Ianthe's mouth dropped open. "Yes." It was a whisper.
And then there was no more thought as oblivion overtook him.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ianthe sat upright with a gasp. She couldn't believe her ears. Lucien knew. He'd guessed, and he had not condemned her. Sucking in a sharp gasp, she pressed her hands to her mouth, but there were no answers from his slack form. A few drops of her sleeping potion had taken him deep into oblivion and would keep him there until her purpose was served.
What a mess.
"Lucien?" Ianthe whispered, then reached out and gave him a hesitant shake. "Luc?"
Nothing. He simply snored.
What did this mean? Had he told anyone? Had this been the ally she so desperately needed? But how on earth could she have known that when he'd made it clear that his main purpose had been revenge against her?
You don't have time to answer that, a little voice inside her said.
And it was the truth. She had an hour to dress, get to the cemetery, and then hand over the Blade in exchange for her daughter. Purpose steeled her. Reaching out, Ianthe drew a pillow beneath his head, wet tears streaking down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry." Leaning down, she pressed a kiss against his unresisting forehead.
If only he'd spoken up sooner, for she had not dared. Wiping the tears from her eyes, Ianthe drew herself up and stumbled toward the travelling chest where the Blade was hidden. Trembling hands unsnapped the hidden compartment, and there lay the Blade. Taking it out, Ianthe had another moment of hesitation, but it was swiftly drowned in resolve.
No tears for spilt milk. Lucien would not wake anytime soon, not with several mouthfuls of drugged brandy in him, and the ruthless, practical part of her didn't have time to change her plans. Not now.
For if she did not show up in time, then who knew what Morgana would do to Louisa?
Some sorcerers dabbled with poisons and potions. Some did not. Lucien had been one of the few who did, and knew exactly how to burn it out of his blood.
Seconds swam past him, and the next time he'd blinked back to consciousness, Ianthe was flinging open the travelling box she'd brought with her on the first day. Then he lost track of time again, and the next thing he knew, he was alone.
The trunk now lay split apart, revealing the hidden compartment in the bottom, which looked like it was lined with lead. Of course. So bloody close to him all this time. The lead would have hidden all trace of the Blade's presence.
Lucien staggered to his feet, shaking his arms to try and elude the effects of the sleeping potion. How many minutes since she'd left? He couldn't quite remember. She'd evidently had time to dress, which meant she had a good head start on him.
But where?
Snatching up her hairbrush, Lucien sank into the armchair before the flickering fire, trying to still his mind. It took long minutes to open himself to his psychometric abilities. Ianthe had forgotten one thing: Lucien could scry her whereabouts.
Wrapping her black hair around his finger, Lucien turned his gaze inward, toward that glittering star in the corner of his mind's eye, and a corona of gold exploded around him as his prescience snagged against the bond that bound them together. For one second, just one, he was staring out through Ianthe's eyes, no doubt through the link their bond created. Strands of ivy clung to their boots, and they stumbled, catching at a headstone to right themselves. A graveyard. Trees. A dark avenue bounded on both sides by stone arches. It looked familiar. Damn it, where had he seen that before? Think! Then the light was closing in on him, as Ianthe realized what was happening, and pushed him out of her mind.
Lucien fell out of the trance with a gasp. Highgate Cemetery. He had a muffled memory of attending his mother's funeral there, so many years before. The path was the Egyptian Avenue, a proud promenade where he'd once retreated to as a boy to hide his tears and escape the man he'd still thought of as his father.
What on earth was Ianthe doing in Highgate?
It must be where she was due to meet with Morgana, but when? How long did he have? He had no idea, but if he didn't act quickly, then he knew that all might be lost, for he'd felt the eerily cold handle of the Blade of Altarrh in their hand.
Chapter Twenty-Two
'White battle globes packed no more than a wallop. Electric blue could stop your heart, if but briefly. But red? Red was the color of death.'
* * *
– The Inner Workings of Sorcery, by Grainne O'Neill
* * *
Ianthe drew her cloak around her as she stopped in front of Roslyn Hayes's grave, her eyes searching the darkness.
It was almost midnight, she suspected, and her nerves were stretched so tightly, she felt like she was going to fly out of her skin.
