by Bec McMaster
Cleo swiftly looked up, to see if Sebastian was watching her. Her heart threatened to stop in her chest, she swore it did, and a breathless, slightly horrified feeling ran through her.
For if she was reading this correctly, then she bore some part of the Shadow Dimension within her own veins, and that alone had given her the great gifts she could work with.
Chapter 16
'I don't even know why I keep writing in this bloody thing. But if they won't listen to the words that spill from my lips, then perhaps they will read these. I hope you read this, Agatha. I hope you understand you have ruined everything. I hope Drake reads this, and knows he has committed an innocent woman to die. For I have been guilty of many things, but this one time I am innocent of the charges against me. I did not kill Drake's nephew. I had no need to, for I am with my own child, finally. And my baby would have been heir. I knew how Drake doted on little Richard. It would have been foolish indeed to strike against him, but nobody will believe me... Nobody. You would think I would have learned this lesson, would you not? I trusted Drake. I trusted him, and when I needed him, he was not there. No, he too, points a guilty finger toward me. The only thing I have left is this child—this precious child within me—who has stayed my execution until I deliver him. But I swear to every god out there; Drake will never know this child. I will kill it before I birth it into its father's world.'
* * *
—Morgana's journal on the day of her judgment
* * *
SEBASTIAN MOVED THROUGH the twilight quiet of Rathbourne Manor, uneasy with himself. Cleo was resting, and he should have been doing the same, considering his exhaustion. He'd barely been able to sleep in three days.
What if he'd lost her? He felt ill just thinking about it. It was one thing to consider an annulment, and a new life away from her. In his dreams she'd always gone on and remarried, finally forging the happy family she desired so much. It gave him some sense of peace to consider he could make her happy by removing himself from her life. All he'd ever wanted was to make her happy.
But to lose her to death....
The thought froze him every single time it passed through his mind. He saw his mother again, and his wife standing between them, her wards blazing.... A part of him died in that moment. There was nothing Morgana could do to him now or in the future that could ever compete with that single, heart-wracking moment when he'd thought Morgana would destroy Cleo.
But she hadn't.
No relief there. He'd seen the expression on Morgana's face as she realized Cleo was more than her match.
If you can't defeat an enemy, then you take them out of the equation no matter what you must do....
Cleo had just found herself at the top of his mother's destroy-at-all-costs list. He knew Morgana too well to think otherwise.
Mother of night, he had to protect her. No matter what the cost was, no matter what he had to do. The second he returned to Bishop's house he was going to take that fucking ticket to Manhattan and rip it into little pieces.
But first.... He'd been a reluctant partner in this entire scheme to overthrow the demon and save his father. Guilt was a strong motivator, but sometimes he'd wondered if it wouldn't be better—easier—to simply vanish into the world.
Now he had a new reason to throw himself behind this cause.
Tracking down his brother wasn't easy, particularly with Ianthe buried in paperwork at her desk. The last thing he wanted to do was stir that dragon. As much as the Prime had been cordial, he wasn't fool enough to think she'd forgiven him.
The soft murmur of his brother's voice drew him upstairs, to where Louisa had her bedchambers and nursery. There was another girl up here somewhere—Ianthe's apprentice, Thea, if he remembered correctly—but the level was quiet, except for the patient sound of Lucien's voice. Three bears and three bowls of porridge, and yet it sounded like there was nothing Lucien would rather be doing. Bloody hell. It felt like Sebastian had suddenly awoken in another world. This was so different to anything he'd ever experienced.
Or was it?
She read to me once. When I was a little boy....
Hatred surged, and anger, and goddess-knew-what-else. This was all Lady E's fault for putting the diary in his hands. It was easier to deal with the collar and the abuse when he didn't have to remember Morgana being a mother at all. Why? Why had she suddenly changed? She'd never been perfect. Indeed, she was hateful some of the time, and absent the rest. But every now and then she'd brushed his hair off his forehead as if she gave a damn, and sometimes she'd smiled at him, or been proud of him for his lessons. Those were the moments that made his heart ache, for he'd been so hungry for them as a little boy.
Why had she hated him too?
What had he done to turn her against him so suddenly on his thirteenth birthday? She'd been so proud when his powers first came in, and she'd marveled at the strength of them.
"You're everything I've ever hoped for, Sebastian."
But as time went on, he'd seen wariness compete with pride in her eyes.
Sebastian rested a shoulder against the cracked door to Louisa's bedchamber, watching as Lucien drew the covers up over his child's chest, and leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead. No wariness there. Only tenderness and love and a father's protective spirit.
Sebastian couldn't look away. Something in the moment seemed incredibly alluring. Maybe it was the trusting expression on the girl's face as her eyelashes fluttered closed. Or maybe it was the way Lucien looked down at her as if he'd just been given the world.
And a new image arose: a little girl with moonbeam-pale curls, blinking sleepily as he was the one who put her to bed.
A child.
One with her mother's dark eyes, and her stubborn mouth. Sebastian froze uncomfortably, for this was not a dream he'd ever had before, and he was surprised at how much he suddenly wanted it.
Nothing.... Nothing had ever frightened him more.
Lucien put his finger to his lips as he stood up, moving silently through the room. Sebastian stepped back into the hallway, waiting for his brother to close the door. His heart beat a little raggedly. He could still see that little girl, but hell, he wasn't even anywhere near ready to accept the idea.
"How is she?" Lucien asked.
"Sleeping," he replied, for Lucien had been in several times during the day to check upon Cleo. Whatever anyone thought of him, they loved his wife. "She wants to delve back into her Sidestep Through Time book, as she thinks there's something important within it she needs to know, but I made her put it aside. She needs rest."
"A premonition?"
"I don't know." She was hiding something from him. "It gives me an itchy feeling. A knowing."
"Cleo's intuitive senses are the best I've ever encountered," Lucien admitted. "She's probably picking up on something, and you're probably feeling the echoes of it."
"She can read the book tomorrow," he replied, still troubled. "I don't want her to overtax herself."
"If I can give you a little bit of advice in regards to handling your wife... don't give her any ultimatums. Try and make her think that resting is her idea."
"Oh, don't worry. I'm learning that lesson."
Lucien shared his dry amusement. "If it's any consolation, it's worse when your wife is mistress of over four hundred sorcerers. Especially when you were the one who suggested she take the role."
Sebastian's smile died. "Your wife hates me."
Thunder grumbled in the distance, as if to agree.
"She doesn't hate you. But this is not a conversation to be having here, outside Louisa's room. This way," Lucien murmured, heading toward the orangery at the end of the house.
There was little choice but to follow. It wasn't as though he had anything particular to say to the man, but it wasn't as though he had anything better to do either, and there was an odd yearning in him tonight. The urge to talk to someone, though damned if he knew why.
Or what about.
These people
were getting to him. He barely knew them, but there was something about belonging here that made him feel itchy.
A ridiculous notion, for he'd never belong. Ianthe had all the reason in the world to hate him. He'd helped kidnap her daughter, and his mother had used the opportunity to blackmail her into stealing the Blade of Altarrh from Drake.
They ought to hate him.
Collar notwithstanding.
Lightning flickered on the horizon as Lucien led him inside the orangery. The windows faced the city, with beautiful views over the Rathbourne gardens. No sign of those views now, with a rainy darkness descended over the house, but the view within was glorious enough. Someone had clearly spent a great deal of time cultivating the orangery of late. The leaves of over a dozen fruit trees beckoned lushly.
Summoning a white mage globe, Lucien left it sitting on a shelf, and shut the door. The ease with which he tied off the sorcerous weaves made Sebastian vaguely envious.
"Ianthe doesn't hate you," Lucien murmured, sinking into one of the overstuffed armchairs in the corner, and gesturing to the other.
Sebastian shook his head to the seat. Too restless for that. "If she could poison my tea, I'm fairly certain she'd consider it."
"With a strong emetic, perhaps. Her feelings are conflicted. Every time she looks at you she sees your mother, and she sees her daughter in the hands of your mother. But Louisa says you protected her." Lucien clasped his hands over his middle, eyeing him with those enigmatic eyes. "Lou's quite fond of you. Apparently you're terrible at tea parties though, which gives Ianthe pause. The idea of you sitting down to a child's tea party is a difficult one to swallow.”
Heat stirred in his cheeks. "It was one afternoon. Morgana wasn't at the house, and Louisa was upset."
"Nobody quite knows what to make of you."
"Likewise." He circled the room. "You're potting lemons." It seemed such a strange thing, to connect with Lucien on this level. The stillness of the room brought him peace. He felt like he could breathe here, the way he couldn't elsewhere.
"Drake thought it might help me to meditate and heal my aura." Lucien shrugged, pushing to his feet as if to follow. "This close to winter, it's not as though I can go and walk around barefoot on the lawns."
"Bishop said your powers have..."
"Waned?" Lucien arched a brow. "My psychic senses scarred? I believe that's the description you're looking for."
He shifted awkwardly.
Lucien turned toward his potting station, running a hand over the marble slab. "I told you Lord Rathbourne put a sclavus collar upon me. I didn't tell you why. He demanded I raise a demon—the demon we're currently facing—and use it to destroy the Prime.
"It's the only reason I'm still alive. When I summoned Lascher—the demon— and sent it to attack Drake, it wasn't by intention. I had no choice. Drake was forced to lock me in Bedlam afterward, as the entire affair scarred my aura and my abilities to channel power, but it meant I wasn't executed."
Hell. He hadn't known that. Sebastian toyed with the timber handle on a trowel. "You still feel strong to me." He thought about it. "I'd almost say your raw sorcerous strength is greater than Bishop's."
"The amount of power I can probably wield is immense, yes, and no doubt similar to what I used to be able to hold. But my ability to channel that much power is greatly affected."
"It bothers you to be so scarred?"
"Yes, it bothers me, though not as much as it did once. I have a wife and child now. A home. To have lost a significant portion of my strength seems a small trade in hindsight." But he looked discomforted. "It bothers me most at night, when I consider what's coming. How can I protect my wife, my child, when I am only just relearning how to use my sorcery?"
Sebastian leaned against the potting counter. How could he protect Cleo when he could barely control his burgeoning powers? All along he'd been focused on overthrowing his mother, but the second he saw Cleo collapse, everything changed.
This was no longer about revenge.
It was no longer about guilt.
They would have to confront the demon at some stage. It had sworn an oath to Drake not to harm any of them, unless they made a move against it, but they couldn't leave it out there, running amok in London. It felt like no matter which way he looked, he was heading for an inexorable collision with a creature that could destroy them all. Bishop had been heading toward this collision with single-minded focus for the past month, but it was the first time he'd begun to think in tune with his brother.
The only way to protect Cleo was to face the demon.
A creature that had the power to destroy them all.
"Can we defeat it?" he asked softly.
Lucien frowned. "With the Relics, perhaps. It will take the three of us, however...."
"And you're scarred," he whispered, "and I'm untrained, and Bishop... well, Bishop can probably manage. I haven't seen anything he can't do yet."
Their eyes met.
We'll fail, he thought bleakly.
But he was done with running away from his future. Perhaps it was time to deal with the past.
And with his wife.
* * *
Cleo stirred as her bed dipped. Alarm roused, but then she came awake just enough to realize who the intruder was.
Sebastian slid beneath the covers in the dark, his weight heavy in the bed. "I didn't mean to wake you."
Her heart beat quickly. "What are you doing in here?"
He'd never ventured into her bedchambers, and the only time they'd ever shared a bed—their wedding night—he'd finally fled to the sanctity of the trundle in his dressing room.
Sebastian sighed, as he rolled onto his side to face her. "I couldn't sleep."
She didn't have to worry whether he was wearing anything beneath the blankets. He wouldn't be unclothed. He never was.
Cleo lay back down, though how on earth he thought she was going to sleep like this, she didn't know. Her nightgown felt like a thin shield against him. Naked or not, she felt like she was. "Are you going to... sleep here?"
What a stupid question. She pressed her hands to her face. He'd been at her side all day, reclining in the armchair beside her bed every time she woke. Last night bothered him. She knew that. But it was one thing to find him at her side, another to lie beside him, with her breath coming shortly, and her body horribly aware of him.
"Do you mind?"
"No," she whispered.
Silence stretched out, and she didn't know whether that was worse.
He wouldn't want her to touch him.
He'd made that quite clear on their wedding night. Especially if he was asleep and he didn't know who she was....
"All right," she said hoarsely, rolling away from him. She could do this. "I'll see you in the morning then."
Sebastian shifted, and she stared at the far wall, trying desperately not to wonder what he was doing.
"May I hold you?"
For a second she almost didn't realize what he'd said. Cleo froze. "O-of course."
The mattress shifted, and then a warm, callused hand reached out and found her arm. She flinched. Not in shock or horror, but in anticipation.
Sebastian nestled in behind her, a fold in the blankets keeping their bodies apart, his breath stirring her hair.
Darkness, ever her ally, kept him from seeing the pink stain on her cheeks. They lay stiffly together, her head snug against the pillow, and his body politely aligned against hers. Slowly, his palm closed over her side, resting there. All she could hear was the sound of her heartbeat in her ears, and the soft rush of his breath past his lips.
What had happened to provoke such a response from him? He'd been cool and unreadable most of the day, his shields irrevocably in place, and she'd been distracted enough not to notice anything amiss. The book consumed her attention.
But now she found herself wondering....
Slowly she relaxed and closed her eyes, surrendering to the moment. She'd spent so many nights dreaming of wha
t it would feel like to lie in his arms.
"Is your head still aching?" he murmured.
"No." Some part of her hated to break the silence. It seemed like a single word could destroy this fragile truce, and she wasn't prepared to let him go.
Love me. Please love me.
But she didn't dare say the words aloud, and she kept her own shields in place so he wouldn't hear her thoughts.
"I have been thinking," he murmured, his breath caressing the back of her neck, "about what you asked me the other day."
"Asked you?"
"About someone from my past."
She turned her head to glance at him.
"I vaguely recall seeing Julia Camden reading tea leaves once," he said, his lips pressing thinly together. "And it seems more than a coincidence to see her at the Ascension ball barely an hour before Morgana attacked. They were allies once, and though she claimed she hadn't seen my mother since...."
Julia Camden reading tea leaves. Cleo's heart beat swiftly. Was Julia Camden her black queen? "Any trained sorcerer can read tea leaves," she said, more to herself than anyone. "It doesn't make her a seer."
Was it enough proof? She almost wanted to believe it.
"It's just a thought. Is there any reason you wanted to know?"
Cleo slammed the gates shut on those particular thoughts, and knew he'd felt it. "No reason. Just trying to deduce who might be working for the demon."
His hand settled on her arm, and he stroked his fingers down it.
"Can you promise me something?" he murmured.
Anything. "Of course."
"If we meet my mother again, you're not to get involved," he said, and hesitated as if he wanted to add more.
"I can't promise that." Sebastian stirred, but she rolled back into his embrace, her spine meeting his chest as she glanced over her shoulder at him. "I won't promise that, because I don't know if I could keep such a promise if your life was on the line."
She couldn't see his face in the dark, only the sharp outline of his nose, and the slope of his brow.