Sebastian took the letter in hand with a blank, hopeless expression. "Is there anything else you desire of me?"
Yes. There was so much more, and yet she wasn't quite certain she dared at this moment. Had she been missing the signs of how close he was to the edge all along? Or had he learned to hide it? She would have to be so, so careful with this son of hers.
"Just... Just deliver the letter. And this one." She dug through the mess at her feet, finding a sealed envelope with a single lock of hair in it and an instruction on delivery. "Time to make Miss Martin pay her dues. See that our little friend drops it on her bed. Let us hope she's taken heed of my warnings and done as she was told."
"I won't let you hurt that child."
"I never intended it." Morgana managed a tight smile. "Murder is so messy." And final. If you destroyed your tools, then who knew when you would ever need them again? It was the same reason that Sebastian had been birthed into this world. "All I need to do is make sure the girl disappears quietly and is never seen again and nobody knows any better."
Sebastian slid the two envelopes inside the pocket of his waistcoat. There was no sign if he agreed or not, which bothered her a little.
"Then... take the afternoon off," Morgana said slowly. "Do something for yourself, whatever you would like, as long as it doesn't betray us. Your choice. I shall see you here by dinner, as we have a full evening planned." She tipped her head to him, noting the startled glance he shot her. Perhaps this would be a better, more careful way to manage him? "I can be kind, Sebastian. I would like to be kind. If you would only stop defying me, you would know more of it."
Black lashes darkened those beautiful, blank eyes. "The problem is: can I trust it?"
Drake slammed the book he'd been perusing shut and lifted his head, turning it uncannily toward the south. Sorcery thickened the air, on a scale the likes of which he'd never felt before. It welled like a furious storm, bits of it breaking off and earthing itself like lightning bolts of pure power. So imprecise and violent, an enormous tidal wave of power that hovered on the edge of the horizon with threatening intent. This was not the type of sorcery he'd encountered before, with its carefully manipulated threads. This just wanted to smash, to lash out, to bubble up, and spill all over the world like a volcano that was starting to tremble.
All of the blood started to run from his extremities, flooding in toward his heart. Oh, hell.
"What the devil was that?" Eleanor Ross looked up from the map she'd been dangling his pocket watch over, noting his sudden absorption. She knew him far too well, well enough to sift through the silent message he was sending her with his face and body. "What happened?"
"Someone is using Expression."
"Where? Can you stop it? Can you trace it back to them?"
Drake tasted the metallic bite of sorcery on his tongue as he closed his eyes. South. Not too far away, perhaps within three miles. He had to upgrade his original assessment of power. Anything that felt so strong this far away had to be enormous. No one person should ever be able to channel that much energy.
The loss of the relic had cost him sleep ever since he discovered it, but this... this terrified him. Finding that sorcerer had to be his priority. Ianthe and Rathbourne could chase the relic, which he couldn't afford to forget, but if he didn't find who was bleeding that much power over the West End then there might not be a West End for much longer.
There might not even be a London.
Chapter Ten
'Not everyone sides with the Order of the Dawn Star. It might be the most legitimate group of practitioners in the Empire, but there are those who chafe against its rules, or who were cast out in exile... And then, of course, there are those occult beings who were never truly quite human in the first place...'
* * *
- Thoughts on Occult London, by Sir Geoffrey Mellors
* * *
The Portobello Road markets were in full swing as Rathbourne escorted Ianthe along the busy thoroughfare. Barrow boys bellowed at the top of their lungs, and laughter and music filled the air.
With a sigh of relief, Ianthe saw what they were searching for and followed as Rathbourne pushed his way into the Black Horse Pub. They stood for a moment in the smoky confines, Rathbourne's nearness a welcome respite. One of his hands rested lightly on the small of her back, almost protectively, even as his gaze searched the room. Only three of the chairs were occupied, men nursing ale and staring contemplatively at their tables. The Black Horse wasn't a place that anyone came to in order to socialize. It was a haven of neutrality in their occult world, and the pall over the room stank heavily of black sorcery. A touch malevolent, like sour, old beer mixed with the air of a freshly opened grave.
Hardly a place that Ianthe enjoyed.
The bartender had been swiping down the filthy counter, but he paused as he saw them, his mouth thinning to a hyphen. Without a word, he spat on the floor, then tipped his chin up toward her challengingly.
He was a small man, standing on a stool behind the counter and peering over his half-spectacles at them. Some said there was imp blood in him. It was certainly true that he didn't quite feel human. Something about the Shadow Dimensions clung to him, or perhaps that was because he had a long-held fascination with planes of existence that nobody should dabble with. Cochrane's sorcery was as black as night.
"Mr. Cochrane," Rathbourne said smoothly. "Fancy seeing you here."
"Indeed," Magnus Cochrane replied, setting down the rag and leaning on the counter with his knuckles. "Thought you was in Bedlam."
"I was. Decided to take a turn about outside."
"Didn't think the Prime were that forgiving." Cochrane spat on the floor again, and the movement dislodged his sleeve, revealing the heavy brass manacle around his wrist with its burning, coppery charms. The manacle kept him chained within the tavern's physical limits, where he could do no more damage. Cochrane was very good at not-quite breaking the Order's Laws, but he'd come close one too many times. Certainly more than was in the public's interest. He turned his leering gaze toward Ianthe. "Ah. Here's the Prime's pet puss. Startin' to make sense now. What you hunting?"
