Spellbreaker

by Charlie N. Holmberg

Interesting. A policeman blew a whistle nearby; it was deafening.

  “Move along!” shouted the frustrated officer from before. His eyes landed on Rainer and Bacchus. “Don’t you speak English? Move along.”

  Bacchus’s eyebrows drew together. “I believe I’m in the correct line.”

  The officer looked genuinely confused. Bacchus tried not to let irritation mark his features—this was just the way of things. He would never be fully accepted into high English society, not with the way he looked.

  The sooner he left England, the better. With any luck, he’d get what he needed at this auction. Earn his mastership and book his passage home, the coveted ambulation spell written on his soul.

  “This line is for the auction house,” the officer stated dumbly.

  “I’m aware,” Bacchus replied.

  The officer paused for a moment, then distracted himself with an older couple who had stopped to gawk at the fanfare. “Move along!”

  The crowd shifted, and Bacchus finally reached the front of the line. Rainer spoke for him. “Bacchus Kelsey.”

  The large man with the ledger eyed them for a moment before scrolling through the paperwork. He drew a line across the page with a pencil. Tipped his head toward his companion.

  The second, shorter man said, “Turn out your pockets, please.”

  Bacchus gritted his teeth—he didn’t recall those before him being asked to do this—but obliged. He didn’t carry a lot on him, and Rainer had his coin. An exorbitant amount of money saved for years for this very purpose. Money he would have gladly given the Assembly of the London Physical Atheneum were they not pompous hornswogglers.

  His belongings were rifled through, and Bacchus kept his eyes on each gloved hand, ensuring nothing slipped into the wrong pocket. The officer then instructed Bacchus to lift his arms to be searched.

  It was incredibly tempting to put the man in his place. To freeze him with a spell, or turn him green. To reprimand him for not respecting his betters, however much Bacchus hated the very notion. Once he had a title, such things would be easier to evade, but he’d been hesitant to take the master test. Until he did, there was always the chance the assembly members might change their mind and allow him to use the ambulation spell for his advancement rights. A slender chance, to be sure, but a chance, nonetheless. One he hoped he would not need to rely on. Master Bennett’s opus was to be one of the first items up for bid.

  So Bacchus submitted silently, and security did its job quickly. His things were returned to him, along with a blue paddle marked 18, denoting him as an aspector. Only those with blue paddles were allowed to bid on magical items. Withholding a sigh, Bacchus proceeded inside.

  He took a seat in the middle of the auction room, a large gray-walled space decorated with a few portraits and a tasteful amount of décor, while Rainer waited in the back with the other servants. Bacchus wanted to blend in, but he needed to be sure the auctioneer noticed him. Turning the paddle in his hands, he watched the podium until the auctioneer, his mustache long and graying, stepped up to it.

  The first item was a painting of a teapot that went for a surprising amount of money. The second was Master Bennett’s journals, five in total, well worn and engraved. One would think the personal musings of a father would be kept in the family, but if there was any chance Master Bennett had shared a spell or two in those pages, they would be worth a great deal. Unsurprisingly, the bound books went for double the cost of the painting.

  Bacchus stiffened when the next item came out. Before it was even announced, he knew this was the opus he sought. A thick tome, bound in polished, red-hued leather with half a dozen burgundy ribbons streaming from its spine. The pages, clamped shut, had rough edges that sparkled when the book was placed on its easel. This was the opus of a true master, and a wealthy one at that.

  “The opus of the late Lord Master Cassius Bennett, physical aspector, deceased 1894. Opening bid will start at five hundred eighty pounds.”

  A price that could make a man weep. But this was a master opus.

  Bacchus’s hand tightened around his paddle as he forced himself to wait. A man in gray near the front lifted his. Five hundred eighty pounds. Six hundred. Six hundred twenty-five. “Six fifty? Do I hear six fifty?”

  Bacchus’s paddle surged into the air.

  His bid was noted with the tip of the auctioneer’s pen. “Six seventy-five? A truly magnificent opus. No? Six seventy.”

  The man in gray raised his paddle.

  Bacchus raised his.

  A woman in the back raised hers.

  Sweat pricked Bacchus’s hairline and spine. The bidding continued apace, but he practiced forbearance, waiting for a lull.

  “One thousand and twenty?”

  He raised his paddle.

  So did the man in gray.

  His palms began to sweat. With a start of five eighty, he’d felt confident the bidding would stay under his cap. Neither the painting nor the journals had taken long to find a buyer. This competition had begun to drag, however, the number climbing ever higher.

  The woman, after whispering to her companion, raised her paddle for one thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds.

  Bacchus raised his. “Two thousand three hundred.” His low voice carried across the room.

  A small gasp sounded from the row behind him.

  Almost immediately, the man in gray raised his paddle, and Bacchus’s heart dropped to his ankles. “Two thousand five hundred.”

  Bacchus could not meet the price, let alone beat it. Not without taking foolish measures, succumbing to debt, and hurting those who depended on him.

  “Going once,” called the auctioneer.

  It tempted him. Surely he could make it work. Just a small push, a little discomfort, and the tome would be his. Might be his. He hadn’t a clue how much the man in gray was worth.

  His arm twitched as he squeezed his paddle. He needed that spell. If he didn’t get that opus, he didn’t know where to turn next.

  “Going twice.” The threat echoed between the walls.

  He wanted to claim he was so desperate for the spell because he needed it for his tenants, his property, his holdings. It was true, in a sense—it would help him serve them—but they didn’t need him. Ultimately, the spell was for him.

  Bacchus’s fingers slackened in defeat.

  “Sold to eleven!”

  But he was not defeated yet.

  Several grumbling people stood and made their way to the door as the next item was brought out for bidding. Not wishing to draw attention to himself, Bacchus remained seated for the rest of the auction, which drew out far too long with far too many petty things. The whole time, he kept his eye on the man in gray. He looked to be in his forties, well groomed. He was balding and had a straight spine. He also remained for the duration of the auction, bidding on two other items, winning one of them.

  When the bidders were finally dismissed, Bacchus pushed through the crowd to the edge of the room, keeping an eye on the man in gray. Not a difficult task, given his height.

  Rainer found him. Before he could offer any condolences, Bacchus said, “Tell me you know that man’s name.”

  “Felton Shaw,” Rainer replied without hesitation. “Owns several gentlemen’s clubs.”

  “Aspector?”

  “Yes, but rumor says he’s topped off.”

  Topped off? Meaning he had already reached his magical limitations. Some people, no matter how much they paid and how much they studied, simply couldn’t become powerful aspectors because their bodies lacked the ability to hold enough spells. Topping off was usually kept private. Shaw was either barely a master or he’d paid handsomely to get that blue paddle.

  Did he even have the paperwork to own a copy of an opus?

  Right now, the man’s reasons didn’t matter.

  Mr. Shaw took his time finding his way out, choosing a side door instead of fighting through the crush at the back. Bacchus stuck his manners in his pocket and pushed his way throu
gh the crowd, taking long strides once he was free. He met Mr. Shaw at the turn of the hallway.

  He bowed. “Mr. Shaw, congratulations on your wins. I hope to strike up a matter of business with you.”

  The older, smaller man lifted a monocle to his eye and studied Bacchus for an instant. “I’m listening.” He sounded unsure.

  “The opus you won,” Bacchus began.

  “The copy, you mean. Yes, you did a good job of driving up the price.”

  That’s how auctions work. “I would pay a fair sum just to read one of the spells within it. I’m ready and willing to provide you with the proper certificates.”

  Mr. Shaw’s eyebrows climbed into the brim of his hat. “Is that so? I don’t know every spell it contains, mind you, only what was listed in the description.”

  A description that had not been released until after Bacchus entered the auction house. “I seek the master ambulation spell.”

  The Englishman’s countenance fell slack. “That’s illegal.”

  “I assure you it is not; I am a registered aspector and have the necessary clearance.”

  “I will not sell any of the master spells.” Mr. Shaw took a step forward, but Bacchus stopped him with raised hands. His pulse hammered in his wrists.

  “Allow me only to memorize it. It is for my own progress. I will pay handsomely.”

  He was offering the man a silver tea platter with cups full of gold. He’d give it all just to know what made that spell work. He needed it.

  “Two thousand—”

  “No.” Mr. Shaw cut the overly generous offer into pieces. “I have plans for the master spells, plans that are more lucrative even than your coffers. I must decline.”

  He stepped around Bacchus.

  Bacchus spun. “You are a man of business. Surely you must see reason—”

  Mr. Shaw paused only long enough to spit, “Ask me again, and I’ll alert security.”

  Bacchus froze and watched the petulant, rich Englishman stalk away. The urge to pick him up and throw him into a wall—no magic required—burned in his arms. His pulse sang in his ears.

  First the assembly, and now this. He couldn’t wrap his mind around all the stuff and nonsense. Had England changed so much in the few years since his last visit? Was there some sort of political thread he wasn’t cutting? Why was this so bloody hard?

  To frustrate matters further, he was already growing tired. He moved his hand to his diaphragm, to the spell etched into the skin there. It wouldn’t hold forever. Bacchus had only so much time. Time that spilled through his fingers like sand.

  Ripping his hand away, he balled it into a fist. He would not give up. If he had to travel all of Europe, scour the Americas . . . he’d find a way somehow.

  He barreled out of the auction house with Rainer on his heels, ignoring the whispers that followed them.

  CHAPTER 10

  If all three of Elsie’s employers ever demanded her attention at once, she would be in quite a pinch. As it was, Mr. Kelsey was preoccupied, the stonemasonry shop was in shape, and Ogden was busy, giving Elsie a rare chance to redeem herself to the Cowls.

  The letter that had been tucked into her things after her dinner at the duke’s residence had not mentioned the door spell at all, to her surprise. Instead, she’d been given another task. She was to disenchant a carriage that had been hired to transport local poachers to court. It was a time-sensitive matter, and so Elsie moved quickly, even when it meant cutting through traffic or overpaying a cab driver to run his horses wild. Her personal funds were depleting quickly, but the Cowls hadn’t sent coin for travel in their last missive. Perhaps this was to be her punishment.

  Not that it mattered. If no one intervened, men, boys, would be hanged for hunting animals on land owned by rich men. They just wanted to feed their families, and yet the neck of a human was priced the same as that of a pheasant. If Elsie could help them escape, she would do her part. Whatever it cost. She yawned, so many short nights catching up to her, but sleep was hardly important.

  She went to London and found the public carriage house in question; the man she presumed ran it sat just outside, a newspaper in his hands and a cigar in his mouth, his hat pulled low to keep out the sun. Elsie walked past him, casual, before glancing over her shoulder and slipping inside the carriage house.

  She nearly bumped into the tack on the wall and quickly sidestepped it, hiding herself among the vehicles stored within the space. The first spells she sensed were those on the wheels of a hansom cab. However, she doubted the Cowls would have sent her to intervene if the vehicle in question were a self-propelling carriage. Disabled by a spellbreaker, it wouldn’t be able to leave the carriage house much less be used for transporting anyone. So she moved on, searching for a vehicle with strengthening spells, bars, anything to denote the kind of vessel that might deliver “criminals” to their doom.

  The farther into the carriage house she stepped, the darker it became, and everything began to look the same. What a bother.

  Elsie persisted in her search, knowing the driver and authorities could come at any moment. Finally, she found it—a carriage bolstered by glowing runes of protection and fortification, which she pulled apart like hot ribbon candy. They pulsed light once before fading, like the last drag on a cigarette.

  Voices at the front of the carriage house sent gooseflesh over her arms; Elsie hid behind a cab and held her breath. To her relief, they didn’t come any nearer. A vehicle was pulled out and driven away, and the man in charge resumed his reading of the day’s paper.

  Holding her skirt close to prevent sullying it, Elsie carefully tiptoed her way toward freedom. Just as she stepped into the light, however, the caretaker looked up, his eyes beady and questioning.

  Elsie put her hands on her hips. “I don’t suppose you rent omnibuses?”

  He looked at her like she was mad. “Omnibuses? What does this look like, a rail station?”

  Acting offended, Elsie turned on her heel and stalked away, going around the back of the carriage house to access the road home. Having spoken of omnibuses, she was reminded she could save a penny or two by taking one, and so she headed toward the market, eyes searching for one.

  She’d just reached the sprawl of shoppers when a familiar voice reached her ears and stopped her in her tracks. She turned slowly, searching the crowd until she saw his face.

  Alfred.

  Alarm rushed up her limbs like a swarm of termites. She hadn’t seen him in nearly two years. He didn’t look any different, except for his hair. The ginger locks were a bit longer, styled differently. He was only one shop down from her, walking to a carriage with two heavy bags on his arm. A smile split his freckled face. It sent a knifepoint into the center of Elsie’s chest.

  “You don’t have to carry those.” The handsome stranger who would later introduce himself as Alfred hurried across the street, outstretching his hand, offering to take the sack laden with canvas.

  Elsie flushed at his approach and stuck her nose up. “Good sir, I am perfectly capable of carrying my own things, else I would not have purchased them.”

  But she had let him carry her bags. And walk her to a carriage. And ask her name and where she lived, starting something he would kill just as easily months later.

  Elsie blinked, coming back to the present just in time to spy Alfred’s companion, which only twisted the metaphorical blade piercing her breast.

  The widow. The one they’d met when Alfred had taken Elsie out to dinner for her birthday. But . . . not a widow anymore. Not by the way they touched each other, shared a carriage, and—yes, that was a ring on her finger, wasn’t it?

  Heat spread from her ribs, clawing down her legs and arms before turning to ice. So the woman hadn’t been a passing infatuation. Hadn’t left him for the weasel he was. He’d married her.

  Married her.

  Alfred turned just then, meeting Elsie’s eyes for a split second. She panicked. There was no use hiding. What would she say? What would—
<
br />   But he merely stepped into the carriage and shut the door.

  Her lips parted. He’d . . . He’d seen her. And he hadn’t cared. He hadn’t given her so much as a nod. A tip of the hat.

  A breeze swept her hair as the carriage passed. Elsie thought she heard an “Excuse me” behind her, but she couldn’t bring herself to move, so the old woman huffed and stepped around her.

  The past bubbled up like hot tar. Oh, how it hurt to be left. She had been abandoned by her mother and father, her siblings, and never—not one single day—had she forgotten it. All of them had left her, a child unable to care for herself, with strangers who’d been foolish to show a sliver of kindness. None of them had ever attempted to find her.

  They’d seen something in her, something Elsie still had not discovered, that was unacceptable. And they’d fled from it. Alfred had done the same. He and Elsie had courted for months. Talked about marriage. Family. A future.

  And then he’d left as abruptly as her parents had. Somehow, he’d seen that bit of her that was detestable, and he ran from it. Ran right into the arms of another woman, who now lived the life Elsie had once dared to imagine for herself.

  The conclusion was inevitable.

  She was unlovable.

  Tears blurred her vision, but she blinked them away. The sound of trotting horses broke her reverie. Blast it! Her vision cleared just in time to see the omnibus leaving, the enormous carriage’s horses pulling into the thoroughfare. It was full to the brim, people crowded within and on top, but the two tiny platforms on the back were free.

  Somehow Elsie summoned enough sense to run after it and catch the pole on the omnibus’s back end, planting her feet on the right platform. Gripping the pole until her knuckles blanched, she rode with her face in the wind, letting it dry her out until her eyes burned.

  She felt stiff as a wooden board by the time she reached Brookley, grateful that the stonemasonry shop sat near the edge of town and not in the center of it. The last thing she wanted was attention. Her head was hollow, her hands sore.

  She saw the squire’s cabriolet on the street by the front door. No. The last thing she needed was that man inside her home.