Page 2 of A Spot of Tea and Sorcery: Vol. 6

“Oh, come on,” Nigel growled. He got down on his hands and knees to peer inside. He couldn’t see much, even with his sorcerer’s vision. He could just about make out the houndsnose, jumping around in place, making excited little noises no flower should be able to make. “Get back out here,” Nigel said,irked. He reached inside, intending to scoop out his recalcitrant wildflower. “We need to find Mortimer, not . . .”

His voice trailed away as his hand came into contact with something small, smooth, and plastic. Curling his fingers around it, he withdrew the object and stared down at what lay in his palm. It was a tube of cream. Facial cream—the logoMystic Veilswas inscribed in a feminine sort of script. Nigel popped the cap and took a tentative sniff, then pulled back sharply. The stink of sorcery was strong.

“What is this, Mortimer?” he muttered out loud, considering the tube in his hand. “Did you slather a spell on one of your Brute Boys in the heat of the moment? Or did you prepare in advance, so the spell only needed a quick activation? That sounds more likely.”

So that fellow the wardsmen had loaded into their van wasn’t a sorcerer at all. The spell was good, good enough to go undetected by their sensors. But within a few hours it would wear off, and they’d discover how thoroughly they’d been had. Nigel’s mouth twisted in a grim sort of pleasure at this idea.

His grin disappeared the next instant, however. Because this almost certainly meant Mortimer was still at large. And he must be dealt with. Now, tonight. At once.

Capping the tube, Nigel slipped it into his trouser pocket before looking down at the houndsnose. It sat by his knee, wagging its leaf-tail again, looking very pleased with itself. “Yes, nice flower, well done,” Nigel said with a sigh. “But let’s try again now, shall we?”

He carried the blossom back to the Dire-blasted wall and stepped outside once more. “Come on,” he said, lowering it to the sidewalk. “Find him. Find the nasty, evil sorcerer, there’s a good boy.”

A moment of snuffling interest. Then the leaf-tail went stiff again, and the houndsnose set off at an eager lope into thedarkness—which was impressive for a being without proper legs. It made good speed though, and Nigel was hard-pressed to keep up, especially in his poison-sluggish state. But he followed it around to the back of Warehouse 13, up another street, down an alley, emerging into a part of Lower Eastside which he did not know at all. The streetlamps had all sunk to a dull glimmer, and the buildings around him had a haunted, shut-up quality. But then, it was after midnight in the dead of winter; no one in his right mind should be out in the frigid cold at this hour.

Breathing hard, his body aching and pleading for rest, Nigel pursued the houndsnose. He’d nearly died once already tonight. If he was wise, he would be home in bed right now, sleeping off the last of the severmistic influence. But how could he? How could he bear to sleep when Luna needed him? She might hate him. She might never forgive him for keeping the truth from her. For withholding the fact that he was, in fact, the Grimshade Lord, the last man in the world in whom she should bestow either trust or friendship. The last man in the world whom she should gift with her kisses, with her . . . her heart. No, she wouldn’t forgive him. She couldn’t. And what’s more, he wouldn’t ask for it, because he knew he didn’t deserve it.

But he would make certain she was safe. After tonight, she would never have to walk in fear again.

Fever was in his head now—the mania common to all Dark Sorcerers, that singularity of focus which far too often drove them to dangerous extremes. A small, rational part of his brain knew he wasn’t entirely sane anymore.Beware, Grimm,it whispered in warning.The madness is taking hold!If he didn’t watch himself, he’d soon find all better instincts soused in ego and megalomania, which inevitably led to recklessness. And recklessness was a slippery slope with an often-ghastly end.

Problem was, he didn’t care.

Suddenly, the houndsnose darted down a little alleyway between what looked to be a derelict recreation building and an old tire shop. Not the most auspicious part of town by any means. Nigel peered into the alley. His nose wrinkled. He didn’t have toseeanything, because his nostrils filled with a profound odor of anti-glitter. Someone—some sorcerer—had made a big mess of a spell in there. Recently.

Nigel entered the alley, pulling from his pocket the bottle of distilled Dire Matter he’d brought with him. The houndsnose was turning in circles, right in the middle of the alley, whining and whimpering piteously. “What have you got there, boy?” Nigel murmured, drawing nearer.

The brick walls on either side of him positively dripped with anti-glitter spew. And right where the houndsnose circled, Nigel could just discern the faintest traces of a hastily-drawn sigil on the uneven ground. He recognized the lines at once: a transmatterportation spell. Whoever had drawn this had made a sloppy getaway from this very alley.

A frown creased Nigel’s brow as he studied the shape of that sigil. It was messy work, which was not at all like Mortimer. Of course, he might have been overwrought from pursuit when he drew it. This was far more likely, in Nigel’s opinion, than the notion that the wardsmen had actually captured a sorcerer of Mortimer’s caliber. As much as he loathed the man, he knew better than to underestimate his skill.

And where did this transmatterportation spell lead? The nest of the Brotherhood, perhaps? If Nigel were foolish enough to follow, what would happen?

He grinned nastily. What would happen would be a bloodbath.

Nigel lifted his bottle, pausing to give it a little shake. The sad sloshing sound inside betrayed how very little remained. Would it be enough to take down the Brotherhood? Well, that woulddepend entirely on how many of them there were. None of them could equal him for sorcerous mastery, he was certain (though, a reasonable part of him protested, he wouldn’t be the first Dark Sorcerer to think this). But by dint of sheer numbers alone, they might overwhelm him, especially if this messy little spell was left on purpose to lure him into their midst. This could very easily be a trap.

And none of the Brotherhood were crippled by a Sovereign Troth.

Well, troth or not, he was still the Grimshade Lord. Sure, he’d told Luna that version of himself was dead and buried, but, honestly, does the darkness of one’s heart ever truly die? Is it not always lurking, waiting for a convenient moment of resurrection?

This was that moment. That moment when he would sell what was left of his wicked soul for the sake of the woman he loved. She may never know what he’d sacrificed for her. That didn’t matter. As long as, after tonight, she could walk this world free and safe, choosing the life she wanted for herself. Maybe she would marry Ward the Wardsman. And have half-a-dozen dashing, muscular, green-eyed little boys. The idea made him sick. But as long as she was happy . . .

“That’s all that matters,” Nigel whispered. He straightened his shoulders and cast back the hood of his dressing gown, coming suddenly back into full visibility. He motioned sharply to the houndsnose. “Get back,” he commanded. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

The little blossom cowered away to the far end of the alley and sat on leafy haunches, watching with interest. Its stamen flopped like a panting tongue.

Nigel poured out five drops of Dire Matter over the place where the previous transmatterportation spell was drawn. Raw power shimmered in the atmosphere, ready for him tomanipulate as he willed. He set to work drawing a pentagram sigil, tracing the lines with care. No sloppy spellwork here, no indeed. He would catch hold of the previous spell, zero in on its coordinates, and land himself in precisely the same place as the previous sorcerer. He’d need to be prepared to put up some sort of defensive shield immediately upon arrival, so he poured an extra drop of Dire Matter into his left palm.

Then he stood in the center of the pentagram. At the houndsnose’s whine, he cast it a quick glance. “Well, my friend,” he said, “this is it. If I do not return, tell Debbie to lock up Garden and lose the key. And if you see her, tell Miss Talbot . . .” His throat suddenly squeezed, trying to close up. He swallowed painfully. “That is, I would like her to know . . .”

Another tightening and a threat of something that felt like a sob. But he had no time for such foolish, feeble emotions! Grimshade Lords didn’t get the luxury of soppiness.

“Never mind,” he said, growling the words. “Don’t tell her anything. It’s probably best if she forgets all about me anyway.”

He looked down at his sigil. Stretching out his right hand—while keeping his left firmly clenched around that drop of Dire Matter—he extended his sorcerous power to activate the magic. His tongue began to form the words of the strange, damned language of ancient days, and then—

Fire.