Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1) (6 page)

It ached to let the large trunk out of her sight, but what was she to do? She couldn't allow any suspicion to fall upon herself.

Once upon a time, she would have said that nothing could have made her betray her master.
But we all have our weaknesses, don't we?
She only hoped she could discover a way out of this mess before Drake discovered her treachery.

Fingering the locket at her throat, Ianthe watched the trunk, and its magically sealed compartment, vanish into the city, her heart feeling like lead in her chest.

Thank all the gods that Rathbourne had failed to scry out the Blade.

CHAPTER 3

^'
T  
he purpose of the Order of the Dawn Star is twofold; one, we seek to understand the Great Mysteries of life and the divine; and two, we aim to serve our country. To protect it from malevolent forces that exist in other planes, and those who seek to use them.'

- '
U
NDERSTANDING THE
D
IVINE
', by Sir Anthony Scott

THE
BUSTLING
STREETS of Covent Garden were their first stop. Ianthe alighted from the duke's carriage with effortless grace.

Lucien raked the streets with a hard glance. "You think someone here took the Blade?"

"No. But this is where I'm going to start my search."

"That makes little sense."

"All will be revealed, Rathbourne."

Bright theatre posters screamed their headlines to the world as she paused at the entrance to the Phoenix Theatre.
Behold: The Great Remington Cross and, his beautiful assistant, the exotic
Sabine
. Tugging her key out of her reticule, Ianthe let herself through the theatre doors.

Lucien prowled past her, his dark hair brushing against his collar, as he lowered the smoked glasses he had taken to wearing. Absurdly long and unfashionable, that hair, but her eyes lingered.

Damn Drake for saddling her with him, when she needed all of her wits.

Ianthe followed him over the plush red carpets. The walls here were yellow-striped wallpaper, a far cry from the entrance the working classes used to keep them separate from the rich. That entrance led directly to the galley, the tier in which the poor were allowed to inhabit. There was no wallpaper there, no plush carpets. Illusion was everything in this world she'd once known.

Lucien unfurled a faded poster, straightening out the rolled up edge until he could see the painted figure upon it, with her blonde curled wig, devilish smile, and spangled gown. The Mysterious Sabine. Those unusual golden-brown eyes cut toward Ianthe, and she had no difficulty interpreting the look.

"It was an occupation," she said, preceding him toward the auditorium. "One that an occultist excels at. We don't all have vast inheritances to fall back upon."

"You use sorcery to entertain?"

Ianthe turned on her heel, the abruptness of the move leaving her face-to-face with him. He jerked back before he could slam into her. "Go ahead," she said fiercely, "mock me. All I have to do is order you to hop on one foot for the rest of the day. You know you'll have to do it." Her eyes narrowed. "Or perhaps you'd like to wear a dress?"

He'd given his word to obey her, sealed in blood. Even now, the mark between her breasts tingled.

"And tonight, you'll be mine." Leaning closer, Rathbourne reached out and brushed the backs of his knuckles against the smooth skin of her décolletage, branding her with the touch, his lips thinning with anger. "Imagine how I'll seek my revenge."

Ianthe could imagine it. All too well. Wickedness had been her downfall once, and it proved to be her weakness now, for she felt that tremor of sensation all the way through her.

And so did he, judging by the heated look in his eyes.

Suddenly, it wasn't anger that marked the air between them.

"Be careful what you ask for." Ianthe reached up on her toes to whisper the words into his ear, her hands hesitantly pressing against the roughened fold of his coat collar. "Revenge can be the sweetest thing. If you think I won't surrender to you, you're wrong. If you think that I can't twist you around my little finger whilst submitting to your desires... then think again. I'll brand myself on your skin, Rathbourne. I'll make you forget every other woman you've ever been with." This, the enticing words, were something she had learned over the years as Sabine. To warp the taste of a man's desire until he was panting at her feet, breathless for the want of her. "And when this is over," she drew back, glancing up beneath her lashes at him, "when we break this bond... You'll beg me to take you back."

Hard fingers manacled her wrists. Rathbourne lowered his face to hers, his breath caressing her sensitive lips. Interest flared in his eyes. "Are you challenging me?"

The sensation of her perceived helplessness ignited her body. All she had to do was tell him to stop. She knew it. So did he. "What kind of challenge?"

"The kind that will show you who your master is." Lips slid along the curve of her jaw, teeth nipping at the heated flesh of her earlobe. "Who can bring the other to beg the soonest?"

A thrill lit through her. "I thought you wanted to bed me."

"Oh, I'm going to bed you, Ianthe. I'm going to fuck you as hard and as often as I can, but I'm not going to kiss you. Not unless you ask me, until you're on your knees begging for it."

"Do you hold the quality of your kisses so highly?" Nervousness trembled in her voice, along with desire. The way he said '
fuck
' made her whole body jerk. She'd never been spoken to like that before in her life... and some dark part of her liked it.

Another slow heated smile. Rathbourne pushed away from her, letting go of her wrists. "A kiss is the measure of a person's soul. If you think them overrated, then you haven't been kissed, Miss Martin. Not well enough. That is how we shall know who's won. By whoever succumbs first."

Wisdom insisted she say no, but her eyes narrowed and she lowered her arms, feeling the sensation of his hands still manacling her own. "I think you'll kiss me first, so I shall accept your challenge, my lord. If anything, it should make this agreement of ours somewhat more intriguing." That earned a rise out of him, but she held up a hand. "Come. As fascinating as this is, we're late. Cross will have my head."

"Cross?" he arched a brow.

"My other savage, bad-tempered master," she replied.

He didn't like that at all, she noticed, as she swished toward the auditorium, putting an extra little swing to her hips.

T
HE HOLLOW
, echoing silence of the auditorium was clear relief against the tumult of the streets. Lucien followed on the heels of Miss I-Shall-Make-You-Beg, knowing that he pressed too close to her.

The challenge in the entry had been a revelation. His gaze slid to the nape of her neck. Miss Martin had a seductive side that was well-nigh irresistible, though from the forced serenity of her expression one could barely tell.

Tonight... Tonight he would get to reveal that side of her again, even though she'd seemingly buttoned it all away. As she said, revenge could be incredibly sweet, and he was looking forward to it.

A sharp crack filled the air, an explosion of smoke and sparks onstage. Luc didn't think. Simply threw himself into Miss Martin, carrying her to the floor beneath him. The Shield hummed to life around him, the copper band around his wrist tingling icy cold as power flowed through it. It was one of the first workings he'd ever done, and relief flooded him as he realized the shielding bracelet still worked.

"Rathbourne!" she cried.

Ears buzzing with the heavy echo of silence, he looked up. A man had appeared out of the smoke, clad in shirtsleeves and a black silk waistcoat. A blood-red scarf was tied at his throat, and his pinstriped trousers were neatly pleated and immaculate.

"He likes to make an entrance," Miss Martin murmured, wriggling beneath him. Lucien realized he was crushing her a little.

"As do others," the man onstage called out, his voice ringing through the theatre. "Are you done mauling my assistant?"

Rolling to his feet, Lucien held out his hand to her. "I haven't yet started."

Miss Martin blushed at the innuendo. "Remy, meet Lucien Devereaux, the Earl of Rathbourne. Rathbourne, this is Remington Cross, The Great Conjurer."

"Delighted," Cross said flatly.

Lucien recognized the man from the posters now, though the picture there tended toward flattering, rather than realistic. In truth, the man's piercing dark eyes and aquiline nose were more hawkish than handsome. Though one couldn't doubt the overwhelming nature of his presence. Luc was dealing with a Master of Sorcery, if he wasn't mistaken, though he'd never encountered Cross among the Order's gatherings, and there were no rings on his fingers to indicate Cross's rank. "Likewise."

"And I'm retired, Remy." The words held some hint of fondness in them, as Miss Martin used his hand to gain her feet. "Remember? It's been three months. And Rathbourne wasn't mauling me, he was..."

"I thought it was an attack." Lucien scowled.

"How much?" Cross demanded, taking the stage in sharp strides and thundering down the stairs to meet her.

"How much what?" she replied.

"How much will it cost to get you back?"

"Annabelle does just as well onstage as I. You should be thankful that someone else is willing to put up with you."

"Aye." The man took her fingers, pressing a kiss to the back of them, as if Luc didn't exist. "But she lacks your presence."

"She lacks my rather impressive bosom," Miss Martin shot back. "You know my reasons. They haven't changed."

Something silent crossed between the pair of them. "Bah," Cross sneered. "Respectability is little more than a sham."

"Not to me, it's not. Besides, I'm busy," Miss Martin added. "I have my studies to attend to, before I take the next level tests, let alone my duties as Drake's seneschal." As if the matter were dealt with, she buffed her lips against Cross's smooth cheek, and gave him a wry smile. "I miss you too, Remy."

"Is that why you're here?"

"I wish it were," Miss Martin replied, and she meant it, which was somewhat baffling, for Lucien couldn't find many redeeming traits in the man.

"How's that pup, de Wynter?"

"As well as can be," Miss Martin answered obliquely.

"Trouble?"

"Brewing, but not here yet." Taking Cross's hand, she tucked her own through his arm. "I need to speak to you privately. Are you coming, Rathbourne? Or would you like to guard the theatre?"

"Wouldn't miss it," he replied, and followed the pair of them into the darkened bowels of backstage to Cross's private rooms.

"Well?" Cross asked, pouring them all a finger of whiskey once they arrived. "What brings you to my door?"

"Bad tidings, unfortunately," Miss Martin said, tossing her pretty hat on a chair and turning serious as she accepted the glass he offered.

"Whiskey?" Cross challenged, and Lucien accepted the glass, sniffing at the amber liquid as he surveyed the room with all its various accouterments.

There was a sarcophagus shaped item in the corner, painted to resemble an artifact from ancient Egypt. Lucien crossed toward it, the gaslight lengthening his shadow so it loomed over the wall. A pile of artifact lay dusty on the shelves—a small mini portrait of a man in Tudor fashions, a set of gemstones, and a coiled snake that almost seemed to watch him—

"Don't touch it."

Lucien froze, violence notching each muscle in his outstretched arm as he met Cross's stare. Something about the man rubbed him the wrong way.

"Don't touch anything," Cross added, pouring himself another dram, his fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle. "You never know what might bite you."

Lucien looked at the lifeless statue of a cobra, which he'd been about to touch. Oriental scrawling's tattooed its skin in black ink. Or what he hoped was ink. As he stared at it, he almost felt like it moved, the jewel in the center of its forehead shimmering.

"There's sorcery here," he said, tucking his hands into his trouser pockets, as if of his own accord. "Though it's foreign to me."

"It's Hindu magic. That of the Nagi," Cross explained, sounding as if he was settling in for a lecture. "Used to protect against the rakshasa."

"Indian demon spirits."

"In a simplistic version, yes." Cross set the glass to his lips, his eyes glittering. "I consider myself somewhat of a collector of relics and artifacts."

"Which is precisely why I came to you," Ianthe cut in, before he could elaborate. "I need to know, if a particular relic went missing, who might have taken it? Or commissioned the theft? You belong to the Dark discipline. You should know."

"I haven't been a part of that Order mess for years," Cross snorted, though his interest looked piqued. "Which relic?"

She stayed silent.

Cross scowled. "It would highly depend on the relic, but if it's something that tends toward the darker studies, I'd say Magnus Cochrane, Lord Tremayne, Lady Hester Lambert, and the not-so-Honorable Mr. Elijah Horroway. If you're simply after information, I'd direct you to talk to Lady Eberhardt first, however. Tickle the tiger's chin before you stick your neck in a snake pit. She has an unsurpassed collection, apparently, and might know who to deal with, though if it's on the black market, Cochrane's your next best bet."

Lady Eberhardt
. Even Lucien arched a brow. Tickling the tiger's chin was putting it mildly. There were a few people in the order whom he wouldn't cross, and Eberhardt's name was on that list. But still... "I thought Horroway was dead."

"Some say he is. He studies the Gravest of Arts, does he not?"

A pun, the likes of which apprentices uttered. There were three disciplines within the Order; Light, Dark, and Grey. The Light discipline was primarily inhabited by healers, astronomers, and diviners. Lucien's natural affinity was for the Light, thanks to his divining talents, whilst the Grey was Ianthe's discipline, as indicated by the chip of hematite in her rings. It also held the most practitioners of any category, considering the broad spectrum of their talents. Being of the Dark did not automatically mean that one was inclined to mischief, but Luc privately thought most of the Dark adepts pushed the boundaries of that. The Dark was where you found those who sought power beyond their own, and they were often the strongest sorcerers, though not always. The darkest of all arts was necromancy, and the Prime had been forced to set certain policies in place regarding the use of Grave Magic.