Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1)

by Bec McMaster

  "If you will," she replied.

  Taking the ritual blade, he carefully ran it across his finger, squeezing out several drops of blood onto the first silver circle. A silvery dome flickered to life, locking them inside. As his blood dripped over the inner circle, another could be sensed, this time an invisible, but no less dense protection. A dome built to keep magic out.

  Rathbourne's eyebrow arched, and he tipped his chin to her. "Exquisite work."

  "You expected less?"

  Toying with the knife, he circled her, eyes gleaming hotly amber. "No. It reminds me of the Prime's work."

  "It’s an echo. Since he was my master."

  "In all matters," Rathbourne murmured.

  The remark stung, though she knew it was commonly believed rumor. After all, how could a healthy young woman such as she not have a lover, when her lack of marriage, career choice, and decision to live alone marked her clearly as someone of lesser morals?

  It didn't matter what he thought of her. Only that she found the people who wanted the relic. For a moment, she almost felt ill, the prick of tears threatening.

  Rathbourne's slow circling had stopped. "The thought upsets you."

  "What?" Ianthe turned her head to the side to look up at him. Perhaps some part of the man who'd once been her lover still existed.

  Or perhaps she was looking too hard for an ally that didn't exist.

  "We haven't got all day." Ianthe turned her face away. "Make your blasted marks, and let us finish this. The trail is growing colder by the minute."

  Rathbourne knelt on the edge of the stone slab. "So be it." Reaching out, he plucked at the buttons of her high-necked dress.

  The touch was shockingly intimate, and her fingers caught his, trying to knock them aside. "I can manage."

  Rathbourne held up his hands. "Merely trying to hurry the task along."

  Swallowing hard, she managed to undo her gown all the way to the top of her breasts. Rathbourne reached out and flicked the collar open, baring her décolletage. Those lazy, lion's eyes warmed as he looked his fill. Cold air pricked her naked skin, reminding her that she wore little more than her chemise and stays beneath her dress. Breath quickening, she stared up at the ceiling overhead, trying to ignore the heat of his presence. It had been like this ever since the day he stalked into Drake's ballroom and presumed to seek an introduction with her.

  As if he hadn't been the man who'd claimed her virginity, all those years ago.

  "Blood to bind," he whispered, and the sharp coppery scent of blood filled the room as he cut his finger again and let his blood well into the small lead bowl she used for that purpose. "Saliva, for the breath of life." Running his finger inside his mouth, he sucked hard on the cut. "Ink to mark the flesh."

  Spitting on the block of ink, he rubbed his bloodied finger through it, and Ianthe felt the first small stirrings of magic tighten inside her. She stifled the urge to squirm restlessly. An inability to focus was the mark of a mere acolyte.

  Not even Drake would deny that you've enough to unsettle any mind... Rathbourne himself, the relic and... the debt of guilt and grief.

  Tears pricked her eyes. Don't think of that now.

  "Hecarrh cairedh mi caratha..." Soft, whispering words so excellently nuanced that they had to be his personal Words of Power.

  The candle flames all flickered, then flared higher in a singular wave. The pull of power became a warm, tugging knot in her abdomen, a gentle pressure between her thighs. Sorcery had always felt slightly sexual in nature for her. It wasn't always, depending on the person and the elements of power that attuned more strongly to them. Some preferred the stir of blood, the anticipation of cutting the magic from their skin. Some found their link in the grave and the power of death.

  From the feel of the pull between them, she knew precisely which aspect Rathbourne attuned to. The muscle in his thighs clenched as he leaned over her, dipping a finger into the mixture of ink, saliva, and blood. His erection strained against the cambric of his trousers, and she swiftly glanced away as he straddled her hips.

  "That's hardly necessary," she protested.

  Soft fingers stroked a loose strand of her hair out of the way. "Shush." The moment he touched his blood-wetted finger to her chest, Ianthe felt it, as though he'd plucked the strings of a lute. Sorcery shivered through her; vibrations that set her blood on fire and forced her to bite her lip. She pressed her knees tightly together. Merciful heavens.

  Magic of the most intimate kind glimmered to life with the bond between them, leaving her wet and aching, trapped beneath him, the press of his knees on either side of her hips pinning her skirts.

  When the power faded, Rathbourne was straddling her, the press of his body pinning her hips to the stone slab. Breathing hard, his dark hair tumbling over those shocked eyes, he looked down at her. One hand splayed over the stone near her head, the other was resting lightly on the rune he'd drawn on her skin, fingertips barely grazing her.

  All it would take would be one move.

  Hers.

  A fist curling in his cravat as she dragged his weight down atop her... A perfectly legitimate way to finish this ritual, but if this were the result of a single rune, then what would happen if she let free all her inhibitions and took this to a conclusion they both desired? Just how powerful would their spell craft be?

  And what would be the result?

  There were three types of bonds that two sorcerers could use; a wellspring bond, where one sorcerer gave control of their power over to another; the bond between Anchor and Shield, which was somewhat more reciprocal, though the Anchor typically held control; and a soul-bond, that rare bond that could be created between lovers and could never be broken.

  Ianthe wasn't quite romantic enough to believe in it.

  At least this Anchor bond could be broken by choice when the time came.

  Even if the desolate ache between her thighs left her feeling strangely unsatisfied.

  Tonight, that ache would be assuaged. She'd given her word for it.

  "Are you done?" she demanded, both frightened and titillated by the idea of being in this man's bed, under his control, his power.

  "Of course." Rathbourne traced his fingertips across her collarbone, eliciting a shiver, then stood and began unbuttoning his shirt, golden candle flame highlighting the stark line of sinew in his shoulders and muscle. "Now it's my turn."

  CHAPTER 2

  T HE PRIME'S RESIDENCE was a far cry from Miss Martin's, which had been located in the heart of the theatre district. Not too far from the Rathbourne family manor, actually, though Lucien had no reason to go there whilst the courts held his case. Surely the Prime could afford to put her up in a more affluent section of town?

  "I assume the Prime has had the manor searched?" Lucien asked, as the carriage began to slow as it pulled into the circular driveway, the jingle of the bit ringing and the horse's hooves crunching over the gravel.

  "Of course he did. Discreetly." Not a sign of concern showed in Miss Martin's comportment, though her foot tapped with restless ease, her fingers scrunching the corners of the newspaper she'd been perusing.

  "Is it safe to presume that the theft has gone unnoticed by others?"

  "We've managed to contain the spread of rumor so far. The butler alerted Drake to the empty case sometime this morning, and he sent to wake me at dawn. The few servants who know are under a suppression rune, and there were only two guests for the evening, neither of them suspect."

  ...sent to wake me at dawn... Where precisely? It sounded as though she hadn't been in the duke's bed. "Were you staying at the manor?"

  "Yes. I only returned from the north yesterday afternoon, and Drake asked me to stay and dine with the Ross's. By the time we'd retired to the sitting room, it was late and I had no desire to venture out into the rain." She put the paper down and sighed.

  "Who are the Ross's?" The stamp of her own magic was lanced into his chest, pulsing with quiet discord. If he didn't know any better, he'd
suspect Miss Martin was a mess of steadily growing nerves.

  "Mrs. Ross and her niece, Adeline, are old friends of Drake's."

  "That means nothing. Either could have done it."

  "Addie is barely fifteen and considered a wallflower. Her aunt, Eleanor Ross, was accounted for at the time of the disappearance. You might as well accuse me, whilst you're at it."

  "No." His smile was grim. "It’s exceedingly clear where your loyalties lie. You're the only one I don't consider to be guilty."

  "I would strongly advise you not to accuse either of the Ross's without due cause. Drake is exceedingly fond of them."

  He ignored her. "So, servants, the Ross's, and anyone familiar with the wards. You mentioned there was no sign of a break in. Could someone have gotten in without anyone noticing?"

  "Anything is possible. Unlikely, but possible. Until this morning, I should not have thought anyone capable of breeching Drake's wards."

  Wards were an intimate magic. Only one well attuned to a sorcerer's style could have any hope of touching them without sending them blazing, let alone getting through them.

  Still, he had the sensation she was keeping something from him. How in blazes did she expect him to be able to help if all of her information was grudging?

  A dark figure limped into view as the carriage pulled up, leaning heavily on a silver-handled cane. Wings of silver highlighted the man's black hair, and his heavy-set figure was no less powerful or imposing than it had been a year ago, when Lucien had been dragged before the Prime in spelled chains.

  Drake de Wynter was a powerful foe, but Lucien couldn't stop looking at the man's cane. The Prime hadn't had that the day they'd dragged Luc into the study upstairs. Instead, he'd been seated behind his desk, his face ravaged with weariness. The demon had manifested directly in the center of the duke's Equinox ball the night before, scattering screaming acolytes and launching itself upon the Prime.

  The only reason it hadn't done more damage was because Drake had somehow managed to bend it to his will and sent it back to its master.

  Fire. Lashing along his chest as if someone had wielded a whip made of pure electricity. Lucien's fingers dug into the carriage strap, and he clung for dear life as he tried to force the image down. "What happened to his leg?"

  "The demon. It took quite a large chunk out of him, once it realized he was magically compensated against any of its attacks. He almost bled to death."

  Small comfort. Lucien's nostrils flared, and he offered her his hand as the footman opened the door. "Shall we?"

  Ianthe looked surprised, but in truth, he liked the feel of her small hand in his. The moment their fingers touched, the world seemed to slow down around him, its edges becoming crisp and defined, instead of a constant blur of sensation and color. He hadn't realized how much he needed an Anchor to ground him at the moment.

  Handing her down onto the damp gravel, Lucien examined the man who had sired him. They shared the same dark hair, but that was where the similarities ended. Lucien took after his mother, with her exotic amber eyes and thick wealth of hair.

  A thousand questions filled his mind. What had driven the Countess of Rathbourne into the arms of the Prime so many years ago? He'd done the math. His birth followed almost a year after his parent's marriage. A rather finite amount of time for his mother to cuckold her husband, though his experience with Lord Rathbourne over the years meant that he didn't bother to ask why she'd sought another man's arms. Merely, why the Prime?

  Silk bunched beneath his hand as he slid it firmly over the small of Miss Martin's back, needing the peace her presence wrought. A somewhat possessive gesture, and one that the Prime's sharp gaze didn't miss.

  Choke on that, he thought viciously, gracing the Prime with a smile. "We meet again."

  "Rathbourne," the duke intoned.

  "It seems you have a problem you wish my help with."

  The Prime took that moment to glance at Miss Martin. "You bonded him?"

  "It seemed wise," she replied, her expression gentling as she looked up at the man. "He could be dangerous, Your Grace."

  The Prime's silvery eyes lanced Lucien to the soul, searching for something, an ancient sadness lingering about his aura. "You have your mother's eyes—"

  "Let us dispense with the pleasantries," Lucien cut in angrily. "You and I mean nothing to each other. I'm merely here because you offer something I want. Freedom. So let's not pretend this is anything more than it is."

  An awkward silence settled.

  Drake de Wynter slowly nodded, looking tired, more than anything. Lucien almost felt sorry for him, but then the Prime turned and limped toward the house. "So be it."

  Lucien grit his teeth. He was letting his own emotions get the best of him. What had she said? That the duke suspected someone within his inner circle? That meant he ought to keep his bloody eyes and ears open, rather than focusing on the back of the Prime's head, his fist clenching. Revenge would not be taken out in such a bloody, confrontational way. No, he had better ideas. Lure Miss Martin into his bed. Steal her away from the bastard, perhaps. Return the relic and then watch as the prophecy did the rest.

  I will enjoy seeing you brought to your knees...

  "We're going directly to Drake's private wing." Miss Martin handed her hat and gloves to one of the footmen, giving him a reproving look. "Time is against us. Do you require anything?"

  "I'd like to see the place where the Blade was kept first."

  The upstairs wing was silent and still, evidently the Prime's private quarters.

  "This is where the relic was kept," the Prime said, his deep voice echoing in the marble-floored hallway.

  Half a dozen Chinese urns lined pedestals along the wall, with glass cases interspersed between them. Magic pulsed in the air, thick shivery fingers that brushed against Lucien's skin. He could almost see waves of it, like heat shimmering in the distance on a hot day.

  "It's an athame blade, isn't it?" He blinked through the pain of exposure, circling the empty glass case in front of him. A red velvet cushion rested forlornly on its pedestal, the shape of a dagger crushed into the material, but no sign of the actual implement itself. The case looked undisturbed.

  "There were three of them: The Blade, the Chalice, and the Wand. Together they form the Relics Infernal. The Blade was forged from the iron of a fallen star and an obsidian hilt; the Chalice is carved from ivory and bone; and the Wand was cut from whale bone."

  "Why create them?"

  "Curiosity on my behalf," Drake replied. "And power on the others. I was eighteen and rising swiftly through the ranks of the Order. The previous Prime was a bastard of the most unimaginable depravities. My friend Tremayne meant to see himself in this seat." His eyes dwelled on the empty case. "The spell craft was learned from a grimoire that Tremayne had purchased in his travels in the Orient. It made sense to me to wield it, even knowing the dangers, and my ex-wife, Morgana, always craved power. It is said that demons taught us the secrets of sorcery, opening our eyes to the power that we could wield. What else could they teach us? What could a Greater Demon know?" A faint grimace. "At that stage, I had not yet learned the consequences of dabbling in the darker arts. Just because one can do something—"

  "Doesn't mean that one should," Miss Martin murmured.

  They shared a faint smile. It spoke of a long familiarity.

  "Without the other relics...?" Lucien asked.

  "By itself it is still powerful, still dangerous," the Prime replied. "One of the secrets none of us understood, or I hope that none of us understood at the time, was that the Relics Infernal need a Grave sacrifice to work, not just blood. Once cut by the Blade, it's very difficult to stop bleeding." He held out his wrist, unbuttoning his cufflinks. A faint silvery scar traced his olive skin. "We all sacrificed blood to the original attempt of the ritual. It was my first inkling that all was not as it seemed. I told the others, then and there, that I had no intentions of continuing."

  Death magic. Despite himself, Luci
en was fascinated. "And?"

  "They agreed, but I saw the look in Tremayne's eyes. The Blade can be used to steal another's power for a brief time, by draining their blood and using it to fuel spell craft. At that stage, my ex-wife and I decided it was too dangerous to leave the objects in his care."

  "You mean, Morgana wanted them in her own hands," Miss Martin said wryly.

  "As I said, I had not yet learned certain consequences associated with power." The Prime stepped back. "She was a master of illusions, her particular talents running to deception. She created copies of the relics, and I switched them. Tremayne had no inkling of what I'd done until it was too late, and... by that time, the Prime, Sir Davis, had begun to hear word of our little experiments."

  This was the part of the story Lucien knew well. Sir Davis had sent his Sicarii assassins for Tremayne and de Wynter, dragging them before the entire Order at the Equinox where he'd demanded one of them give him challenge, or he would see Morgana executed first. Tremayne had demurred, not yet having the experience to fight a man of the Prime's worth.

  And de Wynter would have done anything for his wife at that stage.

  "Once I became Prime, Tremayne was furious," the duke explained. "He tried to use the Blade against me, and of course, not even Morgana's illusions could conceal the fact that I wasn't bleeding as I should be. He realized what we'd done and demanded the relics back. In the quarrel, I cast him from the house and warned him never to set foot in my sight again, or I would kill him myself."

  The case was perhaps three feet wide and four foot long. Lucien ran his fingers along it, the instant thrum of the case's wards almost blinding him. For a moment, the hallway was full of dancing colors. The duke seemed mainly made of saddened greens, whilst Miss Martin had an almost sickly tinge of yellow mixed with desperate grays.