Lisbeth McQuarrie
I had to get him out of here. Very quickly. I couldn’t linger. But I also didn’t want him to wake. Winchester had apparently come down here to the basements searching for me. I had no clue what my options were, and I started to despair. But I’d forgotten something, hadn’t I? A certain old king. As I dragged Winchester toward a set of stairs that felt as if they would lead up into the rest of the palace, something appeared right in front of me. It twisted, ethereal flames, green and gray, playing at its feet. It appeared up out of the ground like a spinning top.
Again, it was only my controlled startle reflex that prevented me from screaming. I instead narrowed my eyes and quickly muttered, “You’re back then, are you, King? Here to congratulate me? Unlikely,” I answered my own question. “You’re likely here to give me another mission. Well, have at it. Tell me what to do. Are there more half-ghosts?”
The king considered me with a quiet look.
He seemed perfectly made for it. And to be fair, from his time, when the kingdom had been stronger in character and force, it was a look he would’ve given regularly.
Now it seemed at odds with the very palace he stood in. For the kings had stopped acting that way a long time ago. “You are a strong character. A stronger practitioner. Good. This will give us a chance.”
“Are there more half-ghosts?” I asked – though from the strength of my tone, it was more of a demand.
Again, I could have and maybe should have reminded myself this man was royalty. But he was still dead.
“You cannot take Winchester up these stairs. People will ask questions.”
“I can’t leave him here. And I don’t want him to wake in the basement. He’ll ask questions,” I said, using the king’s tone.
“You will use the tunnels. You will take him back to Wintersmith. He will know what to do.”
I blinked quickly. “The tunnels? They lead to Wintersmith?”
“These tunnels lead to many places. They do not head directly to the cemetery, but they come out close by. Take them, ensure Winchester does not wake, and Wintersmith will deal with it.”
I didn’t want to see Wintersmith. No, I did. Had you forgotten? I hadn’t. The next time I clapped eyes on him, I would collar him against the wall. Hang the consequences. He’d put me in this interminable position, and he would pay the price. But when Winchester started to rouse, all thoughts of revenge were quickly abandoned.
My breath shot into my throat and got trapped there. “How do I knock him out? I’m indentured to the brute. I don’t think my magic will let me harm him.”
“You will need to learn to move around the indenturing spell. But for now, let me assist you,” the king said. He moved forward. Regally, with stiff shoulders and an even stiffer back, he swiped his hand right through Winchester’s face.
Winchester had indeed been ready to rouse, but now I felt him slump even more against my shoulder. Hardly a good thing considering how much the brute already weighed. I huffed, feeling like Atlas. Though at least Atlas had some grand point to him. He held up the sky. I just held up the most irritating – and perhaps mysterious – wizard in the land.
I thought of that mysterious part, and the way he’d whispered Grace’s name came back to me. Came back to me like a rush of water down my back. Was it pleasant? Was it unpleasant? I couldn’t tell you. I could simply tell you that it had such a grip on my body, it would not let me turn away. The king, however, had other ideas. He pointed behind him. “This way. You must leave soon. It will not take Bram much time to come down here.”
“Do you think his half-ghosts got a message to him? I found out they were connected by some kind of dead line.”
“They are called Ley lines. They would not have enabled the half-ghosts to speak to Bram. That said, you must hurry. You cannot afford for him to see you. He appears to be after you.”
I straightened. I no longer cared about how heavy Winchester was. Let him hang on my shoulder like a sleepy little cat over a branch. He could do it all day for all I cared. I had far bigger problems. With a very dry mouth and lips that simply did not want to work, I muttered, “How has he even become aware of me?”
“That is hard to say. Though remember, you made quite a display in the cemetery last night.”
I winced. Winced for two reasons. I had forgotten about it, indeed. The other was that news had spread to this ghostly king of all people.
I looked at him glumly. “Just how much do you ghosts talk amongst one another? How much have you shared about me?”
“You should take your question and derive what you need to from it. Yes, the dead talk. And you must now be very careful of your every single movement, Lisbeth McQuarrie. There is another dead practitioner beyond you two. We do not know who that is. We simply know that they have grand power, and they intend to lift the curse. They too will be able to talk to ghosts – though torture is the correct term. If you leave any clues behind, they will find you.”
I had managed to negotiate my way through that tricky fight with aplomb. Now my stomach felt as if it were about to fall from my torso. I didn’t think I’d ever been as sick with fear. It was horrid, grabbed at my cheeks, and shook at my heart. But the king did not let me wallow in it for long. He forced me forward until we found a very secluded set of stairs. It was tucked into a dark nook. You would have to have a reason to go inside it – you would have to know what it led to.
I took an inadvisably deep breath of air and immediately coughed, for it tasted like death. “I don’t think these stairs have ever been used,” I muttered.
“Not in a long time. The recent kings have forgotten the ways of the palace. They have left magic up to their advisors.”
“Recent kings,” I stammered. It was just as the king pointed down the stairs, indicating it was time for me to leave on my own. But I had far more important matters to discuss. “The prince, he appears to be under some kind of spell. His eyes are dead.” I had more to say, more suspicions to share, but on the term dead, I couldn’t push the words out anymore. Fear gripped my stomach, climbed my back, and locked hard into my jaw, making it feel as if I would spit out my very heart if I forced out another word.
The king considered me. He closed his eyes in grave horror then opened one again. “Yes, indeed he is. He has been taken by Bram and the dead practitioner, whoever that may be. They will control him now. And through him, the kingdom. You do not have much time, Witch. I would advise you to use every single second of it.”
He pointed forward to the stairs, making it clear what I must do.
I still lingered. There was so much more I needed to know. The king pointed again. “Wintersmith is the authority and always has been. He was the one who sank the curse last time. You will need his expertise. And you will need to follow his every single word. Do this for your kingdom, Lisbeth McQuarrie. And do this for your heart.”
Heaven knows why he added the last bit. And heaven knows why his gaze strayed down to Winchester, of all people.
Perhaps he was simply checking he was still comatose. Of course. That made perfect sense. For, without another word, the king turned and strode away.
It left me there with my hammering heart, staring down at Winchester. But when Winchester muttered in his sleep, it reminded me he wouldn’t be asleep forever.
I turned quickly.
I took the stairs down into the tunnel, then negotiated my way through the foul, dark subterranean levels of the city. I had never been down here, but I used my superior sense of direction.
It helped that the tunnel only appeared to branch in three directions. I was quite confident of where I was headed. And sure enough, when I finally found a very old, moss-covered set of steps and clambered up them, I arrived in a basement not too far from the cemetery. The house was abandoned. I escaped it with ease, then headed straight to Eastside.
I was very aware of the fact that I had not slept last night. Nor had I eaten. My stomach rumbled, I could barely keep my eyes open, and I longed to snuffle peacefully like Winchester did. For yes, he snuffled. I couldn’t think of the word to describe it, though adorable kept popping into my head. I would stifle it like somebody throwing all of their belongings into a blanket box then sitting on top to make them compress.
It was daylight, so I had to be more careful, but I fancied not a single person was around anyway. I made my way to the crypt. I didn’t need to open the door. Wintersmith was there, expression grave, lips pulled into the most peeved of lines. “If you are all this kingdom has to rely on, Lisbeth McQuarrie, then there’s probably no point in continuing. We shall have to give up now.”
I blinked back my surprise. I had assumed he would have at least a little praise for me. I had saved the day. But Wintersmith had nothing in him but deep, bitter annoyance. It was annoyance he displayed by throwing a hand out and passionately punching the wall. He used a little of his ghost and ethereal force, and chunks clambered down beside him.
They struck my feet. “Do you mind?” I asked indignantly, once more arranging Winchester over my shoulder. I’d already complained about being fatigued. I was a very special kind of fatigued on top of that. I had to keep controlling my mind and pulling it off of Winchester. Which was somewhat distracting and quite hard.
His breath was rhythmic. Most people’s breath is so when they are asleep. Hardly a startling statement. But perhaps I was not describing this correctly. His breath was… interesting. I’d already spoken to you about the singular importance of breath to we magical creatures. But it’s important to all who expire and inhale.
And, should you train your mind onto someone else’s breath for too long, you might find yourself becoming entangled with them.
“Place him down on top of the sarcophagus. I will deal with what you are too stupid to have managed,” Wintersmith snapped.
“Why I never,” I hissed. “You have some gall, Wintersmith. You didn’t even tell me what Winchester is.” I intended to blast out with ribald anger. Instead, my voice shook with far too much tenderness. It was as if I had always been searching for another practitioner like me. I never had. Statistically, I’d never believed it possible for anyone to be like me. But still, Winchester… it had to be Winchester? I finished my choppy thought. Couldn’t it be any other man in the kingdom?
As soon as I slid Winchester off my shoulder, his head struck the stone sarcophagus.
I felt a tad guilty but still had to bite back a smile.
Wintersmith growled at me. “Show some respect. We can’t afford for him to become too injured. He’s at the center of everything.”
I huffed – both from indignance and the fact I was tremendously breathless. Then I shoved my hands on my hips, determined not to let my shoulders shake. “He’s at the center of this, is he? Then you can wake him up and make him your slave. I’m quite done with you, Wintersmith. I shan’t be playing your tricky games again.”
It didn’t matter that the king had all but told me Wintersmith was the only way to save the kingdom. I wasn’t in the mood.
I went to stride toward the stairs, but Sarah-Anne appeared. She floated into the room, wringing her hands. “Oh, Miss, don’t be dark on the wizard. He’s doing what he must. And he’s doing it all to save us. The kingdom, Miss. The kingdom is on the line. You’ll do anything to save everyone, won’t you?”
“I’m leaving,” I tried.
And all Wintersmith did was laugh. Deep and shaking, I wouldn’t want to be his lungs, for it sounded as if they contracted with a breathless squeeze. Some people laugh because they mean it. Other people laugh like Wintersmith, their whole body combining to make a point – against you.
I stiffened. “I told you, you won’t be playing games with me again—”
“Let her go, Sarah-Anne,” Wintersmith said in a completely disconnected, uncaring voice. “She’ll be back again in a jiffy. Witches can’t let others die. I used to think that was a character flaw. I used to think witches tied themselves up in knots. But that was before I had my own witch slave here.”
One word got to me. I spun on my foot. “I am not your slave.”
Wintersmith pointed to Winchester’s chest. “No. You’re his slave. I don’t condone the use of the magic he used on you, but understand this, Miss – it is powerful. You cannot break it. You may be able to circumvent it at times, but you will never,” he emphasized that, “be able to leave Winchester’s side.”
Alarm spread over my features like wildfire as I let my mouth drop open. I shook my head. “The king – in the palace – he said I can get around it—”
Wintersmith crossed his arms. “He meant that you can circumvent it, maybe practice a little magic under Winchester’s nose without him finding out – that kind of thing. You can’t break the indenturing. You will be stuck by his side. And do you know another curious fact about indenturing spells? Especially one that locks you against your wizard such as this?”
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe. I finally muttered, “What?”
“You must protect Wintersmith. That’s part of the magic.”
Everything struck me. It was just as I was spiraling down. I clenched my teeth. “You planned this, didn’t you? You thought that Winchester might indenture me. That’s why you didn’t tell me that he was like me.”
“Oh, Miss,” Sarah-Anne said as she swept in from the side, clutched up my hands, and held them hard, “how could he possibly have known that Winchester would do that? This is a fine gamble, and I’m sure we can all appreciate that. Because so much is at stake. Shouldn’t we concentrate on that?”
For someone who looked terribly innocent, Sarah-Anne usually had such good points. As I went to snap at her, I reminded myself last night, she’d almost died.
I bit my lip. It was hardly kind to my lip. But I could not take my ire out on my own body. And nor, apparently, could I take it out on Winchester. I pointed to him. “So what do we do? Tell him the truth? I’m not sure if you know, but he has a terribly compromised character. He is a man who only does things for himself. He has the moral worth of a cockroach.”
I could’ve continued, but Wintersmith lifted a hand. “Indeed, Winchester has his faults. But he is required to save the kingdom. And you will keep him safe. No, you will not reveal what you are.”
His voice was hard on that. So my expression became harder. “Why? Because you agree that he is a dangerous oaf? But you shackled me to him anyway, did you?”
“I admit,” Wintersmith said, just as I was starting to trust him – slightly, “that I thought and rather hoped Winchester might indenture you. I had no way of knowing if he would, however.”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to hurl something at Wintersmith’s head. But then Winchester muttered. It was the same word. “Grace.”
I shan’t tell you what my expression did. I shan’t tell you I paid any attention to it. I zeroed in on the fact that Winchester was moving more. He was about to rouse. I pointed at him. “Knock him out. Presumably you don’t want him awake in this crypt. He’s a terribly intelligent fellow. Too intelligent.”
“You could try to take a leaf out of his book, Miss. But we both know that’s not going to happen.” Wintersmith nodded at Sarah-Anne, and she swept over, her ghostly skirt moving through the sarcophagus as she touched Winchester’s head.
I winced slightly, though I ought not have any compassion for the man. “Does that give one a headache?” I muttered.
“It might, Ma’am. Especially if the ghost has to keep reapplying it. But don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll know the correct poultices to get him back on his feet again.”
Get him back on his feet again? The only thing I wanted to do with Winchester’s feet was stamp on them. But as I slid my gaze between Wintersmith, Winchester’s prone form, and Sarah-Anne, I once more realized I was trapped. I could rail. I could complain. I could even scream. And it would achieve what, exactly? Nothing worthwhile.
I sighed. My arms felt like drooping flowers. I briefly looked at the floor. “Very well. I suppose I’ll take him home. Then what?”
“Then, my dear,” Wintersmith had the temerity to say, “you shall follow along by his side, keeping him safe and helping him to discover the truth of this mess.”
I snorted even louder than before, snorted in a way even a bull would be impressed by. “Do you think Winchester will be able to put his selfishness aside for even a second to put this kingdom first?”
“I don’t think it,” Wintersmith said, gaze flaring with fast and true energy, “I know it. For we need it. And anything we need, you will produce. If you didn’t follow the sentence, let me be clear,” he warned in a growling tone, “you will help Winchester to do this. Because, Lisbeth McQuarrie, you have no other choice.”
I snarled, turned, grabbed up Winchester, and cursed the very day he was born.
It would, of course, achieve nothing. For I had a far, far larger, far more dangerous curse biting at my heels and snapping at my peach skirts.