by Bec McMaster
She caught a swift glimpse of the cover. There'd been a book in the dream the demon had pulled her into. Was this it? "What do I do with it?"
Farshaw stepped back. "I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise. But you should hurry up and read it. You don't have much time. You need to reach the full potential of your gifts, and quickly. The mirror will help to guide you, but you'll need the book for what is to come."
What's to come—? The mirror? "Sir," she called, taking a step toward him as he retreated. "None of this makes any sense."
He checked his pocket watch, frowning faintly. "Good luck, my queen."
Then he vanished into thin air.
Chapter 2
CLEO WAITED UNTIL night fell over Lady Rathbourne's home. She'd been staying here for the past month, for the simple reason that she’d had nowhere else to go upon her father's death.
The return home had been uneventful, though Jeremy couldn't quite get over the fact "he disappeared into thin air." Cleo herself had been more dubious. People didn't just disappear. Sorcery didn't work like that. The only person who seemed to have the ability to translocate was Verity Hawkins, and she was completely untutored in the laws of sorcery, enough so that her conscious mind didn't know it shouldn't be able to teleport. It didn't stop Verity, however, and it hadn't stopped the man she'd encountered.
Unless....
The other possibility was that he was telling the truth. Had she actually spoken to Quentin Farshaw? Had he somehow survived whatever had happened to him that night?
He'd be almost... what? Three hundred and fifty years old?
If so... how had he suddenly appeared in Balthazar's Labyrinth, at precisely the right time to meet her? Knowing of the mirror, and her vision?
He'd been the first sorcerer to see through time, but was there more to it than that?
"Concentrate," she growled to herself, flipping the covers off her bed, and slipping from its warm embrace. She needed to be thinking about the mirror, and preparing herself for the next step. Not dwelling on a man who absolutely could not have translocated through time itself.
Making her way to the cellars with the Ouroboros Mirror under her arm, she locked the enormous iron-bound door behind her, then went around the room of Lady Rathbourne's ritual space, lighting the candles there. Ianthe's workspace was immaculate.
An Ouroboros Mirror was a dangerous device. Cleo put it flat on Ianthe's altar, a scrap of black silk covering the glass. Then she knelt in front of it, gathering her night-robe about her.
London's doom was a storm gathering on the horizon. Drake de Wynter, the previous Prime of the Order—and her husband's father—had been forced to offer his body for the demon to use as a vessel. She needed to know what her vision meant.
And how to stop it.
Cleo dragged the black silk from the mirror's surface. Oval in shape, it seemed harmless enough, if one didn't look directly into the polished black obsidian sheen of the mirror. A pair of bronze snakes twined around each other, circling the edge of the mirror, and she couldn't tell where one snake began and the other finished... or perhaps there truly was only one. Ouroboros. Trepidation filled her, and she began to still her mind, keeping her gaze from the mirror's inky surface until she'd meditated long enough. Anyone who stared into a mirror like this without the ability to master themselves and their divination arts would find themselves trapped within it.
"You're the Cassandra," she told herself sternly.
You were, whispered something dark within her.
I still am. Her father might have stolen her Visions by stealing her blindfold, but Drake had insisted she still had the ability. Only doubt and lack of self-belief held her back from her gift of Foresight.
Her gaze dropped to the carved sigils around the mirror, as she quietly gathered her power. The center of her forehead burned, her Third Eye awakening, and Cleo picked up the knife she'd brought and pressed the sharp tip to her finger. "Hesharazadh."
A simple word of power to clear her mind, and command her Third Eye.
The world vanished into far too many shapes and edges as she opened her Sight. She could see the real world, as well as echoes of others. Feeding her blood to the mirror's runes, she began to chant lightly under her breath.
Black mist curled off the mirror. Taking a deep breath, Cleo rested both hands on the edges of the bronze frame, then leaned over it and looked down.
Her own face stared back, though her cheekbones were shockingly sharp, and there was a darker expression about her face. It looked like a version of her that might have existed if she'd been drawn to the Black Arts her father practiced. A silver Unicursal Hexagram dangled from her ear in the image, and she wore enough black lace to make a widow jealous. The last thing she wanted to see was herself. Or a version of herself that didn't exist. She shook her head, and black mist coalesced into something else. "Show me London's doom."
London sprang out of the shadows, stark and grimy. Little figures began to form. Snow on the ground. A bloody triangle in the pristine white—no, two of them, interlaced in another hexagram. A man stood in the center of it, feeding blood into the star as he cut a woman's throat. She couldn't see who the man was from above. Black hair meant it could be her husband, or perhaps his oldest brother. Or a stranger, though she suspected it was all connected.
"Draw back," she whispered to herself, and the image grew smaller, showing some of the detail around it.
A lush garden by the look of it. Bodies scattered here and there, as if there'd been some great bloody fight between opposing forces.
A hooded figure walked slowly across the snow toward the hexagram, the black velvet of their cloak dragging behind them and leaving a trail. Clouds began to boil above the garden. The air grew static, and there was a flicker in the center of the sky, almost like a seam. Hands lifted to lower the hood, black velvet gloves reaching to the person’s elbows, and she held her breath, waiting to see—
"White Queen," something whispered, and she heard the chittering sounds of something inhuman nearby.
Dread began to whisper down her spine. Cleo couldn't tear her gaze from the mirror, but she felt certain there was something in the room with her, something behind her. She'd missed the hooded figure's reveal. The scene focused on the seam in the sky now, and she was right. There was something straining behind that invisible scene, the sky bulging as if something fought to push its way through.
She'd never seen that before. Always her vision focused on Sebastian, and the darkening clouds above him.
Movement shifted at the edge of her vision. Cleo's heart began to pound and she cried out softly, trying to force her gaze away from the mirror.
"Black queen," whispered something else, behind her. "Two sides to a coin."
What did that mean? Cleo ground her teeth together, sweat dripping down her temples. She needed to control the mirror. Not the other way around. "Show me the black queen," she demanded.
The hooded figure came into view again.
"An uncertain heart with blood as black as ebony," the mirror whispered. "If she commits to the Black Arts, she will rise and London will fall. The Horde will ride through London streets, bringing blood and death to the world, and it will be your fault, White Queen."
A stab of pain went through her temples, and Cleo cried out, losing the image. Fine. The black queen must be strongly warded. Two sides to a coin. Did that mean the black queen was like her? A seer?
"Who is she?"
"Light or Dark? She hasn't decided yet. The demon has been courting her for years."
Maybe that was one way to find her nemesis? All she needed to do was go through the Order's book of registered sorcerers, and find any who were born with the same gift she had.
...your fault....
The mirror began to change. Something pushed beyond its misty surface. A formless face lifted out of the glass, almost as if it were covered in liquid quicksilver. Only the thin surface of the obsidian held it back from her world.
Cleo began to shake. "How do I stop her? How do I find her?"
"The key to defeating the darkness lies with Sebastian," said the face. "He will tip the balance."
The driving ache behind her eye grew worse. She couldn't hold the trance much longer. Cleo blinked, and realized she was leaning toward the bloody mirror. Tendrils of black mist curled off the glass, caressing her face.
"Feed me," it whispered. "More of your sweet, sweet blood, and I'll show you more. I'll show you everything...."
"How do.... How do I stop London's doom from happening?" she whispered, her eyelids blinking sleepily. She was so tired, and it would be so easy to fall asleep on the mirror.
The black tendrils brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. One looped behind the back of her neck. "A kiss," it whispered. "A kiss is all I ask. And then I'll tell you everything...."
Premonition screamed through her.
Cleo fought, forcing her arms straight. The curl of mist in her hair tightened, becoming a noose that dragged her down, the face lifting to meet her, its mouth yawning wide open—
"Begone!" shouted a firm voice. "Let her go!"
Lightning crackled. Cleo felt strange hands catch hold of her, and then they were tearing her away from the mirror's hungry face. It sank back into the black mist of the mirror's surface, like a thwarted whale leaping from the sea and plunging back down.
Little tendrils of mist crept over the edges of the mirror, crawling for her hands and her bloodied finger. Blood dripped from her nose, and Cleo fought to close her Third Eye as the mirror pulled at her.
"Stand back." She recognized the voice now. Lady Rathbourne.
Relief flooded through her, leaving her hiccupping, and then something flashed through her field of vision—
Glass shattered. There was an enormous impact of power hitting the mirror's heart, and it blew Cleo back onto her hands. A shimmering ward enveloped her, protecting her from the shards of black glass. The mist screamed a high-pitched scream, and then it withdrew abruptly within the frame from whence it had come. Cleo slammed her hands over her ears as the mirror died a slow death.
Panting, Lady Rathbourne stepped around her, lowering the staff she wielded. She looked to have come directly from bed, her open robe fluttering around her nightgown, and her black hair tumbling down her back. "Is it destroyed?"
Cleo reached for the frame. Shattered pieces of glass lay strewn around it, but the frame was lifeless now. Inert. The little glowing eyes of the snake had faded. "What was that thing?"
"An Ouroboros sees directly into the Shadow Dimensions, and summons something there to answer your questions. Something that can pierce the veil of time," Ianthe said, kneeling at her side and helping her to sit up. "What were you thinking? It could have killed you."
"Noted." Cleo pressed her hand to her forehead, pushing against her eyes. Everything in her ached. "It was somewhat stronger than I'd anticipated."
Or maybe she was weaker.
Doubt flushed through her again. She'd lost so much. The failure dug sharp claws into her. A year ago she would have wielded the mirror without a concern. A year ago she'd been the mighty Cassandra, the Order's most gifted seer.
"Your fault...," whispered the mirror.
"How did you know?" she murmured, trying not to shake.
Ianthe helped her sit up. "The cellar's warded," she said dryly. "I felt you breach the wards and came to investigate. Learn anything important?"
"Time's running out. I don't know when, but my Vision happens when there is snow on the ground."
They both exchanged a look.
"Winter won't last much longer," Ianthe murmured. "Today was warmer than last week. The snow will melt soon."
"Two weeks at most," Cleo added. "Unless we get another storm."
Ianthe covered the dead mirror with her night-robe, refusing to look at it. "What else?"
The black queen. She hesitated, and then told Ianthe everything, including the sighting of Morgana in the Labyrinth.
"Who is the black queen?" Ianthe asked, when she'd finished.
"Two sides of the same coin," she replied gruffly. "Which I'm taking to mean she has divination talents. She's connected to Sebastian somehow. Perhaps... an old lover. I don't know. I do know the demon's been courting her for a long time. The mirror said she hadn't decided whether she wanted to commit to the Light or to the Black Arts yet."
"The only one who might know is...."
"Sebastian," Cleo whispered, for none of it made any sense.
Her vision had always shown him at the center of the storm. His uncontrollable powers set it off. Didn't they? But if Sebastian was the one who brought London to its knees, then how was he the key to saving it?
Ianthe's dark brow quirked, as she took in the glass all over the room. "I know you two have had your differences for the past month, but I think it's time we summoned your husband here."
Differences? Cleo looked away. He'd practically abandoned her after the loss of his father to the demon. But they didn't have time for hurt feelings. "Agreed."
Chapter 3
'There are three types of bonds a sorcerer can use; a wellspring bond, where one sorcerer can hand over power—and control—to another; the bond between Anchor and Shield, which is somewhat more reciprocal; and a soul-bond, that rare bond that can be created between lovers, allowing them true connection. Forever.'
* * *
—Lady Eberhardt's transcription on Soul-bond's
* * *
"CONCENTRATE," ADRIAN BISHOP snapped, rapping Sebastian's knuckles with his humming quarterstaff. "You don't have time to be woolgathering. Or your mother will rip your throat out the next time she comes for you."
Sebastian's eyes narrowed, and he shook his fingers as his staff vanished into nothingness between them. Sometimes he could really grow to hate this half brother of his.
"My mother would have to find me first." Gathering his brewing power, he forced himself to visualize the staff of raw energy in order to reform it. "And if you're resorting to using that bitch's name in an attempt to trick me into an emotional reaction, then you're not going to win."
"Oh?" Bishop arched a mocking brow as Sebastian's attempt to reform his own quarterstaff flickered... and failed. "Are you certain of that?"
It wasn't his mother, Morgana, who was plaguing him.
"Certain."
"Where's your head today then? For it's certainly not focused here."
There was no way in hell he was going to answer that.
"My head's in the game," Sebastian said coldly, facing his half brother with empty hands. "There's nothing I want more than to learn to control my sorcery, so I can bring my mother to heel."
"Truly?" Bishop stalked a slow circle around him. "You've been making so much progress in controlling your power. But today.... One would almost think some emotion was plaguing you, making you revert to Expression. You can't even form your staff right now, can you?"
"Like this?" Holding his hands out, Sebastian forced himself to imagine a glowing staff of pure energy in his hands, and breathed out the power word he'd chosen to form raw energy into sorcerous matter. Bishop had been teaching him to harness his will, rather than rely on the emotional energy of Expression.
Expression could be dangerous, especially when you could tear a house into pieces at a single angry thought. It was better this way, learning to rely on repetitive rituals, power words, and meditation to work sorcery. Safer. But he still fell into old habits whenever his temper roused.
Bishop stalked him in a slow circle, a faint smile curling his lips when the glowing staff sprang into being, flickering hazily before Sebastian reinforced it with pure willpower.
"Like that, yes. Now let's see what you can do with it." Twirling his hands, Bishop manipulated his own staff.
Both staves cracked together with an electric hum. Physically, Sebastian was larger than his half brother, and slightly stronger. But Bishop moved like a predatory leopard, with a careful calculati
ng grace. Every move he made seemed to have been carefully mapped out in an advance campaign Sebastian only ever discovered, when it was too late. Sebastian felt Bishop's quarterstaff yield infinitesimally, and took the opportunity it presented.
Crack. A wild swing. Another.
Bishop leaned back, his spine bending to an extraordinary degree as Sebastian's staff swept over him.
Sebastian snarled, and swung his staff back the other way, which his brother ducked again.
"You're getting angry," Bishop pointed out, sidestepping the next blow without even bothering to swing his own staff.
He aimed a final blow at Bishop, putting the full force of his body behind the swing this time—and his brother swept his own staff up, meeting Sebastian's staff in a shower of green and gold sparks.
The impact pushed Sebastian back several inches. He gripped his energy staff as Bishop swung his like a windmill between his fingers, and behind him.
"Want me to show you how it's really done?" Bishop asked.
"You always do enjoy showing off."
"Block me," Bishop replied, with the faintest of smiles, and then that glowing green staff was whirling toward him.
Sweat trickled down his temples as Bishop unleashed a wild flurry of blows upon him that he could barely block.
"You're bigger than I am. Stronger," Bishop told him, right before he smacked Sebastian's hands with the end of his staff. "So how am I beating you?"
Ouch. He shook his fingers in the air, and then clenched his fist several times to try and distract himself from the pain. "Years of experience, perhaps."
Bishop swung another blow at him. Somehow the move was dangerously precise, almost delicate. Sebastian blocked it, his feet forced back a step. Then another.
"The fact you're an assassin," he snapped, starting to feel the rough edge of his temper ride him. "And I don't have your practice in killing someone."
"Experience counts," Bishop agreed. "But control means so much more. The second you get angry, you start swinging wildly." Bishop smashed a blow into Sebastian's ribs, then another to the knee with the other end of the staff. He backed off, twirling it in his hands like a blur of light. "The wilder you swing, the more open you leave yourself."
