by Bec McMaster
As if drawn by some sense of knowing, he looked up as four of the constructs closed in on Verity, one of them wielding a club and another a knife.
Verity smiled. "Come on boys," she said, then vanished.
The manacle around his wrist gave a vicious tug and then she reappeared a foot away from where she'd vanished, falling forward. The club thumped down on her shoulder and she tumbled to her knees, just as the knife slid with sickening accuracy into her side.
"Verity!" Bishop bellowed. He didn't have her skills but it took barely a second to thunder through the fighting to her side, cutting down flesh constructs and shoving men and women out of the way.
One of the flesh constructs crouched over her, its teeth bared as it went for her throat, and his insides tightened in horror.
"Absolemma hecratius!" He flung his hand out and once again encountered that filmy wall surrounding the construct's life force. Not this time. Bishop slammed through it with all the finesse of a sledgehammer, and the flesh construct's soul glittered beneath his grip. Bishop crushed it, setting the soul free, heat and energy rushing through him and leaving him both giddy and dangerously overextended. He hadn't thought he'd have the power to get through that ward.
Breathing hard, Bishop lowered his hand. "Are you all right?"
"Smashing," Verity replied, though her face was pale and she couldn't take her eyes off the ripe body at her feet.
He staggered to his knees beside her. "What happened?" She was bleeding, one hand clapped around the wound as she gasped.
"Tried... to teleport." A quiver went through her, sweat dampening her hair. "Something happened. It stopped me from moving more than a foot."
The manacle. Guilt soured his mouth. "Let me see."
Crying out as he touched her shoulder, she shook her head. "Shoulder's fine. Just... bruised."
Which left the bloodied gash against her side. Bishop gingerly peeled away the black cambric. Verity paled as a wash of fresh blood wept from the slash along her side.
Wadding up his coat, he pressed it to her side. "Hold here."
"Bloody hell," she said, pressing against it and then swaying.
"Don't tell me you're squeamish." She'd cut through flesh constructs as though they were bags stuffed with straw, after all.
Verity cringed. "It’s the blood. My blood."
Looking around revealed that most of the fight was done, the denizens of the Dials bellowing in victory as they raised pitchforks and bludgers in the air and danced around the greasy flames of the burning flesh constructs.
"Come on then, Miss Hawkins. This looks done and I'd best see to that wound." Reaching under her, he drew her lean frame into his arms, settling her there as he stood.
Verity squeezed the flex of his bicep through his coat. "I would say... 'my what big muscles you have,' but frankly... I think I'm going to... faint."
Which she did. Promptly.
Chapter 6
"HOLD STILL," Bishop said, peeling back the rough linen bandage he'd administered in the carriage.
Verity winced, turning her head away so that she wouldn't have to see the cut. Light gleamed through the windows of his parlor. "I am."
"The bleeding's stopped, but the edges of this look raw and—"
"Stop!" she yelped, fanning her face.
"What's wrong? Are you feeling ill?"
"I don't particularly like to... talk about blood," she admitted, swallowing the lump of bile in her throat. "Or wounds."
"For all your bluster, I thought you were invincible. Well, I don't want you fainting on me again, what with all of your delicate sensibilities. I'll stop."
"Bishop," she growled, her cheeks heating. "If you ever mention this to anyone, I will personally find Zachariah and get him to hex you. Again."
Resting her skull against the daybed, she took low, steady breaths as Bishop examined her injury. She needed to take her mind off it. She was feeling that dizzy, breathless sensation again and fainting once was one thing. To do it twice was mortifying. "Do you think that our presence in the Dials had something to do with the flesh constructs attacking?"
Dark eyes flickered up, then returned to their purview of his work. "Perhaps. I'm fairly certain that the necromancer controlling them was using the Chalice to do so. Though I do wonder why they'd attack us?"
"Taking care of loose ends, perhaps." Which meant her. Verity frowned. "What if I know something important but I can't remember—" She hissed out a breath as he dabbed at the slash along her ribs with an alcohol-soaked cloth. "Hell, Bishop. Some warning next time."
"Sorry." He squeezed her hand as her back arched off the daybed. "Agatha's working on how to revoke your compulsion. If you do know something, she'll help you recall it."
"I hope so," she said, remembering the way those flesh constructs had torn their way through men and women she'd grown up with. Not all of them were friends, but when an outside threat attacked the Dials, the Hex banded together as one.
Was it her fault that those constructs had attacked in the first place? She felt ill again, and it had nothing to do with blood. "I wish I'd never gone along with this commission." Murphy dead, the Hex attacked, a demon on the loose....
"I know. Here, drink this." Bishop poured her a glass of something and set the cup into her hands.
"What is it?"
"Poison."
Verity paused with the glass at her lips.
"Brandy," he corrected dryly, rolling his eyes. "What type of man do you think I am?"
"Someone without a sense of humor to this point," she admitted, watching those dark brows draw together as he returned his attention to the second gash along her ribs. Emotions rarely plagued his expression, but his eyes... they told a thousand stories, always. And with the gentle manner in which he pried her dress out of the crusted wound, she could almost imagine that seeing her injured bothered him.
Which was a curious thing.
What type of man was Adrian Bishop? She couldn't figure him out and that was a frightful thing. She knew he wanted her. She'd seen the way he looked at her at times. But he insisted there was no debt between them, and that he would help her... out of the goodness of his heart?
She knew men. She knew the way of the world. Bishop must have some sort of angle, and until she found it she was determined not to let her guard down.
"Hold still. This one is a little deeper." Bishop pressed his fingers lightly to her inflamed skin. "I'm not much of a Healer, but I know the rudimentaries."
The fire in the hearth flickered as Bishop drew energy from its heat and from the room around him. Not a single chill dampened her skin, however, which betrayed considerable skill. One that she didn't own herself, if she were being honest. Verity simply pulled in energy from everything around her.
What would it have been like to be tutored the way he clearly was? To learn the deft weave of sorcery?
Daniel Guthrie wouldn't have laughed in her face then; she'd have smashed him flat in under a second. Imagine the power....
Breathing out a power word, Bishop flexed his fingers and tightly woven threads of sorcery sank into her skin, a cold effervescent sensation that made her breath catch.
Then it was over. No pain, no raw, burning sensation in her side.
"Where did you learn to heal?" A few of the Hex had the talent, but every practitioner she knew hoarded their secrets, and she'd never known how to do it herself.
Bishop busied himself tidying up the bloodied linens and the pan of water he'd used. "The first thing we learn as Sicarii is how the body works, how to stop a heart, how to cause a clot in the brain, how to bruise, how to sprain. Healing is simply a reversal of such."
"So you're a Healer?"
"I'm an assassin, Miss Hawkins."
"Verity," she corrected dryly. "I believe us familiar enough now to use our names. I have seen you naked, after all." And an excellent sight it had been.
"I'll do you a deal. I won't mention your fit of vapors, if you don't mention that ice
bath again. Ever."
"Only if you say my name," she told him.
Bishop rolled the bloodied linen up carefully, considering her words. "Verity," he finally said, and the way he said it made something wary clench up tight inside her. The way it sounded on his tongue... it sent a shiver of something unfamiliar through her.
Longing?
Now she knew why he'd hesitated. A simple word, but it held within it a sense of familiarity, of connection, that she hadn't expected. Verity cleared her throat. "Well, now," she said, forcing herself to be cheerful. "That wasn't so hard after all, was it?"
Bishop sighed. "I'll fetch you some supper."
"Wait!" She held her wrist up to him with the golden cuff he'd locked around her. "I want this off."
His lips thinned, as if in protest.
"I want it off," she demanded, sitting up. "After today, is it not clear that I can be trusted?"
"It's not so much a matter of trust," Bishop replied, then paused again.
"Oh? Then it should be no trouble to remove it."
"Verity," he breathed. "The Chalice is an important relic. I cannot risk losing any chance I have at getting it back."
"What you're saying is that you don't trust me." And just when she'd been warming up to him. "I'm not going to run, Bishop. I have nowhere to go. I am not a slave, I am not a criminal, and I am not yours to command."
"This shackle only stops you—"
"From straying from your side?" Bloody hell, could he not understand? "It nearly killed me today! The only reason that thing cut me was because I reached the end of my tether, and the bracelet forced me directly into the path of creature's knife!"
His nostrils flared, but she latched on to the guilt she saw in his black eyes. "If you don't remove it right now, then you make it clear that I cannot trust you. Regardless of your actions today."
Their eyes met, and Verity stared him down. Please. She felt so lost today. She needed a victory. Bishop swore under his breath and reached for the chained links around her wrist. Light flared at his fingertips and Verity rubbed her wrist as the shackle fell into his hand.
"Thank you." It meant more to her than he could ever know. Today had cut most of the ties to her former life, but instead of feeling free, she had the odd sensation that she was now alone in the world. The Hex Society had been her prison, and yet familiar. If someone had ever tried to hurt her, the Crows would have stood at her back.
Not anymore.
What was her place in the world now? Did she even have one?
Bishop might have claimed her for the Order, but what did that mean? He and the former Prime were the only two sorcerers she'd ever met, but she'd heard far too many stories.
"Don't make me regret it, Verity." Bishop stepped toward the candle, lifting his hand to snuff it with his fingertips. "I don't give my trust so easily."
"That makes two of us," she admitted, drawing her knees up to her chest. "Today has been a strange day."
From adversaries to wary allies. She wasn't quite certain what to make of it.
Dark shadows highlighted his cheekbones as he tilted his head toward her. "I'll fetch you some dinner."
"Will... you stay with me?" The words leapt from her lips before she could restrain them.
Bishop paused by the door, the pan of bloodied linens in his hand. She could almost see the tension work its way through his shoulders.
"Just for... dinner." Goodness, why were her cheeks heating?
Perhaps because she couldn't pretend to be so flippant. Not at this moment.
"I'll assume you want your meat well-done?" He arched a brow, cutting the tension with the faintest of smiles. "Not... bloody."
Verity heaved one of the pillows at him. "As long as it's my favorite cut... a nice, lean... rump." She stuck her tongue out at him as he smiled.
"Fine. Let me fetch you something to eat."
Chapter 7
"When the red comet rules the skies, the Prime shall fall. A new Prime shall ascend to the head of the Order. Three sons. Three relics. Three sacrifices. Only then can the Prime be torn down. There is but one chance to save them. The Snake at the Breast shall cast the first roll of the die, setting the Game into motion, but might be all that holds back the pall of madness. The Thief shall wear a false face but wield a true heart; and only the Blind One can see how to save the heart of the Mirror."
* * *
–Prophecy of Drake de Wynter's downfall
* * *
HE STAYED FOR dinner, a largely informal affair.
Silverware clinked as they settled at the dining table together. Verity kept glancing up at him as she ate, and tried to mimic his fancy table manners. There'd evidently been a cook in today, but she'd left their meal in the oven, something that seemed a regular occurrence. It was delicious: roasted meat that almost fell off the bone, bonny potatoes roasted in goose fat, Yorkshire puddings, peas, and so much gravy Verity could barely fit it all in.
She was trying though. The Crows’ table wasn't as lean as others in the Dials, but it certainly wasn't to this standard.
"So tell me about the Order," Verity said, swallowing a mouthful of beef and washing it down with a red wine that almost made her eyes cross with pleasure. "You seem to know so many different types of magic. I saw you using fire today, and healing, and stopping hearts in chests, and then there was that knife you created...."
Bishop set his knife and fork aside. "What do you know of sorcery?"
She shrugged. "If you want something bad enough, sometimes you can mentally force the world to adapt to your will."
"True enough. The mind is a powerful tool. The first time, it occurs when someone finds themselves in a situation where they want something so desperately that their mind forms... some sort of connection, and they force matter to rearrange itself around them. Usually it's something destructive and physical like burning down a house, or forcing floodwaters to part, which is what we call Telekinesis. But sometimes it's purely on the mental plane. Perhaps a girl's father beats her so often that she just wants him to stop, and so she forms a compulsion in his mind. He cannot hit her anymore. Or maybe there is a miner trapped underground and he wants his wife to find him, so he links to her, tells her where he is. This is Telepathy, and they are the two separate spheres of sorcery."
Fascination made her pause with her fork hovering. The most she knew of sorcery was curses and hexes, or tricks and strange talents. Everyone in the Hex had their own ability, perhaps a couple more, but that was usually it. "So... I'm Telekin...."
"Telekinetic," he replied, picking up his knife and fork again. "By natural inclination, yes, you are, but you could learn to control Telepathy if you apply yourself. I am Telekinetic by nature, but can do both. What was the first manipulation you formed?"
Verity shifted uneasily. "I translocated."
"Why?"
Of course he would pursue this. "I was twelve and coming home from my shift at the workhouse. We had to unpick ropes until our fingers bled, and our meals were small and infrequent. So... sometimes I would go home through the markets and steal food for Mercy and me. A bit of bread here and there. Maybe an apple." She stared into the distant past. "You don't know what it's like to be so hungry that you feel hollow all the way to your bones."
There was no condemnation in his expression, merely curiosity. "And?"
"One of the vendors caught me. He threatened to chop off my fingers or send me to Newgate, and I was so terrified that I just wanted to be home in my cot. Home, safe. And I don't know what happened, but when I came to... that's where I was. It sent me into a fever, and I shivered there for two days straight."
"It's a very rare talent, Verity. I'm not surprised." Bishop laced his hands over his middle. "I don't think you understand how truly difficult teleporting—or translocation, whatever you want to call it—is. The simple laws of physics that you break...."
Verity frowned. She had no idea what he was talking about and it rankled, because he was educated and
she was not.
"I've only ever heard of it happening once, and Sir Edgar spent years studying the base knowledge of every cell in his body, of space, of time, of pure matter... and he was an eighth level sorcerer."
"Was?"
"Well," Bishop hesitated, "it didn't end well for him. He only made the jump twice, and then.... Nobody ever saw him again, but there were bits of him strewn through his house."
She pressed her fingertips to her lips. "Do you mind?"
"Sorry. You do it so easily that it must be your natural inclination."
"My what?"
"Our first impression always locks hold. Whatever we do first remains our natural inclination for the rest of our lives. Perhaps we learn other methods, but our strongest and easiest spell craft is what happened first."
That made sense.
"So after you did it once, how did you keep doing it? Sometimes people can never perform a sorcerous working ever again."
Picking up her fork, she chased a pair of peas across her plate. "The vendor worked for Murphy, and told him I'd vanished into thin air. Three days after it happened Murphy came looking for me. Offered me a place in the Crows if I worked for him. It was a good deal. Better than the workhouse, at any rate. I insisted that Mercy be included, and so we joined the Crows.
"He pushed me into... a sort of training. It took me a long time to be able to translocate again—I couldn't work out how to make that energy shift—but he locked me in a tank and started pouring water in. Said I needed to be desperate again. It was almost over my head before I managed to get out of there." Stabbing the peas, she popped them in her mouth, giving him a little shrug. "It became easier after that. Then he started giving me items, telling me to find where their owners were, or their matching pair. It was a trick he knew. He always had ways to make you desperate enough, and eventually I learned to pull it together myself at will. That's when he started me cracking houses. I've earned him a small fortune over the years."
