“There was a lot of magic in the paranormal pavilion, though,” Isabel went on. “I don’t blame him for not liking it. I told him he should spend some time at my house before he went back to America and university.”
Isabel and Mateo had what English speakers calledsubordinatemagic. Where Sebastian could wield his magic like a weapon, Isabel and Mateo’s magic came to them like they were radios receiving a signal, whether they wanted it to or not. Their magic was far more powerful than Sebastian’s—and a far greater risk to their minds.
When they’d all been younger, Sebastian had used his power to weaken magic to keep Isabel’s and Mateo’s powers at bay. But with Sebastian gone, Isabel had found a new solution: taking the home she’d inherited on the sea near Barcelona and using her painting talents to turn it into a refuge from the magic that threatened her sanity.
“You haven’t seen the house since I finished,” Isabel said. “I painted murals on the walls, the azotea, all of it. Any time the magic gets too much, I go, and it helps. You should come. Your parents are in Madrid; you could go see them after.”
For a moment, Sebastian could almost see it: the warm wood and polished tiles complemented by Isabel’s bright art, the boardwalk and golden beach out front, the rooftop terrace with its view of the Mediterranean stretching out endlessly.
The Puppeteer’s blood magic had been able to bypass the protective tattoo Isabel had inked on Sebastian’s wrist, going straight to his blood. But maybe, in Isabel’s townhouse, the echoes of blood magic still plaguing him would ease.
“Mateo said he would stay in Barcelona, but I never heard if he did,” she said, pronouncing the city with a softth. “He has sent no messages, not to me, not to your parents.”
Sebastian frowned. “No one has heard from him since he got back to America?”
“No. Perhaps he’s so deep in his science he’s forgotten people with magic, but he should tell us. He makes everyone worry.” Isabel clucked her tongue. “They worry about you too, Sebi.”
“But I do send messages,” he protested.
“Cryptic messages saying you’re fine but you can’t leave London yet. Family still worries.”
He didn’t meet her eyes. Clover had settled at his side on the rug, and he stroked her nose. He’d always had a house full of pets, whether in San Juan or Spain. He missed them. He missed his family. He wanted to go.
But if the rest of them saw him now, a shadow of himself, fractured into someone he barely recognized—they’d only worry more.
“I can’t come to Paris, or Barcelona,” he said, throat tight. “We have a mystery here,” he quickly added, because it was much easier than admitting how the Puppeteer still controlled his life, even from death.
He told Isabel about the newspaper articles and her eyes grew concerned. “Should I stay?”
He shook his head. There was no need to put nonmagical Molly in danger. “Take Molly to the fair. If we need you, I’ll send a telegram. And we should check on Mateo.”
“Your parents sent telegrams,” she said wryly. “Teo’s going to be very sorry he forgot to send messages when he has your dad’s American friends knocking on his door to check up on him in the middle of the night.”
Sebastian winced in shared sympathy. Molly sat down on the bed, a mug of tea in her hand.
“I think that’s everything packed,” said Molly. “We can head for the train when you two are ready.”
Isabel kissed Molly’s smile. “I can’t wait to show you Paris.”
“You two could pretend to be less blissfully happy in front of the always-single man,” Sebastian said wryly.
“There’s nice girls you could meet on every floor of this house.” Molly’s smile turned mischievous, and she leaned forward and said knowingly, “And niceboysin the house next door.”
Sebastian covered his face as Isabel’s laughter rang around the room.
Chapter Three
The Great Eastern Hotel at Liverpool Street Station was several stories of red brick with arched windows and peaked roofs. It was bustling with activity, a thick throng of cars and taxis in front, people milling about despite the evening’s chill.
Wesley’s driver, Marcus, pulled the Bentley up to the main entrance.
“What time shall I be here waiting, my lord?” he asked, as one of the doormen hurried over.
Wesley considered this. Normally, he wouldn’t allow a dinner to last longer than ninety minutes. But he was actually looking forward to seeing Jade.
“No need to wait,” he finally said. “I’ll have the concierge call me a car when we’re finished.”
Marcus’s eyebrows went up the barest hint. “Very good, sir,” he said, as the doorman opened the door to the backseat so Wesley could get out.
