The Dark Arts, Tome 1 : Shadowbound

CHAPTER 1

'Sorcery is a vile practice. The work of the Devil. And we shall not rest until those devil-worshipping practitioners who reside in society are driven to repent—or driven out of our fair city of London.'

- GRANT MARTIN, Chief of the Vigilance Against Sorcery Committee

LONDON, 1894

"COME NOW, my lady, it's not safe."

Miss Ianthe Martin pressed the delicate handkerchief to her nose as she looked around the cell. Steel bars cut the gloom, delivering stark stripes across the stone floors. A shadow curled up beneath the barred windows, light striking the plain buff breeches covering his knees, and the bare soles of his feet. Large feet with carefully delineated toes. She stared at them, as her vision slowly adjusted to the gloom, remembering the feel of those bare feet against hers, once, shockingly long ago.

The prisoner looked up slowly, through the dark curtain of brown hair that surrounded his face. Dangerous, topaz eyes the color of molten gold watched her coldly, beneath harshly slanted brows. They flickered to her right, as if taking in the attendant who escorted her, then back again. Like a cat lashing its tail.

Secured, yes. Chained and beaten down. But instinct stirred, a smoky hot shiver low in her stomach. The long-subdued, primal part of her recognized danger when she saw it. "How long has he been kept in such solitary confines?"

"Ma'am." The attendant coughed reproachfully. No doubt he thought this completely beyond the pale.

Ianthe took a step closer as the attendant cleared his throat. His silence rattled her temper. "Damn you, how long?"

"Three months in solitary, ma'am."

And another nine before that, locked in with the writhing sprawl of humanity in the other corridors. New Bethlem Hospital—or Bedlam to most—had more than earned its reputation. Home to the criminally insane, the mad, and the Devilish Lord Rathbourne. The press had named him all three.

"Rathbourne?" One hesitant step into the cell. "Do you know who I am?"

There was a pentagram carved into the stone floors. New, from the look of the chisel marks. No doubt inspired by her father's work, and his precious committee. Though the Order of the Dawn Star that she belonged to served its Queen and country, there were always citizens superstitious enough, or too foolish, to understand what sorcery was.

"Rathbourne?" She hesitated, then added, "Lucien?"