by Bec McMaster
"That’s why I’m going too," Bishop said, crossing his arms over his chest.
"A seer," Cross tipped his head to Cleo, "and two fools who think what? That strength alone can conquer an unknown foe?" His voice dropped, a dangerously melodic quality entering it. "You know not what you're dealing with. Malachi is not even human. Not anymore. And I would be very, very wary to tread where he claims ownership. If Drake were here, then I think even he might refuse to make this assault, and your father is the greatest sorcerer I’ve ever had the pleasure of encountering."
"Just how dangerous is this Malachi Gray?" Ianthe murmured.
"Imagine facing me if I had no conscience, and all I cared for was the whim of toying with others. The demon you wish to bring down has as much empathy as Malachi does, and only twice the power."
"Could he face the demon?" Ianthe asked.
Cross's dark gaze shuttered. "It's not a matter of 'could he,' so much as, 'would he'? Could he survive? Maybe. But unless there was some interest in it for him, then your chances of finding an ally there are nonexistent."
Ianthe paced in front of the fire, her dark skirts swishing about her legs. "What would interest him?"
"Ianthe," Lucien warned, his hands in his pockets.
"You," Cross said bluntly, and Ianthe jerked to halt. "Your body, your heart, your soul." He held up a hand as Lucien stirred. "Simply because your bond with your husband—and your love for him—presents an impossible game to a man like Malachi. Could he win you? Could his allure defeat the strength of a soul-bond between two lovers? You wouldn't be half as interesting to him if your affections could be so easily swayed, but it's the game of it, you see. The temptation. If you want to trade him for the Wand, or for his allegiance, then that is the sort of price he will ask for."
"No," Lucien said coldly, and his amber eyes locked on his wife. "He won't even get the chance to ask."
"I wouldn't even consider it, Luc. And neither of us can leave. There's been so much upheaval in the past month, what with hunting for a demon that's practically vanished. The Ascension Ball has been delayed too long. Its only days away and I have to prepare the house. The entire Order is going to descend upon us, and we need to present a united front. With Drake gone, there's been so much unrest, and my rule is so new." Ianthe pinched the bridge of her nose. "But we need all the information we can get, and if this Gray knows something...."
"I'll go," Bishop said. "Verity and I can hunt the Wand down. I'll take Sebastian with me."
"And me," Cleo added.
Ianthe nodded, as if in thanks.
"So we can't trade for it," Sebastian said softy, pushing away from the wall. "We can't steal it. And we can't hope he will use it as our ally. What does that leave us with?"
"No Wand," Ianthe growled under her breath.
"We don’t have a choice. If we’re to have any chance at saving our father, then we need the Wand," Bishop replied, pushing away from the wall. "I’m a Sicarii assassin, Verity’s a thief, Sebastian’s dangerous, and Cleo can predict the future. Together we—"
"Together you’re all fools," Cross said. "Children dabbling in things you barely understand."
"Remington." Ianthe looked up at him, her eyes full of some message only Cross seemed to understand. "We need the wand. We need Drake back. There's a demon inside him, and even if he weren't the father I never had, even if I didn't love him, then that fact alone encourages me to attempt this endeavor. What could a demon not do, with Drake's power? What is it doing?"
Cross considered Ianthe for a long moment. Something conflicted crossed his face, but he finally gave a curt nod. "Leaving Drake in the demon's possession is dangerous. And for friendship's sake, he deserves a chance to be rescued."
Ianthe breathed a sigh of relief. "Then how do we deal with this Malachi Gray?"
"You don't." Cross poured himself a cognac. "I'll deal with him. On one condition…."
"Anything," Ianthe promised, relief flooding her voice.
Cross looked at both Sebastian and Bishop. "I will get you this Wand, and I’ll need the two of you at my back to do it, but the rules are simple: I’m in charge of this mission. Neither of you speak unless I permit it. You don’t make a move unless I instruct you to, and you do not, under any circumstances, confront Malachi directly, or offer him anything. Do you understand?"
"Understood," Sebastian said, crossing his arms over his chest.
"We'll go tonight then."
Chapter 6
"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the Spider to the Fly,
'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,
And I've a many curious thing to show when you are there."
* * *
—The Spider and the Fly, Mary Howitt, 1829
* * *
"DO YOU FEEL that?" Cleo whispered, as Sebastian helped her down from the carriage in front of the menacing iron fence that guarded Malachi Gray's estate. Patches of snow lined the driveway, but the rest of the place was clear.
"Feel what?"
A shiver ran over her skin, unlike anything else she'd ever felt before. Cleo looked down in surprise as her husband's faint touch upon her hand set off some sort of reaction within her.
He always set off that reaction.
But not to this intensity. The sweep of his thumb across her silk glove felt like it caressed something rather more intimate.
Their eyes met, then his gaze flickered lower, before he politely looked away. Her décolletage had been on the receiving end of some rather intense frowns ever since he'd helped her alight in the carriage. Her gown wasn't cut as low as Ianthe's evening gowns, nor did she fill her bodice out to that extent, but he seemed to have taken some fierce exception to the lowering of her necklines.
And so, she found herself wanting to flaunt it.
"It feels like... I've imbibed too much brandy," she whispered hoarsely, "and I can feel all that heat sweeping slowly through my veins."
A muscle flickered in his jaw. "There is a strange feeling in the air."
"Sweet mercy," she breathed, as that smoky touch seemed to settle heavily in the pit of her abdomen. Cleo clenched her gloved hand into a fist. She had the sudden shocking thought she wanted to grab her husband's cravat and yank his mouth down to hers. "What is that?"
"It's called allure," Remington announced, breaking the spell.
Suddenly she could breathe and think again, but a swift dart of her husband's eyes made the heat flare once more. Cleo held his gaze. Liar. He could certainly feel it.
"What sort of magic is this?" Bishop demanded with a frown. Or perhaps that was his normal expression, since he seemed to be perpetually glowering.
"Whatever it is," Verity said, with a laugh, "where can I get some more of it?"
"Malachi feeds on lust and violence," Remington said, leading them through the gates. He'd demanded they walk, preferring not to be trapped in the carriage if something attacked. The carriage driver cracked the reins behind them, heading for a place to rest the horses. "The closer we get to him, the stronger the allure will be. It's a subtle magic, designed to give him plenty of victims."
"Victims?" Verity repeated. "That sounds rather less alluring."
"Keep your heads," Remington warned, and among them all, he seemed to be the least affected.
He and Sebastian.
There was a party in progress, and it seemed as though someone had swept the snow from the lawn. The closer they came, the more it seemed as if they stepped into another world; flowers bloomed, here in the heart of winter.
Powerful magic, indeed.
Laughter roared in the night, and music swelled in the gardens behind the dark manor, though it was the sort of music that belonged in no respectable establishment. It seemed innocent enough—a string quartet—but there was something about the dangerous melody of the violin that sent a shiver down her skin. It whispered a song of lust and betrayal, aided by the soft hus
kiness of voices and the murmur of knowing laughter. The magic of Gray's allure wove between the notes, making her skin itch.
Lanterns gleamed through the trees as Remington led them up a gravel-lined driveway that circled to the back of the house. Cleo couldn't help looking about her in wonder. This garden was what Eden should have looked like. She'd expected naked statues, and raucous satyrs carved in the hedges, but there was nothing of the sort. Lush. That was the word. The greenery beckoned, with lanterns picking trails through the garden, and it seemed as though the closer they got to the house, the more they left winter behind them.
Dozens of red rosebuds reigned over them as they stepped beneath an arch, and she saw the entrance to a maze in the distance. “How on earth did they get them to bud right now?” she asked, brushing a drowsing rose. The air was still cold enough to make her nose numb.
“Magic, I presume,” Sebastian murmured, his gaze locking on the rose. “I’ve always been able to make roses bloom.”
“Yes, but it’s a rather extravagant waste of magic for a party. This Malachi is an artist,” she whispered, as Sebastian led her along a hedge-lined path that opened into the main garden beyond, and the beckoning party. “The music, the gardens…. It's all planned to seduce, but there's an elegance to it I hadn't expected."
Sebastian trailed his palm over a tightly furled white rose that belonged in Alice in Wonderland. "I'm inclined to agree."
"That would be a first."
The words broke from her lips before she could even consider them.
His gaze slid down to her, then back to the gardens, and she suddenly remembered how she'd found him that long ago day, tending to the roses in his mother's garden, while his mother plotted murder in the sitting room.
"Do you miss your garden?" she asked softly, for her previous words had been too sharp.
"Yes," he replied. "Bishop doesn't grant me the time to even consider his roses. He's too busy beating me to death with his magic staff."
"That sounds slightly titillating."
A faint breath of amusement broke from his lips. "He would kill you if he heard you say that."
"He might scowl at me a little harder," she admitted.
"Don't take it personally. He scowls at everyone."
"Except Verity."
"Oh, no, he scowls at Verity," Sebastian replied. "Particularly at Verity. She then proceeds to laugh in his face, or drags him off somewhere else, where—presumably—she teaches him to smile a little."
He stroked his finger along a rose petal as he spoke.
"You enjoy tending them," she realized.
"It's calming." He brushed another rose, a barely opened bud, and then broke it from the stem. Power whispered through him, and delicate pink petals began to bloom and open. A swift movement, and he tucked it behind her ear. "For you."
Cleo touched the soft petals, her breath catching. She looked up into his mercurial silver eyes. The stark black of his coat blended into the night, and he looked good. Too good.
I wish you'd make up your mind. There was no softness in that expression, but she could feel the rose behind her ear. Curse her if she could work out what it meant, though.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Fire spewed through the night, a man lowering a torch from his lips as he blew flame across the gathering. Sebastian turned toward it abruptly, his features tightening into a hawkish mask. The moment was gone.
People wearing garish masks of leering imps, painted satyrs and nymphs swirled across the marble dance floor. Despite the candelabras strewn across the lawn, it was difficult to see, almost as if some strange magic muted the garden.
The crowd clapped and cheered.
"It looks so beautiful," she breathed, doubt filling her. What on earth was Remington worried about?
"It's a mirage," Remington replied, as if he'd heard her. "You of all people should know there are shadows that lurk beneath."
Cleo blinked, centering her vision. A woman swayed toward her, wearing a vibrant red corset, pearls, stockings and little else. Her heart-shaped face seemed to bear a double image, almost as if there were something underneath the pretty doll-like expression, and then a leering face suddenly superimposed the woman's face, just for a second, and Cleo jumped back.
Remington was right. There was more going on than there seemed. Sucking in a sharp breath, she found herself clutching Sebastian's arm.
"What did you see?" he demanded softly, his hand resting against her hip. A light, protective touch, and one she didn't even think he was truly aware of, but it burned through her as though his hand rested on naked flesh.
"I don't know," Cleo said curtly, pushing away from him. "Something. Something not human." The ache between her thighs pulsed wickedly. She pressed a gloved hand to her temples, and tried to take a deep breath. What was wrong with her?
The woman in the corset slid her arms around Sebastian's neck and purred, "Hello, lover."
He swiftly disentangled her arms, looking sharply at Cleo as if for help, and she remembered what he'd said about women.
Morgana had made him entertain her allies. Or perhaps made was not the correct word. She'd put a sclavus collar on Sebastian when he was thirteen, which meant he'd had no choice in the matter. The collar forced him to the will of whoever wore the control ring, and Morgana had offered it at her whim to women who'd wanted him.
"Get your hands off him," Cleo said sharply, for the conflict was clear on his face. He would barely allow her to touch him, for heaven's sake.
The woman blinked at her in surprise, but then a pair of dancers swept between her and Sebastian. Cleo staggered back, and saw Sebastian reaching for her through the sudden press of dancers. At least he was no longer wearing the woman.
She shook her head at him. "I'm fine."
"Cleo, wait for me," Sebastian called.
Skirts twirled as Cleo found herself in the center of the dancers all of a sudden, as if they'd moved in some secret, choreographed sway in order to cut her off from the group. She was lost in a sea of wigs and silk, bodies pressing against her. A hand brushed her hip. Another stroked her arm. But when she spun around to see who had touched her, the dancers receded, much like the sea.
"Cleo!"
She turned back the way she'd come, as Sebastian tried to push his way onto the dance floor. He paused, crushed between two couples, and she saw frustration dance over his face.
"I'll meet you on the other side!" she called, pointing to the wide terrace overlooking the dance floor.
Something caught her eye. A masked face, watching her from across the crowd. Black feathers obscured the man's face, his crow-like mask capturing her attention before he vanished between people.
Cleo paused. She should return to Sebastian's side. But her divination instincts pulled at her.
Follow that man, they whispered.
But when she turned, there was nothing there.
"Isn't there?" came a wicked voice, deep inside her. "Look again."
Her powers were evolving. Ianthe seemed to think that without access to her Visions, her divination talents were trying to come through in other ways. Was this voice some sort of... intuition? It didn't come from without—her wards saw to that. So it had to be coming from within her. She was fairly certain she'd heard it whispering to her in the Labyrinth too.
Where had the stranger gone?
The dancers faded away as Cleo focused, and a single couple swam into view. The man was tall, his black velvet coat cut tightly around his narrow hips, and she caught flashes of his gaze through the mask, locked on her as he twirled the woman in his arms in devastating circles. She caught a flash of his smile, as if he were delighted to have caught her attention, and then he was gone again.
What on earth?
A shiver swept through her, blood rushing through her veins as the music began to die down. She found him again. The man lifted a hand to his crow mask, and slid it back off his face as he relinquished the woman he was dancing with, h
is gaze locked on Cleo's face.
Cleo swallowed.
Hard.
Sebastian was the most beautiful man she'd ever laid eyes upon, but there was something about this stranger that made her flush with heat. An intimate mocking in his green eyes, perhaps? A certain carnal slant to his full mouth? But beneath the handsome features lay a hidden undertone. Premonition surged through her. Danger, it all but screamed.
The kind of danger one desperately wanted to give in to.
This man was pure temptation, and from the look in his eyes when their gazes collided, he knew it.
Then the dancers twirled, and the man vanished and Cleo was left alone in the middle of the dance floor, feeling like she wanted to follow him down some dark, twisted rabbit hole.
Good grief. What sort of magic was this? For it had to be magic affecting her so badly. Her head was spinning, her body alight with the kind of anticipation only her husband had ever stirred in her before. She wanted to cast good intentions straight out the window, and do something shocking. Lust, violence, hunger, need. Remington had been underselling the danger significantly, and none of them had understood.
She needed to find the others.
Now.
Cleo turned and slammed into a hard body, all her good intentions evaporating from her mind. Hands caught her upper arms to brace her, and they were terrifyingly gentle. Every inch of her throbbed with lust. Cleo gripped his coat, trying to clear her head.
"Has he left you here all alone?" said a melodious voice.
Cleo sucked in a sharp breath. "Who?"
How had the stranger moved so fast?
"The man who watches you." That voice was molten honey, and it whispered through her like pure sin. Before she knew it, he'd captured her gloved hand and brought it to his lips. One finger stroked the inside of her wrist, even as his full, dangerous mouth whispered against the silk of her glove. "The man who hungers for you, but will not touch you." The dangerous stranger glanced up from beneath dark lashes. "The man you wish would touch you. You crave his touch so badly it calls to me." The stranger closed his eyes, a look of tortured pleasure crossing his face. "Sweet mercy, but the longing hurts so badly it's almost pleasure."
