Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1) by Bec McMaster Read Free Book Online Page B

that tends toward the darker studies, I'd say Magnus Cochrane, Lord Tremayne, Lady Hester Lambert, and the not-so-Honorable Mr. Elijah Horroway. If you're simply after information, I'd direct you to talk to Lady Eberhardt first, however. Tickle the tiger's chin before you stick your neck in a snake pit. She has an unsurpassed collection, apparently, and might know who to deal with, though if it's on the black market, Cochrane's your next best bet."
    Lady Eberhardt . Even Lucien arched a brow. Tickling the tiger's chin was putting it mildly. There were a few people in the order whom he wouldn't cross, and Eberhardt's name was on that list. But still... "I thought Horroway was dead."
    "Some say he is. He studies the Gravest of Arts, does he not?"
    A pun, the likes of which apprentices uttered. There were three disciplines within the Order; Light, Dark, and Grey. The Light discipline was primarily inhabited by healers, astronomers, and diviners. Lucien's natural affinity was for the Light, thanks to his divining talents, whilst the Grey was Ianthe's discipline, as indicated by the chip of hematite in her rings. It also held the most practitioners of any category, considering the broad spectrum of their talents. Being of the Dark did not automatically mean that one was inclined to mischief, but Luc privately thought most of the Dark adepts pushed the boundaries of that. The Dark was where you found those who sought power beyond their own, and they were often the strongest sorcerers, though not always. The darkest of all arts was necromancy, and the Prime had been forced to set certain policies in place regarding the use of Grave Magic.
    Necromancers were rarely stable, at best, nor did they own the purest of motives, and Elijah Horroway was the strongest necromancer around.
    "I thought it was impossible to defeat Death," Lucien said.
    "Some still try." An indecipherable look penetrated Cross's gaze. "It is an inescapable truth, that where a man is tempted by power and mysteries, he will always try to halt Death."
    "And it never works out well," Miss Martin muttered. "One is not intended to live forever."
    Both she and Cross exchanged a look.
    "No. It doesn't." Cross tipped his head to her. "So a relic has gone missing, and Drake has sent his right hand scurrying after it. Which one is it? The Circlet of the Dawn Star? The Pentacle of Merlin? The Blade of Altarrh—" Some expression must have given her away. "That's it. That's the one, isn't it?"
    "Remy," Miss Martin warned.
    Ignoring them as they bickered, Lucien glanced at the miniature portrait again. There was something familiar about it. Nothing tingled when he reached toward it, and frowning, he blew the dust from it.
    He was right.
    Remington Cross looked back at him, but Luc's psychometric abilities were tingling, plunging him back through images of wet paint and an Italian estate, fat grapes, a painter dressed in renaissance dress as he licked the brush, a pretty blonde woman opening a present and finding the miniature, then blood, darkness, jealousy, and death... Lucien gasped and nearly dropped it. This portrait was over three hundred years old, and Cross didn't look a day older. How—? He looked up sharply, only to find Cross staring at him.
    "Nothing good ever comes of it," Cross repeated softly, before turning to Miss Martin. "If you need me, you know where to find me."
    "I thought you didn't like meddling in Order affairs."
    "Not since the 18th century, at least," Cross's eyelids drooped, "but I would make an exception this one time, just for you. I can feel a vortex of power moving out there, somewhere in London, sucking in mass amounts of energy. It's flares at odd increments of time before vanishing, but it's been there for a week. I've never felt anything like it."
    Colors danced over Miss Martin's skin; uneasiness, fear, and something else that he couldn't quite put a finger on. A yellowish-gray color. "Drake knows nothing of this."
    "Drake doesn't have my