Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1)

by Bec McMaster

  "I was running in the gardens one day when I was twelve. I tripped and ruined my pretty skirts, right in front of one of his guests. Father was furious, and he started to drag me toward the attic. I couldn't bear it anymore; I just... I just couldn't go back to that attic. Not alone. And so I lashed out. My shadows became constructs with weight and form. They caught his arms and pushed him away from me." Ianthe picked at the hem of her skirt, seeing it all over again. "You should have seen his face. I thought he was going to kill me. The next day, he packed me off to my aunt's in the country and set about destroying every sorcerer in the country."

  In the distance, a clock tower chimed four o'clock in the afternoon. Ianthe looked at it. The day was wasted, and they were only just making headway. A burst of thought came upon her: Louisa was out there somewhere, all alone, without a single shadow to comfort her. Ianthe sobered. "Come. We've much to do and little daylight left in which to do it."

  She pushed herself to her feet, offering his coat back to him, but Lucien didn't move to accept it. He stared down at it, as though he'd never seen it before.

  "What are you thinking?" she asked, tilting her head toward him. "You have this look about your face..."

  "I was thinking that I thought my childhood was terrible."

  It struck her right to the heart. He had no idea. Not truly. But she pushed aside the memories as maudlin. She was well free of Grant Martin. Well free of those memories. "Don't you pity me. I rarely think of him," she admitted, laying his coat over his arm and heading for their own carriage, parked behind the Cotswold Mews. "He cannot hurt me anymore. I made certain of that."

  "Did you?" Lucien was watching her face far too closely as he fell into step beside her. The stark white of his shirtsleeves gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, and his gray waistcoat clung to the hard musculature of his chest. "Or are you just telling yourself such a thing?"

  Ianthe flushed. "Do you pretend to read my mind now?"

  "Not your mind, no. Your emotions, however, are painted across your face. Your father troubles you."

  "Your father troubles you," she shot back.

  They shared a long, steady look.

  "Which one?" Lucien asked, with a faint, mocking lift to his brow.

  "Both of them, I believe. Tell me about Lord Rathbourne, for I know your grievances with Drake. Did he beat you? Lock you away? Force you to give up all the lessons you loved, and instead turn to meaningless hours of prayer?"

  Lucien cut her a cold look. "No. He didn't care enough to bother."

  Then he turned and strode away from her, across the grassy lawn of the park. Ianthe stared after him. That was it? After all she'd revealed? "Wait!" she called, grabbing a handful of her skirts and scurrying after him. "You cannot simply leave it at that." Catching his sleeve, Ianthe added, "Please."

  Lucien looked bleakly across the park. She didn't think he was going to answer her; every inch of his body was a stiff line. Then his lashes lowered, covering those amber eyes. "Do you know the one time that Lord Rathbourne gave a damn about me?"

  Ianthe shook her head.

  "It was right before he forced me to summon the demon. After years of neglect—or no, not even that, but indifference—he finally began to pay attention to me. He invited me into his workshop to show me the mysteries he was studying: time, space, planes of existence behind my knowledge. Then he offered me a gift, Ianthe. A collar. I didn't recognize it for what it was. I'd never seen a Sclavus Collar, for such things are forbidden. He told me it would increase my powers, so that I could act as a wellspring for him. He needed the additional strength of my power, for he had a difficult undertaking to pursue."

  Lucien blew out a breath. "It was stupid to believe him, but... I never thought his intentions toward me were malicious. I never had cause to doubt him, and I was proud that he'd asked me. I wanted to please him. He'd always preferred my cousin Robert to me. This was the one thing that Robert couldn't give him, for he has the magical ability of a turnip."

  Picking up a small rock, he toyed with it, still looking down. "Do you know the worst thing about what happened a year ago?"

  Ianthe couldn't contain her sudden surge of pity. She slid a gloved hand over his, stroking his knuckle with her thumb. She didn't like seeing him like this. "What?"

  "It made sense," he said, looking up and meeting her eyes. "Why Rathbourne never cared for me. In a way, it was almost a relief to discover the truth. He wasn't my father. No wonder he barely tolerated me."

  "But what was so bad about that—?" And then she realized.

  Lucien's smile was thin-lipped. "Precisely. I trade one father who doesn't care for me, for another who I'd never even met. And now this father of mine needs my help. Can you wonder why I don't fully trust the offer?"

  For the first time, she didn't have the words to defend Drake.

  CHAPTER 13

  I T TOOK precisely five minutes to break into Rathbourne Manor on the outskirts of Kensington.

  Lucien strode into Lord Rathbourne's study, raking the room with a hard gaze as he set the candle he carried on the mantel. Little had changed. Over the mantel hung Lord Rathbourne himself, sneering down at the room, forever caught in his favorite expression. The artist had done a brilliant rendition, all the way down to the thin moustache that flagged Lord Rathbourne's lip and the pinpoint glare of his pupils.

  Lucien turned his back on at least one of his ghosts. Rathbourne held no sway over him anymore.

  White sheets draped the furnishings, heavy with dust. Until his case was heard later this summer, the courts would hold the property in trust. How Robert would hate that. It gave him some grim amusement, until he realized that this grim mausoleum and the old, ancestral estate were the only things he truly owned in this world, if the courts ruled him sane.

  What kind of future was that?

  To allay the answer, Lucien paced to the window and flung the heavy velvet draperies back. Within seconds, he was overwhelmed by a miniature dust storm. "Damnation." He coughed, turning away and waving his hand in front of his face to clear the air.

  "What did you expect?"

  Ianthe stepped inside the study, lifting her pale, oval face to survey the heavy bookshelves. Her creamy skin held no watercolors right now. Her emotions were muted, bearing only a faint, radiant shimmer of amusement. A beautiful woman of ivory tones and faint rosy blushes, wearing a red gown. His gaze slowed as it traced the pale curve of her shoulders. It was difficult to think of her as he once had—as the enemy.

  Something hard and tight within him softened as he looked at her.

  This was not the mad villainess he'd spent the past year picturing in his revenge-fueled fantasies. She was warm flesh and blood, with her own demons, her own secrets. He wasn't certain he particularly liked this slow-building camaraderie between them, or perhaps he didn't fully trust it, but a part of him was intrigued to discover more about her.

  Kindred spirits, in some ways. She alone understood what it felt like to be betrayed by your flesh and blood, or the man you thought was such.

  "Here," she said, stepping forward and brushing dust off his coat. "Dust looks like it's going to be the greatest danger here."

  He'd been cautious as they entered, however. Lord Rathbourne liked his privacy and had once employed a host of wards and hidden tripwires to all manners of magical mayhem. Nothing of them seemed to remain. They'd faded into dust and air, along with their master. "Hopefully."

  "Where would he hide the grimoire?"

  "Not here." Lucien crossed to the bookshelf, tugging on some ancient play of Euripides. With a groan, the fireplace began to move.

  "Hidden staircases?"

  "It gets better. Lord Rathbourne was the sort of sorcerer who liked the darker practices. Anything that gave him power."

  "Please tell me we're not going to find bodies down there."

  "No. A skull or two, perhaps."

  The grinding in the walls slowed. Lucien lifted the candle and waved it into the darkened tunnel.r />
  "Suitably gothic." His proud, invulnerable Miss Martin looked like she was going to faint.

  "Are you all right?" Lucien asked her.

  Miss Martin let out a slow breath, her eyes darting around. "I'm fine. I'm just not... fond of small dark spaces."

  Like attics. His heart actually clenched in his chest. He'd never have realized the cause behind such a weakness before their earlier conversation.

  Hell, he actually wanted to draw her into his arms and curl her against his chest. "I have a candle," he promised, voice softening, "and I'll be here too."

  Those dark eyes surveyed him, as if to gauge whether he was mocking her or not, and then she looked back down the narrow stone passage. A chill breeze whispered over his skin, and he knew what she was thinking.

  "It won't blow out."

  "I'm not entirely certain I won't make an embarrassing scene if it does," she said dryly, trying for humor and failing. "It's possible I might try to climb you. Like a tree."

  "Miss Martin, the devil incarnate, scared of a little darkness?"

  "I could thrash you sometimes, Rathbourne," she mock-growled, but faint glimmers of indigo-gray crossed her face.

  Fear.

  Without thinking, Lucien summoned a mage globe, gleaming with iridescent white light. It came to hand immediately, and Lucien looked down in shock. It hadn't hurt him to summon it. Mage globes of white were virtually powerless, but still... Was the problem his sorcery, or some part of his mind?

  "Oh. Thank you."

  Lucien gestured, and the faint globe rose from the palm of his hand, hovering in front of them. The strain came immediately, cold sweat springing up against the back of his neck, but he didn't dismiss it. Ianthe stepped into the tunnel, her skirts pressing against his trousers, and one hand on his sleeve, as though his presence gave her some peace of mind.

  He couldn't have dismissed it if he'd tried.

  "Rathbourne's occult study is not far. There should be a staircase at the end, which will wind down to the cellars." Lucien held his hand out as she stepped forward, as if to prove she wasn't afraid of the dark. Stubborn woman. "Let me go first, Ianthe. There might have been something he left behind to guard his private domain."

  "Very well," she murmured as he strode forward, "but only because the view is more enticing from back here."

  Lucien glanced back, noting her impish smile, and couldn't stop his own from forming. "One would think you enjoy your nights."

  "Whatever gave you that idea?"

  The sound of her gasps, her body arching up beneath him as he traced her skin with his tongue...

  The mage globe dimmed a little. Concentrate, he told himself harshly. Her teasing manner intrigued him, however. There'd been little humor between them thus far.

  "Tell me about Cross," Lucien said, shouldering through the small passage. It ended, just as a gaping yawn opened up beneath his feet. The staircase.

  "Remy?"

  Remy. His fingers actually curled into a fist. Ridiculous, really. It wasn't as though he'd sensed anything between her and the magician, but then, she'd said the Prime had never been her lover... Which left at least two men, somewhere out there.

  "What about Remy?"

  "How did the two of you meet?"

  "He'd advertised in the newspaper for an assistant," Ianthe replied. "We suited each other. He provided me with an income and a way to thumb my nose at my father, and I wasn't frightened of him, unlike the other applicants. Once you've grown up in Grant Martin's household, there's no stare you cannot meet. It had Remy quite perplexed at the start. I think he quite likes people to either be in awe of him or terrified. I was neither." Ianthe considered something. "I'm certain Drake had a hand in my gaining the position too. He wanted to provide me with pin money, once I'd finished my apprenticeship, but I refused."

  Lucien glanced back over his shoulder as they reached the lower floor, and held a hand out to help her down the last few stairs. "Why?"

  Those fingers were warm. Ianthe stepped past, examining the darkened chamber before them, but she didn't let go of his hand. "When my father threw me out, I had nothing, Lucien. It was an eye-opening experience. By the time Drake set me on my feet, I had vowed that I would never be beholden to another person again. When I finished my apprenticeship, I trusted Drake, but I didn't want to be supported by him. I wanted to be my own person."

  "Cross pays so well?" He didn't forget the luxury of her house, or her eminently fashionable wardrobe.

  "My aunt left me a small inheritance a few years ago," Ianthe admitted. "It was time to begin thinking of the future, so I bought the house and channeled the remaining funds into investments."

  "So you didn't need to work as Cross's assistant anymore? Why continue then, until three months ago?"

  "Lucien." Her smile was gentle. "I enjoyed the work. It gave my life some purpose."

  "When you're not hunting miscreants for the Prime?"

  "Yes, well, there's that."

  It seemed somewhat lonely. "You've never considered marriage and children?"

  Those pale features froze in a polite expression. "What man would have me? I'm a sorcerer's whore, according to popular opinion, and if I'm honest, why surrender my authority to a man? I am in the unique position of living my life according to my own whims."

  "You don't want children?"

  She turned away, examining the small cellar room they'd entered. "I don't know whether I would be a good mother."

  Something about the softness of her tone drew his eyes. Not the entire truth then. "And your father? How did becoming a magician's assistant help 'thumb your nose at him'?"

  "He'd been making noises about taking Drake to court and suing him for destroying my character. The words he painted Drake with were ghastly; a sorcerer preying upon innocent young maids and seducing them to Satan's side. It was ridiculous considering he was the one who threw me out, but a few of my father's friends were muttering about it. So I wanted to put a stop to his plans to paint me as some innocent young girl and Drake as a vile seducer. I sent him front row tickets to my first show from an anonymous source.

  "I knew my father would show up. He could never resist a chance to mince around with his social class. So I put on my spangled outfit and stepped on stage, and showed my father what I'd become. He stormed out after the first act, but he was waiting for me in my dressing room." Shadows darkened her eyes. "It's the only time I've seen him since I left his house. It was terrible and confronting, but a part of me exulted. I finally had power over him. I told him that if he continued to make his threats against Drake, then I would tell the world who 'Sabine' was. I threatened to take a lover and flaunt myself to the world as some rich man's mistress. I would ruin him, if I could." Ianthe sighed. "I was younger then, of course."

  "You wouldn't do the same now?"

  "No. I think I'm weary of making decisions for the sole purpose of striking at my father." A faint Gallic shrug. "Other things seem more important these days. The people in my life who truly care for me, not the ones I was cursed to have the misfortune to belong to originally."

  That stung, because whilst she had those people in her life, he had no one. He'd never realized what was missing from his life before she walked into it, but although she was part of the problem, she was not the whole of it. Lucien gazed around the darkened cellar they'd stumbled upon, a bleak scowl upon his face.

  "Call it age bringing about a certain amount of wisdom." Ianthe's smile seemed wistful, but then her attention turned to the room below. "Well, this looks... friendly." Ianthe stepped forward, beneath the heavy gothic arches that supported the ceiling, her fingers trailing over one of the massive stone gargoyles that stood watch.

  Lucien barely heard what she said. His entire body was still vibrating with the truth that had struck him: he was alone. Not one person gave a damn about him these days. The ache of it struck him right through the heart.

  He tried for nonchalance, however, as he didn't want her to notice that au
ght was amiss. "You cannot be so old as that."

  "How old do you think I am?"

  Lucien leaned one hand against the arched doorway, considering her from the top of her elegantly coiffed chignon to the tips of her toes. "If you think I'm going to answer that, then you think me a fool. A gentleman never comments on a lady's age."

  "I though you weren't a gentleman. Isn't that what you said before?"

  "It has nothing to do with etiquette. It's an act of pure preservation. Nothing more."

  Ianthe's smile softened, the shadows of the room limning her features and highlighting those dangerous eyes. They were like darkened clouds—endlessly changing, as restless and dramatic as an approaching storm. She was beautiful. He could never forget that. Nor could he stop his gaze from seeking her out as she turned to the books on the desk.

  Perhaps it's because you haven't been with a woman for so long?

  Perhaps... Or perhaps not. The thought discomforted him a little. She reminded him of himself. Both of them had been effectively orphaned by cold, distant parents, but whereas she seemed to have found herself and thrived, he was still trying to find his feet. That showed a strength of will he both admired and respected.

  And envied, if he were being honest with himself.

  "Here, I think I found something," Ianthe said, flicking through the pages of a book. Every inch of her face lit up in animation, and he felt something clench inside his chest. "It's not a diary. Oh." Her expression fell as she flicked through the pages. "Rather monotonous, truly. A study on theosophy, though Lord Rathbourne seemed hardly the enlightened sort." Her nose wrinkled up as her eyes traversed the page. "Good gods, what a bore."

  "One could say that you have his measure already."

  She moved on, examining the bookshelves and the smattering of leather-bound books on the desk. "A translation of the Epic of Gilgamesh," she murmured, casting aside books. "The Parabola Allegory, The Sixth and Seventh Book of Moses. Interesting collection. Lord Rathbourne seems to have been a dabbler, rather than one allied to a particular field of study..." He sensed the moment that she realized his quietness. Those dark lashes swept up, a faint frown furrowing her brow. "What is it? What's wrong?"