Salt Magic, Skin Magic Page 11

  “Thornby! It’s all right. I’ll set you free.” John forced the chimera key into the lock on the fetter. The charm was wearing off and the key jerked and stuck. Thornby’s stocking was in tatters, his ankle raw and swollen; he must have been fighting the chain for hours. John sent a brutal surge of power into the key and the lock opened.

  Thornby tore John’s hands away from the fetter and forced it apart. Then Thornby was up, stumbling across the estate boundary, tearing past the holly. Once over the boundary he managed another twenty yards, crashing through low hazel and underbrush. John ran after him, calling his name, branches whipping back into his face, hoping Thornby wouldn’t run all the way to the Hall. Luckily, Thornby came to a small clearing, then a particularly dense part of the thicket that wouldn’t let him through. Thornby grappled with the branches for a moment, then sank to his knees, panting.

  John knelt beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. “Thornby, it’s all right now. It’s over.”

  “Must get home. I’m late for...I must get home.”

  “You are home. You’re on the estate.”

  “I have to go home.” Thornby lurched to his feet and blundered into the thicket again.

  “Stop it! You’ll hurt yourself. You’ll put an eye out. You’re home. You’re on the estate. You can feel it, can’t you?”

  “The estate. Yes.” Thornby sounded dazed, but no longer desperate. His knees crumpled again and they knelt on the damp leaves, hazel twigs poking at their hair and faces.

  “Blake?”

  “Yes, it’s me. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I didn’t know where you were.”

  “Oh, God, I—I thought you’d gone back to London.” Thornby gave a kind of gasp, and began to sob like a beaten child, face in his hands.

  John dropped the rowan twig to burn coldly on the dead leaves. He put both arms around Thornby. Thornby resisted at first, then leaned into him. John could still feel a faint echo of that terrible magical desperation; that overwhelming drive to return to the estate. However Dalton was holding Thornby here, it was horribly strong. It felt primal, like blood magic, though it was too alien to be that. The mere memory of it set John’s teeth on edge. And Thornby had endured it for hours.

  After a while, Thornby made the gulping sounds of a man trying to pull himself together. His shoulders stopped heaving and he let out several long shaky breaths.

  “Blake, Christ, I’m sorry for what I said. Please don’t go back to London. I didn’t mean it.” He had his voice nearly under control. It only shook once or twice.

  “Of course I’m not going while you’re stuck here.”

  Thornby nodded, and waved a hand, indicating his state. “I—I beg your pardon. For being—I’m not accustomed—”

  “Shh. There’s no need to apologise. How long were you there?”

  “Don’t know. Hours.” Suddenly Thornby tensed. “Oh, God, what you said about Mother—it’s true, isn’t it? I’m one of them. I’m not human.”

  “You’re not ‘one of them’. Your father’s human.”

  Thornby gave a deep sigh. His voice, when he spoke, was more normal. “Father? Human? You think so?” He put a hand to his disordered cravat. “God, my throat hurts. What if I sprout horns or turn blue or something?”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “But you don’t know, do you? You’re in the dark about all this yourself.”

  “I think, if you were going to grow horns, it would have happened by now.”

  John could feel Thornby breathing; shaky gulps of air. John kissed his cheek and slid a hand inside Thornby’s shirt, which was hanging out of his breeches, and stroked his cold and clammy back.

  “I’ll never get away, will I? If I’m not fully human, who knows what he can do to me?”

  “Of course you’ll get away.” John pulled out his flask of rain-water. He kept it for magical purposes, but could easily get more. “Here, drink this. In a moment I’ll put some wards up so we know if someone’s coming. Did he say when he’d come back for you?”

  “He wasn’t there. Prout and Abbott, the footmen, did the dirty work, with his regards. They said they’d be back in the morning.”

  John considered. If they went back to the house and someone saw them, Dalton would probably find out. And if Dalton felt his demonstration had failed, perhaps he’d repeat it. It would be better to avoid the house. Better to lie low and let Dalton think everything had gone according to plan.

  “All right. So, we’ll get comfortable here until morning. Your clothes are soaking. Here.” John picked up the rowan twig and brought it closer to Thornby.

  Thornby jumped as if something had bitten him. “What the devil?” he yelped, grabbing at his chest.

  “Sorry, sorry. That was me. I was trying to dry your clothes.”

  “Christ! It felt like you set my shirt on fire.”

  “Sorry. You’d better get everything off then, or you’ll freeze. I can dry them fairly fast, but perhaps not with you in them. You throw all my magic awry, don’t you? You can have my coat while you wait, but don’t go poking around in the pockets. There are all kinds of things in there that are better left alone.”

  Thornby started trying to undo his waistcoat buttons, but his hands were shaking too much. John did it for him, then peeled off Thornby’s wet coat and waistcoat and started on the buttons of his shirt. He was about half-way down when he realised Thornby was looking at him with a ghost of a smile on his drawn face. John stopped, fingers on the buttons.

  “I must say this isn’t how I imagined it,” Thornby said, glancing at the bare branches of the thicket that hemmed them in.

  John found himself smiling back. “Nor me.”

  “But you did imagine it?”

  “Are you joking? It’s been impossible to think of anything else. Even with a cursed marquess and a fairy hedgehog running around the place.”

  Thornby looked away for a moment. “I wondered if you weren’t really interested. You know, because of earlier. In the spare room.”

  “You mean the spare room where I spent all over you? And you did the same to me?”

  “Well—I meant the part where you thought about it for five minutes beforehand. Not that I mind, if that’s what you like to do. Actually, it was quite exciting, being made to wait. But people don’t usually deliberate about it for quite so long if they really want to.”

  “No, no. That’s just—it’s to do with magic. It affects how I have sex. Look, can I tell you later? I want to get you warmed up and set some wards. I want to know about it, if anyone comes near.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  John helped him get the rest of his wet clothes off, wrapped him in his coat, helped him lie down, and tied a clean handkerchief lightly around his bleeding ankle. Then John bent over him to get some things out of his coat pockets. “I’ve got walnuts, but no other food. I’ll go back to the house for some if you like.”

  “I couldn’t eat anyway. I’m nearly asleep now.”

  “All right. I’ll be back soon. And listen, Thornby; next time I take off your clothes you’ll have no doubt about whether I want you. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He bent closer, putting his lips to Thornby’s ear. “And if you like being made to wait, then I will make you wait. Until you beg. Got it? Now go to sleep.”

  “After a comment like that?” Thornby muttered, but he closed his eyes and was asleep before John had even straightened his back.

  ***

  Thornby woke with a start; something was digging into his cheek. He thrashed at it and found himself with a handful of hazel twigs. Then Blake was there, crouching over him with a hand on his arm. The uncanny blue light Blake had brought with him was still burning, lighting up the coppice.

  “All right?” Blake said.

  “What time is it?”

  “Nearly five.”

  “I’ve a head like a stuck pig. Is there any more water?”

  Blake passed him a fla
sk, which he drained. He was struck by how relaxed Blake looked, considering they were sleeping out on an October night in Yorkshire. Thornby was not, now he thought of it, especially cold himself; Blake’s coat was wonderfully warm. The dead leaves underneath him felt crisp and dry. Surely, they’d been wet earlier. Was that magic?

  “My clothes?” Thornby asked.

  “Here.” Blake passed him a pile of clothes, neatly folded, and perfectly dry, though still caked in mud and dried leaves.

  “How did you do that?”

  “I asked the water nicely to come out.”

  Thornby opened his mouth to protest, then wondered if in fact he’d just been told the literal truth. He tried to stand to get dressed and nearly fell over. His ankle, where the fetter had chafed it, throbbed as if flayed. Dried blood was caked all over Blake’s handkerchief.

  Blake helped him get dressed. It was a little like having a valet again, although Blake was not entirely businesslike. Some of the things he did would have seen him out on the street without a recommendation. Or arrested. Or treasured as the best valet a man ever had. Perhaps it depended on whether one liked a valet with smouldering eyes, who occasionally grazed his fingertips along one’s bare skin.

  “No one came?” Thornby asked, a little breathlessly.

  “No people. I saw several hedgehogs, which I gave walnuts. I slept a bit too. The wards’ll tell me about ten minutes before anyone comes.”

  “All right.” Thornby swallowed. He could guess what was coming. Better to say it himself, so Blake didn’t have to. “I have to go back, don’t I? To the chain. So Prout and Abbott can find me there.”

  “If you can bear it, it really would be best.” Blake took his hand and rubbed it. His hands were warm, very comforting. “I’ve changed one or two things about the chain, and about the ground underneath. I’ve got earth from the estate and I’ll put it where you have to lie. The ground’s so churned up they’ll never notice. I think you might find it isn’t so bad. It’s worth trying, anyway.”

  Thornby blinked at him. He’d never thought of that. Over a year and a half of trying to escape and it had never crossed his mind. But then, trying to get away was like that. He was stupid about it.

  “Could I get all the way to London like that?” he said, only half joking.

  “I doubt it. Soil on someone else’s land becomes theirs, doesn’t it? But you only have to lie there for a few minutes and they’ll let you go. I think the effect might last long enough to help.”

  “What have you done to the chain?”

  “Stretched it. You’ll be partly over the boundary.”

  “Won’t they notice? You stretched it? I suppose you asked it nicely?”

  “No, iron prefers orders. I told it, very firmly indeed. And no, I don’t think they’ll notice. Even if they do, Lord Dalton knows magic’s involved here. I’m hoping he’ll put it down to that. Not to someone helping you.”

  “That’s quite clever, Mr Blake. I’m impressed.”

  “Tell me that again if it works. You know, you can call me John, if you like. Now we’ve spent the night together.”

  “All right. John.”

  Thornby found himself looking down at the crisp dead leaves, feeling uncharacteristically shy. But then it was uncharacteristic to have wept all over the man. Did John think less of him? He didn’t appear to; he’d been absolutely decent and kind throughout. He might be trade—of a sort—but he was more of a gentleman than most of the fellows Thornby had known at Oxford. Thornby realised he was still gazing bashfully at the ground. This wouldn’t do. He looked up to find John watching him with a slightly surprised, almost puzzled, expression.

  “I don’t think you should call me Soren. You might become familiar, and then where should we be? Good heavens, you might lay a hand on me!”

  John cocked his head, smiling.

  “Come then, my lord. Let’s get closer to the boundary. I don’t know when your father’s men will be along. ‘Morning’ could mean anything. When a ward tells me they’re near, you’ll have to let me push you over. Think you can do it? You can’t fight me. It’ll slow us down.”

  Thornby swallowed hard, all the fun of teasing and being teased draining out of him.

  “I...I don’t know. I won’t mean to fight you. But I can’t promise.” His voice wobbled. Christ, the idea of going back, of having to lie there again. His heart was pounding just thinking about it. Objectively, it was lying under a tree with a bit of iron round his ankle. But it felt like a nightmare—it was an animal state of pain and desperation. And he had to go back to it. He bit his lip. He would not cry in front of John again. He would not.

  “Come here,” John said, and put his arms around him. God, he was good to hold. John kissed the side of his face and ran his fingers in Thornby’s hair. How nice it would be to get that suit off him and see what was underneath. But this embrace wasn’t lustful. John was trying to give him courage. And maybe it worked, because after a while, Thornby drew away from him.

  “Come then,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  ***

  It was, John thought, one of the bravest things he’d seen anyone do in cold blood. The moment the ward alerted him to people coming, he’d nodded at Thornby and pulled him over the boundary. And Thornby had gritted his teeth and gone. Thornby had struggled, plainly he hadn’t been able to help himself, but he’d kept himself in check. He let John force the fetter round his raw and bleeding ankle. Only when John had left him, and concealed himself in the thicket, had Thornby convulsed in the mud and begun, once more, reaching for the boundary. His hands touched it now. John hoped that was some comfort. He hoped the weak struggle Thornby was putting up was partly for show.

  This time, Lord Dalton had come himself. Prout and Abbott were there too. Prout, who looked like a prize-fighter gone to seed, undid the fetter. Thornby staggered across the boundary in his muddy clothes, limping, falling, getting up again. His father watched, expressionless, sitting his restless horse like a statue. Prout and Abbott exchanged glances, but there was no sympathy in their faces. Abbott, who wore a permanent expression of baffled rage, looked as if he’d like to do worse to the lordling who was staggering out of sight into the thicket.

  Lord Dalton didn’t even look at the chain, now a foot longer than it had been. Prout didn’t either. He simply looped it over his shoulder and the grim little party followed the rudimentary path Thornby had broken through the bushes.

  John watched them go, fists balled in his pockets, until the temptation to run after them became so strong he felt it would choke him. Then he turned away. He longed to knock Dalton off his horse with a well-aimed rock and follow it up with some charmed salt to really make it sting. He’d maim Prout and Abbott, perhaps with iron pins to the feet. And then help Thornby home—put him to bed and get in beside him.

  But he couldn’t. He clenched his teeth. He must play a long game. And, moreover, he must play it on two fronts; the curse on Dalton, and the spell on Thornby.

  So far, he’d found nothing to help him with the spell. Next, he would try tackling the curse. And that meant a tête-à-tête with Lord Dalton. John had said he had ‘valuable contacts’. Maybe he could exploit Dalton’s greed—for money, for success in business, for whatever it was Dalton wanted, to find out more about the curse. And then, well, he had no idea beyond a vague theory that had come to him in the thicket.

  The salt had given him the tip about the Woden’s Eye sigil. It had nearly ended in disaster, and at the time, he’d thought he’d never take advice from his materials again. But he’d wanted the hedgehog to reveal itself, and by God, it had done so. The salt’s advice had been effective. Perhaps some sigils were not really obsolete. Perhaps they just seemed so, because their true purposes had been forgotten. As people had migrated to the towns, and built new cities, the need for magic that could affect the fair folk must have abated. He himself, a city boy, had never come across it before, nor been taught anything of it at the Institute.

  So,
what other sigils might the salt suggest if he asked it? What might the pins suggest, or the sand or the spancel? If he made a list of all the obsolete sigils and charms he and his materials could remember, perhaps one of them might prove useful in dealing with this other kind of magic. And then he might free Thornby and break the curse on Lord Dalton.

  If he didn’t somehow manage to kill himself in the process.

  He began walking back the way he’d come, so he could appear to be returning to the house from the village. He had no wish to watch Thornby limping back to the house in front of him. It would be too much to bear.

  Last night he’d watched Thornby sleep and wondered why it felt as if his heart was exploding in a burst of tattered magic. It was true they’d been through a lot together. Thornby had saved his life. But the sweet ache of love? After a couple of days’ acquaintance and one brief mutual tug?

  But was it love, or something else? John had been in love before, but this felt different. Stronger. Better. Worse. What if this was the beginning of some kind of mania? Dalton seemed half mad after losing his fairy bride. If John allowed himself to fall in love with Thornby, and Thornby did not return the sentiment, would John become like Dalton? Obsessed forever with the one person he could no longer have?

  ‘Allow himself to fall in love’? Who was he trying to fool? There was no ‘allowing himself’ here. This was no sensible decision that the fellow could be a pleasant companion. There was no decision at all, no choice. Thornby made his knees weak and his balls ache. John wanted him the way a starving man wants bread.

  He had always preferred well-born young men; the higher in the instep, the better. There was something about the accent and the air of privilege that made him long to fuck them senseless. To make them lose their poise and lose control; to make them writhe and moan and rut and forget themselves. Thornby was no exception.

  Except, of course, he was the exception.

  Because although he had the looks, the pretty manners and the grace of a thoroughbred, he was not actually an arrogant little bastard. Perhaps he had been once; all these months at Raskelf, in this unenviable position, had probably changed him. Now, there was something sweet about him. Once or twice he had seemed a little shy. When he wasn’t being defensive, he treated John as an equal. His habit of poking fun at their different stations was disarming.