Over the course of the last year, since discovering the truth of his birth, Lucien had dreamed of one day seeking his revenge. Sometimes those dreams had seen his father fallen at his feet, but now, upon hearing the words, he wondered if they had truly been dreams, or merely his Divination coming into play.
His father, crawling over a field of skulls, his skin drawn and ragged as he clutched at Lucien's boots. Three altars dripping the blood of two men whose faces he could never see. "Run," the Prime would whisper. "You should not be here. You should never be here to see this."
Always the same dream. Lucien swallowed. It was one thing to wish his father ill, quite another to realize that he had a part to play in it.
Miss Martin paled. "Drake said the ritual to invoke the Relics Infernal required a grave sacrifice to open a Gateway to the Shadow Dimensions. If they bring a Greater Demon through into this world, without the usual limitations, they could easily tear Drake down. Nobody would have the power to stop it."
"Indeed," Lady Eberhardt said enigmatically.
"Who is the third son?" Bishop's dark eyes narrowed.
"Alas, he was forced from his mother's womb many years ago." Lady Eberhardt set down her teacup with a sigh. "Too early to live."
"Then one son has been sacrificed," Bishop said thoughtfully, as if unconcerned by the fact that he was possibly next.
"Two to come." Lucien's voice thickened and their eyes met.
"I am not so easy to kill," Bishop replied.
No, but right now he was. "Everyone can be killed."
"Time for that later, perhaps." Lady Eberhardt's fist curled tightly around her pearls. "I called you here for a reason, Bishop. Morgana is back, and she's after the third relic, the Chalice, of which I happen to be the current guardian. I need you to take it and protect it with your life."
"And what about you?" Bishop demanded. "She'll come again, if she thinks the Chalice is still here."
Lady Eberhardt waved a dismissive hand. "I can handle myself. You just worry about your own hide. It is precious to me, dear boy. I would not see you harmed, but it seems that there's nobody better suited to handling the relic than yourself."
"Agatha..." he warned.
It occurred to Lucien that there was a great deal of fondness between the pair of them.
"It's decided," Lady Eberhardt said, and her voice had a ringing sound of finality to it. She turned those piercing eyes to Lucien and Ianthe. "Good luck finding the Blade. I think you'll need it. And keep me apprised. If it comes time to hunt down Morgana, I've got quite a bone to pick with her."
Chapter Seven
Shadows lengthened, the sun turning into a thin gold line on the horizon for several seconds before it stretched out and vanished.
"Night," Lucien murmured. His eyes glinted gold in the darkness of the carriage, full of secrets... and truths.
There was a faint twist within Ianthe's chest, the magic leash she wore streaming back the other way. Toward him. Ianthe clapped a hand to her chest with a faint gasp as her corset seemed to tighten.
"And now you're mine."
Ianthe licked dry lips. He didn't move, but tension tightened the muscles in his thighs, the fabric of his trousers rustling as he shifted slightly. All day she'd been too distracted by her dilemma to think of this, but images sprang to mind following his words—of her on her knees in the carriage, her gloved hands sliding up the lean muscle of those thighs whilst Lucien watched impassively. What would he ask her to do? She could only imagine.
"Summon a mage globe," he told her, stretching both arms along the seat back, "so that I can see you."
A small white orb stirred out of the shadows, just large enough to brighten the carriage. Reaching out, he tugged the blinds down. Just the two of them now. Locked together. Her body felt flushed and full, threatening to burst at the seams.
"You have kept your word today, so I will keep mine. I'm no gentleman in bed, Ianthe, but if you truly do not wish to perform any of the acts I ask of you tonight, then all you have to do is say so."
"I will insist upon a sheathe," she replied.
"I—"
"It's not open to discussion, Rathbourne. I will not risk a child." Her heart stirred dully in her chest.
A slow nod. "That suits me as well."
