Hexbound: Book 2 of The Dark Arts Series

by Bec McMaster

  He was growing quite tired of that finger. It kept jabbing into the one spot. Grabbing her wrist, Adrian glared at her. "If you're referring to what I think you're referring, then you're quite wrong—"

  "Oh? So you don't want to get me flat on my back?"

  "No—"

  "Because you certainly don't look at me as though you're devouring me with your eyes," she scoffed. "And you've taken me under your wing out of the sheer goodness of your heart. Why, one would think that you give these things freely, wouldn't they? If one was a blind, naïve little waif without a thought in one's head—"

  "Are you quite done?"

  Verity's lips thinned and she regarded him with suspicious green eyes. "Tell me that you haven't thought about it."

  He'd thought about it. There was something about her that drove him crazy, something that reminded him of the way he'd felt about Mya. And you know how well that worked out. "I am not the type of man who preys on young women. Whilst we might have started out on the wrong foot, let me assure you that you owe me no debt for the nights you spend under my roof, or even the money that I just paid to the Crows. Work it off at your own leisure for all I care. After today, I understand that all you have known is the greedy, conniving side of life, so I'm not surprised to be greeted with this suspicion, but honestly, Verity, I have no intentions to use you, dupe you, or harm you. Now come. Let's get out of this warren." Turning around, he made for the mouth of the alley.

  "You don't understand, you fool," she whispered after him. "I don't have anywhere to go."

  "You're coming with me."

  "Yes, I know." Skirts swished after him, her voice growing bitter. "I have to get your bloody Chalice back."

  He turned and looked at her. Verity staggered to a halt, looking far too young, though there was a light of defiance in her eyes, the glint of someone who would and could survive anything this world could throw at her. He was suddenly furiously angry again, and half tempted to march back inside, but she needed more than that.

  "I'm sorry if I haven't explained myself properly. You're no longer beholden to the Hex. I'm not going to let you come back to this... ruin of hovels, regardless of whether we find the Chalice or not." Reaching out, he pressed his thumb against her forehead and gathered in his energy. "Ladaskhe fortuna," he spat, the power word flaring through his veins, hitting his thumb, and then leaping into her skin as he traced an invisible rune there. "I claim you for the Order, Verity Hawkins. By this mark, shall all sorcerers know who you belong to."

  The sigil burned brightly against her skin, eliciting a gasp from her, and then faded. Bishop lowered his hand. "You belong to the Order now, as a free sorcerer of her own will. No sorcerer shall harm you, but only seek to guide you, and you have the offer of the Order's resources, including the offer of an apprenticeship in sorcery, should you will it. Until you have chosen your master and settled into your apprenticeship, you are welcome in my home and owe me no debt. If you choose to depart of your own terms and seek your own life in this world, then I shall not stop you. The choice," his voice lowered, "is yours. All I ask is that if you ever encounter a person in such need as yours was today, that you repay this kindness on to them."

  Verity's mouth dropped open. Noises came out of it, but nothing coherent.

  Grabbing her by the arm, he helped her to sit on the step. "Breathe. I know it's a shock."

  Pressing her hands to her face, she sucked in a sharp breath. A breathless laugh burst out of her. "I don't even know if I can believe a word you say. Why would you do this? You don't even know me."

  Imploring eyes looked up from beneath a thick row of dark lashes.

  Bishop knelt in front of her. "My mother was raised in somewhat less than perfect circumstances. When she was sixteen...." His mouth twisted. "Well, she was beautiful. And there were openings in life available to beautiful girls, there still are. I hate to think that if someone had only helped her, then she would not have been forced to live the life she led." Only then was he able to meet those eyes. "I could never help my mother. When I was born, she'd been a kept woman for almost eight years, cycling through various protectors. It wasn't always a kind life for her, and I was too young to ever do anything about it. Well, this time I can do something. This time I can stop those people from forcing you into circumstances from which you cannot escape. Do you think I'm stupid? I know how those ledgers work, how those interest charges rack up. The Crows have no intention of ever seeing you free of this life. One day you'll find you owe too much and then that vile little bastard will say there's a way to help pay off your debt quicker, and all it will cost you is a brief tumble into bed."

  Verity looked away. "I know how it works too."

  Reaching out, he let his hand hover over hers, afraid in this moment to touch her. "You owe me nothing. Remember that."

  "I've never met a man like you," she replied simply, and there were shadows in her eyes as if this was not entirely a good thing.

  He stood and held out his hand to her. "Well. Now that that is clear, I think we'd best get going."

  Verity bit her lip as she looked at his outstretched fingers. As if making a decision, she accepted his hand and he helped her to her feet. "At least we have a start to our investigation."

  "Noah Guthrie. Know him?"

  "He's Daniel's younger brother," she replied. "I haven't seen him of late as he was trying to steal from Murphy. Murphy didn't like that very much."

  The thought that had been bothering him ever since the revelation in the study returned. "Was Noah the sort of man to consort with demons?"

  "Ordinarily, no," Verity replied, still looking pale. "But then, who knows? They said he had some sort of mysterious new crew he was running with. I didn't pay it much mind."

  Demons. His fingers twitched. There'd been a demon a month ago, when they'd confronted Morgana over the stolen relic, but he'd presumed that it had been beaten back into the Shadow Dimensions when the Blade of Altarrh was destroyed, and his half brother Lucien had denied the demon his body as a vessel.

  Coincidence? Or had the demon somehow found another way back into the world? And if so, why had it gone after the Chalice? Without the Blade, the Chalice was no threat to it. Only with all three of the Relics Infernal could a demon be controlled, and one of the relics had been destroyed.

  Something wasn't adding up right. He needed to speak to Drake.

  "What was that look?" Verity asked.

  He looked down at her. "I'm just thinking. A month ago, my father's ex-wife, Morgana, blackmailed his apprentice into stealing the Blade of Altarrh for her—the first relic in the set the Chalice belongs to. Morgana wanted Drake to suffer for the divorce and was planning on using the demon against him. She's... not a very nice woman. Or wasn't."

  "Wasn't?"

  "Long story," he muttered, "but the demon needed a vessel to hold it, and so Morgana was trying to sacrifice my half brother Lucien as the intended vessel. Drake and I tried to stop her and her son, Sebastian—my other brother—and were both crushed beneath the house when our magic brought it down."

  Verity looked thoughtful. "You think the demon that killed Murphy was the same demon she was trying to summon?"

  He frowned. "No. It couldn't be. She needed all three relics to summon and control it, and we destroyed the Blade. Plus, she didn't have the Chalice. I had it. But it just seems an awful amount of coincidence. Demons are... not the sort of thing you run into every day." His frown deepened. "Though my father's men have been working to clear the house site. There's been no sign of Morgana or Sebastian's bodies."

  "Maybe they escaped?"

  He saw the house collapse in on itself again, and the utter despair that had crossed his father's face. "It would have required a miracle for them to escape." They walked on for another half block before he blurted, "They were working with the Earl of Tremayne, however, and he escaped. He would have known about the Chalice's powers, and the demon. And he too wants my father dead."

  "I don't think I'v
e ever heard of the earl." Verity hastened to add, "In case you were wondering if there was any connection between him and Noah."

  "Was Noah the sort who might have liked to earn a spare bit of coin by doing an earl's dirty work?"

  "Of course he would have. But how would they have met?"

  "Hmm." It wasn't much of a connection, but at least it gave him a few leads to track down. An icy sweat sprang down his spine. Tremayne and Agatha had bad blood between them, and Tremayne was both powerful and ruthless. He wouldn't think twice about unleashing a demon in this place, if he thought it might bring him the mantle of Prime, which Drake had recently abdicated.

  Bishop had a very bad feeling. He didn't want it to be Tremayne.

  Verity paused beside him, looking around with a faint frown darkening her brow. "There's something wrong."

  Instantly he was on edge. "Why?"

  "The streets are too quiet. It's never quiet here in Seven Dials. They say it never sleeps."

  Fog had begun to creep in, anticipating evening. It was only four o'clock but darkness would descend quick as a flash in this late autumn. Pale yellow orbs of witch light gleamed from iron posts, replacing the gaslights in this section of the city. In the distance, he could see a woman draped in heavy shawls with a bowler hat on her head conjuring the orbs out of nothing and lighting the streets. One of the Crows, no doubt. How unusual this section of town was.

  "Do you think the Crows plan retaliation?" Bishop glanced behind them, but only shadows loomed. Wisps of fog eddied as though something watched them from the shadows.

  Verity's hand slipped inside her sleeve, withdrawing her small knife. "I wouldn't put it past them, though your position in the Order shall make them wary. You scared them in there."

  Something about her voice drew his attention. He'd known what had happened; the feeling of those two lives quivering in his hand, just begging to be snuffed, had nearly overwhelmed him. That she had seen him like that— "And you?"

  Verity met his gaze. "I am made of sterner stuff than that." A faint smile flickered over her lips. "Plus I've seen you shivering in a bath of ice, trying to burn off a Lover Boy curse rather than unleash yourself upon me." The smile died. "I know what type of man you are. A lesser man wouldn't have bothered to try."

  A dark shape scuttled out of the shadows, vanishing in the fog.

  "What was that?" Verity whispered, as they both spun to face it. She swallowed. "Didn't look human."

  "Could be hell spawn." Bishop sniffed the air. "Doesn't smell like it though."

  No, it smelled like... an open grave. The call of it whispered along his sorcerous senses, like calling to like. A sudden premonition turned his gut to ash.

  "Oh, shit," he said, as he realized what they were facing. Only one thing called to the Grave Arts that he was cursed with.

  "What?"

  "Flesh constructs." Spitting a power word, he breathed life into the incandescent knife that formed in his hand—his etheric blade. It hummed in the darkness, gleaming gas-fire blue. "Some necromancer's poured Grave power into a dead body and raised it."

  "But that's...."

  "Highly illegal." Constructs could be formed of anything: earth, stone, statue, even leaves, like a Jewish rabbi breathing life into a golem. But flesh constructs.... The last time anyone had raised flesh constructs, it had taken over forty sorcerers to destroy them as they rampaged through the East End. "It also takes a lot of power, or a lot of sacrifices."

  Or the Chalice. Bishop swallowed.

  "How many constructs could a necromancer raise?"

  He turned in small circles, his back pressed to hers. "Maybe ten if they were particularly strong." One of them lurched out of the shadows, its rib cage hollow and scraps of flesh clinging to its bones. Sinew worked in rotted flesh and hollows gaped where its cheeks had once been. A ravenous green light filled those empty eyes. "Stay behind me!"

  Sorcery throbbed through him, all the hairs along the back of his neck lifting as he flung a weave toward it, flames spewing out from his fingers like the lash of a whip. "Ignitious!"

  Not his forte, but flames crackled and burned in the creature's shaggy clothes, and it made a dry whimper of a scream in its throat as it went down. Clawing at the ground, it looked at him, wide mouth gasping as it dragged itself toward them.

  "Bishop! Behind you!"

  Verity vanished in a punch of power, and he spun, slashing his knife across the tendons of the wrist of the creature reaching for him. Where had it come from? Bishop ducked beneath its grasping hands, kicking it in the chest. It staggered back with a wet sloshing sound and Verity re-formed behind it, whipping her knife across its throat. Black ichor splashed, but it simply backhanded her toward him and kept jerking toward Bishop.

  "Cut it to pieces! Or burn it!" Bishop shoved her out of the way, driving his etheric blade deep into the heart of the creature, where it crackled and spat electricity through the flesh construct's rotting body.

  It shuddered, a rasp of fetid air emitting from its throat. Bishop turned the blade, using his strength to pin the creature to the wall while he boiled its heart in its chest.

  He waited for the surge of power to sweep him up as death settled over it, waited hungrily....

  A blow struck him in the throat and rough hands shoved him back. Bishop fell onto his ass, tripping over Verity's legs as the creature's eyes lit up with an eerie green light. And then it wrenched the dagger out of its chest, dropping it on the ground and started toward them.

  "What the hell?" Verity demanded, backing away.

  It didn't die. Etheric blades could sunder a soul from any flesh. Bishop had all of two seconds to consider this before he turned and scrambled into Verity, shoving her out of the way. "Get moving!"

  If it couldn't die, then how were they going to stop it?

  Icy little pinpricks lit all down his skin. "There are more coming," he yelled, and reached out with his senses toward them.

  One, two, three... ten... twenty?

  Death was his Art. Every sorcerer leaned toward one of the three Arts: Light, Gray or Dark. And he was Dark through and through. If someone thought to send these creatures against him, then they didn't know what they were dealing with. Bishop reached out and captured the darkening flicker of one of the constructs' minds with his power. There was a filmy barrier between him and the creature's soul; somehow he had to push through, but necromancy had never been something he dabbled with.

  Bishop clenched his teeth, fighting to crush that bubble with his will, but it flared beneath his touch and just for a second he saw a startled face lift from a cauldron of immense darkness.

  Then a punch of power sent him staggering back into the wall.

  "Bishop!" Verity reappeared beside him with a gasp as she helped him to sink to the cobbles. The heat of her skin lured him, and he realized his own was as cold as death, his power reaching out to hers, tasting it, hungering for her life....

  Bishop snatched his power back. "Someone's controlling them."

  She gave him an odd look. "Well, yes, they didn't just rise from the grave of their own inclination."

  "Yes, but... he's powerful." More powerful than I am. "And I think he has the Chalice."

  Verity paled. "Right. Well, let's deal with the immediate problem first."

  She vanished and reappeared behind a zombie, catching hold of the back of its coat, spinning it, and shoving it into the arms of one of its brethren. "Anytime you'd care to help, Mr. Bishop!"

  Somehow he shoved himself to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall. Just got to get my breath back. Whatever the unknown sorcerer had hit him with, it had knocked his feet out from under him for a moment.

  A sitting sorcerer is a dead one, Agatha's voice whispered and his training kicked in. Bishop spun and slammed a hand against a construct's chest, "Ignitious!"

  Flinging her hand into the sky, Verity shot a flare of power from her fingertips. An explosion of white sparks erupted in the air, like Chinese fireworks. "Backup," s
he gasped, and he could see the strain on her face as she translocated out of the grasp of a pair of constructs.

  Boots pounded on the cobblestones, Hex gang members flooding from every nook and cranny of the Dials. Some of them wore the white rabbit's foot on the back of their hand, others had four-leaf clovers, and one even wore a black cat.

  "Threat to the Dials!" A huge man with a handlebar moustache bellowed, brandishing an axe, which he swung to decapitate one of the creatures. "All in, laddies!"

  "The Hex!" a prostitute screamed, flinging a curse at one of the creatures that sent steam bubbling from its mouth as she boiled its insides. Somehow it kept going, crawling across the ground to latch a hand around her ankle. The woman fell with a shriek, and the construct ripped her leg clean out its socket.

  More men fell on it, a woman stabbing it in the head, trying to get it off the fallen prostitute.

  "Burn them!" Bishop yelled, and the older lady who'd been lighting the witch globes stepped forward, fire forming between her cupped hands.

  Breathing over the smoldering flames sent them shooting toward the construct and the old lady cackled. But more of them were ambling out of the alleys, grabbing men and women from behind and tearing into them with blunt teeth.

  "Burn them!" Verity yelled, vanishing and reappearing here and there as she launched a kick at one of the constructs’ faces, then dragged a woman out of the way of two more just seconds later.

  She was fine on her own. Bishop forced himself to stop looking for her. The man with the handlebar moustache went down in front of him, screaming as the construct sank its dull teeth into his throat. His axe clattered to the cobbles at Bishop's feet.

  Slowly, he bent and picked it up, still feeling the strain from the unknown sorcerer who controlled them. The axe was heavy but he forced his muscles to move, using his sorcerous power to send blood rushing through his veins in an attempt to fire his body with strength.

  The axe whirred in his hands, striking into the creature's throat with a squishy thunk. Black ichor splashed up the walls. The creature staggered. Bishop swung again, this time decapitating it. The head tumbled to a halt in the alley and slowly, like a tree toppling, its knees gave way beneath its body, and it fell onto its front. A kind of blackened jelly oozed from the stump where its head had been.