The Iron Wyrm Affair

Now the game truly begins. Clare brought all his faculties to bear, his concentration narrowing. “Please do be, Cedric.”

“You are the only remaining unregistered mentath-class genius remaining alive in Londinium. The others … their bodies were savaged. Certain parts are … missing.”

Archibald’s fingers tightened, pressing against each other. “Ah.” Most interesting indeed.

Chapter Three Theory and Practice

Her eyes opened slowly, and out of the candlelit gloom Mikal’s face appeared. His mouth was set. For a single vertiginous instant memory rose to choke her; she was convinced she was in the round room under Crawford’s country estate, the walls dripping wet stone and her head aching, the Shield murmuring Easy, Prima, he shall not harm you again. The slumped, torn rag of the body in the corner, the sorcerer who had been her gaoler throttled to death and mutilated; the smell of death and the restraints at her wrists easing as Mikal worked them loose.

Emma’s heart leapt into her throat and commenced pounding with most unbecoming intensity.

She returned to the present with a violent start, disarranging the damp handkerchief on her forehead; a draught of violet and lavender scent unsettled her stomach even further. Mikal’s hands descended on her shoulders; he pushed her back on to the divan. “Lie still.” It was amazing, how he could speak through tight-clenched teeth. “The mentath is with Lord Grayson, he is safe enough. You, on the other hand, took a lead ball to the shoulder.”

It mattered little. If she was still alive and Mikal was alive and conscious, her shoulder was a small problem already solved. Furthermore, she was not trapped in the small room that featured in her nightmares.

The relief was, as usual, indescribable. A mere month ago she had emerged from that stone-walled room, the torn and rotting bodies of her former Shields strewn in the hall like so much rubbish, and had not wept. Even after her nightmares, she did not.

The tears would not come. And that, she reminded herself, was what truly made her Prime. The capacity to split her focus was only a symptom.

“Was that what it was?” She peeled the handkerchief from her forehead. It was one of her own, and doused with vitae. That accounted for the violet-lavender. Her stomach twisted again.

“I drained the overflow. And attended to your wound.” His eyes gleamed in the dimness. “I would counsel you not to move too quickly. You will likely ignore me.”

She crushed the scrap of linen and lace in her palm. Her dress jacket was undone, her camisole sticky with sweat and blood; her loosely laced corset was still abominably tight, and the tingle of a limited healing-sorcery itched in her shoulder. This was one of the dusty, forgotten rooms of Whitehall, full of whispers it did not do to listen overmuch to. The furniture was exceedingly awful, though modern, and she immediately guessed this was part of Grayson’s offices. The dimness was a balm to her sensitised eyes.

“I cannot protect you,” Mikal continued. Under his colouring, he was remarkably pale. None of the blood or gunpowder had tainted his clothes, but a pall of almost visible smoke cloaked him. Or perhaps it was his anger. “You would do better to cast me off.”

Not this argument again. “If you were not in a Prime’s service, you would be executed in less than a day. In case you have forgotten that small detail, Mikal.”

A half-shrug, his shoulder lifting and dropping. “You do not trust me.”

She could hardly argue with the truth. If you throttled one sorcerer you swore to protect, another would be a small matter, would it not? “I have little reason to distrust you.” The lie tasted of brass, and she suddenly longed for a glass of decent wine and an exceedingly sensational and frivolous novel, read in the comfort of her own bed.

Mikal grimaced slightly. He settled back on the stool placed precisely by the divan, glanced at the door. A Shield’s awareness, marking the exit though he had never forgotten it. “I murdered my last sorcerer with my bare hands, Prima. You are not stupid enough to forget.”

Hence, you must be lying, Emma, and I know it. But, as always, it was left unsaid.

So she chose truth. “I might have murdered him myself, had you not.” She held out the handkerchief. “Here. Vitae unsettles me a little, I fear.”

“There was no rum.” A slight, pained smile. He took the linen, calloused but sensitive fingers brushing hers.

An unwilling smile touched her lips as well. “We make do with what we have. Now let us have no more of this cast off business. We have other matters to attend to.”

His chin set. When he scowled, or practised his stubborn look, he was almost ugly. He did not have a pretty face.

Then why did his expression make her heart leap so indiscreetly?

Emma pushed herself gingerly up, tilted her chin down to examine her shoulder. Under the shredded green silk and the torn and stained bit of her camisole showing, pale unmarked skin moved. The tingle-itch of healing had settled more deeply, flesh and bone protesting as it was forced to knit. Well. That was instructive.

“I am sorry. I took the ones on the east side of the street; then there were the dogs. That particular threat was the most critical.”

She nodded. Her hair had come loose, her bonnet was missing, and the silk was ruined. Now would come her admission of mistrust, and his … possible hurt. Or did he care so much what she thought?

Why she cared about a Shield’s tender pride was beyond her. The Shields were to protect a Prime from physical threats and bleed off backlash, nothing more.

Come now. In theory, yes. In practice, no. All we care about is practice, correct? We have not achieved our position by being impractical. And yes, that is a royal “we”, isn’t it, Emma?

One day, that nasty little voice in her head might swallow its tongue and poison itself. Until it did, however, she was forced to endure its infuriating habit of being correct, as well as its habit of being singularly unhelpful.

She eased her legs off the divan, skirts bunching and sliding. A moment’s work had them assembled correctly. She’d bled down the front of her dress, splashes and streaks caught in the material, her hems torn and singed. The edges of her petticoats draggled, also singed. Her boots were spattered with mud and spots of blood, but still serviceable.

Anger was pointless. Anger over some stained cloth was doubly so. She swallowed it with an effort, turned her attention to other things. “The man who fired the initial shot – most probably to mark us – had a protection. I lost him in an alley, but we shall find the trail after we visit Bedlam.”

“The mentath seemed to have some ideas. No doubt he will have more after visiting Grayson.”

Always assuming we can believe a single word spilling from the Lord Chancellor’s forked tongue. Her dislike of the Chancellor was unreasoning; he was a servant of Britannia just as she was.

Still, she did not have to enjoy his company. After all, Crawford had been a servant too. A treacherous one, but a servant nonetheless.

Mikal was indirectly reminding her of the mentath’s capacity as a resource, with a Shield’s infinite tact. She nodded, patting at her hair. A few quick movements, pins sliding in, and she had the mess reasonably under control. Bloody hell. I liked that bonnet, too. “I am sending Grayson an itemised bill for every dress ruined in this affair.” She gained her feet in a lunge, swayed, and sat back down on the divan. Hard.

Mikal’s eyes glinted, yellowish in the dimness. He did not have to say I told you so. He merely steadied her, carefully keeping the vitae-soaked handkerchief away. “You look lovely.”