Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1) (10 page)

"That's the last of them accounted for," Bishop said, striding into the library. It was unnerving how silently he moved for such a large man. Lucien watched him like a snake. There was no sign of that sensation he'd felt earlier when the man first stepped into the house, but a certain
knowing
fused his blood, a taste of Foreboding.

This man was dangerous, and whatever Luc was about to learn here, would set them both on a dangerous course.

"Tea, sir?" Maxwell asked.

Lucien nodded, but didn't take his eyes off Bishop as the other man sat directly opposite him. Bishop's hands rested on the arms of his chair, that black chip of obsidian in his prime ring winking at Luc. An adept of the Darker Arts then.

"I feel as though we've met," Bishop said in that scar-rough voice he owned. "Though I'm certain I'd remember you."

"You haven't met." Lady Eberhardt's hands moved briskly as she served them all thick slices of ginger cake with clotted cream. "It was decided that it would be best if you were kept apart until necessary."

"Kept apart?" Lucien asked.

"This is Adrian Bishop, the Prime's bastard son by Mrs. Amelia Bishop, born several years after Drake's divorce," Lady Eberhardt purred, sitting back with her tea and staring him down. "Adrian is one of the Order's
Sicarii
, and was my apprentice once upon a time."

"Agatha," Bishop said sharply, as if betrayed.

Prime's bastard.
Lucien froze. The words echoed in his head like ringing steel, a sense of incredulousness raining about him. Lady Eberhardt
had
to be joking. She had to be. For that meant that this man was his younger brother.

Not only a... a brother, but a dangerous one too.

A sickle in the shadows, an assassin. Something Luc had never encountered before, but heard plenty about. There were said to be five of them within the Order, those sorcerers whose calling belonged to the Grave arts, who dealt death to serve their Prime. Few knew their identities.

Bishop's lips thinned. "I presume that was necessary?"

"Oh, indeed." Lady Eberhardt clearly hadn't finished yet and gestured toward Lucien in a way that made him suddenly nervous. "And this, Bishop, is Lucien Devereaux, the Earl of Rathbourne and the Prime's firstborn bastard son." Lady Eberhardt's smile was positively cattish. "Say how do you do to your brother, boys."

Bishop's gaze cut sharply toward him, incredulousness sliding over his features and twisting the scars at his temples.

Scars... It was the only resemblance the pair of them had.

"What do you mean, he's my brother?" the other man demanded.

"Why was it decided that they should not know each other?" Miss Martin added. "Who decided such a thing?"

"The Cassandra at the time, Lucien's mother, laid a foretelling upon his birth. Drake would seed three sons, but never know them until it was too late, nor would they know each other. The moment any of his sons met, disaster would begin to befall the Order and the boys." Lady Eberhardt took a sip of her tea, watching them all over the rim of the cup.

"Disaster? Why on earth did you allow this meeting?"

"Because the disaster is already here," Lady Eberhardt replied, her voice deepening until it sounded not at all her own: "
When the red comet rules the skies, the Prime shall fall.
A new Prime shall Ascend to the head of the Order.
Three sons. Three relics. Three sacrifices. Only then can the Prime be torn down.

"There is but one chance to save them. The Snake at the Breast shall cast the first roll of the die, setting the Game into motion, but might be all that holds back the pall of madness. The Thief shall wear a false face, but wield a true heart; and only the Blind One can see how to save the heart of the Mirror."

Silence settled over the room like a mantle, highlighting the steady tick of the clock on the mantle.

"And all of that means...?" Bishop asked.

Lady Eberhardt shrugged. "Clear as muck, I know. Divination usually is. I've been meditating on it for years, and the only thing I've been able to clarify is the fact that the sons refer to Drake's children, and that if they are sacrificed, presumably using the Relics Infernal, then Drake shall fall."

Silence fell.

Over the course of the last year, since discovering the truth of his birth, Lucien had dreamed of one day seeking his revenge. Sometimes those dreams had seen his father fallen at his feet, but now, upon hearing the words, he wondered if they had truly been dreams, or merely his Divination coming into play.

His father, crawling over a field of skulls, his skin drawn and ragged as he clutched at Lucien's boots. Three altars dripping the blood of two men whose faces he could never see. "Run," the Prime would whisper. "You should not be here. You should never be here to see this."

Always the same dream.
Lucien swallowed. It was one thing to wish his father ill, quite another to realize that he had a part to play in it.

Miss Martin paled. "Drake said the ritual to invoke the Relics Infernal required a grave sacrifice to open a Gateway to the Shadow Dimensions. If they bring a Greater Demon through into this world, without the usual limitations, they could easily tear Drake down. Nobody would have the power to stop it."

"Indeed," Lady Eberhardt said enigmatically.

"Who is the third son?" Bishop's dark eyes narrowed.

"Alas, he was forced from his mother's womb many years ago." Lady Eberhardt set down her teacup with a sigh. "Too early to live."

"Then one son has been sacrificed," Bishop said thoughtfully, as if unconcerned by the fact that he was possibly next.

"Two to come." Lucien's voice thickened and their eyes met.

"I am not so easy to kill," Bishop replied.

No, but right now
he
was. "Everyone can be killed."

"Time for that later, perhaps." Lady Eberhardt's fist curled tightly around her pearls. "I called you here for a reason, Bishop. Morgana is back, and she's after the third relic, the Chalice, of which I happen to be the current guardian. I need you to take it and protect it with your life."

"And what about you?" Bishop demanded. "She'll come again, if she thinks the Chalice is still here."

Lady Eberhardt waved a dismissive hand. "I can handle myself. You just worry about your own hide. It is precious to me, dear boy. I would not see you harmed, but it seems that there's nobody better suited to handling the relic than yourself."

"Agatha..." he warned.

It occurred to Lucien that there was a great deal of fondness between the pair of them.

"It's decided," Lady Eberhardt said, and her voice had a ringing sound of finality to it. She turned those piercing eyes to Lucien and Ianthe. "Good luck finding the Blade. I think you'll need it. And keep me apprised. If it comes time to hunt down Morgana, I've got quite a bone to pick with her."

CHAPTER 6

S
HADOWS LENGTHENED, the sun turning into a thin gold line on the horizon for several seconds before it stretched out and vanished.

"Night," Lucien murmured. His eyes glinted gold in the darkness of the carriage, full of secrets... and truths.

There was a faint twist within Ianthe's chest, the magic leash she wore streaming back the other way. Toward him. Ianthe clapped a hand to her chest with a faint gasp as her corset seemed to tighten.

"And now you're mine."

Ianthe licked dry lips. He didn't move, but tension tightened the muscles in his thighs, the fabric of his trousers rustling as he shifted slightly. All day she'd been too distracted by her dilemma to think of this, but images sprang to mind following his words—of her on her knees in the carriage, her gloved hands sliding up the lean muscle of those thighs whilst Lucien watched impassively. What would he ask her to do? She could only imagine.

"Summon a mage globe," he told her, stretching both arms along the seat back, "so that I can see you."

A small white orb stirred out of the shadows, just large enough to brighten the carriage. Reaching out, he tugged the blinds down. Just the two of them now. Locked together. Her body felt flushed and full, threatening to burst at the seams.

"You have kept your word today, so I will keep mine. I'm no gentleman in bed, Ianthe, but if you truly do not wish to perform any of the acts I ask of you tonight, then all you have to do is say so."

"I will insist upon a sheathe," she replied.

"I—"

"It's not open to discussion, Rathbourne. I will not risk a child." Her heart stirred dully in her chest.

A slow nod. "That suits me as well."

Breath catching, Ianthe rested her hands on her lap, waiting. Every second stretched out the tension between them. Her pulse began to race as her body remembered what it had felt like to have him kneeling above her in her secret chambers, his fingertip painting that blasted mark between her breasts. Even now, the mark began to sink into her flesh, as if some sort of sorcery worked its magic between them.

"Pull your skirts up."

So he liked to be in charge, did he?

Ianthe breathed in, then out, making her own quiet decisions, and then slowly, slowly curled a fistful of her skirts in each hand.

This was a new game. The challenge was to see who broke first.

If Rathbourne thought her in any way squeamish...

Her smile had edges to it, she was positive, and when she met his gaze with an arched eyebrow, dragging her skirts higher, she could see her ploy had struck its mark. She wasn't the only one tested by desire here.

Rathbourne's mouth hardened, though his eyes turned to pure fire. Hungry. "Well?" he said, leaning on his fist and flicking a bored hand at her, as if to say:
Any time you're ready, my dear
.

"But we've got all night, have we not?" she all but purred. The drag of her skirts against her knees and then thighs rustled in the sleek compartment. Cool air whispered over her sensitive skin. Obeying left her wet and aching.

"Perhaps I've got plans."

"Oh? Do tell?"

The smile he gave her was dangerous. "No, I don't think so. I think I like it when you don't know what I intend. Remove your drawers."

Her breath caught. "Don't you want to do it yourself?"

Those amber eyes glittered furiously. "If I wanted to do it myself, then I wouldn't be sitting here watching you."

So be it. Submission could be merely another means of controlling the situation. Ianthe shifted and wiggled them down her legs, her petticoats spilling down to hide herself. They were pale pink linen. Clenching them in her fist, she stared at him. What now?

Rathbourne held out a hand, and her cheeks burned as she deposited them in it. He never took his eyes off her as he tucked them in the inner pocket of his jacket.

"Touch yourself."

That shocked her. "What?"

"I want to see you please yourself. Surely you know how."

Of course she did. When a sorcerer's energy was driven by sexual means and one didn't have a lover, one had to be resourceful. But that was private. From the smoldering look in his eyes though, he knew that.

Damned if she would give him the satisfaction. Parting her legs, Ianthe slid tentative fingers up her inner thighs. The ache inside ratcheted tighter, made her wet her lips, her teeth sinking slowly into the flesh of her lower one. Those fingers traced slow circles on her inner thigh, sending tingles shooting through her. It was the way he watched her that made her wet, an intense look in his eyes. The way tension rode his hard frame. He was one step away from reaching for her... Ianthe shuddered.

Lucien's eyes were heavy-lidded, and he rested his chin on his hand. "Are you trying to tease me, my dear?"

"Am I succeeding?"

He shifted slightly. A faint smile traced his hard mouth. "What do you think?"

Ianthe slid her fingertip lightly against her clitoris. Sensation shivered through her. "I think one of us is more patient than the other."

Those hard eyes softened lazily, as if she'd said something that amused him. "Do you want to see who it is? Is that the game? Whoever lasts the longest?"

"You enjoy the play of power, don't you?" Again, she let her fingertips brush against her secret flesh. He couldn't see it. Her skirts saw to that. But she could see the flare of his nostrils as he took a sharp breath, and the tightening of his pupils. Warm light from the mage globe bathed the two of them.

"One could say the same, madam. First you challenge me not to kiss you first, now this... Who's playing games, Ianthe?"

Ianthe.
The hot stroke of his tongue over her name sent shivers through her. A sudden wicked urge overtook her. He had ordered her to touch herself: he was not unmoved. And she wanted to win this. She wanted to move him.

Using her telekinesis, she lightly stroked him with her senses, 'caressing' the broad planes of his chest, as if with her own hands.

Lucien went still. His gaze locked on hers. He was actually shocked. And heavily aroused.

Ianthe smiled as she stroked the lush, already damp folds of her secret self. She pulled her skirts just a little higher, revealing herself. Her breasts heaved, pushing against the constraints of her bodice. "I do wonder," she whispered, as her psychic touch trailed lower over his abdomen, "who will last the longest?"

T
HE TOUCH WAS LIGHT
, a whisper of sensation over his skin. Temping, teasing, and twisting him tighter, until he was almost ready to explode.

And the little devil watched his reaction, her teeth sunk in her fleshy lower lip, as she slowly stroked herself between the thighs, eyelashes fluttering lower and her cheeks painted a pretty pink. "I thought you wanted me to please
you,
Rathbourne?"

"This does please me. I want you wet," Lucien told her, leaning against the window and watching her. Feigning an unruffled demeanor, though a muscle tightened in his jaw as those invisible hands caressed the inside of his thighs. He couldn't stop his hands from clenching. Bloody woman. He was rapidly losing track of this seduction. He just wanted inside her. Now. "When we get inside, I want you to go upstairs to your bedchamber, bend over your bed, and lift your skirts. I want you to be ready for me, Ianthe. I plan to take you then, with no preliminaries."