“Ready?” Sterling asked, sitting cross-legged within the circle as candles flickered at each nexus point.
“Ready,” Edwina replied, sinking onto the cold floor in front of him, and placing the ring between them. A shiver of nervousness lit through her, despite the fact it was wrapped in a handkerchief that had been drenched in blessed water. “The priest and sexton have left the building, the Willoughby’s should be home by now, and evening is falling.”
The soothing effect of the ritual took hold.
Edwina stilled her mind, casting out all manner of doubt and nerves. Holding her hands out, she laid them in Sterling’s.
“Open yourself to the link,” he whispered.
Blowing out a deep breath, she lowered her psychic wards and reached for him.
There were three types of bonds that the order used; a wellspring bond, where one sorcerer drew strength from another; the Anchor and Shield bond, which was somewhat more reciprocal; and a soul-bond between lovers that could never be broken.
She and Sterling had used a wellspring bond on several occasions, and she reached for him now, trying to take control. Telepathy was what was needed in this situation, and although Sterling had spent years studying the mental arts, it was her natural affinity, not his. It required absolute trust on behalf of the wellspring, and she’d always been surprised at how easily he offered her his strength.
“Wait,” he said, opening his eyes.
Edwina blinked in disarray.
“Anchor and Shield,” he told her.
“Anchor and….” She reined herself in in surprise. It was far more intimate than a wellspring bond. And of course, he’d be the Shield, but?—
“We’re dealing with a psychic entity,” he replied, “and a powerful one at that. I need to be able to control some of my power so I can ward off any attacks. You can break the spirit’s hold on the ring.”
It made sense.
His skillset ran more to offensive work. But….
“I’ve never been an Anchor before,” she blurted, her cheeks heating. Her mentor, Mr. Scartleberry, had held rather strong opinions on the crossing of certain lines between master and apprentice. He’d talked her through the application of it, of course, but had never dared link with her.
“Never?” A hint of a smile touched Sterling’s mouth.
She shook her head.
“First time for everything then.” And then he paused. “You did bring an inkpot, didn’t you?”
Heat flooded through her cheeks. Of all the eventualities she’d prepared for…. “I have paint.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. You are not painting pink runes on my chest.”
“Gird your loins, Sterling. I’m the only one who’s going to see it.”
Muttering to himself, he began to strip his coat off.
“Good grief,” she said, kneeling in front of him with the tin of paint. “If the sexton returns and catches me drawing pagan runes on you, he’s going to suffer apoplexy.”
Sterling began to unbutton his shirt. “And in a church too. You’re such a heathen, Miss Sheffield. Blood to bind.”
“I know.” She bit her lip, reaching for the athame and slicing the tip of her finger. It wasn’t the blood that made her uneasy, but the way he slipped his shirt off his shoulders.
Good lord.
She’d always known he was sculpted of muscle.
She’d caught glimpses of him boxing in the salon with his friend, Adrian Bishop, before she very deliberately looked away. His shoulders were broad enough to throw a mule over them. And every inch of him was sleek and solid.
Golden tan lines disappeared at his elbow—he did so enjoy rolling up his shirtsleeves and he wasn’t averse to manual labor—but his chest was as pale as chiseled marble.
