Page 49 of Hexbound

"I know where Trask resides." Bishop moved with predatory intent, those hawk-like eyes prowling every shadow. They turned down another street, and then another.

"Here it is." He pointed to a small shop with an Eye of Horus gilded into the brickwork.

Bishop glanced up toward the roof.

"What is—?" A whistle jerked her gaze up and a young lad scampered across the tiles, vanishing behind a chimney. Verity drew just enough power into herself to punch out of there, if need be.

"Trask's a collector of black occult items," Bishop muttered. "Some of them are deadly, some of them are worth a small fortune. He's got a half dozen lads working for him, no doubt, to make sure nobody steals into his shop.

"Can we handle them?"

"Yes." Bishop pushed the door open, and the bell tinkled.

She had a feeling that no matter whom he faced, Bishop would be able to handle them. He exuded a quiet sense of competence, and fear seemed to be a distant connection he barely knew.

He stepped through the door, keeping his large body in front of her.

"You don't have to shield me," she pointed out.

That earned her a startled look, then he gave her a faint smile. "You're right. I learned that when Zachariah hexed me."

"At least you can smile about it now," she pointed out.

The jest killed that expression.

Sound skittered from the back room.

"Trask?" Bishop called, one hand near his belt as he took careful steps into the shadowy shop. "A word, if I may?"

The shelves were lined with all sorts of oddities: mirrors that didn't seem quite like mirrors, books, amulets, a skull on the counter, and a half dozen opaque globes set on fine red velvet. There were a pair of sarcophagi looming near the door, and several fine scrolls on a shelf.

Shadows shifted as someone separated from the gloom. A fine cloud of red powder was blown toward them.

Bishop jerked her out of the way, shouldering her into the side of the gold-and-blue sarcophagus as he barreled past. Then he was leaping over the counter after the figure, a flare of white-hot blue gleaming to life in his hands as he vanished through the curtains.

Etheric blades. "Bishop!" she called, and went after him.

"This way!" Bishop yelled, thundering up a set of crooked steps. His footsteps were the only ones she heard.

Verity took a cautious step into the back room. A safe gleamed in the wall, the painting that hid it swinging wide open. A single candle fought the gloom, and there was a musty scent she couldn't quite place.

She couldn't see anyone, but she also didn't feel like she was alone. An empty room lacked a certain little something.

"I know you're there," she said softly, sliding a hand toward the pistol in her belt. Her indigo skirts swished around her ankles as she took another careful step forwards. "I assume Mr. Bishop is chasing shadows?"

Something moved behind her and yanked her back into his arms, jerking a blade to her throat.

Verity froze.

"Not another step, missy." Whoever it was smelled like stale cigars and burned cinnamon. Another flare of light swirled to life as he lit a pair of candles with his sorcery.

Bishop thundered back down the stairs, slamming to a halt as he saw her caught there.

"You," her attacker said. "Don't move. I know what you are."

"Trask," Bishop said flatly. He straightened, both hands held in front of him. "You don't have to do this."

"Put the blades away."