Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1) (4 page)

"So be it." A proud look tipped her chin high. "I can, and have, endured a great many small cruelties over the years. What is one more?"

"Perhaps you might get your case of inks then, to mark the runes on our skin for the bond?" A smile curled over his mouth. "Before we both run out of daylight..."

Where she would pay the price before he earned his service.

I
ANTHE'S HEART
beat madly in her chest as she slowly unfolded herself onto the stone slab. The conservatory seemed a distant memory as Rathbourne eased his way around the cellar she'd led him to, lighting the smoky wicks on numerous candelabrum. Wax dripped down the sides of each candle, creating leering faces.

This was her chamber of sorcery, an enormous magic circle set into the floor in solid silver. The pair of double circles—one inside the other—contained numerous runes, set to keep outside interference at bay so that she could perform her major works.

The last candle flared to life and the circle's energy was suddenly palpable, trembling over her skin and dancing between her thighs. She was trapped in a magic circle with the one man she wanted above all others.

A man whose touch she could only too clearly remember. Ianthe wet her lips. She knew the scent of his body, the satiny glide of skin over each muscle and sinew as he'd buried himself inside her.

And the pain that single act had caused her...

Concentrate. Rathbourne is the means to an end
.

"Do you wish to close the circle? Or shall I?" Rathbourne seemed to be easing back into his skin with every minute, becoming more and more the man she remembered from the hotel. Bolder and far more arrogant than he'd been as a youth. He spoke of gentle cruelties now, but he'd known none of them then. Indeed, he'd been mesmerizingly gentle as he laid her back upon his cloak that night, so long ago. Kissing her as if he sought to steal the very breath from her, his fingers trailing under her skirts and seeking the heart of her desire. It had hurt, of course, for she was a virgin, but the hurt of it had soon dissolved, her body wrapping around his as he ground himself into her and whispered shocking, delicious words in her ear.

"If you will," she replied.

Taking the ritual blade, he carefully ran it across his finger, squeezing out several drops of blood onto the first silver circle. A silvery dome flickered to life, locking them inside. As his blood dripped over the inner circle, another could be sensed, this time an invisible, but no less dense protection. A dome built to keep magic out.

Rathbourne's eyebrow arched, and he tipped his chin to her. "Exquisite work."

"You expected less?"

Toying with the knife, he circled her, eyes gleaming hotly amber. "No. It reminds me of the Prime's work."

"It’s an echo. Since he was my master."

"In all matters," Rathbourne murmured.

The remark stung, though she knew it was commonly believed rumor. After all, how could a healthy young woman such as she not have a lover, when her lack of marriage, career choice, and decision to live alone marked her clearly as someone of lesser morals?

It didn't matter what he thought of her. Only that she found the people who wanted the relic. For a moment, she almost felt ill, the prick of tears threatening.

Rathbourne's slow circling had stopped. "The thought upsets you."

"What?" Ianthe turned her head to the side to look up at him. Perhaps some part of the man who'd once been her lover still existed.

Or perhaps she was looking too hard for an ally that didn't exist.

"We haven't got all day." Ianthe turned her face away. "Make your blasted marks, and let us finish this. The trail is growing colder by the minute."

Rathbourne knelt on the edge of the stone slab. "So be it." Reaching out, he plucked at the buttons of her high-necked dress.

The touch was shockingly intimate, and her fingers caught his, trying to knock them aside. "I can manage."

Rathbourne held up his hands. "Merely trying to hurry the task along."

Swallowing hard, she managed to undo her gown all the way to the top of her breasts. Rathbourne reached out and flicked the collar open, baring her décolletage. Those lazy, lion's eyes warmed as he looked his fill. Cold air pricked her naked skin, reminding her that she wore little more than her chemise and stays beneath her dress. Breath quickening, she stared up at the ceiling overhead, trying to ignore the heat of his presence. It had been like this ever since the day he stalked into Drake's ballroom and presumed to seek an introduction with her.

As if he hadn't been the man who'd claimed her virginity, all those years ago.

"Blood to bind," he whispered, and the sharp coppery scent of blood filled the room as he cut his finger again and let his blood well into the small lead bowl she used for that purpose. "Saliva, for the breath of life." Running his finger inside his mouth, he sucked hard on the cut. "Ink to mark the flesh."

Spitting on the block of ink, he rubbed his bloodied finger through it, and Ianthe felt the first small stirrings of magic tighten inside her. She stifled the urge to squirm restlessly. An inability to focus was the mark of a mere acolyte.

Not even Drake would deny that you've enough to unsettle any mind... Rathbourne himself, the relic and... the debt of guilt and grief.

Tears pricked her eyes.
Don't think of that now
.

"
Hecarrh cairedh mi caratha
..." Soft, whispering words so excellently nuanced that they had to be his personal Words of Power.

The candle flames all flickered, then flared higher in a singular wave. The pull of power became a warm, tugging knot in her abdomen, a gentle pressure between her thighs. Sorcery had always felt slightly sexual in nature for her. It wasn't always, depending on the person and the elements of power that attuned more strongly to them. Some preferred the stir of blood, the anticipation of cutting the magic from their skin. Some found their link in the grave and the power of death.

From the feel of the pull between them, she knew precisely which aspect Rathbourne attuned to. The muscle in his thighs clenched as he leaned over her, dipping a finger into the mixture of ink, saliva, and blood. His erection strained against the cambric of his trousers, and she swiftly glanced away as he straddled her hips.

"That's hardly necessary," she protested.

Soft fingers stroked a loose strand of her hair out of the way. "Shush." The moment he touched his blood-wetted finger to her chest, Ianthe felt it, as though he'd plucked the strings of a lute. Sorcery shivered through her; vibrations that set her blood on fire and forced her to bite her lip. She pressed her knees tightly together.
Merciful heavens
.

Magic of the most intimate kind glimmered to life with the bond between them, leaving her wet and aching, trapped beneath him, the press of his knees on either side of her hips pinning her skirts.

When the power faded, Rathbourne was straddling her, the press of his body pinning her hips to the stone slab. Breathing hard, his dark hair tumbling over those shocked eyes, he looked down at her. One hand splayed over the stone near her head, the other was resting lightly on the rune he'd drawn on her skin, fingertips barely grazing her.

All it would take would be one move.

Hers.

A fist curling in his cravat as she dragged his weight down atop her... A perfectly legitimate way to finish this ritual, but if this were the result of a single rune, then what would happen if she let free all her inhibitions and took this to a conclusion they both desired? Just how powerful would their spell craft be?

And what would be the result?

There were three types of bonds that two sorcerers could use; a wellspring bond, where one sorcerer gave control of their power over to another; the bond between Anchor and Shield, which was somewhat more reciprocal, though the Anchor typically held control; and a soul-bond, that rare bond that could be created between lovers and could never be broken.

Ianthe wasn't quite romantic enough to believe in it.

At least this Anchor bond could be broken by choice when the time came.

Even if the desolate ache between her thighs left her feeling strangely unsatisfied.

Tonight, that ache would be assuaged. She'd given her word for it.

"Are you done?" she demanded, both frightened and titillated by the idea of being in this man's bed, under his control, his power.

"Of course." Rathbourne traced his fingertips across her collarbone, eliciting a shiver, then stood and began unbuttoning his shirt, golden candle flame highlighting the stark line of sinew in his shoulders and muscle. "Now it's my turn."

CHAPTER 2

T  
HE PRIME'S RESIDENCE was a far cry from Miss Martin's, which had been located in the heart of the theatre district. Not too far from the Rathbourne family manor, actually, though Lucien had no reason to go there whilst the courts held his case. Surely the Prime could afford to put her up in a more affluent section of town?

"I assume the Prime has had the manor searched?" Lucien asked, as the carriage began to slow as it pulled into the circular driveway, the jingle of the bit ringing and the horse's hooves crunching over the gravel.

"Of course he did. Discreetly." Not a sign of concern showed in Miss Martin's comportment, though her foot tapped with restless ease, her fingers scrunching the corners of the newspaper she'd been perusing.

"Is it safe to presume that the theft has gone unnoticed by others?"

"We've managed to contain the spread of rumor so far. The butler alerted Drake to the empty case sometime this morning, and he sent to wake me at dawn. The few servants who know are under a suppression rune, and there were only two guests for the evening, neither of them suspect."

...
sent to wake me at dawn
... Where precisely? It sounded as though she hadn't been in the duke's bed. "Were you staying at the manor?"

"Yes. I only returned from the north yesterday afternoon, and Drake asked me to stay and dine with the Ross's. By the time we'd retired to the sitting room, it was late and I had no desire to venture out into the rain." She put the paper down and sighed.

"Who are the Ross's?" The stamp of her own magic was lanced into his chest, pulsing with quiet discord. If he didn't know any better, he'd suspect Miss Martin was a mess of steadily growing nerves.

"Mrs. Ross and her niece, Adeline, are old friends of Drake's."

"That means nothing. Either could have done it."

"Addie is barely fifteen and considered a wallflower. Her aunt, Eleanor Ross, was accounted for at the time of the disappearance. You might as well accuse me, whilst you're at it."

"No." His smile was grim. "It’s exceedingly clear where your loyalties lie. You're the only one I don't consider to be guilty."

"I would strongly advise you not to accuse either of the Ross's without due cause. Drake is exceedingly fond of them."

He ignored her. "So, servants, the Ross's, and anyone familiar with the wards. You mentioned there was no sign of a break in. Could someone have gotten in without anyone noticing?"

"Anything is possible. Unlikely, but possible. Until this morning, I should not have thought anyone capable of breeching Drake's wards."

Wards were an intimate magic. Only one well attuned to a sorcerer's style could have any hope of touching them without sending them blazing, let alone getting through them.

Still, he had the sensation she was keeping something from him. How in blazes did she expect him to be able to help if all of her information was grudging?

A dark figure limped into view as the carriage pulled up, leaning heavily on a silver-handled cane. Wings of silver highlighted the man's black hair, and his heavy-set figure was no less powerful or imposing than it had been a year ago, when Lucien had been dragged before the Prime in spelled chains.

Drake de Wynter was a powerful foe, but Lucien couldn't stop looking at the man's cane. The Prime hadn't had that the day they'd dragged Luc into the study upstairs. Instead, he'd been seated behind his desk, his face ravaged with weariness. The demon had manifested directly in the center of the duke's Equinox ball the night before, scattering screaming acolytes and launching itself upon the Prime.

The only reason it hadn't done more damage was because Drake had somehow managed to bend it to his will and sent it back to its master.

Fire. Lashing along his chest as if someone had wielded a whip made of pure electricity
. Lucien's fingers dug into the carriage strap, and he clung for dear life as he tried to force the image down. "What happened to his leg?"

"The demon. It took quite a large chunk out of him, once it realized he was magically compensated against any of its attacks. He almost bled to death."

Small comfort. Lucien's nostrils flared, and he offered her his hand as the footman opened the door. "Shall we?"

Ianthe looked surprised, but in truth, he liked the feel of her small hand in his. The moment their fingers touched, the world seemed to slow down around him, its edges becoming crisp and defined, instead of a constant blur of sensation and color. He hadn't realized how much he needed an Anchor to ground him at the moment.

Handing her down onto the damp gravel, Lucien examined the man who had sired him. They shared the same dark hair, but that was where the similarities ended. Lucien took after his mother, with her exotic amber eyes and thick wealth of hair.

A thousand questions filled his mind. What had driven the Countess of Rathbourne into the arms of the Prime so many years ago? He'd done the math. His birth followed almost a year after his parent's marriage. A rather finite amount of time for his mother to cuckold her husband, though his experience with Lord Rathbourne over the years meant that he didn't bother to ask why she'd sought another man's arms. Merely, why the Prime?

Silk bunched beneath his hand as he slid it firmly over the small of Miss Martin's back, needing the peace her presence wrought. A somewhat possessive gesture, and one that the Prime's sharp gaze didn't miss.