by Bec McMaster
"Kisses first," Ianthe said, dragging Lou into her arms. The little girl clung to her, and Ianthe breathed in the sweet scent of her hair. "I missed you," she whispered, "and I promise we are going to have a lot of catching up to do once I've gotten my feet back under me."
Then she snagged Thea into the embrace, kissed her on the forehead, and told them to hurry and fetch her some breakfast, as she was now ravenous.
The door closed behind the two.
Ianthe swallowed. "I still feel like I don't know what to do. It terrifies me sometimes."
Drake crossed to the fireplace to give the coals there a poke. "That feeling never goes away, Ianthe. I think it's part of being a parent."
He wasn't saying something. "How is Eleanor?"
"Lucien's wound wasn't bleeding like Eleanor's was, strangely enough. We used the Chalice to heal her stab wound, but... the doctors believe she's suffered an apoplectic seizure. She cannot speak. She can barely feed herself, or dress herself, but she's there. I know she's there. I see her in those eyes when she looks at me, as if she wants me so desperately to understand her." He fell silent, toying with the hilt of the poker. "They think Ellie would do better if I committed her to a treatment facility."
"Oh, Drake," Ianthe whispered. "What are you going to do?"
"I am going to keep her here. I will look after her myself. I owe her nothing less. She... she only went into danger in order to protect me."
"And the Order?"
Drake turned toward her, face implacable. "I cannot remain Prime. I cannot split my attention between the Order's needs and my own anymore, and I'll be damned if, for once in my life, I don't give the right priority to those who need me, to my family. I intend to resign."
Ianthe's eyebrows arched. That was unheard of, but then, what man would resign from a position of such power?
"But what about Morgana? What about Tremayne? The Relics?"
"Morgana is dead. The house collapsed and she never emerged. Some of my men are excavating as we speak, but I expect that thorn in my side to have been buried. Tremayne, however, remains a problem. The second the tides of the battle turned against him, he commanded his remaining imps to overrun Agatha and Bishop, and then he fled. Bishop intends to hunt him down. The Relics? Well, Bishop still has the Chalice that Agatha gave to him, and the Blade was destroyed in the conflict. I'll set him to hunting for the Wand too. Morgana shall have hidden it somewhere, I presume."
She knew him too well. His bland recital hid something that he didn't want to discuss. Too bad. That was part of having this little ragtag family of theirs. "And Sebastian?"
Drake's gaze slid to the window, staring at nothing. "No sign of him. I suspect we will find him once the excavation has been completed."
"Oh, Drake, I'm so sorry."
"I knew it was too good to be true. I'd grieved for him for so long, that when I realized he was still alive..." His stiff, proud shoulders wilted slightly. "I–I couldn't save them all. I couldn't get to him in time, and Morgana... she stabbed him with the Blade. He would have bled out." He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself. "So you're asking the wrong person what it's like to be a parent. I'm the failure, Ianthe. Not you."
"You were never a failure, Drake. Not to me."
He smiled at her, but it was empty. "Thank you. And now that you've seen straight through me, I must return the favor. You haven't asked about Lucien."
How well they knew each other. "You told me he had bonded me. I assumed he was all right." She thought about it, feeling that faint psychic touch against her. "No. I know he's all right. Limping slightly and favoring his right foot, but the wound in his side seems perfectly whole."
"Do you wish to see him?"
Yes. Always yes. Lucien had become her entire life, filling her world with him. She couldn't wait to settle into an ordinary life with him and watch him love their daughter, and hopefully one day, herself. "Tell him I'll meet him in the orangery. Just let me dress first."
* * *
LUCIEN PACED on the tiled floor, tapping his hat against his thigh. A little quiver plucked at the bond that he would wear forever, like fingers rippling over cellists' stings, and he turned, his breath catching at the sight of her.
Ianthe took a hesitant step inside the orangery, dark circles still shadowing her eyes. Her skin was pale against the lavender skirts she wore, but he thought, in that moment, that he'd never seen her so beautiful. Perhaps the near loss of her only served to emphasize how precious she'd become.
They stared at each other for a long moment; then she breathed out a faint laugh that barely hid a tremble. "I must look a sight."
"You do," he said hoarsely. "You look beautiful."
Faint color flickered over her cheeks. "I told Drake that I agreed to the bond," Ianthe blurted. "I know it wasn't what you wanted, but thank—"
He took that final step toward her and wrapped a hand around the back of her neck. Dragging her against him, he stole her words with his mouth.
Ianthe gasped, and then her hands locked in his collar.
A kiss to steal his senses, to sign his fate. It terrified him to think of how close he'd come to losing this forever. Kissing her had become more than a pleasure, but a sign of intimacy, a sign of surrender... That foolish bet sprang to mind. How arrogant it seemed now. A play of power between them, when they'd both been wary. He gave her that power now, gave it wholly and without doubt, surrendering everything that he was into her hands. One of them broke the kiss—him or her, he wasn't certain—and they stood against the wall, panting.
"We cannot break this bond," she whispered, still holding onto his collar.
"Do you wish to?"
Ianthe looked up, her heart in her eyes. "No. But y-you—"
"I have no regrets, Ianthe." His thumb stroked her cheek. "I want you to know that. I consider myself the luckiest man alive right now. I love you."
Ianthe looked up shyly from beneath her sable lashes. It ached that he could see the pleased sense of shock in her, as if nobody had ever told her such a thing. At least there was no doubt. She trusted him, believed in the words he was telling her, and he knew then that he would have to keep telling her such a thing over and over until she forgot all of the times she had been told she was not worthy of such.
"I love you," he repeated, his voice firming. "And I'm going to marry you. We can be a family—you, me, and Louisa."
"And Thea."
"And Thea. I had nothing, nobody. That's the truth of it. My life was dust, Ianthe, until I met you."
"The first time? When I came to arrest you." She tried to make light of it, and he realized she was still a little uncomfortable with this outpouring of emotion.
"The first time," he corrected, "when you walked into that grotto, gowned in white silk with a filigreed mask hiding those beautiful eyes. That was the beginning of us. You stole my breath. I just never realized that you stole my heart too. I mean to have all of your nights, Ianthe, and I shall give you my days. All of my days. And all of my heart." His voice roughened. "I didn't… I didn't realize how much you meant to me until you collapsed. I suspected, of course, but that moment... Nothing in my life has ever meant as much to me as you do. As Louisa does. I want you to know that."
Ianthe swallowed. "I hardly know what to say."
"Say you believe it. Say you deserve it."
Those violet eyes met his. She was hesitant. "I believe it. I deserve it. And I love you too, Lucien. I never dared admit that until yesterday, because I was frightened that it could be taken away from me."
"Nothing can take it away from us. We live together, and eventually, we shall die together, our breaths as one. Come here." He leaned down to kiss her. It was the sweetest sensation in the world, feeling her heart beating in time with his own. The kiss drifted on for long minutes, a slow and steady exploration, as if they had all the time in the world.
"To forever then," Ianthe said breathlessly when she finally drew back.
"All our da
ys and nights," he agreed.
And for the first time in her life, Ianthe believed in such a promise—he could feel it light her up within, soaking through their Soul-bond and filling him with it too.
Forever.
EPILOGUE
M ORGANA COUGHED the ash from her lungs and then quivered, lying still for a moment to catch her breath—and her bearings. Something weighed her down, and the world was blackness and rubble. Every inch of her hurt, as though poison raced through her veins, scalding her from the inside out. And... and she couldn't seem to feel her toes. No, not just her toes. Her entire lower half was nothing more than numbness.
Her own son had betrayed her, and the girl, Cleo, had something to do with it. Drake had won, or no, not quite... She'd had one last hand to deal, and it was a winning hand, but where... Patting around, her heart erupted into panic. Where was the Blade? Where was her trump card?
Morgana scrabbled beneath her smoking skirts and found the hilt of the Blade there. Relief flooded through her. Her smile was a thing of vengeance. They thought they had beaten her, but she still had the relic, and now they would presume themselves safe.
After all, when one's greatest gift was Illusion, sleight of hand was but a mere trick. Sebastian's power might be brutal, but the kitchen knife that she'd wielded last night had borne the brunt of it, not the Blade hidden in her skirts. All she'd had to do was make sure the ensuing explosion felt powerful enough to hint at the destruction of a Relic Infernal.
Still, she wasn't certain how she was going to manage to get out of here.
She tried to move her legs, and... nothing.
A new fear enveloped her.
No. Not this. This would not be her price to pay, it would not be.
She fought long and hard, straining to force her weakened body to obey. The heavy beam across the middle of her back had no give to it, and the exertion left her panting, clutching hopelessly at the treasure in her hand, a treasure that was ultimately worthless if she couldn't force herself to escape this physical trap.
Her magic was useless, drained in the encounter.
Her body was useless.
"Damn you," Morgana cried, her forehead resting against the timber floors and a hot tear scalding her cheek. "You fucking useless piece of flesh. You bleeding little whore." Her uncle's favorite words to use against her, and she used them now to inspire that inner rage that always burned, but even her own innate fury could give her no release. "Get up!"
The door opened with a creak.
Morgana froze.
A pair of men's heeled shoes came into view and a tall shape materialized, wearing a long black cloak with a hood. His face was somewhat obscured, and she blinked away her tears, trying desperately to make him out.
The ominous click of the heels came closer. Morgana's breath caught in her chest, but it didn't matter. She was helpless.
That was when she saw his face, that bland marionette mask beneath the hood with spells of Illusion carved into the papier–mâché. Her eye wanted to follow the runes that burned with a brassy gleam, but she forced herself to meet his eyes, ignoring the flicker of an image—a young, handsome man—that the spell suggested to her weakened mind.
Those empty, black holes gleamed with nothingness. Every person who passed this man would see a different face in their mind. Nobody would be able to describe him. Only she, who knew Illusion, could see through it.
"What are you?" she whispered, forcing herself to swallow. "Show me your face!"
"I find it interesting that you think yourself in the position to make such demands," the stranger said. The words burned into her mind, as if they'd bypassed her ears entirely.
Her heart hammered, her blood seeming to freeze in her veins. She'd heard that voice before. She'd commanded it, so many years ago, when she, Drake, and Tremayne began to dabble with the Relics Infernal. Her fist clenched around the hilt of the Blade, but the creature merely laughed.
"Yessss," it whispered and reached up to remove its mask of Illusion. "Now you are beginning to understand."
Slowly, the mask lowered, and Morgana squeezed her eyelids tightly together. She did not want to see it.
"Look at me."
She shook her head.
"Look at me, or I shall remove your eyelids, so you may never look away again."
That made her open them.
Noah Guthrie's body. Or it had been once.
The creature squatted in front of her, his trousers straining over his thighs. His eyes burned holes of fire in his handsome face. He was beautiful, stunning, his skin made of pure alabaster, as if carved by a Renaissance master. Except... Except for the faint flaws, the sheer inhumanness of it. The skin on the middle of its forehead smoked and began to peel, a sigil of burning light branding itself there. A sigil she never, ever wanted to see again.
Morgana froze, turning her eyes away from the sight. She couldn't breathe. All of her life, her dreams, her ambitions... destroyed. She knew it already. And now she was at the mercy of a being who could, and would, do anything it wanted to her. Helpless. She knew that feeling so well. She'd spent years fighting to put herself in a position where she would never be helpless again, but the world conspired against her.
"I see you remember me."
How could she forget? It was the first creature they'd ever summoned from the Nether Reaches, a plane of existence that some termed Hell. Their audacity had been met by a being of power that had stared at them as though it were committing their faces to memory.
Tremayne had crowed, as if the world had been handed to them on a platter, but Drake had grown still. And Morgana had hovered between both emotions. Here was the world—power, revenge, and everything she'd ever wanted—hers for the taking... But meeting the demon's eyes felt like staring into an abyss that had suddenly opened beneath her feet.
The creature smiled, an expression that made her feel like a cold claw was trailing down her spine. "What can I do for you? Mastersss?"
"Tell us your true name," Tremayne had demanded. A name was power, or so it was spoken by all the mystics. "You are bound by these relics. You must obey me."
It had been a little too easy. The creature blinked. Its eyes narrowed, a muscle jumping in its jaw, and then with a snarl it had spat: "Lascher."
"We can never do this again," Drake had told her, later that night. "We have to destroy the Relics."
"But—"
"I caught a glimpse of its mind, Morgana." His voice had been tight. "For all its subservience today, it was furious. It wanted to destroy us, to rein upon us agony that would break a man's mind and tear him limb from limb, then do it over and over. We can never bind that creature again."
"But with the relics, we can control it."
"Do you believe that?" he'd asked, turning to face her.
And she'd doubted, just enough to agree to his plan to steal the Relics from Tremayne and replace them with illusory ones.
Over the years, she'd come to regret that decision, declaiming it as weak, but now, now that she stared up into those merciless pits of eyes... "What do you w-want with me?"
"What I've always wanted," Lascher replied. "It has been a mere flicker of years for me, a blink of the eye, but for you it has been many. Your flesh is sagging and eating itself alive from the inside with age. You are weaker and vulnerable." It poked her directly in the thigh, and to her horror, Morgana felt nothing. "I could tear you limb from limb, just for the audacity in summoning me, but I want more." It leaned closer. "We have an enemy in common, you and me. A powerful enemy."
"Who?"
"The one you call the Prime. He is too powerful for me to confront. Serve me," the creature replied, reaching out to stroke her tearstained face with his gloved hands, "and I may not kill you."
Never deal with a demon. Never trust them. Never believe what they can offer you. The only way to approach them was with the Relics Infernal in hand.
But what choice did she have? She couldn't feel her legs and her magic
was weakened inside her. She needed to regain her strength, and even then she might not be able to fight this creature off.
"I can help you make them pay," it whispered, and the whisper slithered all the way through her veins. "I can help you bring that son you spat into the world to heel. I can help you make him crawl."
Yes, her heart thundered, while the little part of her that often offered counsel hid in its corner of her mind.
"I can give you back your legs," it promised, and Morgana's tears welled again, against her will. "I will even allow you to keep this." He slid the Blade closer to her fingers with the tip of his shoe.
"What is your other choice?" it taunted. "Lie here and rot whilst your enemies dance on your bones? Perhaps you will die before others find you, others who find your weakness... appealing. Or perhaps you will not."
There was no choice, not truly. Morgana grit her teeth. "What is your price? What do you get out of this?"
"The same thing you desire. Vengeance. To crush those who thought to harm me beneath my heel." He lifted a hand to his flawed cheek, to the marred flesh there, looking thoughtful. "And I am not fully here. Something happened when you used the Blade. I was brought only halfway into this world, my vessel torn from me before I could overtake it."
She'd used the kitchen knife to stab both Lucien and Sebastian, not the Blade. If he ever found out... "Then how—?" she blurted, gesturing to the body it wore to distract it.
"This?" It traced a proprietary finger down its suit. "Tremayne found this for me several months ago. It serves as a vessel until another more suitable one can be found. I can only use it for short periods of time, however, as the body weakens too swiftly. I need a stronger vessel, one that commands sorcery on the highest level and doesn't burn out so swiftly."
Several months ago. Her ally had never mentioned anything about this, but then Tremayne had somehow gotten his powers back after the Order's Council had locked them away from him.