It was the same piece of parchment as those that had previously been delivered, and she knew what this one would say. It was finally time to deliver the Blade. Finally time to get her daughter back.
If she could trust the kidnappers.
Night was falling and Lucien had vowed to be along in a minute, after he'd refreshed himself. She'd barely have a moment to herself to read it. She had to act quickly.
Snatching it up, Ianthe tore the seam with her fingernail, then hesitated. She felt ill. "Please," she whispered to herself. "Please let my daughter be safe." And then she steeled her nerves and opened it.
* * *
Tonight at 12pm. Highgate Cemetery. Look for Roslyn Hayes's grave. Come alone and bring the Blade. I need not emphasize the importance of the alone directive. If you betray us, the girl dies.
* * *
By the time she lowered the letter, a hot tear was sliding down her cheek. Emotion welled, threatening to consume her, but Ianthe crumpled the letter in her fist and threw it in the fire. She needed to act, to keep moving, or else she feared she'd fall apart.
Damn it. How was she going to get rid of Lucien? How was she going to get Louisa back without giving over the Blade? What would happen if Morgana did get her hands on it?
For she knew, deep in her heart that there were some risks she would not take. Louisa was the most precious thing in the world to her. There was not even a question about what she'd do if her choice came down to her daughter or the relic.
Think, damn it.
If only she had more time. If only she had an ally, one she could trust. Three days wasn't enough to know Lucien's intent. Sometimes when he looked at her, she saw something soften in his eyes, but could she trust that? Or did she simply want to trust it? He was the one who'd professed his intended revenge upon her only yesterday. It might have been a jest to him, but could she be certain?
I don't know. I'm so tired, and I can't think...
He would be here at any moment. That spurred her into action. Ianthe uncapped the brandy decanter in the corner, knowing Lucien's fondness for the spirit. It was only a matter of a moment to pour them both a glass and then take a small vial from the case under her bed. A few drops added to Lucien's drink would bring sweet oblivion to its drinker. The second she did it, she hesitated, staring at the amber liquid. Good God, what was she doing?
As if she'd summoned the devil by thinking of him, a sharp rap sounded at her door.
Her heart a lead weight in her chest, Ianthe shoved the brandy back in its place. "Come in."
The door opened, and there he was.
Tall, handsome, devastatingly dangerous... Hard edges rode Lucien's expression as though he was distracted, but when he saw her, heat flared in his eyes. He turned his body toward hers, as though drawn to her. Ianthe's heart started to race. Everything within her wanted to stride into his arms and drown herself in the nearness of him, to throw herself upon his mercy.
Please, please, can you help me?
Lucien frowned, almost as if he'd heard her. "No luck today?"
"N-none." Could she trust him? He'd told her of his scars that morning, opening himself up to her and revealing something that haunted him. But they both admitted there were secrets between them.
Lucien studied her. "We need to talk."
A hard lump formed in her throat. "I agree."
Tugging his collar open with a sigh, he made short work of his cravat. For the first time, Ianthe had the sensation he was hesitating, which was a rather unsettling feeling. Rathbourne had always been emphatically confident in his manner. It was only recently that she'd seen any hints of vulnerability. Even when facing down a barrage of imps with nothing more than his own physicality, he'd not flinched.
Her. He was nervous about her. Or more particularly, the forthcoming conversation.
That made two of them.
"We have been dancing around each other for days," Lucien said, discarding the cravat. "Yet I have felt as though we were growing closer."
"As have I." It was barely a whisper.
"I had hoped you would open yourself up to me."
"Lucien—"
