Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1) (5 page)

Choke on that
, he thought viciously, gracing the Prime with a smile. "We meet again."

"Rathbourne," the duke intoned.

"It seems you have a problem you wish my help with."

The Prime took that moment to glance at Miss Martin. "You bonded him?"

"It seemed wise," she replied, her expression gentling as she looked up at the man. "He could be dangerous, Your Grace."

The Prime's silvery eyes lanced Lucien to the soul, searching for something, an ancient sadness lingering about his aura. "You have your mother's eyes—"

"Let us dispense with the pleasantries," Lucien cut in angrily. "You and I mean nothing to each other. I'm merely here because you offer something I want. Freedom. So let's not pretend this is anything more than it is."

An awkward silence settled.

Drake de Wynter slowly nodded, looking tired, more than anything. Lucien almost felt sorry for him, but then the Prime turned and limped toward the house. "So be it."

Lucien grit his teeth. He was letting his own emotions get the best of him. What had she said? That the duke suspected someone within his inner circle? That meant he ought to keep his bloody eyes and ears open, rather than focusing on the back of the Prime's head, his fist clenching. Revenge would not be taken out in such a bloody, confrontational way. No, he had better ideas. Lure Miss Martin into his bed. Steal her away from the bastard, perhaps. Return the relic and then watch as the prophecy did the rest.

I will enjoy seeing you brought to your knees...

"We're going directly to Drake's private wing." Miss Martin handed her hat and gloves to one of the footmen, giving him a reproving look. "Time is against us. Do you require anything?"

"I'd like to see the place where the Blade was kept first."

The upstairs wing was silent and still, evidently the Prime's private quarters.

"This is where the relic was kept," the Prime said, his deep voice echoing in the marble-floored hallway.

Half a dozen Chinese urns lined pedestals along the wall, with glass cases interspersed between them. Magic pulsed in the air, thick shivery fingers that brushed against Lucien's skin. He could almost see waves of it, like heat shimmering in the distance on a hot day.

"It's an athame blade, isn't it?" He blinked through the pain of exposure, circling the empty glass case in front of him. A red velvet cushion rested forlornly on its pedestal, the shape of a dagger crushed into the material, but no sign of the actual implement itself. The case looked undisturbed.

"There were three of them: The Blade, the Chalice, and the Wand. Together they form the Relics Infernal. The Blade was forged from the iron of a fallen star and an obsidian hilt; the Chalice is carved from ivory and bone; and the Wand was cut from whale bone."

"Why create them?"

"Curiosity on my behalf," Drake replied. "And power on the others. I was eighteen and rising swiftly through the ranks of the Order. The previous Prime was a bastard of the most unimaginable depravities. My friend Tremayne meant to see himself in this seat." His eyes dwelled on the empty case. "The spell craft was learned from a grimoire that Tremayne had purchased in his travels in the Orient. It made sense to me to wield it, even knowing the dangers, and my ex-wife, Morgana, always craved power. It is said that demons taught us the secrets of sorcery, opening our eyes to the power that we could wield. What else could they teach us? What could a Greater Demon know?" A faint grimace. "At that stage, I had not yet learned the consequences of dabbling in the darker arts. Just because one can do something—"

"Doesn't mean that one should," Miss Martin murmured.

They shared a faint smile. It spoke of a long familiarity.

"Without the other relics...?" Lucien asked.

"By itself it is still powerful, still dangerous," the Prime replied. "One of the secrets none of us understood, or I hope that none of us understood at the time, was that the Relics Infernal need a Grave sacrifice to work, not just blood. Once cut by the Blade, it's very difficult to stop bleeding." He held out his wrist, unbuttoning his cufflinks. A faint silvery scar traced his olive skin. "We all sacrificed blood to the original attempt of the ritual. It was my first inkling that all was not as it seemed. I told the others, then and there, that I had no intentions of continuing."

Death magic
. Despite himself, Lucien was fascinated. "And?"

"They agreed, but I saw the look in Tremayne's eyes. The Blade can be used to steal another's power for a brief time, by draining their blood and using it to fuel spell craft. At that stage, my ex-wife and I decided it was too dangerous to leave the objects in his care."

"You mean, Morgana wanted them in her own hands," Miss Martin said wryly.

"As I said, I had not yet learned certain consequences associated with power." The Prime stepped back. "She was a master of illusions, her particular talents running to deception. She created copies of the relics, and I switched them. Tremayne had no inkling of what I'd done until it was too late, and... by that time, the Prime, Sir Davis, had begun to hear word of our little experiments."

This was the part of the story Lucien knew well. Sir Davis had sent his Sicarii assassins for Tremayne and de Wynter, dragging them before the entire Order at the Equinox where he'd demanded one of them give him challenge, or he would see Morgana executed first. Tremayne had demurred, not yet having the experience to fight a man of the Prime's worth.

And de Wynter would have done anything for his wife at that stage.

"Once I became Prime, Tremayne was furious," the duke explained. "He tried to use the Blade against me, and of course, not even Morgana's illusions could conceal the fact that I wasn't bleeding as I should be. He realized what we'd done and demanded the relics back. In the quarrel, I cast him from the house and warned him never to set foot in my sight again, or I would kill him myself."

The case was perhaps three feet wide and four foot long. Lucien ran his fingers along it, the instant thrum of the case's wards almost blinding him. For a moment, the hallway was full of dancing colors. The duke seemed mainly made of saddened greens, whilst Miss Martin had an almost sickly tinge of yellow mixed with desperate grays.

Lucien touched his nose to see if it was bleeding.

Miss Martin's hand slid through his and relief was instant. Serving as his Anchor, she effortlessly dispersed the overwhelming taint of sorcery between them so that it wasn't concentrated solely on him. It let him breathe again.

"You're a Sensitive?" she murmured.

Such sorcerers could feel the very thread of a spell, working out how to manipulate it, though it often left them overwhelmed. He couldn't tell her the truth though, so he just shrugged.

"Perhaps we should adjourn somewhere quiet, where you may prepare yourself?" the duke interrupted. "What shall you need?"

"A bowl of purified water, an athame, and..." He glanced back at the warded case, wondering why the spell craft surrounding it hadn't changed, as it should have if it had been opened and the wards displaced. "That piece of velvet should suffice."

T
HE
A
RTS
of Divination were a gift through his mother's side of the family. She'd been the Cassandra at the time, the strongest seer in a generation. Though Lucien didn't have her abilities to forecast, he could scry over a particular distance and had a certain amount of control over psychometry, the ability to divine an object's history.

Both the duke and Miss Martin were silent as Lucien prepared himself, sitting on the ground and forcing his breath to ease until he was aware of every single aspect of his body. The Void washed through him, leaving stillness in its wake and his senses focused to pinpoint accuracy.

Lucien reached out and picked up the athame the duke had provided for him, slicing one of his other fingers. Blood dripped into the bowl, and he plunged the piece of velvet into the stained waters, whispering words of power under his breath. Instantly, his mind connected to the piece of fabric, images flashing at him one after the other—the dagger, hands stroking the fabric, magic twisting around it—then back further to the fine nap and weave, as someone worked unfinished threads to create it... Lucien tried to push all of that away, trying to focus on what had happened in the early hours of dawn.

Where are you now?
he scried.

There was nothing, only the vibrating image of the house painted onto the back of his eyelids.

Panting hard, Lucien released the skeins of vision. Divination unraveled, as though it had never occurred. Everything distracted him. The hair on his arms, each individual pore standing to bright revue. The swirl of dust motes through the air, circling around the Prime, as if he'd moved, and the man himself... Harsh grains of freshly shaved stubble, a tiny scar under his lip, and the glints of silver in his irises... Lucien could almost feel the beginning of a scrying lock on the man, images swirling up in his mind.

A woman laughing, the sound echoing in his ears. A child's voice calling out, '
Mama
!' And a somewhat watery version of Rathbourne Manor in Kent, though it seemed as if it had come directly from before the renovations of 1862. Lucien pulled away from it. A grave sprang to mind. The Prime standing guard over it in the snow, staring sadly down at the words on it. A handful of words carved into the granite.
In memory. The son I never knew. 1868.

Wincing, Lucien clapped a hand over his eyes. Miss Martin hurriedly drew the drapes, plunging them into darkness.

"What did you see?" she demanded.

Too much. That had never happened to him before. Usually he could read only objects, not people. Reading people was a very rare talent and unpredictable. The effort made him stagger into a nearby chair, his stomach revolting as it threatened to disgorge Miss Martin's overly sugared tea onto the Prime's Turkish carpets.

"What was it?" Miss Martin knelt by the chair, her fingers clutching his own.

"Give him air, Ianthe." The Prime squeezed out a rag over the bowl of water he'd been using and stepped forward, leaning the cane against his desk. He reached out and undid Lucien's poor attempt at a cravat, draping the wet rag over the back of his neck. "Keep your head down and focus on the ground. Your vision shall return to normal within a few minutes."

How did he know that? Lucien obeyed, too wrung out to argue. "I saw...
Christ
—"

"Me," the Prime said grimly, "or flashes of my past. I caught the edge of it."

That made his head jerk up, a fact he regretted instantly. The Prime shoved it back down, his callused palm firm on the back of Lucien's skull.

"My son was miscarried, so I'm told." The words were quiet with grief. "The grave is his. A final parting gift from my ex-wife when I threatened her with divorce. I saw that much." A hesitation. "Was there anything else?"

"Rathbourne Manor. My mother's laugh." And a little boy crying out her name. "Me and you."

The pressure of the Prime's hand eased just a fraction. "I was never meant to see you, but she allowed it, just the once."

"What of the relic?" Miss Martin insisted. "Did you see it?"

Nothing
. Lucien had hoped that his gift for divination hadn't been affected by whatever the demon or Lord Rathbourne had done to him. He'd been wrong. "No. All I get is an image of the house." A glance toward the Prime. "Perhaps your wards are affecting me."

"They shouldn't," the duke replied, "but it's possible. All I know of divination came from your mother, and it was her area of focus, not mine."

Miss Martin's shoulders slumped. "No sign of it." The words were soft. "I shall send for my trunks then. We'd best get moving. I need to see Remington. We'll work from there." Her pale hand slid over the duke's and squeezed. "We'll find it."

"One can hope." The duke rubbed at his mouth.

"Hopefully before the comet disappears," Lucien said, though it lacked the malice he'd owned before his visit. None of this made sense. The duke had asked to see him as a boy?

"Hopefully before either of the other two relics go missing," the Prime corrected. "If someone is setting out to summon a greater demon..."

No need to say more. That alone inspired Lucien to complete this task. The demon he'd summoned himself, whilst under Lord Rathbourne's control, had been a greater demon. Imagine someone evil controlling a creature like that? London would be destroyed. "Do you know who holds the other two relics?"

The Prime nodded, giving nothing away. "I have warned them."

Miss Martin caught his wrist as he swayed. The scent of her sultry perfume was almost dizzying. "Come. We've no time to waste. You can rest in the carriage." She glanced at the Prime. "I assume we may take it?"

"Whatever you need." The duke slowly stood, gripping the silver-handled cane. His gaze flickered to the small feminine hand that rested on Lucien's sleeve. Their eyes met. "Don't let her get hurt."

"I won't." He had the strength for one last retort. "Miss Martin owes me entirely too much, and I fully intend to collect on the debt."

Her cheeks pinkened beneath the duke's enquiring gaze, and whatever question had been asked was answered.

"Good luck," the duke said, with another unfathomable quirk of the brow, and Lucien wasn't certain whether he meant her, or the pair of them in their search.

I
ANTHE
oversaw the loading of her traveling trunks from her recent trip to Edinburgh. Resting a hand on the largest, she let a flicker of magic, carefully concealed, trail over the timber panels. There was no answering tug. No sign of anything magical. The manufacturer in Scotland had done his job to her precise specifications, lining the hidden compartment with lead, a substance known for its magic-dampening abilities, and sealing it with
look-away
runes.

Slowly, Ianthe released the breath she'd been holding.
I'm so sorry, Drake
...

She slid her gloves back on, locking down all of the emotion that threatened to show on her face. A trick she'd learned at her father's knee. Rathbourne gave her a strange look, but she merely gestured at the coachman. "Take them back to my apartments and see them unloaded in my bedroom once you've delivered us to the theatre."