Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1) (43 page)

"Stop!" Morgana hissed, lunging forward with the blade drawn. "Don't you
dare
pity me!"

The blade stopped an inch from Eleanor's throat. She stared into the other woman's eyes, refusing to be cowed.
Go ahead.
Eleanor tipped her chin up. She was no longer that pale young girl who stammered and apologized to the other young female apprentices, as if her poor birth was her own fault. Drake had taught her the value of her worth, and if this bitch was going to kill her, then Eleanor would meet her death with grace and dignity.

Morgana's lip curled back from her teeth, and she pulled the knife away.

"You," Morgana spat, "pathetic Eleanor Whitby, a girl taken directly from the orphanage, with a minor talent in psychometry, if at all... You always looked beyond your station, Eleanor, nosing around the tutors as if that could make up for your lack of breeding and talent. Gods, it makes me ill to even think of you in his bed. Why would he choose you? You're nothing. You've always been nothing."

A spark of rage unfurled in her breast, but Eleanor held her head high. "It doesn't matter what you say or do to me, Morgana, you will never win. Even in death, Drake's heart belongs to me, and mine to him."

A dangerous glitter filled the other woman's eyes. "So be it then. If Drake wants your bloody heart, then he can have it. In a box. Henri! Phillippe!"

Two heavy-set men shouldered inside the cell. Morgana gestured them into place with a swift cut of her hand. "Take her wrists and pin her down."

They moved to grab her, and Eleanor fought. It was no use. Without access to her power—carefully blocked by the warded bracelet around her wrist—she was as weak as anyone else.

Morgana grabbed her by the throat, pinning her to the stone wall. "How dare you think you could replace me? How dare you think that you" —the knife dug into Eleanor's breastbone— "pathetic, little bitch that you are, could ever be half the woman that I am."

Power gathered along the Blade. Eleanor felt it growing, even as the point cut into her skin. She cried out, twisting her face away, but there was no hope. No relief from the slow, inexorable push of hot iron into her flesh. Eleanor screamed.

"What are you doing?"

The room was suddenly freezing. Sebastian stood in the doorway, his eyes raking over the scene. Power gleamed over his skin, giving him such vitality that he almost glowed. Eleanor slumped, breathing hard, as Morgana turned to face him.

"This is none of your business. Go back to your roses." There was a faint sneer to Morgana's voice, and she turned back to her task, as if dismissing him.

"No."

Morgana shoved away from Eleanor, leaving her gasping as blood trickled from the cut beneath her breastbone. The woman turned to face her son, power lashing along the Blade as she pointed it at him. "Don't you
dare
defy me, especially not after that debacle last night, where you almost cost me this!" Morgana held up the relic. "Now get out of here. I've had enough of you for the day!"

His cold gray gaze flickered toward Eleanor, then back to his mother. "No," he said again, slowly, as if making up his mind. "I cannot let you do this. I will not."

As if to emphasize the words, Sebastian straightened, his fingers curled faintly at his sides with flickers of lightning-coated power dancing over them. Just a hint of a threat, but one made dangerous by the weight of power that could be felt within him.

It felt like everyone in the room held their breath.

Eleanor didn't hope to escape this, but in saving her, was he risking himself?

Morgana seemed shocked. "What do you mean, 'you cannot let me do this'? Who are you to tell me what I may or may not do?"

"Unfortunately, I'm the only one with the power to stop you. That's who I am, Mother."

"Power?" Morgana took a step toward him, and Eleanor could feel Morgana gathering her own sorcery. "Have I taught you nothing? Power is not strength, not when one is inept in wielding it with finesse." She lashed out, the ring on her finger sparking as some type of sorcery was channeled through it. "Just a taste, my dear."

Sebastian winced and went down on his hands and knees. His hair lifted, almost as if with static, and when he looked up, the expression on his face was murderous. "I will
not
let you do this."

"This is a sudden change in demeanor. I thought we had discussed what would happen if you ever went up against me again. What has brought about this change?" And then Morgana's eyes widened. "Ah. Of course. How did I miss that? Oh, Miss Sinclair, well played."

"Leave Miss Sinclair out of this." Sebastian straightened.

"I should have seen that coming." Morgana
tsked
under her breath. "I thought it odd that you knocked her over in the garden. You've always had a weakness for those pathetic, innocent little creatures. Your poor blind wife... Of course she'd appeal. I just didn't think you'd already formed an attachment."

"Leave... her out of this." Sebastian's power crackled around him.

The attack was instant.

Sparks flared into being around his body, forming thin golden lines between them that suddenly tightened, and sank through his clothes, into his flesh. Sebastian screamed, his fingers curling into whitened claws. He raged against the invisible net, fine white pressure lines forming all over his skin.

"Stop fighting it!" Eleanor screamed, recognizing the effects of a Bathingway hex. "It intensifies if you fight it!"

A flash of gray eyes, and then Sebastian forced himself to relax. The pain would remain, but at least now he had a chance. Looking up, he flung everything he had at his mother.

Morgana staggered back, a deft flick of her hands deflecting the pure wave of force away from her. Eleanor's back slammed against the wall, her ears ringing as her head hit the stone. For a moment, she blinked, and it felt like time had slipped away from her. Then she found herself on her hands and knees amongst the rubble that was all that remained of the wall, with Henri and Philippe sprawled beside her. Blood trickled from both men's ears, the force crushing their brains instantly. The only reason she was still alive was because Morgana's wards stood directly between them.

Eleanor barely had time to grasp what had happened before horror filled her. There was a terrible silence in her head, almost a ringing, as if she'd been standing inside a bell when Sebastian's power had struck it.

Expression. And not just on the base level of the spectrum, but a wash of power so intense that she knew nothing would be able to stand in its way. Not even Drake. The type of power could bring London to its knees, if channeled correctly.

"Sebastian," she gasped, or thought she did. It didn't sound right.
Don't
.
Please don't!
Her mouth wasn't working properly, one side of her face felt like it was drooping, and her head was throbbing now. Throbbing like her brains wanted to spill out of her ears. Gods. What was happening to her?

"Aisle stop oo." Sebastian's voice sounded so far away. So distant. So strange. "No matter whar-muss do."

Eleanor tasted blood.

Energy welled into a crescendo. It spiraled around the room, drawn from every living thing within the nearby vicinity. It radiated toward him in ripples that worked in reverse, flooding him with power. No one human should be able to do this. No one man could contain all of that power.

Eleanor realized what he was going to do. "Stop!" she screamed, or tried to. Somehow her chains were broken, the iron links seared away halfway down and dripping slag onto the floor. Her left hand wouldn't work. Numbness tingled through it, and she fell onto her face as the left side of her body gave way. It was like watching her own actions from outside her body.

Sebastian. Drake. Had to... stop this.

And then someone grabbed her by the hair and plunged the Blade into Eleanor's back in a hiss of burning pain that lit all her nerves on fire.

And all she could do was scream.

CHAPTER 29

P 
OWER EXPLODED out through the walls of the house, flattening the rose bushes someone had lovingly tended. Ianthe threw herself at Lucien, flinging her gauntleted fist up in front of them. Her wards invoked themselves a split second before a wave of force smashed into the pair of them, sending them cartwheeling across the manicured lawns.

When she came to, she was breathing heavily into Lucien's coat with his arms curled around her. Her entire body ached, like some enormous hand had just reached out and swatted her. All along the street, porches tumbled from their frames and tiles slid from rooves. Startled heads popped out of door and windows to see what was going on.

"Are you all right?" Lucien demanded. She could feel his concern along the bond between them.

"Ouch." She winced in reply. "What on earth was that?"

Lucien helped her to sit up. "Expression."

Of the group, only Drake was on his feet, staggering with his hands outspread as he dispersed the ripples of pure power and grounded them back into the earth. The ground stopped shaking and silence fell, as if everything nearby had felt it. A squirrel shot past, fleeing for the undergrowth.

Adrian Bishop helped Lady Eberhardt to her feet, and the woman looked spitting mad as she pulled her skirts down over her stockinged legs. The stone lion she'd brought with her butted his head against her.

"This," said Lady Eberhardt, throwing Drake a concerned look, "this is not good. Who could draw so much power? If Morgana has that on her side, then she might be well-nigh undefeatable."

If Lady Eberhardt sounded worried... Ianthe looked to Lucien.

"It's Morgana's son," Lucien said, helping her to her feet. He nodded toward Drake. "It's my brother, this Sebastian."

"Three brothers," Lady Eberhardt muttered. "Three relics. This isn't going to end well."

Drake gasped, lowering his hands as the last of the sorcery melted away.

"Brother?" Bishop asked, shooting Lucien a hard look.

"Surprise. There are three of us." Lucien shrugged. "It's always the youngest of the family who throws the biggest tantrums. Or so I've heard." Then he paused. "Or are you the youngest? I never did quite work out where you fit in the family."

"Bishop's the youngest," Lady Eberhardt said. "His mother helped console Drake following the divorce."

Bishop ignored the pair of them. "That was not a tantrum." One of his Sicarii blades formed in his hands.

"Oh, he can get louder if he wants," Lucien replied. "Nearly buried us beneath half of Highgrove Cemetery last night."

"Stop it," Ianthe said, seeing the flash of pain on Drake's face. "And put that away," she told Bishop. "You are
not
killing your brother."

Bishop and Lucien traded glances that seemed to echo each other. Despite the physical differences between them, the resemblance was almost uncanny in that instant.

"How do you plan to stop him?" Bishop asked. With a flick of his fingers, the knife vanished into thin air.

Ianthe crossed to Drake's side, seeing the worry in his eyes. "Can you deflect Sebastian's power? Can you stop him from tearing the city apart?"

"Maybe," he said.

"If you had help?"

Drake considered it, then looked toward Lucien. "If someone offered up their well of power, I might be able to contain him, or disperse his sorcery if it flares again."

"It's going to flare," Lady Eberhardt said. "I can feel it building again."

"You're potentially the strongest here," Drake said, looking directly at Lucien.

Ianthe held her breath.

"And I can barely manage to tie my own shoelaces with sorcery at the moment," Lucien said bitterly. He looked down at his feet with a frown, then sighed and slowly stretched out his hand. "Take what you need. Use me as your wellspring."

A flood of heat and pride filled her. The man she'd first encountered—the bitter, vengeful duke—was slowly vanishing, leaving behind a man who weighed his sense of duty against his feelings of hate and did the right thing. Ianthe's heart clenched in her chest and her lungs seized. This was a man she could both admire and respect.

As if sensing it, Lucien looked toward her sharply.

"Thank you," she mouthed.

"I would not be careless with such an offer," Drake said, crossing to take his son's hand. As their palms clasped, a shudder went through Lucien and through their bond; Ianthe felt something settle over him and take hold.

"We have company," Lady Eberhardt called, turning to face the back garden. A barrage of rampaging imps spilled out of the greenery like a flock of howling monkeys. They were followed by a tall figure in a black velvet coat with a froth of white lace at his throat. Two other sorcerers made their presence known, settling in behind him.

"Tremayne," Lady Eberhardt spat.

"Eberhardt," Tremayne replied. His eyes narrowed as he settled his hands around the hilt of an ebony cane, but he was smiling. "Fancy seeing all of you here."

"Told you it was a trap," Lucien murmured.

But Ianthe wasn't so certain.

"Well, it looks like someone's been dabbling in areas he shouldn't have been," Lady Eberhardt said, stepping forward. "I was fairly certain you couldn't so much as ignite a fart in a teakettle with your sorcery restricted, Tremayne. What did it cost you to overcome the Council's restrictions? Your soul?"

"Oh, Agatha, I always thought you said I didn't have one." Tremayne traced a circle on the lawn with the tip of his cane, pouring power through it. "But let's just say... I have friends in high places these days."

"Low places, Tremayne. Not high. And I wouldn't trust a demon as far as I could throw him. He'll eat you alive. Eventually."

"You never did have the guts to reach for power."

"I prefer good, decent common sense." Lady Eberhardt grunted and used her finger to chisel a line in the turf with a lance of pure fire. "I must admit that hearing rumors about the Relics Infernal and then finding you involved is rather disappointing. I grow weary of always being right about people."

Ianthe took a few steps backward. Nobody wanted to be caught between the conflagration of whatever was about to be thrown in this vicinity. "Do you need help?" she called, eyeing the imps. Lady Eberhardt's lion was pacing in front of her, keeping them at bay, but they were starting to grow bolder.