Spellbreaker

CHAPTER 9

Bacchus had heard of the increased homicides among aspectors in Europe, England in particular, but the security swarming Christie’s Auction House would make Buckingham Palace envious.

A uniformed officer pushed through part of the gathering crowd, waving away pedestrians with frantic arms. Another officer near the door asked for the names of arriving bidders before allowing them entrance.

Rainer, who had braved the crowd while Bacchus waited for the queue to move, reappeared at his side. “Spoke to a footman. There was an attempted theft last night.”

Hence the security—the rumors had some heft to them, then. Apparently, the criminal or criminals at work were just as chuffed to steal the opus of an already deceased aspector as they were to kill a living magical worker. Bacchus peered up toward the auction house’s rectangular windows. “Here?”

Rainer nodded. “They didn’t catch the person, so they’re being careful.”

Interesting. A policeman blew a whistle nearby; it was deafening.

“Move along!” shouted the frustrated officer from before. His eyes landed on Rainer and Bacchus. “Don’t you speak English? Move along.”

Bacchus’s eyebrows drew together. “I believe I’m in the correct line.”

The officer looked genuinely confused. Bacchus tried not to let irritation mark his features—this was just the way of things. He would never be fully accepted into high English society, not with the way he looked.

The sooner he left England, the better. With any luck, he’d get what he needed at this auction. Earn his mastership and book his passage home, the coveted ambulation spell written on his soul.

“This line is for the auction house,” the officer stated dumbly.

“I’m aware,” Bacchus replied.

The officer paused for a moment, then distracted himself with an older couple who had stopped to gawk at the fanfare. “Move along!”

The crowd shifted, and Bacchus finally reached the front of the line. Rainer spoke for him. “Bacchus Kelsey.”

The large man with the ledger eyed them for a moment before scrolling through the paperwork. He drew a line across the page with a pencil. Tipped his head toward his companion.

The second, shorter man said, “Turn out your pockets, please.”

Bacchus gritted his teeth—he didn’t recall those before him being asked to do this—but obliged. He didn’t carry a lot on him, and Rainer had his coin. An exorbitant amount of money saved for years for this very purpose. Money he would have gladly given the Assembly of the London Physical Atheneum were they not pompous hornswogglers.

His belongings were rifled through, and Bacchus kept his eyes on each gloved hand, ensuring nothing slipped into the wrong pocket. The officer then instructed Bacchus to lift his arms to be searched.

It was incredibly tempting to put the man in his place. To freeze him with a spell, or turn him green. To reprimand him for not respecting his betters, however much Bacchus hated the very notion. Once he had a title, such things would be easier to evade, but he’d been hesitant to take the master test. Until he did, there was always the chance the assembly members might change their mind and allow him to use the ambulation spell for his advancement rights. A slender chance, to be sure, but a chance, nonetheless. One he hoped he would not need to rely on. Master Bennett’s opus was to be one of the first items up for bid.

So Bacchus submitted silently, and security did its job quickly. His things were returned to him, along with a blue paddle marked 18, denoting him as an aspector. Only those with blue paddles were allowed to bid on magical items. Withholding a sigh, Bacchus proceeded inside.

He took a seat in the middle of the auction room, a large gray-walled space decorated with a few portraits and a tasteful amount of décor, while Rainer waited in the back with the other servants. Bacchus wanted to blend in, but he needed to be sure the auctioneer noticed him. Turning the paddle in his hands, he watched the podium until the auctioneer, his mustache long and graying, stepped up to it.

The first item was a painting of a teapot that went for a surprising amount of money. The second was Master Bennett’s journals, five in total, well worn and engraved. One would think the personal musings of a father would be kept in the family, but if there was any chance Master Bennett had shared a spell or two in those pages, they would be worth a great deal. Unsurprisingly, the bound books went for double the cost of the painting.

Bacchus stiffened when the next item came out. Before it was even announced, he knew this was the opus he sought. A thick tome, bound in polished, red-hued leather with half a dozen burgundy ribbons streaming from its spine. The pages, clamped shut, had rough edges that sparkled when the book was placed on its easel. This was the opus of a true master, and a wealthy one at that.

“The opus of the late Lord Master Cassius Bennett, physical aspector, deceased 1894. Opening bid will start at five hundred eighty pounds.”

A price that could make a man weep. But this was a master opus.

Bacchus’s hand tightened around his paddle as he forced himself to wait. A man in gray near the front lifted his. Five hundred eighty pounds. Six hundred. Six hundred twenty-five. “Six fifty? Do I hear six fifty?”

Bacchus’s paddle surged into the air.

His bid was noted with the tip of the auctioneer’s pen. “Six seventy-five? A truly magnificent opus. No? Six seventy.”

The man in gray raised his paddle.

Bacchus raised his.

A woman in the back raised hers.

Sweat pricked Bacchus’s hairline and spine. The bidding continued apace, but he practiced forbearance, waiting for a lull.

“One thousand and twenty?”

He raised his paddle.

So did the man in gray.

His palms began to sweat. With a start of five eighty, he’d felt confident the bidding would stay under his cap. Neither the painting nor the journals had taken long to find a buyer. This competition had begun to drag, however, the number climbing ever higher.

The woman, after whispering to her companion, raised her paddle for one thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds.

Bacchus raised his. “Two thousand three hundred.” His low voice carried across the room.

A small gasp sounded from the row behind him.

Almost immediately, the man in gray raised his paddle, and Bacchus’s heart dropped to his ankles. “Two thousand five hundred.”

Bacchus could not meet the price, let alone beat it. Not without taking foolish measures, succumbing to debt, and hurting those who depended on him.

“Going once,” called the auctioneer.

It tempted him. Surely he could make it work. Just a small push, a little discomfort, and the tome would be his. Might be his. He hadn’t a clue how much the man in gray was worth.

His arm twitched as he squeezed his paddle. He needed that spell. If he didn’t get that opus, he didn’t know where to turn next.

“Going twice.” The threat echoed between the walls.

He wanted to claim he was so desperate for the spell because he needed it for his tenants, his property, his holdings. It was true, in a sense—it would help him serve them—but they didn’t need him. Ultimately, the spell was for him.

Bacchus’s fingers slackened in defeat.

“Sold to eleven!”

But he was not defeated yet.

Several grumbling people stood and made their way to the door as the next item was brought out for bidding. Not wishing to draw attention to himself, Bacchus remained seated for the rest of the auction, which drew out far too long with far too many petty things. The whole time, he kept his eye on the man in gray. He looked to be in his forties, well groomed. He was balding and had a straight spine. He also remained for the duration of the auction, bidding on two other items, winning one of them.

When the bidders were finally dismissed, Bacchus pushed through the crowd to the edge of the room, keeping an eye on the man in gray. Not a difficult task, given his height.

Rainer found him. Before he could offer any condolences, Bacchus said, “Tell me you know that man’s name.”

“Felton Shaw,” Rainer replied without hesitation. “Owns several gentlemen’s clubs.”

“Aspector?”

“Yes, but rumor says he’s topped off.”

Topped off? Meaning he had already reached his magical limitations. Some people, no matter how much they paid and how much they studied, simply couldn’t become powerful aspectors because their bodies lacked the ability to hold enough spells. Topping off was usually kept private. Shaw was either barely a master or he’d paid handsomely to get that blue paddle.

Did he even have the paperwork to own a copy of an opus?

Right now, the man’s reasons didn’t matter.

Mr. Shaw took his time finding his way out, choosing a side door instead of fighting through the crush at the back. Bacchus stuck his manners in his pocket and pushed his way through the crowd, taking long strides once he was free. He met Mr. Shaw at the turn of the hallway.

He bowed. “Mr. Shaw, congratulations on your wins. I hope to strike up a matter of business with you.”

The older, smaller man lifted a monocle to his eye and studied Bacchus for an instant. “I’m listening.” He sounded unsure.

“The opus you won,” Bacchus began.

“The copy, you mean. Yes, you did a good job of driving up the price.”

That’s how auctions work. “I would pay a fair sum just to read one of the spells within it. I’m ready and willing to provide you with the proper certificates.”

Mr. Shaw’s eyebrows climbed into the brim of his hat. “Is that so? I don’t know every spell it contains, mind you, only what was listed in the description.”

A description that had not been released until after Bacchus entered the auction house. “I seek the master ambulation spell.”

The Englishman’s countenance fell slack. “That’s illegal.”

“I assure you it is not; I am a registered aspector and have the necessary clearance.”

“I will not sell any of the master spells.” Mr. Shaw took a step forward, but Bacchus stopped him with raised hands. His pulse hammered in his wrists.

“Allow me only to memorize it. It is for my own progress. I will pay handsomely.”

He was offering the man a silver tea platter with cups full of gold. He’d give it all just to know what made that spell work. He needed it.

“Two thousand—”

“No.” Mr. Shaw cut the overly generous offer into pieces. “I have plans for the master spells, plans that are more lucrative even than your coffers. I must decline.”

He stepped around Bacchus.

Bacchus spun. “You are a man of business. Surely you must see reason—”

Mr. Shaw paused only long enough to spit, “Ask me again, and I’ll alert security.”

Bacchus froze and watched the petulant, rich Englishman stalk away. The urge to pick him up and throw him into a wall—no magic required—burned in his arms. His pulse sang in his ears.

First the assembly, and now this. He couldn’t wrap his mind around all the stuff and nonsense. Had England changed so much in the few years since his last visit? Was there some sort of political thread he wasn’t cutting? Why was this so bloody hard?

To frustrate matters further, he was already growing tired. He moved his hand to his diaphragm, to the spell etched into the skin there. It wouldn’t hold forever. Bacchus had only so much time. Time that spilled through his fingers like sand.

Ripping his hand away, he balled it into a fist. He would not give up. If he had to travel all of Europe, scour the Americas . . . he’d find a way somehow.

He barreled out of the auction house with Rainer on his heels, ignoring the whispers that followed them.