Spellbreaker

CHAPTER 23

Elsie stared at the bleeding, slumped body of Abel Nash on the floor and did the very thing she’d always promised herself she’d never do.

She fainted.

It was brief, a quick blackening of her vision. The sensation of falling. A snippet of memory, lost. But when her senses returned, she found herself bent back in a very uncomfortable position, held aloft by a single strong arm that smelled remarkably of oranges.

“Elsie. Elsie!” Bacchus’s voice was low and close. A second arm joined the first in supporting her, warm and sure. “Someone call the police!”

“Already done!” The butler she’d been arguing with mere minutes ago ran back into the room, surveying the damage with wide eyes.

Straightening and steadying herself with the crook of Bacchus’s elbow, Elsie took stock of the room, intentionally keeping her eyes away from the . . . corpse. Ahead, the floor gaped like an open mouth. Chairs, dishes, and cutlery were a mess. Part of the table was missing, and there was a brackish puddle on the rug beneath it. Charred gouges scarred the walls, ceiling, and carpet.

She could still feel the heat in her hands from the lightning strikes. She’d dis-spelled enchanted staffs before, but never what they emitted. The runes on the lightning had a similar feel—so fast, so hot—but she hadn’t even seen the threads, the knots. She’d just . . . done it.

She didn’t understand it at all. But she was still alive. And so was Bacchus.

Bacchus.

She threw her arms around him and buried her face into his collar. She felt his quick pulse beneath her nose. Tears wet her eyelashes. “I didn’t know if I’d get here in time.” His shirt muffled her words.

Just as embarrassment began to surface, those strong arms encircled her. “We made it, Elsie,” he whispered, words flavored with his Bajan accent. “We’re all right, thanks to you.”

In that moment, Elsie had never felt safer.

Bacchus pulled back, but kept one arm around Elsie as he guided her into the poorly lit hall. She reached for the wall, her legs feeling weak, and lowered herself to the floor. Bacchus crouched across from her.

“Are you well?” He took her face in his hands. “Should I call the doctor?”

She grasped his hands, squeezing his fingers. “Bacchus, it’s Ogden.” Her voice caught. Voicing the words made it so much more real, and it felt as though that morbid piece of porcelain had cut through her, not Nash. “He’s the one behind it. The opuses. It’s him.”

His green eyes narrowed. “What?”

She glanced down the hall, and Bacchus followed suit. She wasn’t sure who else in the household, if anyone, had witnessed her grand spellbreaking, or if they’d even recognize it as such. But Elsie would rather not add incarceration to her extensive list of worries.

She swallowed. Then, to her chagrin, tears sprang to her eyes.

“Bother,” she muttered, wiping them on her sleeve.

Bacchus tucked some of the mess of her hair behind her ears. “You’re safe, Elsie. Nash is dead.”

But she shook her head and released him, breaking away from his warmth, his concern. “You don’t even know.” She hated the squelch to her voice. She wiped her eyes again, then a third time. The bloody things wouldn’t stop leaking. “I did it, too, Bacchus.” And there it was, an ugly piece of her, displayed for him to see. She’d so hoped to stay in his good graces before he left. But to stop Ogden, she had to confess the truth. “The doorknob. All of it.”

“You’re not making any sense,” he murmured, and he wiped away a tear with the pad of his thumb.

She laughed. “Could you please not be tender while I tell you what a terrible person I am?”

He hesitated, then sat back on his heels.

Checking the hallway for eavesdroppers once more, she went on. “The ones I wouldn’t tell you about. The Cowls. The ones who . . . who hire me for spellbreaking. I didn’t know it, but Ogden is one of them. And they are behind the theft of the opuses.”

His brows drew together.

She wiped her God-forsaken eyes again. “Every time they needed me to do something, they sent me a letter—it was always through letters—and told me about all the good I was doing. How I was helping someone in need. How I was stopping a wrong going unpunished. How I was balancing out the world. Freeing innocent boys, helping farmers, keeping families in their homes . . .” She laughed again, but it ripped up her throat in a most unpleasant manner. “And I did as they asked, blindly. For a decade, I did it all so blindly. But in the last year, it’s been so frequent. More and more. And then I found their seal in Ogden’s room. And when I went to Juniper Down, I realized every spell I’ve broken for them is connected to one of the thefts, one of the murders. I was the key that unlocked all those doors. I helped kill all those . . . people . . .”

She covered her face with both hands, the guilt unbearable. If only the floor would open up here and swallow her whole. Dying in a basement didn’t sound completely terrible at the moment.

She thought she heard new voices in the house. Had the police arrived?

She felt him shift. “Elsie—”

Ripping her hands away, she said, “You must tell them. Now. The police. I swear to you as the sun rises in the morning, Ogden is the criminal behind all of this. Please!”

Her voice rose with every word, until even the servants down the hallway were looking at her like she was a specter risen from the grave. But Bacchus, bless him, was taking her seriously—he left, and she hoped it was to carry out her request.

She stared down the servants. “Are you deaf? Cuthbert Ogden of Brookley is a killer! Tell the police!”

They scattered.

Closing her eyes, Elsie leaned her head back against the wall. Her wrists itched something fierce, and the annoying sensation flowed up her arms as though carried in her veins. She tried to scratch, but her sleeves were so damn tight.

She sat there for a while, listening to the back-and-forth of servants, the occasional wail. The duchess came by once, asking after her. Elsie managed a half-hearted assurance, and the woman let her be. The itching started to recede.

Would the police require a testimony? Would they use another truthseeker? She’d have to confess her spellbreaking to make her story work, wouldn’t she? Or was there some other way around it? She needed to think, but she’d been thinking so much lately. Her brain was exhausted.

Grabbing some wainscoting, Elsie heaved herself to her feet. She needed to go. She needed to protect Emmeline. Heaven help her, she would be so frightened if she was in that house when the police arrived—

Several policemen chattered among themselves in the dining room, pointing at the body and the damage, taking notes. Someone had informed them of the situation on the way over, perhaps. Could she slip out without being seen? It would be hard to find a cab back home, since she hadn’t told the previous one to wait for her. She hadn’t told the driver anything, merely left his coin on the seat and bolted for the house—

“Elsie.”

She jumped, hand flying to her breast. “Bacchus, you blend with the shadows.” She’d had enough frights for one day.

He offered her that subtle near smile. “Let’s pull you away from all this.”

Elsie eyed the policemen in the dining room. Two blocked the sight of Nash’s body.

“I’m not turning you in,” he assured her, and took her hand, guiding her down the hallway. The noise of the investigation slowly quieted behind her. A relief.

He stopped by a massive staircase to the first floor. Turned toward her and took both her shoulders in his hands. “You never answered me. Are you hurt?”

“No. Not really.” Her gaze fell to the floor.

He let out a long breath, forceful enough to stir her mussed hair—she couldn’t recall where her hat had gone. “That’s twice now.”

“I wouldn’t have broken in if that butler weren’t such a daft—”

“I mean twice that you’ve saved my life.”

She lifted her gaze almost unwillingly. His hands on her shoulders were too warm, and a flush crept up her neck. She cleared her throat. “Well, if you want to focus on that part of it.”

He chuckled, which almost helped her relax.

“Bacchus,” she pressed, “you did hear me, didn’t you? I’m part of this.” Her voice dropped to a whisper.

He lowered his hands, but only so they held her upper arms instead of her shoulders. “Did you at any point know or suspect that you were part of it?”

She paled. “Of course not!”

“Then you’re fine.”

“But the police—”

“I told them Abel Nash confessed Ogden’s name before his demise. I told the others that I’d invited you to dinner and you must have seen Nash sneaking in. The police shouldn’t question you outside of a recounting of the events that occurred tonight. As long as they match my retelling, you’ll be fine.”

Elsie gaped, a numbness she hadn’t noticed lifting from her limbs. “But a truthseeker—”

“The duke has sway. They won’t use one on you.”

She rolled her lips together. “You’re interrupting me a great deal tonight.”

He smirked at her.

Remembering herself, Elsie pulled away from his touch and folded her arms against the chill that rushed in to replace his warmth. “Thank you. Truly.” She glanced toward the dining room again. “They came quickly.”

“The duke owns a telegraph. And the High Court employs spiritual aspectors who can project themselves to further the message.”

“That’s fortunate.” Her pulse quickened. “Oh, poor Emmeline. She’ll be so confused. I need to get to her.”

“You didn’t come from Brookley?”

She shook her head. “Reading. Before that, Juniper Down.”

“Why were you away?”

Her shoulders sank. “Well, funny story. I was led to believe my father had come looking for me, but it turned out to be some highwayman who’d mistaken me for someone else.”

Bacchus ran a hand down his face. “Elsie, I—”

But a police officer swept down the hallway at that time, his hard-soled shoes echoing in the corridor. Bacchus stiffened. “Has word come in?” The man must have been walking from the direction of the telegraph.

The young officer hesitated a moment, perhaps unsure what he was allowed to share, but he gave in easily enough. “Cuthbert Ogden has fled his home, but a neighbor claims to have seen him headed north.”

Elsie’s chest tightened. The last vestiges of hope dissipated, making her feel like a dried corn husk. She added Ogden’s name to the list carved into her heart. He was yet another person who’d left her behind. Another father who’d abandoned her. Maybe he’d always planned to, once Elsie’s usefulness ran dry.

Elsie rubbed her wrist. “Why would he head toward London? If I were a fugitive”—she very much did not like how that sounded—“I wouldn’t go into the crowds. I’d run away from them.”

“He has the cover of darkness,” Bacchus offered. “He can get lost in the throng.”

Elsie bit down on the knuckle of her index finger hard enough to leave prints. Pulling it free, she asked, “Would you ask after the maid? Emmeline Pratt? Make sure she’s all right?”

“We do have priorities, miss. Any staff will be seen to.” He tilted his hat toward her and continued on his way toward the front entrance, perhaps to report to someone outside. Elsie watched him go, her stomach cramped.

After several seconds, Bacchus asked, “Are you hungry? You’re welcome to stay here tonight, until we sort this out.”

“I doubt I’d be able to sleep.” Though she’d gotten precious little of it lately. It suddenly struck her that the policeman had said a neighbor had seen Ogden leave home. He’d taken off before the police had arrived. Why? “How would Ogden even know to flee?” she asked. “I sent no word ahead, and I know Abel Nash didn’t, either.” She paced at the end of the stairs. “They shouldn’t have too much trouble catching him. He doesn’t own any horses. You can’t get a cab at night in Brookley unless you order it ahead of time. But there’s no possible way he’d have known to do that—”

If things ever do get bad, we’ll steal away, you, Emmeline, and I. Ride up to the Thames, maybe even the St. Katharine Docks, and take a discreet boat out to the channel. How’s your French?

She froze.

“Elsie? What’s—”

“He’s going to the docks. Of course.” She spun toward him. “Bacchus, I think I know where Ogden is going.” It was strange that he should have told her, and in such detail, yet there’d been a certain look on his face as he said it. He’d been in earnest. He’d considered an eventual escape and planned it in advance. “We have to stop him! With all these opuses . . . he’s powerful, and if he flees . . .”

Bacchus’s face darkened. He considered only a moment. “We have to tell the police.”

This time, Elsie agreed with him. She loved Ogden, but . . . “Yes, tell them. If they leave now . . .” But would a carriage be fast enough to catch up? How much of a head start did Ogden have?

Bacchus rubbed his jaw. “How well can you ride?”

Elsie paused. “I . . . I know how to stay on the saddle, at least.”

“Good enough. The police will take the main roads; we’ll ride the back routes.” He offered her his hand.

She took it.

There were many docks that lined the River Thames, but if Elsie knew how Ogden thought—and despite the secrets he’d kept, she thought she did—he’d aim for a smaller, more discreet boat.

She could be completely wrong. And if she was, the outcome would be the same as if she’d taken Bacchus up on his offer of food and rest. But if she was right, that would change things. Yet she couldn’t think of what she’d possibly say to him when, if, she saw him again. Her chest hurt at the mere thought.

The ride was hard. Elsie had traveled on horseback before, but she’d never taken lessons. The Duke of Kent’s thoroughbreds were lean and amazingly fast, which Elsie might have marveled at were she riding for pleasure at a slow, serene pace.

As it was, she clutched the reins with white knuckles, her skirt flapping immodestly behind her, because there was no way in hell she was riding this thing sidesaddle. Fortunately, holding on for dear life was the only thing really required of her; the animal was well trained and followed Bacchus’s mount unquestioningly, its nose nearly touching the first’s whipping tail.

The beasts were tired by the time they neared the pier. Bacchus slowed, and Elsie quickly adjusted herself for as much modesty as she could manage, though it was hardly one’s first concern when chasing a traitorous murderer. Her heart panged again at the thought. Ogden . . . She never would have guessed it to be him.

Even now, she struggled to believe it.

A gaping loneliness yawned inside her, but she couldn’t dwell on that now.

They trotted by a hospital, and the large warehouses of the pier came into sight, each six stories high and built of sturdy yellow brick. She noted two dockworkers by a gaslight up ahead.

“I don’t see him.” She was breathless and sore, despite the horse being the one who’d done all the running.

“It’s a big place,” Bacchus whispered, pulling back on his reins and turning his animal about, scanning the area.

Though the ground seemed a little too far away, Elsie dismounted, floundering but managing to stay on her feet. Her thighs instantly burned in protest, but she ignored the discomfort, removing her shoes and starting for one of the docks. Bacchus called after her, but she ignored him. She may not have been an experienced horsewoman, but she did know how to slink about unnoticed.

The docks were long and cool underfoot. She strode beneath the eaves of the warehouses, passing dark windows and locked doors. She dared to jog, her legs protesting. Holding her shoes in both hands to keep them from knocking together, she peered about the next corner. There was only one boat tied up here, a small one with its sails up. The area was fairly well lit, but shadows clustered around the blocky warehouses. She heard the subtle movement of water and her own pulse in her ears.

Turning the corner, Elsie jogged again, trying to hear beyond herself, wishing she had sharper eyes to see through the shadows. There was another dockworker across the way; he didn’t seem to notice her. Footsteps followed, but she didn’t bother to check them—the stride, the heaviness, that was Bacchus, with a slight limp likely due to the lightning that had grazed his leg. The knowledge that he was close gave her courage.

She reached a wooden bridge connecting two of the docks and started across it. Perhaps it was an angel tilting her head or merely a stroke of luck, for she spied movement in the shadows on the dock opposite her, across the water. She’d spent so many years with Cuthbert Ogden, days and nights, rain and sunshine, that despite the darkness and the distance, she recognized him.

“There!” she hissed, and pointed. The shadow vanished into one of the warehouses. Panicked, she spied around for a boat or raft that could carry her over—by the time she paddled her way there, he’d be long gone!

The bridge shifted as Bacchus stepped onto it. He dropped to his knees and reached down into the water. Elsie caught the edge of a shimmer.

A bridge of ice crackled across the river to the very place she had pointed.

“Oh, you wonderful, brilliant man,” she whispered, hurriedly replacing her shoes. Bacchus dropped onto the makeshift bridge first, found his footing, then helped her. The ice was rougher than it was slick, but Elsie dared not sprint. Still, she moved as fast as she could, keeping her arms out to maintain balance.

They reached the other dock, Elsie managing to heft herself up before Bacchus could offer her a hand. Her pulse thundered through her limbs. She took off immediately in the direction Ogden’s shadow had gone, and Bacchus followed without complaint. Bless him. Sentimentality aside, after seeing what he did in the duke’s dining room, Elsie was grateful to have him with her.

She wondered as she wrenched open an unlocked door—perhaps a lock-picked one—if she should call out to Ogden. She’d spent nine years in his household. She didn’t understand him, now that she knew the truth, but this was the same man who’d consoled her when she was sad, who’d put money away into her savings account, who’d teased her at dinnertime. Would the sound of her voice be enough to make him pause, or would he flee all the faster?

The only lights in the warehouse came from the glow of gaslights through the windows. The air smelled slightly of mold, and as Elsie dashed down a long hallway, her footsteps almost in rhythm with Bacchus’s, she noted stacks of linen, or perhaps cotton, bundled and ready to ship.

They paused at an intersection. The faintest sound of footsteps echoed in another hall.

“This way,” Bacchus murmured, taking her hand and pulling her to the left. Despite the limp, he was fast and surprisingly nimble as he ran; Elsie sprinted on her toes to keep up. They were getting close now. They were the pursuers, while Ogden was trying to find a path to flee or somewhere to hide. That would slow him down. It would—

She sensed it only a moment before they reached it. “Bacchus, stop!” She yanked back on his hand, but his momentum was too great. Their fingers pulled apart, sending Elsie sprawling onto her backside. Meanwhile, Bacchus nearly flew out of his boots when his shoes, of their own volition, slowed down significantly.

“What on earth?” He waved his arms to keep balance.

Elsie’s chest heaved with heavy breaths. That spell could have broken his leg.

“Let me find it.” She hurried forward on her hands and knees, sniffing for the earthy spell. Not here, but . . . up and to the left?

She found the temporal spell on a support beam against the wall. She’d never seen one set like a trap before—

As she unraveled the spells, her stomach sank. “Opuses. Bacchus, he’s using opus spells.” Yet more damning evidence against him.

Bacchus stumbled forward when the magic released him. “Perhaps you should go first.”

She nodded, fearful to run, but too anxious for caution. They didn’t get far before she felt a crackle in the air, just like with Nash’s lightning staff. Turning the corner, she saw a bead of lightning shoot out from the right edge of the ceiling.

“Go under it.” She hugged the wall. Avoidance would be quicker than asking for a boost so she could reach the rune. The lightning zipped through the air again, causing her hair to stand on end, but it didn’t hit her.

Bacchus followed without question.

She heard a door slam ahead and took off running, only to smash into the wall to her left.

“Damn it, Ogden!” she blurted as the wind sputtering up from the floor pinned her in place. Air swirled around her like she was in the eye of a cyclone. Bacchus used the exact same spell to push the wind in a different direction, allowing Elsie to push past the trap. He followed.

“I don’t suppose,” she managed between breaths, “that you can do that in reverse? Suck him toward us?”

“No.”

Elsie made out the outline of a door up ahead. She searched for runes but saw none—

“Stop!” she shouted, digging in her heels. Bacchus ran into her, nearly bumping her into a wooden crate against the wall. Elsie had just recognized the symbol glimmering atop it.

“A mobile spell. This would have crushed us.” She crouched and pulled the rune apart, then pushed past the bin unscathed. She cursed. “We have to find another path. He’s getting away!”

Her toe hit something metal on the ground—a crowbar. Elsie considered it for only a moment before snatching it up. She couldn’t cast spells, but she could certainly swing this.

“It will be easier once we’re outside.” Bacchus moved past her and grabbed the door handle, opening it just as Elsie spied the slightest glimmer of a spell.

The ground shifted upward like a giant mouth, knocking Elsie into the crate. Cement, stone, and wood contorted and surged up and around Bacchus—a giant version of the spell he’d once laid for her at the duke’s estate. The one that had seized her shoe.

But this one swallowed him clear up to his neck.

“Bacchus!” she cried, finding her feet and rushing toward him. He might as well have been trapped in a mountain! She ran her hands over its uneven bumps, searching for the rune.

Bacchus grunted, trying to move, but he was pinned completely, his limbs immobile within his close-fitting prison. “Bloody . . . ,” he began, but didn’t finish whatever foul thing sat on his tongue. “He’s getting away!”

Elsie spied the slimmest glimmer in a crack. Her skeleton seemed to puddle inside her. “I found it, but it’s on the other side of the rock. Your side.” She tried to push her fingers through, cutting them as she did, but she couldn’t chip the cement. Stepping back, she wedged the crowbar in. It chipped away at the cement a little more, but it wasn’t hard enough to break the stone. Elsie put her weight on it, but it seemed the crowbar would break before the concrete mound did. Panicked breaths tore up and down her throat. “Maybe I-I can find something else. A hammer—”

“Elsie, leave me. Go.”

She shook her head. “I’ll get you out—”

“You’ll lose him!” he barked. “Go!”

“Can’t you melt it?” Desperation squeezed her voice out an octave higher than usual.

Bacchus shook his head, though he was barely able to do so. “This is stone. Do you know what the liquid version of stone is? And it’s too large to shift to gas. I’ll kill myself and you.”

Her breaths became rapid. “Can you try to change just a little of it? If I can get through—”

“Go, Elsie, before it’s too late!”

“I don’t leave people!” she snapped, hands fisted against the bespelled mound. She panted, seeing red, feeling as cold as Bacchus’s aspected ice.

Bacchus hesitated only a moment. “No, you don’t.”

Swallowing, she glanced up at him.

“Elsie.” His voice was firm yet somehow melodious, his Bajan accent slipping through. In the moonlight streaming from the open door, his eyes glowed. “You’re the one who can stop him. Who can get past his spells. He might listen to you. You need to go now, or you’ll lose his trail, and this will all be for nothing. I believe in you.”

“But—”

“I’ll know you’ll come back.” His eyes were intent, bright as emeralds. “Elsie, please. Go.”

She held his gaze for a heartbeat, cradling her injured fingers against her breast. He was right. She needed to go. But she could only undo spells, not create them. She was armed, somewhat, and after what had happened with Nash . . . she might be able to get past Ogden’s spells if she focused. But what if she couldn’t? She’d die, and Bacchus would be trapped here until a worker found him . . .

Her own possible demise flashed across her mind. Was she ready to die to stop Ogden?

It was what Robin Hood would do.

She started for the door. Paused. Glanced back to Bacchus.

She rushed toward him and, stepping onto one of the crags of his cement cage, lifted her face to his and kissed him on the cheek. His half beard was rough and startling against her jaw. Her nerves sparked, but it was done.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and without a second glance, she bolted out the door and across the dock.

Her employer might be able to slow her down, but in doing so, he left a clear path.

Follow the runes, find Ogden.