Lightning cracked the sky with a harsh, purple-white illumination. In its wake, a crisp tang of ozone and something deeper. Out of habit born of long training, Portia Gyony tasted the air, drawing in a deep lungful of breath through her mouth and nose at once. There it was, the sulphurous dark stench of brimstone.

"Careful now, he sees you." Imogen's voice was soft in her ear. Portia could only feel the spirit hovering just behind her right shoulder. She nodded and hoisted the crossbow with quivering arms. She fiddled with the brass tension dial, twisting it until it clicked and then some. "Relax and let your gifts work for you, don't force them."

"I don't think I can do this," Portia whispered. She had been so confident once, so vibrant and fearless.

"Of course you can," Imogen laughed, just as she had when she'd been alive, just as she had when she'd been Portia's partner in the flesh. "Now quickly, notch your bolt, he is getting ready to spring."

Imogen's hand was suddenly solid and firm on her shoulder, and Portia shot. She reloaded and shot again, striking her small but vicious target with a heavy, wet throk followed by a scream that would have turned her hair stark silver-white if that hadn't already happened to her years ago. Portia drew in a shuddering breath, realizing only then that she'd been holding it. She strode forward through the thick ground fog. There, about twenty feet ahead, was the writhing body of the fiend. Fiends were hideous little imps with ravaged red flesh twisted and thickened like it had been horribly burnt. She loaded another bolt and fired it directly into the thing's conical head. It erupted in acrid blue-green flames, and Portia refused to step back from it, even though the stench was abysmal. When the flames had died to hot, oily ashes, she scraped the fetid matter into a lead cylinder.

"Well done, my dear." Imogen's voice died into the breath of wind, and after one last petulant crack of thunder, the storm also cleared and Portia found herself entirely alone.

The chapter house was mostly dark when Portia arrived. She checked her pocket watch and found that it was well past midnight. The flickering gaslights in the library were, of course, lit. Since coming to this rambling mansion as a child, she had never seen that room dim. She brought her motorized cycle sputtering to a halt in the front roundabout. It had been a lonely ride home without Imogen's comforting presence, but the ghost had pushed herself hard out there. Becoming solid took a great deal of exertion, not to mention the scouting Imogen had been doing beyond sight. Portia was eager to get inside where Imogen could speak to her with greater ease. She swung her battered leather Gladstone bag over her shoulder and shifted her corset into a more comfortable position. It was a new, modern accoutrement with the latest in spring steel and real elastic, but the damn thing still rode up on her. She kicked the dust from her boots before slipping into the elegant but forbidding chapter house.

"You are not coming in without giving report, are you?" Lady Hester's voice stopped her cold in her tracks. The headmistress had not even bothered to look up from her desk at the far side of the library. Lady Hester belonged to the Edulica sect of educators and governesses, charged by the Primacy of the Grigori with finding promising children and teaching them their true Nephilim heritage and purpose. She was a strong, graceful woman with thick golden hair only just starting to grey at the edges. She looked hale for being one hundred and eight years old. She had raised Portia and her fellows and had then gone into semi-retirement, overseeing her chapter house, keeping tabs on prospects, and reporting to the Primacy.

Portia paused in the doorway. At twenty-four, she was only a few months shy of her age of majority, but Lady Hester could make her feel like a child caught stealing from the cookie jar. "Might it wait until morning?"

Hester turned and pushed her tiny gold-rimmed glasses up onto her regal forehead. "No," was all she said. It was all she needed to say.

Portia nodded, defeated, and shuffled into the library. She felt the weight of the night's long ordeal on her shoulders, and in the warm glow of the library's gaslights, she could see that she had singed the hem of her duster. She sighed and dug the leather-wrapped lead cylinder out of her satchel. She all but dropped it on the desk.

Hester dropped her glasses back onto her nose and gazed at the cylinder. "What was it?"

"Fiend."

"Did it incinerate on its own or did you need to burn it?"

"Went right up when I put a Blessedwood stake in its head."

She nodded at the dirty case sitting on her spotless desk. "All of it is in here?"

"Enough of it, yeah." Portia crossed her arms and stifled a yawn.

Hester folded her hands, hiding the tremor of temper in her fingers. "Portia, please."

Portia looked away, staring instead at the dark line of burnt cotton at the edge of the tan canvas of her coat. She hated few things in life more than apologizing. She drew a deep breath and put on her best and most sincerely contrite expression. "I am sorry, ma'am. I'm just tired. May I be excused to a bath and to bed, please?"

Hester nodded but cleared her throat sharply. "One last thing."

"Yes?"

"Was Imogen with you?" The question hung between them.

Hester's gaze was penetrating, and Portia often wondered why the headmistress asked after Imogen night after night. Did Lady Hester harbor any enmity toward her for Imogen's death? Hester's face was inscrutable.

Portia lifted her chin and returned the Lady's cool comportment. "Imogen is always with me."

Hester tilted her head and regarded Portia a long moment before scratching out a note with her fountain pen. "You may go," she said absently.

Portia's room was at the farthest corner away from the library, with a south-facing window looking out over the Blessedwood orchard. Once the door was shut, she sensed a familiar flurry of perfumed air around her. The bedroom had become Imogen's haven. Portia kept a small trunk of Imogen's most cherished possessions, and being near such comfortable and safe surroundings seemed to give the spirit strength. Within heartbeats, beside the bed appeared a beautiful young woman with rich red hair and deep olivine eyes flecked with gold. She looked solid, human, and alive. It was an illusion. Imogen Gyony had been dead for two years.

"You did well tonight," Imogen said, all charm and grace. She hopped up and nearly danced across the room toward Portia. She stole a kiss and pulled the faded indigo kerchief off of Portia's head. Silver tresses tumbled down over Portia's shoulders, and with glad effort, Imogen ran her fingers through their ethereal curls. Portia never let anyone else touch her hair. She hated it. She'd shaved it more than once and dyed it a hundred times, but no matter what she used, no color ever stuck to it. The other children of the chapter house had mocked her for it; even Lady Hester had been less than kind.

Her hair had been light as a child, she remembered, but had darkened as she'd grown, becoming a deep auburn. But as she grew into adolescence, it had begun to pale again, turning nearly tow-blonde as it had been when she'd been but a lass. At seventeen she had been considered old enough to endure her trials and was sent out to hunt her first demon alone on her birthday, as soon as it was dark. To track and destroy a demon in combat would prove her worthiness to join the Gyony, the warrior sect. The demon had been a fiend. She had defeated it, but the soul-piercing death cry had brought her to her knees. And when she had risen to collect its damnable ashes, she'd found that her hair had turned silvery white. It shamed her, and she kept it as secret as she could.

Imogen twirled a lock of Portia's hair around her ethereal fingers. "Now that it's done, you can never be hurt that way again, you realize. You are invulnerable to fiends and shock-sprites and any number of ghastly ghouls." Her vaporous lips were playful against Portia's cheek.

Portia shook herself free of the spirit's touch. She was in no mood to be cheered or seduced. "I am not happy with my performance tonight. I made some stupid mistakes. I froze up."

"You worry too much. You always worry too much! But I suppose if you didn't, then you wouldn't be my beloved--" Imogen froze, fear widening her eyes. "He's coming!" Her voice was all but swallowed in the rush of light and breath as she vanished.

The door swung open and Nigel Aldias strolled in as if it were his own room. "Good evening, sweet foster-sister. Back late, I see."

Portia's back stiffened and she met his eyes with unblinking assurance. "Since when do you just waltz into my quarters?"

Nigel's dark grey gaze flitted across the room, pausing specifically on Portia's hair. His mouth bent into a derisive half-smile. She fumed. He had not and would not ever let her live that mistake down, nor any other. Especially not the one that had cost Imogen her life. His nostrils flared and his grey eyes narrowed. "You've had company. I smell a lady's sweet perfume." After a deep and showy inhale, he chuckled. "Ah, yes, the scent of lilies, so precious to the dead."

"Why are you here?"

Nigel sat down on the corner of her bed and crossed his long, elegant legs. He'd been found on the front steps of the chapter house in a hatbox, but he had grown from an abandoned infant into a powerful necromancer and was already a ranking member in the House of Aldias. Nigel was a prodigy; he was still three years away from his majority and two years Portia's junior. But the Aldias, the sect of magic-users who fought with unseen powers rather than with their own hands, did not seem to care. They had a habit of assuming that the rules did not apply to them. The Gyony thought poorly of the Aldias. The feeling was mutual.

Nigel's smile was a contemptible mockery of affection. "Do I need a reason to come and visit you, foster-sister?"

He was oily. And Portia owed him a favor, a big one. It was Nigel who had ensnared Imogen's soul, tying it to the mortal realm using the strength of her celestial heritage. Imogen was able to remain by Portia's side among the living, but she was terrified of Nigel and his tricks. She refused to be anywhere near him, mostly in case he changed his mind. Portia could not blame her in the slightest and also avoided Nigel's company as best she could.

"I had a rough night, Nigel. Can we revisit this social call over breakfast tomorrow, perhaps?"

He picked at something invisible on his immaculately manicured fingernails. "Oh, I suppose." He sighed and searched Portia's face, looking so burdened and so penitent. Portia was immediately on guard. "Dear foster-sister, I have been thinking.... What do you think would happen to this chapter house if something were to become of Hester?"

"Lady Hester," Portia corrected testily.

He spread his hands in a gesture that might have been mistaken for an apology by someone who had never before met him. "You have not answered my question, Portia, my sweet."

"I honestly say I have never thought about it."

"Haven't you? Really? An ambitious lass like yourself, I am surprised!"

"Spill it, Nigel, or so help me, I will scream for Emile and have you removed."

He looked affronted. "That would be awfully rude. And after I have been so good to you. And to your beloved Imogen." When he saw that Portia was listening, he continued. "My point is this: Lady Hester Edulica is retired from her recruiting and educational responsibilities. I have seen the Primacy missives that all but dismiss her from duty. The few of us who remain in this house will be twenty-five soon and entitled to leave our fosterage. And then, what shall become of the place?" He glanced about, the feigned pity was all but carved into his face. "The library, the resources, the orchard. It should be maintained by the Primacy. Or by a worthy replacement."

Portia shook her head, chasing the weariness from her mind. She yawned widely. "So, that's all? You came up here in the middle of the night to say that you want me to support you to take over the chapter house when Lady Hester retires?"

He tilted his head, as if carefully considering her words. Surprisingly, he smiled. "Yes." He nodded and rose to his feet, sweeping a lock of dark hair behind his ear. "Yes, that is what I am asking you. Can I count on your support? We have always been so close, you and I. And you know there is nothing that I would ever refuse you." He touched a lock of Portia's hair.

Portia winced at the intimate gesture and brushed his fingers away. "Sure, Nigel. When, and if the time comes, I will do what I can. I doubt it shall mean much. Neither of us are Edulica. You'll have a tough time convincing the Primacy that an Aldias should have the care of children."

He shrugged. "Those are details to be dealt with later. But for now, we are agreed, then?" He offered his hand.

"We are agreed that I will help you in whatever limited capacity that I am able should the situation ever present itself." She placed her hand in his, and his fingers clasped hers like a vice. She shivered as he held her, pinned both by his powerful grip and his penetrating stare. Something shimmered darkly in his eyes.

"Oh, Portia, I knew I could count on you. I knew you would want to help me. You can see more than the others can, you can see the shape of the future." His voice was filled with elation just as his eyes were filled with danger. He drew her close and Portia could feel his well-muscled thigh beneath his tweed trousers. She tensed, preparing to defend herself when he kissed her cheek and released her.

Portia's knees turned to rubber and she sat down hard, sinking into the down coverlet of her bed. Adrenaline seared her veins, and she fought off a wave of dizziness. When she opened her eyes, the door to the corridor was standing open and Nigel was gone. Imogen hovered beside her, flickering and nervous.

"He is up to no good," Imogen whispered fiercely, casting a fretful glance into the hallway. "Are you well, my love?"

Portia could only nod and clasp her hands together to keep them from shaking. "Well enough." She summoned the strength to stand and go shut the door. Leaning heavily against it, she could not begin to comprehend what terrible machinations Nigel might have planned. And she had just promised him her aid in them. "What have I done?"

The Nephilim took the promise of aid quite seriously and had always done so since the dawn of recorded history. They believed themselves to be the bridge between the mortal plane and the celestial, the bond between earth and heaven. Even in the modern age of steam-engines and skepticism, they heralded themselves as angelic champions, the protectors of mankind. They allowed condemnation upon their heads and were called monster, corruptor, wicked. They were a tall and fearsome people with a terrible beauty well documented in the Old Testament. But in order to truly serve their divine purpose, they knew they must do so in secret. The Nephilim allowed the myth of the Great Flood to drown them, to wash them away from history and memory. They retreated into the shadows of the world and were said to reside in a deep and hidden valley until the Day of Judgment when God would call them forth and, presumably, condemn them. But Judgment Day was a long way off, and humanity was still so tender and fallible. With great pathos and pity, they decided amongst themselves to emerge from their hidden places and their shrouded ways and build a society with the sole purpose of being the sword, shield, and blessing of humanity. They became the Grigori, the Watchers. They worked in secret to stand against the great powers of darkness and evil. They divided into sects built from family-clans to better divide the monumental undertaking of protecting all of mankind. The Grigori were not so covert as to go entirely unnoticed, so the ones most clever when it came to misdirection and the arcane made certain to push the tales to the farthest edges of legend. The idea of the Grigori, even the very concept of Nephilim, was relegated to the Apocrypha and the late-night tale-spinnings of old women by the fire. In truth, the actual Grigori spread out across the face of the earth, multiplying and growing stronger under the watchful care of the Primacy. Concealed by the shadows of myth, they fought a pitched battle against the adversaries of men and women so that all of humanity could be at peace.

Or so Portia had been taught as a child. She had come to this particular chapter house at the age of seven, an auspicious number and the standard age to begin training. It was essential to find children of Nephilim heritage before they began to exhibit strange and disturbing powers, and before they ceased to age or began to mature inappropriately. Portia had been brought from her small town, two days' carriage ride away, to the quiet, rustic village of Penemue, at the center of which was the great house. It was a locale almost removed from the world with its clean-swept cobblestone streets and rosy-cheeked residents. They were a tall people, full of grace and awe-inspiring beauty. No one had looked askance at Portia, who had grown before her time and at age seven had more than once fended off a lustful hand reaching for a pinch.

Penemue was a haven for all the children. There were barnyards full of goats and chickens and cats. There were orchards full of apples and pears and plums. There were ponds and streams and meadows. And every single man, woman, and child bore the unmistakable stamp of the Nephilim on every inch of their bodies. Even if a child was not suitable for training as an active member of the Grigori, they were still brought into the village, nestled in a low-lying valley filled with wildflowers and vineyards, to be raised among their own kind. Lady Hester ran the village as surely as she controlled the chapter house, and instilled a love of it so deep in the hearts of the residents that there was no hesitation to defend it, even to the death. The Gyony had at first resisted adopting members from the village, thinking them soft and useless in battle, but they were wrong. The children of Penemue made some of the most excellent warriors. They had a certain passion that only came from fighting for something dearly loved.

It had been a charmed life, a carefree existence. Portia remembered so clearly the day she and Imogen had their first kiss, in the market square behind the apple seller's booth. Their lips had been sticky and sweet with juice. And there was the day down by the stream when they'd splashed and swum and stretched out on the bankside rocks to dry in the hot summer sun. Imogen deserved a better fate. Imogen should have been the one valiantly slaying demons and ghouls, full of life and beauty and power. Portia would have traded places with her in a moment; she would have been content to exist as a spirit, a guardian angel at her lover's side. She would have given anything to repeat that night and never take her eyes off of Imogen, not for an instant.

"Portia?" She jolted at the voice. Emile Edulica leaned over her with a tea tray. "Portia, lass? What will you? Tea, coffee? Sugar, milk? I can't hold this up all day." He was handsome and had to be nearly one hundred years old, but still full of youthful vigor and delightfully angled cheekbones, with toffee-brown hair swept back in a low ponytail. He was Hester's heir-apparent, should she ever decide to officially retire and leave it all to him. But the Primacy had not sent Hester or Emile on any new scouting forays in over a year. It was unsettling to them, Portia knew, but they hid it behind placid smiles and went about their daily tasks as if nothing were amiss.

"Tea, please. Sugar, no milk." Portia still remembered when she'd first seen him, stepping out of the carriage in front of her parents' house and opening the door for Hester. After the long ride from her parents' lonely house, Emile had carried her in his arms into the Penemue chapter house, up the stairs into her new room and her new life. She had mistaken him for a servant, then. Even now, it was easy to forget that this man with his calming, quiet manners and tendency to dote was really her superior while she lived at Penemue. He set her cup before her and seated himself in the chair opposite.

"Daydreaming again, I see."

She shrugged. "Just strolling down memory lane. How are you today?"

He glanced aside before answering. "I am well."

"You are lying."

Emile's eyes were usually the color of a perfectly blue spring sky, but they turned a peculiar color when he was troubled or angry. They were a pale periwinkle now, nearly violet. He looked openly around the sitting room. One of the maids was sweeping up and a squat clockwork assistant was clattering behind her, dutifully holding up a dustbin. Emile clapped his hands and made a gentle shooing gesture, and the maid bobbed him a curtsey and left the room with the little wheeled clockwork on her heels, its dustbin tucked away to be emptied somewhere else. The maid even paused to close the pocket doors behind her, leaving Portia alone in the sitting room with Emile. For a few long moments, there was no sound but the crackling of the fire laid in the fireplace to ward off the chill still hanging in the early spring air.

"The Lady is ill," he said softly, as if the very admission of it might do Hester further injury.

"Ill? How?"

He shook his head, and Portia thought she saw tears gathering in his eyes. "I am not sure. I went to look in on her this morning and I could not wake her. She's pale and her breath is ragged. Sometimes she sweats and sometimes she shivers." He scratched nervously at the back of his neck. "She has been like this all day."

"She seemed fine last night. A little tired, maybe, but certainly nothing more serious than that!"

"When did you see her?"

"It was late. Nearly one, I think. I brought my report to her in the library when I got back from my assignment."

He nodded. "Was anyone else awake when you got in?"

Portia began to shake her head, then remembered her cryptic meeting with the necromancer. "Nigel was awake," she told him. She despaired of saying anything further, knowing that somehow he would find out.

Emile did not press, as if he, too, realized the potential danger. "I should look in on Lady Hester. I have sent word about her illness, but I have received no answer from the Primacy. Lady Claire Aldias is on her way up from the village with Miniver Sweetwater, the midwife. I don't know what else I should do."

Portia nodded, feigning a calm she did not feel. "Do you think that is necessary? I am certain Lady Hester will be fine." Her heart raced. Somehow, this was all playing right into Nigel's plans. Lady Claire was a renowned healer, but she was an Aldias and Portia feared Nigel's influence.

"She needs to be seen by a healer," Emile said firmly, his words cracking just slightly. In his strained voice, Portia heard the terrifying truth of the severity of Lady Hester's condition.

Her mouth went dry. "Emile, if things get any worse, please alert me. If you wouldn't mind?" She added the last hastily, hoping he would not suspect that she knew more than she was telling. But Emile was distraught, he noticed nothing but his own fear.

He stood, bumping the table and rattling the tea set. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dinah, the head maid, came bustling in. Although she was in a terrible rush, she still paused to curtsey deeply and beg forgiveness for the interruption.

"Mistress Portia, you are needed. It is urgent." She held out the hastily transcribed message. It had been a telegraph wire transmission, Portia could tell by the syntax. Those were hit and miss in terms of the kind of enemy and the location. It was terrible timing. And Portia did not think it was entirely coincidental. There was nothing to be done but investigate.

"Emile, would you please excuse me?"

He glanced up, having sat himself down again and begun staring at the tea set as if he had never seen it before. She hated to leave him alone, but Lady Claire and the midwife would be there shortly. He stood again and gave her an awkward embrace. "Of course. Take care, lass. And hurry home."

Portia's things were always at the ready. Her satchel held her favorite crossbow and a quiver of smooth, ivory-colored Blessedwood bolts. A jar of holy water and a pouch of herbs and incense were nestled in a side pocket along with a handful of silver medallions strung on leather cords. A half-dozen lead canisters clinked together, rolling over a well-worn map of the area and a bronze compass with a badly scratched cover. She threw her battered duster on over her sensible shirtwaist and divided skirt and twirled her silver braid hastily on top of her head before tying a faded paisley kerchief over it. She stuffed her new wireless transmitter into her pocket; although it was a piece of top-of-the-line technology, it was still less than trustworthy. Its range was limited, but she could usually raise another member of the Grigori or even a police bobby if the situation was dire.

She was back downstairs in moments, but Emile was already gone. The library door was ajar, and for the first time since she had come to Penemue more than seventeen years ago, the library was dark.

Portia moved quickly across the lawn and was nearly running by the time she reached the far end of the roundabout. Her motorized cycle was waiting for her in the garage, and so was Imogen. She watched quietly as Portia donned her helmet and gunned the motor.

"It is worse than you think," Imogen said.

"I think it's pretty terrible, actually." Portia leaped onto the cycle. "Can you tell me on the way?"

The spirit nodded and slipped behind her. Her misty arms wrapped around Portia's body and memories came. Portia longed for nothing more than to lose herself in them and forget the troubles that haunted her. But duty called and she forced the dazzle of nostalgic tears from her eyes so she could focus on the road.

"You must be careful of Nigel. The House of Aldias has fed his ambition too much."

"Tell me something I didn't know. Is he responsible for Lady Hester?"

Imogen paused, considering. "If he is, I cannot say how. But I would not doubt it. That is no ordinary illness she has, I can tell that much." Her voice was beyond Portia's ears now, it was inside her mind. "But we must take care tonight. We are running directly toward danger."

"Should I not have left the chapter house?"

"It wouldn't have mattered." The resignation in her words made her sound old and tired. "What is coming for you will find you no matter what."