Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1) (28 page)

"Louisa!"

Please, no. Not my child.

"Miss Martin." Strong hands cupped her forearms, and Ianthe fought them for a moment, until warm breath kissed her face. "Ianthe," Lucien said, his voice low and gentle. "Ianthe, wake up."

Ianthe woke with a gasp, into a warm, dark room masked with golden candlelight. Her heartbeat thundered through her veins and that lingering sense of loss was almost unquenchable. Lucien knelt on the bed over her, his expression stern and searching, his knees straddling her and pressing the blankets down tightly over her legs. He wore a burgundy robe that he'd evidently thrown on in a hurry, and one heavily muscled thigh speared out from beneath it, covered in dark hair.

"You were having a bad dream," he said, his fingers curling around her upper arms, as if he was afraid she'd vanish if he let her go.

The memory washed over her. Only, it was but a bad dream. This, her waking life, was the true nightmare, and no matter how she tried, it seemed she couldn't escape it.

She must have made some kind of choked noise, a tear sliding wetly down her cheek. Ianthe didn't even know if it was she who reached for him first, or the other way around, but she found herself in his arms, her wet face pressed against the soft wool of his robe, and his arms curling around her. Strong hands cupped the back of her head as he held her there, rocking gently.

"It's all right. You're safe now. You're awake."

Ianthe sobbed harder. Safe?

She clung to him, her chest heaving with the effort involved in containing her tears. Those hands slid slowly down her spine, then back up, and he made shushing noises. It felt nice to be held. Nice to know that someone else might be able to hold all of her broken pieces together.

But then reality began to intrude. That was only another wistful thought, was it not? She'd thought something important had changed between them in that moment in the library, but then Lucien had left her here alone, in her own bed, gently shutting the door in her face as he turned to seek his own. She didn't know what to make of it. He confused her.

Ianthe pushed away, wiping at her cheeks. Her entire face felt like a storm of bees had attacked it; hot, flushed, and swollen. She was a mess, and she couldn't afford to be. Louisa needed a mother, but the sad truth was that all she had was Ianthe herself.

It would have to be enough.

"Was I c-crying out?"

Those heavy lashes had half shuttered over his golden eyes. "Are you all right?"

"Of course. Just a nightmare—"

Lucien cupped her chin in his hands and tilted her face toward his, as though searching for the truth in her words. "I felt your fear through the bond. Fear and anger and a loss so profound it tore me from my own dreams. Something frightened you. Something—"

"No, I'm fine." That was panic now, locking hard claws through her belly.

The intimacy of the moment had her off balance. It was worse than being naked before him, for that was only skin. She could feel their tentative bond, feel him sorting through the emotions that travelled along it and echoed within him. Just as she could feel the ache of his curiosity and the stern, somewhat gentle worry inside him. Their bond was strengthening. It was both comforting and a concern, for what if he became so finely attuned to her moods that she betrayed herself and her secrets?

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Yes.
Fuck me
," Ianthe whispered, leaning forward and brushing her mouth against his jaw. Stubble rasped against her lips, and his thumbs were a question mark in the indentation of her chin before his grip weakened.
Hold me. Make me forget
. Closing her eyes, she licked at his throat, her own hands tearing free and sliding up within his robe, feeling the smooth silk of his skin.

And then something wet-slick brushed beneath her fingers… rough scars along his chest.

Ianthe looked down in surprise, but Lucien's face had hardened, and he caught her wrists again, so she couldn't touch him. Dragging his robe shut with his other hand, he took each wrist in hand, controlling her as easily as one did a marionette.

"As you wish," he murmured, pressing her back down onto the mattress in a tumble of sprawled limbs. He held her wrists pinned above her head, and she knew it was so that she wouldn't be able to touch him again.

"What happened to your chest?" He'd never once stripped himself naked before her, even as they... made love.

Dark lashes shuttered those eyes. "Nothing."

Her heart stuttered to a halt. So that was to be the way of it. One mad step toward her, then two steps back. Ianthe tilted her face away, suddenly angry with him, even if she did not truly have the right. After all, was she not keeping her own secrets?

She had forgotten herself. It was all too easy to find herself falling for her own act. Far too easy to believe his. His reluctance only reminded her of the precise nature of this assignation.

Lucien wanted revenge. She wanted her daughter back. As soon as Louisa was safe, Lucien would be free of her. Today might have felt like an odd softening between them, but the truce was questionable. Ianthe could not afford to make any mistakes, not now.

So be it.

Ianthe lifted her eyes to his. Lucien's hot amber gaze asked a question, one she didn't think she could answer. There were no easy answers here. "Fuck me," she whispered again, instead of asking about his scars.

There was a long moment of hesitation, as though Lucien fought his way through the same doubts. Then he turned his face toward her breasts, his gentle onslaught overwhelming. The press of his body between her thighs only reminded her of what had happened in the library.

No place for doubt here, nor for the heart-burning truths she fought her way through. Passion flared between them as Lucien set her body alight with his hands and mouth—slow, gentle licks, stoking the flames between them. Soft gasps sprang from her lips, and a low groan of need came from his. For this one moment, she could pretend this man was her lover, in both heart and mind, and not just body.

When he claimed her, it was a sweet joining. Lucien moved slowly, as though afraid to let the moment go, but she wanted more. She wanted mindless, passionate oblivion. Body clenching around him, she dug her nails into his upper arms and drove him to a breathless release. This time she couldn't share in it, no matter how hard she tried.

Afterward, they lay still for long moments, her body quivering as she lay curled in the hollow of his body and his arms. Occasionally he'd stroke his fingers against her hair, twisting a strand of it around his finger contemplatively. This intimacy was one she was unaccustomed to. Just pretend, she told herself as her eyes grew heavier and sleep finally, finally began to beckon.

"Who is Louisa?" Lucien whispered in the darkness.

Stillness leached through her body. She must have called the name in her sleep. Finding no way of answering that, Ianthe shut her eyes and pretended, despite her stiffening limbs, to be asleep.

CHAPTER 16

^'
T  
he first use of a Sclavus Collar came about in 1789, between two occult colleagues–John Davis, and Genevieve Huston–who were working to combine their wills. The idea was to meld their power and thus create greater works of sorcery requiring strength beyond what either of them had, however, when Mrs. Huston set the collar on Mr. Davis, she discovered that she could also bend his will to hers through the ring controlling it.'

–
O
RIGINS
of the Order of the Dawn Star
, by Thaddeus O'Rourke

DRAKE
SLIPPED out of his muddy coat and slid into a new one. He was exhausted and had spent half the night hunting London, trying to locate the sorcerer who had used Expression.

His lover, Eleanor Ross, waved his mail at him. "I think you need to read this."

"Not now," he replied tersely and pressed a kiss to her temple. "I need to find our young sorcerer before he demolishes London."

"This is important." Eleanor held up one envelope in particular. "A young man was paid a large amount to deliver this personally. Drake, my psychometry is picking up all kinds of readings on it. It makes me feel urgent, as if something bad is going to happen. I'm practically itching. The rest can wait, but I don't think this one can."

Taking the letter, he examined her face. Eleanor wasn't prone to dramatics, and she had a minor talent in premonition. She'd never been wrong before.

Drake slit the seal. The writing was almost childlike, but very careful, as if someone had taken their time with it.

T
HERE IS
a young male sorcerer I was introduced to this morning, who is wearing a Sclavus Collar. His name is Sebastian Montcalm, though I have not heard his name listed in my copy of the Order's registry, which I searched this afternoon. His mother holds the ring to his collar, and he has admitted that she makes him do bad things. He is a
good
man, who wishes to escape his slavery. I have no one else to tell, though I trust—and hope—that you can help him.

Please help him.

Y
OURS IN CONFIDENCE
,

A concerned friend.

D
RAKE RUBBED
the piece of parchment. A Sclavus Collar was bad news. An unregistered sorcerer added to the danger, for he should know all of the sorcerers who lived in Britain. There was only one reason to keep it from him, and that didn't bode well at all.

Plots, everywhere he looked. Damn it.

"Well?" Eleanor's eyes softened with concern. "Is it important?"

"It is." He passed her the letter and kept the envelope. "Can you tell me where this came from? Anything you might pick up from it?"

Eleanor sat on the middle of their bed and crossed her legs, her breathing soothing into slow and steady meditation. Drake paced for long minutes, aware of time ticking away on the clock on the mantle.

"A young woman writes it," Eleanor intoned, her eyes moving behind her eyelids, as if she was seeing something. "I feel like... I can't see anything. I'm trying to write with my eyes closed? I don't know. I'm using my fingers to feel out the letters. I don't want to be caught. I'm worried about... about someone else? I can't see anything else, but I keep getting feelings about my father. Is she worried about her father?"

"No, the person I'm looking for is a young man."

"A young man..." Eleanor muttered under her breath, her fingers rubbing the letter. "It's getting hard to pick up anything now. A young man, yes. A dangerous young man. I... I feel sorry for him. I want to help him." Her eyes fluttered open, shock catching her breath. She dropped the letter. "There was a demon, Drake. I didn't catch a lot of it, but she's worried about a demon."

"Bloody hell." Summoning a demon was strictly forbidden now, though ancient members of the Order had originally dabbled with them out of curiosity. He'd sent his own son to Bedlam for summoning one, and he himself had... dabbled... as a youth. What was he going to do? He needed to find this dangerously out-of-control sorcerer, but a demon was on par with that, as far as risk went. Had they managed to summon one? Or were they about to?

"Montcalm... Montcalm... I've never heard that name before. Not in our circles. How am I going to find out more?" he mused, more to himself than anyone. "I could ask D'Arcy how to find this girl..."

"Do you trust D'Arcy?" Eleanor's voice was quiet. "He's your clairvoyant, yet he's mentioned none of this, not even anything about the relic's theft. He should have seen
something
coming. And would he be strong enough to pick up anything more about the letter than I could?"

"No." Which was truth.

"There's one person you could ask," Eleanor suggested.

"Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like this?"

"Because you're not." She cleared her throat and folded the letter in her lap. "Tremayne's daughter is the current Cassandra. She's terribly accurate, and her talents far exceed my own. She could trace where this letter originated."

Drake shot her an incredulous look. "He won't let me anywhere near her."

"No, he won't. He might let someone else though, if they pay him enough. He doesn't have to know what the request is for. I know he doesn't sit in on most readings. I'm sure he has a chaperone in place, but that can be dealt with."

"Eleanor," he said, starting to see where her mind was going. "No. Tremayne's dangerous. If I were to list five sorcerers who might be involved in summoning a demon, his name would be on it." Taking her hands, he drew her to the edge of the bed. "You are too precious for me to lose. You don't know..." He let out a deep breath. "You don't know how long I've searched for a woman who cares more for me as a man than what I can do for her as Prime."

"Which is why I offer this." Eleanor squeezed his hands. "I love you. I don't want to lose you, and right now, I am seeing the odds stacking up against you. The comet is in the sky, Drake, someone has stolen a dangerous relic, there's a sorcerer on the verge of exploding with Expression, and now someone is toying with demons. It might even be the same person who stole the relic."

"Which is why
I
should go."

"And yet you won't get near her." Eleanor slid off the bed. "You cannot do this. I can. I'm a big girl, Drake, and more than capable of handling Tremayne, if need be, and the simple question is: Who else can you trust? Ianthe is already occupied, and we know there is an enemy within your closest ranks. You don't have anyone else to do this, and you need to find this unbalanced sorcerer, or there might not even be a city to protect from a demon. I could find this sorcerer using Expression, but would I be able to handle him? We both know the answer to that. Both these quests are important."

She was right, damn it all. He was stretched too thin as it was, but he couldn't say it. Sending Ellie into danger was like cutting out his own heart. Instead, he dragged her into his arms and pressed a kiss to her lips. "Be careful." He drew back, cupping her cheeks firmly in both hands. "Don't get yourself killed. That's my heart you're carrying. Be careful of it."