Spellmaker

Bacchus waited at the carriage for Master Ruth Hill later that afternoon, softening and hardening a rock in his hand to pass the time, occasionally molding it into a tree or a fish, though his artistic skill was somewhat lacking. When she came out, she asked, “How did it go?”

He smiled. “Quite well, actually. I think we may have misjudged Master Phillips—he is far more reasonable a man than I had expected.”

Master Hill did not hide her disbelief. “Really? You’ll have to tell me about it on the way.”

And Bacchus did, though only the slivers of truth regarding Elsie he kept safely to himself.

Bacchus hunched over a monstrous desk in Master Hill’s study late that night, scrawling letters across paper with rich black ink. His cramping fingers were making his handwriting sloppy, but he’d rather get these letters finished while they were on the forefront of his mind than leave them until morning. That, and he wanted to be out of Master Hill’s way as much as possible. She had told him she had no use for her study at midnight. Granted, it was now an hour past.

The letters were destined for Barbados, some for his steward and others for his land managers, dictating what he wanted to see done with his house and his holdings, as well as asking for updates on his finances. He liked being current, and he hadn’t been since his initial arrival in London. Fortunately, thanks to his loss at the auction house, he still had the savings he’d intended for the master ambulation spell, and those alone would see him and Elsie comfortable for some time, even if his holdings flooded and Master Phillips could not be swayed. The letter he penned now was meant for his housekeeper. He didn’t know when, exactly, he’d be visiting again, but he wanted to make sure everything was adequate for his new wife. He chuckled to himself, imagining the frenzy the woman would go into upon reading that.

A soft knock sounded on the study door. “Come,” Bacchus said, setting aside his pen and flexing his hand. He set the letter down on the finished paperwork for his atheneum registration.

Rainer, one of Bacchus’s friends and servants from Barbados, stepped in, and the poor lighting—only two candles—made him blend with the shadows. He noticed the paperwork and asked, “Do you want me to make sure that gets posted tomorrow?”

Bacchus nodded. “Thank you, but you should be in bed.”

Rainer smiled. “Never have gotten used to the time change.”

Over their heads, a woman gasped. During the day, Bacchus might not have heard it. But with the house quiet as it was—

Something shattered against the floor.

Bacchus stood, knocking his chair back. “Get help.”

Rainer dashed into the hallway. Bacchus followed on his heels, but turned the opposite way, bursting up the stairs to the bedrooms. Wasn’t Master Hill’s suite over the study? He hadn’t been in the house long enough to be sure.

Dim light came from under her door—a single lamp. She hadn’t turned in yet, either. Bacchus grabbed the handle and shoved, but the door was locked. Ignoring decorum, Bacchus utilized his master spell and converted the brass handle into gas, which, in turn, combusted half the door and sent a sour tang into the air. Splinters shot into Bacchus’s arm, but he ignored them as he shoved his way inside.

Large bed, still made, sheer curtains flapping over an open window, a lamp set on the vanity.

And Master Hill collapsed on the floor, her nightgown stained red.

“Ruth!” Bacchus shouted, rushing to her. She was still alive. All aspectors turned into opuses upon their death, and she hadn’t yet made the transformation. He dropped to his knees beside her. “Ruth!”

And then a wire came around his neck and pulled taut.

His air cut off instantly, and the strength of his assailant hauled him back. Bacchus’s hands leapt up to the wire, but he couldn’t get a grip on it. Spots danced in his vision. Reaching back, he found and clasped his assailant’s wrists, then heaved forward, throwing the blasted man over his shoulder. The man slammed into the floor, narrowly missing Master Hill. Bacchus gasped as the wire pulled free. He blinked stars from his sight.

The man, darkly dressed, with a full face mask pulled over his head, rolled to his feet. A dagger was ready at his hip—the cause of Master Hill’s injury, no doubt. The only part of him exposed was his hands.

Bacchus found his feet, but not before the black-clad man rushed for him so swiftly he blurred. A speed spell, then. Such spells, when used on living things, were not transferable.

He barely had time to register the attacker as a physical aspector before they collided, the man’s fist striking him like a cannonball. They tumbled onto the cream carpet, Bacchus’s air rushing out of him. The man pulled out his bloodied dagger and aimed for Bacchus’s chest.

Bacchus caught his forearm, the point of the dagger hovering only an inch from its target. A drop of Master Hill’s blood slid over the point and dropped onto his cravat.