by Bec McMaster
"After her years of apprenticeship, she met Drake at one of the Equinox balls. The pair had something in common, an interest in those that we call demons and the dimensions, or planes of existence, from which they came. Morgana was a great flirt, toying with the emotions of those around her, including Drake and his then-friend Tremayne. One moment, it seemed certain that she would accept Drake's suit, the next she'd be gadding about with Tremayne." Lady Eberhardt snorted. "I never trusted the little bitch, but Drake won her over. The competition between he and Tremayne hadn't ended, however, and both were determined to be the first to safely control a Greater Demon. The Relics Infernal were created, and it was only then that Drake began to realize how dangerous such a creation could be.
"This was the first step in the downfall of his marriage. Morgana helped him steal the relics from Tremayne, but the cost of the events had taken its toll. Morgana was now married to the Prime of the Order, a worthy position in her eyes, and certainly one in which she used every opportunity to lord it over the rest of us mere adepts. But Drake was beginning to assert his authority and could not be so easily swayed by his wife. Morgana began to grow flirtatious again, seeking to control her young husband through jealousy." Lady Eberhardt rolled her eyes. "It was a constant battle of wills between them, often ending in the bedchamber, but over time... Drake grew tired of the battle. He threw himself into a new direction for the Order, offering to serve the young Queen and her cabinet. Anything to allay the common people's fears toward sorcery, especially after Sir Davis's reign of secrecy. It was a worthy cause, but Morgana was furious at his lack of attention. There was no heir conceived between them, and her husband was spending more and more time away from her. Even rumors that she'd taken a lover could not bring her husband back to her. Another young lady had caught his eye. One who shared his ideas and helped to guide his vision with her talents of Divination. One who rarely fought with him, a true meeting of minds. The only unfortunate fact was that she was already married."
A prickling silence entered the room. Lucien lifted his head, those golden eyes blazing. "My mother."
"Your mother," Lady Eberhardt said, with some satisfaction. "I liked Lady Rathbourne. She told me once that she'd always known she would meet the man she would fall in love with, when it was too late. That's the problem with being able to see hints of your future, but not enough of it. Lord Rathbourne, of course, did not appreciate the fact that his wife was swelling with another man's bastard. Drake was forced to give your mother up, but Lady Rathbourne's pregnancy infuriated Morgana. She wanted her power back, her control."
"And so she schemed to poison Drake's nephew," Ianthe whispered, knowing the story well. She couldn't even fathom how a woman could do that to a child.
"Unfortunately, yes," Lady Eberhardt replied. "I think Morgana realized that a child could be her route to power. She began working on potions to bring life to her barren womb, but the problem was, her husband had no interest in her bed, following the death of his nephew, Richard. Drake was... shattered. I watched that little bitch worm her way back into his good graces, all sympathy and consolation, and then barely three weeks later, Morgana starts crowing about her pregnancy. That was when I began to grow suspicious. Who had the most to gain from Richard's death? She did. Who knew the Darker Arts? Who knew poisons? Morgana. The trail slowly began to lead back to her, and the woman was arrested. The first thing she did was tell Drake that he'd never see his child alive, if he tried to press through this divorce or her verdict. Drake was furious, of course, and presented his case to the Order. They ruled in his favor, and the Queen granted him his divorce in parliament." Lady Eberhardt's eyes grew sad. "None of us truly thought she'd go through with her threats. The next day, her guards were found murdered. Morgana had vanished, and a week later, the body of Drake's unborn son arrived in a box. Drake swore then, that if Morgana ever returned to these shores, she would be arrested and executed immediately by the Order for treason. The order is still signed."
The room fell silent.
"How on earth do you know all of this?" Rathbourne demanded.
Lady Eberhardt sipped her tea, looking amused. "Before I married my last husband, I served as one of the three councilors for the Order. I signed that execution warrant, my boy, and I'm privy to an entire host of secrets that nobody else knows."
"So if Morgana is back on this side of the Channel, then she's here for a reason," Ianthe murmured.
Rathbourne stroked his chin, his eyes hard and flat. "I wonder what that reason is?"
A little chill started, somewhere in the middle of Ianthe's chest.
A chill that said: Louisa.
A chill that remembered the man who'd quite rudely bumped into her in the street but two weeks ago and slipped her a piece of the little girl's black hair, and said, “We want you to bring us the Blade of Altarrh. Otherwise, you will never see your child again.”
Ianthe had raced home to gather herself before she told Drake, when she'd found a note in her room.
'Tell anyone, and she dies. We have eyes watching you and the Prime to ensure you behave. Trust no one. Expect anyone. You will receive further instructions, when you have stolen the relic. We will contact you. We will know.'
Ianthe fingered the locket at her throat, where her one portrait of the girl resided. She was barely a mother—she could never claim that—but they had struck her where she was most vulnerable, and now she was playing a dangerous game of trying to keep a half dozen cups in the air. She had to wait until her blackmailers contacted her before she could give them the relic, but in the meantime, Drake had saddled her with Lucien as a partner.
"Morgana," she said, in a somewhat hoarse voice. She'd never recognized the man in the street and had wondered who this shadowy organization was who had stolen her daughter and murdered poor Jacob and Elsa, Louisa's adoptive parents.
Could Drake's ex-wife have anything to do with this?
If so, then what was Ianthe going to do? There was no one to help her. No one. Not even Drake. She couldn't trust any of the sorcerers around her, for if the note was true, and there was someone close to Drake who was watching her, then she might do something inadvertent and reveal her hand. Then they'd kill her daughter. The only one...
Her thoughts stalled as Ianthe looked up in horror at the hard edges of Rathbourne's face. The only sorcerer she knew who couldn't possibly be involved was Rathbourne.
Could she trust him? He'd said himself that he wanted revenge against both Ianthe and the Prime. Would the safety of an unknown child matter to him? His child?
The truth was that Ianthe didn't know. She didn't know Rathbourne well enough to trust that he would help her win her daughter back over the possibility of taking revenge on his own father.
Wait, a little part of her whispered. Wait a few more days and see what kind of man he is...
But what if they wanted the relic before then?
"Are you all right?"
Ianthe blinked and realized that those hawkish amber eyes were watching her as if he'd picked up on her emotional distress. She froze, the pretty locket trapped in her fingers as she stared back at him. "Yes. Yes, I... I'm just surprised to learn that she's back. What if Morgana set this in place? What if she gets her hands on the Blade?" Her voice became particularly strident toward the end, and Rathbourne's brow arched as if he noticed.
What if I have to give her the Blade in order to get my daughter back?
"One relic in hand," Lady Eberhardt mused. "Did the vision mean that she already has one in hand and the Blade would make two? Or that the Blade is in her hand and she needs to find the other two?"
"I don't think she would have the Blade yet," Ianthe replied quickly. "It's barely been twelve hours. Whoever stole it would have to lie low for a while, and there was no sign of anyone leaving the estate in a hurry."
"So we might presume she has one in hand, with the Blade soon to join it," Rathbourne murmured. "Which means that whoever holds the final Relic Infernal is in dang
er."
Lady Eberhardt met his stare. "Perhaps."
A second later, a ripple of chimes flooded through the house, growing more intense in noise and stridency. Lady Eberhardt's head cocked, her face paling.
"What was that?" Ianthe asked.
"Is that a tripped ward?" Rathbourne added.
"Yes," Lady Eberhardt erupted out of the chair, twitching aside the curtains at the window. "Someone is on the property. Or something. Either it is sorcerous in nature, or created of sorcery, and it doesn't intend to knock."
Ianthe rose. Her heart started to beat a little faster in response to the wary flash of the whites of Lady Eberhardt's eyes. Lady Eberhardt was eccentric, but fiercely invulnerable. She'd hunted a demon singlehandedly over the course of a year, or so it was told, so why would she be frightened now? "But why would they attack us?"
"Because," Lady Eberhardt met her gaze, "I am the protector of the third relic—I am the guardian of the Chalice."
CHAPTER 5
'Sorcerous constructs are creatures of power with no autonomy, no will of their own, animated by a Word of Power, and their master's will. But beware, for all of them hunger for life, and if they slip your control they will try to drink it from your veins.'
-SIR JUSTIN DEFINO, Sorcerer Royal and Master of Constructs
THERE WAS a pregnant pause as that knowledge sank in.
"Bloody hell," Lucien swore. What a rotten coincidence. And dreadful timing. He strode toward the window to see what had tripped the wards. "Where is the Chalice now?"
There was nothing outside, just the faint drift of fog through the gorgeous rose gardens out back. Tendrils of it crept this way and that toward the house, as if slowly hunting for something.
"Hidden—" Lady Eberhardt turned and rang the bell pull "—and protected."
"Your house is well warded, I presume." Miss Martin tried for reason.
"As was Drake's."
"Do these still work?" Lucien demanded, striding to the cabinet where Lady Eberhardt's hunting pistols remained.
Both women shot him a surprised look, then Lady Eberhardt nodded. Lucien armed himself, priming a pair of pistols and slinging a couple of rounds into his pocket.
By that time, both women were halfway through the door. Lucien cursed under his breath, then hurried after them.
"Allow me to go first," he said, catching Miss Martin by the wrist. "I'm the one with the shield bracelet."
Those blue eyes widened; then she gestured him into the lead. Her skirts swished behind him as they took the stairs. Lady Eberhardt strode ahead, drawing a blade across her widened palm. Blood welled in a neat gash, and she curled her fingers into a fist and then flung them wide, spraying droplets all across the entrance. Blood spattered on the glass in the door and the gleaming marble tiles, and the second each droplet hit, Lucien could feel a prickling along his nerves.
"Arise!"
The door rattled in its casement, as did the windows, as if the house slowly awoke to Lady Eberhardt's cry. Long dormant protection spells sprang to life, shimmering in brilliant gossamer spell veils along each window and doorway that he could see. Lady Eberhardt must have spent months weaving them into the surface of the house. He could barely see for the cascade shimmer of spell craft, a piercing ache echoing in his left temple.
Would this ever end? He couldn't deal with this weakness of his right now, not with so much sorcery spilling through the air.
Dragging a bloodied hand over the marble lions in the foyer, Lady Eberhardt strode on. The first lion tore its head free from its marble paws, its eyes gleaming with golden light. Chips of shattered marble scattered over the floor as it shook out its mane and gave an enormous roar. Its twin, standing in silent entreaty across from it, stretched, shaking free of its casement. They bounded after Lady Eberhardt, their heavy paws leaving cracks in the tiles behind them.
Sorcerous constructs were creatures of power with no autonomy, indeed no mind, no will of their own. He'd heard rumors of golems created out of clay by rabbis, with a Word of Power carved into their foreheads to animate them, and these were somewhat similar.
Constructs could be formed of anything—leaf and mud, metals, stones, shadows, sometimes even blood and flesh, if the sorcerer in command belonged to the Grave Arts. Those were the hardest to control, for the flesh still remembered what life was and craved the taste of it. Nine years ago, Sir Alastor Walton brought over a dozen zombie constructs to life, and when he lost control of them, they'd torn half of the East End to pieces. It took forty sorcerers to destroy the zombies since the cut off pieces kept trying to reform, and eventually they'd had to burn them all. Sir Alastor had been tried by the Order and executed, and the Prime had pledged to the Queen that creating constructs of flesh were now forbidden and that it would never happen again.
Bam. The first assault against the wards shook the entire house. Bam. Bam.
The sheer weight of the sorcery nearly drove Lucien to his knees. Slamming up his inner barriers, he clung to the bannister for a moment as dust trickled down from the roof and eerie green light flooded through the windows.
"Are you all right?" Miss Martin demanded, and as his vision returned to normal, he found her clutching his sleeve and staring up at him.
He couldn't let her see his weakness. "I'm fine," he replied gruffly, staggering as something else hit the house and rebounded from the wards. An explosion of actinic light blazed like a corona outside, and he slammed his eyes shut, clapping a hand over them. Sorcery fired through his blood, setting his mind afire, as he cried out.
Mother of night. "What in all the hells is out there? Hell spawn?"
The light touch of Miss Martin's skin against his hand eased the overwhelming sensation as their bond swelled. Lucien caught her fingers as she moved to retreat, and her gaze swept to his as he blinked, her lips parting gently. It felt like they were trapped in a bubble that silenced everything around them. It felt like he could breathe again.
"I'm concerned that I won't be able to protect you very well at this juncture in time," he admitted, though it galled him. "It's too soon since my release. I'm weak from lack of food and the effects of my incarceration. I haven't used sorcery in over a year, or at least, before this morning. It's... overwhelming."
The dark slash of her brows softened. Her fingers curled around his. "Then let me act as your Anchor. You should have said something earlier."
Lucien gave a careless shrug. Surrendering this much control to her went against every grain of his fiber, but the relics were more important. Even he, who wouldn't shed any tears to see the Prime fall, knew that they could be dangerous in the wrong hands.
Cool sorcery slid over his skin like a whisper, beneath his clothes, forming a ward around him. The instant it locked into place, the overwhelming sensation of magic vanished. He could breathe again. See again. Lucien let out a breath of relief. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." They stared at each other for a long, drawn-out second.
The front door crashed open, and Lucien swept in front of her, flinging the blade he kept in his sleeve, before he could blink.
A stranger flung both arms up in front of his face in a cross, and the blade struck an invisible ward around him with a flare of green that shot through the entire shield, then vanished. The knife clattered noisily to the floor.
"Some kind of welcome," the stranger drawled, lowering his arms. He wore a great coat that smothered him and a beaver hat perched over his brow. Parts of his coat still smoldered, and a conflagration of power crackled over his shoulder as something launched itself up the front steps, and then vanished in a crackle of searing white light.
At Lucien's side, Miss Martin caught Luc's sleeve. "Don't. He's one of ours. Mr. Bishop, how do you do?"
"Any idea why the house is under attack by imps?" Bishop had the sort of smile that no doubt stole hearts by the handful, and a face that looked younger than he probably was, but Lucien didn't mistake the rasp of his voice, as if something had scarred his voic
e box, or the cold blackness of the man's eyes. Shadows lurked there, whispers of darkness and sins unknown. Combined with the heavy rings on his fingers with their chips of obsidian that stated him a seventh level adept, there was no doubt this Bishop was a dangerous man. The seventh was the highest level one could achieve, below that of the Order's Councilors, or the Prime's ninth level.
"Some idea," Lady Eberhardt's voice echoed through the entry as she returned. Only one of her lions stalked at her heels. "Shut the door and step lively. The wards are about to fall, I believe, and we're going to be inundated with hell spawn. Someone's dragged them straight out of the Shadow Dimensions."
The stranger stepped over the lintel, his heavy boot landing on the floor. It felt momentous, as if the shiver of that landing echoed through the marble in an underground fault line that slithered its way toward Lucien's boots and ended there.
What the hell? Lucien looked down. Nothing had happened, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd been here before, seen this moment played out in slow, time-catching movement, again and again—or perhaps, as if he'd been heading toward this moment his entire life.
Even the stranger paused, no doubt aware of it too. "What are you?" A hand slid to his belt, as if Bishop touched a knife there for reassurance.
Their eyes met and the air grew sharp with wariness, danger, and the underlying black current of sorcery as both men gathered themselves.
"What are you?" Lucien demanded in return, taking a step forward.
"That's enough, you two. We'll deal with this little mess later. Right now, we have over a dozen imps on hand," Lady Eberhardt commanded, striding forth with the fire poker in her hand. "Your timing is impeccable, as usual, Bishop." She peered out through the side panels of glass by the front door. "They've taken down my first ring of wards." A hand slid over the stone lion's head at her side. "Mounting an assault at the front door, it seems. They must have sensed the crack in the second ring after that last assault."
