The Lantern's Ember Page 5

  “The glass could still break in a close fight,” Jack said.

  “It did once,” Ember admitted. “Luckily, we were just using stink bombs. They’re supposed to scare off vampires. Finney had to bathe five times to get it off.”

  At least that news made Jack feel better.

  “Since then, I’ve magicked the glass. It won’t break. Not even if you slammed the vial with a rock.” Ember opened another drawer and took out a leather belt. This one was double-holstered, and she put it on. It fit snugly around her curvy hips. As she dropped one of the guns into place, Jack noticed the hand-tooled leather detail on the side. It was a rearing horse. Its rider had a grinning pumpkin for a head.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Ember,” Jack said, taking her hand as she attempted to snatch the other gun back, “I don’t think you’ve thought this through. In the Otherworld, even the citizens not intent on your demise would turn you in. If you went in guns blazing, you’d last only five minutes.”

  “I think I’d last longer than that. First of all, I don’t intend to go in guns blazing or announcing to the world that I’m a witch.”

  “Really?” Jack said, folding his arms.

  “Yes. Really. I know there’s a way to hide my presence. You’ve somehow managed to protect me from interested parties over the years. I’ve seen your salt circles, and I’m sure you have a few tricks up your sleeve that you haven’t been sharing. But since you won’t help, we’ve watched how you cloak yourself, and Finney thinks he’s just a few weeks away from devising something that will work for me.”

  Jack swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat the only sign that he was worried things were getting out of control.

  Ember continued. “Regarding my guns, what you don’t know is that my ammunition will last much longer than you think. You see,” she said, pointing to the vials, “only enough potion to knock out one victim is drawn up. Each vial contains enough potion for six to eight shots, depending on the spell. I have my bandolier with more vials and then a pocketed cloak and bag with room for extras. If I happen to run out, I can make more with my dried packets of supplies. I can also scrounge up more ingredients if they exist in the Otherworld.”

  With a flourish, she pulled a knot and unrolled a clever little pack full of pockets. They were stuffed with empty vials, a small mortar and pestle, various sizes of lancets, bags of dried herbs, squishy and pungent pouches, scoops, a chisel, a tiny hammer, pipettes, tweezers, knives, scissors, pincers, brushes, and powders. Everything was meticulously organized.

  “You’ve been busy.” Jack lifted a gun to study it. “So how does it fire?” he asked, his interest crushing his instinct to lecture her on the dangers of the Otherworld. Besides, there was always time for that. He twisted the gun, sighting along the barrel and cocking the hammer. There was no pan, powder, flint, or ramrod that he could see. Only a dark, shiny plate where the hammer would strike.

  “That’s the beauty of it. Only a witch can use this weapon. I fire it using witch power, or witchlight, or whatever you call it.”

  Jack froze. “What do you mean?”

  “You know, witch power. You’re the one who told me that everything in the Otherworld runs on it. I just figured out how it works. Instead of flint or a fire, I press my thumb on the plate, and when I pull the trigger and the hammer hits, boom!” Ember saw Jack’s openmouthed expression and sighed. “It’s really too easy. Come on. I’ll show you.”

  Ember gathered her cloak and a couple of vials of potion, then lifted her skirts and kicked her leg over the windowsill. The moon was hidden behind the clouds as she snuck across a well-worn path through the thicket of trees. Jack followed, wondering what he could have said or done differently to steer her in a safer direction. She took him over to the old cemetery. Not the one he’d fashioned to keep people away, but the other one, the real one near the cornfields.

  Kneeling behind a gravestone, Ember placed her arm on top of it and then centered her weapon on her arm. Carefully, she sighted along the barrel, using an old scarecrow as a target, and flicked the lever to the right. Jack glanced down and saw that the vial contained a nebulous green gas.

  “What’s in there?” Jack asked, his voice creaking with nerves like a weathered rocking chair left out in the rain.

  “A sort of acid cloud” was her response.

  “Acid?” Jack hissed. “I think we should pick something less toxic.”

  “Too late,” Ember said with a smile. She’d touched her thumb to the strip of metal and it turned red-hot. Then the hammer went down with a click and there was a thwomp, like a cork being pulled out of a wine bottle. A green jet soared across the field, and when it hit, the scarecrow burst into a cloud. Not a moment later there was a sizzle as the pumpkin face melted into a pile of goo and plopped onto the ground next to a smoking pile of discarded clothing, steaming hay, and a blackening wood frame.

  Swallowing and jerking his suddenly tight collar away from his neck, Jack sputtered and glanced at his own grinning pumpkin. “That’s…that’s—”

  “Incredible? Amazing?” Ember filled in proudly.

  “Terrible!” Jack said.

  “Uh, no. I believe the word you’re searching for is ‘ingenious.’ ”

  Jack was about to tell Ember how this exercise in witchy weapon-making was ill-conceived at best, when he cocked his head. A familiar scent tickled his nose. “Vampires,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Really?” Ember stood straight up, looking around the field, absolutely unafraid.

  “Get down!” Jack yelled, taking her hand and tugging until she was down next to him. “Do you want to be killed?”

  “Maybe I need to meet another Otherworlder and get a second opinion,” she said. “Besides, shouldn’t he be more afraid of you than you are of him?”

  “Engaging a vampire is foolish,” Jack said, ignoring Ember’s question. She wasn’t wrong, and that bothered him. “Stay here. I’ll take care of it and then we can finish this discussion.”

  “Jack, you don’t understand. It hurts.” She blinked, a sheen filling her eyes as she rubbed her stomach. “I have to…I—”

  Taking her face in his hands, Jack touched his thumbs to the soft curves of her cheeks, tracing over them gently. “Please, Ember. Will you stay here?”

  Ember’s heartbeat escalated and she nodded woodenly, still feeling his touch on her cheeks even after he left, which made the incessant pull in her gut, the one drawing her to Jack’s bridge, lessen to a tolerable level. Jack’s foggy form and his pumpkin disappeared into the trees.

  With her back to the gravestone, she kicked a furrow in the dirt, frustrated that she’d let him distract her so easily. She heard a noise and spun around. As quietly as she could, she lifted her head just far enough so she could peek over the edge of the stone and then gasped.

  A man lounged nearby. He sat on a stone bench, his arm draped carelessly across the next headstone over while a leg dangled over the arm of the bench. As he kicked his leg languidly back and forth, he watched her with glittering eyes. She hadn’t heard him approach, and when she looked down, she didn’t see any footprints except her own and Jack’s.

  The man’s lips twitched in a slow smile that built until it turned almost into a leer. It made Ember very uncomfortable.

  “Hello there,” the man said.

  “Hello,” Ember said, grasping the gravestone and pulling herself up. She lifted the gun at the same time and cocked the hammer. To her consternation, the man seemed completely unperturbed to have a weapon pointed in his direction.

  “Ah. How disappointing,” he said. “I was rather hoping you were going to be a good little hostess and offer me a drink.”

  Deverell Christopher Blackbourne studied the slip of a girl staring him down from the barrel of a small gun as he tapped his shiny black cane on his even shinier black boot. If he hadn’t already been taken in by her heady scent of apple bloss
oms and cinnamon, he would certainly have been drawn by her spunk. The gun matched the young witch’s diminutive form, and he thought the weapon almost as handsome as she was. He wanted to pull the wisp of a girl onto his lap and sink his teeth into her lovely neck.

  As he was pondering the possibilities, the girl pulled the trigger and Deverell’s world erupted in pain.

  His flesh sizzled as her spell went to work. He hadn’t expected her gun, as delicate as it was, to have anything inside it other than pellets or bullets, neither of which hindered a vampire at all. Instead, she’d concocted a potion that, though slapdash and amateurish, was still rather effective for a newly ripened witch.

  He was no young vampire, and normally, he was powerful enough that he would have recovered from the willful girl’s attack within a day or two.

  But he had no time for that. He did, however, have a charm of protection from the high witch herself. Closing his eyes, he called upon the accelerated healing power of the charm and felt his magical blood seep from his bones to the damaged places of his body. The injured tissues were quickly repaired, leaving new, fresh skin behind.

  When the job was done, the blood returned to his hollowed bones. It filled his frame from his feet to his ribs, but left the rest of his skeleton—most important, his skull—as empty and ravaged as a newly made vampire’s grave. The depleted stores triggered his hunting impulse, and his fangs throbbed with want.

  Unfortunately, his white shirt and black trousers, still smoking, now hung from his frame in tatters. His cravat and jacket were ruined, and there were holes eaten away in his most comfortable pair of leather boots. One sleeve of his shirt was completely torn away, except for the cuff, which was still perfectly intact. His diamond-geared cuff link was even there.

  Dev searched and found his black beaver hat lying unmolested behind the stone bench. “Thank the maker,” he said, reaching down and grasping it with his long fingers.

  Tucking the length of hair that had escaped from his braid behind his ear, he stood and blew the dust from the brim, studying the crown and the batwing hatband for damage. Last, he ran his fingertip over the lucky raven feathers and the high witch’s token charm that he’d personally sewn onto the band. They appeared to be unspoiled.

  Turning to the witch, he ran his tongue over his now sharp teeth. She squeaked at seeing his quick recovery and prepared to blast him again. “I think not,” the vampire said, and stared deeply into her eyes. He knew his blue eyes were now as bright as icy stars, a side effect of using his vampiric power to mezmer. Dev saw the faint blue light on her cheeks as his abilities worked their magic. The gun trembled in her hand, and she blinked as if confused.

  “Lower the gun,” Deverell said, his voice sultry and commanding. She complied. “Very good. Now you will come with me.”

  He turned, placed the hat on his head, and retrieved his cane, gritting his teeth against hunger. The wanting had been bad enough before, but now that his stores had been depleted, he was practically starving for her. He’d been a fool to postpone refection.

  Witch’s blood was considered the most potent, the most delicious, the most sought-after blood, and was also, unfortunately, the rarest. Because of this, almost all vampires had left the Otherworld when the witches did, millennia ago. The vampires hoped that by allying with the witches, they’d be taken in and nourished by them. It hadn’t worked. Only a few such relationships had come to be.

  Long ago, too far back for most to remember, he’d been one of the first to leave the Otherworld, sneaking out with a young witch he’d charmed. She’d freely shared her blood with him until her untimely death.

  Dev hadn’t loved her, not in the way she loved him, but he was sorry to see her die. Especially as her death meant he was on his own. Still, he’d gained much power from the witch, enough to sustain himself for quite a long time—a millennium, in fact.

  Dev sighed as he smoothed back his ash-brown hair and positioned his hat on his head. He thought about his long-time witch companion. He missed those days with her immensely. He’d had no choice but to return to the Otherworld. It was possible to work one’s way back into the good graces of the powerful who ran the city. Dev in particular had done so, making himself invaluable to the high witch.

  He managed to get just about anything she needed done, done. With just the right mix of mischief and mockery in his tone, Deverell drew others to him. Men trusted him. Women wanted him. He studied those who resisted, which were very few, with fascination. And he either charmed them until they fell into his arms, or he finagled out their secrets like a pickpocket and blackmailed them until he was satisfied and moved on.

  Thinking he would very much like to take some time to charm the little witch, he turned back to her, only to see her running away. Cursing, he raced after her, his booted feet barely touching the surface of the ground, and was blocking her path before she could get to the tree line.

  That she’d made no sound startled him. He should have heard her, or at least felt his mezmer slipping.

  “How did you break free?” he asked bluntly.

  “That’s none of your business, you diabolical rogue!”

  Dev smiled. “I rather like the sound of that title.” A gust of wind blew through the trees behind him, making the tatters of his shirt billow. “I should think I have more cause to be angry than you. Look what you’ve done to my favorite pair of boots.” He angled his foot one way and another and raised an eyebrow in satisfaction as Ember glanced away from his face and down at his boot. Only a sympathetic girl would look. He could work with that.

  The young witch pursed her lips but didn’t lower the weapon. “Why are you here?” she asked. “Do you mean to raze my town?”

  “Raze your…” Dev’s mouth twitched and he laughed. “Not at all. I’ve been sent to fetch you.”

  “Fetch me for who?”

  “Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it?” He gave her a conspiratorial wink. “Perhaps we could start again.” He put his hand on his chest, flattening his shirt over the muscles of his chest. “Deverell Christopher Blackbourne, at your service.” The vampire bowed, but his eyes never left hers. Nonplussed by the weapon aimed at him, he stood and said, “And may I ask your name?”

  “My name’s Ember.”

  “Ember. A lovely name for an even lovelier witch.”

  “Perhaps you should stop trying to flatter me and tell me what your purpose is.”

  “In short, my purpose here is to find you and then escort you to the Otherworld.”

  Ember’s mouth fell open. Deverell thrilled to hear the racing of her heartbeat and see the quickening of her pulse in her delicate neck. He would benefit from making the effort to charm this witch. If she was powerful enough to toss off his mezmer so rapidly, then young Ember was a girl he wanted to know.

  “I take it you know of it?” Dev asked.

  Ember lifted her chin and straightened her back. She probably did it in an effort to look intimidating, but her figure was about as intimidating as a kitten’s. “I do,” she said.

  “And are you interested in seeing it?”

  “I am,” she answered frankly, the strong tug of Jack’s bridge rising again. “I’m just not sure you’re a proper escort.”

  Deverell dug his cane into the dirt and twisted it casually, looking away from the girl. “I’ll admit, I’m not attired with as much panache as I usually am, but I would remind you that my current state of dress is entirely your fault. Might I inquire as to who you think might serve as a better escort?”

  “Jack,” she replied instantly.

  “Jack,” Dev repeated, frowning. “Are you speaking of Jack the lantern?”

  She hesitated. “Yes,” she finally answered.

  Dev chuckled and then placed his hand over his mouth as if embarrassed and apologized.

  “What’s so funny about that?” Ember asked.

  “It’s just amusing to me that you
’d feel safer with Stingy Jack than with one of the most powerful vampires in the Otherworld.”

  “Why do you call him that?” She lowered the gun slightly and Deverell gave her a warm smile. It was disturbing to realize that the little witch already had a relationship with the lantern. The fact that the lantern hadn’t turned her in meant that the girl was important to him for some reason. Dev knew there was no way the lantern, who had ringed the entire village with salt, had failed in his duties to such a degree that he’d never noticed the witch growing up practically beneath his nose. Luckily for Dev, it had rained the night before, so passing through the salt, while painful, wasn’t deadly.

  He’d been able to distract the lantern with a steam spinner that shot out a gallimaufry of scents, sounds, and signs while leaving a disturbing number of tracks in different directions. That the lantern hadn’t figured out he was on a wild-goose chase yet surprised Dev, especially knowing Jack had been personally trained by Rune.

  Right now, the lantern was probably baffled, wondering how a goblin, a whip jacket, a prigger, a vampire, and a colony of Otherworld, metal-enhanced bats had ended up in his forest. Even so, the lantern would be back soon. Dev had to get the witch past the barrier as quickly as possible. He couldn’t take any chances, and he definitely didn’t want to face the lantern. He’d probably win, but it would come at a cost.

  Dev clucked his tongue. “I’d tell you his story, love, but I’m afraid Stingy Jack will be along any moment now and he’ll put a quick end to our enchanting meeting.” Leaning forward, he said, “You do know what he will do to me if he finds me?”

  Ember swallowed and lowered the gun even more. “What…what will he do?” she asked.

  “He’ll shine his light on me. It hurts something fierce. That power of his will debilitate me for quite some time. It banishes me back to the Otherworld, you see. I wouldn’t be able to come back and fetch you for a long spell, if at all. I would imagine he’d be even more vigilant after that.” The vampire scrubbed his jaw. “That one’s very powerful. There’s not much that gets past him.”