Hexbound: Book 2 of The Dark Arts Series

by Bec McMaster

  "I'm sorry."

  "For what?" She took a sip of the wine and swirled it around the bottom of the glass. "If he hadn't taught me I'd probably be dead by now. Or living in some hovel somewhere. Learning something new is the most valuable thing one can ever receive."

  "Yes, but it seems a rather ruthless way of doing it." Bishop frowned.

  "What was your natural inclination? Did you kill someone?"

  That stopped the conversation in its tracks. "Yes," Bishop replied, and his tone was cool enough to make her consider other questions.

  "Oh. I'm sorry." She searched for something else to say. "So what was your training like? You said you're a seventh level sorcerer, was it? How many levels are there?"

  Bishop relaxed, telling her all about the Order. Verity could scarcely hide her amazement. The Order not only shared their knowledge, but could learn all different kinds of tricks, like divination, wards, pyrokinetics, necromancy, healing. To advance to a different level they had to sit tests and prove that they'd conquered the steps of each level.

  Once they'd finished dining, she glanced at the fireplace in the sitting room. "Could you... could you tell me more? In there?"

  "You're cold?"

  "A little."

  Pouring her another glass of wine, he directed her through into the sitting room, leaving her alone while he took the dishes down to the kitchen for the staff in the morning. Verity prowled the room, stopping before the fireplace and holding her hands out to warm them as she peered at the portrait above it.

  The woman in the painting reclined upon a daybed, holding a rose to her lips as if to hide her faint smile. She was stunningly beautiful, with waves of golden curls flowing over her shoulders and dark eyes that seemed to hold a thousand mysteries. It was an intimate portrait, with the woman's gown slipping from her shoulder to reveal the faintest curve of her upper breast, and her expression seemed to belong to that of a lover.

  The door clicked open behind her as Bishop returned. Verity jumped, feeling slightly nervous. Why would a man have such a portrait in his sitting room unless it belonged to someone he loved? All of a sudden she wondered if Bishop were unattached after all. His coolly reserved manner seemed aloof, all of a sudden. Perhaps he had a lover somewhere? Perhaps he was in love.

  "Here," he said, bringing a book over from the bookshelf in the corner. "You can read, yes?"

  "Slowly," she admitted, taking the book from his hands. "A S-study of Sorcery, and the Dawning of the Order." Flipping the book over, she examined the back of its cloth cover. "What is it?"

  "Some background on the Order if you're interested? To get you started."

  Started. She stroked her thumb over the cover. He was serious then, in teaching her more. Verity's gaze lifted to the portrait, and she flushed when he caught her. "Who is she?"

  "My mother."

  Verity blinked. "She's beautiful."

  That earned a faint scowl, and a withdrawal as he turned toward the sofa. "She was, yes."

  Which meant she was gone. Verity looked again. It was entirely easy to see how this woman would have captivated dozens of men, but Bishop obviously didn't like the reminder of his mother's days as a courtesan. "How did she meet your father?"

  "A ball, I believe. Drake was in mourning for his nephew. Morgana had poisoned the boy, which led to the divorce, and so he withdrew from society and the world for almost a year. My mother needed a protector at the time and so he and my mother... formed a relationship." Bishop glanced at the sofa. "Do you mind?"

  Verity stared at him.

  "I cannot sit until you do."

  Hastily she sank into the chair opposite him, collecting her glass of wine on the way. "You're not going to tell me some poppycock notion about ruining my reputation by sleeping under the same roof, are you?"

  "No. The Order is somewhat more lax in social requirements than others. However, my mother raised me better than that."

  "Did she love your father?"

  "It was an arrangement, Verity. My father was grieving, yet he was kind. They became very good friends, until it became clear that I was... on the way."

  "Oh."

  Bishop raked a hand through his hair. "It wasn't like that. He didn't abandon her, or me. There's always been a prophecy stating that if Drake were to know his sons, then disaster would befall them. He thought it best to stay away, and watched from a distance. He settled a small inheritance upon my mother so she could live her life freely, and they corresponded regularly."

  "But you didn't know him?"

  "Not until I was older, no." He glanced up at the painting, his voice softening with some emotion she couldn't name. "I always knew he was my father, I just never knew that he was a sorcerer until it was too late. He wanted to keep me out of this world. Wanted to keep me safe."

  Too late. What did that mean? "But if he knows you now, then aren't you frightened of the prophecy?"

  Bishop stared into the crackling fire. "I think of it sometimes. Sebastian's death last month was an enormous blow to my father. He blames himself for coming into our lives, and sometimes I wonder if the prophecy is already claiming us."

  "What does it say?"

  "I'm not entirely certain. I don't hold much truck with prophecies. They're usually so opaque you can barely understand them until they come true, or so vague that anything can fit the words. Something to do with 'Three sons, three relics, three sacrifices.'"

  Relics? She felt ill. "Do you think—?"

  "It doesn't matter, Miss Hawkins. I believe that destiny is a matter of taking your own fate into your hands and wielding it. If the Chalice is to be my undoing, then I will go down fighting."

  "I should never have stolen it."

  His lips quirked. "You seem the superstitious sort. Perhaps it was your destiny to do so? Perhaps we were always bound to cross paths?" His tone made it clear what he thought of that, but the words struck her.

  She looked at him, a funny feeling tying up her insides. When she'd first met him, he'd been little more than a shadowy figure she'd swiftly grown curious about, watching as he went about his life for the last two weeks. But to actually come to know the man.... And to speak of destiny, which she did believe in.... "Are you mocking my poor superstitious ways?"

  A smile softened his face. She'd thought him cold, at first, but she was gradually coming to see the warmth in him. He merely hid it, or no, not hid it, but guarded himself against getting too close to other people.

  Verity looked down at her hands. Her heart was beating a little faster. Maybe it was because her life had turned topsy-turvy in the space of a day and she needed something to hold on to, but she was swiftly coming to recognize she quite liked him.

  She'd never felt like this before.

  Keep to the course, Verity Anne. Don't lose your head over a man, just because he was kind to you and has a nice smile. There has to be an angle here somewhere.

  She needed to make him stop smiling, make that teasing tone of his vanish. "How many people have you killed?" she blurted, and drank most of her wine.

  A quick flash of dark eyes speared through her. “Thirty-eight.”

  The way he said it was not a boast. No. He lost the smile, which was exactly what she'd hoped for. "I thought that those drawn to the Grave Arts relished the act of death."

  Again she was the recipient of that look; the one that said he clearly would prefer to pull out his own fingernails rather than discuss this matter with her. "Have you ever killed someone?"

  The heat drained from her face. "Once."

  "I crave the power death brings," he admitted, in a slow, careful tone, as if feeling out his words. "But it's one thing to sink yourself into that blaze of power—where you feel on top of the world, invincible—quite another to watch someone's eyes cloud over, and realize they'll never take another breath again. Never see their families. Never laugh at something one of their friends said."

  "A Sicarii with a conscience?" Until now, she'd not have believed such a thing existe
d. The sickles in the shadows were the bogeyman of the Order, used to cow such rebels as her into good behavior. Keep your head down, or the Sicarii will come for you. They don't like them as uses uncontrolled magic, or don't toe the line. Their line.

  Bishop watched her. If his face remained expressionless, his eyes told a thousand stories. She could see him gathering his thoughts. "Verity, the Sicarii aren't just monsters who hide in the dark. Some of us are normal people—like you or your friends. We simply share a... duty."

  "To kill those who stand in your way?"

  "Those drawn to the Grave Arts naturally crave the power that comes from death, the same way others get energy from sex, or from cutting themselves. Some Grave Arts practitioners use their skills to ease the suffering of the dying, some turn to necromancy—though that is forbidden now—and some join the army, or become Servants of the Empire, to serve the Queen in her empire expansion. For others, like me, there's only one option left.

  "I serve. That's all. The thought of sitting by someone's deathbed and trying to pretend that I'm not craving the rush of power that comes when they take their last breath sickens me. It makes me feel like a vulture. I'm no necromancer, and I've tried being a Servant of the Empire. It didn't work out well."

  "Why didn't it work out?"

  "It's a long story." Bishop took a sip of his wine.

  Dragging her knees up in front of her, Verity hugged them, resting her chin on them. "Humor me. It's not as though I've much fight left in me tonight, and I know you're only going to spend half the night pacing through the house. So if you're not going to tell me why you can't sleep, you could at least tell me about the Sicarii. Convince me they're not evil."

  "Far better if you never know of the Sicarii at all, Miss Hawkins." He stood then, peering down at his empty glass. "I think that you should find your bed, at least. We have a lot of work to do on the morrow."

  She gaped at him. "What? Why?"

  "Because not all Sicarii are like me, Miss Hawkins. Some of them like killing, and the less you know, the better."

  * * *

  Bishop tracked her footsteps upstairs as Verity readied herself for bed. Alone at last. Though the room felt oddly large and silent without her in it, and that troubled him a little. Dinner had been strangely comfortable. There'd been an intimacy about it, the small table gilded by the ring of light cast by a single candle. Verity's intrusion into his life and his household was quite obvious, but... he couldn't say that he disliked it.

  God, he'd liked it far too much. Every time she glanced up at him from beneath those dark lashes, he'd had to shift in his seat, as if the Lover Boy hex still afflicted him. All he could think about was that kiss in the alley.

  It was a distraction he didn't want and didn't need right now, and if he didn't get moving, he'd be facing another erection again.

  Bishop snagged the whisky decanter with a sigh, and then pressed the indentation above the fireplace, heading for his secret study.

  He hadn't been in here since the night she'd stolen the Chalice. The safe still hung open, useless now without anything to guard, and the walls were lined with books, candles, and the items he used for more complicated spell craft that required focus and ritual. There was a stand set with a half dozen globes, a thin glasslike substance along the wall, and it was to them that he turned.

  He'd created them five years ago with his sorcery, by forming a mage globe of pale blue light and forcing it to change from light, to... whatever it was. Harder than diamond, but so transparent it looked like a bubble.

  Setting the sphere on the table, he put the whisky bottle to his lips and swallowed raw fire.

  It was nothing as to the heat inside his skin, the burning need he felt for her in his veins. Leaving her alone in there tonight was almost more than he could stomach, but it frightened him how much he longed to touch that smooth skin and to brush his lips against it. The only thing that had ever come close to this craving was the maladroise, the Curse of the Grave, that lethal, killing edge within him that hungered for death, for the power that spilled as blood did.

  Bishop clenched his fingers into a fist. He needed to contact his father, but first he needed guidance.

  "Astaphor mercadi ethuselah...," he breathed, spilling power across the globe with the personal ritual words he had trained himself to use to create this link. The words didn't matter; only the familiarity of them did. Some used Latin, some used ancient languages, some made up their own, like he had. A trick of the mind, to create a link for his spell craft to form a particular spell, so that his sorcery relied on control and force of will rather than rash emotion. Many in London thought power words held magic themselves, and he'd heard the norms on the streets throwing them at him—abracadabra!, presto!—but the truth was the words were merely keys to train the mind.

  A spark of blue light formed in the heart of the ball and a ripple of chimes sounded in the distance.

  "Adrian?" Agatha looked startled as her face swam into view. "What is it?"

  Instantly, he realized it was night and this could have waited. "I'm sorry, Agatha. I wasn't thinking."

  Shrewd eyes narrowed. "Wouldn't have anything to do with that girl, would it?"

  "No. I'm just tired. And worried."

  It was the first time he'd admitted that.

  "Your father's going to be all right, boy," she said, her voice softening. "I'm watching over him."

  "Thank you," he said, and he meant it.

  "And how is the girl doing?" There was a wealth of meaning in those words.

  No help for it. He wasn't fooling his old master. "Do you think she could stay with you?"

  "What has she done?" Agatha gained that fire-breathing look around her eyes.

  "Nothing." He scraped another hand through his hair, thinking of Verity in her chemise, upstairs, lying on the bed in his guest room. The hex might have worn off, but it lingered like a curse. "It's not right—a young woman staying beneath a bachelor's roof. She should stay with you, for her reputation's sake, if anything."

  "Reputation?" Agatha snorted. "As if that's ever bothered you before. You kept Lady Ackerly locked in your cellar for a good month until I was through with her." "Lady Ackerly was poisoning babies to feed off," he said in disgust.

  "We weren't convinced," she reminded him. "Not at the start."

  Bishop shrugged. He didn't like speaking of Lady Ackerly.

  "Do you think that it started out this way?" the older woman had begged, ignoring Agatha and looking directly at him, dropping her sneering façade for the first time. "Do you think I wanted this? It burns inside me, this craving. I've tried.... For so many years I tried. You know what I'm speaking of... you feel it, I know you do. You have to."

  Bishop scratched his left arm as the itch ignited. Power, bleeding through his veins like a supernova. Beyond any level of energy that a sorcerer could gather from the world around them. Only someone with an affinity for the Grave Arts knew what it felt like after a death, to walk around for days with blistering heat spilling through a man's body, all of his senses heightened, his cock hard and aching for release, and his body barely needing to sleep. One felt invincible; alive for the first time.

  And then the dream would start to shatter and the energy lagged until it felt like he was sucked dry. Everything itched. His body would twitch for hours, wanting more, more power. Wanting to feel that current running through him again, until it was all he thought of....

  "She appeals to you, doesn't she?" Agatha's voice cut through the distraction, and just like that, Bishop stilled.

  He removed his fingers from his arm and the roughened graze there, where he'd been scratching of late. "She's a thief."

  "And you're a young man who's never been in a woman's bed—"

  "Christ, we're not discussing that."

  Those eyes narrowed. "It might be good for you. I know you've been feeling... tightly strung of late."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Adrian." This
time she looked sad. "There are ways to ease the craving."

  There was no point in denying it further. Agatha had a direct link to his mind, a bond between master and apprentice they'd never bothered to sever. "But no Grave Arts practitioner has ever managed to avoid it forever." Words he'd never dared admit before. "I've read the histories, Agatha. The only way to avoid it is to kill yourself."

  "If you're thinking of doing something stupid—"

  "I'm not." His voice softened. "I'm nowhere near that point. Yet. Lady Ackerly held out for almost forty years." He tried to smile. "I've got what? Another dozen years to go?"

  "My dear, dear boy. I won't let you go so easily, you know? We will find a way to ease the ache of it so that you're not tempted." Squeezing the bridge of her nose, she clearly tried to think. "There has to be one practitioner of the Grave Arts who has managed to find relief before the craving grew too strong. I'll set Marie to digging through the histories I have."

  "Thank you." He didn't bother to point out it would most likely be a waste of time. He'd been searching for something—anything—ever since he turned sixteen and discovered what he was.

  "As for the girl... if her presence becomes too difficult for you to manage, she is most welcome in my home."

  "That almost sounded as if you meant it."

  Agatha screwed up her face. "Fine. I'll do it for you but I don't have to like it. It's taken me too many years to finally find peace, and I don't particularly care for any strangers to come peering into my personal life."

  Guilt soured him. "Only if I cannot handle her. I'll try, Agatha." He paused. "Do you think you and Marie could find some clothes for her? She doesn't own very much, and none of it's suitable for this world. She'll need to blend in, if we're to find the Chalice."

  "You think it's here? In the West End?"

  "I don't know." He didn't tell her his theory about Tremayne. She'd be knocking on his doorstep with a pitchfork in hand if he did. "Possibly."

  "I'll send Marie around in the morning with some dresses. Heavens knows Marie will probably never wear them, and they're much of a size. You owe me, Adrian."