Chapter 4 #2
"Brewing, but not here yet." Taking Cross's hand, she tucked her own through his arm. "I need to speak to you privately. Are you coming, Rathbourne? Or would you like to guard the theatre?"
"Wouldn't miss it," he replied, and followed the pair of them into the darkened bowels of backstage to Cross's private rooms.
"Well?" Cross asked, pouring them all a finger of whiskey once they arrived. "What brings you to my door?"
"Bad tidings, unfortunately," Miss Martin said, tossing her pretty hat on a chair and turning serious as she accepted the glass he offered.
"Whiskey?" Cross challenged, and Lucien accepted the glass, sniffing at the amber liquid as he surveyed the room with all its various accouterments.
There was a sarcophagus shaped item in the corner, painted to resemble an artifact from ancient Egypt.
Lucien crossed toward it, the gaslight lengthening his shadow so it loomed over the wall.
A pile of artifact lay dusty on the shelves—a small mini portrait of a man in Tudor fashions, a set of gemstones, and a coiled snake that almost seemed to watch him—
"Don't touch it."
Lucien froze, violence notching each muscle in his outstretched arm as he met Cross's stare. Something about the man rubbed him the wrong way.
"Don't touch anything," Cross added, pouring himself another dram, his fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle. "You never know what might bite you."
Lucien looked at the lifeless statue of a cobra, which he'd been about to touch. Oriental scrawling's tattooed its skin in black ink. Or what he hoped was ink. As he stared at it, he almost felt like it moved, the jewel in the center of its forehead shimmering.
"There's sorcery here," he said, tucking his hands into his trouser pockets, as if of his own accord. "Though it's foreign to me."
"It's Hindu magic. That of the Nagi," Cross explained, sounding as if he was settling in for a lecture. "Used to protect against the rakshasa."
"Indian demon spirits."
"In a simplistic version, yes." Cross set the glass to his lips, his eyes glittering. "I consider myself somewhat of a collector of relics and artifacts."
"Which is precisely why I came to you," Ianthe cut in, before he could elaborate. "I need to know, if a particular relic went missing, who might have taken it? Or commissioned the theft? You belong to the Dark discipline. You should know."
"I haven't been a part of that Order mess for years," Cross snorted, though his interest looked piqued. "Which relic?"
She stayed silent.
Cross scowled. "It would highly depend on the relic, but if it's something that tends toward the darker studies, I'd say Magnus Cochrane, Lord Tremayne, Lady Hester Lambert, and the not-so-Honorable Mr. Elijah Horroway.
If you're simply after information, I'd direct you to talk to Lady Eberhardt first, however.
Tickle the tiger's chin before you stick your neck in a snake pit.
She has an unsurpassed collection, apparently, and might know who to deal with, though if it's on the black market, Cochrane's your next best bet. "
Lady Eberhardt. Even Lucien arched a brow. Tickling the tiger's chin was putting it mildly. There were a few people in the order whom he wouldn't cross, and Eberhardt's name was on that list. But still... "I thought Horroway was dead."
"Some say he is. He studies the Gravest of Arts, does he not?"
A pun, the likes of which apprentices uttered.
There were three disciplines within the Order; Light, Dark, and Grey.
The Light discipline was primarily inhabited by healers, astronomers, and diviners.
Lucien's natural affinity was for the Light, thanks to his divining talents, whilst the Grey was Ianthe's discipline, as indicated by the chip of hematite in her rings.
It also held the most practitioners of any category, considering the broad spectrum of their talents.
Being of the Dark did not automatically mean that one was inclined to mischief, but Luc privately thought most of the Dark adepts pushed the boundaries of that.
The Dark was where you found those who sought power beyond their own, and they were often the strongest sorcerers, though not always.
The darkest of all arts was necromancy, and the Prime had been forced to set certain policies in place regarding the use of Grave Magic.
Necromancers were rarely stable, at best, nor did they own the purest of motives, and Elijah Horroway was the strongest necromancer around.
"I thought it was impossible to defeat Death," Lucien said.
"Some still try." An indecipherable look penetrated Cross's gaze. "It is an inescapable truth, that where a man is tempted by power and mysteries, he will always try to halt Death."
"And it never works out well," Miss Martin muttered. "One is not intended to live forever."
Both she and Cross exchanged a look.
"No. It doesn't." Cross tipped his head to her.
"So a relic has gone missing, and Drake has sent his right hand scurrying after it.
Which one is it? The Circlet of the Dawn Star?
The Pentacle of Merlin? The Blade of Altarrh—" Some expression must have given her away. "That's it. That's the one, isn't it?"
"Remy," Miss Martin warned.
Ignoring them as they bickered, Lucien glanced at the miniature portrait again. There was something familiar about it. Nothing tingled when he reached toward it, and frowning, he blew the dust from it.
He was right.
Remington Cross looked back at him, but Luc's psychometric abilities were tingling, plunging him back through images of wet paint and an Italian estate, fat grapes, a painter dressed in renaissance dress as he licked the brush, a pretty blonde woman opening a present and finding the miniature, then blood, darkness, jealousy, and death.
.. Lucien gasped and nearly dropped it. This portrait was over three hundred years old, and Cross didn't look a day older.
How—? He looked up sharply, only to find Cross staring at him.
"Nothing good ever comes of it," Cross repeated softly, before turning to Miss Martin. "If you need me, you know where to find me."
"I thought you didn't like meddling in Order affairs."
"Not since the 18th century, at least," Cross's eyelids drooped, "but I would make an exception this one time, just for you.
I can feel a vortex of power moving out there, somewhere in London, sucking in mass amounts of energy.
It's flares at odd increments of time before vanishing, but it's been there for a week. I've never felt anything like it."
Colors danced over Miss Martin's skin; uneasiness, fear, and something else that he couldn't quite put a finger on. A yellowish-gray color. "Drake knows nothing of this."
"Drake doesn't have my depth of experience," Cross replied, then caught Lucien's gaze, holding it there through sheer force of will.
"Nor does he have my scrying abilities. There is a knot of shadows woven around the pair of you, and it has something to do with the Blade and this mysterious vortex of power. Swear to me that you'll keep her safe."
That was the second time someone had asked this of him. "I swear."
"Good." Cross relaxed somewhat, then frowned. "Something dark is stirring in London, and I don't know if either of you are going to come out of this alive, but I do know this—you need each other if you have any hope of surviving."