Free The Importance of Being Emily by Robyn Bachar Page B

did I was able to see the auras of my two companions, though the rest of the room remained dark. Or at least what I could see of it—it felt like a large space, with shadows that stretched on forever. Simon moved to the right, and we followed, out of obedience and the fear of being left behind.
    “It was an accident,” a voice hissed from the shadows.
    I jumped, my gaze darting all around us, but I saw no sign of the speaker. It didn’t sound like Mr. Farrell, but that was difficult to judge from the sibilant words.
    “Miss Morgan’s death may have been. I doubt Mr. Gryphon tore his own throat out,” Simon replied.
    “Oscar would have been a problem. The Gryphons were all problems.” The phantom voice growled, and the sound echoed. “They never appreciated my talent. They wouldn’t let me have Amelia. Said I wasn’t good enough for her. But you, Miss Wright, were acceptable.”
    There was no denying his identity now. I felt foolish for not seeing it before, but perhaps I didn’t want to see it. It was easier to believe in the façade. Shivering, I stepped closer to Michael and the imagined safety of the lantern’s light. Long rows of wine racks filled the room, reminding me of the endless aisles of books in my vision. Lord Willowbrook did have a large estate. I suppose he would need to stock a great deal of wine for the gatherings he hosted.
    “Why become a necromancer?” I asked, curious.
    “Because this is true power. I won’t be denied anything again.”
    We reached the end of the first rack, and more rows disappeared into the dark. A few feet away a table leaned against the earthen wall, and Miss Morgan and Mr. Gryphon’s bodies had been laid out upon it. Their corpses remained as blank as before, but an oily black shadow stood next to them, its head tilted as it stared down at Amelia.
    “He’s there!” I exclaimed, pointing at the figure.
    “Where?” Michael asked, but Simon darted forward.
    “Next to the bodies,” I replied.
    Simon struck the shadow, and it snarled and hissed, lunging at the chronicler. The two became a dark blur, and I wrinkled my nose at the scent of freshly spilled blood. Michael stepped in front of me, and I peered around him to watch.
    “I still can’t see him,” Michael said.
    “But he’s right there.” I pointed again for emphasis.
    “To me it looks as though Simon is fighting thin air.”
    Worried, I frowned as I focused on the shadow. It had Mr. Farrell’s height and build, but his features were obscured by the darkness. I expected Simon to draw the sword he had requested and attack with that, but instead he fought hand-to-hand. Or rather claws-to-claws, for they both had sprouted wicked, deadly claws from their hands like great hunting cats. There was something feral and frightening about their combat, and I gripped Michael’s arm as I tried to keep track of their progress.
    Suddenly the shadow darted down an aisle, and Simon froze. “Where did he go?”
    “To the left,” I said. “Didn’t you see him?”
    Simon shook his head and set off where I had instructed. Michael and I followed, but there was no sign of Mr. Farrell. When we reached the end of the aisle Simon paused, peering in both directions. He turned back to face us, and I saw movement to the side.
    “There! To the right,” I ordered. Simon looked to his right, and I pointed frantically in the other direction. “My right, my right!”
    Mr. Farrell lunged at me and I screamed, but Michael shoved me behind him. Unbalanced, I tumbled to the floor as Michael took the blow intended for me, and he grunted with pain. Simon grabbed Farrell and threw him into the nearest wall, and their fight began again. Terror gripped my throat as I stood up, staring at the blood staining Michael’s shirt. It gleamed in the weak light as the lantern swung back and forth in his shaking hand. Claw marks tore through the fabric in a long swipe.
    “I’m fine,” he assured me.
    “You’re hurt.” I took the lantern