by Bec McMaster
"Mark it down on my slate," he replied with a faint smile.
A chime whispered from the communicator. Both of them heard it.
"Looks like you're a wanted man tonight." Her smile dawned. "Go. See who else is demanding your time. Then get some sleep. You look terrible."
"Thank you." With a frustrated half snarl, Bishop raked his hand through his hair and cut the connection. There were only two others who knew the link to his communication sphere. One of them was his father; the other...
"Mercadi," he whispered, circling his fingers over the globe to accept the link.
A cowled face swam into view. "Tomorrow. At ten. British Museum of Natural History."
Bishop stilled his frustration. He had a Chalice to hunt, and the Earl of Tremayne to find—and kill—before Tremayne became a threat to the Prime again. But this meeting was not something he could avoid. "I'll be there."
The communicator's glow died, and Bishop rubbed his hand over the stubble of his jaw. Just what complication was the Magister of the Sicarii going to throw into his life? A frisson of fear trembled down his spine. After all, the Sicarii served the Order and the Prime, and his father had stepped down from that position to care for his injured lover, Eleanor. Nobody had ever done such a thing before.
Which meant that Bishop's loyalties were now split.
What would happen if the Sicarii decided Drake was a threat to the stabilization of the Order, and the new Prime who would be elected at the end of the week during the Ascension Rites?
They'd kill Drake.
"Over my dead body," he whispered.
But he was only one man—one Sicarii—and there were four others.
* * *
Verity had a bag of tricks in her repertoire besides the ability to teleport.
Sorcery stirred somewhere in the house, a strange kind of spell craft that she'd never felt before, and curiosity finally got the better of her.
Wiggling her fingers in a complex pattern, she tore open a small rift between her room and the room where the spell was being cast, just big enough to listen and see—
An orb glowed and Bishop stared intently into it.
"Tomorrow. At ten," whispered a harsh voice. "British Museum of Natural History."
Bishop frowned, looking troubled. "I'll be there."
Then he waved a hand in a sharp gesture, dispersing the spell, and the orb's light vanished as he turned—
Verity flicked her fingers and the rift closed. Falling back onto her bed, she lay still and quiet, her heart pounding in her ears as she listened.
The house remained quiet. Nobody came to castigate her for listening to a private conversation.
Who had he been speaking to?
He'd promised that they would work together to recover the Chalice, but she wasn't entirely certain how far she could trust him. There had to be some angle. Didn't there?
Trust him? Or follow him?
Perhaps she could wait until breakfast to make that decision, depending upon whether he told her the truth about the meeting, or not.
Wait and see, she told herself, then let her body relax. Let's give him one more chance.
Chapter 8
FREEDOM. IT HAD been a brief but sustaining dream.
Sebastian Montcalm stepped out of the hackney and stared up at the house on Banbury Square with a note in his fist. He limped a little as his boots crunched over the gravel drive, his side still aching from where his mother had buried a knife in it just over three weeks ago. The wound shouldn't have healed—no blow struck by the Blade of Altarrh could ever stop bleeding—but somehow it had.
Or no, not somehow....
He knew exactly why it had crusted over and begun to scab. The little knot of anticipation in his mind was linked directly to his wife. After years of loneliness, it was quite startling to feel the bond between them every time he woke up, a bond that she'd used to save his life. Cleo, the only person he had ever trusted, was wrapped so tightly around him that sometimes he woke and reached for her in the empty bed. But that too was a trick, a dream. For Cleo was missing, and he knew exactly who had her.
As the note in his hand, delivered just this morning, dictated.
Your freedom for hers, it promised.
He was a fool to even be standing here, staring at the front door. Morgana could never be trusted and he was finally free of her, but if he didn't come... then Cleo would suffer the consequences. Sebastian, who knew more about his mother's evil nature than anyone, knew precisely what would happen to her.
Damn him for a fool. Morgana had warned him after all; "Never allow yourself attachments, Sebastian. They're only weaknesses that can be used against you."
He'd never truly understood that sentiment until this moment.
The doorbell rang and dread shivered down his spine as he steeled himself. Every nerve in his body pushed at him to flee. This was wrong. So wrong. But it was either cast himself to the lions, or see harm done to the innocent young wife he'd known for only a matter of days.
And that could not be borne.
"Sir," the butler greeted, opening the door and gesturing him inside. "Madam is waiting in the library."
Wondering to whom his mother had attached herself now, Sebastian took that one fatal step inside.
"This way, sir," said the butler, and Sebastian followed him warily, raking the hallway with a glance.
He'd been expecting his mother. But as the butler ushered him into the library, he realized this was but one last sally against him, a way to twist the knife and put him off guard. For instead of his mother, a young woman clad in purest white stood there.
His wife.
"Sebastian?" Cleo whispered, blinded by the linen blindfold that kept her visions pure. She'd always owned fine senses, and now the bond between them flared bright gold at their proximity, she had to know who stood there.
He could feel that link between them, both a taunt and a hope. "What happened? How did they steal you away?"
The last time he'd seen her had been directly after he brought the house down on top of his mother and tried to destroy a demon. Of the man who called himself a father, there'd been no sign. Raw edges scraping his psychic abilities, he'd collapsed in the bed in the inn that Cleo had somehow managed to get him to, undone by the sheer amount of power he'd wielded that day.
By the time he woke, Cleo was gone.
"Your mother found me," she told him. "She threatened to kill you if I didn't come."
"Cleo." Jesus. "She wouldn't have killed me. I'm far too valuable a weapon against my father. You should have fought her."
"You weren't there! Morgana was wild, beside herself at the cost of her schemes. I think she would have tried to kill you if I hadn't said yes!" Cleo took a step toward him. Both fists were clenched at her sides, her chin quivering a little as she tried to be brave. He knew how much the world frightened her, and for those brief few moments when she'd been safe under his roof, she'd looked to him for guidance.
And more.
A temptation that had proven his downfall. He should have stayed away, just to prove to his mother that Cleo meant nothing to him and therefore couldn't be used.
"They haven't hurt you?" he asked gruffly.
"I'm fine. It's you I'm worried about. You shouldn't have come! It's a trap—"
"Do you think I don't know that?" He stared at her hungrily, remembering a night when he'd gathered all of his courage and reached out to stroke her spun moonlight hair. The urge to touch her was as strong as ever, but he forced his fingers into a fist. Far better if she never saw him again.
"What did they promise you?" Cleo whispered.
"I've spoken with the Earl of Tremayne this morning."
She swallowed. "Father."
There was a moment of fear in her voice. Sebastian's heart hardened. He knew how beastly her father was to her. And he couldn't allow himself to care.
"The deal is already struck. Your freedom for mine."
"No!" She took a
nother half step toward him. "You cannot do that! I know how much your freedom means to you. I know what your mother has done to you all these years!"
"Cleo." He looked away, feeling the icy burn of the controlling collar around his throat. "I've already put the sclavus collar on." Once upon a time he'd have done anything to get it off, but this time he had no choice. "As soon as my mother turns you free, safe and unharmed, I'll hand her the ring with which she may control me. Your father gave them to me, along with a choice."
"I'm not going to let you do that," Cleo said fiercely. "Please. Please don't do this."
She'd always been a warrior. His heart ached a little in that moment, but he forced himself to harden his voice. "How are you going to stop me?"
"They're going to hurt you. For betraying them and for destroying their plans. I can See it."
"I expected nothing less," he told her, though his body was restless, remembering the pain that his mother had dealt him through the collar in the past. A flinch reaction that he couldn't quite control. It would be worse now. Sweat chilled his spine. "I've paid the hackney out front to take you anywhere you want to go. You just have to give him directions."
"Come with me," she begged. "We can run. We can go—"
"Where?" he asked brutally. "There's nobody to run to, nobody who can protect either of us."
"What about your father?" she blurted. "The Prime?"
"No." The man was no father to him.
"Your brothers? Lord Rathbourne? And that other one... Mr. Bishop."
"They all left me to die," he said bluntly, seeing the look on his father's face again as Drake de Wynter chose the son he knew—Lord Rathbourne—over Sebastian. For a moment, as Sebastian lay on the floor bleeding, he'd seen the man who had sired him turn, a grief-stricken look on his face, as Drake took a half step toward him. And he'd lived that moment of hope, that moment of disbelief that the father he'd never known would save him—might actually care for him—only to have it turn to dust when the roof started to collapse and Drake was forced to make a choice. Rathbourne. Or Sebastian.
Never again would Sebastian hope for more. There were few things more painful than the crushing decay of a dream he'd never known even existed inside him. "What makes you think the Prime would even give a damn about us now? About me? It's not as though they've come looking for me."
"Well, I'm not going without you."
"Yes, you are." He stepped closer, almost close enough to touch her now. "Else I've given up my freedom for nothing."
"I don't deserve that," she whispered. "Please, Bastian...."
He did touch her then, capturing her upper arm and feeling the gauzy slip of her sleeve beneath his touch. "This way."
Cleo tripped and stumbled as he hauled her out of the library, toward the door. He didn't stop. A fall wouldn't hurt her. Staying here would.
"Stop it, damn you!" Cleo slapped at his arm, but he wrenched the door open.
Sunlight streamed in, gilding her white dress. That blindfold turned, unerringly, toward his face. Behind her, he could make out the hackney and the driver he'd already paid to take her to safety.
"Go."
"Where?"
"Anywhere. I don't know. Surely you have family?" Sebastian's grip on her arm softened. "Just not here."
With him.
"Bastian." She caught his other hand, and Sebastian hesitated.
"You gave me hope," he told her, his voice roughening, "when I needed it. Thank you."
Then he couldn't stop himself from touching her; just a pair of fingers brushing against her smooth cheek. The only thing that he could ever have of her; a memory to sustain him through the forthcoming torture. The bond flared to life between them and he could sense his own touch against her skin and her astonishment at it. Then something locked hold of her and she gasped, her body jerking as though some puppet master yanked on her strings.
Before he knew what he was doing, he caught her as she slumped against him. The tension suddenly dissolved from her body, leaving her panting.
"Cleo?" he whispered. "Was it a Vision? What did you see?"
Clapping her hands over her blindfold, she shook her head. "No! No, I won't let you suffer through that."
His torture, then. Sebastian clenched his jaw. "Yes, you will. You're the only thing that can ruin me. I want you to leave this house and never look back. Go and live your life, the way you were always intended to do. Be free. Of me. Of this wretched curse I'm stuck in."
"If you think I can just walk away–"
The sound of a jarring clap broke them both apart. The Earl of Tremayne—Cleo's father—sauntered into the hallway. "What dramatics, my dear. Leave the man in peace. My dear son-in-law has the right of it, you know."
"And I'm to believe you're just going to let me walk out of here freely?" Cleo snapped, her voice hardening as she faced her father. "I know you, after all. You've always craved my Visions, my power, and it wouldn't be the first time you've broken your word."
Tremayne's dark eyes locked on his daughter. "You've grown rather rebellious in the past month, Cleo. A young woman should be seen and not heard. Someone ought to remind you of your place. "
"You wouldn't dare," Sebastian murmured darkly.
Tremayne shot him a look of wild hatred, then turned back to his daughter. "Once upon a time you were a powerful tool, Cleo. But it's clear from your actions in the past month that you betrayed me to my enemies. I won't forget that. Ever."
Sebastian stepped between them, a threat in itself. Sorcery whispered through his skin. How much he wanted to simply obliterate this man, and never deal with him again....
But Tremayne was a powerful adversary, and Sebastian knew his sorcery was untrained and erratic. Doubt ate away at some of his strength.
"That's a good decision, boy," Tremayne whispered, satisfaction flavoring his dark eyes. "Step away from her and all will go well."
"You touch one hair on her head, and I'll destroy this entire house, with you in it." The world began to darken as shadows etched at his vision, daring him to do it.
"Sebastian," drawled a familiar voice, and instantly he was on edge. "My dear boy, you do like to bring the house down, don't you?"
The words were poison. "Morgana," he replied icily, turning to face his mother, and—
Freezing in surprise.
His mother had once been a vibrant woman with raven-dark hair and wicked green eyes. She'd stood tall, always adorning herself in the silks she demanded were due to her, but now she was confined to a wheeled chair, pushed by one of the servants. Dark shadows of pain hollowed the skin beneath her eyes, and there was more gray in her hair than there ever had been. But the most startling change were her legs, thin and faded beneath her skirts.
"Come to see your handiwork, my son?" Morgana spat, watching him with bitter eyes. She gestured to her legs. "When you brought the roof down upon me, it crushed my spine. This is entirely your fault. Tremayne and I have much to repay."
"I'd hoped you were dead," he told her coldly, stepping forward. She might hold Cleo as her pawn, but he'd wanted this chance all his life.
Morgana flung something from her fingers—a tangled knot of sorcery that darted straight past Sebastian. Cleo gasped behind him and tumbled to her knees. That alone halted the building power in its tracks, his vision clearing as he realized where he was.
"The next one goes straight through her heart," Morgana promised. "At least my sorcery seems to have survived the attack intact."
Damn her. His fist clenched. Just one strike. That was all it would take to destroy the bitch.
Cleo cried out behind him, and the breath went out of him. He didn't care if he died, as long as he took Tremayne and Morgana with him.
But Cleo was innocent, a light in a world of darkness. He couldn't force himself to bring any harm to her.
Sebastian slowly lowered his head and let go of the pulse of energy that whirled within him. Surrender. But what other option did he have? "Let her go."
He didn't go to her, or help her to her feet. Just watched as she struggled upright.
"Sebastian," his wife whispered, reaching for him.
"Get out of here," he told her coldly. "This is good-bye."
"I don't want you to do this!"
"Then you should never have involved yourself in my affairs."
"Hand me the ring, Sebastian," Morgana crooned.
"Just another minute," he told her. "The second she gets in the carriage."
"Don't trust me?"
"Not an inch," he said, casting her a dark look.
That all too-smug smile on her face threatened him. She was up to something.
"After all," he said, pushing her a little. "It's surprising to see you let her go. Cleo has a talent that far surpasses my own. She's either a useful ally or a dangerous enemy, and I know how you prefer your enemies."
"Oh, Sebastian." Here came the knife in the back, he just knew it. "Everybody has a weakness. You just have to know how to use it."
Cleo's cry of shock stole his breath. Sebastian spun toward her, power clenched in his fist.
But there was no enemy. Nothing to fight. Only Tremayne, brandishing the blindfold that he'd torn from his daughter's eyes.
Cleo blinked, crying out and clapping her hands to her eyes.
Her eyes were brown. The darkest kind, like molten chocolate... so pretty. But never meant to be seen.
"What did you do to her?" he demanded, staring at Cleo as Tremayne shoved her into the carriage.
"It was the first thing she ever Foretold as a little girl," Morgana gloated, watching Tremayne stride back across the lawn toward them. "If she ever saw the world again, her visions would vanish and she would be the all-knowing Cassandra no more. So you see," Morgana pushed on her wheels, guiding her chair back into the house. "Your pretty young wife is no longer a tool, or a weapon. Now, she's merely nothing."