"I would strongly advise you not to accuse either of the Ross's without due cause. Drake is exceedingly fond of them."
He ignored her. "So, servants, the Ross's, and anyone familiar with the wards. You mentioned there was no sign of a break in. Could someone have gotten in without anyone noticing?"
"Anything is possible. Unlikely, but possible. Until this morning, I should not have thought anyone capable of breeching Drake's wards."
Wards were an intimate magic. Only one well attuned to a sorcerer's style could have any hope of touching them without sending them blazing, let alone getting through them.
Still, he had the sensation she was keeping something from him. How in blazes did she expect him to be able to help if all of her information was grudging?
A dark figure limped into view as the carriage pulled up, leaning heavily on a silver-handled cane. Wings of silver highlighted the man's black hair, and his heavy-set figure was no less powerful or imposing than it had been a year ago, when Lucien had been dragged before the Prime in spelled chains.
Drake de Wynter was a powerful foe, but Lucien couldn't stop looking at the man's cane. The Prime hadn't had that the day they'd dragged Luc into the study upstairs. Instead, he'd been seated behind his desk, his face ravaged with weariness. The demon had manifested directly in the center of the duke's Equinox ball the night before, scattering screaming acolytes and launching itself upon the Prime.
The only reason it hadn't done more damage was because Drake had somehow managed to bend it to his will and sent it back to its master.
Fire. Lashing along his chest as if someone had wielded a whip made of pure electricity. Lucien's fingers dug into the carriage strap, and he clung for dear life as he tried to force the image down. "What happened to his leg?"
"The demon. It took quite a large chunk out of him, once it realized he was magically compensated against any of its attacks. He almost bled to death."
Small comfort. Lucien's nostrils flared, and he offered her his hand as the footman opened the door. "Shall we?"
Ianthe looked surprised, but in truth, he liked the feel of her small hand in his. The moment their fingers touched, the world seemed to slow down around him, its edges becoming crisp and defined, instead of a constant blur of sensation and color. He hadn't realized how much he needed an Anchor to ground him at the moment.
Handing her down onto the damp gravel, Lucien examined the man who had sired him. They shared the same dark hair, but that was where the similarities ended. Lucien took after his mother, with her exotic amber eyes and thick wealth of hair.
A thousand questions filled his mind. What had driven the Countess of Rathbourne into the arms of the Prime so many years ago? He'd done the math. His birth followed almost a year after his parent's marriage. A rather finite amount of time for his mother to cuckold her husband, though his experience with Lord Rathbourne over the years meant that he didn't bother to ask why she'd sought another man's arms. Merely, why the Prime?
Silk bunched beneath his hand as he slid it firmly over the small of Miss Martin's back, needing the peace her presence wrought. A somewhat possessive gesture, and one that the Prime's sharp gaze didn't miss.
Choke on that, he thought viciously, gracing the Prime with a smile. "We meet again."
"Rathbourne," the duke intoned.
"It seems you have a problem you wish my help with."
The Prime took that moment to glance at Miss Martin. "You bonded him?"
"It seemed wise," she replied, her expression gentling as she looked up at the man. "He could be dangerous, Your Grace."
The Prime's silvery eyes lanced Lucien to the soul, searching for something, an ancient sadness lingering about his aura. "You have your mother's eyes—"
"Let us dispense with the pleasantries," Lucien cut in angrily. "You and I mean nothing to each other. I'm merely here because you offer something I want. Freedom. So let's not pretend this is anything more than it is."
An awkward silence settled.
Drake de Wynter slowly nodded, looking tired, more than anything. Lucien almost felt sorry for him, but then the Prime turned and limped toward the house. "So be it."
Lucien grit his teeth. He was letting his own emotions get the best of him. What had she said? That the duke suspected someone within his inner circle? That meant he ought to keep his bloody eyes and ears open, rather than focusing on the back of the Prime's head, his fist clenching. Revenge would not be taken out in such a bloody, confrontational way. No, he had better ideas. Lure Miss Martin into his bed. Steal her away from the bastard, perhaps. Return the relic and then watch as the prophecy did the rest.
I will enjoy seeing you brought to your knees...
"We're going directly to Drake's private wing." Miss Martin handed her hat and gloves to one of the footmen, giving him a reproving look. "Time is against us. Do you require anything?"
"I'd like to see the place where the Blade was kept first."
The upstairs wing was silent and still, evidently the Prime's private quarters.
"This is where the relic was kept," the Prime said, his deep voice echoing in the marble-floored hallway.
