by Bec McMaster
"What's stopping you?" For something was, she realized. "That's what the Order does, doesn't it? Crush the weak? Execute those who don't fit their fancy mold? Not everyone wants to be on a leash and chain, my lord. Just because I have occult ability and don't ascribe to your practices doesn't mean you can grind me beneath your heel."
The Prime considered her. "You have a very curious idea of what it means to belong to the Order. No," the Prime mused. "No. I have a better idea. I need to know who commissioned the theft, and I need to get the Chalice back." His silver gaze pierced her right through. "You tracked the item with your powers—and don't try and pretend otherwise—and you're the only one who knows who you gave that relic to. Earn your reprieve, Miss Hawkins, and I will protect you. From the rest of the Order, from whatever you're scared of, from the men who wanted you dead."
"You want me to fetch the Chalice back?" Disbelief strained her voice. Despite the fuzziness in her head whenever she thought of the man who'd commissioned this theft—and her anger that he'd tampered with her memories in the first place—she still couldn't escape that eerie sense of danger whenever she thought of him.
It was a sensation that had stopped her from making deadly mistakes in the past. Sometimes she even wondered if it was a hint of precognition that she'd never learned to train. "Are you barmy?" Verity breathed out a humorless laugh. "I can point you in the right direction, but if this"—she gestured to her bandages—"is any indication of their intentions toward me, then thank you, but no."
The Prime crossed his arms over his chest in a gesture somewhat reminiscent of his son. "They know where you are, Miss Hawkins, and they know who you came to. What are your alternatives? Escape? To where? They obviously know who you are and what you do—that's how they came to you in the first place. Do you truly believe that they cannot find you again? Do you not have family that might be at home, who these people might go after?"
The words crawled inside her stomach. Murphy's face flashed to mind, pleasantly cheerful as he cuffed the back of her head and leaned close. "Someone wants to meet you, pet, and I wants you to be nice to them. They've got a little job to do, and they're offering enough blunt to help you keep young Mercy with a roof over her head, eh?"
The threat to Mercy had forced her to meet with them.
She'd been thinking about this all wrongly.
If she didn't sort this out, Mercy might be in danger. Heat drained out of her face. Who knew what these people would do to her friends? If they couldn't find her, then maybe they'd go after the One-Eyed Crows to get their hands on her?
"Adrian will protect you," the Prime continued, though Bishop looked about as pleased with this suggestion as she felt. "And if you help get the Chalice back then I shall acquit you of all charges against the Order. Think wisely about your decision, Miss Hawkins, as the Order could be the best ally you have right now, and the only ones who might be able to stop these people before they do worse. We both have similar aims."
She knew he was manipulating her, but it all made too much sense, damn him.
Murphy would have her head if she agreed to this, but what choice did she have? Murphy might protect Mercy, but were the Crows strong enough to deal with these people? She might not be able to remember who'd commissioned the theft, but she remembered everything afterwards, including the fact that the men who'd jumped her were dangerous, and powerful sorcerers.
Verity met the Prime's eye grimly. "I'm not agreeing to anything else until we have a deal signed in blood."
"Signed in blood?" The Prime arched a brow.
He might as well have said, "how primitive." But that was how Verity had grown up, cutting deals in Seven Dials among curse workers and exiled sorcerers. Some sorcerers there could do blood magic, so an oath signed in blood was bindingly legal unless one wanted to experience the worst kind of backlash a broken oath could cause.
She tipped her chin up. "I'll work for you to find this Chalice, but in return, you clear all charges and protect me from the people who stole it."
The Prime considered her then held out his hand to Bishop for a knife. "We have a deal, Miss Hawkins."
* * *
The second the Prime had gone, Bishop turned to her. "Let's make one thing entirely clear. I don't trust you. But I will protect you, if you do your part of this deal. However, if you think for one second that I will let you hurt him in some way, then you and I will be enemies." He brushed past her, heading for the door. "Trust me, Miss Hawkins. You don't want to be my enemy."
She was used to dangerous men and threats. Her entire life seemed to be filled with them. And Adrian Bishop, for all his smoldering stares, owned some sense of morality. Not like Murphy, or Daniel Guthrie. She could use that. She just needed to get under his skin a little, and judging from their encounter the night of the theft, it wouldn't be difficult.
Bishop lived like a monk; that didn't mean that he had the same appetites as one.
"You care for your father." It surprised her a little.
Bishop paused in the doorway. "Of course I do. And you would be wise to keep that little tidbit to yourself."
"Not common knowledge?" She arched a brow. "Is he ashamed of you?"
Those sensual lips thinned. "Drake is ashamed of nothing. It was my idea to keep the connection between us quiet, so that nobody would suspect he has a Sicarii assassin on hand."
What would that feel like, to deny your own heritage? She nibbled on her lip. "That sounds entirely practical, and quite horrible. I'd give anything to know who my father was."
His expression actually softened. "You don't know him?"
Verity shrugged. "He walked out on us when I was two. Had another mistress."
"Ah. I see."
Not quite. She smiled bitterly. "He liked gin too much. A common occurrence in my neck of the woods."
Silence settled between them. She could see that he didn't like thinking of her as a person with her own losses to deal with.
"Well," Verity said, arching a brow and offering a faint shrug, just enough to draw his attention to the thin cotton night rail she wore. "Where to first?"
"First we get you some clothes," he muttered. "Then, you tell me."
Chapter 2
"THIS DOESN'T LOOK like Seven Dials."
Bishop ignored Miss Hawkins, alighting from the hack and passing a pair of shillings up to the driver. Tucking his collar up against the late morning drizzle, he turned his gaze toward the house.
Forbidding black iron fences guarded the perimeter, along with overgrown hedges that seemed as though anything could lurk within. Small watchful chitters sounded and the leaves rustled. Miss Hawkins looked around sharply, pressing closer to his side as he gestured her through the gate. Bishop had found her a black gown—an old one belonging to the Prime's ex-ward, Ianthe, who'd left it behind at his house once—but it fit poorly, and clung in some areas whilst gaping in others. She'd dressed her chestnut hair in a simple chignon, and the effect was... troubling.
The little thief should not look like an innocent country lass with her cheeks all rosy and her skin dewy. Especially not when she was just as likely to slit your purse, steal your entire life savings, and sell your soul to the devil, all the while blinking up at you with those innocent eyes. She could make a fortune at the card tables.
Christ. How old was she? She couldn't have more than two decades on her, which made him uncomfortable. She certainly didn't act like it, though he suspected growing up without a father might have been difficult, especially if she'd lived in Seven Dials as she claimed. Maybe she'd been forced to grow up early?
And he was not going to start feeling sorry for her.
"Bishop," Miss Hawkins warned. "I thought you wanted me to take you to the Dials. I need to see... my friend... and ask if he knows about any of this. Those people had the token he was meant to give them if they paid the right amount."
"I lied. We have a stop to make first. I don't like going into a situation blind, and you could be planning any
thing."
That drew her sharp green gaze. "I'm not leading you into a trap."
"We shall see," he replied as he strode up the front path then around to the side of the gloomy manor. "Come. And keep your tongue polite. Our host shall not be pleased to meet you to begin with."
"Our host? Where are we?" Miss Hawkins looked up at the house, her gaze sliding over the iron fence and the lush sprawl of gardens barely tamed. Some trick of the weather saw that the windows appeared made of gray glass—completely opaque. From the rooftop a raven watched with a beady eye, ruffling under its wing with its beak.
"We're here to see Lady Eberhardt," he told her, strolling through the door to the servants’ quarters as if he belonged here.
Which, in a way, he did. Lady Eberhardt had been his second master during his sorcery apprenticeship, and though the old harridan breathed fire on her better days, for some strange reason she'd taken him under her wing as if he were her own. Scarred by his mother's death—both physically and mentally—and haunted by the events surrounding the transfer of his apprentice bond from his previous master to Lady Eberhardt, young Adrian Bishop had been looking for a home.
And with Lady Eberhardt, who had never borne children of her own, he'd found it. Or the closest thing to a home he could imagine since his mother's passing.
"The Prime said something about her—and the compulsion laid upon me." For the first time, Miss Hawkins looked nervous as she stepped over the lintel, gasping as Lady Eberhardt's wards touched her and clung like spidersilk. "Do you think she can remove the compulsion?"
"Perhaps. If she decides she likes you." Agatha was notoriously testy. This was going to be interesting.
Miss Hawkins's pretty green eyes narrowed. "Who could not like me?"
"Oh, I've a person or two in mind."
The sudden smile she graced him with made him uncomfortable. "That's because you've barely had a chance to get to know me. I'll grow on you, Bishop."
"Like ivy, no doubt."
"Well," she murmured under her breath as she pressed close to his side. "I didn't realize you wanted me to get that close to you. Perhaps if you smiled a little more, I might consider wrapping myself all over you. Like ivy, as you say. You do have pretty eyes, after all."
Someone could have knocked him over with a feather. Bishop stared down at her, at that pretty heart-shaped face and those teasing eyes, and realized that he'd stopped in his tracks. She was an outrageous flirt and he... he had little defense against such notions.
It wasn't the first time a woman had propositioned him. It was the first time, however, when he'd felt any sort of answering stir below the belt. As if aware of every thought that was currently occupying his head—if he could be said to be thinking at all in this moment—she reached out, fiddling with the edges of his coat. Glorious mischief filled those almond-shaped eyes, one shoulder lifting coyly.
"Look at that," Miss Hawkins whispered. "Cat got your tongue, Mr. Bishop? Or are you struck dumb just imagining all of the things I could do to you?"
"You're incorrigible." Somehow he forced himself to catch hold of her wrists, just in case she decided to explore further. He wasn't certain he'd have the willpower to protest.
"Be honest with me," she whispered, taking a step forward. Somehow his back met the wall, but there was no escape, for she was right in front of him, skirts brushing against his trousers, the faint perfume of her soap—his soap—warming the air around her. "That night when you were chasing me... did you ever think about what you'd do with me, if you caught me?"
Every. Damn. Night. Bishop stared down at her, swallowing hard.
Sound intruded: the door swinging open. Bishop pushed away as the butler clattered into the kitchen. Maxwell let out a sigh of relief when he realized who was standing there. "Master Bishop. You could use the front door, you know?"
"I know." As he reached the door, Miss Hawkins gasped, and he looked around to find her staggering after him, drawn by the shackle around her wrist.
"I thought this kept me in the same room as you?" Miss Hawkins threw all of her body weight against it and he had the bizarre thought that if he took off his own shackle, she'd fall straight onto her delectable little backside.
"It's not the room. With this on, I'm the Anchor. Step lively."
The look she shot him wasn't nice. "I've never heard of such a thing."
"That's because I created it." Something to do in the dark hours of the night, when he couldn't sleep. Although his sorcerous talents ran toward destruction and death, he'd always been driven by the urge to create. It helped to assuage the dark hunger that gnawed at him as the call grew worse. It was something every practitioner of the Grave Arts had to watch for, and so far, creating devices in the depths of his laboratory was the only thing that took his mind off that dark hunger, even if it was only for a few hours. Offering his arm, Bishop quirked a brow. "Would you care to follow me?"
"Care?" Miss Hawkins growled under her breath, pointedly ignoring his arm. "It's not as though I have a choice, is it? Besides, I should hardly wish to be dragged and bumped up the stairs like some carpet bag."
Bishop leaned closer, his gaze drifting to the soft curve of that dangerous mouth. "The second I can trust you is the second I release you."
"And when will that be?"
"Most likely never." Holding open the door, he gestured her through it. "Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, however...."
"That sounds like a challenge," Miss Hawkins murmured, and this time her gaze slid down his coat, locking on the powerful planes of his chest. She looked up swiftly, catching his flustered gaze. Those gloved fingertips brushed against his shirt, directly over his heart. "I like playing games, sir. And I like stealing more than just pretty baubles and strange relics."
"I don't have a heart."
The smile grew. Turned dangerous. Bishop's breath caught and those fingers marched down his chest, turning into a slow glide before he caught her wrist just above the glint of his belt buckle.
Shit. Every thought rushed out of his head as his blood ran south.
"I've often found the way to a man's wits lies in other areas of his body, my lord." Verity glanced up from beneath thick, dark lashes. "Who said I was talking about your heart?"
Bloody hell. "I'm not interested," he lied.
"Mmm." That purr was dangerously smug. "We'll see."
Pushing away from him, she reached up to unclip her jaunty black hat as she swept through the doors.
Not much to do but follow her, and Bishop cursed as he realized just how neatly she'd turned the tables on him. Bloody, rotting hell. He'd never been much adept at polite conversation or flirtation, but the feeling of being distinctly out of his depth left him unsettled.
And aroused.
"Upstairs?" Miss Hawkins asked, waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase.
"Follow me," he growled, and her laugh floated up the stairs behind him.
The scent of patchouli and the soft murmur of voices lured him toward the private sitting room that Agatha often preferred.
Inside, he found a pair of older ladies near the window. Agatha's head twisted sharply toward him, relaxing when she realized who it was. She was leaning over Marie's shoulder, pointing out some discrepancy in what her secretary had been writing. From their muttered tones, it was clear they'd been disagreeing over something.
"Good morning, Marie," he called.
Marie looked up and smiled. Thin, steel-rimmed spectacles obscured the secretary's gray eyes, and her graying hair was bound into a tight chignon. She wore a waistcoat over a loose shirt rolled up at her elbows, and a pair of breeches, though only here in the privacy of the house. "Good morning, Adrian. What a pleasant surprise."
And she meant it.
"Surprise?" Lady Eberhardt harrumphed. "Perhaps. Pleasant is yet to be seen." With a faint groan, she reached out for the cane she sometimes used. The inclement weather would be plaguing her joints.
"It's always enjoyable to
have Adrian visit us," Marie protested.
"Always is a strong word. As to the Ascension protocol, do as you will then, dearest." Lady Eberhardt kissed Marie on the cheek while Bishop respectfully averted his gaze. He was the only one who ever bore witness to these endearments, a sign of trust. If someone else realized the precise relationship between the women, they would be lucky to escape an asylum for their "indecent" behavior. As far as he knew, even Lady Eberhardt's previous husband had been entirely oblivious to what was going on between his wife and her secretary.
The door pushed open, revealing Miss Hawkins. Like a summer sky swiftly clouding over, Agatha's gruff smile faded and she eyed Miss Hawkins like a bug pinned to a lepidopterist's board. "Adrian. You should have warned me that you had company."
He crossed to her side, reaching down to buss his lips against her cheeks. "Sorry. I didn't realize you weren't alone."
Agatha's hand cupped his face and she looked up into his eyes, reading almost everything within him, he was certain. The bond between master and apprentice remained, a sentiment from other times that neither of them was quite ready to dispense with.
"You're troubled," Agatha said telepathically. "Is it the girl?"
"She's the thief I've been searching for."
"The Chalice?"
"Already passed hands, unfortunately. She turned up at my doorstep bleeding. Whoever she gave it to tried to kill her."
A light touch stroked within his mind, chasing scattered sensations. "That's part of it, but not all. What has she done to unnerve you so?"
Bishop kissed her palm then stepped away from her, discreetly shutting the mental door between them. "Lady Eberhardt, may I introduce Miss Verity Hawkins, thief extraordinaire and reluctant accomplice in the quest to get the Chalice back. Verity, this is Agatha, Lady Eberhardt, and her secretary, Marie Adams." He looked to Agatha. "Verity's under a compulsion denying her the means to give me information about those who commissioned the theft."