A Temptation of Angels

  “Yes?”

  His eyes glistened in the dark. “I don’t want to discourage your strong will—”

  “But?” She could not help interrupting him, already sensing his desire to keep her in check.

  “There’s still a lot you don’t understand. A lot that can bring you harm. If you want to survive, you must listen to us until you’re capable of defending yourself.”

  She wanted to deny the kindness in his voice. But she could not. Instead of the heated reply for which she searched, she found, to her horror, the sting of tears. She looked away, not wanting him to see their shine in the light of the candles along the wall.

  “Yes, well, perhaps I’m not concerned about remaining alive at the moment.”

  She expected him to protest, but he simply nodded in the periphery of her vision.

  “What about retribution?” he asked. “Is that something that concerns you?”

  She turned back to him, meeting his eyes. “That’s of more interest to me, yes.”

  “Then you might like to consider staying alive to exact it.”

  He started walking once again, leaving her no choice but to follow. The halls were long and winding. She paid attention to the turns as they went—left, left, right—wanting a surer method of finding her way around than the instinct she’d used to find the staircase earlier that night. Finally, Griffin stopped at a door that looked like all the others.

  “I’m two doors down on the right if you need anything, or you can ring the bell by your bed.”

  She nodded, stepping into the room. “Thank you.”

  He had already turned to leave when she found the courage to voice the question that had been nagging since the two men had appeared in the alley.

  “What were those… things? On the street?”

  Griffin turned, hesitating. She could feel him trying to find the right words. “They were wraiths.”

  “Wraiths?”

  He nodded. “Lesser demons.”

  “Lesser demons?” She felt like an idiot repeating everything, but her brain was working as fast as it could, trying to process everything he was saying. “Is there such a thing?”

  “Yes,” Griffin said. “The Dictata heads up our side, the Alliance of Lesser Angels, and there is caste system within the ranks of the Legion, too.”

  “What is the Legion?”

  He considered his words. “The Alliance is made up of the descendants of the original Lesser Angels, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, the Legion is made up of the fallen angels.”

  “Otherwise known as demons,” she murmured, finally understanding.

  “Exactly,” he said. “There’s a treaty that keeps order with the more powerful demons, but wraiths are just a nuisance. They don’t have the intellectual capacity for real strategy, which is why Darius and I were able to defeat them so easily.”

  “It didn’t look easy,” she said.

  His smile was small. “It comes with practice, and we have been taking care of ourselves for some time now.”

  She felt a pang of sadness—for him, and for herself, too—for all they had lost.

  “Were they the ones responsible for…” She could hardly manage the words, though there had been no opportunity for grief since Galizur confirmed her parents’ death. She forced herself to say aloud the thing that was true, whether or not she voiced it. “Did they kill my parents?”

  Griffin shook his head, a lock of hair falling into his eyes. “They weren’t knowledgeable enough for such a task. Whoever killed your parents—and ours—was much, much more dangerous.”

  He was already out the door when the next question came to mind.

  “Griffin?”

  He turned to meet her eyes. “Yes?”

  “Why kill our families if it’s us they want? If we’re the ones who have the key?”

  He shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious?” She couldn’t tell if it was sadness or anger that lit his eyes. “They have us right where they want us. On the run and unprotected.”

  TEN

  Once alone in the bedchamber, Helen stripped off her clothes, leaving her chemise on as a nightdress. Her eyes, still gritty with smoke and soot, burned with exhaustion.

  But she couldn’t sleep.

  Not yet.

  She propped herself against the large wooden frame of the bed, the box from Galizur in her lap. Fingering its rough-hewn edges, she tried convincing herself that it would be better, wiser, to wait until tomorrow to look more closely at its contents. To read the letter that had been left for her by father.

  It was a useless argument. Dawn was already lightening the world beyond the curtained windows, and there were some things that simply could not wait.

  She pushed back the lid, watching the contents of the box become visible as the flat-paneled top slid to reveal them.

  She first removed her grandmother’s cameo. It twirled at the end of the chain, and she held it up for inspection, wondering if the key Galizur spoke of could be hidden inside the locket. She opened and closed it, turning it over in her hand and looking at it every which way. But no. It was simply a family heirloom, and she set it carefully on the bed.

  She did not count the money or inspect it as she lifted it from the box, though in the back of her mind, she was grateful. Having money meant she wouldn’t have to rely on Griffin and Darius forever. But right now, while she was still trying to grasp the losses of the past hours, the currency was a vulgar reminder.

  Peering into the box, it seemed there was only the letter, but when she lifted the thick envelope from the box, she saw that there was something underneath it. She set the letter down, reaching back into the box. When she withdrew her hand, it held a photograph. She recognized it immediately. It had been taken on holiday at the country house. Father had surprised them with the photographer’s visit, and she and mother had dressed in their summer best to sit with him on the lawn, as the photographer had disappeared beneath a curtain of velvet attached to his machine. The photograph had sat in the parlor ever since. Helen had not been aware that a duplicate had been made, but now, staring at her father’s vivid smile, the light in her mother’s eyes, visible even in the black-and-white tones of the photograph, Helen was glad for it. She set it next to the cameo and lifted the letter from the bed.

  She could see a scrolled, silver opener on the writing table under the window but had no desire to leave the comfort of the mattress. Even now, her limbs were growing heavy. She slipped a finger under the flap of the envelope, hesitating for just a moment before breaking the familiar wax seal.

  The letter was not long. Only one page. One page of Father’s slim, slanted handwriting. But she bent her head to it. Then, she read.

  My Dearest Helen,

  By now you will have seen Galizur. If you are reading this, he has given you the box, and with it, all we dared set aside. I can hardly imagine how lost you must feel in a strange place with so few of your belongings, but given the small amount of space available, we thought currency the most useful inheritance. We always knew that if you had to flee, it would be with little time to gather your things.

  Galizur and the remaining Keepers will have told you much of what you need to know. I’m sure it has come as a surprise, but if you look to the past, you will find that you are more prepared for the challenges that lay ahead than you may believe. It is against the Dictata’s edict to tell a Keeper of their place in the world order until the age of Enlightenment, but we all—every one of us—saw this coming. It is because of this that I increased the frequency and intensity of your lessons in recent months. You will need all of your resources to fight what is coming. Search your mind for every game, every lesson. The answers you need are there.

  I will ask you for one final thing. It will be the hardest of all to ask.

  You must not mourn your mother and me. We have lived long and full. It has been our honor and privilege to call you our daughter. More than that, it has been our joy to watch y
ou grow into the strong young woman you are today and to love you as we do.

  Time—and all the events held therein—plays out as it must. We cannot impose our will on it. The only true measure of strength is our ability to bear that which time demands. And you are nothing if not strong.

  You must not look back. You must look only forward. Look forward and make the world—and its Keepers—safe once more.

  The mantle passes to you. I know you will carry it with grace and honor.

  With love,

  Father

  Helen held the thick parchment between her fingers. For the moment, her father was there, sitting next to her, telling her in a firm voice that everything would be all right.

  But soon his voice faded. Helen’s eyelids grew heavy, and she put the cameo and the letter back in the box with the currency. She kept out only the photograph, holding it to her chest as she allowed her head to sink into the pillows. She willed herself to weep, for isn’t that what any normal person would do? Wouldn’t a normal girl weep for the loss of her parents? Her home? Everything she had ever known?

  In the end, it didn’t matter. It was now obvious that she was far from normal. The absent tears seemed only to prove the point. She clutched the photograph as she fell into sleep.

  ELEVEN

  Helen woke the next day, her mind and purpose clear. After putting the photograph on the bedside table, she took some of the currency from the box and replaced its lid. She slid it under the bed. It was a paltry hiding spot, but there was nothing to be done about it.

  It was the only positive side effect of losing everything that mattered: There was nothing meaningful left to take. It made her feel reckless. But even as she reveled in its freedom, a voice warned at the back of her mind.

  There is always something left to lose.

  By the time she was dressed and ready to leave her room, it was after noon. She gave a moment’s thought to postponing the day’s mission until the next morning. It would be easier to sneak out of the house before the sun fully rose. But she quickly discounted the idea. Every second counted, and she would not be able to prepare herself for what was to come until her plans for the day were brought to fruition.

  She opened the door carefully, glancing down the hallway before slipping from her room. Backtracking to the staircase was not difficult.

  Left, right, right.

  And then she was at the top of it.

  It was not easy to remain unseen, standing at the top of the stairs as she was forced to do. If someone had been in the entry, she would have been caught. But the marble-floored foyer was empty, as quiet as a tomb. She ran lightly down the stairs, grateful for the well-maintained treads that didn’t squeak.

  She had her hand on the knob when she heard the clearing of a throat behind her.

  “Going somewhere?”

  Letting out a sigh, she turned to find Griffin leaning against the banister. He surveyed her with tired amusement.

  She stood a little straighter. “As a matter of fact, I have an errand to run.”

  “An errand?”

  “Yes. A personal errand.”

  He stood up, ambling toward her. “There’s no such thing as a personal errand. Not anymore. Not for you.”

  Shock washed through her body and over her face. “Just because we’re both in this… this unusual situation doesn’t give you the right to act as my father.”

  He tipped his head, a weary smile playing at his lips. “I’m not trying to strong-arm you, Helen. Truly.”

  She nodded at the apology in his voice.

  He continued. “It’s for your own safety. You saw the wraiths in the street last night. They are the least of the threats against us.”

  She couldn’t fight his reasoning, but it didn’t change the necessity of her plans. “I do have an errand.”

  “And I’d be happy to accompany you.”

  There was something willful in his voice that she had not heard before. Something that made her wonder if Griffin was really as amenable as he seemed.

  She smiled. “You don’t know what it is yet. When you find out, you might change your mind.”

  “Care to fill me in on our destination?” Griffin asked.

  Helen knew where they were going, and she led him around well-heeled women out for tea and young ladies out for a stroll with their chaperones.

  “Well, if you must know, I need clothing.”

  He grasped her arm, pulling her to a stop. “We’re going shopping?”

  “Not exactly,” she said. “We’re going to the dressmaker. And if you’re embarrassed to attend to such an errand, feel free to return to the house.”

  “I’m not embarrassed.” He rubbed a hand across his chin, his forehead furrowed in thought. “But it isn’t wise for you to frequent the shops you’re accustomed to visiting.”

  “Why not?”

  He took her arm, pulling her to the side of the crowd pushing past them on the street. “Because if whoever killed your parents plans to do a good job looking for you—and they do—they’ll be watching the places you might go.”

  She couldn’t help the disbelieving smile that rose to her lips. “You’re telling me they know enough about me to know where I have my dresses made?”

  “They know far more than that, Helen. We’re only just beginning to put together the pieces, but whoever murdered your parents—and ours—is just a killer for hire. Someone very powerful is behind these murders. And they know more about you than you can imagine.”

  She shook her head. “What am I supposed to do, then? I must have clothing, and it must be made quickly and to my specifications.”

  “And so it shall.”

  He placed her hand on his arm, turning in the direction from which they came. They passed the house and continued in the other direction.

  “Griffin?” she asked as they walked.

  “Mmmm?”

  “Why do you and Darius remain in your family home? Doesn’t staying there make it easier for the killer to find you?” The question had nagged at her since Galizur told her about the killings.

  He answered without looking at her. “That’s exactly the point.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He looked toward the street before turning to look down at her. “Our parents were not killed at home as yours were. They were murdered on the streets. Like animals.”

  She looked down at her feet, pained by the suffering she heard in his voice. “How did you know it was related to the… executions?”

  “The bastard left something. He always leaves something.” His words were cloaked in bitterness. “Darius and I have been waiting ever since. So that we might exact justice.”

  “I’m so sorry, Griffin.” He flinched as she touched his arm.

  They walked in silence a moment as Helen steeled herself to ask the next question.

  “Who do you think is behind the killings?” It was difficult to say aloud. Her parents were dead.

  She knew it was true, but saying it somehow made it harder to bear.

  “I don’t know,” Griffin answered. They had reached a rougher part of town, and Griffin guided her around two laborers engaged in an altercation that involved pushing and foul language. “Galizur is still putting the pieces together. We’ll see him again tonight after our people return from inspecting the remnants of the fire.”

  “The fire?” she murmured. “The one that burned down my home?”

  He nodded. “So far, the killer has left something at every site. A clue, we think, though we’re still trying to figure out what it means.”

  “What kind of clue?”

  He hesitated before answering. “It will be too difficult to explain. I’ll show you later this evening.”

  They crossed the street, minding the carriages rattling past, and Helen tried to imagine a killer heartless and morbid enough to leave a clue at the scene of his crimes. Finally, Griffin came to a stop in front of an aging storefront.

  “Here we are.”
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  She looked dubiously at the sign, so faded she could not even make out its lettering.

  He laughed aloud. She turned to the sound of it, realizing that he had a wonderful laugh. Heartfelt but slightly self-conscious.

  “I know it doesn’t look like much,” he said. “But like Galizur, Andrew works on behalf of the Dictata. He doesn’t advertise his services. A place like this is less likely to draw the casual customer. Trust me, Andrew can make anything you need.”

  She hesitated at the mention of the man’s name. She had only ever had female seamstresses. It would be strange to have a man pinning and measuring her. After a moment, though, she realized that a gentleman would serve her purposes quite nicely.

  She nodded, reaching for the door. “All right, then.”

  He stayed her hand, stepping forward. “He doesn’t know you. He won’t answer unless he sees me.”

  Griffin stepped close to the glass door, covered in drapery from the other side, and knocked. A sliver of the curtain was pulled back a moment later. Helen caught a glimpse of an eye in the seconds before she heard the locks disengaging. The door was pulled open in one fluid motion.

  “Master Channing! What a pleasant surprise! Do come in.” The man, small and lithe, stepped back, allowing them entry. “And is this… ?” He gestured toward her nervously.

  “It is, indeed.” Griffin waited for the man to lock the door, pulling the curtain back over the glass, before continuing. “Helen Cartwright, Andrew Lancaster. Andrew, Helen.”

  The man held out a hand. She reached out to grasp it, taken aback when he stooped to brush his lips across the top of her hand.

  “I am sorry to hear of your parents. They were wonderful people.”

  She could not hide her surprise. “You knew them?”

  “Distantly. They had a reputation for being kind and just.”

  Helen nodded, noting the warmth in the faded blue of his eyes. “How did you hear about their… about the fire? It only just happened last night.”