the Elements’ party.

We moved through the crowd and I surveyed the faces. I didn’t see anyone I knew. Apparently, Rowan didn’t, either, because he didn’t stop to speak. He led me to another doorway that opened onto an enormous room on the back of the house.

“Wow,” I whispered.

Like the foyer, the floor was done in the same glossy black tile, broken up with dark burgundy area rugs beneath clusters of furniture around the perimeter. The color scheme reminded me of Xander’s office in his funeral home downtown. The room rose two stories with an open balcony on the second floor that faced the outside wall and its multitude of windows. A few guests stood near the balcony rail, wine glasses in hand as they admired the view.

This area was also filled with guests, though not packed as tightly in the much larger space. Rowan stopped beside an unoccupied cluster of chairs and pulled out the compass. I stepped closer to watch the needle. It now pointed back the way we had come—toward the center of the house.

“Upstairs or down?” Rowan asked, his tone soft.

“Necromancers. Definitely down.”

He chuckled and tucked the compass away. “Shall we look for a stairwell?”

More doorways opened off this room, no doubt leading to the wings to either side. Through one, an occasional servant entered or exited, most carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres or long-stemmed glasses of wine.

“Kitchen is that way.” I nodded toward the doorway. “I bet he has a wine cellar—among other things.”

“Don’t spook yourself. Aside from the staffing—which is probably only for this party—I can’t imagine him practicing his art in his own home.”

“He’s plenty creepy enough.”

“Perhaps, but he’s also fastidious. His art is a bit…messy.”

“Thanks for that mental image.”

Rowan smiled. “You’re welcome.”

He offered me his arm, and we strolled across the room, avoiding the clusters of people on a slow winding tour of the area. I didn’t see any guests venture into the kitchen hallway.

“How do we do this?” I whispered. “It doesn’t appear to be a public area.”

“Arrogance. We pretend like we belong.” Rowan turned toward the kitchen hallway, his stride confident. He even smiled and nodded at another couple as we passed.

I gripped the sleeve of his tuxedo, feeling the strength of his biceps, and tried to appear equally indifferent. Nervous, I glanced back at the room we were leaving, my gaze drifting up to that second-story balcony. I tightened my grip on Rowan’s arm. Xander stood near the rail, his back to us, but facing him was Neil.

Chapter
19

“W
hat is it?” Rowan asked, noticing the grip I had on his arm.

“Xander and Neil are on the balcony,” I whispered.

“May I have your attention?” A voice called out.

We were in the hallway now, but Rowan stopped and turned toward the room.

Up on the balcony, Xander now faced the crowd. He braced his hands on the rail and smiled down at the people gathered below him. The low rumble of dozens of conversations gradually died out, the silence spreading back into the parlors. People filed out of those rooms, filling the open space in the great room beneath the balcony. I pulled Rowan deeper into the dimly lit hall where we couldn’t be seen, but we could still hear.

“First of all,” Xander begin, “I want to thank all of you for coming out tonight on such short notice, but I could not wait to share my good news.”

A murmur of voices from the crowd.

“Isn’t that Clarissa’s boy?” a man standing outside our hallway asked his companion.

“I am thrilled to announce,” Xander continued, his voice silencing the murmurs, “that my nephew, my beloved sister’s only surviving child, has managed to put himself back in contention for heir.”

The crowd exploded in excited chatter, some brave souls even shouting questions to Xander.

“Isn’t he stunted?”

“What of your son?”

The noise continued for a few moments, but gradually died out, many people waving noisy neighbors to silence.

“This is unprecedented, I know,” Xander continued. “Suffice it to say, my nephew proved me wrong.”

“Is that even possible, Deacon?” someone called from the crowd. The comment was met with good-natured laughter.

“Rare, but possible,” Xander replied, a smile in his voice. “As many of you know, I’ve always held alchemy in contempt. After all, it is the realm of the untalented.” The crowd laughed along with him.

“I’ll show you untalented,” I muttered.

“But my nephew has proven that alchemy can be quite powerful. He is on the verge of unstunting himself.”

More murmurs from the crowd, but they settled quickly this time.

“I have given him until early spring to accomplish it.”

“What game is he playing?” I whispered to Rowan.

“No telling.” He laid his hand over mine. “Perhaps we should get the clandestine part of the visit over with while everyone’s distracted.”

“That would be—” I glimpsed golden blond hair moving through the crowd. Had Ian gotten inside so quickly?

I took a step forward without thinking and the crowd parted at that moment. I was staring at Doug’s angry countenance.

“Shit.” I turned away from the room and grabbed Rowan’s hand.

“What is it?” Rowan asked.

“I saw Doug. I hope he didn’t see us.” I pulled Rowan down the hall, and we left the crowd to be enthralled with Xander’s public speaking skills.

No one stopped us or even questioned what we were doing in the kitchen. It was as impressive as the rest of the house, the room huge and lined in black granite countertops broken up by stainless steel appliances. It was also a very busy place with a dozen of the servants in the black and burgundy livery rushing around the room. I couldn’t help but wonder how many of them were dead.

There were three people in white chef uniforms unpacking food from warming boxes and laying it out onto trays. I suspected these people worked for a caterer. Perhaps the dead didn’t make good cooks.

Staying close to the wall and out of the way, we walked across the room, aiming for the doorway opposite. Another hall opened beyond it. I smiled as a servant stepped out carrying a box with several wine bottles poking out the top. We were headed in the right direction.

We had almost reached our destination when a pair of men emerged from the hall. One was Ian.

“What do you mean none was provided?” the other man demanded of Ian. Like the rest of the servants, this man also wore black and burgundy livery. “Hutchins is always very thorough about seeing the staff appropriately dressed.”

“I’m new,” Ian said. “And—” He looked up and saw me.

“Excuse me,” I said, stepping forward. “The Deacon has told us of his marvelous wine cellar, and I wondered if one of you might give us a tour.”

“Shall I?” Ian asked his companion. “Since I’m not properly attired to serve the guests?”

“That would be marvelous.” I gave Ian’s companion a big smile, then looked up at Rowan. “If we like what he’s done, perhaps we can do the same in our wine cellar.” I twined my fingers in his.

“Perhaps,” Rowan agreed, a faint smile on his face.

The man turned to Ian and his brown eyes faded to white. “Take care of this. Perhaps I can track down your livery by the time you finish. It is an honor to serve the Deacon. Remember that.”

A muscle ticked in Ian’s jaw, but he dipped his head in acknowledgment.

“Enjoy your evening,” the man said to us, then turned and walked away.

Ian glared at his back.

“The wine cellar?” Rowan prompted.

“Certainly, sir,” Ian replied. “Please follow me.” He led us into the hall off the end of the kitchen.

I was relieved to find it empty and hurried forward to catch Ian’s arm. “I failed to consider some bozo necromancer giving you a command. Is everything all right?”

“Yes. That was the first bozo I encountered.” Ian gave me an amused glance and I smiled in relief. “Why the wine cellar?” he asked.

“The compass points toward the middle of the house,” Rowan said. “We thought we would try the basement.”

“Ah.”

The door at the end of the hall stood open a few inches, letting the dim light inside spill out. Not hesitating, Ian pushed it open and headed down the narrow wooden steps.

“Not what I expected,” I said, eyeing the rough plaster walls and rickety steps.

“This home was built in the last century.” Rowan walked down a couple of steps. “I would imagine that the upper floors have been modernized and remodeled several times, but there was no need to renovate anything down here—so don’t get any ideas for
our
wine cellar.”

I snorted and stepped down. The risers creaked, the sound echoing in the cave-like space.

Rowan turned and held out a hand to me. “Watch yourself. This isn’t the best place to be wearing heels.”

“I can’t think of any place where it’s good to be wearing heels.” I took his hand.

“I can think of a few.” He lifted his eyes from the steps to flash me a grin.

I shook my head and followed.

The floor at the base of the stairs was cement. The old kind that looked like it had originally been smoothed with an uneven toothbrush, then left to crack over the years. The small room was an oddly shaped rectangle, three of the walls lined with dusty wine racks. Only one held any wine. Unfortunately, the room didn’t stretch far enough in the direction the compass indicated.

“Dead end?” I asked.

“Interesting word choice.” Ian crossed the room and stopped at the corner where the two empty wine racks met. Gripping one, he tugged it aside. The heavy wooden legs screeched across the floor, and I cringed, wondering how many people had heard that.

Ian slipped between the two wine racks and, without hesitation, walked into the arched doorway he had exposed. The single bulb in the wine cellar didn’t reach far into the dark tunnel beyond the opening.

I exchanged a frown with Rowan. “Ian?”

A clank of metal on metal answered me, followed by the heavy sound of something else scraping across the rough cement. I stepped up to the opening and peered into the dimly lit space. Ian had found an old wooden door that looked like it might have been here since the house was built. A final tug, and the door stood open, revealing darkness beyond.

“Anybody bring a flashlight?” I asked.

Rowan stepped around me, turning his shoulders to fit into the space. He reached past Ian and flicked the switch by the doorframe. A clink and lights flickered to life in the room beyond.

“Or you could do that,” I said.

Rowan didn’t acknowledge the quip, he was staring into the space he had illuminated. He straightened and turned to face Ian.

“Catacombs,” Ian said.

“What?” I pushed up between the two men. A large room, the distant walls shrouded in darkness, stretched before us. Three bare bulbs—only two currently working—dangled from the ceiling in a straight line down the center of the room. The bare wire and porcelain fixtures looked like they had been installed not long after electricity was invented. But that wasn’t the only feature that had been here a long time. Arranged around the room on foot-high pedestals were close to two dozen stone sarcophagi.

“Xander has bodies in his basement,” I said. I had expected something, but not the magnitude of this collection.

“I don’t think he placed them here.” Rowan gestured at the closed tomb. “That fellow died in 1892.”

I squinted at the sarcophagus he indicated and noticed the name and dates carved on the side.
Bartholomew Nelson, 1846 - 1892.

“The Nelson Family has always had many rivals,” Ian said. “They wouldn’t leave their dead where they could be easily taken.”

“So, they buried them in the basement?”

“Yes.” Ian turned to Rowan. “Do you have the compass?”

Rowan dug it out of his pocket and balanced it on his palm. We stood in silence, waiting for the needle to stabilize. A light scuff whispered from a dark corner of the room.

I crossed my arms, moving closer to the two men. “Did you hear that?” I whispered.

“There is nothing animated down here,” Ian said, “but I would imagine there are rats.”

“I’m not sure which I prefer.”

“The compass points to the back left corner of the room,” Rowan said.

Ian nodded and moved that way.

Rowan slipped an arm around my shoulders. “Cold? Do you want my coat?”

“No, I’m just creeped out. Why do I seem to end up exploring crypts with you?”

“I admit, it’s not the romantic end to the evening that I had anticipated.”

I was tempted to ask what end he expected, but he would probably tell me, and I didn’t want to make Ian uncomfortable. Besides, if we were tracking George and Henry, I should probably keep the banter to a minimum.

I followed the guys as they made their way to the back left corner, upping my estimate of the dead entombed here. The room was larger than I realized. When we got to the corner,we found nothing obvious. Deep indentions had been made in the walls. They resembled man-sized shelves, and by the shrouded forms lying within, that turned out to be an accurate description. Had Xander’s ancestor run out of sarcophagi?

More light scratching came from somewhere behind us. I turned to face the sound and glanced up at Ian when he did the same.

“You don’t think that’s a rat,” I whispered.

He frowned, but didn’t answer the question. Instead, he walked toward the sound.

Not certain I wanted to see what had drawn his attention, I followed.

He didn’t walk far, stopping before another sarcophagus. I didn’t see a name or date—at least not on this side—and the design was different from the others. The lid was much more ornate. Bands of metal had been worked into the design. Molded to look like chains, they draped over the sides and reached all the way to the floor. It was hard to tell in the shadows, but it looked like large locks had been molded at the base of the chains. I reached out with my foot and nudged one. The light clank of metal on metal answered me. The locks were real.

The scratching began again, louder and closer.

I pressed a hand to my mouth when I realized it was coming from inside the sarcophagus. Then I saw movement along the crack between the lid and the base. A pale stick protruded for a moment, then disappeared inside. No, not a stick. A finger bone.

“Ian!” I faced him. “I thought you said there was nothing animated down here. There’s someone in there.”

Ian sighed. “Animated, no.”

I considered his words as the scratching continued. “A lich. Oh God. He was buried…
alive
.”

“Yes.”

“You could tell the valets were dead from a hundred yards away, yet you didn’t know this was here?” Rowan asked, his tone skeptical.

“Unlike your grim, I do not see souls. I sense death or necromancy in use. This,” he waved at the sarcophagus, “is just another dead body to my senses.”

“We can’t leave him in there,” I whispered.

“Whatever was human, no longer is,” Ian said. “And I don’t mean the body.”

I hugged myself, knowing he was right. There was no way this person could be sane. “I can’t walk away.”

“Shall I end him?” Rowan asked.

I looked up, meeting his eyes. They didn’t yet glow—he was awaiting my answer. It always humbled me when he did that. As if I were in command of his gift.

I nodded.

Rowan’s eyes flared to light between one heartbeat and the next. Gold crackling across his suddenly orange irises. A whoosh within the sarcophagus preceded a flash of blue-white light along the crack beneath the lid. Then silence.

The orange receded in Rowan’s eyes until it was only a thin ring around his pupils.

“Thank you.” I hugged him, pressing my cheek to his chest as his arms came around me. The heat of his body radiated through his clothes, warming me, though it was only a physical warmth. My soul still felt cold. I couldn’t imagine the hatred and cruelty it took to bury someone alive. But that’s exactly what Alexander had done to Ian.

“It was the right thing to do,” Rowan said against my hair.

“No it wasn’t,” a new voice said.

We all turned to face the corner we had just left. A figure reclined in one of the recessed shelves along the wall, his glowing red eyes focused on us. He rolled off the shelf and rose to his feet, loose bones clattering to the floor. “You took away my plaything.”

“Gavin,” I whispered.

“Hello, alchemist.” He walked toward us, his stride easy, confident. He was completely naked, as always. Naked shape shifters had become so common in my life, I hardly noticed anymore.

Rowan and Ian stepped up to either side of me, but neither spoke.

“What are you doing down here?” I asked.

“My master sends me here when he has nothing for me to do.” Gavin curled his upper lip, exposing his animal-like teeth. “It is the only place on the mortal plane I’m
permitted
to be.”

That was a relief. At least Gavin wasn’t out rampaging on his own. I assumed Neil chose this place because no one came down here anymore, and to other necromancers, Gavin would blend in with the dead.