Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1) Read online

  SHADOWBOUND

  THE DARK ARTS SERIES

  BEC MCMASTER

  LOCHABER PRESS PTY. LTD.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Also by Bec McMaster

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  BEFORE YOU LEAVE THE DARK ARTS WORLD...

  COMING SOON

  Bloodhound Sneak Peek

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  ALSO AVAILABLE:

  Shadowbound: A Dark Arts Novel

  Copyright © 2016 by Bec McMaster

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by: Hot Tree Editing

  Print formatting by: Cover Me Darling

  Cover Art (c) Damonza.com

  Created with Vellum

  ALSO BY BEC MCMASTER

  LONDON STEAMPUNK SERIES

  Kiss Of Steel

  Heart Of Iron

  My Lady Quicksilver

  Forged By Desire

  Of Silk And Steam

  Novellas in same series:

  Tarnished Knight

  The Curious Case Of The Clockwork Menace

  DARK ARTS SERIES

  Shadowbound

  Bloodbound (Late 2016)

  BURNED LANDS SERIES

  Nobody's Hero (May 2016)

  OTHER

  The Many Lives Of Hadley Monroe

  For Byron, for being my very own soul-mate.

  CHAPTER 1

  'Sorcery is a vile practice. The work of the Devil. And we shall not rest until those devil-worshipping practitioners who reside in society are driven to repent—or driven out of our fair city of London.'

  - GRANT MARTIN, Chief of the Vigilance Against Sorcery Committee

  LONDON, 1894

  "COME NOW, my lady, it's not safe."

  Miss Ianthe Martin pressed the delicate handkerchief to her nose as she looked around the cell. Steel bars cut the gloom, delivering stark stripes across the stone floors. A shadow curled up beneath the barred windows, light striking the plain buff breeches covering his knees, and the bare soles of his feet. Large feet with carefully delineated toes. She stared at them, as her vision slowly adjusted to the gloom, remembering the feel of those bare feet against hers, once, shockingly long ago.

  The prisoner looked up slowly, through the dark curtain of brown hair that surrounded his face. Dangerous, topaz eyes the color of molten gold watched her coldly, beneath harshly slanted brows. They flickered to her right, as if taking in the attendant who escorted her, then back again. Like a cat lashing its tail.

  Secured, yes. Chained and beaten down. But instinct stirred, a smoky hot shiver low in her stomach. The long-subdued, primal part of her recognized danger when she saw it. "How long has he been kept in such solitary confines?"

  "Ma'am." The attendant coughed reproachfully. No doubt he thought this completely beyond the pale.

  Ianthe took a step closer as the attendant cleared his throat. His silence rattled her temper. "Damn you, how long?"

  "Three months in solitary, ma'am."

  And another nine before that, locked in with the writhing sprawl of humanity in the other corridors. New Bethlem Hospital—or Bedlam to most—had more than earned its reputation. Home to the criminally insane, the mad, and the Devilish Lord Rathbourne. The press had named him all three.

  "Rathbourne?" One hesitant step into the cell. "Do you know who I am?"

  There was a pentagram carved into the stone floors. New, from the look of the chisel marks. No doubt inspired by her father's work, and his precious committee. Though the Order of the Dawn Star that she belonged to served its Queen and country, there were always citizens superstitious enough, or too foolish, to understand what sorcery was.

  "Rathbourne?" She hesitated, then added, "Lucien?"

  Blast it. She'd hoped to find a sign of the man she'd once known. She could see more of him now; those stark cheekbones delineated even more clearly from the straitened circumstances, and the harsh, almost-black beard that lined his jaw. No sign of the elegant man who'd once melted her seventeen-year-old heart... and then ripped it out of her chest with barely a smile.

  She hadn't even known his name the night she laid with him.

  Not that he had any inkling of the reason for her dislike of him. That long-ago Equinox, she'd been masked, like all of the participants. Just a young woman—a girl truly—wanting to know more about the hot lick of power within her... and finding herself in perhaps deeper waters than she'd anticipated.

  Rathbourne's affliction and subsequent incarceration had stripped all of the gilt off him, and cut him down to little more than taut muscle, furious eyes, and simmering animal fury. A chained beast, the shackles pinning him to the pale, limestone walls. Even one around his throat, as if even chained they'd still feared him.

  As they should have. Rathbourne was a dangerous man.

  The hand holding the handkerchief lowered. There was no sign of recognition in his eyes. No sign of the lucidity she'd hoped to see. Her last hopes dashed. A flicker of cold disappointment burned in her throat. What the devil was she going to do now?

  Firstly, she had to get him out of this squalor.

  "Are you aware that this man is a peer of the realm?" Ianthe turned on her heel and pinned the attendant with her best glare.

  "His lordship is dangerous. Mad as hatters. Tried to choke a man with his own chain. Kept on about the shadows, how they were coming to get him..."

  Ianthe's gaze flickered. The shadows didn't shift here. That didn't mean they couldn't. She knew better than that. The gleaming emerald around her throat threw off a splash of vibrant green against the bare walls as the sun caught it. Rathbourne flinched, as though the light hurt his eyes. No doubt the visiting cell they stood in was far different to the merciless pit they called solitary.

  "You will remove him immediately and see him washed. New clothes. And shoes." Those bare feet bothered her.

  The attendant opened his mouth.

  "Don't argue," she said coldly, "or I shall see you dismissed."

  Stepping through the door, she stared down the long, white corridor and pressed a hand against her temples. This was a nightmare. What was she going to tell the Prime? That the man Drake sought to free was long gone, lost in a mire of madness brought on by the backlash of his own powers. That sorcery had cost the Prime his bastard son's wits?


  "Wait."

  The sound rasped through a dry throat.

  Ianthe's head jerked up, her breath catching. Slowly she lowered her hand and turned around.

  Rathbourne's glittering eyes locked on her. "You."

  Throwing himself against his chains, he strained hard. Muscle gleamed in the tattered remnants of his shirt, his biceps tightening as he fought to free himself.

  "Shadow-lady," he whispered, yanking again and again, until blood shone on his dirty skin. "I remember you."

  Despite the chains, she felt not at all safe. "Stop it." Ianthe forced her voice to remain hard. He'd not take well to kindness, not from her. "This exercise is pointless. You shall only hurt yourself."

  The gleam of his bared teeth was the only answer.

  Ianthe took a step inside the cell. Show even a hint of fear, and he'd tear her apart. She let her aura flare, dropping her wards for a brief second. Rathbourne froze, his eyes showing white as he saw power fill her. It was a sign that at least his mental acumen and abilities had not been entirely broken.

  "Serve me," she whispered, "and I shall let you out of your chains."

  "I'd rather rot."

  "And let your enemies win?" she asked, stretching out one petite, white-gloved hand.

  He flinched, and Ianthe forced herself to stretch those last few inches to touch him. "I know you think me an enemy," she murmured, stroking her gloved thumb along that roughened jaw.

  "You put me in here."

  "I did. Do you remember why?"

  Those dangerous eyes dropped away, losing their focus. "I–I–There was a fire."

  Not a fire. Not quite. This close to him, she could see the marks still. See where they'd burned their way into his flesh, gleaming scar-slick through the tears in his shirt. Perhaps it was best to let him believe that flames had scored those marks into his chest, and not a demon's wrath.

  "I will let you out, Rathbourne, but you must do this one thing for me first. You must let me bind you, to make certain you're no danger to myself, or anyone—"

  "No! I remember you, shadow-binder. I know what you are."

  Shadow-binder. She stroked her other fingers along the floor, and caught the edge of the nearest shadow, letting it trail closer, the shadow-web trapped by the edges of her fingertips. "You know nothing, Rathbourne." If he denied her this, then she would stand alone against her enemies, alone against all who tried to destroy her cause.

  And the cost... the cost of losing was unacceptable.

  Louisa... Oh, God.

  His thigh flinched away from the shadows as they drew nearer. Ianthe leaned closer and whispered in his ear. "I need a Shield, and you need an Anchor. Allow this binding, and once we are done, you shall be free to exact your revenge on all of those who saw you placed here. I swear."

  His head turned, breath rasping. "Even you?"

  No matter what the price... "If you help me find what I'm looking for, then I shall release your bond at the end of our terms of service. You may do to me as you will. Or you can attempt it." She was not without her own forms of protection, after all. She was no longer the foolish young girl he'd entranced that long-ago Equinox.

  Those tiger-eyes turned thoughtful, watching the shadows under her touch disperse. "Two weeks of service."

  It should be enough time. "I'll need your oath that you will agree to the binding once we are quit this place."

  "By my Power, I shall let you bind me. I shall not hurt you, or yours, and I shall obey all directives."

  Ianthe let out the breath she'd been holding. Thank goodness. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she couldn't let him see how much she needed him. "I accept." Leaning forward, she pressed her lips lightly to his, tasting the vow on his tongue and drawing it within her mouth.

  The bite of the oath stung her lips, leaving them bloody. It mingled with his own oath, the power-spat words tearing over her tongue. So he was still strong enough for this. She could practically feel the hum of his power throbbing beneath his skin.

  "You have two weeks of service," he said. "Use it wisely. Now get me the hell out of here."

  * * *

  HOT WATER. Good lord. Lucien pressed the flannel to his face, wiping away the last of the shaving foam. His face gleamed back at him in the reflection from the mirror, his newly shaven cheeks flushed and pink. It did little to soften the harsh look of his face; the sharp slash of his cheekbones and the golden, almost feverish gleam of his eyes. His body had fared no better. Hard, lean, stripped down to bare muscle, he looked somewhat like a caged tiger. Bedlam had changed him. A little shudder rolled over his skin as the power in the wards in the room brushed against him. In more ways than one...

  The carriage ride to Miss Martin's establishment had been horrendous. Bright lights, the harsh blare of an omnibus horn, and muffled shouts. He'd had to drag the curtain on the carriage down, shielding his eyes from the inch of light that managed to creep in below it. Three months in the liquid dark of solitary had made him horrifically sensitive. The world was too bright, too loud, and full of noise, ripe scents, and the jarring scream of babbled conversation.

  When Miss Martin had glanced at him, a question in those dangerous blue eyes, he'd simply curled his lip in a silent snarl. That's right, darling. You wanted a madman. You got one.

  Dragging on the shirt one of her servants had placed out for him reminded him a little of the man he'd once been. A stranger. His fingers fumbled with the buttons, but he finally managed to make them work. The creature in the mirror was transforming before his eyes, resembling the man he'd once been.

  Still... Not the same. Never the same again, no matter how much he looked like it.

  This was what came of trusting the man he'd called a father all his life—agreeing to a wellspring bond that had allowed Lord Rathbourne to take control of his powers for a certain ritual. It was the only reason he was still alive. Unable to repel Lord Rathbourne's controlling collar, he'd been forced to summon a demon against his will. It was those last few words that were the important ones. A capital crime became incarceration, instead of execution.

  Memory fractured in his head. The demon's foul, gloating smile as Lucien's mouth formed those damning words, Lord Rathbourne pulling his strings much as a puppet-master might. Fighting it. No... No, I will not command it to do this! I will not ask it to murder the Prime! And those fatal words as he realized there was no way free of this: “I bid thee to kill my father.”

  He'd meant Lord Rathbourne, of course.

  And the demon had smiled, its bulbous lips splitting over ragged teeth. “As Master commands.”

  Then it had vanished.

  Lord Rathbourne's mocking laugh was the only thing remaining, and in that moment, he'd speared Lucien with the truth, the reason he'd been such a cruel bastard all Luc's life. “Who do you think your father is, boy?”

  The pain of the memory slashed through him, and Lucien returned to himself, bent over the vanity and gripping the polished oak veneer as if his life depended on it. Sucking in a huge breath, he could barely see, his vision shattering into a million different colors.

  Lord Rathbourne. The Prime. Miss Martin. This was upon their heads. He would have his revenge, the way he had Lord Rathbourne. The thought served to soothe some of the violence of his nerves, to let all of those dancing colors flicker away to nothing.

  Lucien looked up, meeting his own expression. Lord Rathbourne was dead, obliterated by the backlash, as Luc tore himself free of the bond forged. Now he had a chance to repay the Prime's so-called mercy in sending him to Bedlam, and Miss Martin for being the one to capture him. He wouldn't forget the callous way in which she'd cut him off from his sorcery and dragged him before the Prime.

  Ever.

  Thumbing his braces over his shoulders, he fixed a tie over that damning scar at his throat, and shrugged into his coat. The tie looked a mess, but he was breathing too hard to let anyone else in here to help him with it. Silence and peace. That was all he needed, for the moment. How ironic that a
fter months of dreaming of people, of touch, of conversation, all he wanted now was to hide away. Ignoring his shaking hands, he straightened the tie and examined himself. He wasn't going to get what he wanted.

  Time to deal with the Devil herself.

  If he found the courage to leave the dark, shuttered bedchambers she'd delivered him to at her small set of apartments.

  Christ. Lucien scraped a shaking hand over his mouth. He felt like half a man. Pull yourself together, you lily-livered toff. Dragging on the copper bracelet they'd taken from him when he first arrived at Bedlam, he instantly felt soothed. He'd spent months working runes to shield and protect into the metal; it was a device that could protect him from sorcery, even with his power still so raw.

  Miss Martin. If he focused on the devilish-sweet memory of her face, he found he could breathe a little. Revenge. Freedom. To forge himself anew. The litany grounded him.