Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1) (33 page)

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes." Her hand curled in the collar of his coat. She wanted the kiss that he was promising, but he wouldn't stop talking.

"I've been patient, Ianthe. Please tell me what the devil is going—"

To hell with it.

Leaning forward, Ianthe reached up and grabbed the back of his nape, dragging his face down to hers, which was something she'd been wanting to do for days. The second she kissed him, Lucien's breath broke on a harsh exhale, and then he was clutching at her, dragging her against his chest, his arms forceful and his mouth aggressive.

It was everything she'd ever hoped for. Hungry, passionate, and fierce. It was full of longing, as though they'd each dreamed of his moment, burned for it. Breathless and aching, she let his demanding mouth sweep her away. On and on, showing each other what they felt with their bodies, their mouths. Their tongues clashed, and Lucien muscled Ianthe backward until her back met the wall. Pinned there, Ianthe looked up. As he forced her wrists against the wallpaper, dark shadows haunted his eyes. He was breathing hard.

"Why?" Lucien searched her expression.

She had broken their rules. Lost their bet.

And she didn't give a damn.

"Because I don't care about our bet," Ianthe whispered. "All I want is
you
."

And then she kissed him again.

T
HAT FIRST KISS
hadn't felt like surrender.

No, it had felt like a demand, like a fervent plea. Like two halves of a soul finally coming together with an almost audible clash. His mouth was imprinted with the feel of hers, and Lucien liked it.

Had he ever thought it would be like this? To find someone who both fascinated and matched him on almost every level? It eased the ache within him. For Ianthe was more to him than kisses and sex; she was the future. His future. Here, in her, he saw more than the cold, empty halls of Rathbourne Manor. He saw laughter and an endless battle of wits. He could picture children running through the house, wearing his eyes and her smile. Warm bodies curled around each other in bed with endless rainy mornings, just listening to the patter of rain on the roof and losing themselves in kisses.

If only they could sort out this bloody mess with Morgana.

Lucien broke the kiss, breathing hard. He pressed his forehead to hers, capturing her wrists, stopping her from reaching for him again. He wanted her to. He wanted to lose himself in this sweet oblivion, but there was more at stake than this.

"I would have kissed you," he whispered. "If you had not kissed me first. God help me, I've wanted to do that for days."

"Then don't stop." Somehow, Ianthe broke his hold, her hands cupping his face. Desperation limned her features. "Kiss me, Lucien. Kiss me like you mean it."

"I do mean it." He stole her mouth again, as if he couldn't help himself. Lightly, he traced Ianthe's mouth with his lips, as though she was far, far too precious, and then he forced himself to let her go. "But we need to talk." He could hear the regret in his own voice. "I'll make this up to you. Kisses for days. Weeks. Now tell me the truth..."

"The truth?" Dazed eyes met his; then they sharpened, as if Ianthe sensed the guillotine blade about to fall. All sense of desire vanished from her face.

Time to throw the dice. This needed to be said. "I know you took the Blade."

Panic. That was panic he recognized on her face. Ianthe staggered back, clutching at the table, the shimmer-shine of tears dancing along her lower lashes.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Lucien told her, holding his hands up.
Trust me, damn you.
"I'm not going to betray you to the Prime, but I need to know exactly what is going on."

"Oh, God." Pressing her hand to her mouth, Ianthe turned away, stumbling toward the mantle and holding on for dear life with her back to him. "How did you—?"

"How did I know?"

Ianthe nodded, but she wouldn't look at him.

"I began to suspect you were involved this morning," Lucien said, reaching for the brandy to steel his nerves. The first sip was a fiery release. "You've been upset, but somehow restrained, and you weren't rushing. Oh, you made movements toward trying to 'find' this thief, but then you were quite content to pay your dues to me at night, as if there was no hurry. You were waiting for something, and ever since the demon attack, I've been able to see people's emotions as colors that mottle their skin. I recognized the fear in you and the terror, but it was only this morning that I began to perceive the yellow-gray color as guilt. As soon as I saw it, I knew."

Say something, damn it.

Ianthe's shoulders slumped. "I need help," she whispered. "I never wanted to do this, to betray Drake, but I didn't have a choice."

Relief flooded through him. Lucien drained the brandy, then set it aside with a glassy thump. "Tell me," he prompted.

Wrapping her arms around her, she slowly turned. "It began a week ago. There was a note in my room—" Her gaze sharpened as she saw the empty glass, her pupils flaring. "Oh, no."

"Oh, no?" Heat spiraled through him, bringing with it a wave of lassitude. Lucien forced a blink. His eyelids were growing heavy.

Then there were hands capturing his wrists, holding him steady. "You drank the brandy!"

"Was I... not 'sposed to...?" Damn this buzzing in his head. Lucien staggered, and a warm weight curled into his arms, holding him up.

"No." Ianthe's face looked stricken. "I don't know! I was going to drug you, but then... Then you kissed me, and—"

Drug him?
A flare of alarm went through him. Her face swam into focus. "Ianthe. What the hell did you give me?"

"A little concoction. It will make you sleep." A tear slid down her cheek. "I changed my mind... I wasn't going to..." Then she looked up, guilt written all over her face. "They want the blade. Tonight. I have to give them the blade!"

The world swam. They both staggered sideways, and Ianthe nearly fell atop him as his back hit the bed. "Jesus," he whispered. The room was spinning mightily now. Somehow he had a fist in her skirts though. "You cannot go."

He couldn't help her if he was like this. He couldn't help her, and from the splash of emotions painted all across her face, she was going to do something rash.

"I'm so sorry." Ianthe dashed away her tears with a lace-gloved hand, as though she was trying to hold herself together. "I didn't know if I could t-trust you."

"Don't cry." Lucien's head slumped back onto the bed.

"And I should have known. I should have trusted you."

There was one last question to ask, and from the crushing weight of the heaviness seeping through him, he wouldn't have long to say it. "The girl... Lou...isa. Is she mine?"

"
What?"
Ianthe's voice sharpened, and suddenly her face swam into view, serious and pale. "What did you say?"

The room was spinning. "Is she...my...daughter?"

Ianthe's mouth dropped open. "
Yes
." It was a whisper.

And then there was no more thought as oblivion overtook him.

CHAPTER 20

I 
ANTHE SAT upright with a gasp. She couldn't believe her ears. Lucien
knew
. He'd guessed, and he had not condemned her. Sucking in a sharp gasp, she pressed her hands to her mouth, but there were no answers from his slack form. A few drops of her sleeping potion had taken him deep into oblivion and would keep him there until her purpose was served.

What a mess.

"Lucien?" Ianthe whispered, then reached out and gave him a hesitant shake. "Luc?"

Nothing. He simply snored.

What did this mean? Had he told anyone? Had this been the ally she so desperately needed? But how on earth could she have known that when he'd made it clear that his main purpose had been revenge against her?

You don't have time to answer that
, a little voice inside her said.

And it was the truth. She had an hour to dress, get to the cemetery, and then hand over the Blade in exchange for her daughter. Purpose steeled her. Reaching out, Ianthe drew a pillow beneath his head, wet tears streaking down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry." Leaning down, she pressed a kiss against his unresisting forehead.

If only he'd spoken up sooner, for she had not dared. Wiping the tears from her eyes, Ianthe drew herself up and stumbled toward the travelling chest where the Blade was hidden. Trembling hands unsnapped the hidden compartment, and there lay the Blade. Taking it out, Ianthe had another moment of hesitation, but it was swiftly drowned in resolve.

No tears for spilt milk. Lucien would not wake anytime soon, not with several mouthfuls of drugged brandy in him, and the ruthless, practical part of her didn't have time to change her plans. Not now.

For if she did not show up in time, then who knew what Morgana would do to Louisa?

S
OME SORCERERS DABBLED
with poisons and potions. Some did not. Lucien had been one of the few who did, and knew exactly how to burn it out of his blood.

Seconds swam past him, and the next time he'd blinked back to consciousness, Ianthe was flinging open the travelling box she'd brought with her on the first day. Then he lost track of time again, and the next thing he knew, he was alone.

The trunk now lay split apart, revealing the hidden compartment in the bottom, which looked like it was lined with lead. Of course. So bloody close to him all this time. The lead would have hidden all trace of the Blade's presence.

Lucien staggered to his feet, shaking his arms to try and elude the effects of the sleeping potion. How many minutes since she'd left? He couldn't quite remember. She'd evidently had time to dress, which meant she had a good head start on him.

But where?

Snatching up her hairbrush, Lucien sank into the armchair before the flickering fire, trying to still his mind. It took long minutes to open himself to his psychometric abilities. Ianthe had forgotten one thing: Lucien could scry her whereabouts.

Wrapping her black hair around his finger, Lucien turned his gaze inward, toward that glittering star in the corner of his mind's eye, and a corona of gold exploded around him as his prescience snagged against the bond that bound them together. For one second, just one, he was staring out through Ianthe's eyes, no doubt through the link their bond created. Strands of ivy clung to their boots, and they stumbled, catching at a headstone to right themselves. A graveyard. Trees. A dark avenue bounded on both sides by stone arches. It looked familiar.
Damn it, where had he seen that before?
Think! Then the light was closing in on him, as Ianthe realized what was happening, and pushed him out of her mind.

Lucien fell out of the trance with a gasp. Highgate Cemetery. He had a muffled memory of attending his mother's funeral there, so many years before. The path was the Egyptian Avenue, a proud promenade where he'd once retreated to as a boy to hide his tears and escape the man he'd still thought of as his father.

What on earth was Ianthe doing in Highgate?

It must be where she was due to meet with Morgana, but when? How long did he have? He had no idea, but if he didn't act quickly, then he knew that all might be lost, for he'd felt the eerily cold handle of the Blade of Altarrh in their hand.

CHAPTER 21

^'
W
hite battle globes packed no more than a wallop. Electric blue could stop your heart, if but briefly. But red? Red was the color of death.'

–
T
HE
I
NNER
W
ORKINGS OF
S
ORCERY
, by Grainne O'Neill

IANTHE
DREW her cloak around her as she stopped in front of Roslyn Hayes's grave, her eyes searching the darkness. It was almost midnight, she suspected, and her nerves were stretched so tightly, she felt like she was going to fly out of her skin.

A branch crunched under foot nearby. Ianthe spun, snatching power into herself so rapidly the air almost felt thin. "H–hello? Is anybody there?"

Fog curled across the ground like a translucent blanket. Out of it stepped three figures, all of them cloaked. The lead figure lifted their hands to their hood, revealing a beautiful older woman with dangerous green eyes. "Miss Martin," the woman said. "I trust you came alone."

Ianthe steeled herself. "Of course I did, Morgana. Where is Louisa?"

"Somewhere safe. Where is the Blade?"

"Somewhere hidden," she shot back. After all, she wasn't such a fool as to simply hand it over. This woman was as trustworthy as a snake, and she'd never deal fairly. "The moment Louisa is safely before me, I shall give you the directions to it."

"This is not following the instructions I gave—"

"
You said
, Come alone, and bring the Blade.
Well, I have come alone, and I brought the Blade, though it is hidden for the moment. If you want it, then you have to meet my terms. I'm tired of hiding and lying. I'm tired of looking over my shoulder every second, trying to gauge who in my household I can trust. So you either take my terms, or leave here with nothing."

"What's to stop you from betraying us?"

"I'm not the one with untrustworthy credentials," Ianthe retorted.

A long moment of silence stretched out. "Do step forward, Sebastian," Morgana called over her shoulder with a dry note of annoyance in her voice. "Show Miss Martin that my word can be trusted."

A man stepped out of the darkness, as if he'd been using it as a veil, a small gloved hand tucked in his. The little girl at his side saw her and panicked. "Aunt Ianthe!"

Louisa!
Ianthe stepped forward, her heart thundering in her chest, then drew up when both hooded sorcerers at Morgana's side tensed. Everything in her screamed at her to leap forward and wrap her arms around her daughter, but she had to play this correctly.

"The Blade," Morgana purred.

Ianthe tugged a small scroll of paper out of her pocket and held it up. Perspiration dripped down her forehead, a consequence from holding onto so much power for so long without using it. "The directions are written here. I buried it beside a tombstone in the cemetery, but you'll never find it in time without this note." She stretched out her hand in desperation, not daring to make a move. "Come, Louisa. Come to me!"