"Looks like this one's growing somewhat haggard," Miss Martin said.
"You threatenin' me?" Horroway demanded. "That's the danger o' comin' in here, into me own turf. Guest Right might hold you, but it don't affect me none."
"The Guest Oath forbids me from harming you," Miss Martin replied sweetly. Power slid into her, like silk moving over sand. It brightened her complexion until she was almost vibrant. With a muttered Word, she flung one hand wide, and Horroway flew back over the counter and stuck to the wall, quivering like a dagger, with his boots almost two inches off the floor. "But it doesn't say anything about containing you. I wonder how long your grip on that foul-smelling body lasts? I wonder what would happen afterward, if you lost hold of it, or if you didn't get to your elixir in time, hmm? A containment ward causes no direct harm, does it?"
"Fuckin' Covent Garden Slut."
"That's enough," Lucien warned, crossing his arms over his chest and eyeing the... man. "If you speak to her like that again, I'll beat you bloody. Tell Miss Martin what she wants to know, and then we can leave, and you can go back to rotting."
That earned him a vicious glare. "What you want?"
"The truth. How long has Morgana been back in England?" Miss Martin showed not a hint of fear as she stepped closer.
Clever, how she didn't ask if the woman was here already. Horroway wouldn't quite know how much she knew.
"Don't know," Horroway said, licking his lips with a dry, cracked tongue. "Ain't seen her since the divorce."
"Oh, come now, Horroway. Presume I'm not an idiot. The two of you were bosom buddies, once upon a time... Wasn't there even talk of an engagement, before her betrothal to the Prime? You followed her around like a puppy at her heels, until she dismissed you for Drake, and then rumor has it you helped spirit her out of the country once Drake and the Order's Council put a price on her head. Has she contacted you?" Miss Martin asked.
"What for?" Horroway sneered.
"I don't know," Miss Martin shrugged, though there was a strange glitter to her eyes. "Perhaps she needed a place to hide? Perhaps she needed information about... certain relics."
"Ain't know nothin' about relics."
"Interesting how you answer that, but not the other question I asked."
This was the Miss Martin Lucien knew and recognized from the Grosvenor Hotel last year, when she'd arrested him. Capable, devious, fully in command of her wits, and confident of her strengths... Only in the privacy of her own rooms did she ever reveal a softer side with hints of vulnerability. It was a dangerous combination, for on one hand he admired her strength of will, whilst at the same time he found the woman who turned to him for comfort alluring. He wanted to know all of her secrets, wanted to understand what put that sadness in her eyes at times when she grew distracted and stared out of windows...
"Don't know where she is, don't know what she wants, don't know—"
"But you're not denying that she's in the country."
Horroway's mouth slammed shut. Then he bared his teeth at her. "You fuckin' bitch, you didn't know."
The faintest of smiles crossed Miss Martin's mouth. Slowly, with her skirts swishing, she paced in front of Horroway, looking for all the world like an academic contemplating a problem. "She's back in the country, back in London, but she's not come to you for help, has she? Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Poor Elijah. All of that loyalty you placed behind her, hoping that she'd come back to you one day... No hope of that though, now you're like this. Morgana wouldn't want a husk of a man. No, whom else would she turn to? Hmm." Miss Martin tapped her lips. "She never did have any female allies. Always men, strangely enough. Or perhaps not allies, perhaps we should call them what they were—puppets. So who is still alive out of all those who danced to her tune? Well, of course, there's Tremayne, but then they parted on bad terms after she and Drake conspired to steal the Relics Infernal from him, and Tremayne isn't the sort to dance to her tune for long. There's Roger Maddesley, but how much influence does he have these days? Chester Hemmingfield, perhaps? He's ambitious and no friend to the Prime..." She glanced toward Horroway. "What do you think?"
"I think you're fishin' for information, and I don't plan on givin' you any more of it."
Lucien tugged his pocket watch out of his coat. "How much time does he have on his timepiece?"
Plucking a handkerchief from her reticule, Miss Martin used it to tug the chain from Horroway's shirt. "Hmm, hard to say. A few days by the look of it."
Which was time they didn't have... "Perhaps we could take him back to your house and lock him in the cellar? Far away from any fresh bodies."
"Hmm."
"Fuck you!" Horroway snarled, twisting against the invisible hold that pinned him to the wall.
"Tremayne, Maddesley, or Hemmingfield?" Lucien demanded. "Who's helping her?"
"How in the seven hells should I know?" Horroway shot back. "Do I look like I keep track of her swains? Maybe you ought to widen your list? There's more sorcerers who grow tired of the Prime's yoke than is on that list!"
"He's lying," Lucian said, with some certainty. It was more difficult to read the faint, faint flicker of color over Horroway's face—more of a mottling than the iridescent glimmer of color that Ianthe sometimes wore—but he knew he wasn't wrong. "Something in that last mess was a lie."
Both sets of eyes locked on him. Miss Martin wore a considering look, but she turned and aimed that pointed brow at Horroway. "So it's someone who we've mentioned."
"Ain't fuckin'—"
