LITMIR.BIZ

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said, mouth wryly tilting. “That’s what I felt when you asked me questions. As if a gate inside my mind wanted to spring open and reveal itself to you.”

      “What I don’t understand,” she wondered, “is how you were able to resist it. No one has, until now.”

      “I have been a Blade of the Rose for years,” he answered, dry with understatement. Gemma could see plainly in the way he held himself that he was a veteran of at least two decades. She had seen him fight just that morning, with the skill of a hardened soldier. “I have been exposed to magic many, many times. No doubt I’ve developed something of both a sensitivity and resistance to it.”

      “Or perhaps your mind is simply too strong.”

      He raised a wry brow. “Entirely possible. However,” he added, stern, “I don’t want you to use that magic on me, Astrid, or Lesperance again.”

      “I won’t,” she said at once, and felt for the first time stirrings of misgivings about the usage of her magic.

      Dwelling too much on her own use—or abuse—of magic wasn’t a pursuit Gemma wanted to engage in overmuch. She steered the conversation back to more relevant topics. “Tell me more about what I … overheard … outside your cabin, that the Heirs sought Astrid because of her knowledge of the Primal Source. They don’t know how to use the Primal Source?”

      “Not fully,” answered Astrid, coming with Lesperance into the carriage. The Englishwoman sat down beside Catullus, with Lesperance lowering himself down next to Gemma. Even though Lesperance’s attention was fully given to Astrid, Gemma could feel from the man waves of energy, as though he was barely containing some great force within. He did not speak much, but still cleaved a presence into the world.

      She would have found him fascinating, this Canadian Indian in European clothing, far from his own home. He clearly loved the flinty Englishwoman, Astrid Bramfield, as she loved him in equal measure. Doubtless Lesperance had a story to tell, one she would have gone to great lengths to discover. Yet, even this intriguing man could not hold her attention when Catullus Graves was near.

      She forced herself to focus. They were discussing the Primal Source.

      “But,” Astrid went on, “as you heard when eavesdropping, that doesn’t mean the Primal Source will not work on its own. Even without direct guidance, the Primal Source will act upon the Heirs’ wishes.”

      “Which means disaster.” Gemma felt herself turn ashen and cold, thinking about what that meant. If the Primal Source was as powerful as these people believed—and Gemma didn’t doubt their veracity—then whatever it unleashed upon an unsuspecting world would be devastating. Just the scale of lives that could be lost in the ensuing catastrophe turned her stomach.

      “Whatever is coming, the Blades will face it,” Catullus said, resolute. “We’ll fight until the threat has been eradicated.”

      “Or until there are none of us left,” Astrid added. Lesperance, grim-faced, reached across to grip her hand, but did not deny this possibility.

      Gemma stared at Catullus, no doubt eyes wide as apples. “With your own magic?”

      Astrid and Lesperance shared a quick glance before Catullus said, “Not precisely. One of the ways in which Blades protect magic is to use none of it themselves, not unless it is given to them by birth or gift.”

      “That’s ridiculous!” Gemma protested.

      His gaze frosted. “Ridiculous or not, it is our code. To use magic that isn’t ours is to risk becoming like the Heirs, greedy for more power. So we take pride in our difference.”

      She knew something of pride. “There are only three of you,” she noted.

      “There are more of our numbers. Not as many as the Heirs, but enough to make a go of it.” He nodded toward the window, where the countryside sped past. “They’re gathering in Southampton now.”

      “Where I’ll be held captive,” Gemma added.

      “Only for your protection,” he clarified. As if that made it better.

      “Until when?”

      “Until it is safe.”

      “When might that be?” she pressed.

      His eyes fixed on her before sliding away. “I don’t know.”

      Taking risks was something she did as if by biological compulsion. As a child, she alone out of three sisters and four brothers dared to go inside the abandoned house on their street. Later, at the age of eighteen, after giving her virginity to Robby Egan, instead of accepting his offer of marriage, Gemma left home and moved into a boardinghouse close to the Tribune offices, determined to become a journalist and not a young wife. She once followed a fire engine on horseback when several huge warehouses went up in flames so she might report on the destruction firsthand. She disguised herself as a charwoman to observe the late-night dealings in a local politician’s office.

      Hell, she even trekked out to the Northwest Territories in search of a story, and then journeyed alone all the way across the continent and the Atlantic Ocean. She could no more stop herself from taking a risk than most people could keep from sneezing. It was a necessity.

      Yet when Catullus insisted that she must go to and remain at the Blades’ Southampton headquarters, she knew better than to try to evade his escort. Only someone pickle-brained would attempt to slip away. The Heirs were aware of her. She had already seen a minuscule portion of what they were capable of. Gemma had no desire to be confined in Southampton, but she had even less desire to be dead.

      So, when she announced that she was heading to the dining car for a bite to eat, and Catullus insisted that he join her, she didn’t take umbrage. In fact, she was glad for the company.

      For his company, in particular.

      They sat at a neat little table spread with a white cloth, and, at Catullus’s direction, plates of cold sandwiches and cups of hot tea were brought by a solicitous attendant. Gemma watched with badly concealed amazement as the attendant eagerly jumped to accommodate Catullus’s wishes.

      “You seem shocked by something, Miss Murphy,” he remarked.

      “Gemma,” she corrected.

      “Gemma,” he said, and gave a little smile at her name.

      She felt herself dissolve like a sugar cube in tea. Then shook herself to awareness. “It’s very different here in England than it is at home.”

      “How is that?”

      No way to be delicate about it. “You wouldn’t have been seated in a dining car on an American train.”

      Yet he did not look angry or surprised by her blunt comment. He tipped a small silver pitcher of milk into his tea, and it looked like a child’s toy in his large hand. Yet, for all that, he had a precise, polished way of moving.

      Still, when he spoke, his voice was reserved, almost cool. “And you prefer the American policy.”

      “God, no!” Gemma stared, horrified. “I find it …” She couldn’t find a word strong enough. “Disgusting.” That barely covered the depth of her feelings. “What damned difference does it make what the color of someone’s skin is?”

      A man and a woman, seated nearby, gasped at her coarse language and vehemence.

      She ignored them. Other people’s opinions didn’t matter. But his did.

      Relief, then, to see his gaze thaw. And restrained approbation take the place of coldness.

      “I’m glad you don’t share your countrymen’s views,” he said.

      She felt compelled to defend her home. “Not all Americans are like that. But,” she conceded, “some are. And their intolerance disappoints me.”

      “I experienced it when I was in America.”

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