Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1) (17 page)

All of the blood started to run from his extremities, flooding in toward his heart.
Oh, hell.

"What the devil was that?" Eleanor Ross looked up from the map she'd been dangling his pocket watch over, noting his sudden absorption. She knew him far too well, well enough to sift through the silent message he was sending her with his face and body. "What happened?"

"Someone is using Expression."

"Where? Can you stop it? Can you trace it back to them?"

Drake tasted the metallic bite of sorcery on his tongue as he closed his eyes. South. Not too far away, perhaps within three miles. He had to upgrade his original assessment of power. Anything that felt so strong this far away had to be enormous. No one person should ever be able to channel that much energy.

The loss of the relic had cost him sleep ever since he discovered it, but this... this terrified him. Finding that sorcerer had to be his priority. Ianthe and Rathbourne could chase the relic, which he couldn't afford to forget, but if he didn't find who was bleeding that much power over the West End then there might not be a West End for much longer.

There might not even be a London.

CHAPTER 9

^'
N 
ot everyone sides with the Order of the Dawn Star. It might be the most legitimate group of practitioners in the Empire, but there are those who chafe against its rules, or who were cast out in exile... And then, of course, there are those occult beings who were never truly quite human in the first place...'

-
T
HOUGHTS ON
O
CCULT
L
ONDON
, by Sir Geoffrey Mellors

THE
PORTOBELLO
ROAD markets were in full swing as Rathbourne escorted Ianthe along the busy thoroughfare. Barrow boys bellowed at the top of their lungs, and laughter and music filled the air.

With a sigh of relief, Ianthe saw what they were searching for and followed as Rathbourne pushed his way into the Black Horse Pub. They stood for a moment in the smoky confines, Rathbourne's nearness a welcome respite. One of his hands rested lightly on the small of her back, almost protectively, even as his gaze searched the room. Only three of the chairs were occupied, men nursing ale and staring contemplatively at their tables. The Black Horse wasn't a place that anyone came to in order to socialize. It was a haven of neutrality in their occult world, and the pall over the room stank heavily of black sorcery. A touch malevolent, like sour, old beer mixed with the air of a freshly opened grave.

Hardly a place that Ianthe enjoyed.

The bartender had been swiping down the filthy counter, but he paused as he saw them, his mouth thinning to a hyphen. Without a word, he spat on the floor, then tipped his chin up toward her challengingly.

He was a small man, standing on a stool behind the counter and peering over his half-spectacles at them. Some said there was imp blood in him. It was certainly true that he didn't quite feel human. Something about the Shadow Dimensions clung to him, or perhaps that was because he had a long-held fascination with planes of existence that nobody should dabble with. Cochrane's sorcery was as black as night.

"Mr. Cochrane," Rathbourne said smoothly. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Indeed," Magnus Cochrane replied, setting down the rag and leaning on the counter with his knuckles. "Thought you was in Bedlam."

"I was. Decided to take a turn about outside."

"Didn't think the Prime were that forgiving." Cochrane spat on the floor again, and the movement dislodged his sleeve, revealing the heavy brass manacle around his wrist with its burning, coppery charms. The manacle kept him chained within the tavern's physical limits, where he could do no more damage. Cochrane was very good at not-quite breaking the Order's Laws, but he'd come close one too many times. Certainly more than was in the public's interest. He turned his leering gaze toward Ianthe. "Ah. Here's the Prime's pet puss. Startin' to make sense now. What you hunting?"

"Mr. Cochrane," she said, trying to ignore his stare and the way it settled on her bodice. It wasn't as if there was an inch of skin to see, but she suddenly felt naked. "I—"

Rathbourne reached past her and grabbed a fistful of the little man's necktie, yanking him facedown onto the bar and pressing his nose into a faint circle of beer that someone's tankard had left behind. "I would choose your words more carefully, Cochrane. The next time you make some vulgar remark toward Miss Martin, I will see to it that you spend the rest of your days sipping your dinner off a spoon."

With a pleasant smile, he let go of the man's necktie, and Cochrane swayed back, almost falling off his stool.

Silence fell throughout the tavern. One man's chair scraped back, as if the crowd were poised to flee.

Ianthe closed her mouth slowly.

That moment in the carriage returned full force, when Rathbourne had gently patted her hair into place, then matter-of-factly smoothed the wrinkles from her gown. She hadn't known what to make of it then, and she didn't know now.

He's protecting me, that's all.
But it didn't feel like this newfound interest in her reputation stemmed from his oath to her. No, she'd seen it in his face when she'd taken the words that some of the Order's sorcerers called her—behind her back, of course—and used them on herself.

It had felt like... an olive branch. And she could not quite pretend to herself that a part of her didn't ache for more of that. The way Lucien looked at her, at times... She had spent so many years alone, trying to pretend that her study of sorcery fulfilled her life, but in the deepest quiet of night, when she was alone in her bed, she sometimes wished for someone of her own. A husband to wake up to. A family. The daughter that she had watched grow up from a distance, snuggled into her lap, where she could breathe in the sweet rose scent that always lingered about Louisa's hair...

But none of that was to be.

It was dangerous, this bond between them. It made her want things she shouldn't. She'd only be left alone and heartbroken at the end of this quest. Her focus must be on her daughter, nothing else.

Magnus Cochrane gave her another appraising look, but this one didn't feel quite so slimy. "I see," he said, and from the flinty look in his eyes, he did, but didn't dare comment more on the subject.

Several of their spectators let out loose breaths, and Ianthe's shoulders relaxed. If Cochrane had thrown down upon Rathbourne, she'd have been obliged to protect him. For, despite that surge of power he'd lashed out with yesterday, she wasn't entirely certain he was up to it himself.

"So what do you want?" Cochrane demanded.

"We want passage to Balthazar's Labyrinth," she said. "We're looking for Mr. Elijah Horroway. I have some questions for him."

"Ain't here," Cochrane replied with a blank face.

"The spirit of Mr. Horroway then," she shot back. "And I know that's in the Labyrinth, no doubt trying to find some way to fully resurrect itself. Come along, Cochrane. If you dilly-dally too long, my companion here might grow impatient. Believe me, you wouldn't want that. He's barely civilized as it is."

Cochrane grunted, then hopped down off his stool and disappeared behind the counter. Rathbourne exchanged a slightly amused look with her at the threat she'd used. Ianthe shrugged.

All they could see was the top of Cochrane's bald head. Then he waddled out toward a wall of curtains and reached up to tug on a bell pull there. The red velvet curtains slid back, exposing an enormous iron wheel embedded into the wall, like the door to a bank vault, which it had once been, of course.

A panel slid open in the door, revealing an inch or two of a cold stone face. It could have been a mask or rock carving. "Yes?" Came a harsh whisper, like the breath of air slipping from a newly opened tomb.

"Themselves want entrance to the Inn." Cochrane jerked his thumb back toward them.

"They paid the price?"

"Not yet." Cochrane gestured toward the small stone altar on the side of the door.

Unease ran through Ianthe. She'd heard tales from the Colonies about curses that could be applied using a person's hair, fingernails, or skin. Still, blood was blood, and the sorcerers to be found within the Labyrinth were those belonging to the Darker disciplines.

Taking out the little athame most sorcerers carried with them, she cut the fleshy, scarred pad of her thumb, then allowed a drop to fall into the silver bowl on the altar. "Let no harm be done by my will within. I grant the sorcerers of the Labyrinth safe passage and ask for it myself."

Almost an inch of blood lingered in the bottom, and as her droplet hit the crimson liquid, small circles spread outward, a shiver of sorcery trickling cold fingers up her spine. The oath was set and would backfire upon her should she break it. Wordlessly, she handed the blade to Rathbourne, who echoed her gesture.

"Done," she told Cochrane, tucking her athame back within her reticule. "Now let us pass."

"With pleasure." His evil little leer had returned. Reaching up, he hauled hard on the iron wheel, straining to put his weight into it. The wheel turned slowly at first, then moved with well-oiled glee until the circular door popped open.

Instant noise assaulted them; foul-mouthed curses spat into the street beyond as a tall woman in a cloak argued with a hunched old man over his barrow of goods. It was like stepping into another world, one hidden from the eyes of the normal people of London. A dark echo of the Portobello Markets, well-lit by tallow candles that wept fat globules of melted wax, instead of gaslights. Dozens of occult shops, herb gardens, apothecary's, laboratories, and even a museum lurked within. Some said there were even duels to the death held for entertainment value in the courtyard of the tavern down the end of Main Alley.

"Welcome to Balthazar's Labyrinth." Cochrane gestured them inside.

The gatekeeper on the other side of the door stepped aside with slow, heavy steps, and Ianthe hopped over the rim of the door, trying to look unconcerned. This wasn't her first time in the Labyrinth, but as always, she felt a shiver of nervousness. She wasn't protected here. The Prime had no control over what went on within this slick warren of alleys that was hidden from Null eyesight. Oh, some of its denizens were still wary enough of Drake's power to be careful with her, but others here had bones of contention to pick with the Prime. Destroying his envoy would make some of them into great names amongst those who dabbled on the edges of the Order.

The creature guarding the door slowly shut it behind them and swung the wheel with ease to latch it shut. Part-construct, it resembled an enormous stone golem. A charm had been painted on its forehead in blood, and its blank eyes were pits of gray.

Locked in. If only she didn't feel so nervous. No sense in portraying it, however, as the people leering at them would sense it and be upon them like vultures.

"Come along then," she said to Rathbourne. "Let's go corner that rat, Horroway, and see what he knows."

"
P
ERHAPS
I
'D BEST TAKE
the lead," Lucien murmured, eyeing the riffraff in the alley.

A hand to his sleeve stopped him. "And do what, precisely?" Miss Martin asked, her eyes serious as she looked up at him. "I'm well tutored in wards, courtesy of Drake. There's not much here that I cannot handle. Guard my back."

Then, with a purposeful swish of her bustle, she swept in front of him, striding over the cobbles as if she owned the place.

Bloody woman.
Lucien growled under his breath and strode after her. If there was one place in all of London that made him hesitant to step into, this was it. The Labyrinth was a rambling set of streets that had been here for several hundred years. It looked like something straight out of Shakespeare's times. The eaves and rooves were crooked, some almost leaning against the opposite roof. Little shop faces opened into the alley, selling an assortment of goods: bat's feet and potions, all manner of oddments, rare astrology books, grimoires, dark pendants, and jewelry to deflect curses... Each shop had its own dark wares, and curious, invisible eyes watched them as they passed by the diamond-paned windows.

Dirty glass above kept the weather off the street and curious eyes out. If parliament ever realized it was here, it would send half the cabinet into conniptions. The Order had sworn itself to the monarchy years ago, and enough of them had done their part in certain wars or Colonial expansion, helping to leash other countries to Britannia's will, for the Queen and her cabinet to consider them allies, at least. Those war heroes and adventurers were considered servants of the empire, but as far as most of the Null world knew, they were but a source of parlor tricks and games and pretty sparkling lights. Not quite respectable, but certainly entertaining, and oh-so dashing in their uniforms.

If the cabinet knew the full extent of sorcery, of blood and death and poisonings, Miss Martin's father would finally be able to push through a law against them. This was London's dark secret, or one of them, a place belonging entirely to those of an occult nature. A place ungoverned by the Prime's long hand, with rules of its own and those of a mind to enforce them.

"This way," Miss Martin called over her shoulder and led him down an offshoot of an alley, which appeared even smaller and darker.

Steam billowed out of a grate in the cobbles, dashed aside by Miss Martin's skirts. Several barrow boys watched them pass, looking almost human until one of them blinked and a translucent eyelid slid shut over its eyes then vanished. Lucien let his hand fall to the pistol at his waist and stared them down as they passed by. Hell spawn, or their offspring. Miss Martin had charmed the bullets for him that morning, carving neat little runes of
strength
,
death,
and
invulnerability to magic
into them. He wasn't going to be as helpless as he had been yesterday.

"Horroway's most commonly found at Grimdark & Hastings. It's a bookshop owned by his friend Marius Hastings. Don't trust either of them, and don't turn your back."