Page 32 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
This time, Lord Dalton had come himself. Prout and Abbott were there too. Prout, who looked like a prize-fighter gone to seed, undid the fetter. Thornby staggered across the boundary in his muddy clothes, limping, falling, getting up again. His father watched, expressionless, sitting his restless horse like a statue. Prout and Abbott exchanged glances, but there was no sympathy in their faces. Abbott, who wore a permanent expression of baffled rage, looked as if he’d like to do worse to the lordling who was staggering out of sight into the thicket.
Lord Dalton didn’t even look at the chain, now a foot longer than it had been. Prout didn’t either. He simply looped it over his shoulder and the grim little party followed the rudimentary path Thornby had broken through the bushes.
John watched them go, fists balled in his pockets, until the temptation to run after them became so strong he felt it would choke him. Then he turned away. He longed to knock Dalton off his horse with a well-aimed rock and follow it up with some charmed salt to really make it sting. He’d maim Prout and Abbott, perhaps with iron pins to the feet. And then help Thornby home—put him to bed and get in beside him.
But he couldn’t. He clenched his teeth. He must play a long game. And, moreover, he must play it on two fronts; the curse on Dalton, and the spell on Thornby.
So far, he’d found nothing to help him with the spell. Next, he would try tackling the curse. And that meant a tête-à-tête with Lord Dalton. John had said he had ‘valuable contacts’. Maybe he could exploit Dalton’s greed—for money, for success in business, for whatever it was Dalton wanted, to find out more about the curse. And then, well, he had no idea beyond a vague theory that had come to him in the thicket.
The salt had given him the tip about the Woden’s Eye sigil. It had nearly ended in disaster, and at the time, he’d thought he’d never take advice from his materials again. But he’d wanted the hedgehog to reveal itself, and by God, it had done so. The salt’s advice had been effective. Perhaps some sigils were not really obsolete. Perhaps they just seemed so, because their true purposes had been forgotten. As people had migrated to the towns, and built new cities, the need for magic that could affect the fair folk must have abated. He himself, a city boy, had never come across it before, nor been taught anything of it at the Institute.
So, what other sigils might the salt suggest if he asked it? What might the pins suggest, or the sand or the spancel? If he made a list of all the obsolete sigils and charms he and his materials could remember, perhaps one of them might prove useful in dealing with this other kind of magic. And then he might free Thornby and break the curse on Lord Dalton.
If he didn’t somehow manage to kill himself in the process.
He began walking back the way he’d come, so he could appear to be returning to the house from the village. He had no wish to watch Thornby limping back to the house in front of him. It would be too much to bear.
Last night he’d watched Thornby sleep and wondered why it felt as if his heart was exploding in a burst of tattered magic. It was true they’d been through a lot together. Thornby had saved his life. But the sweet ache of love? After a couple of days’ acquaintance and one brief mutual tug?
But was it love, or something else? John had been in love before, but this felt different. Stronger. Better. Worse. What if this was the beginning of some kind of mania? Dalton seemed half mad after losing his fairy bride. If John allowed himself to fall in love with Thornby, and Thornby did not return the sentiment, would John become like Dalton? Obsessed forever with the one person he could no longer have?
‘Allow himself to fall in love’? Who was he trying to fool? There was no ‘allowing himself’ here. This was no sensible decision that the fellow could be a pleasant companion. There was no decision at all, no choice. Thornby made his knees weak and his balls ache. John wanted him the way a starving man wants bread.
He had always preferred well-born young men; the higher in the instep, the better. There was something about the accent and the air of privilege that made him long to fuck them senseless. To make them lose their poise and lose control; to make them writhe and moan and rut and forget themselves. Thornby was no exception.
Except, of course, hewasthe exception.
Because although he had the looks, the pretty manners and the grace of a thoroughbred, he was not actually an arrogant little bastard. Perhaps he had been once; all these months at Raskelf, in this unenviable position, had probably changed him. Now, there was something sweet about him. Once or twice he had seemed a little shy. When he wasn’t being defensive, he treated John as an equal. His habit of poking fun at their different stations was disarming.
John generally lost interest in the other young gentlemen he fucked, as soon as the fucking was done. He might see them a few times, but they grated on him, even as he desired them. Thornby did not grate. By not demanding John’s respect, he had won it. The way he teased was—fun.
John stopped in his tracks at that. Fun. He had not had much in his life. Life was work. It was serious. And he took his pleasures seriously too; you had to, or you got caught. Thornby made his heart lift.
And Thornby didn’t seem to mind the magic. He didn’t seem afraid of it, or afraid of John. John’s last affaire with a non-magician had ended in disaster, when the fellow had asked him for the hundredth time what it was he actuallydidfor Mr Paxton. John had told him, and the man had laughed, then scoffed. So, John had let him watch as he made a sigil to stop the Crystal Palace roof from leaking. He had thought an architect would appreciate such a charm, but no. It was dangerous, ungodly. It was wrong. It was cheating nature. And John had seen then, that the man was already ashamed of the things they’d done together, frightened of the way John made him feel, and that the magic was final damning proof. Not of something wonderful, but of something degenerate and evil.Stay away from me.
He started walking again, hazel twigs catching at his shoulders. Since meeting Thornby he’d scarcely thought of anyone else. He’d even forgotten his primary purpose in being here; to help Lady Dalton. The curse was the thing. If he could somehow unravel that, everyone would be a lot better off.
When he got back to the house he saw Lord Dalton going into the breakfast room. John took a moment to tidy the leaves out of his hair, then followed him in. Lord Dalton was devouring devilled kidneys. John bowed.
“Lord Dalton. A moment of your time, please.”
Dalton grunted, and gestured impatiently to the chair opposite.
John sat. “I’ve been thinking, sir—”
“Damn it, let me eat, man. We’ll talk when I’ve done.”
John clamped his lips together and tried not to think about what the man across the table had just done to Thornby. The curse surged around Dalton as he chewed. One-to-one, the stench of it was overpowering. It mixed with the scent of the kidneys, turning John’s stomach. He found himself watching Dalton’s hands, hard and calloused as a working-man’s. They surely never got that way from holding a polished stick and a well-oiled pair of reins. Dalton’s face was seamed and weather-beaten, as coarse as his hands. But his eyes were bright blue chinks, sharp as spite.
Finally, Dalton wiped his mouth, and let his gaze rest over John’s left shoulder. “Well?”
“Well, my lord.”
“Damn it, what do you want?”
“I’m here at your invitation, sir. I believe the proper question is; what doyouwant from me?”
Dalton made a grumbling noise in his throat. “Blake, isn’t it?”
