by Bec McMaster
Nothing moved.
His heart hammered in his chest. Guilt and failure formed a bitter stew in his gut. He'd never been so distracted that he'd lost his mark before.
Damn it. He had to get the Chalice back before someone dangerous got their hands on it.
And now it was personal.
Chapter 1
Three days later...
* * *
SOMETIMES IT PAID not to reveal the full extent of your talents.
Verity staggered along the street, one hand clapped against her ribs and the bloodied gash there, and the other trailing along brick walls she could barely see. Bloody bastards. Bloody swiving rotters! The world swam and suddenly she found herself up against an iron-railing fence with little idea of how she'd gotten there.
"She's been this way!" someone shouted behind her. "I've got her trail again!"
Her blood. They were tracking her blood. Verity swayed. Pain had left her lightheaded, and now only determination fueled her. Mother of night, where was the house? Bishop couldn't be far away. She'd spent weeks tracking this house, watching it, watching him....
Only place those behind her wouldn't dare follow.
If Mercy were here, she'd be the first to tell Verity what a bleeding stupid idea this was. But, ah, Mercy-love, not a lot of choices. We're down to our last hand here, and it's not a great one. Sometimes you've just got to play it.
"There she is!"
Verity's heart hammered behind her ribs. She curled her power up tight and small inside her, and then released it like a punch. She was weightless, senseless, a mere flicker... and then the world kicked in around her, slamming her back into tired, leaden bones as she found herself in a garden.
Roses. She staggered to her knees, feeling the weight of her pain riding her down into the ground. A door formed in her vision, almost taunting her. A black lacquered door, stark in the imposing white walls. How many weeks had she stared at that door, wondering about the silent man who lived inside and moved through a ghost world?
Nearly there....
Footsteps swarmed over the gravel behind her and she sucked in the last shred of her strength, unleashing it in a whirlwind of power around her. Instantly she lurched through time and space, using the door as her focus. Then she was there, and she couldn't remember coming back. The twitching of Bishop's wards settled over her skin like an invisible net that itched, just faintly. Relief swept through her. He'd kept them up then. Now at least he'd know someone was there.
If he was home, that was.
Bishop rarely leaves the house. Why would he be out now?
Searching for you, said her far-too-nimble mind.
"Help." A little stronger this time. "Help!"
Reaching out, Verity hammered her fist on the door, leaving a bloodied smear against the lacquer. Hurry, damn you. A brief glance behind showed it was too late. The men chasing her stepped out of the shadows, wearing faceless masks beneath their top hats. Even behind the mask, she could sense one of them grinning.
There was no way in hell she was going to die like this. Grabbing the door knob, Verity dragged herself upright. "Come on then, you rotters! Come on!"
One of them took a step toward her—
And then the door opened abruptly, and she fell inside.
* * *
The last person Bishop had ever expected to answer his door to fell heavily against his chest.
"What in the bloody hell—?"
"Shut the d-door," the young woman breathed, glancing back over her shoulder.
There was nothing out there but fog, but he could tell from the little pinpricks against his skin as his wards trembled that there had been. Five of them, to be exact. Swirls of fog proclaimed where they'd been standing, and the faint sound of running feet against cobbles echoed like dull hammer blows in the still night.
And then the world sprang into sharp realization. He could smell something rich and coppery. Blood.
"Thank goodness," the woman said. It was his thief's voice and her magic that trembled against his wards. He just hadn't expected that pert, upturned face with the faint cleft in her chin, and her full, slightly trembling mouth. A tumble of dark brown hair was knotted in a loose chignon that had seen better days, and she had the biggest, greenest eyes he'd ever seen.
She was also far younger than he'd expected.
"What the hell are you doing here?" He'd spent three sleepless days and nights hunting for her, and suddenly she was in his arms.
"Thought I'd p-pop in and see if you were any friendlier on reacquaintance." She was bleeding quite badly. Bishop pressed a hand against her side where the worst of the blood seeped through her linen shirt.
"You are aware that you stole a very precious item from me but three days ago?" He eased her onto her back on the floor. "What makes you think for one second that I would help you?"
"Because," she panted, "I can get it back for you. I'm the only one w-who... can find it." She glanced down at her side, her face going white. "Oh, God." Then her eyes rolled back in her head and her weight slumped heavily into his arms.
Bishop froze, cradling her gently. "Bloody hell," he cursed under his breath, then dragged her into his arms and strode toward the stairs. Her head slumped back and a tangle of dark brown hair tumbled over his arm. He was hardly a Healer—his skills ran in another direction entirely—but when one knew how to stop a heart in a man's chest with a thought, or tear holes in the walls of an artery, then you also knew the basics in doing the opposite.
* * *
"—says she can get it back?" The voice was near, a low, firm tone that brooked no nonsense.
"So she claims. I'm inclined to believe her. She made a mockery of me but four nights ago. Moved through this bloody place like the Chalice was a magnet."
Verity stirred. She knew that voice. Had spent hours listening to it during her surveillance.
Adrian Bishop. He had a beautiful voice, low and smooth like gravel and honey. His face matched the voice; all sharp edges, strong jawline, and typically masculine features, matched by the prettiest eyes she'd ever seen on a man. They were so dark they looked almost bottomless. Cold eyes, she'd thought the first time she saw him, but they hadn't been cold the other night when he pinned her against the wall.
A little shiver ran through her, which was rather surprising. The victory of her theft had had her blood up the other night, and she was always riding the edge of her nerves in those moments, but she hadn't realized the attraction to him remained.
Maybe it was his sheer height? Or the memories of the lean, sculpted planes of his body, gilded by moonlight?
Maybe it was simply the fact that when he moved he looked like a predator, fast and strong and utterly in control of himself. A man who knew how to use his body.
Verity blushed. She was no innocent. No girl from Seven Dials ever could be, but sex had been somewhat lacking in her experience. Sweaty, thrusting intervals that earned her little enjoyment.
Bishop did not look like the fumbling sort at all. Sex with him would be dangerously intense, she just knew it.
"Hell and ashes," the other man snarled, and shadows danced between her eyelashes as she turned her head toward the pair of them, catching a glimpse of the stranger leaning heavily on his cane.
Instant trepidation crept through her veins, but she stayed very still. Spending most of her adolescence on the streets, Verity knew danger when she saw it. The older man might wear a crisp suit and waistcoat, and he was still handsome with streaks of silver at his temples, but there was something about the way he held himself, even his manner, that made her think that this man feared no one, and had good reason not to.
"Why would someone want the Chalice?" the older man demanded. "It's useless now, without the other two relics."
"That doesn't make me any less uneasy," Bishop demurred. "Combined, the Relics Infernal could control a greater demon. By themselves, their powers are still dangerous and unpredictable. The Blade might have been destroyed la
st month but what can the Chalice and the Wand do together? From what I remember, by itself the Chalice improves the potency of spells, but who practices alchemy anymore?"
The powerful man paused before the fireplace, his hands resting on his cane as he stared into the flickering flames. Verity finally got a good look at one of the rings on his hand, and her blood ran cold at the sight of the chips of diamond within the thin gold triangle symbol that represented the Order of the Dawn Star. Catching herself before she blurted out her surprise, she tried to ease her breathing. This wasn't simply another sorcerer, but the Prime himself, the man who ruled the Order!
Enemy to all Hex mages like herself, who had either been cast out of the Order or who slipped through its grasp. The Order represented laws and rules that defined what a practitioner was allowed to do with their magic, and punished those who refused to submit. They served the crown and therefore had the backing of the might of the British Empire behind them, whereas she was an unregistered mage whose very presence was a crime.
"The Chalice can do more than simply improve spell potency. It is a vessel that can create an elixir that can bring the very dead to life. It's still dangerous. We need it back." The Prime considered something. "There's not a single sorcerer I'd trust with it."
"You gave it to me," Bishop replied.
"You're my son. You're an exception to the rule."
"I'm your bastard, and you have another," Bishop countered, and there was heat in his voice. "Do you trust him too?"
Verity sucked in a sharp breath. Adrian Bishop was the Prime's son? Of all the revelations.... This information was worth its weight in gold!
"Lucien has made his peace with me," the Prime said, finally.
"And the other?" Bishop hesitated. "No sign of his body yet?"
The Prime shook his head, a swift dismissal that made her curious. "The excavations of the house continue. If he's... buried beneath that rubble, then we will find him."
"Perhaps it was for the best," Bishop murmured. "His power was immense, and dangerously unpredictable."
"That's enough," the Prime snapped. "Losing one of your sons is never 'for the best.' Besides—" His mercurial gaze turned to the bed, spearing hers through the gauzy curtains. "Your charge is awake. I believe you're going to have to add eavesdropping to her list of sins."
Bishop strode toward her. As he snatched at the bed drapery and flung it open, she scrambled back, drawing her knees up to her chest and trying to take stock. One nightgown, a bandage still wrapped around her middle, and a pair of strange beaten bracelets around her wrists.
Not a single weapon, except perhaps the ability to escape.
Those dark, emotionless brown eyes turned molten as he examined her.
"Well, hello again," she said, using bravado to mask that brief hot clench of uncertainty that speared through her.
"You're awake."
Not quite the friendly greeting she'd hoped for.
"What's your name, girl?" The Prime moved into view, pouring himself a goblet of wine.
"What would you like it to be?" Verity murmured, glancing up at the Prime from beneath her lashes. Names were dangerous. And whilst she'd had little choice but to return to the scene of her crime, now she needed to keep her wits. She'd known when Murphy accepted this commission on her behalf that she was playing dangerous games, but the price had been too tempting to turn down and there was no refusing Murphy. He owned her, body and soul.
"The truth," Bishop replied, easing onto the bed and turning a hooded gaze her way.
Why that look left her feeling faintly breathless, she didn't know. Or perhaps she did. It was a cheap thrill, a dangerous undercurrent between them. Her fingers twitched, tempted to reach out and stroke the soft velvet of his coat, or perhaps tuck the long strands of his dark hair behind his ear. It was unfashionably long, and as he cocked his head she wondered if he kept it that way to try and hide the scarring on the left side of his face.
Control yourself.
"Tell me what your name is," he demanded, and something clamped down hard within her. The bracelet around her wrist locked tight, a lash of pure electric sensation short-circuiting her brain.
"Verity Hawkins," she said promptly, then her eyes widened. What on earth...? Clapping a hand over her mouth, she stared at him in shock. The last time she'd told anybody her true name she'd been eight and staring up at the grim master of the workhouse. That was also the last time she'd ever trusted another man.
"Thank you, Miss Hawkins."
"You bastard," she spat, levering to her knees. Lace dripped down her sleeves, getting in her way, but the shackle around her wrist abruptly loosened. Giving it a wiggle, she inspected the thin manacle of pure gold closely. The other one remained dormant. Perhaps it had another use? "What did you do to me? What is this?" Her fingers tore at the manacle, but it was smooth, without a single latch. "Get it off! Get it off me!"
"It's an Occam's Shackle. It means you are entirely dependent upon my goodwill for the moment." He was enjoying this far too much, though only someone who'd studied the hard planes of his face for hours would notice the faint softening of his firm mouth, and the sparkle in his dark eyes. Chips of obsidian, they were, but now they burned like dark fire. "Did you truly think that I'd trust you?"
It took a second longer to regain her temper. Her nostrils flared, and she smiled, a dangerous thing indeed. "Fair enough." Turning around, she eyed the Prime. "Thought mind-magic was against the law."
"It is." He glanced at Bishop.
Bishop shook his head. "The Sicarii can act outside the law in extreme circumstances. Appeal denied. She stole a dangerous relic. I consider the circumstances extreme enough."
Sicarii. That explained a great deal. A shiver of cold worked through her. The Sicarii were the Order's death dealers—shadows in the dark who hunted those who defied the Order, or those who had committed crimes against its laws. You never saw them coming, rumor whispered.
The Prime frowned, as if the argument didn't quite sway him, which interested her. A moral man, perhaps? "Why did you steal the Chalice?"
"Thought it would look pretty on my mantelpiece," she replied. A warming tingle lit through her veins. Say too much, and she would bear the consequences. Murphy had seen to that.
"Verity," Bishop warned. Pressure increased through the manacle at her wrist, a whip of pure lightning streaking through her nerves.
The words burned inside her, her gut clenching and her throat spasming as magic bit deep within her. She shook her head as the burning tingle within her met the lash of power that Bishop wielded. The two opposing forces collided and her body became the battlefield.
It hurt.
Verity screamed as she fought her way through it. Then she was on her back on the bed, panting as the heat left her bones, a concerned face peering down at her. The Prime's hand clasped her forehead and a cool tingle of sorcery worked its way through her, dispelling the heat of the opposing forces.
"It's a compulsion," the Prime said, for Bishop's benefit, she thought. He looked troubled, then turned and stepped away. "She's been blocked from answering certain questions. Something else is there too... a memory block perhaps. Take the manacle off her."
Bishop's gaze cut to the Prime's. “Drake—“
"That wasn't a question." The Prime's voice was pure steel. "I will not see her will compromised. Not even in events such as these."
"This is a mistake," Bishop murmured as he took a menacing step toward her. "She's a criminal."
"We shall see," the Prime replied, watching her carefully.
Verity held up her wrist with a smug smile.
"Not that one," Bishop replied.
"What can you tell us?" the Prime asked as Bishop unlatched the shackle from her wrist with those cool, graceful hands. "The names of the men who hired you to steal the Chalice?"
"Nothing," she replied, trying to play his good nature. "It will only hurt me."
"The only one who can remove that compulsion
is the one who gave it," the Prime muttered thoughtfully. "Though Lady Eberhardt might know some way around it."
"You want me to talk to Agatha?" Bishop tucked the horrid shackle in his pocket.
"Could be worth a visit," the Prime replied, as if she weren't in the room.
"I'm not talking to anybody!" Verity told them. She slid to the edge of the bed and hopped out of it. "I'm done with this. The only reason I came here is because the drop-off point was nearby, and I was wounded and needed to get them as were on my heels, off it. Now, kind gentlemen, I thank you for your efforts in healing me"—she genuinely meant it too, as she locked eyes with Bishop—"but getting caught up in all of this nonsense is a death sentence, by the sound of it."
Time to get out of here, nightgown and all. She blew Bishop one last kiss, gathered her power, and...
...slammed into the door as she re-formed. Tumbling backwards, she landed flat on her backside with an oof.
Bishop held up his wrist, with a matching manacle attached to it. "You can't leave the room, despite your skills."
"You cock-broking bawd-monger! Get it off me. Now!"
Eyebrows rose throughout the room. Verity had her hands up in front of her, somewhat defensively. She lowered them, though she still felt somewhat backed into a corner, like a wild animal. She hadn't wanted this; any of it. Murphy had pushed her into the theft and there'd been little choice but to go along with it. Now that it had blown up in their faces, she wanted out.
"No," Bishop replied, crossing his arms over his broad chest. He didn't smile, but looked faintly pleased with himself.
"I'm sorry," she blurted. "I didn't want anything to do with this. I... I work on commission." Better than mentioning Murphy or the One-Eyed Crows. "This wasn't my choice."
"Choice or not, Miss Hawkins, your actions have caused a considerable amount of danger to the Order, and to the rest of London. Do you understand what this means?" the Prime asked gently. "You stole a dangerous relic that could set entire graveyards walking among the streets should a necromancer with the right skillset get his hands upon it. And that's the least of my concerns with what it might be used for. I would be within my rights to demand your head for this, and the Queen herself would see you hang."