by Bec McMaster
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."
* * *
THE ARTS 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.
* * *
IANTHE 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."
It ached to let the large trunk out of her sight, but what was she to do? She couldn't allow any suspicion to fall upon herself.
Once upon a time, she would have said that nothing co
uld have made her betray her master. But we all have our weaknesses, don't we? She only hoped she could discover a way out of this mess before Drake discovered her treachery.
Fingering the locket at her throat, Ianthe watched the trunk, and its magically sealed compartment, vanish into the city, her heart feeling like lead in her chest.
Thank all the gods that Rathbourne had failed to scry out the Blade.
CHAPTER 3
'T he purpose of the Order of the Dawn Star is twofold; one, we seek to understand the Great Mysteries of life and the divine; and two, we aim to serve our country. To protect it from malevolent forces that exist in other planes, and those who seek to use them.'
- 'UNDERSTANDING THE DIVINE', by Sir Anthony Scott
THE BUSTLING STREETS of Covent Garden were their first stop. Ianthe alighted from the duke's carriage with effortless grace.
Lucien raked the streets with a hard glance. "You think someone here took the Blade?"
"No. But this is where I'm going to start my search."
"That makes little sense."
"All will be revealed, Rathbourne."
Bright theatre posters screamed their headlines to the world as she paused at the entrance to the Phoenix Theatre. Behold: The Great Remington Cross and, his beautiful assistant, the exotic Sabine. Tugging her key out of her reticule, Ianthe let herself through the theatre doors.
Lucien prowled past her, his dark hair brushing against his collar, as he lowered the smoked glasses he had taken to wearing. Absurdly long and unfashionable, that hair, but her eyes lingered.
Damn Drake for saddling her with him, when she needed all of her wits.
Ianthe followed him over the plush red carpets. The walls here were yellow-striped wallpaper, a far cry from the entrance the working classes used to keep them separate from the rich. That entrance led directly to the galley, the tier in which the poor were allowed to inhabit. There was no wallpaper there, no plush carpets. Illusion was everything in this world she'd once known.
Lucien unfurled a faded poster, straightening out the rolled up edge until he could see the painted figure upon it, with her blonde curled wig, devilish smile, and spangled gown. The Mysterious Sabine. Those unusual golden-brown eyes cut toward Ianthe, and she had no difficulty interpreting the look.
"It was an occupation," she said, preceding him toward the auditorium. "One that an occultist excels at. We don't all have vast inheritances to fall back upon."
"You use sorcery to entertain?"
Ianthe turned on her heel, the abruptness of the move leaving her face-to-face with him. He jerked back before he could slam into her. "Go ahead," she said fiercely, "mock me. All I have to do is order you to hop on one foot for the rest of the day. You know you'll have to do it." Her eyes narrowed. "Or perhaps you'd like to wear a dress?"
He'd given his word to obey her, sealed in blood. Even now, the mark between her breasts tingled.
"And tonight, you'll be mine." Leaning closer, Rathbourne reached out and brushed the backs of his knuckles against the smooth skin of her décolletage, branding her with the touch, his lips thinning with anger. "Imagine how I'll seek my revenge."
Ianthe could imagine it. All too well. Wickedness had been her downfall once, and it proved to be her weakness now, for she felt that tremor of sensation all the way through her.
And so did he, judging by the heated look in his eyes.
Suddenly, it wasn't anger that marked the air between them.
"Be careful what you ask for." Ianthe reached up on her toes to whisper the words into his ear, her hands hesitantly pressing against the roughened fold of his coat collar. "Revenge can be the sweetest thing. If you think I won't surrender to you, you're wrong. If you think that I can't twist you around my little finger whilst submitting to your desires... then think again. I'll brand myself on your skin, Rathbourne. I'll make you forget every other woman you've ever been with." This, the enticing words, were something she had learned over the years as Sabine. To warp the taste of a man's desire until he was panting at her feet, breathless for the want of her. "And when this is over," she drew back, glancing up beneath her lashes at him, "when we break this bond... You'll beg me to take you back."
Hard fingers manacled her wrists. Rathbourne lowered his face to hers, his breath caressing her sensitive lips. Interest flared in his eyes. "Are you challenging me?"
The sensation of her perceived helplessness ignited her body. All she had to do was tell him to stop. She knew it. So did he. "What kind of challenge?"
"The kind that will show you who your master is." Lips slid along the curve of her jaw, teeth nipping at the heated flesh of her earlobe. "Who can bring the other to beg the soonest?"
A thrill lit through her. "I thought you wanted to bed me."
"Oh, I'm going to bed you, Ianthe. I'm going to fuck you as hard and as often as I can, but I'm not going to kiss you. Not unless you ask me, until you're on your knees begging for it."
"Do you hold the quality of your kisses so highly?" Nervousness trembled in her voice, along with desire. The way he said 'fuck' made her whole body jerk. She'd never been spoken to like that before in her life... and some dark part of her liked it.
Another slow heated smile. Rathbourne pushed away from her, letting go of her wrists. "A kiss is the measure of a person's soul. If you think them overrated, then you haven't been kissed, Miss Martin. Not well enough. That is how we shall know who's won. By whoever succumbs first."
Wisdom insisted she say no, but her eyes narrowed and she lowered her arms, feeling the sensation of his hands still manacling her own. "I think you'll kiss me first, so I shall accept your challenge, my lord. If anything, it should make this agreement of ours somewhat more intriguing." That earned a rise out of him, but she held up a hand. "Come. As fascinating as this is, we're late. Cross will have my head."
"Cross?" he arched a brow.
"My other savage, bad-tempered master," she replied.
He didn't like that at all, she noticed, as she swished toward the auditorium, putting an extra little swing to her hips.
* * *
THE HOLLOW, echoing silence of the auditorium was clear relief against the tumult of the streets. Lucien followed on the heels of Miss I-Shall-Make-You-Beg, knowing that he pressed too close to her.
The challenge in the entry had been a revelation. His gaze slid to the nape of her neck. Miss Martin had a seductive side that was well-nigh irresistible, though from the forced serenity of her expression one could barely tell.
Tonight... Tonight he would get to reveal that side of her again, even though she'd seemingly buttoned it all away. As she said, revenge could be incredibly sweet, and he was looking forward to it.
A sharp crack filled the air, an explosion of smoke and sparks onstage. Luc didn't think. Simply threw himself into Miss Martin, carrying her to the floor beneath him. The Shield hummed to life around him, the copper band around his wrist tingling icy cold as power flowed through it. It was one of the first workings he'd ever done, and relief flooded him as he realized the shielding bracelet still worked.
"Rathbourne!" she cried.
Ears buzzing with the heavy echo of silence, he looked up. A man had appeared out of the smoke, clad in shirtsleeves and a black silk waistcoat. A blood-red scarf was tied at his throat, and his pinstriped trousers were neatly pleated and immaculate.
"He likes to make an entrance," Miss Martin murmured, wriggling beneath him. Lucien realized he was crushing her a little.
"As do others," the man onstage called out, his voice ringing through the theatre. "Are you done mauling my assistant?"
Rolling to his feet, Lucien held out his hand to her. "I haven't yet started."
Miss Martin blushed at the innuendo. "Remy, meet Lucien Devereaux, the Earl of Rathbourne. Rathbourne, this is Remington Cross, The Great Conjurer."
"Delighted," Cross said flatly.
Lucien recognized the man from the posters now, though the picture there tended toward flattering
, rather than realistic. In truth, the man's piercing dark eyes and aquiline nose were more hawkish than handsome. Though one couldn't doubt the overwhelming nature of his presence. Luc was dealing with a Master of Sorcery, if he wasn't mistaken, though he'd never encountered Cross among the Order's gatherings, and there were no rings on his fingers to indicate Cross's rank. "Likewise."
"And I'm retired, Remy." The words held some hint of fondness in them, as Miss Martin used his hand to gain her feet. "Remember? It's been three months. And Rathbourne wasn't mauling me, he was..."
"I thought it was an attack." Lucien scowled.
"How much?" Cross demanded, taking the stage in sharp strides and thundering down the stairs to meet her.
"How much what?" she replied.
"How much will it cost to get you back?"
"Annabelle does just as well onstage as I. You should be thankful that someone else is willing to put up with you."
"Aye." The man took her fingers, pressing a kiss to the back of them, as if Luc didn't exist. "But she lacks your presence."
"She lacks my rather impressive bosom," Miss Martin shot back. "You know my reasons. They haven't changed."
Something silent crossed between the pair of them. "Bah," Cross sneered. "Respectability is little more than a sham."
"Not to me, it's not. Besides, I'm busy," Miss Martin added. "I have my studies to attend to, before I take the next level tests, let alone my duties as Drake's seneschal." As if the matter were dealt with, she buffed her lips against Cross's smooth cheek, and gave him a wry smile. "I miss you too, Remy."
"Is that why you're here?"
"I wish it were," Miss Martin replied, and she meant it, which was somewhat baffling, for Lucien couldn't find many redeeming traits in the man.
"How's that pup, de Wynter?"
"As well as can be," Miss Martin answered obliquely.
"Trouble?"
"Brewing, but not here yet." Taking Cross's hand, she tucked her own through his arm. "I need to speak to you privately. Are you coming, Rathbourne? Or would you like to guard the theatre?"