Page 39 of The Unweaver

A hardening length pressed against her belly. Breathless, their gazes locked in a stunned moment of realization. She scrambled to her feet and almost pitched herself out of the tub. Milk cascaded down her body, plastering the sheer fabric of her chemise to her skin.

Drawn by his gaze, she made the mistake of looking down. His hooded eyes charted a searing path from the peaks of her breasts to the thatch of dark hair between her thighs.

She stumbled onto the slippery tiles and wrapped herself in a bathrobe that smelled like him, crisp and evergreen.

“Bl-bloody hell,” she said between chattering teeth. Purgatory’s bone-deep chill had followed her out, but her shiver wasn’t entirely due to the fog.

Lacing his fingers behind his head, Bane reclined back in the tub and closed his eyes. Her gaze traced the shifting muscles on his chest and arms, the droplets beading off his chest hair.

Get a hold of yourself, she admonished. The reason that had deserted her came flooding back.

Teddy. Purgatory. Vengeance.

She recalled the snowy sepulcher. From her familiarity with the London graveyards, she recognized it as the Crossbones cemetery, an unconsecrated burial ground of paupers and prostitutes dating back to the Medieval ages. No destitute soul had been buried there in a century. Until now.

“T-Teddy showed me where his b-body is. He’s in the c-cemetery in Southwark.”

“A cemetery,” he huffed without opening his eyes. “Of course it’s a fuckin’ cemetery.”

Chapter 10. Cheerful

“Jesus, I haven’t seen this much snow since I fought in Russia,” Bane said, driving his sleek Bugatti south on snow-covered streets.

The Christmas Eve storm had dumped a foot of snow overnight. Cora had watched it pile up on the slumbering streets from Bane’s moving house. Going to the Crossbones cemetery would have to wait.

Following their foray into Purgatory, Bane had refused to take Cora back to her flat. He insisted she stay in the Witch’s Cap bedroom atop the library tower for her own safety. Mother was after her, and Verek was after him, which meant he was after her, too.

He cut off her protests with a dismissive, “Don’t be a fuckin’ idiot.” And that was that. The bastard was not one to mince words.

After telling her, repeatedly, she could go anywhere in his houseexceptthe locked room on the second floor, Bane left without ceremony. She slept on the couch instead.

The several drams of whiskey she helped herself to didn’t chase away Purgatory’s chill, but they quieted her thoughts enough for a few fitful hours of sleep. Her dreams were of fogand Teddy, the gaping hole in his chest opening and swallowing her.

Christmas morning dawned, and with it a renewed pang in her chest. There’d be no Walcott family celebrations today. Cora wondered how deep this well of misery went. Would she drown before she reached the bottom?

She pulled herself back from the edge. There might not be champagne this morning, but maybe by tonight there’d be something worth toasting. She knew where Teddy’s spirit wandered and where his body laid. She cupped the flicker of hope with both hands against the bitter wind of doubt.

If only the weather would cooperate. The storm didn’t clear until the sun began its descent towards the snow-laden horizon.

Bane insisted they drive rather than traverse to the cemetery. He could only traverse safely if he’d been there before, and unlike Cora, he was not in the habit of frequenting graveyards. The risk of getting stuck in a chimney or plummeting from several stories was apparently greater than one desired. The cemetery would also be warded, Bane cautioned. Using magic would spring what he suspected was a trap.

His plan did not go over well with her.

“Driving will takeagesin all this snow. Besides, who’d set a trap for a Necromancer in a graveyard?”

“Exactly.”

They took his Bugatti.

“This is the nicest car I’ve ever been in,” she said to fill the oppressive silence as they got in. Intimately experiencing the nude body of one’s employer lent a certain awkwardness. An awkwardness now palpable in the car’s buttery leather interior.

“I make them,” he replied.

“Legally?”

“Mostly.”

In the rearview mirror, Cora watched his house disappear. Few had likely seen it from the outside. The Victorian Gothic had a gabled roof, stained-glass windows, and a round tower peeking into a spire. Dark fish scale shingles rose from the expansive porch up three stories like a black gauntleted fist. While an imposing structure, it was too small for his sheer multitude of things.

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