Dead Magic (19 page)

Winslow.
Lord Agoston
, her mind corrected. He met her gaze with a grim look.

Her heart actually fluttered, her relief in seeing him was so great. When he released her mouth, Winslow regarded his bloodied palm with rueful amusement. She felt the thrum of his magic as he healed the wound; felt her own Talent purr in her bloodstream. His attention lowered to where the envelope had crinkled between the press of their bodies, and he breathed in relief. She felt his breath stir the hair beside her face and she fought back a sundry of unnecessary questions.

Why did you stay away? Where have you been?

She knew perfectly well why he had stayed away. Her skin tingled at the memory of his wicked mouth, and to her mortification she looked at it. Full and firm, the pale pink of his lips twitched into a small frown, and rather than look away as she knew she ought to, Valeda continued to stare, transfixed by the memory. Her Talent seemed to coil in her chest, urging her forward.

"Valeda."

He spoke her name so softly it was a breath, his hands clasping her shoulders now as he put some distance between them. She felt a tremble pass through him and she finally looked up to his eyes again. Fear flashed in his hazel-green gaze-fear and pain.

Confused, Valeda waited, suddenly remembering her ruined apartment and the door she'd left half ajar. Gazing past him at her shredded bed, indignation ignited and she stiffened. He seemed to sense the change in her because he shook his head once, seized her by the hand and began to lead her to the window. Unlatching the foggy, snow-laden window with one hand, he pushed the glass pane open. Sleet lashed into the room, frigid wind assaulting her senses as he stepped onto the narrow ledge.

Suddenly understanding what he was about, Valeda gasped and tugged on his hand. In response, Winslow pressed a finger to her lips, urging her to stay quiet. Then he smiled, winked and ducked until he was crouched inside the window frame. She watched him for a stunned moment, her lips tingling from that brief touch, and tried to wrap her mind around what was happening.

Fear settled in her chest. He had to believe they were still in danger to insist on the silence.

Winslow surveyed the street below, then craned his neck to peer up at the roof. He looked ridiculous. His stylishly tailored trousers were the stuff for gentlemen and should not be worn for climbing in and out of windows. At least his boots seemed practical, and the long coat was thick.
Thicker than my own threadbare jacket
, she thought.

His grip on her hand changed and he pulled her intimately close. She felt his warm breath at her ear before he whispered very softly, "Trust me."

She nodded once and he lifted her. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders as he pushed them both out the window. Valeda swallowed a scream and buried her face in the crook of his neck. Wind tore at her jacket, icy flecks of rain pelted her head, and the stomach-dropping sensation of their descent forced a muffled whimper out of her. Then everything stopped.

There was no impact, as though they had landed and no jolt signifying that they had been caught by something; everything just stopped. Confused, Valeda lifted her face.

Winslow's features were set in firm concentration and he was looking down at the ground in preparation. Valeda realized a moment later that they were still moving, albeit slowly, and that the world around them had taken on a strange sheen. Snowflakes stood transposed in the air, undisturbed until they had both passed through them. Even the wind ceased its chilly barrage.

"You're bending time," she whispered.

Winslow didn't answer her. When their feet lightly touched ground, he released Time and the storm resumed, buffering against her with sudden fury. She had to shield her eyes and she cringed under the icy assault, still a little shocked at his casual use of magic. Valeda had seen Witch-Born perform such feats before, but she'd certainly never been this close. It left an altogether unpleasant knot of fear in her gut.

Reaching out, Winslow took her hand and began to lead them down the street.

***

I should have trained her like Dorian had asked me to
, Winslow thought. Then she could have been more help on the trek from her apartment, instead of just scurrying along beside him. They didn't meet with any trouble, but Winslow hadn't been able to concentrate on whether or not they had been followed, either. As he led her past the front lobby of his chosen hotel, Winslow glanced at the greasy man lounging behind the front counter.

Horace had his back to them, as usual, and the snarled patch of his dark hair was slicked over the left side. A "Do Not Disturb" sign hung off the lip of the counter, with a hand-written addition just to its right: "Unless for payment."

Dutifully ignoring the night manager, Winslow pulled Valeda through the back hallway and down the near crumbling corridor that held his room. Three of the electrical lights were out and one made a constant flicker, but the darkness obscured the paint-chipped walls, and hid the passage of many rodents near the edges of the floor.

Winslow was surprised when Valeda didn't utter some sort of protest as he admitted them into his room. He had certainly grumbled about the small, creaky bed and lack of appropriate facilities. Down at the other end of the hall was a large, moldy bathing area meant to be shared by everyone on this floor. The one time he'd tried to use it, he'd been mortified by the mostly brown water that trickled out of the copper pipes. Even more startling was a slick, filmy substance ringing the tub. Winslow had forgone the necessary, opting for the more archaic basin and towel technique for washing.

Closing the door behind them, Winslow hurried to the window at the east wall. He peered down both sides of the street and finally relaxed. If they had been followed, there was no sign of their pursuers.

"Is this where you've been staying?" Valeda asked.

She shouldn't have been able to see in the dark. He hadn't turned on the lights out of paranoia, wanting to check the street before alerting anyone to their presence, and his Talent-enhanced eyesight was good enough to negotiate the gloom. Valeda surveyed the room quietly, frowning at the shabby bed and splintered nightstand. She could see, and clearly. His Talent murmured to him, urging him closer to her, and he wondered if she realized she was using magic.

Winslow forced himself to stay where he was. Leaning against the window frame, he crossed his arms over his chest and watched her. The past weeks had been a torture for him. Haunting her footsteps every day, he stayed true to his word and kept her safe, but he remained hidden in an attempt to understand their sudden attraction. It wasn't normal and he knew it.

Regardless, he didn't want to be attracted to her. He wanted to keep Bryva's memory untainted. With Valeda nearby, Winslow couldn't summon Bryva's image to mind, couldn't catch the sound of her laugh or remember the lemony scent of her.

"I was not here for pleasure," Winslow said, addressing Valeda's unspoken question. "I needed a room close enough to your apartment that I could hear you if you needed me. If there were a nicer hotel within range, trust me, I would have used it."

Valeda blushed and looked away. She seemed hurt by the cold tone of his voice and he cursed himself as a cruel bastard. But he couldn't afford to be apologetic. She was an unwelcome complication in his life, an intolerable temptation, and if he wasn't careful, he might succumb to her.

"I'm sorry it couldn't have been pleasanter for you," she said after a moment.

Whether she'd meant it as a double meaning or not, Winslow's immediate thought was of her mouth. He looked at the thin, straight line of her lips and felt his magic tug him forward. Before he knew what he was doing, Winslow found himself a step away from her. She didn't withdraw, but he thought she might have if she'd known the images teasing at his mind.
'Pleasant'
, he thought,
isn't the word for her.
'Alluring'-that's closer.

"What news from Lady Delgora?" He summoned his voice at last and nodded down to the envelope in her hands.

Valeda looked down and started to open the envelope. Inside were two greenish tickets. Winslow almost groaned. He really didn't want to get on another train. His mind still got caught on the memory of the accident from time to time. Mostly at night, when everything was dark and there was no distinguishing between his bed and the iron cocoon he'd been trapped in. But he knew a train ticket when he saw one.

"There's no note," Valeda said.

"I imagine Lady Delgora knows we are intelligent enough to get the message," Winslow said, returning to the window.

"But how did she know you were with me?"

Winslow moved to check the window again. It was fully dark outside but the glow of lamplight reflected off the snowy streets. The storm had abated some.
It will still be a miserable walk to the train station
, he thought. Glancing at Valeda's ragged coat, he sighed.

"The Lady is very clever," he said, as he began unbuttoning his jacket. "Though I'm certain Dorian informed her of our whereabouts."

"Oh." Valeda peered into the envelope again. "Does she always do things this way?"

"That depends on the level of danger she's in. You'll notice that someone managed to track you down. They know you're involved with Delgora and desperately want information."

Her frown deepened and she gave the tickets an accusatory glare. "My apartment was searched for this?"

Shrugging his jacket off, he crossed back to her. "Obviously, they weren't aware of how innocuous the contents were. They would have been disappointed if they'd actually managed to get it."

"What are they hoping to find?"

Winslow smiled and wrapped the jacket around her shoulders. "And I thought you were the reporter here, Vee. A better question to ask is who 'they' are."

She stiffened under his hands but he continued to fuss with the jacket. He pulled the collar up, feeling the heat of her skin near her collarbone. The jacket was too big for her. It swallowed her whole, its hem brushing the dirty floor and the shoulders bunching up near her ears. She looked small and shaken, as though his very nearness might undo her.

"The only person who might link me to Lady Delgora is Montgomery Taven," she said.

"Ambassador Taven?" Winslow frowned at the news. "Lady Orzebet's pet?"

"He was at Delgora court when I arrived. To be truthful, he is the one who brought me to Lady Delgora's attention."

Pivoting on his heel, Winslow moved to collect his travel bag from behind the dresser. There was nothing valuable in it, just a spare set of clothes, but his instincts warned him that they wouldn't be back here. Elsie had to know the danger she was in. Minne Orzebet truly hated the fact that Elsie and Dorian had wed.

No
, he thought,
it's more than that.

Lady Orzebet hated Dorian. He was a living, breathing reminder that her husband had loved Lady Jessamine Feverrette. Never mind that Rorant hadn't been married at the time, Minne would never forgive that infraction. Winslow had witnessed the way Dorian was treated in the Orzebet home. As a young man, he'd even helped Dorian fight off his half-brothers when things got particularly nasty.

The fact that Dorian was now a Consort, when her own son had never managed to marry, must be driving Minne insane.

Winslow thought of the abduction attempt and fear knotted in his chest. Minne Orzebet was just crazy enough, just angry enough, to be lethal. Curling his fingers into the rough fabric of his travel bag, he looked back to Valeda.

"What time does the train leave?"

Dorian waited in his father's private sleeping box on the train with a growing sense of apprehension and annoyance. He hadn't needed to sneak into a meeting with his father in eight years and he truly disliked having to do so now. But the way Victor had held the gun on him, the fear he'd seen in the old Warder's face, alerted him to the need for discretion.

Something had Lord Rorant Orzebet frightened enough to allow a weapon to be pointed at Dorian's head, and that concerned him considerably. Dorian could easily have avoided the bullet, but it was generally counted as bad form to level a weapon at someone.

What bothered Dorian the most were the Remora fragments that had been shot at him. The whole abduction sequence kept replaying in his mind, nagging at him that he'd forgotten something important.

Miss Quinlan was right. The Warders of Magnellum were the sole legal owners of Remora stones, which meant that either there was a leak inside the office, or the Warders themselves had tried to abduct him.

Frowning, Dorian leaned into the corner of the train car and stared at the door. He wished his father would hurry up with dinner. The longer this took, the further away from Lorant he'd be when he'd have to jump off. He'd considered riding through to the next station and then taking a new train back, but there was a gnawing sense of unease in his gut about leaving Bartholomew alone.

No
, he thought. He wasn't really concerned about Bart's safety. Bart was among the more likeable men in Magnellum.
No one would want to hurt him, not even if it meant getting to me
.

What he wanted was a few extra days preparing the manor house before Elsie's arrival. Dorian was a target, but Elsie was the prize. And he'd be damned if she was hurt by anything he might have prevented.

The door slid open and Rorant stepped inside. Upon spotting Dorian lounging in the corner, his father stopped and blinked, then quickly slid the door shut. The privacy shutter was already closed on the door and the outside window, but Rorant checked them both anyway.

"If I'd known you were waiting I would have skipped the second marzipan," Rorant said and settled into the seat across from him.

"It's less suspicious that you didn't."

"True," Rorant said. After a moment of unbuttoning jacket, cuffs, and vest, he began stripping off his boots. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this clandestine meeting?"

Dorian throttled down his annoyance. The sharp glint in his father's blue-grey eyes told him more than he wanted to know. Rorant was probing him, testing to see how much Dorian had managed to piece together. In that moment, Dorian knew what had bothered him about the abduction: the voices. Combined with the Remora stones, Dorian had little doubt who had ordered the attack on him.