Page 66 of Soulbound
Eleanor leaned up on her toes, lurching unsteadily against him as she lost her balance, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "You remind me of your father, very much so. He always bore the weight of the world on his shoulders too." Lowering herself to the floor, she patted his arm sadly. "He loved you, even though he never knew you."
"Until it was too late," Sebastian whispered.
Eleanor merely smiled. "It's never too late. I still have hope I will see him again. The demon has him for now, but we'll get him back. I know we will."
He only wished he had half her confidence.
* * *
Three hours later, Madrigal Brown swept inside Cleo's chambers like a woman going to an afternoon soiree, rather than one who'd been roused from her bed at dawn.
Sebastian looked up from his seat at Cleo's side, his hands curled over the carved arms of the chair, though he'd been warned not to make any sudden moves.
The assassin looked no more dangerous than a Pomeranian. A fox stole was draped around her throat, and as she entered the bedchambers, she began to unpin her broad-brimmed green hat.
She had to be sixty if she was a day, and the chip of marble in her Order ring indicated she belonged to the Light Arts, which were usually wholesome and beneficial. Divination gifts often pushed one into the Light Arts. However, Madrigal's gift of Foresight made her a formidable opponent, Ianthe had warned, and she'd been the other contender to take Ianthe's position as Prime until he'd entered the fray, his body a vessel for the demon.
Madrigal examined him as she tugged off her lace gloves. "The last time I saw you, your eyes were pure black."
"The last time I saw you," he countered, as he'd been aware of what happened when the demon used him as a vessel, even if he couldn't stop it, "you turned white as snow, and surrendered your claim upon the mantle of Prime."
Madrigal's lips thinned, and she palmed her gloves, a considering light in her eyes. "You cost me a great deal that day."
"You could have confronted me," he replied. "The way Ianthe did."
"The problem with Foresight, however, is that one can see their death coming. I wasn't ready to greet it. Now"—Madrigal turned to the bed, running a mercurial eye over Cleo's prone body—"what have we here?"
Sebastian rested his hip on the edge of the bed, and curled Cleo's pale hand in his as he told Madrigal what had happened.
"The girl was countering all Morgana's weaves?" Madrigal reached out and pressed a thin, paper-skinned hand to Cleo's forehead. "Oh, the little fool. She's overreached. Someone has learned the basics of how to future-walk without taking the time to crawl."
"Can you help her?"
Madrigal brushed a soft curl off Cleo's forehead. "And why should I?"
Their eyes met. This was the side of human nature he knew well. "To avoid having me as an enemy," he suggested coldly, before letting his gaze rest on Cleo's heart-shaped face. He couldn't feel the lively flicker of her energy against the shield he maintained against her. He'd even dropped the shield several times, trying to reach for her down the bond they shared, but there was... nothing there. A hint of her, perhaps, the bond still in place, but... distant.
"There are very few things in this world I hold dear," he whispered. "My wife is the one person who I would kill for. Die for. She's the only reason I'm here, working with Lord Rathbourne and Bishop to save my father."
"Bishop?" Madrigal murmured.
"My brother." He looked up. "And one of your Sicarii, I believe."
Seconds ticked out. Madrigal peered through him, almost as if she were seeing something else. He'd seen that look on Cleo's face often enough to know she probably was. Slowly her vision came back into focus, locking on his face. "I'll help her."
"Thank you."
Madrigal's lips pursed. "Do you know how many seconds ahead your wife was projecting?"
"I wouldn't have a clue. It's not something she's done before. I didn't even know she could do it."
"Here." Madrigal reached for him, and Sebastian froze. The last time another woman—aside from his wife—had touched him, he'd suffered a flashback. It hadn't ended well. A surge of nausea washed through him, and he captured her wrist, the leather of his gloves protecting him from touching her skin.
"Don't." Even to his ears, it sounded deadly.
Madrigal flinched back, her eyes widening as if she saw something she didn't like. Skirts swishing, she circled the bed, keeping it between her and him. "Your wife needs energy, and as fond as I am of holding a favor over the Prime's head, she's not having any of mine."
"What do I do?"
