The Mesmerist(45)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE





Rats


Shadows leap from the darkness. Mother fades right before my eyes.

I try to strike out, but cold hands grasp my arms, pinning them back so far, I feel as if they will break. My lash drops to the ground. I struggle with all my might, to no avail. All I see are black shapes within a deeper shade of black. And eyes. Glowing red eyes floating in the darkness.

Emily’s light flares brighter than ever for one brief moment and then fizzles. She falls to the tunnel floor. “Emily!” I shout.

A calming note rings out. Whatever it is that is holding me loosens its grip for a moment but then squeezes again, pinching my forearms with what feel like hot irons.

Gabriel strums another chord, but just as quickly it sours, fading off into a discordant tone that twangs and vibrates, as if someone is wrenching the strings out of his harp. I hear a grunt and then silence.

My arms are suddenly released. I spin around, striking out at an unseen foe, but my fist swings through empty air.

“Emily?” I call again. “Gabriel. Where are you?” I cannot see. I slowly kneel on my hands and knees and scrabble around in the dirt and rocks, trying to find my lash. It is not here. The pain in my side where I was slashed is now burning again.

I shudder. That was not Mother.

It was an illusion cast by Malachai Grimstead.

They can make shadows appear where none exist, and cast illusions that break one’s spirit. Balthazar spoke these words upon our first meeting.

He possessed the power of mesmerism as well, Mother had said, which made him all the more dangerous, for he used his gift to cause pain and suffering.

“Emily!” I call out. “Gabriel?”

No answer.

I walk with my arms stretched in front of me, in the direction of what I think is the tunnel wall. If I can feel the tiles, I’ll at least know where I am in this darkness. But where are Emily and Gabriel?

I want to call out again, but I do not. It could draw more creatures. Why have I been left alone? What is happening?

The stone around my neck glows white. A small pool of light spreads around me. I grasp it and feel warmth spread through my body. I sense something—?a thought drifting on the dank air.

Come to me, darkling.

My other hand touches the side of the tunnel and, tracing my fingers along the tile, I lower myself to sit, my back against the wall. I squeeze the faerie stone and close my eyes. Cold, prickly sweat rises on my arms and neck. It is the same feeling I had when I heard the voice from the spirit board. Soon, my lovely. Very soon. Now those words ring in my head, as if from only a few feet away, a terrible echo that floats through the dank passage. SOON . . . SOON . . . SOON.

I try to summon the face of Malachai Grimstead—?the dark hair, the burning red eyes.

I breathe in deeply, thinking of the terrible man on the slab—?my father’s killer. “Malachai,” I whisper. “Malachai Grimstead.”

And then I feel myself falling.

I see a clean white room with tall arched windows. Long, golden rays of sunlight spill onto the marble floor. Gleaming metal tables are set with beakers, tubes, and curious medical devices.

And then there are the rats.

They are enclosed in wire cages along the far wall, running to and fro, their nails clicking and scrabbling.

I am an observer again, the same as when I saw Malachai rise from the dead. But this is different. It is more like the images I saw when the spirit board was used as a scrying mirror to learn about Mother’s death.

Mother. My heart pangs.

The scene fades before my eyes. It is as if I am looking through a kaleidoscope, a tool I once saw at a shop, which reveals myriad colors when you stare through the lens.

I am back in the room again, but now there is a man here as well.

It is the same man I saw on the slab: the dark hair, the strong chin, a face as white as ivory.

Malachai Grimstead.

He is bending over a table, observing the glittering insides of a corpse. An audience is seated around him. Blood rises up to his elbows. “The human body contains wonders to behold,” his voice echoes, although I do not see his lips move. “As doctors, we are blessed with the gifts of life and death. In our hands hangs the balance.”

My head spins.

Now I am elsewhere.

I see a man, sitting behind a large wooden desk stacked with books and papers. The brass plaque in front of him reads Dr. Levy. Daylight streams in through the tall windows and glints off a ring on his finger—?a six-pointed star. His brow is furrowed.

He is facing another man, who is impeccably dressed. Everything about him is clean and orderly, down to his trimmed fingernails.

“I am sorry, Malachai,” the man behind the desk says. “Your . . . experiments have begun to attract attention.” He rubs his pale hands together in what seems to be a nervous gesture. “I’m afraid we will have to discontinue your education here.”

Malachai fumes. He stands up quickly, scattering papers from the desk. “You call yourself a scientist?” he bellows. “Your mind cannot comprehend the realms in which I delve. My deeds will go down in history!”

The vision passes, like water being sopped up by a sponge. Red splotches burn behind my eyelids.

I feel disconnected from myself, as if I have no physical body here, just my thoughts, floating . . .

A flash of bright light, and I am back in the room with the rats. Blood drops splatter the floor. The shiny beakers from before are smashed. A foul odor burns my nostrils. A boy sits backed into a corner, wearing only his smallclothes. His skinny knees are drawn up to his chest.