The Mesmerist(32)

I’ve already had enough of monsters, and we’ve only just begun.



When I dream, it is of a long, endless tunnel. A billowing white mist writhes around my body. There is a sound like the screeching of birds, which rings in my ears so shrilly, I cover them with my hands. Somewhere within the darkness, two red flames burn and flicker.

Come to us, Jessamine. I hear the voices call. Come, darkling.



Shattering glass jolts me from sleep.

I bolt upright. Sweat dampens my brow. I lie still for another minute, my heart racing. Muffled voices drift through the door. I get up from bed and quickly throw on my nightdress. I take the lash from my satchel.

It could be a ghoul. One who has discovered our location. My master has something for you. All of you.

The hallway is dark, and I walk blindly, but the house is so small, I know where each footfall lands. The smell of wood smoke rises in my nostrils, and I wonder who is up this late.

There. Another sound. Whimpering? It is coming from Darby’s room. A light glows along the bottom of her door. Without even pausing to think it through, I push it open, my lash gripped tightly in my fist.

Darby thrashes on the bed, violently shaking her head back and forth. The remains of a porcelain ewer lie cracked on the floor. Even in the dim firelight, I can see the wild look in her eyes.

“Jess!” Balthazar shouts. “Leave! Leave now!”

But I do not.

I rush to Darby’s bedside. “What happened?”

“Her potion!” he exclaims. “I thought there was more. But it is not enough! I was foolish! Too much on my mind as of late.” He swallows, and it is the first time I have seen him truly unnerved. “Take her hand,” he urges me. “Try to calm her.”

I place my lash on the floor and carefully take Darby’s hand. A shiver runs through me. Her nails are as sharp as daggers, and fine brown hair stands out on her forearms. Balthazar is trying to pour the last remaining drops from a brown bottle down her throat. “Drink, dear one,” he says, tilting her head back. “Drink and put this menace at bay.”

But Darby will have none of that.

She shrieks and howls. She curses. Spittle flies from her mouth. Her eyes meet mine—?the pupils are vertical yellow slits, like an animal’s, and when I try to find the Darby I know, there is nothing there but pure animal rage. Her teeth look as sharp as Father’s razor.

Darby wrenches her hand away from mine and quickly, before I have a chance to draw back, slashes out at my face.

“No!” Balthazar cries.

But it is too late.

I cry out as the pain hits me, sharp and hot. I raise my hand to my cheek.

When I pull it away, it is covered with blood.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN





A Silver Ship


My cry seems to snap Darby back to her true self. She stops thrashing and breathes low and guttural. I am reminded of a trembling rabbit I once saw in the forest, taking shelter from some unknown predator. Her eyes land on Balthazar.

“There,” he whispers, stroking Darby’s brow. “There, child.”

She drinks the last remaining drop of potion.

Balthazar reaches into his jacket and pulls out a cloth. He holds it to my cheek. “Press it firmly, Jess.”

I take it and do as he asks. The pain is searing, as if I have been struck by a hot poker from the fireplace. Only then does it truly dawn on me: I was slashed. By a werewolf.

Darby looks to me for the briefest moment, as if on the verge of knowing what she has done, and then closes her eyes. In less than a minute, she is breathing deeply. I look on in astonishment as the wolf inside her melts away to reveal the girl I know. The teeth recede, and her nails shrink back in on themselves. The short, stiff bristles around her face disappear, leaving only a frightened child.

A young girl, lashed to a cross, with flames roaring around her.

Balthazar turns to me. I am shaking, but try to remain calm. “Am I . . . will I be all right?”

He doesn’t speak, only tilts his head and gently takes the cloth from my hand, then sets it in a valise by Darby’s bed. Several amber bottles are in there, along with a few cork stoppers. He peers at my face. “A werewolf scratch is not always enough to infect,” he says. “Often, a deep wound is the only means of transmission. Or drinking water from the footprint of a wolf in the wild.”

He’s speaking, but I don’t even hear him. I’ve been scratched. I’ve been scratched.

The floor beneath me spins. My head is heavy. I am swooning. I try to rise, but only fall into darkness.



I look at my face in the cloudy mirror glass in the morning. The wound is still fresh, an angry red scratch, but much smaller than what I would have imagined. Balthazar put me to bed after I collapsed. I do not recall this, but it is what he has told me. He gave me a salve to rub on the wound, and I am relieved by its coolness.

I am so tired, I feel as if I could sleep for an eternity.

There is a knock at the door, and Emily and Gabriel both enter.

“Hullo,” Emily says. Gabriel only nods and takes a seat on the one small chair in the room. Emily hops onto the bed next to me.

“Old Balthy told us what happened,” she says, looking into my face and angling her head to get a better look at the wound. “Being a wolf’s not so bad,” she suggests. “You can hunt, and sleep for a long time. You can howl.” Her eyes widen. “You can be a mind-reading wolf!”