The Importance of Being Emily Read Online Free PDF Page B

I took it as the mark of a lie, but that did not make sense.
    “You were supposed to answer falsely,” Lord Willowbrook chided him.
    The chronicler sighed, and his aura flashed red with annoyance. “I did. It is not my true name.”
    “What is your true name?”
    Again his aura flashed with irritation, but he dutifully answered the question. “Lord Simon Augustus Wroth.”
    His aura blazed in recognition of his true name, and I nodded.
    “Were you acquainted with Miss Amelia Morgan?”
    “No.”
    Mr. Gryphon shook his head. “Unacceptable. He could have killed her without having been properly introduced.”
    “Did you kill her?” Lord Willowbrook asked.
    “No,” Mr. St. Jerome replied. His aura stayed steady and even, and I knew he spoke the truth.
    “That won’t suffice either. He could be convinced that she died of complications from the blood loss and consider himself blameless,” Mr. Gryphon said. “I will ask the questions. Have you fed this evening?”
    “Yes. From my apprentice,” he clarified. His aura did not change, but my heart skipped a beat at the admission. Of course I understood that such a thing was necessary, but my reaction was understandable after having seen Miss Morgan’s erotic bite. Surely not all bites were so…salacious.
    “Have you ever bled anyone to death?” Mr. Gryphon asked.
    Mr. St. Jerome hesitated, filled with an emotion I couldn’t identify. “Once.”
    “You see, I told you he was a murderer,” Mr. Gryphon exclaimed, but his triumph was short-lived.
    “Being drained to the point of death is part of the ritual to become a chronicler,” Mr. St. Jerome explained. “There is a chance that the apprentice can die as a result. I believe it is also required to become a master necromancer, though I am not familiar with their ritual.”
    “Does that happen often?” I asked, my voice strained. Fear iced my veins as the horrible realization that perhaps I hadn’t seen Michael’s transformation in my earlier storm of visions—perhaps I had seen his true death. I suddenly regretted my earlier decision not to lie about Mr. St. Jerome’s involvement.
    I shivered when Simon St. Jerome turned his attention to me. “Not often, but it is a risk. Do you have further questions, or have I satisfied you, Lord Willowbrook?”
    “It has to be him,” Mr. Gryphon argued. “Amelia’s blood was drained. No one else could have done it!” His outrage blazed so brightly that the outline of his body was burned into my vision, remaining a ghostly afterimage as I shielded my eyes with my hands. A hand touched my shoulder, and I felt Michael’s concern even as I tried to blink the pain away.
    “Obviously someone else did,” Michael countered. “You should be more concerned with finding that person before someone else is injured or killed. Anyone could be at risk.”
    “The killer is likely a newly turned master necromancer. Someone who has not yet learned to properly control the amount of blood he takes, or someone whose mind was damaged by the transformation,” Mr. St. Jerome said. “Such a person could be very dangerous.”
    Lord Willowbrook shook his head. “There are no necromancers of any variety in attendance, and no one could have passed the wards without an invitation.”
    “There are no necromancers that you know of,” the chronicler pointed out. “I did say newly turned. You may have invited him without knowledge of his change in condition.” The room fell silent, and I opened my eyes again to find Mr. St. Jerome watching me. “Could you recognize the aura of a master necromancer?”
    “I believe so. I have never seen one before, but I assume I could through process of elimination if I examined the other guests.”
    “How do we know it was not you?” Mr. Gryphon peered at Michael.
    “Me?” he said.
    “Mr. Black is still an apprentice,” his mentor replied.
    “You could be lying to protect him.”
    “But he has a librarian’s aura,” I said.
    Mr. Gryphon