Chapter 5

Spellcasting is like making your first loaf of sourdough bread. You begin with a starter that you learn through your studies. You cast the first spell, and you feed it your effort and energy, the way you feed a starter flour and water. The magic grows and is fermented by time the way the starter is fermented by natural yeasts in the air around it. In this way, spells and enchantments build on another. Magic is reused, never wasted. Your first spell will exist inside the very last one you ever cast.

-A Witch's Guide to the Arcane

Quiet

No amount of preparation could have readied me for the sight of Penance dead and gone and faceless. She didn't seem real, slumped in a high-backed chair near a plate of food. Two partially eaten cooked carrots remained near a braised shank of beef. The pitiful sight jerked ruthlessly at my heartstrings. Her blue chevron evening dress, her copper hair, her elegant witch's hat in that memorable shade of azure, they were familiar, but the whole of her felt like a forgery. Her skin was pale and waxen, her body too still and silent.

Penance was one of the oldest witches in our coven of academic sorcerers, though she didn't look a day over thirty. Of all people, I assumed she was too strong and powerful to wind up murdered. I took her hat, tucking it away for safekeeping.

What was Penance even doing here at Eckert Castle of all places?

Melted wax stretched like stalactites from the top of the table candelabra to the silk cloth beneath it. Rorick hovered over my shoulder as I inspected the bodies.

"Is it just me," I said, "or is the setting here a little . . . intimate?"

"Romantic, certainly," Rorick agreed. He lifted the uncorked bottle of sweet wine from beside his deceased cousin to examine it.

"Careful with that. I wouldn't mind having a go at collecting fingerprints from there," I told him. Fingerprinting was a specialty of mine. I had a knack for detailed analysis that required nuance, like with my magical insects.

He corked it for me. I took it from him carefully, pinching the lip of the bottle between my thumb and forefinger. As I lowered it into my pocket, I made note of where his hand had been for later analysis. The tablecloth was stained, the wine glass nearest the former duke tipped on its side. The drink at Penance's elbow was half full. Her lips must have been painted—an imprint of her mouth discolored the rim.

Poison was my first guess. They'd drunk from the same bottle and were both gone now. I wafted the scent of the wine from her glass toward me but couldn't smell anything unexpected. I'd ask Rorick, but he wouldn't know what to look for. He wasn't as knowledgeable about poisons and alchemical mixtures as I was. Blood honey was my first guess. It was a strong enough toxin to destroy a vampire's brain, and the wine would easily disguise the sweet scent . . .

Penance had been the first person to warn me off when I started my partnership with Rorick all that time ago, and yet here she was in a weird twist of fate, dining with our enemy. Vampires had a strict liquid-only diet that consisted almost entirely of fresh blood taken directly from the vein. The former duke would have had to go to great trouble to feed Penance so finely, even in a house with geds on his staff. So much effort to share a private meal.

And where had the staff gone off to now? Who had chained up the castle's gates? Why had the doors been left wide open when the law had returned?

Most importantly, who had murdered my sister witch?

"If the victims were romantic, I take it your coven knew nothing about it?" I asked, studying Rorick's reaction carefully. I wanted to believe he wouldn't outright tell me lies, but he was so closed off about his coven, I didn't know what to expect.

Oh dear, would I lie about my coven? I didn't as a habit tell lies. If I felt I had to, I supposed I would lie to anyone for them.

He leaned over the table, examining the pattern of the spilled wine. "Not a clue. Then again, I never pay attention to anyone's love life. Not even my own."

I chortled, thinking he'd been making a joke, but his expression remained serious. "Not ever?" I asked before I could stop myself. We'd been partners for two years before we'd had our falling out, and he'd never mentioned courting, but I'd always assumed that was just him being enigmatic.

"Not ever," he confirmed.

"You mean to say you're, what, seventy-three years young now, and you've never been in a romantic relationship of any sort?" I blinked at him.

It was none of my business, and yet I found the notion incredibly hard to believe. He wasn't an unattractive man, what with his height and the unique shade of his lavender gaze, the becoming creases in the corners of his eyes, and the pestiferous flippy thing his hair did over his brow. The silver at his temples worked in his favor. When he was in a better mood, he could even pretend to be charming quite convincingly.

Surely, he'd fooled someone into taking a liking to him at some point? Someone other than me, that is. I didn't want to be the only idiot done in once upon a time.

"Seventy-three, give or take," he said, examining Alexander Harker's fingernails. One of them was chipped. "Though enticing, physical intimacy is rarely worth an emotional entanglement or the consequences they bring. Thankfully, I've avoided relationships successfully thus far."

It didn't seem right to look upon romance entirely as a consequence, but I didn't have any high ground to lecture from. Most of my liaisons of the past had been more like science experiments.

And it's none of my business what he does or doesn't do with his time.

"I didn't realize Penance was in a private relationship with anyone outside of the coven," I confided, hoping he'd share more of what he knew of his cousin in return.

But Rorick offered nothing further. He searched Alexander Harker's pockets next, coming up with a few augs held together in a gilded clip, a silver penknife, and an embroidered kerchief with that same crescent symbol stitched into the bottom corner.

I wished I could do the same to Penance, but I couldn't access another witch's void without their express permission, and Penance wasn't in a position to give me that.

He folded up the banknotes and transferred all the items to his own pockets. "How would your coven respond to learning she'd been liaising with the ‘Duke of the Damned' in the privacy of his own home?"

"They would be concerned," I admitted, my tone measured. "Concerned the same way they were when our partnership began."

"How concerned?" Rorick shifted closer. He was hovering again.

I stepped back to put distance between us. "Not so alarmed that they would hurt her," I snapped, catching on to his train of thought. "As you'll recall, they never hurt you either, though you certainly had it coming. They warned me off—and I should have listened."

Rorick winced at that. "What coven secrets might she spill to one of your enemies? Maybe no one meant to hurt her, but would they hurt him?" he demanded, waving a hand at the former duke who remained collapsed and lifeless in his chair, his skin red and slightly swollen, his golden hair disheveled. "Your coven had no fondness for Alex, and Penance wouldn't be the first innocent person caught in the crossfire of two warring groups by mistake."

"‘Warring' is quite the exaggeration. I won't pretend there's no ill will between witches and vampires, but my sisters didn't do this." My hands formed defiant fists at my sides. Alex had allowed—even encouraged—members of his coven to dine on the magic rich blood of witches, whether they consented or not to the exchange, but that didn't make him a target for murder. Vampires were hardly the first in the hunting class interested in strengthening themselves with witch blood. "We value life. Protecting it is what motivates us to understand magic and seek immortality in the first place."

Besides, at least Alex Harker saw value in preserving witches—even if it was only so they could be consumed later. Vampires weren't devils who wanted to feast on the skin of their victims, or loner werewolves who might eat anyone when hungry enough.

"That isn't the response of an impartial investigator," Rorick scolded. "You should be pulling out that journal of yours and making lists of witches capable of this sort of magic. They've got no faces, Quiet. Clearly, they've been cursed."

I wanted to poke him in the eye again, maybe kick him in the shins while I was at it. My jaw clenched. "Now you sound just like the chief inspector. Warren's dead set on blaming my coven. I'd appreciate it if the two of you refrained from commenting on magic you know absolutely nothing about. You're both just embarrassing yourselves."

"Convince me they're not cursed, then." Rorick folded his arms, wrinkling his paisley waistcoat over his broad chest. "If you can't convince me, you certainly won't convince a man like Chief Inspector Warren."

I took a steadying breath, nostrils flaring. The rotten scent of death permeated the room—strange that they were already so odorous since they hadn't been deceased more than a day and the castle was so drafty and cold.

"They aren't cursed at all. A curse wastes magic, prevents it from being reused. I could absorb this spell right now—only, we don't want that. The facelessness isn't caused by a spell a witch would use to kill someone," I said, struggling to keep the heat out of my words. "It's an enchantment we call ‘the Last Breath'. You use it to preserve a person who is already dying. It allows them a chance to say goodbye to a loved one, for instance. It's not useful for murder."

"Preserve them?" Rorick's lavender gaze roved over the dining room scene.

"Their bodies are dead, but their minds—their souls—linger here in this dimension. They aren't specters—not yet. They're kept in a suspended state of sorts. When we find their faces, we'll know more. They'll be able to talk to us for a short while before they pass on." I lifted the tablecloth, searching the underside for signs that Penance's face—and her last moments—had adhered to it.

"Where would their faces go?" Crouched down, his head appeared under the tablecloth, searching with me.

I righted myself. "Could be anywhere in the castle. Especially if it was cast in haste or under duress. I'm certain it was both. In fact, I think I'm looking at the witch who likely cast it," I said, staring at Penance.

There was something off about her, something more than just her missing face. I squinted, trying to identify what it was.

It came to me then. "I don't see her wand. That's odd. We'll need to keep an eye out for that as well. Her wand was a locket. A gilded piece shaped like a clam shell that she always wore around her neck. The chain was enchanted to stretch and grow as needed. She used it to make traps by tying magical knots with it. That was her specialty: traps and wards."

"Hell's bite, I'm looking for faces I can talk to. That's a first for me. I've never been able to interview the murdered victims before. This case couldn't get any stranger." Rorick zipped over to the cabinetry parallel to the table, moving so quickly it looked like he hadn't taken any steps at all. He'd simply glided across the room. Rorick opened the cabinet, sifting through the linen and dishware inside.

I summoned my wand and made my way to the doors where I'd magically tacked the serving plate earlier. Lifting the sharpened tip, I reabsorbed the weave of magic back inside it until the dish loosened. I caught the glass before it could fall to the floor.

"What are you doing?" Rorick was right beside me.

I jumped, nearly dropping the plate. "You scared me."

"Sorry." His smile went crooked. "What are you doing now?"

"Witches don't waste magic," I explained. He was hovering again, and it made me suspicious. "What are you doing? Why are you so close to me?"

Rorick's face scrunched. "It smells like death in here."

"Well, yes, there are two dead people in the room. And?"

"And you have a superior smell," he said carefully.

"A superior smell," I repeated with a scowl, "as in you find my scent attractive, like a perfume? Or you find my smell delicious, like food?"

Rorick was silent for a long moment, weighing his words—smart of him. "There is absolutely no safe way for me to answer that question."

"I don't like you smelling me," I scolded.

"Well, that's too bad," he said. "I can't help my keen senses or what I think about the things I scent."

He made a valid point. I glared at him anyway, lips pursing, and then I relented. "You're right," I said, balancing the platter against my hip so I could dig inside the void in my pocket. I removed a glass bottle with a spray nozzle. The liquid inside was an unpleasant pale yellow.

His brow furrowed, a question on the tip of his tongue. I sprayed him in the face with it before he could voice his concern.

Rorick reared back, hissing between his fangs like an angry cat. "Hell's bite, what is that?"

"Putrid, isn't it?" I said conversationally, pocketing the spray bottle once more. "It's made of ragworm slim. At least now you can't smell the dead bodies. You're welcome."

"Ack!" Rorick said, scrubbing at his nose in a way that absolutely delighted me. "You are the worst!"

I stuffed the dish into his arms to give him something else to do. While he found a home for the serving plate, I called silvery magic from the tip of my wand, preparing to weave an enchantment to aid us in the investigation. Perhaps I'd even get to finish it this time. My insect assistants responded to the spell-building. Ants and spiders crawled in from under the door to the drawing room. Garlic moths flittered in after them.

A scurrying sound broke my concentration, the castle once again reacting to my casting. The magic silk retracted back into the tip of the dagger. I slipped closer to the wall, listening hard. Something had moved behind the wooden panels. Rorick appeared before me. I was ready for him this time and didn't startle.

I returned my wand to the void in my skirts and pressed my ear to the wall. "I heard something."

Rorick mimicked my stance, leaning his head against the same panel. A garlic moth landed in his hair, dusting the ebony strands in an off-white powder. We were silent for a time.

"Rats. Big ones," Rorick guessed, and the moth took to the air again. He brushed the powder out of his hair with his long fingers. "Old places like this have loads of vermin and lesser shifters. As long as they stay living between the walls and eating each other, they're mostly harmless."

A shiver stole over my skin. "I don't think that's rats . . ." The movement had grown fainter, but it sounded more like slithering now. Like the wall was full of snakes. I shifted my weight, and the boards beneath my feet squeaked where the wood had gone soft.

A crack stood out in the flooring, so stark I was surprised I hadn't noticed it before. I followed the crack with the toe of my boot, around the indentation of the softer wood to where it disappeared beneath an ornate rug in rich maroon with golden filigree edges.

"Help me move the table off this carpet," I said.

In a flash of movement, Rorick lifted the bodies, laying them out across the table. He pushed the furniture easily off the rug. It was one of many reasons why keeping a vampire around had been so worthwhile in the past, one reason why I'd agreed to partner with him despite said vampire's difficult and often thoughtless nature.

The work was finished in a heartbeat. I pulled up the corner of the carpet and folded it back.

"Fuck," Rorick said.

"My thoughts exactly," I breathed.

It was worse than I could have ever imagined. The floor had gone black beneath the rug, pooling darkest in the spaces where the bodies had been seated. Rorick lowered to his knees, examining the moldy rot more closely. The smell was pungent, foul meat with fruity undertones.

"Don't touch it." I pinched my nose shut.

"It doesn't look like wood here. It looks more like . . ." Grimacing, Rorick pointed at the tar-like growth in the space beneath where his cousin's seat had been.

"It was feeding on him. Now it's turning into something fleshy there." I grabbed his shoulder and squeezed. "Get away from it."

He stood at my insistence. I tugged on the back of his waistcoat until he moved farther away from the darkness, an essence that had continued to filter throughout the castle since we'd arrived. It was so much worse than any presence I'd ever dealt with before. It was strong. Strong enough to take root, to grow a form, changing the very structure of the castle around us.

And apparently it was hungry.

"What does this mean?" Rorick asked.

"If I had to guess, it means your cousin was a very, very bad man, and that's his consequence coming to claim him." I worked my parched throat, terrified that whatever the darkness had in store for Alexander Harker, we'd soon be caught in the middle of it "We need to get out of here, hell-for-leather. Right now!"

"But the storm—"

"Forget the blasted storm. I mean it, Rorick. Now!" I held open my pockets, motioning insect assistants to quickly return to the void. A trail of ants and spiders crawled up my skirts. Moths dove for the opening I'd made.

When they were safely away, I started for the drawing room, determined to collect my hat and cloak as quickly as possible. We'd hoof it through snow if we had to. I took one brisk step forward, and a scratching brought me up short, the sound coming directly from behind the wall nearest me. The hairs on the back of my neck rose.

Rorick was beside me in a blink, squinting at the wall where the eerie sound continued.

I lifted a trembling hand and tentatively laid my palm against the wood. The scratching ceased.

"Do you hear that?" Rorick asked.

"The scraping stopped, I think," I said.

"Not that." Rorick turned his ear to the wood. "The music."

I shook my head, straining my ears. "What sort of music?"

"Fanfare," he said softly. "Very faint, like it's far away."

The castle began to quake. The floors beneath my feet shook, vibrating through my bones. Flatware rattled on the table, and glasses clinked. The chandelier shook overhead. Gaslights flickered. A howl rent the air, like an injured wolf had gotten itself stuck in the ceiling. Startled, I reached for my partner.

Rorick took my hand in a vice-grip, looking just as unsettled as I felt. "Now what?"

I could hear it then, the distant sound of a brass band playing an upbeat fanfare. My heart thumped in a matching energetic patter.

Circus music? Goddess save us, that's circus music.

The floorboards continued to vibrate, the sensation reverberating up my breastbone and down my arms. Oil paintings fell from the walls. Wood groaned and furniture clattered.

"It's getting worse!" Rorick shouted over the dull roar of cascading fixtures and crackling timber.

We made a mad dash for the archway that led to the drawing room, seeking shelter the way we would in an earthquake. I was beginning to hate the sight of that room. It felt like a chamber of bad luck. Nothing pleasant had happened to us since we'd entered it. The whole castle felt that way, like it welcomed misfortune.

As we huddled in the threshold, the fire in the hearth snuffed out. A mad gust poured down the chimney and whirled from the fireplace, drowning out the sound of music. The gale was so strong it nearly lifted me off my feet. Skirts lashed around me. I covered my face, protecting my skin from flying soot and the brutal whip of wind. The door at our backs swung shut, knocking us deeper into the drawing room.

A massive armoire tipped sideways, plummeting toward me. I had just enough time to look up from my hands so I could watch it falling—to know that it would crush me flat.

With immortal speed, Rorick pulled me into his body and caught the tumbling piece of furniture in one hand. He shoved it aside with a grunt of effort, flinging it away like it was as light as a woven basket rather than a piece made of solid mahogany. It crashed to the floor. The gale blew my witch's hat off the sofa, tossing it and an eclipse of moths across the room. Rorick's frock coat and bowler hat joined the rest.

Splintered wood and broken furniture caught in the blast, lifting off the floor and tearing from the ceiling to circle the room. After another near miss with a sharpened piece of torn wood, Rorick forced me to the ground behind the sofa and covered my body with his.

"Watch out!" I cried.

He winced as loose boards, chunks of plaster, and metal fixtures struck his back and sides. A free flying drawer knocked into the front of his head with a thud so loud it was a wonder he was still conscious.

"My cloak!" I shouted in his face. "Pull it over yourself right this instant!"

I couldn't stand another second of watching him take a lashing for me. When my orders kept him alive, he could tease me later about being too bossy.

Rorick shoved me under the sofa and sprang to his feet. All I could see of him was his shuffling boots, then he reappeared a heartbeat later, my heavy woolen cloak tucked over his head and shoulders. A sharp shaft of wood pierced the sofa, landing inches from my face, burying itself in the floor with a sharp crunch.

I gasped. When my senses returned to me, I crawled toward my partner. Taking my proffered arm, he dragged me back under the safety of his hardy immortal body and my spelled cloak.

Lights flickered. The sound of a disjointed brass band faded away. Another great howl rent the air, and I nearly leapt out of my skin. It sounded like the injured wolf was right above us. Like the castle and the presence haunting it were creating noises to further frighten us.

It was working, whatever it was doing. I was deeply unsettled, questioning what was real, already beginning to doubt my very sanity.

The lights cut out. Darkness stole my vision. Not even the moonlight from the windows continued to shine through onto the part of the floor I could still see. I clung to Rorick's arms, keeping the one entity not trying to murder me as close as possible.

"Rorick?" I said, when the floorboards stopped rumbling under my back. His weight pressed my lungs and flattened my breasts, the hard and broad planes of his body fitting over me like a shield.

"I'm alive." His cool breath blew against my cheek, a small comfort in the penetrating dark.

The gaslights flickered back on, duller than before. Rorick cautiously pulled the cloak off. Debris rained down around us. Clinging to him for support, I turned to examine the deepening shadows in the corners of the room and under the sofa, searching for enemies, straining my ears for more strange sounds.

I sucked in my next inhale.

"Hell's teeth, I'm afraid to even ask," Rorick panted. "What now?"

"The windows." I should've been able to see them by peering under the sofa, but the moonlight was gone. The stars, the sky, the snow—there was nothing there but shadow.

Slowly my eyes adjusted to the darkness, confirming my fears. The walls had shuttered themselves solid with mismatched pieces of splintered boards and furniture.

Rorick lowered his head so he could gaze under the sofa with me. "The glass is gone," he said gloomily. "I hate this bloody place."

Whatever tantrum or fit had overcome the castle, it was done now. It had expended so much energy in the assault—that wasn't something that could be sustained forever, thankfully. I wished I knew how long it would be before I could expect another outburst.

Rorick climbed to his feet, pulling me up after him. He tossed my cloak over my shoulders. I fastened the clasp around my neck, subtly looking him over. If he was hurt, he hid it well. I kept hold of his arm, hooking mine around his elbow. He let me.

I pulled him along to the far corner of the room where my hat had landed. Lifting it, I dusted the brim free of debris. No moths had been hurt thankfully. They were sturdier than they appeared, and they took to the air again.

Rorick's bowler and coat hadn't fared so well.

"We could do with more light," I said gently, and out of the void from deep inside my hat, lightning beetles flew, glowing brightly, bathing me in their warmth. The drawing room was a wreck of broken wood and jagged furniture. Pieces of ceiling had caved in, revealing rafters and more dark scaly patches of essence that turned my blood cold.

Content with the better illumination, I plopped my hat down on my head and marched Rorick toward the foyer. I climbed the fallen armoire on shaky legs. He braced me with a hand on my back.

"I know there's a storm out, I realize the risks, but we can't stay here," I told him.

"There's always been something not quite right about this castle," Rorick said, "but it's even worse now. Wilds full of monsters surround us, and there are at least two cemeteries between here and the city, probably bursting with corpse-eaters and ichors, but I'll take all of them on over whatever is haunting this bloody—"

Rorick stopped, tugging me to a standstill. The oil painting on the floor, tipped on its side, was a portrait of one of Rorick's many deceased relatives, an aged male ged in formalwear. The picture remained much the same, except now the frame was dotted in something scaly and black, and the relative's face was missing. Nothing but blank wrinkled skin remained where eyes, nose, and a mouth should be. But even that wasn't nearly as disturbing as what had been done to the entrance.

The doors were gone and so were the wards, swallowed up whole by the castle. Nothing remained but a solid barrier turned a fleshy, inky black that squirmed and smelled of rot.