Chapter 5 Call the Heat #2
His glowing eyes danced more than his feet. “Like what you see?”
Oh yes, he was a cad, a rake, an irredeemable rogue. “The only thing I want to see is the iron in your hand melting.”
“That’s not an answer.” His voice tight but amused.
“Focus, Chester. Focus! The iron!”
“But my iron—”
“Is in peril from my foot if you do not focus.”
A sigh, then he closed his eyes again, and the red in his cheeks deepened. After several seconds, he inhaled sharply, eyes popping open, hands popping open too.
On his palm, the iron key glowed bright orange.
“Hestia!” One hand flew to Sybil’s mouth, the other to her belly. “You did it!”
“It doesn’t even burn! A damn candle flame feels like pins and needles, but there’s hot iron in my palm, and it doesn’t hurt a bit!”
She wanted to laugh, wanted to cry, did a little of both.
“Now what? Now what!” he demanded.
“Yes, yes. Next steps.” What were they? She’d never gotten this far herself. “Now, you coax it some more. You did so well, getting the heat to come to you.”
“I’m irresistible, what can I say.”
“Well do the same now. Don’t let the heat see the devil in you. It might run away, and I won’t blame it.”
He laughed. “But how do I know what shape?”
“Put the key in the keyhole.” Shaking, she touched the lock on her side of the door. “Here. Help the iron find the shape, fill the hole.”
His smile was wicked and bright. “I’m an expert at filling holes.”
“Oh, do stop. Focus.”
He blinked several times and shook his head, the wicked and wild falling away, leaving only a cold and sober stare.
His hands trembled, too, as he stretched long, elegant fingers toward the lock, orange iron held firmly between them.
The pin of the key entered the lock up to its shaft, and Sybil held her breath.
The key glowed hotter, yellow now.
“There,” she breathed. “Don’t lose concentration.”
“Then stop distracting me,” he bit out.
“Don’t fight it. Let it go where it wishes. You only want to please it.”
“I’m quite familiar with the concept, but I’ve never seduced a key before. I can’t see the shape it needs to take. How do I know?”
“You’re trying to force it!”
“That’s what Stone does.”
She growled. “Don’t worry about Stone.”
The key darkened to orange.
“You’re losing the heat!” She grasped the bars on either side of the lock.
He slammed his eyes closed, a guttural sound of frustration vibrating in his throat.
The key darkened from orange to red.
“No, no, no,” she whispered.
“Goddamn it.” He pulled the now black key out of the lock. It was no longer a key but a shaft that narrowed to a point on one end like a large needle.
“Try again!”
He held the key up, seemingly unable to look away. “I had it. That was… more than I’ve ever done before. I’ve been at this an entire bloody year, and I’ve never… Not until…” His gaze slid toward her. “Well damn, princess.”
“Try again! Stone could arrive at any moment.”
“I don’t think I can.” He wrapped his arms around him, shivered. All the red that had once pooled in his cheeks had drained away. He was left looking pale and exhausted. If he’d never done that before, he wouldn’t be able to do it again. Not right now. He’d need to rest first.
But his tired face still somehow managed a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll still rescue you. A thank you for being a better teacher than your betrothed is.” He crowded the door, slipped the key once more into the lock.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Isn’t it obvious?” He wiggled the iron needle about in the lock, looking upward with squinted eyes, the tip of his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth.
“Is lock picking a common part of the curriculum for heirs to marquisates?”
“Of course not. My formal education was all Latin, as is gentlemanly. Only I went through a period of degeneracy and learned a few actually useful skills.”
“Was that when you tried to slit my throat?”
“I see forgiveness is not part of the alchemist child’s education.” He grunted, wiggled the needle some more.
Then there was a click. It sounded like a gunshot, echoing off the walls. The door creaked open.
Sybil darted out, ignoring her screaming ankle and grabbing his hand. They ran for the floating chamber.
“Damn me, you’re quick!”
“And you’re drained. If I don’t pull you, you won’t be able to keep up.”
“Rude.” But he quickened his pace, and they jumped onto the floating chamber together.
He collapsed against the brass frame as it clicked them higher.
“Are you going to be ill?”
“How can you tell?” He was quickly melting toward the floor. He heaved and held a hand over his mouth.
“Wait until we get outside.”
When the chamber stopped in a lightless, large, open room, she anchored an arm around his waist. He managed to hold his orb high as they moved through the room.
“Do you know where we are?” she whispered.
“British Museum.”
“The Guild? They have dungeons?”
“Apparently.” He shrugged her away to stand on his own feet, then moved silently ahead of her. She limped toward his bobbing light, the dark outline of his form.
Then a door appeared in that dim halo, and then they were outside in a narrow alley. She inhaled deeply, exhaled every single bit of air in her lungs, desperate to have the musty scent of the dungeon out of her as quickly as possible.
“Thank you,” she said. “I know heroism does not come naturally to you, but… I owe my freedom to you.”
“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” he grumbled, staggering toward the end of the alley where it opened up onto a wider street. Out there, gas lamps glowed bright. “Let’s find a hack and get you to your brother.”
Temple. The name meant safety. It also meant another sort of captivity.
The rod she’d stuck into her stays was digging into her, so she pulled it out as she joined him on the street.
“Where the hell did that come from?” He eyed the weapon.
“The cell. The bed.”
“You’re dangerous, I think.”
She grinned. “I’m not going to my brother.”
“I’m not taking you to— What is it? Hampstead Heath? Too far.” He grabbed her arm and tugged her down the street. “Your brother is just around the corner.”
She yanked out of his hold and headed in the opposite direction. “Temple will lock me up, and it will be like I never escaped.”
“The cell he provides you with will be nicer. Come along.” He grasped her wrist again.
She couldn’t pull away this time, and she dug her one good heel into the street, but it did no good.
He was terribly strong for a man who’d just been worn out by a tiny bit of metal.
But then working alchemy with small things always did that—pumped the body with energy and heat and power a man had to work off before returning to normal.
Even, apparently, if he was barely strong enough to begin with.
She wouldn’t be able to fight him off, so she jogged to keep up with him.
Too soon, Temple’s terrace house came into view.
“Please.” She was begging and hated it. “Don’t. Take me somewhere else safe. Your lodgings!”
He recoiled, still holding her wrist. “Not for anything. Listen, Miss Grant, I did not rescue you to become your manservant.”
“Why did you do this?”
“I have reasons, none of which are your business. Now, one foot in front of the other, Miss Grant. I know you can do it.” Another step toward Temple.
“Take me to… to…” Where? Where might she convince him to take her that he would agree to. “The potion shop!”
“Pardon?”
“Lady Guinevere’s Potions. In Finsbury Square.”
“I know where it is. Why would you go there?”
“It’s terribly safe. All those guards she keeps about. She gave Diana refuge when she was running from you.”
Chester winced.
“I just need one night to figure out my arguments.” To figure out how to keep her freedom when Temple went wildly overprotective. As he would do.
“No. I’m not dragging this out longer than I have to.”
“Then don’t!” She shouted it. “Go scurry away like a coward. You have my gratitude for releasing me. I no longer need you.”
He held her gaze with deep, unreadable eyes for an eternity. Then he dropped her wrist. “Do what you want.”
She didn’t wait for him to finish speaking. She turned and ran all the way to Finsbury Square.
Lady Guinevere’s Potion shop rose high above her, pale in the moonlight. The wooden sign above the front door swung in the light breeze, and the slivered moon reflected in the large glass windows. She ran around the side of the building and slowed in the alley.
Footsteps behind her, heavy breathing.
She whirled around, holding her makeshift club high.
Apollo Chester held his hands up, wheezing. “Don’t swing! I’m too pretty to mangle.”
“Oh God.” Her arms fell limp to her sides. “What are you doing here?”
“Had to make sure you weren’t abducted again. I won’t release you a second time. Too much work.”
“Go away.” She started down the alley and rounded the building. There was a back door here… Ah. Yes. There. She stopped before it and lifted her fist.
The door swung open. A huge shadow filled it. A man. “Whad’ya want?”
Her mouth went dry, and she leaned—just a very tiny little bit—toward Chester. “I’m Sybil Grant. I need help.”
The man grunted. She could only see the dark outline of his body, but she recognized his movement. He looked over his shoulder. Then he stepped aside, and a light flashed on.
A woman in a dressing gown stood in the glow of a fairy orb. Her long flame-colored hair was braided into a thick plait that ran over her shoulder and down to her waist. Lady Guinevere.
“Come in,” she said.
Sybil did, stepping around the hulking shadow and letting the warmth of the potion shop soothe her bones. The relief was immediate. Here, she would be safe. From abductors and from overprotective brothers.
Lady Guinevere looked over Sybil’s shoulder at Chester. “This is… fascinating.”
That was one word for it. Another was infuriating.
There were others, too. The last twenty-four or however many hours had been, perhaps, the most eventful of her life.
Fear, confusion, hopelessness, determination, intellectual intrigue, relief, and…
something else. Something far more dangerous than the rest when Apollo Chester had found his heat.