Page 33 of Hexbound
There was no point in denying it further. Agatha had a direct link to his mind, a bond between master and apprentice they'd never bothered to sever. "But no Grave Arts practitioner has ever managed to avoid it forever." Words he'd never dared admit before. "I've read the histories, Agatha. The only way to avoid it is to kill yourself."
"If you're thinking of doing something stupid—"
"I'm not." His voice softened. "I'm nowhere near that point. Yet. Lady Ackerly held out for almost forty years." He tried to smile. "I've got what? Another dozen years to go?"
"My dear, dear boy. I won't let you go so easily, you know? We will find a way to ease the ache of it so that you're not tempted." Squeezing the bridge of her nose, she clearly tried to think. "There has to be one practitioner of the Grave Arts who has managed to find relief before the craving grew too strong. I'll set Marie to digging through the histories I have."
"Thank you." He didn't bother to point out it would most likely be a waste of time. He'd been searching for something—anything—ever since he turned sixteen and discovered what he was.
"As for the girl... if her presence becomes too difficult for you to manage, she is most welcome in my home."
"That almost sounded as if you meant it."
Agatha screwed up her face. "Fine. I'll do it for you but I don'thaveto like it. It's taken me too many years to finally find peace, and I don't particularly care for any strangers to come peering into my personal life."
Guilt soured him. "Only if I cannot handle her. I'll try, Agatha." He paused. "Do you think you and Marie could find some clothes for her? She doesn't own very much, and none of it's suitable for this world. She'll need to blend in, if we're to find the Chalice."
"You think it's here? In the West End?"
"I don't know." He didn't tell her his theory about Tremayne. She'd be knocking on his doorstep with a pitchfork in hand if he did. "Possibly."
"I'll send Marie around in the morning with some dresses. Heavens knows Marie will probably never wear them, and they're much of a size. You owe me, Adrian."
"Mark it down on my slate," he replied with a faint smile.
A chime whispered from the communicator. Both of them heard it.
"Looks like you're a wanted man tonight." Her smile dawned. "Go. See who else is demanding your time. Then get some sleep. You look terrible."
"Thank you." With a frustrated half snarl, Bishop raked his hand through his hair and cut the connection. There were only two others who knew the link to his communication sphere. One of them was his father; the other...
"Mercadi," he whispered, circling his fingers over the globe to accept the link.
A cowled face swam into view. "Tomorrow. At ten. British Museum of Natural History."
Bishop stilled his frustration. He had a Chalice to hunt, and the Earl of Tremayne to find—and kill—before Tremayne became a threat to the Prime again. But this meeting was not something he could avoid. "I'll be there."
The communicator's glow died, and Bishop rubbed his hand over the stubble of his jaw. Just what complication was the Magister of the Sicarii going to throw into his life? A frisson of fear trembled down his spine. After all, the Sicarii served the Order and the Prime, and his father had stepped down from that position to care for his injured lover, Eleanor. Nobody had ever done such a thing before.
Which meant that Bishop's loyalties were now split.
What would happen if the Sicarii decided Drake was a threat to the stabilization of the Order, and the new Prime who would be elected at the end of the week during the Ascension Rites?
They'd kill Drake.
"Over my dead body," he whispered.
But he was only one man—one Sicarii—and there were four others.
Verity hada bag of tricks in her repertoire besides the ability to teleport.
Sorcery stirred somewhere in the house, a strange kind of spell craft that she'd never felt before, and curiosity finally got the better of her.
Wiggling her fingers in a complex pattern, she tore open a small rift between her room and the room where the spell was being cast, just big enough to listen and see—
An orb glowed and Bishop stared intently into it.
"Tomorrow. At ten," whispered a harsh voice. "British Museum of Natural History."
