Stranger:. Zoe Archer
sincere.”
“Ah.” He was abashed. “Well … thank you. And, if I may say, Miss Murphy—”
“Go ahead and call me Gemma,” she said. “Calling me ‘Miss Murphy’ is too formal, especially after I saved your bacon today.”
“You didn’t ‘save my bacon,’” he said, indignant. “I was perfectly in control of the situation. But,” he added at her noise of protest, “you did lend a hand in that fight, and for that, I do thank you.” He made a small bow, one hand pressed to his chest.
She found herself mollified. The man could speak so beautifully. Gemma felt she could listen to him describe the digestive systems of jellyfish and she would be enthralled.
“In fact,” he went on, “I cannot think of another woman, who wasn’t a Blade, who could handle herself as admirably.”
The variety of blandishments Gemma received from men often involved her looks. All surface, no substance. Her appearance had nothing to do with her, or who she was, not truly.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever complimented me on the way I swung a heavy rope in a brawl.” When he made choked noises of apology, she added quickly, “It’s the best compliment I’ve ever been given.”
“Really?” He blinked at her.
“Usually I get some nonsense about my eyes or my hair or other trifling things.” She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “But, to be praised for how I fight—that means something. So, thank you.”
“Oh.” He fidgeted with the lapel of his coat. “You’re … welcome.”
Then, because she had come so great a distance for so much, she went on. “That’s not the first time you’ve mentioned these people I believe you called the Blades of the Rose. Who are they?”
He tensed, either because she was prying into secrets or because her question had reminded him of the ever-present threat.
Whichever it was, she wanted an answer. “Mr. Graves—
Catullus—”
Her using his given name startled him. And, judging by his indrawn breath, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant to hear Gemma call him thusly. She actually liked it, herself. The shape and feel of his name in her mouth, with its hard opening consonants falling into a soft ululation. A metaphor, perhaps, for the man who bore the name? A hard exterior concealing something much more sensitive beneath.
“You have told me about the Heirs of Albion,” she said. “You have told me about the world’s magic. But there is more. I know that the Blades of the Rose, whoever they might be, are also involved.”
Still, he hesitated.
Gemma leaned forward, earnest. “You say you want to keep me safe—”
“I do.” His voice was firm with resolve.
“Then prove it, and tell me all. How can I begin to protect myself if I do not know everything? Without full understanding, I’m just fumbling around in the dark, at risk from the Heirs as well as my ignorance.” She refused to play the flirt and charm information from him. If Catullus was to open up to her, it must be because he saw something within her to trust and value. She could not respect herself to resort to cheap ploys, and she needed that self-respect. Without it, all that she worked so hard for was valueless.
For some long moments, they stared at each other. She watched him assess her, his perceptive gaze held with hers, as if he sought to delve into her innermost thoughts.
Strangely, she did not resent this. For the first time in years, she actually welcomed a man into her mind, knowing instinctively that if anyone was to truly understand who she was as a person—not a woman, not a journalist, but the true and most essential part of herself—it would be this singular man, Catullus.
So she let him look, holding herself open to his scrutiny.
Peculiar. She hadn’t realized she needed this kind of openness until now. Hard lessons had taught her to keep her deepest self in reserve. Too many times, she’d left herself open, vulnerable, and been wounded by careless, heedless men. Men like Richard. She evolved into a hard-edged reporter and thought herself all the better for it.
She’d been wrong. Some part of her still yearned for closeness, for connection. And that need revealed itself now as she let Catullus Graves gauge her.
After many lifetimes, he gave a barely perceptible nod, reaching an internal decision. Gemma’s breath left her in a rush, and she only then realized she had been holding it.
“Magic exists in many forms,” he said with his rich, deep voice. “Sometimes it’s in families, such as yours; sometimes a single person can possess it. But it is also found in objects that are scattered across the globe. They are potent objects whose powers can run the gamut from the benign to the malevolent.”
“Like the club that thug was using in Liverpool,” she volunteered.
“No—that was a simple charm on an ordinary item. The objects I am speaking of hold vast power. These objects,” he continued, “are known as Sources, and Heirs search the globe for them, seeking to add the Sources to their arsenal, crushing anything and anyone who stands in their path.”
The idea was beyond horrible. “Something has to be done to protect the Sources,” Gemma objected.
“Something is done,” Catullus said. “By me and Astrid. And people like us. The Blades of the Rose.”
The name on his lips sent a shiver through Gemma, as though hearing a long-forgotten enchantment.
Catullus saw the name register with her, then went on. “It is the sworn mission of the Blades to safeguard Sources around the globe from the Heirs, and others like them. This battle we’re heading into now with the Heirs …” He watched his hands curl into fists. “It will be the biggest any of us has ever faced. We’ve never gone up against the Primal Source, but we have to before the Heirs solidify their power. We have no idea if any of us will survive. But we have to fight. All Blades fight not just for magic, or England, but for everyone.”
“A noble calling,” Gemma murmured, but her blood was chilled. He spoke so easily of the possibility of being killed! “Like frontier lawmen.”
“Or errant knights.” He allowed a small smile to tilt his mouth, amused either by the accuracy of their descriptions, or their complete misread. Yet, given the inherent nobility in his bearing, Gemma hopefully suspected the former.
“But the Primal Source I heard you speaking of,” she continued, “what, exactly, is it?”
“The Source from which all other Sources arise. The origin of magic, and repository of mankind’s imagination. Whoever possesses the Primal Source has at his or her disposal the greatest power ever known.”
“And now the Heirs of Albion have it,” Gemma recalled.
“Have it, and unlocked it.” Catullus scowled out the window, mind almost visibly churning. “Several months ago.”
She saw the focus in him, the determination and intent. This war with the Heirs was his life—and possibly death.
“Unlocked?”
“Accessed the Primal Source, allowing its power to be felt all over the globe, in all magic.”
“That explains it, then,” Gemma murmured. When he raised an eyebrow in a silent question, she explained, “Around the same time you said the Primal Source was unlocked, something changed with the Key of Janus. I could open more than just physical doors.”
“Meaning what?” he asked.
“Mental doors.” Gemma pressed a fingertip to her temple. “When I ask someone a question, they must answer me. That’s how I was able to follow you three all the way from Canada. I asked anyone you might have met