Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
'Music is so very much like sorcery. One starts slowly, learning a series of notes, the same as one begins to form conscious pathways to ritual, in order to force the will to manifest. The more one practices sorcery, the swifter those pathways form, until one merely gathers his will together and the will changes the structure of the world around you.
The steps in between become invisible, but they are still important. '
– Of Music And Magic, by Johann de Villiers
Night fell. Outside, a storm shook the building. Blackened clouds brewed overhead, the occasional scythe of lightning highlighting half of London.
And despite knowing there'd be little sleep for him tonight, Lucien sent Ianthe away. He knew what she'd want to discuss: his weaknesses, his lack of sorcery. He was not in the mood. He just wanted to be alone tonight, regardless of that look in Ianthe's eyes.
Upending the bottle of brandy, Lucien trailed his fingertips across the ivory keys of the piano he'd found in the library. It was far enough away from her chambers that it wouldn't interrupt her. The song was familiar, his mother's favorite. Instantly, it took his thoughts to another place.
Lucien closed his eyes. He could see his mother now, all husky voice and laughter, her hair hanging in dark curls over her shoulders as she guided a younger version of him through the notes.
His memories of her were few: her soft voice, her perfume—jasmine, always jasmine—and the impeccable style with which she dressed.
He could never quite imagine her face properly.
Those eyes had been the same dark amber as his own, but when he tried to put all of the components of her face together, his mind threw up a half-finished canvas, dulled by time.
As if tainted by his emotions, the tune changed, becoming a little slower, a little darker.
He knew this song. Knew it, because she had played it frequently.
Lady Rathbourne might have been all that was elegance and grace, but her passions ran a little darker, or so it was said.
Music and opera stirred her. She liked tragedies, rather than comedy, and she was frequently sad.
A bitter sweetness lingered about her, but she had always loved him.
He was the one person who could light up her world and fill it with her smiles.
Lucien played the song through, hesitant, relearning the chords, stumbling sometimes, and then dabbling with the notes until he would hit the right one which stirred his memory anew.
Then he played it again, stronger, slower, striking the right sort of haunting melancholy, which was underscored by the storm outside. They worked in perfect counterpoint.
Music was something he'd forgotten his love for over the years. How long since he'd played? Ten years? Eight? Yet it rose within him, as if it had never truly faded away. Gone, but not forgotten.
Using the passion of the piece, the longing within it, he let the power of his will build until he felt fit to burst out of his skin.
He was almost there, almost on the verge of levitating the bottle of brandy, when the first ache began in his temple.
Instantly, his nostrils flared, sweat sprang into being down the back of his neck, and the small working of sorcery that he'd been forming undid itself.
The bottle hadn't quite shifted, but it vibrated a little as the force of his will vanished.
Lucien brought his hands down in a jarring display upon the piano, his head bowing.
Curse it.
So close...
What was wrong with him? Why could he not manipulate sorcery without feeling this discordant ache? It had worked before, when he'd produced the mage globe, but he'd been distracted by Ianthe's nervousness, not really thinking about it at all.
There were no answers. Not here.
Lucien grabbed the bottle of brandy again.
The spirits burned down his throat, leaving him with a heated knot in his gut that felt nice.
Oblivion. Numbness. That was what he sought tonight.
His body ached with need; he could have slaked it.
Ianthe had been more than willing, but as much as he would have liked to have drowned himself in flesh and heat and sex, that was beginning to become part of the problem itself.
The truth was, he was starting to like Ianthe. The problem being that he didn't quite know how he felt about that.
"I still want revenge," he'd told her—his parting words to her tonight—but they had sounded desperate, even to him.
Putting his hands back on the keys, Lucien turned to a tune that haunted him.
The first few bars played out in quivering, aching loneliness.
Could he trust her? He wasn't certain. Did he want to trust her?
Yes. And heaven help him, he wanted to do a hell of a lot more than that.
He wanted to bury himself in her, to shut out the world for the next three days, and simply lock them both in the bedroom together, as if they had no cares in the world.
As if they could pretend that all of the weight of the past meant nothing.
Worst of all?
He wanted to kiss her.
That maddening mouth. It taunted his memory.
Lucien's hands moved faster over the keys, stealing notes of growing passion from the pianoforte.
Far easier to throw himself into this, where he stopped thinking and simply let it all spill out of him in the throes of emotion.
Blood danced through his veins as he poured his heart and soul into the music.
To want such a thing was insane. He himself had set the terms of their bet, and now he wanted to break them.
Dangerous woman.
What was he to her? He knew she was keeping secrets. They haunted those violet eyes, her breath catching the entire ride home from Rathbourne Manor, as if words died on the tip of her tongue, each time he looked at her.
You can't have her.
You shouldn't want her.
No matter how many times he told himself that, it didn't matter.
The windows rattled in their casement. Lucien took another drink, then set the bottle on the top of the piano where a sticky ring had formed. Running a hand through his disheveled hair, he sighed. A prickling sensation rose along his spine.
That was when he began to realize he was not alone.
"Für Elise. It was beautiful," Ianthe said wistfully, from the doorway. "I didn't know you could play."
Lucien kept his head bowed. He couldn't look at her. Not in this moment. It felt like an intrusion into a private moment he'd been having, and yet he couldn't resent her for it, not when a part of him was also hungry for company.
Lightning lashed through the curtains.
Don't ask her... Don't...
"Join me?" The words sounded rough.
"Is that a question or a demand? It is night, after all, and you still want revenge, after all." The words were both a dark jest, and a challenge.
Lucien slowly turned. Rose silk draped her form, the robe tied just beneath her breasts. Those feet were bare, and somehow the sight was more intimate than anything else between them. This might have been a normal night between husband and wife.
But it wasn't.
"What do you want to do?"
Ianthe looked troubled. She padded across the parquetry floor, her gaze sliding to the storm through the window, then back to him. "That's a dangerous question."
"Is it?"
Their eyes met. He kept waiting for her to say something, some question about what had happened today between them, but her gaze dropped to his hands, and then she reached out and touched him. One languid stroke, her fingertips trailing over his. Wistful, perhaps.
"You have beautiful hands. I see now why you're so skillful in bed. You play the piano with the lightest touch, almost a caress. It's the same way you touch me."
Lucien cleared his throat. "Can't sleep?"
Ianthe shook her head ruefully, her hair bunched into a lazy chignon, as if she'd merely stuffed pins into it any old way.
Reaching out, he caught her fingers in his and drew her into his lap.
The silk of her rose-colored robe slithered over his trousers, her firm bottom nestling snugly against his cock.
He was aware of it. He was always aware of it—that slow burn beneath his skin whenever she was around—but he ignored the ache, rested his chin on her shoulder, and leaned around her to position his hands again.
The first notes rang out. Something lighter of tone: Beethoven's the Waldstein.
He managed the first and second movements, but couldn't quite manage the rapid left hand runs of the rondo with Ianthe in his lap.
The notes jarred and he fell still, leaning his chin upon her shoulder and drawing in a deep breath.
"I can't sleep either," he admitted, turning his face into the curve of her throat and breathing her in. Faint traces of her perfume lingered, but he could scent the base notes of her skin.
"Did you read Lord Rathbourne's grimoire?" she asked.
"Most of it. It makes little sense. It keeps saying that he's preparing me for the ultimate sacrifice. Then he spends entire passages gloating about revenge and how this will finally earn him back his honor."
"Sacrifice?"
Lucien shrugged. It had made all of the hairs on his arm stand on end, coinciding with what Lady Eberhardt had said, but he refused to dwell on it.
"I don't like that word, Lucien." Ianthe tilted her head toward him, fear painting icy blues across her skin.
His thumb stroked over her silk robe, absorbing the sensations. "Don't you? Why? Concerned for me?"
"Of course I am."
His heart twisted in his chest. "Don't be."
She tried to turn around. "Lucien—"
Hands curling around her waist, he held her in place. The easiest way to hide the fear in his heart was to keep his face turned away. "Perhaps that's why he used me to summon the demon? Maybe I was to be the blood sacrifice to appease it? If so, more fool he. The plan backfired."