Page 57 of Hexbound
The things he might be able to teach her.
That alone made her hungrier for the knowledge. Imagine what she could do—what choices she could make—if she wielded her sorcery expertly?
"Don't worry, Verity. We'll get the Chalice back. We just have to be patient." He seared another rune into the metal surrounding the table.
The Chalice was the least of her concerns. She shot him a glance, but his attention was purely focused on his work.
And not even remotely upon her.
Verity dragged her night-robe tighter around her thin shoulders. Obviously, she was the only one who felt this horrid yearning. She felt so very alone tonight. It wasn't so bad during the day when they were busy, but at night she had time to dwell on the loss of the Crows and her place in the world, and most of all, Mercy. She very much wanted to ask him to just hold her, but that would clearly be crossing a boundary, judging by the way he'd leapt from her touch like a scalded cat earlier.
Verity sighed. She was on her own, and it was clear she would have to learn to accept that.
The map table was a curious piece; a detailed map of nearly every street in inner London, rolled out upon what looked like a silver stand. "What does it do?"
"Through this, I can locate every practitioner of the Grave Arts in London, if I set up the spell work properly," he told her, stepping back and pouring fine metal filings across the map. Once they lay in an inert powder, he gently eased a glass cover over the top, settling it into the grooves were it clearly belonged. "I was thinking about what Trask said about our mysterious Grave Arts sorcerer not belonging to the Order. Using this, I might be able to track them. The runes trace Grave magic."
"Like you?"
"Like me." He stood back, splaying his hands over the table. His rings spat silver sparks as he began to draw in energy from the world around them. The fire flickered a little, and grew low. "Watch.Hestula vi anti, mi agra despulic hedora."
Silvery lines of power flowed through the silver engravings around the edge of the glass, lighting up each rune that it hit. Bishop held his breath, leaning closer as the air within the glass case seemed to crackle with static.
The little iron filings quivered.
"It's working," Verity whispered. The iron filings began to tremble and jerk as they slid across the map.
A pile of them grew on the street where his house lay. "There's me," Bishop murmured.
A thin thread of iron tracked their journey that day, from the Natural History museum to Lady Eberhardt's, and then to the Labyrinth, where it grew a little thicker.
"Why is it doing that?" she whispered.
"I think I've been leaving small amounts of power wherever I go," he murmured, closing his eyes as he manipulated the threads of sorcery. "Sort of like a scent trail that gradually fades."
Another small pile began to grow, this time at the East London Docks. Its trail was thick and strong, and jagged all over the place. Then three other piles. Each thinner and wispier than the last. She could almost make out where they were forming. The thicker trail was heading toward Cheapside. Another wisped off toward Greenwich, and the Natural History Museum lit up like a beacon.
"There are at least seven sorcerers we're looking at here," she said, leaning closer. Bishop's hands trembled. "Hold still," she said, watching the trail of filings march like ants to where they grew thickest. "It's nearly—"
A spark, a small cough of smoke, and Bishop yanked his hands off the glass. "Bloody hell," he cursed, grounding the energy he'd been utilizing.
All of it ground to a halt.
"What happened?" The iron filings collapsed on the map inertly, like puppets with their strings cut. Some of them circled certain places, but others lay in a scattered sprawl that meant nothing.
From the clenching of his fists, Bishop was tempted to kick the chair in front of him out of the way, but he swallowed hard, let his hands relax, and then collapsed into the chair, sinking his head into his hands. "I don't know. Obviously I didn't set some of the runes correctly. It's a complicated setup. Or perhaps... I'm tired. I lost control of the threads."
He looked exhausted, not just tired. Hollows pooled beneath his eyes, and there was weariness in the set of his shoulders that she hadn't seen before.
Verity pushed away all of her rejected feelings and crossed toward the liquor decanter to pour them both a brandy.
"Here," she said, kneeling in front of him and offering him the glass. If he didn't let go of some of this nervous energy, then something inside him was going to shatter.
"I'm fine," he told her, looking up. His eyes were black pools. "I'll get the map spell working before dawn. We can—"
"You're exhausted," she pointed out. "You should take the time to rest. The map can wait. The Chalice can wait."
"I don'thavetime to rest." There was the muscle clenching in his jaw. "There's so much to bloody do, and...." He ground his teeth together.
