by Bec McMaster
If not for Drake's mistress, Lady Rathbourne, and the unfortunate fact that she too was swelling with child, Morgana might have been able to sway him.
It had been a small moment at the tea party, a matter of losing sight of her rival between the astrology games they'd all been playing and the setting up of the readings. There'd been a bump and a 'pardon mademoiselle' in that syrupy French drawl, and then Lady Rathbourne had smiled at her insincerely, one lace-gloved hand brushing Morgana's middle, her eyes widening in shock as prophecy grabbed hold of her.
"This son shall never be yours," the Order's Cassandra stated in a ringing voice, strangely stripped of her accent, her pupils narrowed to pinpricks and unseeing.
With a gasp, Lady Rathbourne had staggered away as the prophecy released her, felling a servant with a platter of lemon cakes and almost sending the sandwich table to a similar doom. Eyes everywhere had turned, locking on the spectacle, and whispers sprang up, hidden behind lacy fans.
Morgana hadn't been able to stay there. She'd fled instead, one hand on the ruffles used to camouflage her thickened state, the other almost wringing the starch from her handkerchief. In a quiet corner of the gardens, she'd found refuge, but there was no respite from her thoughts. He'll never be mine. She could fool herself all she wanted, tell herself that she'd finally found something, someone who would love her no matter what and never betray her, but she'd had her own doubts. A child had to love its mother, did it not? But that hope had been shattered by the foul-tasting tang of foretelling that lingered in her own mouth.
Even the baby moved within her restlessly at that moment, a spiteful kick, as if to say that he too agreed.
There was no time to think her way out of it. The divorce proceedings began a week later. Not even threatening to abort their son had stayed Drake's hand long enough. By law, the child would have been his. With the Order signing an Execution warrant for her for the poisoning of Drake's nephew, she wouldn't have even remained alive to see her son grow and have a chance at luring him to her side.
Fleeing Britain was her only hope, and it gave her a vicious pleasure to cross the Channel, knowing that by then Drake would have received her letter with the bloody remnants in the rag she'd sent him. 'Here is your son. Tell your mistress that her foretelling came true: I will never have him, but neither shall you.'
A lie, of course, but imagining the pain Drake had felt had been the only thing to put a smile on her face in those early days. Nobody threw her away. She was tired of men ruining her life with their fists and their broken promises. She was never going to trust another man again.
Not even her son.
"If you ever tried to remove the collar, Sebastian, I think you'd find the pain quite beyond what I have been delivering when you disobey me. I'm told trying to remove it is almost... unendurable."
Only a faint flare of his nostrils betrayed any hint of emotion. "We shall see. Do you remember that tale you once told me about your uncle? About how he tried to lock you in that box one too many times? It was an interesting bedtime story for a boy of seven, and I never forgot it, but like other tales for children, it has an interesting moral to the story. I wonder when I will reach that moment when pain becomes nothing more than a minor annoyance, and the desire to remove... this" —he touched his throat— "becomes the overwhelming emotion. I wonder if you will be quite so sanguine then."
Morgana allowed herself a faint smile, though a trickle of sweat slithered down her spine. "Let this be another lesson then: one always keeps a trump card up their sleeve, Sebastian. If you think the collar is the only way I can control you, then you should think again."
"And how would you do that?" Sorcery began to build within him, the air suddenly growing cooler as he drew energy into him. "I am stronger than you."
Stronger yes, but with no finesse. "Oh, I won't stand against you, Sebastian. Not with sorcery. I know just what you can do with sorcery, how strong you are. Indeed, that small town in Provence knows exactly what you can do too, does it not?" She smiled at the faint flicker of doubt that crossed his brow and took a step toward him. It was the sort of thing that wouldn't have kept her awake. People died. Houses collapsed. The earth sometimes tore itself apart. Such was life, and she had little compassion for strangers when no one had ever showed compassion toward her. But this son of hers was his father. She had to remember that, and it gave her unique insight into his character. If Sebastian could lose himself to Expression and destroy so much at one little death—just an insignificant servant girl he should barely have noticed, let alone cared if she was crushed beneath the wheels of a powerful ally's carriage—then imagine what he would do if she threatened someone he cared about?
Morgana let out a steaming breath. The air was freezing now, so cold that her lungs caught, but she took another step and reached up to button his shirt collar. "If you ever break free, Sebastian, I won't fight you. I will let you destroy me without even raising a ward against you." She slipped the last button through its hole, hiding the wretched collar, and stepped back, giving him a gentle pat on the cheek. "But I shall take everyone else I can with me. That little girl crying in the room next door..." His gaze turned sharply toward the room, but she caught his chin and turned his face back to hers. "The butler, the maids, the footmen... That old harpy next door who you've taken quite a shine to... I won't fight your power, Sebastian, but I will amplify it. Imagine how much of London I can take with me if I ride your strength? Imagine how many people you'll kill? I'll make sure you survive though, my precious boy. You'll be standing in the circle of a pile of rubble, and all about you, you will hear the screams of crushed children and mothers crying for their babies. The scent of blood and death will be your legacy to the world."
It was the first time she'd ever seen such emotion in his eyes. He lived the horrors that she spoke of, seeing it in front of him, the memory made even sharper for the fact that he had lived through it once before, and still felt the whip of guilt.
The floor began to shift beneath her feet as she stared up at him, her fingertips resting against his cheek. This was the dangerous moment, for if he lost control of his emotions, then he might level the city regardless of his intentions, or hers. It was starting to hurt to breathe, the air so intensely frigid that she could almost feel icicles forming in the dew of her eyes.
"Think of that little girl crying on her bed. Use the fear of that, of what you could do to her, to fight the anger you're feeling. Control it, Sebastian."
He shut his eyes, his fists clenched firmly. A shockwave of raw power lashed out, making the table shudder and the chairs rattle and shake across the timber floors. Morgana caught his coat in a fist, trying to stay upright herself.
She could see the moment her words penetrated, and as his jaw locked hard, the trembling floor began to stabilize and the rattling of the shutters grew weaker.
Timing it perfectly, Morgana sent a lash of sorcery through the ring on her finger. The collar around his throat tightened just a fraction in response, and Sebastian turned white as his nerves lit on fire. Pain broke his hold on emotion and his concentration. By the time he was gasping at her feet, one knee pressed to the floor and both hands curled around the collar, the room had stopped shaking entirely.
"Now get up," she said, spilling hot, steamy breath into the cool air. "Let us not have this discussion again."
Circling the secretariat, Morgana sat again and examined the letter she'd been writing, signing her name with a flourish and trying to pretend that her hands weren't trembling. She let him take his time to gather himself after that little display. It was easier now. The first time had been the worst. There'd been a wide-eyed look on his thirteen-year-old face, as if he simply couldn't believe that she'd done it. Betrayal was the emotion she most disliked, for it reminded her too much of her own past, but she'd hardened her heart and turned away from him then, just as she did now.
If only he could have been hers... If he could have loved her right from the start, things would b
e so different. He'd bought this on himself. No mother cared to be despised by her own child.
"I assume," he said hoarsely, as he dragged himself to his feet, "that you have some service required of me."
Morgana sealed the letter. "Several tasks. As I mentioned, our plan is unfolding as we speak. Here." She extended the letter. "I want you to deliver this to Lord Tremayne. Tell him I've agreed to his terms."
"I thought you said that he asked too much."
"I've since reconciled the matter in my mind. His terms of agreement can be overcome." Morgana leaned back in the leather chair and pressed her fingers into a steeple. "In fact, perhaps I should warn you, his terms apply to you directly. I wouldn't want you losing your temper when I'm not there to control it, should the Earl happen to mention it."
"And why would I lose my temper?" This was the deadly soft voice she knew and recognized. He was recovering much more quickly from one of their little 'episodes' these days. "What task have you pledged me to now? Murdering some creditor? Fucking his wife or his mistress, perhaps both at the same time, so the old goat doesn't have to bestir himself to keep them from his throat?"
"No, Sebastian. I know you find such things distasteful."
And there had been that incident three months ago, when an ally of hers, Lady Wormwald, had wanted to see if he looked as pretty beneath his clothes as he did with them on. Sebastian had always been a potent attraction for such potential allies, and Morgana had never shirked at offering him up before, but after Lady Wormwald... Well, she'd never thought that men would be bothered by such duties, but perhaps it was best not to set him into another situation like that, where his emotions could potentially overwhelm him. She'd bribed Lady Wormwald's husband to keep quiet, and really, he was well rid of the bitch, but Sebastian was Morgana's most dangerous weapon. She couldn't afford for Drake to hear even the quietest whisper about him.
Sebastian's shoulders relaxed a hint. "Then what must I do?"
"You're to marry his daughter. An alliance to prove my trustworthiness to Tremayne this time aroun—"
"No." A hand slammed on the secretariat, disbursing papers everywhere. "No, I won't do it."
Morgana looked up, gauging the depth of his distress and finding not quite enough to warrant caution. "Yes. You will. It's not like you have to fuck the little bitch. Husbands and wives keep separate beds all of the time, and Tremayne wishes her to remain pure for some reason. I'd argue, but in fact, I'd much prefer it if our bloodlines don't mingle, as I have plans for Tremayne, but—"
"Do I not get to make one bloody decision in my life? Not even one?"
"If you interrupt me again, Sebastian..." She didn't bother with the rest of the warning.
He breathed out a laugh, his eyes wild. "Your uncle should have cut your throat. He should have realized what a little snake he had under his roof and just how poisonous you could be. It would have done the world a favor."
"And then you wouldn't exist!" It didn't sting. It didn't. She wouldn't let it.
"Would that be such a very bad thing?"
Another tremor shifted through the room, surprising her. She hadn't even felt him drawing in his power. The letter opener vibrated off her secretariat and disappeared into the shiver of papers on the floor. Morgana grabbed for the small writing desk, swallowing hard. This was stronger than before, almost enough to shatter the glass in the windows.
But this time, Morgana didn't have to do anything to stop it. Something shattered in the small bedroom next door and a frightened scream cut through the world.
The tremors stopped immediately.
The girl was crying again, curled up against the door from the sound of it, as if to escape whatever had happened inside the room. Morgana had never been so grateful to hear tears in her life.
She let them drag out, each sucked-in sob a knife into the heart of her son. She could see it in his eyes, in the hopeless way he shut them, his head bowing as if he'd finally given up.
There were shards of ice across her desk, like those found drawn on a window in crisp mornings, which was... a little concerning. The room was so cold and still. The whole house sounded empty of life and noise, as if he'd drawn heat and life from all of it in but a second.
Dangerous, something whispered in her mind. He is more dangerous than you ever believed him.
Not even Drake could gather so much power so quickly.
And just like that, her fear disappeared.
Not even Drake could stand against Sebastian's power, if she wielded it. The entire Triad of Councilors would wilt at the immensity of it. All she had to do was find a way to take it for herself.
Sebastian took the letter in hand with a blank, hopeless expression. "Is there anything else you desire of me?"
Yes. There was so much more, and yet she wasn't quite certain she dared at this moment. Had she been missing the signs of how close he was to the edge all along? Or had he learned to hide it? She would have to be so, so careful with this son of hers.
"Just... Just deliver the letter. And this one." She dug through the mess at her feet, finding a sealed envelope with a single lock of hair in it and an instruction on delivery. "Time to make Miss Martin pay her dues. See that our little friend drops it on her bed. Let us hope she's taken heed of my warnings and done as she was told."
"I won't let you hurt that child."
"I never intended it." Morgana managed a tight smile. "Murder is so messy." And final. If you destroyed your tools, then who knew when you would ever need them again? It was the same reason that Sebastian had been birthed into this world. "All I need to do is make sure the girl disappears quietly and is never seen again and nobody knows any better."
Sebastian slid the two envelopes inside the pocket of his waistcoat. There was no sign if he agreed or not, which bothered her a little.
"Then... take the afternoon off," Morgana said slowly. "Do something for yourself, whatever you would like, as long as it doesn't betray us. Your choice. I shall see you here by dinner, as we have a full evening planned." She tipped her head to him, noting the startled glance he shot her. Perhaps this would be a better, more careful way to manage him? "I can be kind, Sebastian. I would like to be kind. If you would only stop defying me, you would know more of it."
Black lashes darkened those beautiful, blank eyes. "The problem is: can I trust it?"
* * *
DRAKE SLAMMED the book he'd been perusing shut and lifted his head, turning it uncannily toward the south. Sorcery thickened the air, on a scale the likes of which he'd never felt before. It welled like a furious storm, bits of it breaking off and earthing itself like lightning bolts of pure power. So imprecise and violent, an enormous tidal wave of power that hovered on the edge of the horizon with threatening intent. This was not the type of sorcery he'd encountered before, with its carefully manipulated threads. This just wanted to smash, to lash out, to bubble up, and spill all over the world like a volcano that was starting to tremble.
All of the blood started to run from his extremities, flooding in toward his heart. Oh, hell.
"What the devil was that?" Eleanor Ross looked up from the map she'd been dangling his pocket watch over, noting his sudden absorption. She knew him far too well, well enough to sift through the silent message he was sending her with his face and body. "What happened?"
"Someone is using Expression."
"Where? Can you stop it? Can you trace it back to them?"
Drake tasted the metallic bite of sorcery on his tongue as he closed his eyes. South. Not too far away, perhaps within three miles. He had to upgrade his original assessment of power. Anything that felt so strong this far away had to be enormous. No one person should ever be able to channel that much energy.
The loss of the relic had cost him sleep ever since he discovered it, but this... this terrified him. Finding that sorcerer had to be his priority. Ianthe and Rathbourne could chase the relic, which he couldn't afford to forget, but if he didn't find who was bleeding that much power over
the West End then there might not be a West End for much longer.
There might not even be a London.
CHAPTER 9
'N ot everyone sides with the Order of the Dawn Star. It might be the most legitimate group of practitioners in the Empire, but there are those who chafe against its rules, or who were cast out in exile... And then, of course, there are those occult beings who were never truly quite human in the first place...'
- THOUGHTS ON OCCULT LONDON, by Sir Geoffrey Mellors
THE PORTOBELLO ROAD markets were in full swing as Rathbourne escorted Ianthe along the busy thoroughfare. Barrow boys bellowed at the top of their lungs, and laughter and music filled the air.
With a sigh of relief, Ianthe saw what they were searching for and followed as Rathbourne pushed his way into the Black Horse Pub. They stood for a moment in the smoky confines, Rathbourne's nearness a welcome respite. One of his hands rested lightly on the small of her back, almost protectively, even as his gaze searched the room. Only three of the chairs were occupied, men nursing ale and staring contemplatively at their tables. The Black Horse wasn't a place that anyone came to in order to socialize. It was a haven of neutrality in their occult world, and the pall over the room stank heavily of black sorcery. A touch malevolent, like sour, old beer mixed with the air of a freshly opened grave.
Hardly a place that Ianthe enjoyed.
The bartender had been swiping down the filthy counter, but he paused as he saw them, his mouth thinning to a hyphen. Without a word, he spat on the floor, then tipped his chin up toward her challengingly.
