A Midwinter Fantasy Read Free

body had once made his fingers twitch. Those powers were no more. Nonetheless, holding his palms firmly down, rooting himself to the table and to humanity, was one of his usual exercises. It brought him peace.
    Michael, unlike his five compatriots in The Guard who had until very recently been charged with the Grand Work, had never cursed it. Theirs was a strenuous and at times lonely responsibility—though it didn’t have to be—but it was ultimately rewarding. The Guard had been the law of the land, spectrally speaking. Though they’d left benign spirits well enough alone, each of their coterie had been granted a specific, beautiful power to arraign evil spirits and keep them from harassing the unwitting mortal populace. The Guard had controlled traffic of the unfettered and malignant dead all throughout London for twenty some years. They’d done the world a great supernatural deal of what Michael would consider Christian charity.
    But he had to admit that his role in the Grand Work had held some irony. Literally the Heart of the group, he could open locked doors, touch a breastbone and flood someone’s veins with joy, change the emotional contents of a room, shifting energy and intent like metals processed by alchemy. And yet he’d never gained happiness of his own, or the heart of the woman he’d loved for those twenty some years.
    In the beginning they’d been simple teenaged youths, arraigned by a goddesslike force and called to duty. They’d been universally awkward and unlikely companions from disparate backgrounds and classes; they’d suspected little of their lives ahead. Michael hadn’t known
anything
when he began seeing ghosts, when he began learning how his respectivegift augmented their group. He hadn’t known how long it would take for their prophesied seventh member to join their ranks—or that one of their beloved number would fall in recent battle. What he did know was that, from the very first moment he laid eyes on her, he loved the young and spindly brunette who would be their second in command. He’d loved Rebecca Thompson since Westminster Bridge in the summer of 1867.
    She, in turn, likely from that very same moment, had loved the young man who would become their leader. Alexi. The battle with Darkness and the Whisper-world, in retrospect, seemed the easy part.
    Michael pressed his hands harder against the table, slid them farther from his body, stretching his taut muscles and wrestling with his nerves like Jacob did the angel. He’d not seen Rebecca since they laid Jane in the tomb three days prior; she had gone to her apartments and locked herself in. She blamed herself, he could tell, wished God had taken her instead. Michael thought the sentiment might kill him. Nothing felt familiar. He’d lost his powers, Jane, and now he was losing Rebecca. His heart, so full of joy and love, was suffering a tumbling withdrawal from its preternaturally augmented height. It was a terrifying, dizzying fall.
    “Pull yourself together, man,” he murmured. “It’s nearly Christmas.”
    His front door burst open, making him jump and splash warm wine onto his hand. Pursing his lips, knowing just who it was without even a glance, he finally looked up to behold the stern and striking figure upon his threshold. All in black stood his dear friend and unintentional rival, Alexi Rychman, former leader of the London Guard.
    “Dear God, Professor. I truly thought, now that the weight of the known world is no longer entirely on your shoulders,you might at least allow yourself the more socially preferred custom of knocking upon a friend’s door before entering.”
    “Old habits,” Alexi intoned, his voice rich, low and commanding. It would always be thus, even though he had no group to lead any longer.
    Behind Alexi, a moonbeam of a young woman stood with an apologetic look on her face. Michael grinned and forgot his irritation. “Ah, well, Mrs. Rychman . . . with you at his side, all debts are