Whisper the Dead Read online

  “Ouch. Can’t you let me die in peace?”

  “Certainly not. Now where’s this gargoyle?”

  He walked out of the alcove with the exaggerated care of one who is not entirely steady on his feet. He pointed to the rounded dome of the alcove, on which crouched a stone gargoyle with monstrous teeth and surprisingly delicate wings. “I was trying to find a way to climb it without landing on my head.”

  “No wonder you’ve been out here so long.” Gretchen had always been the one to scamper up trees and ladders, whereas Godric went green if he looked out a second-story window. “How do we animate it?”

  Godric nodded to the wooden box on the bench inside the alcove. When Gretchen opened it, the smell of cedar and honey fought the iron and dead fish of the Thames. Inside the box were dozens of gray silk pouches. She opened one carefully, unfolding the edges to reveal the pale bones of birds. “That’s barbaric.”

  “Apparently, the bones are from birds that led happy lives, raised by Bird Witches on the coast of Dover. They died of natural causes.” He shook his head before remembering that he was drunk and it might fall right off. “This magic is rather rum business, wouldn’t you say? I mean, can you see Mother chanting over dead birds?”

  Gretchen grinned at the image. “I suspect that’s the real reason she turned her back on the witching world. It’s too messy.” She tried to use the cracked stone as a foothold but her gown was too constricting. She glanced at her brother. “Godric, make yourself useful.”

  “I’m not talking to anything dead.”

  She rolled his eyes. “Just give me a boost, muttonhead.”

  He handed her the silver flask first. “Apparently, they need whiskey as well.” He laced his hands together and she leaped up onto the makeshift step. He’d been lifting her for years, especially inside the pantry to steal biscuits. She steadied herself on the curve of cool stone and then clambered up, stretching to jam the pouch into the gargoyle’s mouth. The creases of the stonework were dark with soot and one of its nostrils was chipped. She added a splash of whiskey. Godric released his hands, and she dropped back down to the ground.

  “That’s it?” she asked.

  “For now. At midnight, another witch will animate it.”

  “Why can’t they feed it too?”

  “She’s eighty-seven years old, to begin with,” Godric told her.

  “Oh. Well, that was brilliant, but I’m already late for the musicale.”

  “Mother will marry you off to some old man without his own teeth if you insist on provoking her,” Godric said as he bent to retrieve his hat. The brim was slightly dented.

  “Mock all you like,” she said. “She’ll marry you to a girl who giggles and doesn’t know where India is on the globe.”

  “There are worse things, if she’s pretty.”

  Gretchen ignored him, knowing he was joking. He didn’t want to be forced into a marriage any more than she did. The difference was, he was so much more amiable and disposed to like people; the odds were in his favor. And, more importantly, he would retain his autonomy and wealth after marriage. Gretchen was legally and socially expected to obey her husband.

  Obey.

  “I bloody well don’t think so,” she muttered. She must have looked a little wild-eyed as Godric nudged her with his elbow.

  “Don’t fret,” he said. “You know I won’t let them bully you.” He paused, frowning. “Did you hear that?

  “We only want the girl,” one of the Rovers said, as though it was perfectly reasonable. “She’s already dead, what do you care?”

  “Go to hell,” Moira seethed, grief and rage leaving a sour taste in her mouth. She could have spat fire. “Because I care.”

  He lunged for her. He was built like a bull, with shoulders wide enough to rightfully belong to three people. She dodged to one side but didn’t have anywhere to go, not if she meant to stay close to the boat. His fingers closed in her hair. She’d left it loose, as tradition demanded, to ensure magic wouldn’t get caught in her braids. She’d wanted to save every whisper for Strawberry.

  The Rover jerked her to a halt, and her scalp prickled painfully. She angled her elbow up and smashed it into his nose. It barely stopped him, even when blood dripped from his left nostril. Her little gargoyle attacked, leaving more gashes. She jabbed backward with her boot, aiming for his groin. He grunted in pain and cuffed her on the side of her head. She fell to her knees, ear ringing. His friend handed him an iron chain that glowed like blue fire, a contraband jet-inlaid iron spoke pendant on one end. No one made a binding charm like the Order, even in the hands of petty magical criminals.

  The other Rovers turned toward Strawberry’s body, the boat bobbing on the end of a frayed rope.

  “Gretchen, wait!” Godric stumbled after her, cursing. From beneath the bridge came battle sounds and worse, the sound of a girl fighting off someone far larger than herself. Gretchen barely made out their silhouettes, a rowboat, and a torch sputtering on the ground. She had no idea who she was supposed to be rescuing since the girl with blood on her teeth was laughing.

  “I need a weapon!” Gretchen demanded. She was never attending so much as a tea party without a dagger again. Her mother had confiscated her reticule because it was too bulky. It was bulky because it was filled with iron nails, a dagger, and packets of protective salt. Useful things. Not smelling salts and dance cards as her mother insisted was a reticule’s proper contents.

  “Wait for me, damn it,” Godric said, but he tossed her the iron dagger he was given when he first joined the Ironstone Academy. When Gretchen joined Rowanstone, she’d received a ring set with tiny pearls and painted with an eye to ward off the evil eye.

  Fat lot of good it did her now.

  “Rovers,” Godric warned. “Watch yourself.”

  Gretchen recognized the girl as Moira, the Madcap witch who had helped them defeat the Sisters. Moira leaped to her feet, flipping over one of the bodies on the ground and kicking a Rover in the face as she landed. Gretchen jumped into the fray, smashing the hilt of her dagger on the back of a Rover’s head. He grunted and fell. Godric was suddenly beside her, ducking punches.

  Gretchen knocked a Rover into the river. The resulting splash arced black water into the air. Two more Rovers thundered down the slope toward them. Gretchen whirled, enjoying herself immensely. Every lesson in pugilism and fencing that Godric had ever taken, he’d passed on to her. Her curtsy might be dismal, but her right hook was sharp as a bloody embroidery needle. Better than Godric’s right hook, it had to be said. A Rover sidestepped his assault and retaliated so viciously Godric sailed through the air, bleeding. He landed hard and rolled out of the way of the next strike.

  “Don’t die!” Gretchen shouted at him, kicking the Rover in the back of the knee. “That’s an order!”

  “You always were bossy,” Godric muttered, getting back to his feet. He winked at her, catching her worried expression. “That was my favorite hat,” he said mournfully as Moira knocked an angry Rover into another equally angry Rover.

  The last Rover cursed and made a run for it.

  Moira pushed muddy hair out of her face. “Brilliant timing. Gretchen, inn’t it? You’ve torn your gown.”

  Gretchen grinned. “Good. It’s hideous.”

  “Who’s he?” she demanded.

  “That is my idiot brother,” Gretchen said.

  “I prefer to go by Godric Thorn, Lord Ashby, actually,” he said formally, with a perfectly executed bow. “How do you do?”

  She looked at him as if he were addled. Her eyebrows lifted when she realized he was serious.

  “What did those Rovers want?” he asked. “Should we summon the Order?”

  Moira bared her teeth at him. “No Greybeards. And they wanted Strawberry’s bones.”

  “Why?” Gretchen frowned, recognizing the name as one of the victims Sophie had murdered to summon the Sisters.

  “That’s the real question, inn’t it?” Adrenaline made Moira’s hands shake as sh
e picked up the fallen torch. It was more smoke than fire.

  She waded into the spring-cold water, steadying the boat as she lowered the torch. The hay packed under Strawberry’s body caught instantly, hissing smoke. Moira gave the boat a shove and magic pulled it along, flames licking up the sides.

  When Moira lifted her hand to display her witch knot, Gretchen and Godric did the same, not sure of the etiquette when it came to crashing a Madcap funeral.

  Silently, they watched it drift away until it was a column of fire, golden flames snapping and flickering at the night sky. It finally collapsed, sinking into the dark river, far outside the borders of London. The smoke lingered, fennel-scented and thick as fog.

  Moira clenched her fist around her witch knot. “Farewell, Strawberry.” She turned, chin up and eyes ruthlessly dry. “Thank you,” she said to Gretchen and Godric before walking away.

  “She was magnificent,” Godric said, if not precisely sober, at least less befuddled. “She smelled like mint.”

  “She probably picked your pocket too,” Gretchen pointed out. “Even with all that going on.”

  Godric patted his pocket. “Hell. Never mind,” he added. “I don’t care. She can have all my gold.” He watched Moira stride away. She didn’t look back.

  Gretchen nudged him with her shoulder. “Say good-bye, big brother.”

  He just smiled. “We’ll see, little sister.”

  Chapter 2

  “Are you sure about this?” Cormac asked. “You’ve only been back in town two days. And double duty is a lot, even for you.”

  Cormac and Tobias were an incongruous pair—the charming Keeper with no magic of his own and a certain disregard for the rules, and the proper Keeper who followed those same rules with a nearly religious devotion. Still, they had been partners for a year and used those differences to save each other’s lives.

  “I’ll manage,” Tobias replied, his ivory-handled walking stick tapping the pavement as he walked. “And the house is rather crowded,” he admitted.

  His family was rarely in town, preferring the country to city life. Town was too constricting for them, with its corsets and commandments and courtesy. It did not fit them, but it fit Tobias like a perfectly tailored coat.

  He loved the Roman statuary, the cobblestones, carriages, Corinthian columns, and shining gas lamps. He loved the restraint and the constancy, and the rules of proper behavior that made everything simpler. The Thames stank, but it always stank. It, too, was reliable, in its own way.

  His mother’s country house might smell like beeswax candles and the pine branches his little sister insisted on hanging everywhere, but it was disorganized and chaotic. No one else seemed to mind. They liked dog fur on the furniture, muddy boots in the foyer, and half the chandeliers’ crystals cracked from the relentless wind whipping through the constantly open windows. Sometimes, Tobias thought they may as well live in the forest, which he supposed was the point.

  He preferred his feather mattress and a valet who knew the intrinsic worth of a properly knotted cravat.

  Cormac snorted, well aware of Tobias’s family secrets and preferences. “I heard your brother is still running with a bad crowd.”

  A muscle twitched in Tobias’s jaw but all he said was, “Yes.”

  “Do you remember those goblin brothers?” Cormac grinned.

  Tobias smiled back, despite himself. “You mean the ones who drank so much black ale they grew black witch fungus and had to be packed in salt for three days?”

  “As I recall, it was you who trapped them in that barrel of ale in the first place.”

  “Only because they—” Tobias glanced up sharply.

  Cormac recognized the look. “Have you found something?”

  He frowned, shaking his head. “I’m not sure.” Rain pattered down, spotting the pavement. “Too faint to be sure.”

  Uncontrolled magic scratched at Tobias’s inner wards, and he pushed back until sweat glistened on his forehead. Denying his inherited magic was proving more and more difficult. Claws scraped him raw on the inside.

  Cormac slanted him a knowing glance. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” he said. “And for what?” Having no magic of his own in a powerful witching family, he couldn’t understand why Tobias refused to give in to his lineage. They argued over it at length. Especially as it might have saved his life the night the Sisters first attacked. Tobias thought the opposite: the added burst of magic might have made them strong enough to kill Cormac.

  “I’m fine,” Tobias said. He sounded cold and unemotional. It had taken him years to be able to speak at all when the wolf woke. Control was a finely hewn sword. “It’s gone now at any rate.”

  Greymalkin House sat in gloom across the street, the garden choked with weeds and windows grimy with dust. It had sat empty and derelict for decades, unseen to all but witching folk. Malevolent magic still pulsed within, leaking out tendrils of anger, despair, and sorrow. The Keepers set to watch it day and night always came away in need of saltwater baths and purifying sage smoke.

  Footsteps sounded behind them as one of those Keepers emerged from a concealing tree. Cormac turned his head, his expression dangerously bland.

  “I thought you were meant to be watching the house, Virgil,” Tobias said mildly, knowing Cormac wouldn’t be able to say anything mild at all. Virgil took too much delight in antagonizing him.

  “I was watching it.” He flicked imaginary dust off his cuff. “Some of us not only have magic, we also have the good sense to get out of the rain.” He nodded pointedly to Cormac’s wet hair.

  “And some of us take pride in our work,” Tobias said coldly. “Regardless of the weather.”

  Virgil’s smile turned ingratiating. No wonder Tobias spent so much time convincing Cormac not to punch him. “Of course, Killingsworth. No one denies you’re an ace Keeper. Especially considering Cormac’s dead weight you have to drag about. Don’t know why they keep you on, Cormac. You’re useless without magic.”

  Tobias looked down his nose disdainfully, knowing it infuriated Virgil. “Your intolerance is rather gauche, Virgil. Perhaps you ought to carry on with your duties.”

  He sniffed, bowing sharply. As a viscount in line to inherit an earldom, Tobias outranked Virgil both in the Order and in regular London society. “As you say. I’ll continue my rounds.”

  Tobias frowned. “Did you see how dilated his pupils were?” he said to Cormac when Virgil had walked stiffly away. “I haven’t seen eyes like that since my brother stumbled into that opium den. We’ll have to keep an eye on him.”

  Cormac glared down the street after him. “I intend to.”

  When a howl ululated across the foggy London streets, Tobias swore. There was a long pause of silence before a dog nearby began to bark fearfully. “Not exactly subtle,” Cormac remarked.

  “People will assume it’s a dog.” Tobias said wryly. “There are no wolves in England, of course.”

  “Of course,” Cormac returned, equally wry.

  The answering howl was piercing.

  And much, much closer.

  “That one came from the park.” Tobias dashed across the street, narrowly avoiding two horses pulling a cart piled with empty bottles. Hyde Park was dark as an ink blot and full of whispering leaves and animals.

  Not just animals. Wolves.

  There was a crunch of bones as someone shifted into wolf form and the bark of wolf to wolf, messages howled from the other side of London. Tobias broke through the trees, rabbits and mice fleeing at his approach. His nostrils flared as he cataloged the layers of scent on the night wind: lilac, earth, a badger’s den, iron, musk, wolf.

  Not just any wolf.

  His brother.

  “Ky’s here,” he told Cormac.

  “Bloody hell,” he replied wearily, knowing exactly where this was headed.

  Tobias melted into the shadows, assessing which direction the pack was going. He circled an oak and crouched low in a blackberry thicket, viciously controlling
his inner wolf, who longed to join the others.

  Moonlight fell through the leaves as they approached, glinting off sharp teeth and the whites of too-human eyes. Tobias knew perfectly well his brother was at the front. There were at least four of them, possibly five. He heard the snap of twigs, the panting breaths. The first wolf to turn the bend and charge into view was tawny, with a patch of white on his chest. His long strides ate up the ground until he could have been flying.

  Tobias lunged out of the bushes. He stabbed his walking stick into the ground at a sharp angle. Startled, the wolf didn’t have time to alter his course. His legs splayed, scraping through mud. He slid sideways and somersaulted.

  The rest of the pack charged at Tobias and Cormac, growling. They stood shoulder to shoulder, with the wolves circling. Ky sprawled on the ground, cursing viciously as he completed the shift back to human form. He had dark blond hair, a well-defined jaw, and not a stitch of clothing.

  “What the hell, Tobias?” He spat leaves and rolled to his feet.

  As the wolves pressed closer, a young boy, fourteen at most, stumbled into the clearing, dropping a pack with a greatcoat pulled through the straps at Ky’s feet. He had three more packs slung over his shoulders and across his back. He still had pimples on his chin, and he was as thin as a sapling under his shirt.

  “Isn’t he a little young to be a Carnyx?” Tobias asked. Carnyx were named after the Celtic war trumpet used to instigate fear in the enemy. The group protected the packs from Wolfcatchers and hunters, and occasionally they protected other shifters as well.

  The boy pulled himself up proudly. “I’m in training.”

  “You carry their things.”

  “For which we’re grateful,” Cormac cut in with his charming smile. “I, for one, am quite relieved not to have these ugly sots roaming naked through the streets.” Clothes were not forgiving, and shifting between forms usually resulted in a naked human.

  “We were answering a warning call before you interrupted us, big brother.” Ky fumed. “I’m sure you heard it.”

  “I did.” By contrast, there was no inflection in Tobias’s voice.