by Bec McMaster
"What are his intentions toward the young man?"
"He wants to help him," Eleanor replied. "No sorcerer should have his will enslaved."
Cleo tilted her head, as if listening. "That's not the entire truth. Though it is part of it, I think."
"I have a small talent for psychometry. I used it to divine where the letter had come from and received some disturbing suggestions of a plot against the Prime."
"I see. May I ask you something?"
"Yes?"
"Why would you think that my father would kill you if he knew you were here? I had not thought him a violent man. A bitter man, yes, but not murderous."
"Your father..." Eleanor chose her words carefully, "has been responsible for at least one death. That's why he was exiled here, never to leave the grounds of his manor. It is thought that he is responsible for several others, however, there has never been enough proof to persecute him."
"He used sorcery to kill?" It shocked her.
"Yes."
"Then why was he not executed? That is a capital crime among our Order."
"He gave crucial information against an uprising against the Prime, on the grounds that he would be spared. In return, his sorcery was bound by the Order, until he is severely limited in what he can do. He can practice certain feats, but only those which an adept of the Second Tier can practice."
That would not sit well with him.
Cleo pressed her lips together. She was not a traitor, and though she didn't love her father, she wanted to. Or perhaps she wanted him to love her. But she had a duty to do what was right, and if her father was playing with another plane of existence and she knew about it, then she would be somewhat responsible for the deaths to come. "My father is going to summon a demon, I think. I overheard him perfecting his Words of Power. A demon would be able to remove his limitations, would it not?"
"It would do a great deal more than that. Could you see if your father will do this ritual? Could you see if—"
"He wears a warded crystal around his neck, which prevents me from seeing his future." Something that had always made her wonder. What did her father have to hide? "But I know that he's formed an alliance with a woman named Morgana. She—"
"Morgana?"
Cleo paused. "Yes. Do you know her?"
"Unfortunately, I've had the pleasure." Eleanor's voice was clipped. "I need to tell Drake what I've learned. This gives us even less time to prepare. Thank you. I will come again."
Cleo hesitated. "I wrote the letter."
"I know."
"If the Prime holds true, then I will work with him. I will help him stop my father, but there are several conditions I must place. He must help Sebastian free of his collar and his mother. No matter what happens or what he does under her influence, Sebastian is not to be harmed and neither am I."
"And your father?"
It hurt to say this: "If my father summons a Greater Demon, then he breaks the law. He becomes... dangerous and unpredictable, for if he does it once, then what would he not stoop to the next time? If he summons a demon, then it is upon the Prime to do what must be done, as according to our laws. I would... I would mourn my father, but he makes his choices, therefore he earns their consequences."
"You are a brave young woman."
"I don't know if I'm doing the right thing." Cleo bowed her head. "I hope that I am doing the right thing."
"If it feels like a hard choice," Eleanor replied, "then you probably are. Let that guide you, no matter what happens in the future. I'll return, when I have more information. Is this the safest place to see you?"
"It's the only time I'm not watched, however I'm supposed to be getting married this afternoon. There's been no mention of where I am to live."
"May I take a hair?"
Cleo nodded, and something sharp plucked at her head.
"With this I'll find you. If I'm not back within two days, then be very, very careful of what you do next. I wouldn't mention this visit to those who guard you; they are your father's employees, not yours."
"Oh, I worked that out when I was nine."
* * *
ELEANOR HURRIED through the trees that surrounded the walled garden at the back of Tremayne's estate. Demons. Good God, it was true. She needed to warn Drake.
"Hello there, Eleanor," a male voice called.
Eleanor froze briefly before turning around. Dark figures slipped out from behind trees, all of them hooded. One, two, three, four... A branch crackled beneath a booted heel behind her, and she spun, finding another man, a taller man whose face she knew.
"Tremayne." She swallowed the hard lump in her throat. "You look well."
Lord Tremayne slipped off his gloves, one finger at a time. He'd aged since the last time she'd seen him, but those dark eyes were just as hard, and the smile on his fleshy lips was still unattractive. "Did you truly think that I would not have the estate warded? Granted, I cannot produce a ward these days strong enough to protect it or keep my enemies out, but I can certainly conjure one that tells me when little birds are slipping about, trying to go unnoticed."
Her gaze flickered to the men stalking nearer, then back to him. "You never used to own so much finesse."
"Yes, well. I have strong friends these days. They've been teaching me how to master myself."
"So I hear. I wouldn't have thought to call them 'friends,' however... After all, didn't the former duchess steal the Relics Infernal out from beneath your nose years ago when you thought yourself allies?" Eleanor began to slowly siphon little bits of energy, drawing in her will. Her heart pounded faster. Foolish to have come here alone...
Tremayne grunted. "Let us just say, the enemy of my enemy is my friend."
"And you want what Drake has, more than you want vengeance against Morgana."
"I want what that bastard stole from me."
"And then...?" She had to keep stalling him until she had enough power.
"Then?"
"Oh, please. Let us not pretend that you have any altruistic or forgiving qualities, Tremayne. Does the former duchess know that she must watch her back once you've defeated Drake?"
His gaze flickered to the left, which was unusual. "Nonsense. My alliance with Morgana will never be at risk."
Nobody was fooling anybody here. Eleanor raised a hand, flaming balls of energy erupting to life within her palms at a single word and searing her eyes as her mage globes formed. "Well, let us not waste time. I've learned a few things too, Tremayne."
Hurling one of them, she cast wards into place with her other, and—
An enormous wave of energy sent her tumbling, head over heels, her forehead smashing into a tree. Her sorcery flickered out, and for a moment, the world was black. Then she blinked through it, seeing a pair of men step toward her... No, it was only one, but her vision... What had just happened? Surely Tremayne wasn't strong enough to evaporate her wards like that and fling a solid burst of power at her?
"Very good, Sebastian." Tremayne sounded like a proud tutor.
Sebastian? Her skin grew cold. This was the collared one, the man who Cleo had asked her to save, a man who had just used Expression.
The man in front of her slipped his dark hood back from his face, and Eleanor's jaw dropped.
"Drake?" She was seeing things. He looked too young, though the dark hair was the same, and his eyes too, and... No, no, his skin was darker than Drake's, and there was a faint cleft in his chin. The resemblance was uncanny, it was...
And then she knew.
All those years of grieving, the pain she saw in Drake's eyes every June when the anniversary of his son's death grew near... The blood drained out of her face. That lying bitch.
"Afraid not, Eleanor." Tremayne stepped forward and dug a boot between her ribs.
She cried out, tumbling into the leaves. Movement swung out of the corner of her vision, and she wrenched her arms up to protect her face, but the next blow didn't land. Instead Tremayne gave a muffled 'umph.'
El
eanor looked up.
"She's down," the cold, hard voice sounded nothing like Drake. The stranger who wore his youthful face had a hand pressed flat against Tremayne's chest. "You don't need to kick her."
"Oh, boy, you know nothing." That dark smile turned toward her, and the gloating look in Tremayne's face turned her stomach. "She's already dead. But first... we need to find out exactly what she thinks she's doing here and how much the Prime knows."
CHAPTER 18
'T rust is an ambiguous matter.' – Old proverb
"TELL ME about the servants again." Lucien sank into the banked seat at the restaurant. He still didn't quite know what to make of his revelation that he was possibly sharing a table with the thief, only that he needed to know more.
Or more particularly, why.
Logic said he ought to betray her to the Prime. The relic was far too dangerous to have in the wrong hands, but the other part of him, the part that knew the sensation of love whenever Ianthe spoke of the Prime, told him to wait. This game wasn't played out yet. None of this made any sense, least of all why Ianthe would betray a man she adored. He'd merely uncovered a trick hand.
Besides, he had no sense of loyalty to the Prime. If he owed anyone his loyalty, it might possibly be her. With a scowl, Lucien broke off one of the small lilac flowers that sat on the vase on their table, toying with the wooden stem. The color reminded him of her eyes, but the petals were far too delicate and easy to crush. That was not Ianthe. Or at least, he prayed it was not.
"The servants?" Ianthe paused with a forkful of roast squab by her mouth. So far, she'd been eating mechanically, her mind a million miles away. "What servants?"
"The Prime's servants," he replied, reaching across the table to cup her hand beneath his as her gaze drifted to the window again. "I know you can't name any of them who might be our thief, but we're making no progress here." A full morning of fruitless searching stretched behind them, in which they'd traversed half the hotels in this part of the city. Morgana might have been staying at the Windsor at one stage, but she was long gone now.
"I don't think it's the servants. What about what Horroway said about Tremayne?"
"Certainly something to look into, but I want to establish a link between he and the Prime's house. So far all we've done is chase our tail. We know Morgana is in London and she's possibly working with Tremayne, but there's no evidence that either of them stole the relic. We need to start at the beginning, rather than look at a list of people who might, or might not, be suspects, and we need to move faster than we have been." He decided to push her a little. "One would think we were taking a scenic tour of London from the pace we've held in the last couple of days, rather than verging on the edge of certain disaster."
"I see." Ianthe's color had faded, but she sipped at her tea, thoughts racing behind her eyes as she took her hand back from him. A flare of icy gray tinged her expression: nervousness.
Come on. Tell me the truth. Tell me where you've hidden it. Or what you plan to do with it.
"Among the servants, who might have wished Drake ill or been persuaded it would be in their best interests to steal the relic?"
"None who had the opportunity or the means," she replied. "Lucien, Drake and I have been over this."
"Humor me."
Ianthe put her teacup down. "I just... I cannot think of any one of them who might have done it."
"Drake can't be so widely loved that one of them wouldn't have stabbed him in the back. After all, someone did. Just because you care for him, it doesn't mean they all do. We should draw them all in and interrogate them."
"He's a good master," she retorted. "A good man. They might not have meant to do it—"
"That's a rather generous assessment. There's a half dozen reasons that a loyal servant could betray his master: greed, fear... blackmail." The second he said it, his heart skipped a beat. He'd been looking at this wrong, trying to test her allegiances, but it was clear that her loyalty toward the Prime was not in any doubt.
No, but loyalty, whilst a strength, could also be a weakness.
Bloody hell. Lucien sat frozen as every instinct in his mind detonated with certainty. Ianthe's loyalty had never been in any doubt. Even now she argued as assiduously for the man as she ever had, but what if someone was holding something over her head?
"Well, we cannot interrogate them," Ianthe stammered. "Drake doesn't want the rest of the Order to know. With the comet in the sky, if the Order even suspects he has a weakness..."
Oh yes, he'd been looking at this wrong. "Very well. We'll keep looking for the person who would most desire the relic." Because that was who was blackmailing her, he was certain.
Morgana. And Tremayne.
"Why don't we separate for the afternoon?" she suggested. "You can continue covering the hotels, while I go see an old friend of mine. He used to know Tremayne. I should stress that neither of us should engage, should we discover where they're hiding."
He didn't like to think of her out there on her own. "I don't—"
"I can handle myself, Lucien."
Ianthe never liked to be considered vulnerable, but then perhaps she did not realize that it wasn't her vulnerability that concerned him, so much as the thought of her being harmed. Right now, she was far stronger than he, but still mortal. If something happened to her... His fingers curled into a ball at the thought, but the piece of lilac bit into his palm. He eased his fingers, so as not to destroy it. His fingers were too big, but he tried to soothe out one crushed petal.
Well, wasn't that a bloody revelation. Lucien sank back into his seat, fingering the flower. He wasn't about to enlighten her with it. "Where shall we meet?"
"At home? For dinner at six?"
Her home. Not his. But it was starting to feel like a place that had meaning to him.
"I shall see you there," Lucien said, then stood and tucked the bloody flower in his pocket before taking himself off to go hunt for mad sorcerers. "Be careful."
"I always am."
* * *
THE IDEA DIDN'T OCCUR to Lucien until he was striding past Covent Garden. He'd promised to meet up with Ianthe again in an hour, but as he turned down a familiar street, he caught a glimpse of the Phoenix Theatre in the distance, and his footsteps stalled.
Within two minutes, he was pushing his way into the auditorium. The room was silent, the stage barren. Lucien stalked halfway down the aisle, then paused, a prickling sensation tickling over the back of his neck.
He turned sharply.
Remington Cross watched him from the entrance with those dark, enigmatic eyes, his hands in his pockets. He was stripped to his waistcoat and his shirt collar lay undone, as if the man had been at repose. Lucien hadn't felt a single ward set about the place, but his presence had obviously been detected.
"Fancy seeing you here." Cross's eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"A warm welcome." Lucien's lips thinned. "I'd stay to play, but I've got heavy matters weighing upon my mind. I don't have time to fence with you."
Cross's expression flattened, and for a second, it felt like he faced a tiger, lashing its tail as it considered whether to pounce, or whether to hear him out. "Ianthe?"
"At the heart of my concern. I need to ask you some questions, and I don't think I can tell you why."
"Come," the man told him, and strode toward his chambers backstage. Once there, Cross poured them both a whiskey, then nursed his own. "Is she safe?"
"I'm not certain. She's currently visiting a friend, searching for news of Morgana de Wynter and the Earl of Tremayne."
"Morgana? She's back in England?" That arched a brow. "And you left Ianthe there alone?"
"I don't think we're going to find Morgana. And... I don't think Morgana is a danger to her." Not yet, anyway. If Ianthe had delivered the relic, then Morgana might have disposed of her. That she was still alive and hunting her blackmailer meant that the deed hadn't been done yet.
He hoped.
"What is going on? I don't like th
e sound of any of this. Morgana's involvement in anything is bad news."
"I don't know if I trust you," Lucien replied bluntly.
"Well, that's the first sensible thing you've ever said, but then you wouldn't be here if you had anywhere else to go, would you?"
They shared a look.
"I'm not a fool," Cross murmured. "Something's stirring in the Order, and there are potent signs that something big is about to happen in London. Now you bring up the name Morgana. That doesn't ease my mind one whit. Ianthe is dear to me. I should not care to see her in over her head."
"That's the reason I'm here, actually," Lucien replied. "I don't trust the Prime, not entirely, and I have a horrible suspicion about something. If I'm right, then so are you. Miss Martin is well and truly in over her head."
"Tell me."
"Answer this question for me first: Who is Louisa?"
If anything, Cross actually paled, despite his olive skin. "Tell me." He put the whiskey glass down with a flat, ringing sound.
"Who is Louisa?" Lucien repeated in a softer, firmer tone. There was a feeling of inevitability hanging around him, a faint ringing in his ears. Ianthe's revelation that morning about their past dalliance had rocked him, but in the wake of realizing she was his thief, he hadn't followed that thought through to its natural conclusion.
And now it was starting to make itself known. A cold sweat sprang down his spine.
"You know her history. Tell me, did you never wonder why her father threw her out?"
Lucien scraped a shaking hand over his face. "Her sorcery, I presumed." He'd hoped.
Cross examined a penny, flicking it over and under his fingers until it seemed like it vanished between each flick of his hand. "Ianthe's first act of Expression came when she was twelve. Her father suffered her to live under his roof for another five hellish years."
Which meant that something had happened to force Grant Martin's hand. Something beyond Expression. Louisa was the key to it, he felt.
And why did most fathers cast their daughters out at that age? What secret shame drove such an act?
"She has a daughter," Lucien blurted, and the instant the words formed, they felt like truth. The faint silvery lines about her hips and breasts had drawn his attention, but he'd barely seen her in enough light to notice if she wore stronger marks of childbirth or not. A lot of women bore faint marks gained when their weight fluctuated, or when their courses first arrived and their bodies changed. Not all of them were mothers.