Page 23 of The Unweaver (Unwoven Fates #1)
“C ora,” came Bane’s voice from somewhere inside the house.
Lounging in a chair with her legs hooked over its arms, Cora started guiltily. She shoved the book behind a cushion, blinking in surprise to find that the sun had sunk to the horizon. Hours had passed unnoticed while she was engrossed in the morbid particulars of the Profane Arts.
“Cora?” Bane’s voice was closer. The house groaned in response. Kevin, dozing before the library’s crackling fireplace, perked an ear up. She froze. She wasn’t ready to see Bane yet. Or ever.
New Year's Eve had loomed for days, filling her with sour anticipation. At last it had dawned, cold and somber. The auspicious date she’d waited for the Master Sciomancer to identify what had cursed Teddy. And their chosen birthday.
There’ll always be a party, Cora dear .
But not this year. Or any other unless a miracle happened in the unfurling hours and possibilities of 1921.
Today, Cora was a year older than Teddy might ever be. Shambling onward while her twin was stationary in death, a Sanguimancer-embalmed corpse in an icebox. Today, champagne would taste like despair.
“Cor—” Bane appeared and stopped short, his gaze riveting on the expanse of her thighs bared between her stockings and chemise “—a.”
She swung her legs to the floor and belted her robe. At least the new garments he’d gotten an eyeful of were made of silk and not threadbare cotton. The silk seemed woefully thin as his eyes raked over her.
“She’s in here,” Bane called over his shoulder.
They waited in strained silence as shuffling steps approached. After the public character assassination Bane had subjected her to, frosty was the nicest she’d been to him.
Fortunately, she’d only run into him once since she’d dreamed of him between her thighs. While walking in opposite directions down the hallway, they had nearly collided, both sidestepping to the right, then to the left. Bane had gripped her shoulders, moved her aside, and brushed past without a word. Cheeks aflame, she’d wanted to confront him and demand an explanation for outing her. Instead, she’d watched him walk away, the words dying on her lips.
An ancient man, frail yet determined, hobbled into the library’s stony silence. A patched cloak drooped over his spare frame like limp clothing on a line. What little hair he possessed was a wispy cloud above the deep crags of his face.
Kevin’s eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets at the man’s entrance. The cat tore out of the library with more speed than Cora thought his stubby legs were capable of.
The man arched a winged brow at the fleeing feline. Turning to Cora, his rheumy eyes twinkled with mischief as he took in her state of undress. She could feel his magic scraping against her mind. A probing finger and not a talon like Madam Kalandra’s Animancy had been.
Her heart pounded. No amount of clothing could hide what his magical sixth sense had already shown him. I’m meeting the distinguished Master Sciomancer. In a bathrobe . Brilliant .
Master Lazlo Lyter glanced at Bane, his eggplant-colored lips peeling back in a smile, rascally but not unkind.
“Behave yourself, old man,” Bane said.
Master Lyter chuckled. “I could say the same to you, Mal.” The hoarse rasp of his voice was a hearty stew of Hungarian vowels.
“I’ll just, er, go put more clothes on then.” Cora jumped to her feet to dash away.
“Needn’t bother now.” Her withering look was lost on Bane as he made introductions. “Lazlo, this is Cora Walcott, the Necromancer I told you about. Cora, Master Lazlo Lyter. My oldest friend.”
Literally?
When they shook hands, Master Lyter’s gnarled grip was surprisingly strong. But beneath his parchment-thin skin, roped with spidery blue veins, Cora sensed death. A peaceful death. Sleep would soon ease the Sciomancer out of the Living Realm.
“Lovely to meet you, Master Lyter,” she said with a stiff smile.
“Oh, please call me Lazlo. Master Lyter makes me feel so very old . You are the Unweaver, hm? I look forward to knowing you. Many have awaited you.”
Once pleasantries were expended, Cora suggested they start right away. The gentlemen disagreed. Bane had just traversed Lazlo here from Budapest and the old Master was exhausted. For a successful ritual, they needed rest and food first.
“The ritual will commence at the stroke of midnight, szívem , my heart,” Lazlo said with the wink of a much younger man as Bane led him to a spare bedroom. “And not a moment sooner.”
Cora didn’t argue. The Sciomancer looked so feeble, he’d need to save up all his energy for tonight.
In the Witch’s Cap, she agonized over what to wear to the dinner she smelled Bane cooking. For once, she had options.
Eventually she settled on a turquoise dress, then spent too much time attempting to tame her hair. As usual, the chestnut waves fell wherever they damn well pleased. The cosmetics Anita had insisted she buy didn’t sit right on her face. Too heavy. Uneven. Desperate . Feeling foolish, she wiped off the lipstick. Then reapplied it.
Wondering why she was even bothering, she followed the rich medley of roasting food into the kitchen.
Lazlo was reclining at the table, quite at his leisure, a grin on his wrinkled face and a half-empty glass of wine at his elbow. Bane, down to his waistcoat and rolled up shirtsleeves, stirred an aromatic pot of soup.
Bane’s gaze snagged on her in the doorway. His eyes lit a scorching path over her. “You look different.”
“That’s high praise coming from you.” Cora poured herself a glass of wine and arched an eyebrow. “A small improvement from calling me a vinegary spinster.”
The bastard had the gall to smile. “Was I wrong?”
Her lips thinned. “You’re an arsehole.”
“That wasn’t the question.” Amusement danced in his eyes.
With a final glare, she sat across from Lazlo. “Has our mutual acquaintance always been this charming?”
“Enough arrogance for a dozen men, no?” Eyes twinkling, Lazlo tried suppressing a grin she couldn’t help but match.
Bane shot them a look and shook his head. “I am never putting the two of you in a room together again.”
Cora smiled behind her wine glass. “Was Bane your apprentice, Master Lyter?”
The gentlemen exchanged a glance. Lazlo chuckled. “Who is to say when the apprentice becomes the master, hm? We met ages ago, when Mal was but a lad, wild and chomping at the bit. No woman could drag him close to the altar. Except perhaps for Colleen.”
“We remember how that ended,” Bane muttering, not turning from cooking Lazlo’s favorite, unpronounceable dish.
“True. But remember Glasgow, Mal?” He waggled his bushy white eyebrows. “Many years ago, we were traveling through Scotland…”
A masterful storyteller, Lazlo’s quick wit and casual manners soon put Cora at ease as he immersed her in tales of his exotic travels. Battling an Umbramancer in Paris during “one of the French revolutions.” Pitted against a Phytomancer and his poisonous vines in Brazil. Trapped in an Oneiromancer’s nightmare in Russia.
As they polished off a bottle of the best wine Cora had ever tasted, she listened in awe as the Master Sciomancer wove the vibrant tapestry of his long life. He’d traveled across every continent, and she’d never left London.
“I’d love to go anywhere but here,” she confessed.
“Why haven’t you?”
“Poverty.”
“Ah.” He shifted. “I see. The mighty Realmwalker has not traversed you anywhere?”
“He did take me to Purgatory. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere.”
Bane laughed, and she drank in the sound’s deep resonance, all the richer for its rarity. “Once we win this war, Cora, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
He ladled creamy potato stew thick with braised meat into a bowl for Lazlo. Ever the gentleman, the Sciomancer placed it in front of Cora and began serving her from the platters of roasted meats and vegetables.
She was about to politely decline the carcass when Bane swapped her bowl for another, ladled from a separate pot of meatless stew she hadn’t noticed him cooking.
Eyes narrowing, she looked between the vegetarian dish to Bane, taking the seat beside her.
Lazlo tucked in with an appreciative groan. “Mal tells me your abilities are magnificent.”
“I said they were all right, Laz.”
“Another ringing endorsement, Bane.”
“Oh, pay him no mind, szivem . Mal tells me you are a formidable mage. A talented musician. As a matter of fact, he has spent most of the day speaking of you.”
“All good things, I’m sure.” She cast Bane a sidelong glance, but his gaze was honed on the Sciomancer. “Master Lyter, have you ever met another mage… like me?”
“There have only ever been a handful of Necromancers to meet.” He was thoughtful for a long moment. “I met one in India, before you were born. She called herself the Queen of Rot.”
Bane’s sharp inhale drew her attention. Clenching and unclenching his fist, his eyes were narrowed on Lazlo.
“A humble woman,” Cora remarked, glancing between the men locked in a heavy stare.
“Oh, she earned that name,” Lazlo said. “Such terrible, terrible things in her short life. The Tribunal tried to suppress the full extent, but… Can you keep a secret?”
“Unlike some people,” she said with a pointed look at Bane, his blistering focus still on Lazlo.
“That Necromancer killed scores to create an undead army,” Lazlo said. “Her reanimation skills were so remarkable they neared resurrection, a Necromantic power only told in tales older than myself. The Queen of Rot might have been the Master Necromancer, had her… ambitions led her in that direction.”
“What happened to her?” she asked, although she already knew the answer. The same fate of every Necromancer.
“The strangest thing.” Lazlo stroked his withered jowls. “At the very height of her reign, she took her own life. Thirty years old, she was, if not a day.”
A somber silence fell. Cora picked at her food, no longer hungry.
“My colleague, the current Master Necromancer, Baron Samuel Lakwa, is most eager to meet you. I will introduce you, no? Once all of this has… come to pass.”
Her heart jumped. Meeting the Master Necromancer both horrified and thrilled her. She’d never met another of her kind. Someone who could answer her questions. Someone who could understand.
Master Lakwa, a Necromancer who had survived . Her head spun at the prospect. Perhaps the Master death mage could show her how to live.
“Wait. How does Master Lakwa know who I am?”
“Mal told him.”
She eyed Bane dispassionately. “Did he.”
Bane didn’t bother looking contrite. “You’ve had no formal training and there’s only so much I could teach you. Choromancy requires precision and that is not your strong suit. Under Master Lakwa, you could realize how much more you’re capable of.”
“You shouldn’t have.” She ripped off a hunk of bread and stabbed butter onto it. “Your selflessness is truly inspirational, Bane.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re thanked,” she clipped out and turned to a smirking Lazlo. “Would I need to go to Rome to meet Master Lakwa?”
The Tribunal was, allegedly, headquartered in a compound more secretive and well-defended than its neighbor, the Vatican.
“Not necessarily. We Masters use a Portal Key to go to Rome and execute our Tribunal duties. Most of us reside elsewhere. Myself in Budapest. Master Bittenbinder in Berlin. Master Sakura in Tokyo. Master Lakwa in New Orleans. It is but a short trip with Mal to traverse you, no?”
Cora considered it. Not only for what the Master Necromancer could teach her but for the great jazz in New Orleans.
“What abilities come most naturally to you? If you do not mind me asking, szívem .”
She crossed her legs, brushing Bane’s under the table. She jerked away. “I’m not sure. I’ve never known what to call them.” Or had to describe them out loud for a Tribunal Master . “Without trying, I can… sense death.”
Lazlo propped a spindly elbow on the table and leaned forward. “Through touch?”
“Or proximity. Verek—the Pyromancer, er, late Pyromancer—was so close to death I sensed his cancer from across the room.”
Lazlo’s brows climbed the deep grooves of his forehead. “Can you reanimate?”
“Not well. It takes more effort to weave than unweave.”
“She’s being modest,” Bane said. “She reanimated centuries-old corpses in a frozen graveyard and killed half a dozen people with them.”
Lazlo’s brows climbed higher. “With Master Lakwa’s training, I suspect you could aspire to near full reanimation. I sense great potential in you, Cora.”
She was certain she’d misheard that the Sciomancer saw anything but rot inside her. “I sense death in you,” she whispered. “Do you want to know?”
He covered her hand in his wizened one. “That is knowledge I can live without.” His rheumy eyes held hers for a moment before he groaned to his feet. “I trust your cellar is still unfailingly well-stocked, Mal?”
Waving off Bane’s offer to fetch another bottle himself, he plodded away, slow as Sunday. The kitchen felt smaller with just the two of them.
“How?” Bane said when Lazlo was out of earshot. “When?”
Cora regarded him. His concern seemed genuine, and she wondered once more at their friendship. “He’ll pass in his sleep. Soon.”
He released a pained breath and was silent for a long moment. “Can you sense my death?”
“You really want to know?”
At his nod, she removed her glove and clasped his hand. Long, graceful fingers, calloused palm. Even with all her focus, sensing his death was like grasping water. The harder she tried, the more slipped through her fingers.
“I’m afraid you’ll live. I can’t sense anything.”
When he didn’t release her hand, she yanked it away. He frowned at her stiff retreat. “I’m not forgiven for doing nothing wrong, is it?”
She stabbed an asparagus spear with her fork and bit off the tip. “Making dinner absolves you of nothing. Even if it is delicious. I told you not to out me to everyone, and you did anyway. Furthermore— furthermore —you haven’t even apologized.”
“Because I’m not sorry. Experiencing your worst fear has fulfilled your greatest wish. Everyone knows who you are and now no one will fuck with you. That’s what you really wanted. Despite your backarseward approach.”
His words were like lemon juice in an open wound. Although, she reluctantly admitted, it had been a few days since anyone had tried to kill her.
“And you’re the expert on knowing what I want?” she snapped. Their gazes sparred. She decapitated another asparagus spear with her teeth.
He expelled a long breath. “We’ve been talking in circles. You can’t help someone who won’t help themselves, but I am trying to help you, Cora. What will it take for you to trust me?”
“Trust is earned.”
“Over time, aye. And it never will be if you keep moving the goalpost. It won’t matter what I say or do unless you believe it for yourself.” His eyes, dark as a midnight sky, sought hers. “I’m sorry that everyone you’ve known has hurt you. But I’m not them.”
“You are the only one of that opinion.”
Downing his wine, he set the glass down with a clatter. “Very well. Even if I could take it back, I wouldn’t. Getting pissed about it isn’t going to change a damn thing. It’s in the past. But that’s where you prefer to dwell, isn’t it? You live your life ruminating on what’s already happened. Or catastrophizing about what’s yet to come.”
Her eyes flashed. “Where do you suggest I should be? In the sodding present? Fine. Today I’m a year older than my twin will ever be. Soon we’re going to let that old man poke around Teddy’s insides to see what killed him. We could try everything, and it still might not be enough to bring him back. My only reason to live could be just as dead in the new year as he is in this one. But please, tell me how I should feel.”
Rust flaked from the fork in her hand. She dropped the disintegrating utensil and glanced away, willing herself not to cry. If she started crying, she didn’t know if she could stop.
“I thought your birthday was the Winter Solstice.”
A technicality Bane was, of course, aware of. Teddy’s heart had been ripped out and his spirit damned to Purgatory on the cusp of their thirtieth birthday.
“I’m still older than my twin might ever be.”
“Maybe not, with Lazlo here.” They glanced at the wheezing man shambling back with a bottle of wine.
“Very confidence-inspiring,” she mumbled.
“Eh? What’s that?” Lazlo settled down with creaking joints and struggled to uncork the bottle with his age-spotted hands. Bane opened it for him and topped off their glasses. “How do you find London these days, Mal?”
“Predictable. I’ll be moving sooner than planned. O’Leary says Shanghai, but I’m thinking the States. Prohibition has left them parched.”
“You’re leaving?” Cora blurted. The possibility hadn’t crossed her mind. After scheming his way to the top in London, she figured he’d at least stay to gloat about it for a while. An unwelcome sensation settled in her stomach. Heavy and cold.
“Don’t worry.” Bane didn’t spare her a glance as he tucked into his meal. “Relocation is optional for the gang. You can stay in London.”
Cora sat back and sipped wine, half-listening to their grim conversation while Bane filled Lazlo in on escalating gang tensions. Mages killed for nefarious reasons, known and unknown. Attackers, masked and unmasked. Magic-draining bullets made of Sephrinium, potentially derived from the mythical Ruination Stone, the Tribunal’s weapon long lost to time.
Lazlo gaped, his wine untouched. “The Ruination Stone? Surely not, Mal. There must be another source of Sephrinium. Though the deposits were rare and heavily exploited centuries ago... It would be like finding a needle in a global haystack.” He frowned in thought. “Deeply troubling. This is much worse than you let on, Mal.”
“Don’t worry,” she tossed Bane’s words back. “It gets worse.” She told Lazlo about Teddy and the curse that had split his spirit. The curse the Master Sciomancer would hopefully reveal at midnight as the year died and was reborn.
“Much, much worse.” Steepling his hands, Lazlo shook his head gravely. “I sense a dark cloud over London that obscures my divination. Something, or someone, is occluding me. Undeniably, the portents of the Profane are in bloom.”
Silence weighted the air.
“On that note.” Bane pushed back from the table. “I’ll prepare the ritual. No, Lazlo. Relax. I’ll fetch you when it’s time.”
Her stomach dropped at the reminder. Everything rested on this ritual.
“We’ve time until midnight,” Lazlo said, catching her distressed look. “Will you play me a song?”
She forced a deep breath. “Sure, why not?” Arm in arm, they shuffled into the parlor and eased into their seats with grateful sighs, Lazlo in an armchair and Cora at the piano. “What would you like to hear?”
“Something…” Eyelids drooping, his chin folded onto his chest. “Beautiful.”
Music, rich and resonant, flowed from her fingers. Worries that had been eating away at her like cancer quieted as she wound through song after song.
She caught herself crooning when a shadow darkened the doorway. Her singing and playing cut off abruptly. Whirling around, she saw Bane leaning against the doorframe.
“Your voice is even more sultry when you sing.” He motioned with his glass of wine for her to continue.
Cora flushed and was spared from responding when a resounding snore filled the parlor. Lazlo, drowning in his own clothes, dozed in the armchair.
“I don’t want to wake him,” she said.
“Lazlo would sleep through Armageddon.”
“Hmm. There is a song you played in the kitchen the other day.” She tried various chords, then shook her head. “But I can’t quite get it right.”
“From that Willie the Lion record? I might know how to play that one.”
Her pulse quickened when he came to stand behind her. Leaning down, he surrounded her, one hand on the piano lid beside his wine glass, the other testing the chords. Butterflies erupted in her stomach as his breath stirred her hair.
“Hm, still sounds off.” Pressing closer, he reached around to play with both hands.
The satisfaction of hearing the music that had eluded her was eclipsed by his nearness. Heat flooded her body. “I…” Voice husky, she cleared her throat. “I didn’t know you could play.”
“Not as well as you. But it’s one of my favorites.”
She tried to follow the song at first. Then her eyes drifted shut as she sank into wine-lulled sensations. There was something oddly wonderful about being both cradled in his arms and the beautiful, imperfect tune he played. If he noticed her leaning into him, he didn’t object. Even after the final note trailed off.
“You turn such a pretty shade of pink,” he murmured in her ear.
Her eyes flew open. Rearing back, she twisted around and elbowed him in the stomach. He grunted back a step, still too close.
“Do you try to sleep with every woman in your gang?” she demanded.
He gazed down at her with a hardening expression. “Ask the question that’s really on your mind.”
“Did you sleep with Yvonne?” A test. Would he deny how miraculous she claimed he was?
Emotions flitted across his face, settling on an infuriating smirk. “You’re jealous.”
“I— You presumptuous —”
He caged her against the piano, arms bracketing her. Their faces were whisper close. Reason fled and heat surged in its wake.
“Do you have feelings for me, Cora?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yes. Several. Contempt. Outrage. Disgust.”
His hooded eyes caught on her parted lips, and the air thickened as he dipped his head. “Something tells me just how you'd like to”—he nipped her throat, over her throbbing pulse— “release those feelings.”
She pulled away until the piano keys dug into her back in a discordant tune. But it wasn’t far enough to escape the tumbling exhilaration in her belly. “Did you? Sleep with Yvonne?”
He drew back with a flicker of irritation. “Years ago.”
Jealousy reared its ugly head. Sick with it, she still found herself asking, “What happened?”
“She wanted more than I could give her. I ended it.”
Yvonne’s coy smiles and lingering glances made Cora think it was far from ended for the Phytomancer. “And other women in your gang?”
“One instance is a trend, is it?”
“You tell me.”
A frown shadowed his face. Straightening, his arms dropped to his sides. “Does it matter what consenting adults do in the privacy of their bedrooms?”
“Well, no. Of course not. Unless there’s an uneven power dynamic.” Wine had loosened her tongue, and she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Though perhaps you prefer professionals. Madam Kalandra told me you’re one of her best customers.”
He ran a hand over his face. “For information. I’ve done many things in my life. Paying for sex is not one of them.” Tilting his head, he studied her with a reemerging smirk. “You are awfully curious about my sex life.”
Their gazes collided. She had an urge to speak the truth she didn’t want to admit to herself. Instead, she said, “Who’s Colleen?”
He flinched as if she’d struck him. “Now you’re conjuring ghosts? Colleen was a childhood sweetheart.”
He clearly didn’t want to talk about it, and she didn’t actually want to know. And yet, she sensed a wall erecting between them and lobbed a final question over it. “What happened?”
“She wanted to settle down. I didn’t.” Eyes distant, he lit a cigarette and was quiet for so long Cora didn’t think he’d elaborate. “A lad we’d grown up with gave her what I couldn’t. I never begrudged them their happiness. The last time I saw Colleen, she looked at me—really looked at me—and told me I was a monster for the things I’ve done.” He took a long drag. “She wasn’t wrong.”
Cora didn’t know what to make of this confession. Bane had gifted her his vulnerability, and between that and the thoughtful meal, she felt the sand foundation of their relationship shift once more.
Still, that didn’t change how he’d broken her tentative trust by outing her, or the pattern he was trying to slot her into. Didn’t change all the beautiful women she’d never live up to. Cora ripped the wings off the butterflies in her stomach, one by one.
“I— I’m not going to be another notch on your bedpost. You can drop the act.”
There was a ripple in the vastness of his black eyes. “Shall I line up everyone I’ve ever fucked for you to compare yourself to?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. They’d never all fit in the house.” She spun around, downing the wine he’d left on the piano. “You should stick to whiskey, Bane. Wine makes you maudlin.”
She caught his reflection in the polished ebony lid. His hand reached out, hesitated, and fell back. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?” he said softly.
“Your latest scheme?”
“I see a woman with enough power to bring the world to its knees, yet you let them hold you down with the tips of their fingers.”
“Thank you, Master Bane, for that stunning insight.” She glowered at him over her shoulder. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?”
“I know I’ll regret this, but what?”
The torrent of words boiled out. “I see a cold-hearted son of a bitch who keeps everyone a step below and an arm’s length away from him. I see an arrogant bastard who only wants honesty when it’s not about himself. You’re convinced you’re always right because you’ve made everyone too afraid to tell you when you’re wrong.”
Rising to stand, she jabbed his chest. “When I look at you, I see a man who's been hiding behind a mask for so long he thinks it’s his true face. But I think it’s bullshit. There’s nothing cold or elegant about the real you. When I look at you, Malachy Bane, I see a lonely man.”
His gaze roamed over her from her leather boots to her flushed cheeks. “And fuck you too,” he said with a slow smile. “Now I’ll tell you something about yourself, Cora, though you won’t believe me. You are the most important woman in my life.”
Her heart faltered. Too late, she realized her hand was still on his chest, gripping his shirt. The warmth of his skin seeped through the thin layers of fabric separating them.
She dropped her hand and forced a detached countenance. “I’m going to tell you something you’ll never hear from me again, Bane. You’re right.”
He savored her words, eyes drifting shut and smile spreading. “Say it again. Slower.”
“You’re right. I don’t believe you.” His eyes snapped open and met hers. “How many other women have you fed that line to?”
Brow furrowing, his gaze grew contemplative. “I can be patient,” he said more to himself.
The sound of voices approached, and their heads whipped to the door. She risked a glance at Bane, but the wall had closed between them. His attention was on Anita and Ravi Shah as they entered with—
Her stomach plummeted. Wrapped in a sheet and hovering off the ground with Ravi’s Aeromancy was Teddy’s rot-tinged body. Cora watched the macabre levitation with sudden, absolute dread. Every bite of dinner was a sour regret in her gut.
Midnight was near. It was time.