by Bec McMaster
"It feels like it's mocking us." Lucien retreated a step and felt her do the same. They stood back to back, she with her hands raised and her power gathered, and he with his pathetic poker.
"Maybe we'd best take away its shadows," Ianthe said, and spat a power word. Light flashed into the room as a pair of mage globes formed as brightly shining as an electric bulb.
The gargoyle froze as it crept toward them, hissing at them.
"Lord Rathbourne obviously liked his constructs." Ianthe pushed her sleeves up, staring the remaining gargoyle down. "Two can play at that game."
The mage globes spun. Faint shadows sprung up on the walls as they whirled like a child's jack-o'-lantern, growing into humanoid shapes. The shadows stretched, and he realized that they were moving.
A shadowbinder in all of her glory.
Three of the shadows launched forward as the gargoyle attacked, grabbing hold of it. Its momentum slowed, its powerful haunches straining, but they could not stop it entirely. It gained an inch.
"I can give them presence," she gasped, "but not a great deal of weight. The gargoyle will outweigh them."
"Can you add force to the tip of the poker?" He brandished it.
Ianthe nodded, a trail of perspiration working down the side of her face. Handling several complex weaves was providing a strain that only frustrated him. He should have been able to help her.
The poker suddenly dipped as the end flared white-hot. Lucien grabbed it with two hands, straining to lift it. He staggered forward. A pair of red eyes locked on him, and suddenly the gargoyle stopped straining. Instead, it crouched low, as if to pounce.
Everything happened too quickly. The gargoyle launched itself at him, slipping free of the shadowy constructs, and Lucien brought the poker down in a resounding sweep that would have done his fencing tutor proud. It smashed into the side of the gargoyle, jarring all the way up his arm. Power flared, the gargoyle's eyes widened, and then...
The detonation threw them both backward. Lucien staggered into Miss Martin and another bookshelf fell. They both went down. Lucien cracked his knee hard on the cobbles, a pair of books bouncing off his shoulders as he curled himself over her. One hit him right in the spine, its edges sharp. Lucien winced.
And then it was done.
Silence. Stillness. Peace?
Pain flared through his knees. Skin scraped off, he presumed. Lucien looked up, but nothing moved.
Miss Martin blew a strand of hair out of her face, then tucked it behind her ear as she sat up. The chignon was beyond repair, and her skirts were torn. A streak of dirt marred her pale cheek, and it was that that suddenly enraged him.
It was his duty to protect her. From all things. And so far he was failing. What good was he? He might as well hide behind her fucking skirts!
"Bloody, fucking hell!" He turned and threw the bent poker he somehow miraculously still held. It made a rattling, tinny sound as it bashed into the wall and tumbled to the ground.
"Rathbourne?"
Lucien stood with his head down, his chest straining within his waistcoat. "It's nothing." Swallowing hard, he fought the violent surge of anger within him. Power trickled along his skin, igniting the hairs on his arms. How easy it would be to punch a hole through the wall right now, but that was Expression tempting him, taunting him. Not sorcery. Not skill. Not everything he'd fought so hard to learn, only to have it vanish from his grasp right when he needed it the most.
A gentle hand brushed against the small of his back. Lucien flinched, his fists curling, but contained it.
"Are we going to discuss that?"
"No, we are not." He let out a shuddering breath and turned around. Violence rode him, tightly reined in but practically vibrating through his muscles. He wanted to kick something, but was thwarted by her presence. One didn't go around tromping through a room in a violent whirlwind, unless one wanted to be considered fit for...
...Bedlam.
His nostrils flared. Strangely enough, that thought jarred him out of his fury. It was done. Neither of them was injured, and he was not some bedlamite, raging against his circumstances. He was better than that.
He would be better than that.
As Lucien turned to face her, his gaze fell on a book on the floor in front of him. It had tumbled from the cut-out hollow of another book.
Rathbourne's grimoire, full of all of his occult writings, including the mysterious link to Morgana, one hoped.
"There it is."
Ianthe's hand paused in the air, halfway between them, as if she'd been reaching for him. It fell. "What?"
"The grimoire! I knew it was here somewhere."
Hidden in plain sight within another book.
Grabbing it, Lucien flicked through the pages of spidery scrawl. Every sorcerer had their own grimoire. They were both a diary and a spell book, showcasing the design of each sorcerer's individual chants, wards, and ritualistic runes. There was enough reading here to keep him entertained for all of the sleepless nights he was sure lay ahead of him.
He shook it at her. "We've found it."
That pillow-lipped mouth curved in a broad smile, as if they both shared the victory. Or perhaps they had. Her blood had to be up - his was. "Time to discover some of Lord Rathbourne's secrets."
"Stimulating reading, I'm sure." He tucked the grimoire under his arm. "Come on. At this rate, it will be dark before we know it." He stepped over a pile of rubble, shooting it a dark look. "That's going to give me nightmares for weeks."
"They were just constructs, Rathbourne."
"You try unbuttoning your breeches with a cockstand, while having a willing young woman on her knees in front of you, and try not to think about what's watching you in the darkness."
Ianthe laughed. A throaty, luxurious sound that made all of the light within her suddenly glow. She lost all sense of decorum, holding her glee within her by means of a clapped hand over her mouth. The sounds she made... Hardly seductive, but it felt like she'd shoved a fist straight into his chest and curled that small hand directly around his beating heart.
I made her laugh. It was the first time he could recall seeing her so abandoned, and the odd flush of pleasure he felt, at knowing he'd brought this about, made him both happy and irritable. She didn't laugh enough. In fact, he'd barely heard that sound at all since they'd met.
Lucien rubbed his chest. Gods, what was wrong with him?
"You'll never enjoy fellatio again without thinking about it!" A strand of dark hair had come free, and she tucked it breathlessly behind her ear, looking both girlish and playful.
"Thank you for the reminder," he drawled.
"Or perhaps," Ianthe's sharp-eyed gaze cut toward him, filled with humor, "we'll just have to see what we can do about that."
Everything in him fluttered. Lucien could do nothing more than stare at her as she gathered her skirts and stepped past him.
Hell.
CHAPTER 14
'M usic is so very much like sorcery. One starts slowly, learning a series of notes, the same as one begins to form conscious pathways to ritual, in order to force the will to manifest. The more one practices sorcery, the swifter those pathways form, until one merely gathers his will together and the will changes the structure of the world around you. The steps in between become invisible, but they are still important.'
– OF MUSIC AND MAGIC, by Johann de Villiers
NIGHT FELL. Outside, a storm shook the building. Blackened clouds brewed overhead, the occasional scythe of lightning highlighting half of London.
And despite knowing there'd be little sleep for him tonight, Lucien sent Ianthe away. He knew what she'd want to discuss: his weaknesses, his lack of sorcery. He was not in the mood. He just wanted to be alone tonight, regardless of that look in Ianthe's eyes.
Upending the bottle of brandy, Lucien trailed his fingertips across the ivory keys of the piano he'd found in the library. It was far enough away from her chambers that it wouldn't interrupt her. The song was familiar, his
mother's favorite. Instantly, it took his thoughts to another place.
Lucien closed his eyes. He could see his mother now, all husky voice and laughter, her hair hanging in dark curls over her shoulders as she guided a younger version of him through the notes. His memories of her were few: her soft voice, her perfume—jasmine, always jasmine—and the impeccable style with which she dressed. He could never quite imagine her face properly. Those eyes had been the same dark amber as his own, but when he tried to put all of the components of her face together, his mind threw up a half-finished canvas, dulled by time.
As if tainted by his emotions, the tune changed, becoming a little slower, a little darker. He knew this song. Knew it, because she had played it frequently. Lady Rathbourne might have been all that was elegance and grace, but her passions ran a little darker, or so it was said. Music and opera stirred her. She liked tragedies, rather than comedy, and she was frequently sad. A bitter sweetness lingered about her, but she had always loved him. He was the one person who could light up her world and fill it with her smiles.
Lucien played the song through, hesitant, relearning the chords, stumbling sometimes, and then dabbling with the notes until he would hit the right one which stirred his memory anew. Then he played it again, stronger, slower, striking the right sort of haunting melancholy, which was underscored by the storm outside. They worked in perfect counterpoint.
Music was something he'd forgotten his love for over the years. How long since he'd played? Ten years? Eight? Yet it rose within him, as if it had never truly faded away. Gone, but not forgotten.
Using the passion of the piece, the longing within it, he let the power of his will build until he felt fit to burst out of his skin.
He was almost there, almost on the verge of levitating the bottle of brandy, when the first ache began in his temple. Instantly, his nostrils flared, sweat sprang into being down the back of his neck, and the small working of sorcery that he'd been forming undid itself. The bottle hadn't quite shifted, but it vibrated a little as the force of his will vanished.
Lucien brought his hands down in a jarring display upon the piano, his head bowing.
Curse it.
So close...
What was wrong with him? Why could he not manipulate sorcery without feeling this discordant ache? It had worked before, when he'd produced the mage globe, but he'd been distracted by Ianthe's nervousness, not really thinking about it at all.
There were no answers. Not here.
Lucien grabbed the bottle of brandy again.
The spirits burned down his throat, leaving him with a heated knot in his gut that felt nice. Oblivion. Numbness. That was what he sought tonight. His body ached with need; he could have slaked it. Ianthe had been more than willing, but as much as he would have liked to have drowned himself in flesh and heat and sex, that was beginning to become part of the problem itself.
The truth was, he was starting to like Ianthe. The problem being that he didn't quite know how he felt about that.
"I still want revenge," he'd told her—his parting words to her tonight—but they had sounded desperate, even to him.
Putting his hands back on the keys, Lucien turned to a tune that haunted him. The first few bars played out in quivering, aching loneliness. Could he trust her? He wasn't certain. Did he want to trust her? Yes. And heaven help him, he wanted to do a hell of a lot more than that. He wanted to bury himself in her, to shut out the world for the next three days, and simply lock them both in the bedroom together, as if they had no cares in the world. As if they could pretend that all of the weight of the past meant nothing.
Worst of all?
He wanted to kiss her.
That maddening mouth. It taunted his memory. Lucien's hands moved faster over the keys, stealing notes of growing passion from the pianoforte. Far easier to throw himself into this, where he stopped thinking and simply let it all spill out of him in the throes of emotion. Blood danced through his veins as he poured his heart and soul into the music.
To want such a thing was insane. He himself had set the terms of their bet, and now he wanted to break them.
Dangerous woman.
What was he to her? He knew she was keeping secrets. They haunted those violet eyes, her breath catching the entire ride home from Rathbourne Manor, as if words died on the tip of her tongue, each time he looked at her.
You can't have her.
You shouldn't want her.
No matter how many times he told himself that, it didn't matter.
The windows rattled in their casement. Lucien took another drink, then set the bottle on the top of the piano where a sticky ring had formed. Running a hand through his disheveled hair, he sighed. A prickling sensation rose along his spine.
That was when he began to realize he was not alone.
"Für Elise. It was beautiful," Ianthe said wistfully, from the doorway. "I didn't know you could play."
Lucien kept his head bowed. He couldn't look at her. Not in this moment. It felt like an intrusion into a private moment he'd been having, and yet he couldn't resent her for it, not when a part of him was also hungry for company.
Lightning lashed through the curtains.
Don't ask her... Don't...
"Join me?" The words sounded rough.
"Is that a question or a demand? It is night, after all, and you still want revenge, after all." The words were both a dark jest, and a challenge.
Lucien slowly turned. Rose silk draped her form, the robe tied just beneath her breasts. Those feet were bare, and somehow the sight was more intimate than anything else between them. This might have been a normal night between husband and wife.
But it wasn't.
"What do you want to do?"
Ianthe looked troubled. She padded across the parquetry floor, her gaze sliding to the storm through the window, then back to him. "That's a dangerous question."
"Is it?"
Their eyes met. He kept waiting for her to say something, some question about what had happened today between them, but her gaze dropped to his hands, and then she reached out and touched him. One languid stroke, her fingertips trailing over his. Wistful, perhaps.
"You have beautiful hands. I see now why you're so skillful in bed. You play the piano with the lightest touch, almost a caress. It's the same way you touch me."
Lucien cleared his throat. "Can't sleep?"
Ianthe shook her head ruefully, her hair bunched into a lazy chignon, as if she'd merely stuffed pins into it any old way. Reaching out, he caught her fingers in his and drew her into his lap. The silk of her rose-colored robe slithered over his trousers, her firm bottom nestling snugly against his cock. He was aware of it. He was always aware of it—that slow burn beneath his skin whenever she was around—but he ignored the ache, rested his chin on her shoulder, and leaned around her to position his hands again.
The first notes rang out. Something lighter of tone: Beethoven's the Waldstein. He managed the first and second movements, but couldn't quite manage the rapid left hand runs of the rondo with Ianthe in his lap. The notes jarred and he fell still, leaning his chin upon her shoulder and drawing in a deep breath.
"I can't sleep either," he admitted, turning his face into the curve of her throat and breathing her in. Faint traces of her perfume lingered, but he could scent the base notes of her skin.
"Did you read Lord Rathbourne's grimoire?" she asked.
"Most of it. It makes little sense. It keeps saying that he's preparing me for the ultimate sacrifice. Then he spends entire passages gloating about revenge and how this will finally earn him back his honor."
"Sacrifice?"
Lucien shrugged. It had made all of the hairs on his arm stand on end, coinciding with what Lady Eberhardt had said, but he refused to dwell on it.
"I don't like that word, Lucien." Ianthe tilted her head toward him, fear painting icy blues across her skin.
His thumb stroked over her silk robe, absorbing the sensations. "Don't you? Why? Concer
ned for me?"
"Of course I am."
His heart twisted in his chest. "Don't be."
She tried to turn around. "Lucien—"
Hands curling around her waist, he held her in place. The easiest way to hide the fear in his heart was to keep his face turned away. "Perhaps that's why he used me to summon the demon? Maybe I was to be the blood sacrifice to appease it? If so, more fool he. The plan backfired."
"If it backfired, then why would Morgana have been so keen to get her hands on the grimoire now?"
"Perhaps she was tying up loose ends, or thought Lord Rathbourne had written something more? Perhaps he knew something he didn't write down? Who will ever know? That's just one more dead end for us to overcome."
Almost petulantly, Ianthe stabbed the A minor. It rang through the room, clear as a bell. "Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. I'm tired of chasing my tail. I need to find her. What does she want, damn it?"
"Drake's heart on a platter?" It was said nonchalantly, but he knew it was a mistake as soon as she stiffened.
"Don't say that." Those soft words tore him apart. "Please don't say that."
A hard lump formed in his throat. Lucien stroked her hip, pressing a kiss to her exposed nape, gentle touches designed to soothe. He couldn't believe he was about to say this. "He's safe, love. The Prime's the strongest sorcerer in all of England, and he's protected by a handful of Sicarii. After all, he tore that demon's physical form to shreds last year, before he sent it back to me. Nobody else has ever managed such a thing. Morgana would want to get up early in the morning to pull the wool over his eyes."
"But what if she does somehow manage it?"
There was something about the way she said it that tore his heart to pieces. Not for the Prime. For her. Lucien grimaced. Things were becoming entirely unpredictable between them. He couldn't explain this softening toward her, but at the same time, he no longer wished vengeance upon her. The very thought made him feel somewhat ill. "She won't," he promised. "You have my word that I will do everything within my power to stop that from happening."
This time, he couldn't stop her from turning to the side on his lap. Violet eyes searched his face. "You would protect him?"
