The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(59)

“That’s really dangerous!” I say. “You can’t go around putting herbs in people’s drinks like that. Each dose has to be measured exactly! The amount you’d need to knock out someone Humbert’s size would be enough to kill poor George—”

“Poisoned a lot of people before, have we?”

“What? No. Well, sort of. But that’s not the point.”

Fifer shakes her head. “They’ll be fine. A little groggy, maybe, but I know what I’m doing. And why do you care what happens to them, anyway? Or maybe you just care what happens to one person in particular.”

I feel my cheeks burn. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Fifer smirks. “Right.”

I turn away from her. “We should go. We don’t have all night to stand around talking.” I walk to the window, push it open. “Look, there’s a trellis here. We can climb down.”

“Hold on,” Fifer says. “We can’t go dressed like this.”

I glance at our clothes. More of the duchess’s dresses: mine pale pink and brocade, hers mustard yellow and velvet. “Why not?”

“Because we look like someone’s moldy old grandmother.” She walks to her bed and starts sifting through a pile of clothes. “I thought about the party before we left, so I packed accordingly. I couldn’t decide what to wear, so I brought a few things. Here.” She pulls out a dress and hands it to me. “Put this on.”

It’s long and formfitting, made from white silk and patterned with tiny black, blue, and orange flowers. The neck, shoulders, and waist are decorated with shimmering blue and black beads. I’ve never seen anything like it before.

“It’s pretty,” I say.

“Too pretty for you, that’s for certain.” She wrinkles her nose. “All right. Jewelry. Where’s the stuff you wore at dinner the other night?”

“My room.”

She dashes across the hall and comes back with the sapphire earrings and ring.

“Put these on.” She stands back and studies me. “I love this dress,” she sighs, a dreamy look stealing across her face. Then she scowls. “If you get it dirty, I will kill you myself. Got it?”

“I won’t.”

Fifer nods and starts getting dressed. She pulls on a shirt—a tight, black, strapless thing, more like a corset than a shirt—a long black skirt, and a pair of tall black boots. She glances in the mirror, gives her reflection an approving nod, then marches to the open window and leans out.

“What is taking so long?”

“What?” I say, startled. “What is what taking so long?”

“Keep your hair on,” comes a voice from outside. A boy’s voice. What is going on? I hear a rustling of leaves and the voice grows louder. “You expect me to just drop everything and run every time you call?”

“Exactly so,” Fifer replies, stepping away from the window. In a flash, a boy swings himself up and over the windowsill, landing gracefully beside her.

“Lovely to see you, too.” He grins and kisses her on the cheek.

Okay, so Fifer didn’t have a boy hiding under her mattress. But she did have one hiding outside in the bushes, which is just as bad. For some reason, I’m filled with a sudden, immense dread.

“Schuyler, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Fifer takes the boy by the arm and spins him around to face me. I suck in a breath. I should have known by his speed, by the way he leaped through a window two stories off the ground. But it’s his eyes that tip me off. The second they meet mine: feral, hard, and knowing—too knowing—I know who this boy is. Rather, what he is.

He’s a revenant.

And I’m in a lot of trouble.





I LOOK AT HIM, TRYING to figure out what kind of revenant he is. Is he the seventh son of a seventh son, relatively harmless? Or was he brought back by witchcraft, dangerous only to whom his necromancer bids him to be? Or is he the cursed undead, buried in unconsecrated ground, and dangerous to everyone? I don’t know. It’s difficult to tell just by looking.

The only thing I can tell by looking is that he’s possibly the most attractive boy—living or dead—I’ve ever seen. Bright blue eyes, wicked grin, shaggy blond hair that falls to his chin. He looks to be around eighteen, but he could just as easily be a hundred and eighteen. Revenants usually favor clothes from the time they were alive, but his are too plain to offer any clue: black trousers, black shirt, long black coat ending in a pair of heavily scuffed black boots.

“This is Elizabeth,” Fifer says.

“All right, love?” Schuyler extends his hand to me, but I don’t take it. Revenants can tell a lot about a person through touch alone. They’re like seers in that way, but worse. Because a single touch from a revenant grants them access to your thoughts and feelings—forever. And I know exactly what he’ll see the second he touches me.

Fifer knows it, too. “Go on, Elizabeth. Shake his hand.” Her eyes are alight with anticipation.

Damnation.

I give him my hand.

“Nice to meet you.” He curls his fingers around mine. I can feel his immense strength even in the tiny squeeze he gives me. “Any friend of Fifer’s—” He breaks off and narrows his eyes at me, his gaze flicking to my abdomen.