Page 30 of Soulbound
"Everything on this property belongs to me," Malachi replied darkly.
"Not this," Bishop disagreed.
Verity touched his arm in silent warning.
"Oh, now I know what you want. Did your precious Order misplace something important?" Malachi sipped at his brandy, laughing under his breath. "Something a new friend gave me for safekeeping?"
"Morgana isn't your friend," Sebastian said. "You'd be a fool to think that."
"I'd be a fool to think anyone was my friend. So I don't." Malachi's eyes lingered on him. Recognition suddenly dawned. "Now I remember you. You were there when she offered me the Wand. Where's your collar, boy?"
"Long gone," Sebastian said coldly. "Along with my allegiances."
Malachi settled in one of the chairs, hooking his ankle up on his opposite knee. "Interesting," he mused. "I need the Wand."
"For what?" Remington cocked a brow. "Are you planning on conjuring a demon? I thought you’d learned your lesson."
"The Wand can command a Greater Demon from the Shadow Dimensions. So what do you need it for?"
"I don’t," Remington replied. Their shadows loomed long against the walls, and there was a somewhat feral line to them, though both men played at repose. Remington gestured to their little party. "My friends do, however, and I’m inclined to help them."
Malachi cocked his head. "Does it have anything to do with the tremors moving through London at this moment?"
"The demon, you mean?" Remington remained nonchalant. "Let us not mince words."
"Did you bring a demon here?"
"I did not," Remington replied quietly. "One of us, at least, has learned their lesson."
This was going nowhere. Cleo stepped forward. "It doesn't matter who summoned the demon. The fact is, it's here now, and it's taken over the body of a powerful sorcerer. The demon intends to destroy London, and I have it on very good authority that we have less than two weeks before this destruction begins. Surely you can't want to see London suffer. There shall be no more parties, no more dancing... and whatever else it is that you do here. Even on the outskirts of London, you'll be affected."
Thick lashes obscured his eyes. Malachi considered his brandy. "And what if one is kin to demons?" He looked up emotionlessly, and his sudden smile held a certain sort of bitterness. "Perhaps I'll enjoy this new era."
"Please," Cleo whispered, going to her knees before him.
"Are you trying to appeal to my conscience, my dear? A wasted attempt, for I don't have one. Your good friend, Remington here, will tell you that."
She deliberately thought of the girl in the glass coffin, and the tender way Malachi kept the candles around her lit, so she wouldn't be in the dark. "I think you do. Though you might tread a dark path, not everything is lost."
Curiosity stirred in his gaze. "You never told me your name."
"Cleo Montcalm. Formerly Sinclair."
"Sinclair...."
"Lord Tremayne was my father."
Those emotionless eyes drew their own conclusions. "You're asking me to give up a very powerful object that was gifted to me, out of the goodness of my heart, which is decidedly not pure." He shook his head. "I don't know what to make of you. Good lord, you almost inspire a man to be better. But then one remembers what one is, and the idea of corrupting you is almost more tempting. Who would win? The innocent heart at my feet, or the devil before you?" He captured her chin with striking speed, bringing their faces closer together. His lashes fluttered over those pale cheeks, his expression languid. "I can see the temptation of the dark within you. You are not pure, not completely. There's a heart of darkness within you that hungers to be released...."
"Cleo," Bishop murmured, and she sensed him moving closer.
She reached up and cupped Malachi's face with her palm, seeing the young woman in her tomb again, the little room with all its candles... and something else.
"What happens when she wakes up?" Cleo whispered, low enough so the others couldn't hear. "What will she see when she looks at you? This man who plays his wicked games to amuse himself, or someone who has a good heart? What do you want her to see?"
Malachi cupped her palm against his cheek, but out of a sense of preservation, she thought, and not anything else. "She will see what she always saw: a wicked, wicked man."
"You could change that."
