Soulbound

by Bec McMaster

  He'd turned, a second before he realized she couldn't see anything, and then the warmth of her body was pressed against his, her lips sliding like a silken caress over his mouth, and all his senses fled.

  It was barely a kiss.

  And it was the only thing that had sustained him through the dark nights that followed.

  "Are you going to say something?" Cleo demanded, and he realized he'd been lost for words for far too long.

  "I've missed you," he admitted, precisely what he hadn't meant to say. Sebastian turned away, the muscles in his abdomen tightening. Control yourself, damn it. "I'm sorry if you've felt neglected, but I had a great deal to work through."

  Her tone softened. "I could have helped you."

  "No." The word came out sharper than he’d intended. You're the cause of half my problems. "You're safer here."

  "Safer? Pray tell... in what way?"

  "Safer from me," he said in the cool tone he used to inure his feelings.

  Cleo flung her arms wide. "Everyone wants to keep me bloody safe." She tripped on her basket, and breadcrumbs scattered, sending ducks quacking and squawking at her feet. "'You are precious and pure,' my father used to tell me when he locked me away inside his estate, so I never had a chance to even see any of the world—"

  "I am not your father—"

  "No?" Cleo's skirts swept against his shins as she stepped closer, staring up at him with an obstinate gleam in her dark brown eyes. "You're right, you're my husband. But one could be forgiven for thinking otherwise, couldn't they? Do you think you're the only one who's lost everything? Do you think you're the only one who stares at the ruins of their life and wonders where they are going?" She clenched her fists, her dark eyes gleaming. "I can't see the future anymore, Sebastian. My own father took that away from me the second he tore my blindfold free. And then he died, and as much of a monster as I realized he'd become, he was still my father. Still the only anchor I had in this world, until you. And you don't want me, and I've barely seen you. And Drake is gone, and I know he was your father, and you feel guilty for what happened to him, but he was also the person who promised to help me. I have nothing. I have no one. Ianthe and Lucien are kind, but they're not you."

  He could stand her anger, but not her tears. "Cleo—"

  But she set her palms against his chest as if to hold him at bay, and Sebastian staggered back against the garden arch.

  "Don't touch me," she said, a single glossy tear sliding down her cheek as she held herself stiffly. "I am not so desperate as that."

  She'd wanted him to touch her.

  Once.

  He stepped closer. "I can't think when I'm around you. And as much as you doubt it, I'm not good for you, Cleo, especially right now. I gave myself over to the demon, and I can still feel the stain of it upon my soul. Drake promised the demon his body because of me." The words came out a little hoarsely. "I have to help get him back, and destroy that creature. I needed to think, to try and learn whatever Bishop could teach me. And I couldn't do that with you nearby."

  Another tear. Her lip trembled. "I could have helped you. I could have supported you."

  "And then my mother is still at large, and she knows you're important to me. She will kill you, just to cut at me."

  "She promised to kill me, regardless of whether you're in my life or not. I stood against her," Cleo whispered, her anger softening. "She won't forgive that."

  "No. She won't forgive that."Sebastian reached up and cupped her soft cheek. "I never meant to hurt you. Don't cry. Please don't cry."

  Somehow he wrapped his arms around her. Then she was in his arms, her face pressed against his shoulder as she sobbed. And he could feel her tears wetting his collar, his throat, feel the tremble in her body as her misery wracked her. Cleo. Cleo. The one perfect thing in his world. The one thing that could destroy him utterly.

  Or no, perhaps it was the other way around.

  You destroy everything you ever touch, said his mother's poisonous whisper, in his memories.

  And he knew himself well enough to believe it.

  Even now, the press of Cleo's body brought uncomfortable memories. He wanted to soften, wanted to melt against her, but her breath whispered against his throat, and suddenly it was another's woman's breath, and he could still feel the choking bite of the sclavus collar, even though he'd melted the fucking thing.

  Sebastian sucked in a sharp breath through his nostrils. Cleo. You're with Cleo. Not someone else.

  But his heart was racing, and he could feel his body cringing away from hers.

  This was the best he could do in this moment.

  Sebastian squeezed his eyes shut, clinging to the sobbing frame of his wife, feeling as though every sucked-in breath that shook her stabbed him in the heart. "I'm sorry," he said, all knotted up inside, stroking her back, feeling the press of her spine behind the bones of her corset.

  And she lifted her face, her mouth tilting toward his in a rush.

  Sebastian set her away from him, staggering back in shock. "No." That couldn't happen.

  Cleo stared at him, her hand pressed against her lips as if he'd slapped her. Tears ravaged her reddened cheeks. He saw the moment she made a decision, and he reached for her, but it was too late.

  "I understand," she whispered, wiping her eyes.

  Then she turned and walked away, and this time he did not go after her. For though she didn't understand, he couldn't, in this moment, explain his sudden revulsion.

  Chapter 5

  'Demons find it difficult to exist in the mortal plane. Something in this world drains them. They are not created of flesh, as we are, and require a great deal more energy than we do to survive, be it from blood magic, or sex. They much prefer to take a human body as a vessel, to anchor them in the mortal plane, and protect them from whatever natural forces pull at them. This also makes them invulnerable to mortal weapons, for they are... not truly here, in the sense that we know it. The only known way to weaken a demon is to kill its vessel, and trap it in a warded circle, though such a task is not easy.'

  * * *

  —Alaric Godsgrave, Book of Demonology

  * * *

  "WHY DON'T YOU tell them why they're here?" Ianthe murmured, holding her hands out to the coals in the grate, as if she was cold.

  Cleo bit her lip, looking at the beautiful Prime. Every eye in the room was upon her; Lady Eberhardt; Ianthe's husband, Lucien; Mr. Bishop and his wife, Verity; Sebastian.... Only Ianthe stared into the grate, as if she could almost see the Vision Cleo had seen in the mirror.

  "You had a Vision?” Lady Eberhardt prompted.

  "Not quite." Cleo took a deep breath. "I bought an Ouroboros mirror in Balthazar's Labyrinth. But I've been having dreams lately. Or nightmares, if I'm to be specific. They feel so real. Almost as though my visions are trying to come back, but my conscious mind is not letting them, and it's only when I sleep they break through."

  "And what did you see?" Lady E asked.

  Another slow breath. It flashed through her mind again, as if it were painted on the back of her eyelids; blood, death, her friends falling before the demon's wrath... and yet, a single moment of hope. "The demon's been lurking in the depths of the London undergrounds while it gluts itself on blood, and restores its power. It's stronger now, after we cut at it last month. It's about to make its move. I saw it wade through gardens splashed with blood as Order sorcerers try to incarcerate it. They die. We all die. I saw Ianthe's broken body on the snow"—Lucien Devereaux sucked in a sharp breath—"I saw Lady Eberhardt's lifeless eyes staring at a blackened sky. Bishop... it goes after you first, because you're the only one who could kill it. Or the body it wears. But there is one ray of hope. It wants to destroy the Relics Infernal. They're the only thing that could control it, and I suspect they're the only thing that can send the demon back to its realm, and free Drake's body from being its vessel."

  "Well." Lady Eberhardt cleared her throat. "That's fairly brutal. Where is it?"


  "That's the one thing I can't see," she admitted, and all their searches had turned up nothing.

  "Ianthe, you should take Louisa and flee," Lucien said, his lips firming as he stared at his wife.

  "What about you?" Ianthe demanded. "I'm not going to leave you here. And running only means I prolong my sentence, I suspect."

  Husband and wife stared at each other hopelessly.

  Then Lucien turned to Bishop. "He's my father, and yours. I know you want to save him, but I won't risk my wife—"

  "We have to try." Bishop murmured, tugging off his gloves. He picked up the box he'd brought with him and set it on the table in the middle of them all. Taking a deep breath, he opened it up, revealing a small golden chalice within.

  "I have some small divination gifts. Enough to know Cleo's Visions see only probabilities," Lady Eberhardt said. "There's a chance we can turn the path of fate."

  "We have the Chalice," Bishop said. "That's one of the Relics. And we know who has the second Relic."

  "Oh, we should ask Morgana if she'd care to hand it over," Sebastian said in a cool, almost bored tone. "I'm sure my mother would be so kind as to do that."

  "I wasn't planning on asking her," Bishop said.

  "I could steal it," Verity suggested, and Bishop glared at his wife.

  "Absolutely not."

  Verity Hastings had the ability to translocate. It was an impossible gift, but she'd been raised by the Hex Society in Seven Dials, a bunch of gifted curse workers who refused to join the Order. There were rules of sorcery Verity hadn't learned, and apparently her conscious mind didn't know enough about the laws of energy and sorcery to understand she simply shouldn't be able to punch in and out of a room.

  But the first rule of sorcery, and the one currently affecting Cleo's Visions, was Mind over Matter.

  Verity believed she could do it, and hence she could.

  "Morgana wouldn't even know I was there," Verity replied, crossing her arms over her chest.

  "Morgana knows your talents," Bishop snapped, "and I daresay she's accounted for them."

  "He's right," Sebastian said. "She'll have set traps."

  Malice whispered through the room as the Chalice began to smoke and smolder. It was crafted with sorcery from the Grave Arts, which meant it could raise an army of the dead, and had, not so long ago. Cleo glanced down at it. Had nobody else noticed?

  "Are you doing that Adrian?" Lady Eberhardt barked.

  Bishop glanced down. "No. It senses my power sometimes though, and it starts singing to me."

  Singing?

  "Can you close that bloody box up," Lady Eberhardt grimaced, rubbing her chest. "It's making my chest ache."

  Bishop shut the box, and then seemed to take a deep breath.

  "There's more," Cleo announced into the sudden silence. She licked dry lips, turning to Sebastian. "You and I are the key to bringing Drake back. I don't know how. I don't know why. But I saw us. Together. And it was quite clear that if we... if we stray from each other's side... then we'll fall."

  She wasn't about to mention Quentin Farshaw, or his ludicrous claim Sebastian was both the cause and the key to overthrowing the black queen. Nobody needed to know about that. His brothers, Lucien and Bishop, had only just begun to accept him and consider him less of a threat than they once had.

  Sebastian looked up slowly, his face expressionless. "As you wish."

  And she didn't know if he believed her, or if he thought she wanted to somehow keep him by her side.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  All heads turned, and a handsome gentleman somewhere in his thirties appeared, tugging off his gloves. Taller than most of the others—apart from Sebastian—he stood with a certain belief in himself that was attractive, though the dark hair and eyes certainly helped.

  "Am I late?" he asked.

  Clearly she had an uncomfortable fondness for dark hair, she thought, her gaze flickering to Sebastian, then back to the stranger. One glimpse of her husband's face, however, broke the spell the newcomer cast. No man was more handsome than her husband, and that wasn't mere pride speaking, but a simple truth. Sometimes she almost thought she was growing used to it. Indeed, it had been easier when she was blindfolded, for then she wasn't prone to breaking into blushes whenever she looked at him.

  "Remy." Relief broke in Ianthe's voice, and she went to his side, pressing a fond kiss to his cheek. "Thank you for coming."

  "Still not going to return to the theatre?" The stranger quirked a dark brow as he stepped inside the room, closing the door behind him.

  "She had a better offer," Lucien replied dryly, resting one hand on the mantle.

  The two men locked eyes, and the newcomer smiled faintly. "A shame. You always did own the stage, my dear." He examined Ianthe's face. "Though I must admit your new role suits you too. Prime of the Order? Aren't we moving up in the world."

  "I sometimes wish I hadn't," Ianthe replied sadly, and Cleo knew she was thinking of the loss of her mentor, Drake, who had been the previous Prime.

  "We'll get him back," the stranger said. "Now, what's all this I hear about relics?"

  Ianthe swiftly introduced him to the group. Cleo had heard her mention Remington Cross, the Great Magician, but she'd thought him merely an old friend of Ianthe's. He wasn't of the Order, though there was a strange aura about the man. Power of some sort. Not sorcery, as she knew it, but he exuded an exotic sort of danger that made her a little wary.

  "The Chalice," he noted, sinking into Ianthe's abandoned chair as if he belonged there. "Haven't seen that in an age."

  "You've seen it?" This from Bishop.

  Lady Eberhardt snorted, and she and Mr. Cross exchanged glances. Cross leaned forward, turning the Chalice so he could see the runes carved into it. "I helped create it," he said. "Or not completely. I had no role in the crafting of such weapons, but when Drake began to speak of creating something like this, he came to me to understand how to go about it."

  "Remington collects rare items of magical properties," Ianthe explained. "He's the lead expert in any sort of magical relic, which is why I asked him to join us."

  "You should have kept your mouth shut," Lady Eberhardt said.

  Something darkened in Mr. Cross's eyes. "A set of relics to bind and control a demon? It seemed a prudent precaution, what with sorcerers over the years summoning them through from the Shadow Dimensions, with only a warded circle to contain them."

  "How did they make the relics?" Cleo asked, for she'd always wondered. Her father, Lord Tremayne, had worked with Drake and his ex-wife, Morgana, to create the set.

  "The Blade was forged from the iron of a fallen star," Mr. Cross replied. "The Chalice, as you can see is carved from ivory, and the Wand was cut from whale bone, and carved with runes. By themselves they are merely objects of the physical world, inscribed with powerful runes. The reason they're so dangerous, however, is because they were also formed within the dream plane—that realm that sits side-by-side with our world, and with the Shadow Dimensions. A demon can walk the dream-plane if it wills, though it cannot break through into our world. So the relics needed to be forged in both planes—physical and astral—in order to be able to kill it—"

  "That's enough," Lady Eberhardt snapped. "There's no need to be spreading such information around. Once was enough."

  "Where are the rest of the Relics Infernal?" Cross asked. "Where are the Wand and the Blade of Altarrh?"

  "Morgana has the Blade," Bishop said. "We thought she'd destroyed it, however, she was using her illusion arts to make us believe the kitchen knife she held was the Blade."

  "And the Wand was stolen by her over a year ago, unbeknownst to the Order," Ianthe said softly.

  "I know where it is," Sebastian said.

  The focus of the room shifted to him.

  "Or I know who it was given to," he continued, looking coolly unperturbed. "Morgana needed a place to stay, and a means to find allies when she first arrived in London last year. There are few places in
the city where no Order sorcerers dare trespass, and it is one of them. But she had to trade something of value in order for safe passage, and when she left she felt the Wand would be safe there, until she had use of it again."

  "Where?" Ianthe asked curtly.

  Sebastian rubbed his knuckles in his other hand. "There's a manor on the outskirts of the city. It belongs to a man named Malachi Gray."

  Mr. Cross's gaze focused rather intently on Cleo’s husband. "Gray has the Wand?"

  "He did the last time I looked," Sebastian replied.

  "Then he'll have it still." Cross frowned.

  "My mother might have taken it back."

  Cross shook his head. "Your mother has no idea who she was dealing with. Even she won't be able to take the Wand back by force, and Gray can see through any illusion she casts. You can bargain with Gray, but no sorcerer in this city can overthrow him. And if he took a liking to the Wand—or even owned some whim to keep it, just because your mother wanted it back—then there's nothing she could have offered him in trade."

  Cleo shifted uneasily. "We need it. I saw the three Relics quite clearly. They're the only way to defeat the demon."

  "Can he match the might of the Order?" Ianthe demanded.

  "No." Cross looked contemplative. "But you don't need to bring the entire Order against him. That preempts a war with those of the Black Arts. Not every sorcerer in London cares for the Order."

  "You know this Malachi Gray?" Cleo asked.

  "We’ve met," Cross said curtly, "and if you think he’s going to politely hand over something powerful, then you’re quite mistaken. Not without an exchange of equal value."

  "I wasn’t planning to ask," Sebastian responded coolly.

  Those hawkish eyes gleamed. "I do hope you weren’t going to barrel in there and presume your strength gives you some sort of advantage against a powerful and dangerous foe? One who could possibly knot you in two? One who is very accomplished in the occult arts?"