Arthur grumbled something under his breath. Flynn slid the knife into my hands. I gritted my teeth as I cut across my palm, squeezing out a few droplets of blood to make the oath.
Around the circle we went, everyone nicking their hands. Isadora shook with each of us, mingling her blood with ours to bind the oath. When she got to Clara, the women clenched their jaws as they squeezed hard enough to break fingers. Neither would flinch and finally, Ryan had to pull them apart.
The oath done, Isadora sat down at the table. She dug her phone out of her cleavage and placed it beside her, then folded her hands together. Blood smeared across her palms. “There is an ancient chivalric order that comprised many witches and fae, called the Order of Saint Lazarus. They have passed their secrets down through the generations, but since the fae had been banished, there were very few who knew of their work in hospitals and sick rooms, performing the miracles that restore the dead to life. To do this, they need the blood of both demon and fae, and their stores have long since run out. I am a descendant of this order. I know their secrets, but without blood, I could never perform them, not even for myself, not even when my need was great. It was during this need that I met Daigh in a salon in Paris in 1880, during the Belle Époque?—”
“1880?” Flynn squealed. “But wouldn’t that make you over a hundred-and-forty years old?”
“You are correct, Irishman, but pray let me continue. By this date, Daigh had amassed enough power to go on extended jaunts into the human realm. Mostly he spent his time with artists, bestowing them with gifts in exchange for their adoration. At this time, I was ill with tuberculosis. I had tried everything to acquire demon or fae blood, but those who kept a small store would not sell to me for all the money I offered, so I was without choice but to die. I raged against my coming doom. In Paris, I numbed my rage in the opium dens and drowned my sorrow in fine French absinthe. The first outward signs of my degeneration were beginning to show, and even in the gloom of the salon, the other patrons sat as far from me as possible. All except Daigh. He flopped down beside me. He flattered me and bought me wine and cheese. He asked me to sit for a portrait, and like a fool I accepted. He dressed me in the finest French silks, then painted me as I truly was – the disease seeping through my body, poisoning every part of me. The portrait was hideous. Ithrew it into the Somme. But the fae king intrigued me. And I intrigued him.”
I suspected there was more to this story than she was telling. A dark flicker in Aline’s eye suggested she thought so as well.
“One night, he proposed our agreement. He knew how badly I wanted to live, so he dangled the offer of rebirth in front of me. Humans have no power over the realm of death, but the Unseelie have often made pacts with the demons there, and Daigh revealed he kept a small store of their blood. He offered some of that blood to me, but I would have to make it worth his while. So I offered him a favour he could redeem in the future.”
“But if Daigh kept you alive, wouldn’t that make you old and decrepit?” Flynn asked.
“That was one part of the spell Daigh hid from me. I returned, but I was never able to age. My mind grows old, but my body remains in this unmoving, immortal shell.” Isadora glanced at Aline. “It is as you experienced. You did not age in your prison, and when you emerged you were the same age as when you went in. Fae magic can never fully restore human life – there is always a corruption.”
Flynn baulked at those words, but they filled me with hope. Even if Corbin and Maeve ended up like Isadora, if they never aged, surely it would be better than the alternative?
“The spell requires the blood of all three magical creatures, a likeness of them that shows their true nature, and an incantation. If the person is already dead, which I was not, their restoration also requires a sacrifice, for a soul must be given to the demons in their place. The more magic that is given to the spell, the more life it can bestow. Daigh performed the ritual on his own, and he was much depleted by his presence on earth. He could only manage this bastard of a life. But it was enough for me – eternal youth has suited me well.”
“What about Aline?” Flynn asked. “She didn’t have a body, and we gave her no blood, and yet she returned after twenty-one years.”
“Images and portraits are part of fae magic,” Isadora said. “Hence, their requirement in the ritual. Their ability to create glamour and communicate through mirrors is that same kind of magic. Because of the binding, Aline’s witch blood possessed fae magic, and if she stole power from Daigh in her pendant?—”
“Robert Smithers was my magister, so I often gave him the pendant to wear or look after,” Aline said. “I recall before the ritual, he clasped it around my neck and promised it would keep me safe.”
“It kept you safe.” Smithers chimed in. “Robert kept you safe.”
Aline turned to him and kissed his cheek. ‘Did you put demon blood in that pendant for me? Did you steal it from Daigh? Is that how you trapped me inside the painting? Oh, you clever man!”
Smithers’ dopey smile gave nothing away.
“Maeve’s wearing that pendant now, isn’t she?” Aline’s eyes glinted. “That means she has everything she needs for us to restore her to life.”
“She doesn’t have fae blood,” I reminded.
“Actually, she does,” Flynn said, pulling a crumpled paper out of his pocket. “It’s the DNA results Maeve sent away for. It turns out she’s got the DNA from two fathers, which is scientifically impossible even though it’s right there on those squiggly graphs. Some of Daigh’s DNA runs through her veins.”
“Then we have all the ingredients we need to complete this spell,” Clara hugged the book to her chest, her eyes glinting. “We can bring Maeve and Corbin back. But we must hurry. We’ll need their likenesses. Do you have any photographs of them?”
“I’ve got a ton on my phone,” Arthur said. “We’ll have to go to that camera place in Crooks Worthy to get them printed.”
“Does the painting have to look exactly like the person for this to work?” Flynn asked.
“Not in a photographic sense, but it should represent them. After all, a photograph is only an expression of light, but a painting can reveal more about a person – or the painter.”
“Then I have the images,” Flynn announced. “There’s a painting I did for Maeve in Avebury. It’ll be in her room somewhere, if it didn’t get destroyed…”
“But this ritual requires a fae to perform it,” Isadora said. “And considering you banished them all with the Slaugh, you won’t find one to help you. Not to mention the sacrifices. Which of you will offer your own life in exchange for theirs.”
“I will,” said Arthur, Flynn, Blake and I in unison. My heart pattered. Tonight, we would bring Maeve and Corbin, but we would still lose someone precious. Our coven would still be broken.
“Don’t be a wanker,” Arthur shoved Flynn. “You’re needed here. You sorted everything while I was lying in the hospital. You didn’t even need me to destroy the Slaugh. I’ll be a sacrifice.”
“It should be me,” I whispered, thinking of what Maeve said before the Slaugh, about how she and Corbin had talked about studying at Oxford together. “I willingly give my life so they will have a future.”
“Boys, don’t be silly.” Clara touched Arthur’s arm. “You are young, and youallhave a future ahead of you. I have had many bright years upon this earth. I offer myself willingly as a sacrifice.”
