Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1) (13 page)

Love,

Louisa

T
HE TEARS CAME THEN
, the ones that she fought all day to hold back. The words were Louisa's. She just hoped her daughter was as oblivious as she seemed. She mustn't have been there when they killed Jacob and Elsa. That was some small measure of peace, at least.

There was no use crying; that wouldn't bring her daughter back to her, but Ianthe succumbed in a fast storm that left her face hot and flushed against her damp pillow. She curled Louisa's small, ragged bear, Hilary, against her chest and fought to conquer her breathing.

What was she going to do?

She couldn't go to the Prime. She'd been warned away from doing such a thing, and didn't dare, not with her daughter's life at stake, but this... waiting... was doing her head in. She'd spent the first three days following Louisa's abduction doing everything she could think of to find her. She'd tried to scry her whereabouts, she'd haunted London, hunting for traces of the little girl, spent a small fortune hiring men to hunt for her, searched for this Sebastian... and then she'd finally collapsed when it became clear that she had pushed herself past the brink of exhaustion. Thus had come the second part of her plan—to do as Louisa's abductors asked and steal the Blade for them.

At least now that Drake had given her the task of finding the 'thief,' she could make subtle moves without fear that the nameless, faceless kidnappers who had her daughter would punish her for it. If they did threaten her again, then she could claim that she'd been forced to cover her own tracks.

Or were they nameless?

Morgana de Wynter. A name she knew well, but a woman she'd never met. Morgana was a dangerous foe, but at least if Morgana was behind this, then Ianthe had an enemy to aim for.

And Ianthe could be dangerous herself when need be. When she thought of it, a tidal wave of rage swept over her, threatening to drown her. She was barely a mother, but if they thought for one second that they weren't facing an enraged mother bear with her stolen cub, then they would regret it.

Rage was better than grief. Action was better than sitting around, waiting incessantly. And tomorrow, she would begin tracking this new thread of information, teasing at it to carefully discover if Morgana was the one who held Louisa.

Tomorrow
, she told herself and let her swollen eyelids flutter closed. She needed sleep, or she'd be worse than useless.

CHAPTER 7

^'
S
ir Geoffrey Mellors, a sorcerer during the Georgian era wrote of his belief that for every sorcerer, there was another out there in the world—the missing half of their soul—and that, if the two should ever meet, it would be a glorious joining, a union of two equals. Lovers whose hearts beat as one and who shared the same breath, till death did they part.'

-
L
ADY
E
BERHARDT'S
transcription on Soul-bond's

THE
NEXT
MORNING, they breakfasted swiftly at the dinner table. Miss Martin wore a day gown of burgundy velvet that covered her from throat to toes, and yet was somehow dangerously sensual. The color suited her dark hair and pale skin, and frequently drew Lucien's gaze. Silence lingered, broken only by the swish of that velvet and the metallic ting of knives and forks. It sounded somewhat like someone was fencing, and from the swift dart of stealthy glances between them, Lucien wondered if it were them and if silence had become the weapon of choice.

Only, this time the silence was filled with all kinds of wicked imaginings, at least on his behalf. With every smooth glide of her hands, he could see her body surrendering beneath him, her willowy limbs supple and fluid as he fucked her. As she bowed her head to eat, the long line of her nape showed, a submissive posture that reminded him of others. Lucien's blood burned, but her distracted gaze as she stared across the table at nothing, told him he was alone in such imaginings.

His brows drew together. Now that he was looking at her—truly looking, not just admiring—he had to note that her eyes were slightly swollen.

As if she'd spent half the night in tears.

A gut-wrenching blow, for when he'd left her, she'd been utterly ravished. What could have moved her to tears? Had he hurt her? He'd not been gentle, but his reading of the situation at the time had told him that she'd liked it.

"Did you sleep well?"

Miss Martin took up her teacup in both hands, meeting his eyes over the rim of it. "I snatched a few hours."

Which told him nothing. "You look tired... I didn't hurt you?"

That brought her full attention to bear upon him. She blinked in surprise, then a faint, weary smile curved over her pretty mouth. "Would it bother you if you had?"

"I'm not in the habit of abusing the fairer sex. Of course it would bother me."

They stared at each other, her gaze curious and faintly wondering, and his defensive.

Miss Martin gave him a respectful tilt of the head. "My exhaustion has nothing to do with you, Rathbourne. My mind is busy at the moment. Too much to dwell upon. It keeps me from sleep. Your demands are but a welcome distraction, a chance to forget... for a moment."

Sadness painted a pale, milky blue across her face, like a watercolor that swiftly dissolved. She shook her head, as if setting herself to rights. "But enough of that. I have been thinking about yesterday afternoon and the events at Lady Eberhardt's mansion."

"Yes?" He poured himself some tea, wondering where she was going with this.

"You didn't use your power, Lucien, except for that one act of Expression."

Lucien. It was the first time she'd called him that. The word was somewhat... intimate, but then he supposed that last night had been infinitely more so. The rest of her words, however, bothered him. "It's been a long year, Ianthe" —he too could use her name— "and my strength had waned. There is little energy to be gained in the cold stone walls of the isolation ward or in meager fuel supplies."

"Good." Her eyes sparkled. "Last night between us should have restored your power reserves then. It's the least I could do." She gestured toward his clean plate, where he'd buttered his toast lightly and smeared the faintest hint of jam across it, as compared to her breakfast of beefsteak, fried ham, and eggs. Sorcerers often ate heartily. "Would you care for another helping? I desire you strong and whole."

"I fear my stomach wouldn't tolerate it," he admitted. "It's used to deprivation."

"You spoke of being overwhelmed. I had wondered if your mind were blocked and you couldn't access your powers."

"A... little."

Sympathy flashed in blues across her features. "That's to be expected, following a severe psychic assault, such as what occurred with the demon."

Lucien looked away, the teacup rattling as he set it down, memory assaulting him for a brief second. "I barely remember it."

Ianthe pushed back her chair and stood, those skirts swishing around her ankles as she circled the table. Her fingertips rested on his shoulder, instantly affirming the bond between them. It was stronger today, knotted tightly around the two of them; a result, no doubt, of their carnal relations. "I could help you, if you wished it—"

"No." He could deal with it himself. He just needed time.

"Lucien, I could see your aura bleeding all over the place that day in the Grosvenor Hotel, after the demon savaged you. That you've managed to heal it to this degree in such a short time as twelve months is incredible, but it's entirely possible that you won't be able to manage more on your own, or without long periods of calming meditation, and unfortunately, we don't have such time up our sleeves. There's a sorcerer I know, a man who can heal maladies of the mind to some extent. Or, perhaps... Drake could—"

"I'll think about it."

She released an exasperated sigh. "I should think you would be inclined to pursue every avenue, considering that prophecy has predicted your death."

"I said I would consider it, and the prophecy wasn't so specific, I noticed," he replied, pouring himself more tea. "It predicted only that my death would be part of the relics spell, if it were to succeed. Not that it was a definite. Considering everything that occurred yesterday, I'm surprised that
that
is the line of questioning you've chosen to pursue."

Dark eyelashes lowered. She was hiding something, and he had a sudden gut-wrenching suspicion that he knew what it was.

"Did you know about it? About Bishop?"

"I knew."

His nostrils flared. "And you didn't think to mention it:
Oh, by the way, you have a brother
."

He'd spent half the night brewing on the subject, and he was angry now. The Prime had pushed and pulled him throughout his life, like a pawn on a chessboard.
He'd
been the one to decide if Lucien should be in his life, and
he'd
been the one who'd thought both brothers should not know each other. The teapot clattered against the table as he set it down rather abruptly.

A brother. Hell. A stranger. How many times had he watched other children playing nearby and wished that he could join them, when Lord Rathbourne decreed that he attend his studies instead. He wouldn't have been so bloody lonely if he'd known that there was someone else out there, someone just like him. It would have been easier to cope with the truth when he realized that he was the Prime's bastard son, not Lord Rathbourne's, and that the Prime wished nothing to do with him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize… It wasn't… I've had so much on my mind of late, that it didn't occur to me."

"It feels like my entire life has been a lie, Miss Martin." What else didn't he know? "And every time I uncover a little piece of the truth, it unlocks a dozen more strands. My reality, as I know it, is unraveling. I stand on shifting sands every day, with not a single ally, nor anyone who truly gives a damn about me."

"Your father—"

"Sentenced me to this life. Don't use that word for him. He is not a father. His debt to me ended the moment he spilled his seed, and I won't forget that. If you think for one second that I would allow him to... to help me with this...
God.
" Turning away, he fought hard to bring his emotions under control. "What else are you keeping from me?"

She made a choked sound in her throat. "I–I–"

He made a slashing motion with his hand. "Forget it." This was what came of letting her get under his skin. When he'd seen her swollen eyes, he'd begun to care. When she laid her hand upon his shoulder as if to offer comfort, he'd begun to forget she was the Prime's tool first and foremost. A lie. It was all a lie, and he couldn't forget it again. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend," he told her. "That is all we can be."

"I'm so sorry, Lucien—"

Heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs, and then a young woman appeared, her pale cheeks flushed with youth and her hazel eyes gleaming. "You're back! I didn't even hear you return. I did it, Ianthe! I froze my cup of tea!" Holding said cup upside down, she shook it firmly, then seemed to realize that Lucien was sitting there.

Miss Martin somehow appeared perfectly serene, as though their argument hadn't occurred. However, she couldn't quite hide the brittleness in her voice when she said: "Lucien, this is my apprentice, Miss Thea Davies. Thea, this is Lucien Devereaux, the Earl of Rathbourne, who is serving as my current Shield."

Thea's eyes widened. She bobbed a curtsy. "My lord. How do you do?"

"A pleasure to meet you," Lucien greeted.

Miss Martin gestured to a chair beside her for the young woman as she returned to her own. "Excellent progress, considering the fact that you were only supposed to be studying your books while I was gone and not using sorcery."

Thea's smile died. "I was careful."

"And what happens if your temper flares, hmm?"

Thea squirmed.

Miss Martin held out for long seconds, making her disapproval clear. "Now make it melt."

Thea's lips pressed together mulishly. "Can I not have breakfast first?"

"Melt your tea and then you may dine."

Thea set her teacup on the table in front of her and stared at it. Nothing happened for a good two minutes, though Lucien could feel the girl's energy reserves turning molten within her. Thea would be a powerful practitioner one day, perhaps even more so than him. Even being in the same room as her was starting to set off an ache behind his left eye.

"Thea's natural affinity is Telepathy," Ianthe explained a little proudly. "She struggles with Telekinesis, however, and her control is limited. She's so determined to do something, that she can often do it once out of frustration, but rarely at will and never whilst calm."

Thea's lips pursed, her fingers clenching into fists as she glared at the cup. It took almost a minute, but the iced lump of tea gradually pooled into water, until a miniature iceberg floated in the cup and then bubbles started floating to the surface, slowly, then faster, until the tea was boiling.

It was an impressive display, relying on sheer force of will, rather than ritual and Words of Power. Or it would have been, if the room wasn't so cold. Lucien had to stand and move away, the girl's power bleeding all over him.

"Now freeze it again, but this time, I want you to focus on your meditative techniques. Remember what we discussed about building your sense of ritual? You were angry again, which means you were able to melt the tea, but you cannot allow that to form a block in your mind, which ties your power to emotion, or else you'll never be able to advance."

"I will advance." Thea took a steady breath and closed her eyes, but emotion painted rainbows of color across her face—anger, defiance, frustration, hope, perhaps even fear, if he was reading that dark, indigo blue correctly.

The tea stopped bubbling, but even when Thea began murmuring her ritual words, it remained stubbornly steaming. Her lashes flickered, those hands beginning to curl into themselves.

"Stop," Ianthe instructed. "You're getting angry again. Let it all go, Thea. Release all of your emotions and your power and have some breakfast. You can begin again afterward."