Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1) (18 page)

"Truly? And here I thought I'd passed my apprenticeship." Lucien guided her around a puddle of... something. Black and inky in the cobbled streets, it gave a strange gurgle as if something moved within the dark waters. "I have been here before, Miss Martin."

"You have?"

"How else do you think I bought the book containing a summoning spell for a demon? Or the focus objects for the ritual?"

"You were... different then."
Stronger,
she meant.

He had no time to reply, for the sign heralding Osiris Place appeared, and tucked just off it was the bookshop, Grimdark & Hastings.

Miss Martin paused on the threshold as if to make a dramatic entrance, and then speared the two occupants within with a hardened gaze. "Elijah Horroway. A word, if I may."

A man had been leaning against the counter, his battered top hat casting shade over his face and his coat collar tucked up. The coat looked dusty and there were several stab holes in it. On his hands were a motley pair of fingerless gloves. He didn't move, peering down into the book he'd been studying.

His friend, however, Mr. Hastings, backed into the wall, hands held up in surrender. "Miss M-Martin," he stuttered. Light flashed off his half-moon glasses, disguising his eyes. He was prematurely thinning on top, with a cascade of gingery curls around the side of his head. "What an unexpected delight." Wide eyes danced helplessly toward Horroway, who straightened and tucked something back within his coat.

"What d'you want?" Horroway ground out in a voice as dry as the grave. Those gloved hands rested flatly on the counter, and he tipped his head to the side.

Lucien still couldn't make out Horroway's features. He wasn't certain he wanted to. But he strode casually to the center of the room, hands resting lightly on his belt. He wouldn't put it past Horroway to break Guest Oath here. Though perhaps, considering his condition, he wasn't bound to it. There was no blood in
that
body, after all.

"Hastings. Out."

"Y-yes, ma'am." Marius Hastings skidded for the door and vanished.

Miss Martin took her time, tugging off her gloves one finger at a time as she surveyed the room. She had a flare for the theatrical, he suspected. "I'm after information, Horroway."

"Are you now?" Horroway gave a dry laugh, then tugged a flask from his pocket and poured some of its contents into the tumbler in front of him. His elixir, no doubt. "Brazen tart like you... What makes you think I'd be so obligin'? What you goin' to offer me? A run up cock alley?"

They both watched as he threw back his special potion, one that anchored his spirit to the flesh he inhabited, or so it was said.

"Language, Mr. Horroway," Miss Martin chided. "I suppose it's one of the first few civilized arts to leave a body, hmm?"

That earned her a slit-eyed side look. Lucien stepped closer.

Horroway turned around slowly, leaning back with both elbows resting on the counter. His face was straight out of a penny dreadful—or perhaps a grave—pockmarked and somewhat flaccid. His pallid mouth didn't quite look as though it worked properly, resembling a gasping, breeched fish. Only he wasn't gasping. He wasn't breathing at all. A brass chain was tucked inside his filthy waistcoat, and on it hung an hourglass. Once he had to flip the hourglass—every month it was rumored—he'd have to find a somewhat fresher body to claim.

"Looks like this one's growing somewhat haggard," Miss Martin said.

"You threatenin' me?" Horroway demanded. "That's the danger o' comin' in here, into me own turf. Guest Right might hold you, but it don't affect me none."

"The Guest Oath forbids me from harming you," Miss Martin replied sweetly. Power slid into her, like silk moving over sand. It brightened her complexion until she was almost vibrant. With a muttered Word, she flung one hand wide, and Horroway flew back over the counter and stuck to the wall, quivering like a dagger, with his boots almost two inches off the floor. "But it doesn't say anything about containing you. I wonder how long your grip on that foul-smelling body lasts? I wonder what would happen afterward, if you lost hold of it, or if you didn't get to your elixir in time, hmm? A containment ward causes no direct harm, does it?"

"Fuckin' Covent Garden Slut."

"That's enough," Lucien warned, crossing his arms over his chest and eyeing the... man. "If you speak to her like that again, I'll beat you bloody. Tell Miss Martin what she wants to know, and then we can leave, and you can go back to rotting."

That earned him a vicious glare. "What you want?"

"The truth. How long has Morgana been back in England?" Miss Martin showed not a hint of fear as she stepped closer.

Clever, how she didn't ask if the woman was here already. Horroway wouldn't quite know how much she knew.

"Don't know," Horroway said, licking his lips with a dry, cracked tongue. "Ain't seen her since the divorce."

"Oh, come now, Horroway. Presume I'm not an idiot. The two of you were bosom buddies, once upon a time... Wasn't there even talk of an engagement, before her betrothal to the Prime? You followed her around like a puppy at her heels, until she dismissed you for Drake, and then rumor has it you helped spirit her out of the country once Drake and the Order's Council put a price on her head. Has she contacted you?" Miss Martin asked.

"What for?" Horroway sneered.

"I don't know," Miss Martin shrugged, though there was a strange glitter to her eyes. "Perhaps she needed a place to hide? Perhaps she needed information about... certain relics."

"Ain't know nothin' about relics."

"Interesting how you answer that, but not the other question I asked."

This was the Miss Martin Lucien knew and recognized from the Grosvenor Hotel last year, when she'd arrested him. Capable, devious, fully in command of her wits, and confident of her strengths... Only in the privacy of her own rooms did she ever reveal a softer side with hints of vulnerability. It was a dangerous combination, for on one hand he admired her strength of will, whilst at the same time he found the woman who turned to him for comfort alluring. He wanted to know all of her secrets, wanted to understand what put that sadness in her eyes at times when she grew distracted and stared out of windows...

"Don't know where she is, don't know what she wants, don't know—"

"But you're not denying that she's in the country."

Horroway's mouth slammed shut. Then he bared his teeth at her. "You fuckin' bitch, you didn't know."

The faintest of smiles crossed Miss Martin's mouth. Slowly, with her skirts swishing, she paced in front of Horroway, looking for all the world like an academic contemplating a problem. "She's back in the country, back in London, but she's not come to you for help, has she? Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Poor Elijah. All of that loyalty you placed behind her, hoping that she'd come back to you one day... No hope of that though, now you're like this. Morgana wouldn't want a husk of a man. No, whom else would she turn to? Hmm." Miss Martin tapped her lips. "She never did have any female allies. Always men, strangely enough. Or perhaps not allies, perhaps we should call them what they were—puppets. So who is still alive out of all those who danced to her tune? Well, of course, there's Tremayne, but then they parted on bad terms after she and Drake conspired to steal the Relics Infernal from him, and Tremayne isn't the sort to dance to her tune for long. There's Roger Maddesley, but how much influence does he have these days? Chester Hemmingfield, perhaps? He's ambitious and no friend to the Prime..." She glanced toward Horroway. "What do you think?"

"I think you're fishin' for information, and I don't plan on givin' you any more of it."

Lucien tugged his pocket watch out of his coat. "How much time does he have on his timepiece?"

Plucking a handkerchief from her reticule, Miss Martin used it to tug the chain from Horroway's shirt. "Hmm, hard to say. A few days by the look of it."

Which was time they didn't have... "Perhaps we could take him back to your house and lock him in the cellar? Far away from any fresh bodies."

"Hmm."

"Fuck you!" Horroway snarled, twisting against the invisible hold that pinned him to the wall.

"Tremayne, Maddesley, or Hemmingfield?" Lucien demanded. "Who's helping her?"

"How in the seven hells should I know?" Horroway shot back. "Do I look like I keep track of her swains? Maybe you ought to widen your list? There's more sorcerers who grow tired of the Prime's yoke than is on that list!"

"He's lying," Lucian said, with some certainty. It was more difficult to read the faint, faint flicker of color over Horroway's face—more of a mottling than the iridescent glimmer of color that Ianthe sometimes wore—but he knew he wasn't wrong. "Something in that last mess was a lie."

Both sets of eyes locked on him. Miss Martin wore a considering look, but she turned and aimed that pointed brow at Horroway. "So it's someone who we've mentioned."

"Ain't fuckin'—"

Miss Martin spat one of her ritual words, her fingers clenching into claws. Horroway gasped as his flask flew from his pocket into her hand. Miss Martin unscrewed it and threatened to pour the elixir within all over the floor. "I've already warned you about your language, and I wouldn't toy with my sense of patience at the moment, Horroway. Morgana has something that belongs to me, and I want it back." A trickle of effervescent green liquid splashed and hissed, as it burned straight through the timber floorboards. "I find myself becoming quite vexed. Tell me the truth, and I'll leave you here to rot. I truly do not care about your fate. Not at all."

"Don't you dare—" Horroway writhed, a look of fury upon his face, as he watched her pour more of his precious elixir upon the floor. "You bitch! You fuckin' bitch! Fine! I know where she is! She's at the Windsor Hotel. Her and her lover." He sneered, spittle flying from his lips in his vehemence. "And good luck to you there, at getting past him!"

"Her lover?" Miss Martin's eyes narrowed.

"Some pretty fop she has chipping along at her heels. Wears a dissembling veil over his face, some kind of spell that hides his identity, but he's strong. Stronger than you, stronger'n your precious Prime! Ain't nobody I know."

"So you have seen her." Another droplet of fluorescent green splashed upon the floor. "But you're not working with her?"

Horroway looked aside, his filmy eyes lost. Despite his distaste, Lucien felt a flicker of sympathy, for the man looked like he'd been cast aside like a used toy, knowing that he was no longer man enough to please a woman it was rumored that he'd once loved.

Horroway was one step away from a monster, however. That was something he couldn't forget. Sometimes the bodies he came by weren't from a grave.

"Didn't she want you anymore?" Lucien asked, steeling himself. "What did she ask of you then?"

"You ought to know."

Lucien paused. "What do you mean by that?"

"Your lord father's diary," Horroway spat. "She wanted it. Don't know what for. Don't much care."

"Lord Rathbourne?" Lucien's mind raced. He'd never have suspected the man to be involved with Morgana. "Did you get it for her?"

"Couldn't find the blasted thing." Horroway saw the look they exchanged. "And that's the truth."

"I'm not sure you're acquainted with such a notion," Miss Martin murmured.

"Rot in hell. I don't know nuthin' about no diary."

"If you tell us who has replaced you as Morgana's ally, we shall walk out of here and leave you alone. Perhaps we'll go annoy him instead."

"Aye, and good luck to you." Horroway laughed, a dry bitter sound. "Don't know much, but I ain't stupid." Those hate-filled eyes locked on the pair of them. "They ain't friends, but they've got a similar cause: to cast the Prime down."

"Who?"

"Tremayne," Horroway sneered. "Who else wants to see the Relics Infernal back in hand and the Prime cast down as much as Morgana does?"

T
HEY EXITED
the Labyrinth without further ado.

"Remind me never to set foot on your bad side," Lucian remarked, taking her arm. "You are positively ruthless."

Miss Martin looked distracted again, but at his words, her eyes saddened. "Not really," she whispered, and he might not have heard the words if he hadn't been listening for them. "But sometimes, we find ourselves pushed beyond our limits. There's not a great deal I wouldn't do at the moment..."

"To get the relic back?" he asked, handing her up into the hackney that they'd arrived in.

"Yes," she murmured, "to get the relic back."

And for the second time that day, someone lied to him. Lucien's gaze sharpened upon her.

"What about your father's diary?" she asked, a clear diversion.

"Hell if I know. The Lord Rathbourne I knew would never have lowered himself to consort with such people."

"He made you raise a demon," Miss Martin said. "Did you ever ask him why?"

That verged on a conversation he never, ever wanted to have. A cold sweat sprang up around his collar. "I presumed it was because he wanted me to unleash it upon Drake. If it killed the Prime..." He faltered. The demon would have been traced back to him, and hence Lord Rathbourne. It made no sense.

"Why you?"

Lucien frowned. "I don't know."

"Did you ever see his diary?"

"No." Lucien looked at her. "But I know where he would have kept it."

CHAPTER 10

^'
S
ometimes seeing the future is a gift; sometimes it is not.'

- Lady Rathbourne

MISS
CLEO
SINCLAIR, the Earl of Tremayne's daughter, became aware that she was being watched.

It started as a prickle down her spine. He was quiet, whoever he was, and trying not to let her sense him. That was vexing. She would have been frightened, but she was quite certain she wasn't going to be kidnapped today.

Or murdered.

Oh, she'd woken with the feeling that
something
was going to happen. Premonition kept itching along her skin at odd moments, and she kept getting this breathless sensation as though something enormous lurked on the horizon, but she was fairly certain it wasn't going to be dangerous. Those sorts of premonitions always hit her like a downpour, sweeping her out of the monotony of everyday life and into the current of foretelling, regardless of whether she wished it or not.