Page 32 of A Spot of Tea and Sorcery: Vol. 6

“Pardon me,” the woman said silkily, taking Luna in with a sweeping gaze.

“No, I’m sorry, it’s my fault,” Luna murmured and ducked her head, hoping to hasten by.

The woman reached out, however, and touched her arm, an arresting gesture. “Wait a moment, dear child,” she said. “I have to tell you, that gown of yours is positively exquisite. Would you mind telling me the name of your dressmaker?”

Luna gaped at the sight of the woman’s fingers on her bare arm. She lifted her eyes and found herself caught in a cat-like gaze, deep and intense. Somehow she knew. She knew this woman wasperfectlyaware of exactly who had made the dress and how. And she knew that Luna knew, and there was altogether too much unspokenknowinghappening in this seething moment of silence.

Then those siren lips curved in a perfectly venomous smile.

The next moment, however, a young voice spoke behind her. “Miss Talbot?”

“Yes?” Luna squeaked, whirling and pulling out of the blonde woman’s grasp. She looked down into the upturned face of a page boy in a crisp white uniform.

“Your carriage is ready for you, miss,” the boy said.

“Thank you!” Almost panting with relief, Luna bundled up her skirts. She shot the blonde woman a last nervous look.

“Go on,” the woman purred, her cat-eyes narrowing. “Wouldn’t want to keep the horses waiting.”

Without a word, Luna fled the garden.

What was that saying about good intentions and the paths they paved? Nigel scrunched his face up, trying to recall. Something about roads to hell. Which made sense under the circumstances. Because, despite all his good intentions, his life and soul seemed to be on one particularly slippery downward slope just now. He could almost swear he felt flames tickling his toes.

It probably didn’t help that his primary intention for this evening had involved murder. Murder wouldn’t do his soul a whole lot of good, even if his proposed victim was a fellow Dark Sorcerer. Still, Nigel figured, his soul was most likely too badly compromised to be worth much anyway. He might as well devote what was left of it to ridding the world of the likes of Lancelot Mortimer. Only . . .

Truth be told, he hadn’t strength at the moment for the committing of magical homicide. Not tonight. Not after fighting the severmist in his veins to make that gown. Not after seeing Luna’s bare back exposed to his lustful gaze and battling the urge to do things to her he had no right to do.

Not after watching her climb into a damnedhorse-drawn carriage,of all damnable things, and ride off with her damned wardsman.

No—whatever energy remained to him had simply seeped out of his body, leaving Nigel to sink onto his bed with a loud creak. And there he lay. He couldn’t say for how long.

At some point, Debbie flew up the stairwell, fluttering onto the bedpost and croaking her concern. Nigel opened one eye and glared at her. “Everything all right down there?” he inquired coldly.

“Never mind!”

“Good. That’s good.” He closed both eyes again and rested his forearm across them. “I’m just going to . . . stay here. A while longer.”

His mind drifted back into darkness. Occasionally, the mists of oblivion peeled away, and he caught glimpses of memories. Luna—her mouth smashed against Ward the Wardman’s. Luna—popping that zipper into place as though it hadn’t been stuck moments before. Luna tying bundles of herbs, Luna pouring tea, Luna snipping floral wire, Luna deadheading petunias, Luna tossing curls out of her eyes, Luna, Luna,Luna . . .

“Arrrrgh!” A ragged cry in his throat, Nigel sat upright, breathing hard. He blinked several times, surprised to find the room had grown quite dark. The winter sun had set, and night was fully fallen. All was very still and quiet on Addle Street.

Debbie slept on her bedpost perch. She’d slept right through his cry; as a Dark Sorcerer’s familiar, she’d learned long ago to sleep through far worse. She didn’t stir, even when Nigel rose and stumped heavily to the window. He pulled back the curtains, peered out into the gloom. Stars shone overhead, cold and distant, seen only faintly above the nighttime city lights. A single automagic mobile rumbled by, leaving quiet in its wake.Distantly, the chantry bells on Giltspur Street rang out ten low tones. Gods . . . it was much later than he’d realized.

But not too late. Still plenty of time to be about his sorcerous business.

Bracing himself, Nigel turned from the window and faced into the room. Weakness still shuddered in his limbs. He couldn’t deny it. The poison lurked deep inside, just waiting for him to activate it with sorcery. How long would it take to purge out of his system? He’d never dealt with severmist before, never expected he’d have to.

“Damn,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. Well, he was just going to have to be judicious with his spellcasting. Which was a challenge, considering it would require quite a powerful spell simply to follow Lancelot Mortimer’s transmatterportation route. If it even was Mortimer’s. Which it might not be. Ward had said earlier that they had Mortimer in custody, and if the man Nigel had seen last night had been wearing an enchanted face, it would have begun to break down within a few hours. So perhaps it really was Mortimer held in an SSSD prison cell, his hands trapped in spell-warded silver casings?

Nigel didn’t care. He would follow that transmatterportation and see where it took him and to whom. And when he arrived? What then? Would he faint outright and find himself at the mercy of whoever happened to be waiting on the far side? This couldn’t be a sound idea. But the alternative was to sit around all night, wondering if Luna was going home with Ward like Bryony had suggested.

Truth be told, he would rather die.

Which is very likely what he was about to do.

“Never mind,” he muttered, which caused a slight stir from the bedpost. But Debbie did not wake, and he did not disturb her. Part of him wondered if it would be a good idea to bringhis familiar with him tonight for support. But no, he wouldn’t risk her life on a suicide mission like this. Besides, he needed her to enact protocol should something happen to him, taking Garden’s key and hiding it somewhere it could never be found. While he hated to think of Garden continuing a lonely existence without a guardian, well . . . better that than to be captured and drained by Dark Sorcerers.

Besides, there was always a chance he could take down the Brotherhood. After all, he was still the Grimshade Lord, wasn’t he? Even trothed and crippled, he possessed more knowledge of the Dire in his little finger than most of the puffed-up imbeciles churned out by the Nocturnus Institute ever acquired in the whole of their lifetimes! What were the likes of them to him? He would outwit them at every turn, using only the smallest traces of distilled Dire Matter to craft such subtle, such cunning spells as they never imagined, and he would bring them to their knees.