"So if Morgana is back on this side of the Channel, then she's here for a reason," Ianthe murmured.
Rathbourne stroked his chin, his eyes hard and flat. "I wonder what that reason is?"
A little chill started, somewhere in the middle of Ianthe's chest.
A chill that said: Louisa.
A chill that remembered the man who'd quite rudely bumped into her in the street but two weeks ago and slipped her a piece of the little girl's black hair, and said, “We want you to bring us the Blade of Altarrh. Otherwise, you will never see your child again.”
Ianthe had raced home to gather herself before she told Drake, when she'd found a note in her room.
'Tell anyone, and she dies. We have eyes watching you and the Prime to ensure you behave. Trust no one. Expect anyone. You will receive further instructions, when you have stolen the relic. We will contact you. We will know.'
Ianthe fingered the locket at her throat, where her one portrait of the girl resided. She was barely a mother—she could never claim that—but they had struck her where she was most vulnerable, and now she was playing a dangerous game of trying to keep a half dozen cups in the air. She had to wait until her blackmailers contacted her before she could give them the relic, but in the meantime, Drake had saddled her with Lucien as a partner.
"Morgana," she said, in a somewhat hoarse voice. She'd never recognized the man in the street and had wondered who this shadowy organization was who had stolen her daughter and murdered poor Jacob and Elsa, Louisa's adoptive parents.
Could Drake's ex-wife have anything to do with this?
If so, then what was Ianthe going to do? There was no one to help her. No one. Not even Drake. She couldn't trust any of the sorcerers around her, for if the note was true, and there was someone close to Drake who was watching her, then she might do something inadvertent and reveal her hand. Then they'd kill her daughter. The only one...
Her thoughts stalled as Ianthe looked up in horror at the hard edges of Rathbourne's face. The only sorcerer she knew who couldn't possibly be involved was Rathbourne.
Could she trust him? He'd said himself that he wanted revenge against both Ianthe and the Prime. Would the safety of an unknown child matter to him? His child?
The truth was that Ianthe didn't know. She didn't know Rathbourne well enough to trust that he would help her win her daughter back over the possibility of taking revenge on his own father.
Wait, a little part of her whispered. Wait a few more days and see what kind of man he is...
But what if they wanted the relic before then?
"Are you all right?"
Ianthe blinked and realized that those hawkish amber eyes were watching her as if he'd picked up on her emotional distress. She froze, the pretty locket trapped in her fingers as she stared back at him. "Yes. Yes, I... I'm just surprised to learn that she's back. What if Morgana set this in place? What if she gets her hands on the Blade?" Her voice became particularly strident toward the end, and Rathbourne's brow arched as if he noticed.
What if I have to give her the Blade in order to get my daughter back?
"One relic in hand," Lady Eberhardt mused. "Did the vision mean that she already has one in hand and the Blade would make two? Or that the Blade is in her hand and she needs to find the other two?"
"I don't think she would have the Blade yet," Ianthe replied quickly. "It's barely been twelve hours. Whoever stole it would have to lie low for a while, and there was no sign of anyone leaving the estate in a hurry."
"So we might presume she has one in hand, with the Blade soon to join it," Rathbourne murmured. "Which means that whoever holds the final Relic Infernal is in danger."
Lady Eberhardt met his stare. "Perhaps."
A second later, a ripple of chimes flooded through the house, growing more intense in noise and stridency. Lady Eberhardt's head cocked, her face paling.
"What was that?" Ianthe asked.
"Is that a tripped ward?" Rathbourne added.
"Yes," Lady Eberhardt erupted out of the chair, twitching aside the curtains at the window. "Someone is on the property. Or something. Either it is sorcerous in nature, or created of sorcery, and it doesn't intend to knock."
Ianthe rose. Her heart started to beat a little faster in response to the wary flash of the whites of Lady Eberhardt's eyes. Lady Eberhardt was eccentric, but fiercely invulnerable. She'd hunted a demon singlehandedly over the course of a year, or so it was told, so why would she be frightened now? "But why would they attack us?"
"Because," Lady Eberhardt met her gaze, "I am the protector of the third relic—I am the guardian of the Chalice."
Chapter Six
