'Sorcerous constructs are creatures of power with no autonomy, no will of their own, animated by a Word of Power, and their master's will. But beware, for all of them hunger for life, and if they slip your control they will try to drink it from your veins.'
* * *
-Sir Justin DeFino, Sorcerer Royal and Master of Constructs
* * *
There was a pregnant pause as that knowledge sank in.
"Bloody hell," Lucien swore. What a rotten coincidence. And dreadful timing. He strode toward the window to see what had tripped the wards. "Where is the Chalice now?"
There was nothing outside, just the faint drift of fog through the gorgeous rose gardens out back. Tendrils of it crept this way and that toward the house, as if slowly hunting for something.
"Hidden—" Lady Eberhardt turned and rang the bell pull "—and protected."
"Your house is well warded, I presume." Miss Martin tried for reason.
"As was Drake's."
"Do these still work?" Lucien demanded, striding to the cabinet where Lady Eberhardt's hunting pistols remained.
Both women shot him a surprised look, then Lady Eberhardt nodded. Lucien armed himself, priming a pair of pistols and slinging a couple of rounds into his pocket.
By that time, both women were halfway through the door. Lucien cursed under his breath, then hurried after them.
"Allow me to go first," he said, catching Miss Martin by the wrist. "I'm the one with the shield bracelet."
Those blue eyes widened; then she gestured him into the lead. Her skirts swished behind him as they took the stairs. Lady Eberhardt strode ahead, drawing a blade across her widened palm. Blood welled in a neat gash, and she curled her fingers into a fist and then flung them wide, spraying droplets all across the entrance. Blood spattered on the glass in the door and the gleaming marble tiles, and the second each droplet hit, Lucien could feel a prickling along his nerves.
"Arise!"
The door rattled in its casement, as did the windows, as if the house slowly awoke to Lady Eberhardt's cry. Long dormant protection spells sprang to life, shimmering in brilliant gossamer spell veils along each window and doorway that he could see. Lady Eberhardt must have spent months weaving them into the surface of the house. He could barely see for the cascade shimmer of spell craft, a piercing ache echoing in his left temple.
Would this ever end? He couldn't deal with this weakness of his right now, not with so much sorcery spilling through the air.
Dragging a bloodied hand over the marble lions in the foyer, Lady Eberhardt strode on. The first lion tore its head free from its marble paws, its eyes gleaming with golden light. Chips of shattered marble scattered over the floor as it shook out its mane and gave an enormous roar. Its twin, standing in silent entreaty across from it, stretched, shaking free of its casement. They bounded after Lady Eberhardt, their heavy paws leaving cracks in the tiles behind them.
Sorcerous constructs were creatures of power with no autonomy, indeed no mind, no will of their own. He'd heard rumors of golems created out of clay by rabbis, with a Word of Power carved into their foreheads to animate them, and these were somewhat similar.
Constructs could be formed of anything—leaf and mud, metals, stones, shadows, sometimes even blood and flesh, if the sorcerer in command belonged to the Grave Arts. Those were the hardest to control, for the flesh still remembered what life was and craved the taste of it. Nine years ago, Sir Alastor Walton brought over a dozen zombie constructs to life, and when he lost control of them, they'd torn half of the East End to pieces. It took forty sorcerers to destroy the zombies since the cut off pieces kept trying to reform, and eventually they'd had to burn them all. Sir Alastor had been tried by the Order and executed, and the Prime had pledged to the Queen that creating constructs of flesh were now forbidden and that it would never happen again.
Bam. The first assault against the wards shook the entire house. Bam. Bam.
The sheer weight of the sorcery nearly drove Lucien to his knees. Slamming up his inner barriers, he clung to the bannister for a moment as dust trickled down from the roof and eerie green light flooded through the windows.
"Are you all right?" Miss Martin demanded, and as his vision returned to normal, he found her clutching his sleeve and staring up at him.
He couldn't let her see his weakness. "I'm fine," he replied gruffly, staggering as something else hit the house and rebounded from the wards. An explosion of actinic light blazed like a corona outside, and he slammed his eyes shut, clapping a hand over them. Sorcery fired through his blood, setting his mind afire, as he cried out.
Mother of night. "What in all the hells is out there? Hell spawn?"
The light touch of Miss Martin's skin against his hand eased the overwhelming sensation as their bond swelled. Lucien caught her fingers as she moved to retreat, and her gaze swept to his as he blinked, her lips parting gently. It felt like they were trapped in a bubble that silenced everything around them. It felt like he could breathe again.
"I'm concerned that I won't be able to protect you very well at this juncture in time," he admitted, though it galled him. "It's too soon since my release. I'm weak from lack of food and the effects of my incarceration. I haven't used sorcery in over a year, or at least, before this morning. It's... overwhelming."
The dark slash of her brows softened. Her fingers curled around his. "Then let me act as your Anchor. You should have said something earlier."
Lucien gave a careless shrug. Surrendering this much control to her went against every grain of his fiber, but the relics were more important. Even he, who wouldn't shed any tears to see the Prime fall, knew that they could be dangerous in the wrong hands.
