Page 40 of Samhain Savior
Moving through the building as quickly as possible, I exited through the front door and headed to the office,which was, pathetically, tucked in behind the gift shop. I entered without knocking, ignoring the kitschy rows of plastic lanterns and fake felt tricorn hats, then pushed my way into the room marked ‘Private’ like I belonged there.
Because I did.
Opening the door, I stepped quietly inside, my shadow magic silently searching the room for threats before it retreated into me once more. The room was plain, with dark wood walls and very little furniture. There was an empty coat rack in one corner, with a single desk and chair against the far wall. Above the desk hung a musket, the rack nestled just below a finely made Betsy Ross flag.
A man sat at the desk, his back to me, with the curtains drawn and a single candle illuminating the small room. Hunched over, his thinning hair pulled back into a queue, he scribbled at a notebook, still using a quill and ink as though technology hadn’t progressed since the time when he had been made a Guardian.
I’d always found Nathaniel’s staunch desire to cling to the era of his birth charming. Now, I found it worrisome. A man who fought so hard against change would not welcome the things I needed to do here.
“Hello, Nathaniel.”
I’d made no secret of my approach, but my words still startled him. Jolting in his chair, Nathaniel flung one armout to the side, knocking over his ink pot, a river of black spilling across the page he’d been writing on.
“Blast!” he swore loudly, then rose from his chair before the ink could run onto his breeches.
Because yes, he was still wearing white woolen breeches and a waistcoat.
He was lucky as Hell that the area was so full of colonial tourism, or someone would have tried to institutionalize him by now.
“Archer,” he gasped when he finally noticed me standing in the doorway. His eyes darted around the empty room for a moment before he swallowed, the spilled ink forgotten. “What are you doing here?”
“I think you know why I’m here, Nathaniel.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. The Key.” Blowing out a breath, Nathaniel turned back to the desk, quickly closing the notebook he’d been writing in and shutting it in a drawer. Once he’d locked the drawer and pocketed the key, he turned to me. “I had hoped you wouldn’t come.”
I frowned. Nathaniel and I weren’t close—not like I had been with William—but we’d always been cordial. His impeccable manners would never have allowed him to speak so plainly before. Keeping my gaze on him, I closed the door behind me and inspected him more closely.
He was thinner than the last time I’d seen him. An immortal Guardian could withstand nearly anything—something we’d unfortunately seen tested far too recently for my comfort—including starvation. So for Nathaniel to have lost weight would mean he’d gone weeks without eating. Maybe even months.
The pallor of his skin was yellowed and waxy, like a tallow candle left in the sun too long. His loose flesh hung off his cheeks and chin, creating jowls that shook with what appeared to be fear. His hands were twitchy, and his red-rimmed eyes refused to stay still.
All in all, it appeared that Nathaniel was having a very bad day.
“I’m afraid I can’t give it to you at the moment,” he muttered, his hands knotting together, then twisting apart, the ink stains on his fingers contrasting against his pale skin in the candlelight. “I’ve got the service, you know. Must start on time. It’s an honor to still be able to hold the service here in my church. An honor indeed.”
His voice trailed off, his gaze darting to the locked drawer before he snapped it back to me. Whatever he was hiding in there, he definitely didn’t want me to see it.
Of course, that only made me even more interested in what that journal could possibly contain.
“Please, go to the house. Eat. Rest. I’ll join you as soon as service ends, and then I’ll give you what you’re looking for.”
“Nathaniel,” I said, stepping closer to him. “Is there something I can do to help you? Something you need from me?” He was already shaking his head, his fleshy neck wobbling rapidly.
“Nothing, Archer. Nothing. You’ve always been good to me. Good tous. My Persephone, she cares for you so. I’ve been loyal in my service to theUmbra Fratrumfor my belief in their cause, but for her, as well. Always for her.”
I frowned again, my confusion deepening.
Reverend Nathaniel Emerson had been made a Guardian at the end of the eighteenth century. Part of the bargain he struck with the Dark Lord was for his immortality to also include his niece, Persephone, who he had taken in after she’d lost all her family in the war. It was a time when a young woman on her own in the world was very vulnerable—not that much had changed in that regard, regardless of the centuries that had passed—and while he was ready to swear his oath to the Brotherhood, he’d been loath to leave her behind, unprotected.
He’d cared for her, and while she’d been much more adaptable to the modern world than he had, she’d stayed by his side, her gratitude for his consideration shown byhow well she cared for her uncle and his responsibility as a Guardian.
“Nathaniel, what is—”
I was interrupted by the ringing of the church bells, the harmonic notes resounding through the street and alerting everyone for miles that it was time for service.
“I must go,” he insisted, snagging his robes off a hook by the door and blustering past me as he put them on. “I mustn’t be late. I do love being able to conduct my service. I’ll miss it when my time is up.”
“Nathaniel!”
