by Bec McMaster
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Letting out a hopeless breath, Sebastian flexed his wrists against the manacles that bound him. At least they were no longer held high above his head. The demon had made good on that promise at least. He prepared himself for anything.
A clank, the sound of a lock being turned, and then it opened and light flooded inside. Sebastian straightened, his head turning toward the door even as his eyes flinched shut against the light.
The long moment of silence stretched out, then boots stepped down into his makeshift cell. "Here," said the demon wearing Noah Guthrie's body. It set something down—a tray covered in a small towel—and the scent of food made his stomach ache.
Holding a cup to his lips, it poured water into his mouth. Sebastian drank greedily, and though a part of him hoped the water was pure and not drugged, he was too thirsty to pay the proper caution.
Finally, the demon lowered the cup. "I brought food."
It had been two days since he'd last eaten. The demon unfastened his manacles, and Sebastian knelt on the ground, flipping aside the warm linen cloth. Bread. Jesus. And soup. His mouth watered and he set to with a vengeance, breaking apart the bread with his bare hands and stuffing it in his mouth ravenously.
"I am sorry I did not come earlier," the demon said. "The human processes elude me sometimes. I did not think to feed you until your mother and Tremayne sat down to dine."
Sebastian tilted the bowl to his lips and drained the salty broth, washing down the bread that stuck in his throat. His stomach gave a warning lurch, but he couldn't have stopped himself if he tried. Using the last bit of bread to mop up the barley and dregs of meaty liquid in the bottom of the bowl, he looked up, gauging the demon's cool expression before he set the bowl aside. His stomach rumbled. More. He wanted more.
He was probably lucky to get what he had.
"What do you want?" he demanded.
One of the demon's eyebrows arched. It tilted its head. "You are angry."
Better that than the despondency that had filled him during the last twenty-four hours. His hands curled into fists. He glanced toward the door.
"You wouldn't get far," the demon said. "Your mother is upstairs and she's wearing the ring."
As if to punctuate the words, the collar at his throat throbbed. Sebastian slumped back against the wall. Hopeless.
"What do you want?" he repeated, and this time the words echoed emotionlessly.
"I have a proposition for you," the demon said.
I'll bet. Everybody wanted something from him. But perhaps he could play it both ways? Tit for tat. Every muscle in his body locked tight. "I'm listening."
It cocked its head to the side, idly stroking the rash at its collar. "I have promised Noah that I will give him back his body, which means I have need of another."
It looked at him—looked through him—and sheer terror obliterated his senses.
"No way in hell," he breathed. It was the only thing that had ever been his, and even then others had abused it, and done what they wished with it. But this....
"Oh, I don't want you," the demon said. "Not for very long, anyway. But there is a very important meeting to be held tomorrow. You're the ace up my sleeve. The last gambit I can play. And we share similar aims. You want revenge. So do I."
That soothed his terror for a second. Sebastian rested his wrists on his knees and stared at the creature, starting to think. What did he have to lose? Really? What would it be like to be trapped inside his own body, no longer in control of it?
Something rather like this, he imagined.
He couldn't escape on his own. He'd tried. And his father wasn't going to ride to his rescue. That hope had been brief, a fantasy he flirted with more than anything else, but there'd been no sign of his father.
Revenge.
If there was one thing he lived for, that might just be it.
"I only want you for twenty-four hours. That's all I'll need."
He thought about it. Could it do anything worse than what had already been done to him?
The demon knelt, his arms resting loosely on his upper thighs. "This is what I want, Sebastian, and in exchange I swear that I will set you free and help you to snuff out your mother's life."
That thought pushed him over the edge, convincing him like none other. Demons couldn't lie, after all. "What do I have to do?"
* * *
"This way," Verity said, holding the ring in her hand as she walked through Berkley Square. She'd woken that morning feeling quite determined to see an end to this. As soon as Morgana was found and the Ascension sorted, she and Bishop could begin moving forward in their lives. Or working out where they both stood.
Verity paused at the next intersection, hackneys clopping past. She stared at the ring in her hand, feeling it tug her back in the opposite direction. What on earth?
Bishop paused by her side, glancing around. Always on guard, as though he couldn't relax whenever he was outside the safety of his own home. Assured that there was nothing of concern in the immediate vicinity, he looked down
"Bloody cock-swiving piece of—" She looked up, sensing eyes upon her.
The corners of Bishop's mouth had crooked up, though he tried to straighten them when he saw her looking. "Go on. I'm trying to increase my vocabulary."
That was the Dials showing in her. Verity colored up, feeling the heat flush through her cheeks. She shook the ring, but the directional tug changed again, leaving her quite perplexed. The pull of it seemed to be leaping all over the city. One moment it was north of her, the next south-east, and now it was tugging her toward the west. "I'm not certain...."
Bishop's hard body shielded her from the wind. "What's wrong?"
Verity hated to admit failure, but from what her magic was telling her, Morgana had now leapt to the far east of the city. "It's not working. I can't.... It feels like she's moving. Or like something's preventing me from getting a lock on her."
Bishop tipped her chin up. "Tune everything out. Close your eyes. And trust your instincts."
Easy for him to say. She'd never had to force her talents before. They came to her as easily as breathing. And now.... Verity opened her eyes and shook her head, finally admitting the blatant truth. "I can't find her."
"She must have realized that somebody was watching her."
"This always works!"
"Not if Morgana's somehow managed to ward her presence from you. If she's working with Noah Guthrie and the demon, then it's possible she knows the extent of your talents."
"The demon never knew what I could do," she pointed out. "Murphy made sure of that."
"Verity—"
"No! This is not right!" She brushed off his hand and took two steps toward the south and the magical leash that drew her in that direction. She'd never failed before, damn it! And she couldn't do it right now, not when Bishop needed her so badly.
But the direction had changed again. Verity's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Son of a bitch," she swore, ignoring a startled passerby, who looked at her disapprovingly.
Firm hands slid over her shoulders. "Patience, Verity. Have faith."
"I wanted to help you," she said, glancing over her shoulder.
Those warm brown eyes met hers. She'd never seen such beautiful eyes on a man before. "You are helping me," he pointed out. "But I'm an assassin, Ver. Hunts don't always end so quickly. I didn't expect it to be this easy."
"So what now?"
Bishop scrubbed at his mouth. "Now I think we need to go see my father. Turn our attentions to the Ascension and prepare to bait that particular trap."
"You think she'll be there?"
"All Morgana has ever wanted is power, and to pay my father back for the divorce. A chance to sit someone on the seat of the Prime?" He smiled, and it wasn't very nice. "She'll be there. She won't be able to resist."
Chapter 28
THE TRIP to Willoughby Hollow proved uneventful. Snow was beginning to fall as Bishop and Verity exited the carri
age they'd shared with Drake and Eleanor. Ascension had finally arrived and all of the sorcerers of the Order would be travelling here to bear witness.
Including the one who formed the greatest threat to his father: the son who mirrored him.
Bishop's half brother.
If there was one weakness Drake owned, it was the thought of Sebastian.
The horses stamped with sweat-slicked flanks as the carriage rocked to the side, disbursing its contents. Their steamy breath fogged the air. Bishop fidgeted as he helped Verity down and looked around. He'd barely been able to sleep the night before, too many possibilities of what could happen today running through his mind. Though he wanted Verity at his side, it scared him a little, especially after holding her in his arms for the last two nights. She'd become precious to him in a way that he still didn't think he could quite accept, and the thought of her life being snatched away.... It terrified him.
According to Cleo Montcalm, Sebastian was still out there with his wild, impossible power; and the Earl of Tremayne, the demon, and Morgana were still at large. Horroway had been an important thread, but still only a thread. It would all come down to today.
"Still no change of heart?" Bishop asked his father lightly as Drake stepped down from the carriage. The forest around them was so still, with soft drifts of snowflakes blanketing the firs and beeches.
Drake glanced around. He looked like he'd aged ten years in a month, frost-bitten streaks stealing through his dark hair. Finally, he looked back at Bishop. "No change of heart." He hesitated. "I've been given a second chance with Sebastian. I don't intend to lose it. I can't lead the Order anymore, Adrian. I just can't."
It was a hard medicine to swallow, but Bishop felt like he finally understood his father's need to save this son. Drake had made a choice last month: Lucien's life in exchange for losing the chance to save Sebastian. He still wore the weight of that impossible choice, and knowing now there was a chance to make amends for it.... The weight was lifting, and Bishop could see a spark of the man he'd once known as a father returning. How could he want his father to lose that spark? That hope?
Because the practical side of him also saw the future unfolding in front of them. Chaos, instability, an inside war that might tear the Order apart if the wrong person became Prime.
And Madrigal Brown, the Sicarii leader, with her knife poised over his father's throat.
"I thought Sebastian wasn't responding to you anymore?" Bishop asked, his breath fogging in the chill air.
"I'll keep trying."
Of course he would. "Do we even know if he's still alive?"
"Cleo knows. She's linked to him, and she tells me he's still there."
"So he's shut you out?" Bishop asked. Eleanor hovered on the top step of the carriage and Bishop reached up to help her down. The left side of her face was still faintly lax, but healers had been in to work on her again this week and Bishop could see a spark of her old self in her eyes.
"Maybe. If I could reach him once, then I can do so again," Drake told him.
If only it were that simple. Sebastian represented danger to his mind. A threat. Bishop didn't like the idea of that, however, as Verity had politely pointed out, not everything in the world should be seen as a threat. It was the assassin in him; looking at the reality of the situation rather than seeing it through the rose-colored glasses of familial affection, as Drake did.
This will only cause trouble. He knew that. And he was helpless to turn his father aside from this quest. A part of him wanted Drake to succeed. He loved his father. He'd do anything for him.
Even stand by and watch as Drake committed to this path that might damn them all.
Snow crunched under his boots and at his side, Eleanor lurched as she staggered on uneven ground.
Bishop caught her other hand as she staggered on the gravel. "Here. Easy, Eleanor. You don't want to fall."
She patted his hand gratefully, then limped forward to Verity's side.
Bishop watched them step toward the forest. "You can't save everyone," he said, turning back to his father. "Just remember that. If Sebastian's blocked you out, then maybe he'll never listen to you. Don't throw everything away on a hope that might never come true. There has to be a point where you let go."
Drake gave him a sadly bemused smile. "If it were your mother, would you let her go so easily?"
God. The words were a knife to the chest. He stared his father in the eye. "Don't forget... once upon a time I had to make that choice and I did let go."
Turning around, he walked away, bitterly swallowing the lump in his throat. He knew it had been for the best. The pain was too great and his mother had pleaded with him—begged him—to let her go. Memory slashed through him, twisting his innards into knots. So much damage. So much pain. Christ save him, she'd been drowning in it. The peace on her face when he slowly, gently eased her over the threshold of death had been the only thing capable of saving his sanity at the thought of what he'd done.
Bishop clenched his gloved fingers into a fist, forcing the tension within him to dissolve.
He'd not known much about his power then.
If you had the chance now, knowing that you might be able to save her, would you still do it?
Would you risk everything, try anything to save her?
The answer to that held no other options. Yes, a thousand times over.
His shoulders sank. Maybe this would bring disaster to the Order, but he could no longer fault his father for his choices. Bishop paused and waited for Drake to fall into place beside him.
"If you need my help with him...." His voice came out dry as they set after the ladies. He couldn't feign excitement at the thought, no matter how hard he tried. "Then just tell me what to do. I'll respect your choice, even if I don't agree with it."
Drake limped along beside him, his cane sinking into the powdery snow that had fallen overnight. He silently clasped a hand on Bishop's shoulder. "Thank you."
* * *
Lights bobbed through the forest ahead of them as sorcerers streamed through the trees. Dusk was falling and the lights soon began to resemble those of will o' the wisp. Some were mage globes, hovering balls of pale white light that bobbed ahead of their owners. Others were merely lanterns.
Bishop tucked Verity's hand in the crook of his arm and nodded at a sorcerer he knew as the man ushered his two sisters through the snow. A buzz of nervous excitement lit through his veins. Too many trees. Too many people in hoods. The rest of the Sicarii could be anywhere.
All it would take would be one of them.
"This is amazing," Verity whispered, looking around. "Where are we going?"
"Willoughby Hollow," he replied, seeing it anew through her eyes. To someone who had known nothing of the Order he supposed that this was probably quite astounding.
A quick sideways glance showed her pert nose and upturned profile. There was something about Verity that was pure innocence. A joy in life that she couldn't hide, and one that beckoned him along with it. Being with her was like experiencing the world without the gloom and shadows that accompanied his version of it. Or perhaps, like stopping and actually seeing what was around him for the first time in years.
He wanted to show her more of the amazing things that filled his life; things he rarely even gave thought to anymore. Imagine what she'd think of the Samhain or Beltane rites? And the dancing then.
"The Hollow's a sacred place the Order used when it was first established. The owner of the land was a sorceress named Amelia Kane. Upon her death she deeded the land to the Order. There's an enormous ley line running beneath it, that you might be able to feel when we get closer. Only sorcerers are welcome, and we celebrate the equinoxes here."
They were getting closer. More and more sorcerers streamed out of the trees, wearing red velvet capes. It was quite ethereal, if one looked at it in whimsical fashion.
Lucien, Ianthe, and Cleo Montcalm waited at an intersection of birches ahead of them. Trembling snowflakes qui
vered through the air, as if almost hesitant to touch the ground. He looked up, but the clouded skies promised only a light flutter of snow.
A flash of movement made him glance to the side. A sorcerer in a red cloak nodded at him, and unease skittered down Bishop's spine as the stranger slipped away through the trees. If he weren't imagining things, the man had been watching him.
There went the wonder. The sense of enjoyment.
He couldn't forget what else this was; a chance at power for a lot of people.
"Be on your guard," Bishop told Verity, looking around at the shadowy forest. Snow crunched underfoot and the scarlet robe he wore dragged in it. Only Verity wore a robe of black velvet; the rest were adorned in red, like he, to indicate their status in the Order. "The grotto is a half mile away and if anyone is going to try something, it will be here. Once we're at the grotto, it's too late. Too many witnesses."
"Well-met," Ianthe called, stepping forward and greeting Eleanor, then kissing Drake on both cheeks. Her eyes met Drake's and Bishop wondered what they were both thinking.
Ianthe hadn't yet committed to throw her hat in the ring. As Bishop glanced past her, toward his half brother, he saw no sign of the answer there either.
"You expect trouble?" Lucien asked, stepping forward to clasp his hand. His half brother bore the rings of a sorcerer of the seventh level, and power spilled through his body to an immense degree. Bishop might not be able to match him in raw strength, but was certain his control and finesse with weaving sorcery granted him equal status.
He met his half brother's eyes. They were an unusual amber color, but Bishop saw perhaps a little similarity between them around the nose and the shape of the mouth. Disconcerting, to say the least. As was the tremor of power running between them as their hands linked. Bishop pulled his hand away. "I always expect trouble, but at this moment, I consider it a foregone conclusion."
