Hexbound: Book 2 of The Dark Arts Series

by Bec McMaster

  "I also believe it exacerbates the power of the sorcerer connected to it." At least, that was the only explanation he could find for how strong that other sorcerer had felt when they'd clashed, mind to mind. He was no slouch himself, but that other mind had rolled him under like an ant beneath its heel.

  "How do you use it?"

  "You use your own blood to empower it, and link it to yourself," Bishop replied. He looked up from the book he was staring uselessly at. "All three relics require a sacrifice to work."

  "What sort of sacrifice?"

  "Well, Drake helped create them, and he said that they worked when fuelled by blood. But he also said that they were hungry relics. They wanted more. He could hear them whispering in his head when he used them. And when Tremayne had his hands on them it is suspected that he sacrificed someone to the Chalice's cause, but he always denied it."

  "Your father created them." She sounded dubious.

  "It was in his youth, when he fell in with Tremayne and Morgana. He said he was curious, that he dabbled in the dark arts and became fascinated with demons and what they could teach us."

  "That does not sound reassuring."

  Bishop frowned. Talk of demons and sacrifices had managed what control alone could not: his cock had begun to flag. "He realized what he had helped create was dangerous, and that's when he and Morgana stole them off Tremayne and hid them. He couldn't destroy them, but he never used them again."

  She gave a noncommittal murmur. "Found something." Lifting the book up, she read, "The Chalice has the power to negate, as well, that which rides a necromancer and hounds him to the grave. A sacrifice is required, but neither blood nor death will do. The sacrifice is required within. A personal sacrifice of great value." Verity frowned. "What does that mean?"

  "I have no idea."

  "Hmm." Verity took slow steps as she quietly read.

  It was a comfortable silence. Bishop stared at the way the strands of hair that had escaped her chignon were beginning to curl.

  He'd thought having her here would be a distraction and a nuisance. He liked his solitude.

  Well, she was a distraction, all right. But he was startled to discover that far from irritating him, her presence made him feel calm. He... liked it.

  What would it be like to have a wife? Or a lover? To sit in companionable silences as they read after dinner, or to curl up on the sofa together, her feet tucked in his lap. He looked at Verity and realized he couldn't think of anyone else in that role. He wanted her.

  And he couldn't have her. To take that step forward would be to cause them both unimaginable grief in the future, when the maladroise began to haunt him. Better just to enjoy her company now, before she found a master who would teach her and moved on.

  "Bishop?" she said, and it sounded as though she'd repeated the word. "Did you hear what I said?"

  "Chalice," he repeated, dropping his gaze to the book he carried, as he sat on the sofa. "Both negates and enhances the swell of a Grave Arts sorcerer's power. I was correct. Whoever Noah Guthrie has on his leash is using the Chalice to improve the amount of power that he can draw."

  Verity sighed.

  Focus, damn you. Bishop cursed, and turned the pages of the book. He'd lost all trace of the thought that he'd been following. Something about there being only five Grave Arts sorcerers who didn't belong to the Order. "I've been trying to think of the names of those Grave Arts sorcerers who were cast from the Order."

  "And?"

  "There is one who... would no doubt like to get his hands on the Chalice. One who wouldn't bat an eyelid at the thought of unleashing flesh constructs in London. Elijah Horroway."

  "So what's the problem?"

  He glanced at her, then glanced again. "I—um, just have to find him."

  "So that's our next lead?"

  Bishop nodded.

  "Good, then we can focus on that. Tomorrow." Verity sighed and crossed the room toward him, closing the book and setting it on the small book table beside the sofa. She sat at his feet, resting her cheek and arm atop the sofa beside his hip as she looked up at him. "I know when a man is looking at me, Bishop. I know when he wants me."

  Christ. He set his own book aside and prepared to move, but her hand on his thigh stopped him. Bishop looked down, and suddenly he didn't think he could move. He didn't want to push her away.

  Why could he not have just one bloody minute with her in his arms? One minute of sheer physical enjoyment?

  Because you know what happened the last time you tried....

  "Verity." His throat was dry. "We can't."

  Her hand slid up his thigh. Verity glanced up at him from beneath a fan of thick dark lashes.

  He couldn't breathe.

  He knew what she was doing: knew that the question in her pretty green eyes was very much focused on him and what his answer would be.

  "Why not?" she whispered, sliding into his lap, the rounded press of her arse settling tauntingly close to his aching cock. Clever hands began to toy with his collar. "You want it. I want it."

  Somehow he caught her wrist. His mind was scalded blank with the sheer sensation of her body pressed against his. "I w-would be taking advantage of you."

  A mysterious smile curled over her mouth, and then she turned and straddled him, pressing him back into the sofa. His traitorous body went willingly enough.

  Leaning close to him, she whispered in his ear. "Maybe it is I who would be taking advantage of you?"

  Bishop's mouth went dry. Her robe gaped, revealing a hint of her nightgown beneath it and the shallow valley of her small breasts. Hell. He could almost make out the indentation of her nipple, and her hand was making small strokes up his thigh now, almost like a cat flexing the pads of its feet against his skin.

  He was lost. Balanced on a fine edge of pure need that knotted him up tight. His cock hardened again, flooding with heat and blood until he couldn't think straight.

  "You want me," Verity whispered, and leaned her weight on his thigh as she reached up to brush those damning lips against his. She had the sweetest mouth in all creation.

  Verity teased his lips open with her own, her tongue darting against his. Bishop's hand slid up her back and he pressed her against him, his erection riding against the smooth slope of her inner thigh. Good God. His eyes widened, and some sort of noise came from his throat, then she was parting his shirt collar, pushing her hands inside. Skin on skin. There was no teasing now. No gentle seduction. Verity plundered his mouth, and fuck it, but he didn't even remember why he'd thought to deny them both anymore.

  It felt so good.

  Verity sucked his tongue into her mouth, and Bishop nearly lost all of his composure. He curled his arms around her lithe body, grinding her against him. The silk robe slipped and slid around her, and suddenly it wasn't enough to merely hold her like this. He wanted more. He wanted skin.

  Hands delving beneath her robe, he parted it, and she gave a soft sigh, tilting her head back to allow him access to her throat. "Yes."

  Bishop tasted her jaw, then lower, his lips brushing over her pulse as his hands explored beneath her robe. Up her thighs, so smooth and soft. His thumbs dug in a little as his breathing harshened. What would it feel like to part her thighs and touch the wetness there? Yes. Every single inch of his body came alive in a way he'd never felt before. "Verity. Verity." The words came in harsh, ragged whispers as he kissed her collarbone and slid the robe from her shoulder.

  Something pounded in his ears. Verity's heartbeat. He bit her throat, felt her pulse kick there, and suddenly he wasn't in the room anymore. A flash of Mya's face sprang to mind, her eyes wide with shock after he finally got her heart beating again, begging her for forgiveness, telling her that he hadn't meant to.... She'd looked at him as though he was a monster, and she was right to do so—

  Bishop spilled out from under Verity, taking three long strides across the room as he tried to push the past away. Mya. Jesus. Verity. He couldn't allow what had happened before to happen
again. It was long moments before he thought himself contained enough to face her.

  Verity had tumbled onto his recently vacated cushions with a small squeak, her robe slipping off her shoulder.

  He was wrong. He was nowhere near contained enough.

  "It's been a long day." He meant the words as an explanation. Instead they came out hard and curt, and he knew it. Bishop winced. "Perhaps some sleep will serve to clear our heads so we can focus on this problem?"

  From the look on her face, he was only digging himself deeper. Bishop stared at her helplessly. He had nothing to say. Nothing that could satisfactorily explain his problem. How to tell her he worried that he would kill her? That he'd lose control in the moment again, and start listening to her heartbeat the way he had before? Start stealing little pieces of her breath as his magic called at him.

  "Good night," he said, and turned to flee.

  Chapter 13

  "WHAT'S WRONG?"

  Bishop looked up from the map table he was toying with, one brow lifted as though in enquiry. "Wrong?"

  No sign of the disheveled man who'd fled from her in the sitting room. There had been secrets in his eyes then, and something terrified, but he hadn't told her the truth. Bishop was keeping secrets, and it vexed her.

  The way he'd leapt away from her earlier still smarted, but he was no longer stiff and tense with distaste. An hour's grace had given him his composure back. "I thought you went to bed after dinner." That disastrous dinner—or the end of it, at least. "What are you doing?"

  "I did go to bed," he said, his chest straining beneath his shirt as he tried to lift the map table and shift it slightly to the left. "Then I got up again." He sighed. "I couldn't stop my mind from working."

  "I know the feeling," Verity muttered.

  "Can't sleep?" he asked, tracing another golden sigil into the map table's silver casing with his finger. It flared bright, then sank into the metal, etching the rune as he withdrew his finger—and his sorcery.

  "Not really." The sight distracted her. Power and the use of it were instinct to her; a gathering of that rush of power that bled through her, a simple thought, or a flick of her wrist, and then she was leaping through space and time. Other skills came harder to her: she could barely light a candle flame out of thin air, even as she could touch an object and track its owner across London.

  What he did was another thing altogether. So complicated, with clearly defined rituals and runes to force its user into controlling their magic, rather than emoting it. It fascinated her, the things he could do.

  The things he might be able to teach her.

  That alone made her hungrier for the knowledge. Imagine what she could do—what choices she could make—if she wielded her sorcery expertly?

  "Don't worry, Verity. We'll get the Chalice back. We just have to be patient." He seared another rune into the metal surrounding the table.

  The Chalice was the least of her concerns. She shot him a glance, but his attention was purely focused on his work.

  And not even remotely upon her.

  Verity dragged her night-robe tighter around her thin shoulders. Obviously, she was the only one who felt this horrid yearning. She felt so very alone tonight. It wasn't so bad during the day when they were busy, but at night she had time to dwell on the loss of the Crows and her place in the world, and most of all, Mercy. She very much wanted to ask him to just hold her, but that would clearly be crossing a boundary, judging by the way he'd leapt from her touch like a scalded cat earlier.

  Verity sighed. She was on her own, and it was clear she would have to learn to accept that.

  The map table was a curious piece; a detailed map of nearly every street in inner London, rolled out upon what looked like a silver stand. "What does it do?"

  "Through this, I can locate every practitioner of the Grave Arts in London, if I set up the spell work properly," he told her, stepping back and pouring fine metal filings across the map. Once they lay in an inert powder, he gently eased a glass cover over the top, settling it into the grooves were it clearly belonged. "I was thinking about what Trask said about our mysterious Grave Arts sorcerer not belonging to the Order. Using this, I might be able to track them. The runes trace Grave magic."

  "Like you?"

  "Like me." He stood back, splaying his hands over the table. His rings spat silver sparks as he began to draw in energy from the world around them. The fire flickered a little, and grew low. "Watch. Hestula vi anti, mi agra despulic hedora."

  Silvery lines of power flowed through the silver engravings around the edge of the glass, lighting up each rune that it hit. Bishop held his breath, leaning closer as the air within the glass case seemed to crackle with static.

  The little iron filings quivered.

  "It's working," Verity whispered. The iron filings began to tremble and jerk as they slid across the map.

  A pile of them grew on the street where his house lay. "There's me," Bishop murmured.

  A thin thread of iron tracked their journey that day, from the Natural History museum to Lady Eberhardt's, and then to the Labyrinth, where it grew a little thicker.

  "Why is it doing that?" she whispered.

  "I think I've been leaving small amounts of power wherever I go," he murmured, closing his eyes as he manipulated the threads of sorcery. "Sort of like a scent trail that gradually fades."

  Another small pile began to grow, this time at the East London Docks. Its trail was thick and strong, and jagged all over the place. Then three other piles. Each thinner and wispier than the last. She could almost make out where they were forming. The thicker trail was heading toward Cheapside. Another wisped off toward Greenwich, and the Natural History Museum lit up like a beacon.

  "There are at least seven sorcerers we're looking at here," she said, leaning closer. Bishop's hands trembled. "Hold still," she said, watching the trail of filings march like ants to where they grew thickest. "It's nearly—"

  A spark, a small cough of smoke, and Bishop yanked his hands off the glass. "Bloody hell," he cursed, grounding the energy he'd been utilizing.

  All of it ground to a halt.

  "What happened?" The iron filings collapsed on the map inertly, like puppets with their strings cut. Some of them circled certain places, but others lay in a scattered sprawl that meant nothing.

  From the clenching of his fists, Bishop was tempted to kick the chair in front of him out of the way, but he swallowed hard, let his hands relax, and then collapsed into the chair, sinking his head into his hands. "I don't know. Obviously I didn't set some of the runes correctly. It's a complicated setup. Or perhaps... I'm tired. I lost control of the threads."

  He looked exhausted, not just tired. Hollows pooled beneath his eyes, and there was weariness in the set of his shoulders that she hadn't seen before.

  Verity pushed away all of her rejected feelings and crossed toward the liquor decanter to pour them both a brandy.

  "Here," she said, kneeling in front of him and offering him the glass. If he didn't let go of some of this nervous energy, then something inside him was going to shatter.

  "I'm fine," he told her, looking up. His eyes were black pools. "I'll get the map spell working before dawn. We can—"

  "You're exhausted," she pointed out. "You should take the time to rest. The map can wait. The Chalice can wait."

  "I don't have time to rest." There was the muscle clenching in his jaw. "There's so much to bloody do, and...." He ground his teeth together.

  Verity arched a brow. "And?"

  "Nothing." His head collapsed into his hands again.

  Nothing, my Aunt Betsy. "People make mistakes when they're tired. A mistake in this situation might get both of us killed." She settled on the seat beside him gingerly, tugging her night-robe away from his thigh. "Something's bothering you. And I thought we were to work together. We can hardly do that if one of us is keeping secrets."

  "A lot of things are bothering me. To begin with: I can't find the Chalice, and... I'
m not sure that I can devote all of my time to the search for it."

  "I thought finding the Chalice was all important. Hordes of flesh constructs being dragged out of the ground, London burning, demons gallivanting about. That sort of thing."

  "It is." He pushed away from the chair and paced to the small grate.

  "Then what else could be so distracting?"

  Bishop rested one hand against the mantelpiece, looking into the embers in the grate. His shoulders were stiff.

  Frustration burned through her. "You don't want to tell me. It's fine for me to place my trust in you the other day, when you ruined my place in the Hex, and it's fine for you to tell me not to worry, because you're not the type of man who would misuse that trust, but it's not fine for me to expect the same in return?"

  "Verity...." His voice roughened.

  "It's not as though I have anyone to tell," she pointed out, "and nor am I likely to. I've kept your other secrets."

  "It's not that," he said roughly. "I'm just... used to keeping my cards close to my chest."

  Her eyes narrowed. Go on, they said.

  He gestured at the room in general, his brandy slopping out of the glass. "I'm Sicarii. Everything we do is shrouded in secrecy and I made oaths to that point. I don't even tell my father most of what I learn in those meetings."

  Dragging her knees up in front of her chest, Verity rested her chin on top of them. She could take this small concession. Even she understood that sometimes it was best to keep things close, but... trust was something she always found difficult to give. And she'd given it to him. Something inside her ached that she couldn't be found worthy of the same consideration. "Sounds lonely."

  "Lonely? No, it's... complicated. It's...."

  "You're tired, you're plagued by problems, and you're not thinking clearly," she pointed out. "Sometimes just talking through your problems with another person helps."