Spellmaker

CHAPTER 11

Master Ruth Hill was surprised to see Bacchus on her doorstep, but she accepted him into her home with the utmost generosity. He was upfront about the situation revolving around his arrival, at least as far as the Duke of Kent was concerned. He’d been concerned that Master Hill might sympathize with the duke—after all, Bacchus was a healthy, strong individual who certainly had some vitality to spare—but she did not. She had a room ready for him within the hour, and he poured as much gratitude upon her as the woman could take without drowning in it.

Bacchus rode with Master Hill to the London Physical Atheneum the following morning, though they parted ways almost immediately upon entering the large stone fortress. Bacchus had not written ahead; the assembly was not meeting today, as far as he knew. But he didn’t need the assembly so much as he needed Master Phillips, and Master Hill had told Bacchus exactly where the man’s office was located.

The guards posted throughout the atheneum didn’t stop him, though a couple looked ready to try. The golden pin affixed to his lapel—a token of his mastership—halted their steps. He traipsed through hallways and up stairs to Master Phillips’s office. It was strange to think that, only a month ago, such a trek would have wearied him. If not for Elsie, it still would.

He couldn’t stop the smug smile that came to his lips as he took a winding set of stairs to the third floor, slipping by a maid carrying an empty bucket and mop. Perfect, was he? Granted, he hadn’t meant to bring the woman to tears, but Elsie was so attached to this bizarre concept that she was worthless, tears seemed inevitable. He felt fairly confident that he had begun to prove her wrong about that. And he’d happily show her again and again, as many times as she needed the reminder.

Indeed, as Bacchus approached the door at the end of the corridor, he found himself very much looking forward to his nuptials. But for now, he had to put thoughts of Elsie aside and deal with the matter at hand.

He knocked loudly on the heavy wooden door, hard enough for it to shudder on its hinges.

After several seconds, an annoyed voice said, “Come.”

Bacchus shouldered open the door and stepped inside. Master Phillips’s office was just like the rest of the atheneum, built of ancient stone, but hickory wood had been laid over the floor. A single window let in sunlight from the outside, while large glass baubles in each corner of the ceiling glowed with enchanted light to brighten the space. Master Phillips’s large desk sat atop an Indian rug, and a large tapestry depicting running horses occupied the wall behind him.

The spellmaker did not appear pleased to see him. Setting down his quill from a letter he’d been drafting, Master Phillips tugged his sleeves down and leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Kelsey. No, it’s Master now, isn’t it? You are aware I take meetings only by appointment.”

Pulling on the dwindling politeness within him, Bacchus nodded. “I hoped you would forgive the intrusion.”

“Intrusion indeed.” He folded his arms. “Whatever have you disturbed me for?”

They would skip the empty pleasantries, then. Good. Bacchus didn’t know if he had enough serenity to ask after the man’s health and family. He noted there were no chairs in the room other than the one Master Phillips occupied. Either he didn’t take meetings in his office often, or he insisted his guests stand. Fortunately, Bacchus preferred standing. He liked having the height advantage, not that he would have lost it upon sitting.

“I have decided to join the atheneum as a free agent,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. As it was, he was technically still registered as a student, something that barred him from doing aspector work for pay in England.

Master Phillips raised an eyebrow. “There is a formal way to go about this.”

“I was never one for ceremony.”

He pushed his half-finished letter aside. “You don’t merely walk in and declare yourself part of the London Physical Atheneum, Master Kelsey. You must have a sponsor, for instance—”

“Master Hill is my sponsor,” Bacchus slipped in. “And I’ve acquired the appropriate paperwork as well. In truth, all I lack is approval of the head.”

Master Phillips considered this for a moment, his mouth sour. He picked up his pen, tracing circles on his desk with its uninked end. “I thought you’d sailed back to that island you hail from. What was it again?”

Bacchus’s shoulders tightened. “Barbados.”

“Right, right. I think it might be better if you returned to your holdings, Master Kelsey. I’m sure Barbados is in dire need of spellmakers.”

The comment grated down to his bones. He wondered if Master Phillips would be so bold if Bacchus had called a meeting of the assembly. Then again, others of the assembly might have agreed with Master Phillips, which would have made Bacchus’s path forward more difficult.

“My intention is to stay in England,” he said, tone even. Some travel back and forth to Barbados would be necessary, but Master Phillips needn’t know that.

Irritation twitched along the sides of Master Phillips’s eyes. He seemed to be a man who was not accustomed to being told no. “And why ever would you do that?”

“Because I’m marrying an Englishwoman.” He leaned his weight to one side. “A spellbreaker, actually.”

Master Phillips smirked. “Is that so? You managed to coerce someone into matrimony? Congratulations are in store, then. But I’ll not be accepting your request at this time.”

Bacchus glowered. “Or at any time, I dare say.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He straightened in his seat. “I’m not fond of you, Master Kelsey.”

“We hardly know each other,” Bacchus interjected.

Master Phillips merely shrugged. “I’m not fond of what you represent. An . . . otherness, so to speak. Master Hill is enough of a pain in my side. I needn’t have a second. Do you understand?”

Bacchus’s stomach tightened, but he nodded. He had been preparing for this conversation since his meeting with the magistrate, and even more so since last night. “I do. But I think you will approve it. Especially if you insist on these games.”

He looked incredulous. “Are you threatening me, Master Kelsey? You might best me in size, but my magic is far superior.”

“I have no intention of harming your person,” he clarified. “But I recently came across quite the revelation. You knew my father, yes?”

Master Phillips eyed him. “I vaguely recall the man.”

“And I suppose you vaguely recall performing a siphoning spell on his son to preserve the welfare of the Duke of Kent?”

Master Phillips’s forehead creased. “You’re twisting the wrong arm. Such a spell is perfectly legal with parental consent. You were underage.”

“Ah, but you must also recall that my father has been deceased for some time.” Bacchus took a single step closer to the desk. “And therefore you’ve no witness to say he consented.”

The man’s brow lowered. “You forget the Duke of Kent.”

“You forget that I am as a son to him, and he will not speak out against me. Especially considering that the siphoning spell has since been removed.”

His eye twitched again. Bacchus needn’t tell the man that the duke had found a new pawn to suck life from, likely a commoner boy looking to make extra coin for his family, not that Bacchus had ever seen a farthing for his own unwilling contributions. The duke was old; he wouldn’t last forever, with or without magic to aid him.

Bacchus closed the distance between himself and the desk, placed both his palms on the wood, and leaned forward. “There are no laws that would forbid you from denying my enrollment in the atheneum based on my ethnicity or nationality, Master Phillips. But there are also no laws to keep me from involving you in the court system for illegally bespelling a minor. I believe the jailtime for such an offense is significant, and even if you’re not convicted, I can’t imagine what it would do to your reputation.”

Master Phillips looked like a dog protecting his bone. “So you do intend to threaten me.”

“I don’t intend, Master Phillips.” Bacchus enunciated every word. “I am.”

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.

The attacker pushed down on the dagger with both hands. He was strong, but not as strong as Bacchus.

Bacchus’s other hand flew up, catching the man’s wrist, and he rolled until he had the dagger pinned to the floor, whereupon he bound it with a fuse spell. When the man tried to pull it up, the dagger remained stuck to the carpet.

Bacchus bucked him off, but the assailant wasn’t stupid. He left the dagger and danced back, stepping on Master Hill’s outstretched arm. The air in front of him shimmered, and although Bacchus could not see the rune, he recognized it as a density alteration spell. He pushed through it, his movement slowed by half. As he cast a spell to lighten the air, the black-clad man grabbed a post of the bed and, with two quick state-changing spells, pulled a three-foot length of it free, while the rest liquefied and splashed against the floor, steaming.

The air thinned, and Bacchus charged.

The wooden pole gleamed as it hardened into something as deadly as steel in the attacker’s hand. He raised it to strike—not Bacchus, but Master Hill.

Bacchus leapt and grabbed the pole before it made contact, and the force behind it radiated up his arm. He gritted his teeth and wrestled with the man. Tried to liquefy the pole, but the blasted spellmaker kept hardening it, canceling out his spell.

So Bacchus changed tactics and made it radiate heat instead.

The man cursed—the first Bacchus had heard his voice, although he couldn’t place it—and dropped the scalding wood. It threatened to light the carpet on fire, but Bacchus couldn’t take his attention away from the aspector. He didn’t dare try to summon static and create lightning for risk of hurting Master Hill.

But this man didn’t care about Master Hill’s well-being. The air crackled.

Bacchus reeled back and punched the spellmaker in the face. The man stumbled, but as Bacchus moved to swing again, his arm slowed, the air suddenly too dense to carry his momentum.

An unexpected gust spell collided with him, whisking him off his feet and across the room until his back slammed into the half-demolished door. It cracked under his weight, and he fell to the floor in a burst of splinters. His head spun, and by the time he reoriented himself, the assailant stood over him, armed with a nine-inch splinter shaped like a stake. The wood gleamed with a hardening spell.

The air crackled. Lightning sparked across Bacchus’s vision. He waited for a fiery burn that never came. Blinking his eyes clear, he saw two things at once: the attacker’s clothes smoking and Ruth Hill falling from her propped elbow, her hand outstretched. The spell she’d used to save him had clearly zapped her remaining strength.

The man groaned and dropped his weapon. He cast another thickening spell to the air, so strong it became hard to breathe. In the few seconds it bought him, the assailant leapt for the window and disappeared between the curtains, fleeing.

Bacchus reverted the air density to normal and bolted after him, stopping at the edge of the balcony. He thought he saw movement down below—the aspector could have easily slowed his fall with more density spells—but Master Hill was gravely injured. Bacchus couldn’t risk leaving her side.

Rushing back into the room, he grabbed an afghan from her bed and raced to press the thick cloth against her torso, where at least one stab wound bloomed.

Perhaps sensing safety, one of Master Hill’s servants peeked into the room.

“Get a doctor!” Bacchus barked.

“H-He’s on his way.” The maid’s round eyes took in Master Hill’s supine form.

“Call for a surgeon,” Bacchus said, trying to remain calm. The muscles in his arms quivered, and his heart pounded like that of an overworked horse. “She needs a surgeon.”

“I-I will, but the doctor, he’s a temporal aspector, sir. He should be able to slow it down.”

“But not stop it. Get a surgeon.”

The servant nodded and fled down the hall.

Master Hill moaned under the pressure on her torso.

“Hold on, Ruth,” Bacchus murmured, refusing to let up. “Hold on a little longer.”