Spellcaster

All that remained for her to do was to free herself from the One Beneath’s service, so that she could again die—and, in her death, do Him the greatest service in all the history of time.

The immortality spell would end—only slightly diminished, because the original magic was so strong that it wanted to endure through all eternity. But that tiny fraction of vulnerability would be enough for her to die, if she met a cataclysm great enough. Or caused one.

Together they would destroy the lines that separated her world from His. Her death would be His freedom.

“Shatter me,” she whispered. “Hallow me.”

The broken glass spun closer and closer. She bit her lip against the first slash—her skin tearing open, blood beading upon her hip—but then the cuts came faster and faster, and the pain was too overwhelming and too glorious to resist. Elizabeth screamed, as long and loud as she could, and it was the most joyful sound she would ever make.

Time blurred. The world went away. She shivered and shuddered—then gasped as the chains fell away.

Elizabeth was free. The One Beneath had released her. Once again she could die.

Tears sprang to her eyes as she knelt upon the floor, put her forehead down in the puddles of her own blood that congealed there. All but the last few cuts had healed, because of her body’s lingering regenerative power; she wept only for the loss. “My only liege,” she whispered.

He cries for missing you, too, said Asa, in a tone of voice that suggested he would rather not have told her. Demons often resisted their servitude. It did not signify.

Slowly Elizabeth rose to her feet again. She took up one of her bottles of water—but the thirst had diminished. Strange, not to have it there: She almost missed the craving. After a couple of swallows, she used the rest to rinse blood from her skin. Only a couple of scratches needed bandaging. As it had been centuries since she needed anything like that, Elizabeth wound up ripping some old cloths to tie around the cuts. Probably they were not clean—there was something about cleanliness and infection she dimly recalled from the past couple of centuries—but it hardly mattered. Her other magics remained in place, for now.

“Only one errand left,” she said to the demon chained within her mind. “Finding you a place.”

Eager though I am to depart your company, I feel the need to point out—you haven’t exactly done much to stop Nadia Caldani.

Elizabeth shrugged. “She has been taken care of. The boiling will have frightened her, and now she is without her Steadfast.”

She is not. Her Steadfast remains by her side.

“That’s impossible.” Verlaine Laughton had survived Elizabeth’s attack through some fluke of modern medical practice, but she had been comatose for the week since and would remain so until the time came to begin breaking the seal of the captive’s Chamber. In such a state, Verlaine should have provided little power to Nadia—and none when Nadia left the hospital in Wakefield.

I can tell you only what I know. Nadia still has her Steadfast.

Then it could not have been Verlaine. But who?

A thought came to her and was as quickly rejected. It was ridiculous. Absurd.

And yet, if there was no other possibility—

Elizabeth’s eyes widened as she took in the unbelievable truth.

Mateo paused in front of the door. “You’re completely sure there’s no other leads we can follow.”

“Unfortunately, none come to mind.” Nadia squared her shoulders, obviously trying to make herself feel strong. The autumn wind caught her dark hair, a strand of it curling along her cheek.

Did she know how vulnerable she looked in moments like this? Mateo could sense in her the fear that drove her onward—for Verlaine, for him, for her family, but never for herself. Yet Nadia had already taught him that vulnerability wasn’t the same thing as fragility. As deeply as she had been hurt—could yet be hurt—nothing had broken her.

Besides, you had to respect anyone who was willing to confront Grandma.

When the butler opened the door to the great house on the Hill, Mateo put on his best smile. “Yeah. I’ve shown up three times in one year. Crazy, huh? It’s like I’m ready to move in or something.”

“ … Mrs. Cabot has retired.”

It took Mateo a moment to realize that he didn’t mean Grandma had quit her job; so far as he knew, she’d never had one. She was just in bed. “Well, we need to see her. It’s important.” Then he paused, remembering the ghastly scars on his grandmother’s face and how badly they must have hurt. More quietly, he added, “Tell her I’m—reasonable. It’s okay. My friend just has some questions about our family history that only Grandma can answer.”

The butler didn’t seem to think much of this, but he showed them into a side parlor and went upstairs. “He has to wake up Grandma,” Mateo explained as he took a seat on the long antique sofa, with its wooden frame and gold silk cushions. “That guy should get combat pay.”

Nadia didn’t sit by his side; instead she paced the length of the parlor, a long, thin room with ornate green-and-white wallpaper and endless overstuffed, heavily carved furniture, all slightly hazy with a layer of dust. At first Mateo thought she felt awkward—and no wonder—but then he realized she was staring at one of the oil paintings on the wall. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “Have you never seen this?”

“Seen what?” Usually he got in and out of Grandma’s house as fast as possible, so he hadn’t spent much time studying the wall décor. But as Mateo went to her side, he realized she was pointing at an old family portrait … really old, from the looks of it. The faces were flat, the sense of proportion skewed: It reminded him of paintings of George Washington or Benjamin Franklin he’d seen in history textbooks.