London, 1894

            ADRIAN BISHOP WOKE quietly, his eyelids fluttering open and his skin tingling as if every sense was suddenly on fire. He held his breath, listening intently to the cold, dark silence of his house. Nothing moved. Not a whisper, not a creak, not even a mouse.

            Except….

            Someone stepped through one of the invisible wards he'd set throughout the mansion. It clung like spider silk to their body, giving him an instant beacon of awareness: the intruder was in the second guest bedroom with the revolving fireplace that hid a secret room. Whoever it was, they moved with deliberate purpose, as if they knew exactly where they were going and most likely what they were looking for.

            Sicarii, then? Like himself?

            Highly trained, the Sicarii were the lethal edge of the sorcerous Order of the Dawn Star, and only the ruling Prime knew all of their identities. Their purpose was absolute; protect the Order, serve the Prime, remove all threats. It was lonely, bloody work, but he'd known nothing else all of his life.

            Bishop eased back the covers, slipping naked from his bed. He dragged on a pair of the loose black trousers he wore for training purposes, and opened himself up to his sorcery. Energy slipped and slid into his skin, the temperature of the room plunging abruptly to freezing as he prepared himself, drawing power from the world around him. Heated breath spilled in a fine mist around his mouth as he glided silently past the windows.

            Another ward tripped just as the downstairs clock began to chime midnight. BONG. BONG. BONG. There. He closed his eyes, head tilting upwards as the clock droned on. His thief had found the fireplace, which meant he had no time to spare. Forging a knife of raw matter, he cut his hand and pressed his bloody palm against the walls of the house.

            “Hecarah as di mentos,” he whispered, breathing a spill of Power into the words. The words meant nothing; ritual was the key in training his mind to accept simple codes, and he had chosen his words wisely so many years ago.

            Nothing happened but he could sense the house coming alive, awakening to his touch and anticipating his commands. It, too, held its breath.

            Above him the thief paused, just for a second.

            And that was when he realized that he was facing a master adversary. The house wards were inverted. Nobody should have felt it waking, but from the sudden fierce patter of footsteps the thief had given up all pretense of stealth and was opting for speed.

            Done then. Bishop moved like a wraith. The tracking ward jerked forward, almost as if it were leaping from place to place, but he was swiftly gaining as he thundered up the staircase. The thief might be heading directly toward the object of their desire, but they were moving in a straight line and certain obstacles, walls for example, kept interfering.

            His blood was up, the fierce hunting edge keening through him. Death rode him hard, hungering for a taste of blood, and Bishop forced it back upon its leash. Some sorcerers found increased energy through blood or sex, but only a kill gave him that edge, that sweet ride of power, like an aurora awakening in his veins. He could tear London apart with but a thought following the hot gush of blood, but such power came with a weakness: the hunger for the kill grew every time he took a life. One day he would be a dangerous force to be reckoned with, the sweet addiction stronger than his will, and then another of the Sicarii would be sent to remove him.

            But he was not there yet.

            Racing silently up the hidden staircase behind the fireplace, Bishop saw the faint bobbing glow of a mage sphere through the partly opened panel that led to his secret room. A single creak betrayed him.

            Bishop threw himself into the room in a roll, beneath a hastily flung wave of force that would have smashed him back through at least three walls, and came to his feet just in time to face a masked adversary.

            No time to think. The rosy mage globe the thief wielded for light spun into twelve that circled their head, and began to spin faster and faster. One shot directly toward him and he flung both arms up, crossing them at the wrists as a single protective ward formed around him. The globe the thief had flung burst into heated, liquid light that bathed the thin, shimmering ward then dripped to the floor. Molten sparks burned straight through the floorboards.

            “Well,” said the thief, in a faintly amused, very feminine voice, “I see the rumors of your skills were not exaggerated.”

            His first shock of the evening–the Chalice that he'd sworn to protect with his life was already hanging from her belt. It gleamed silvery against her all-black men's attire, along with a dozen small devices of unknown origin.

            It should have taken her nearly ten minutes to crack through the safeguards on his safe. A safe that hung open on the wall, its heavy steel-lined door hanging limply from its grooves.

            “I don't believe we've had the pleasure,” Bishop replied, straightening and letting the silvery gleam of the ward disintegrate with a static crackle. It would take only a thought to re-form it.

            A faint smile curled over the woman's lips. Her chin and mouth were all that he could see, apart from the gleam of pale eyes behind her black lace mask. The battle globes spun lazily around her head, warming her creamy skin as she slowly circled him. Though she wore a black shirt, it had been cinched in with some sort of outer corset that thrust her breasts high. The entire effect was… provocative.

            “And here I thought you a stranger to pleasure?” she purred. “Or so they all say.”

            Bishop didn't move. The only way out was through the doorway directly behind him. His smile was cold. “I'd be careful about listening to rumors. Sometimes I start them myself.”

            “Oh, I know,” she whispered as she sauntered slowly around the room, crossing one foot over another. “Let's just say I've spent the last month learning everything there is to know about you. I've watched you paint these walls with your blood and your wards, trying to protect against thieves. And I've watched you move quietly through the house each night, restless, unable to sleep. All alone at night in this dark house. Why do you send your servants away? Do you not want them seeing the mess of your body that you hide beneath your clothes? Or perhaps you're afraid they'll hear your nightmares? It's the one mystery I haven't been able to crack yet.”

            Bishop's gaze flattened.

            “Didn't you notice me?” Her smile was positively wicked. “And here I thought you had eyes in the back of your head.”

            Every muscle in his gut tightened and he took the time to reexamine her. He was very, very good at what he did. The fact that he hadn't noticed the surveillance made him wonder if she was better.

            They faced each other on light feet, their bodies tense with implied movement. Those slim hips were encased in a pair of trousers that were positively indecent, but she looked lean and strong, and she moved with a kind of supple grace he'd rarely seen before.

            “Who are you?”

            “Madame Noir.”

            “Should that mean something to me?” he replied, and from the flattening of her eyes, it should have. Or she'd have liked it to.
            “I call myself a reclamation agent,” she said, circling the desk that stood between them, keeping pace with him.

            “A thief, then.”

            “One does what one must,” she replied, casting a gaze across the room, then sneering. “We aren't all born with a silver spoon in our mouths. Some of us have to get our blunt elsewhere.”

            If she only knew….

            He'd earned this house through his service in the East Indias, and then taken the bounties that passed down from the Prime. Silent assassinations to keep him in pocket. Blood money. Execution warrants when sorcerers went rogue. Sometimes he sold some of the magical trinkets he created when he couldn't sleep, but he was a far cry away from having deep pockets.

            “How did you hear about the Chalice?” he asked.

            Another intriguing smile. “I have friends in low places, you could say.”

            Its whereabouts shouldn't be common knowledge. He'd only received it a month ago, when its previous owner had been forced to give it to him to protect it. Morgana Devereaux, the Prime's ex-wife, had been collecting the three Relics Infernal; the only things that could control a demon. She'd blackmailed her way to possession of the Blade, and the Wand had gone missing sometime earlier, suspected to be in her hands, which left only the Chalice. Without it, she was powerless. With it, she'd own a demon, the only thing potentially capable of matching the Prime's power.

            Morgana was also the only person who might have any idea of who had the Chalice.

            Which made the thief's appearance doubly suspicious.

            “Are you working for Morgana?” he demanded bluntly, and this time his voice held the edge of a threat to it. Morgana wanted to destroy the Prime—his father. Bishop would do anything to get his hands on her first.

            “Who?” she arched a brow in disdain. “My employer is none of your business.”

            So she was working for someone else. “I think you're wrong about that. I'm very interested in learning who you're working for.”

            Bishop launched himself forward to grab her, and—

            The sound of a distant thunderclap echoed right near his ear. His arms clapped shut around nothing but air.

            She'd vanished.

            A creak alerted him. Bishop swung around and there was his thief, leaning against the doorframe, examining her nails. “Well, it's been lovely making your acquaintance,” she said, giving him a mocking finger wave. The handle of the Chalice swirled negligently around one finger. “But I really must be going. People to see. Relics to sell. Toodle-oo.”

            And then she was gone.

            She'd… teleported. That was a rare talent, and he couldn't remember ever meeting anyone who'd owned that ability.

            But the Chalice. Hell. This was a disaster. Bishop scrambled after the thief as she hurtled down the staircase. She was fast, streaking ahead every three or four steps, every time he got close enough to almost reach out and touch her.

            Either she was taunting him, or she was limited in how far she could teleport.

            They hit the main staircase and his thief launched a hip onto the bannister and rode it to the ground. Bishop thundered after her, his heart hammering.

            “Stop!” Bishop threw himself forward as he hit the ground floor, his body slamming into hers hard. They both went down, a mess of arms and legs, and Bishop took a knee to his thigh that almost—almost—unmanned him. No time to think of it though. He grunted and flipped her over the top of him, sending her sprawling onto the hall runner, taking most of it in a slide across the black marble.

            Then he was up. And so was she.

            Both of them were breathing hard.

            Bishop held his fists up in a pugilist's stance, but a wash of green light ran over the back of his knuckles and down his arms. One punch would be backed by pure force.

            And then he paused, because that was how he would treat a dangerous adversary, and the thief was a woman. He wasn't quite certain how to deal with her. Nonlethally, if he had a preference.

            “You're fast,” she breathed.

            “You're faster. How did you learn to do that?”

            “Do what?” She teleported to his left and smashed her fist into his ribs. Then she was gone again, coming up in front of him as he tried to get his bearings.

            A hard jab to the solar plexus. Then a right hook that almost slammed his chin up through his skull. He blocked the next one. And the next. His hands moved like a blur, but so did hers, and he was reluctant to unleash his deadlier talents, at least until he knew who she worked for.

            Slamming a flat hand into her chest, he sent her staggering into the door to his parlor. Her weight flung it open, smashing it into the wall, and his thief tumbled to the floor, rolling back over her shoulder onto her hands and feet.

            The light caught her eyes as he strode forward, and he realized that they were green. Green and utterly devilish. Much like her. Her pretty mouth curled up in a smile.

            “You can only teleport short range,” he told her, fists curled up in front of him defensively. “Five feet or so, at the maximum.”

            His thief tipped her chin up. “Is that so, Lord Death?”

            Lord Death. His nostrils flared, but the only other sign of discomfort he showed was a faint narrowing of the eyes. “It seems a night for hidden talents,” he remarked. “Want me to show you some of mine?”

            “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

            Bishop smiled a not-nice smile and triggered one of the spells built into his rings. The room vanished, plunged into an inky black. There was a faint detonating boom to his right and another sound, almost a silent crackle to his left an instant after it, as she teleported.

            There.

            He could feel the tingle of his spiderweb ward, still clinging to her. The same place as that faint, crackling sound had come from.

            “It seems to me, Lord Death, that this spell inconveniences you just as much as it does me.” He was correct. She was standing exactly where he'd predicted her.

            “Does it?” he murmured.

            Boom. Crack. A whisper of noise close to the armchair he sometimes sat in. Bishop moved silently, feinting to the right as if drawn in. “I suppose we shall see.”

            He leapt back the other way, just as she teleported again… straight into his arms.

            A gasp.

            Bishop caught her wrists and slammed her back against the nearest wall. Every inch of her struggled, but he was far larger than she, and stronger. The sharp edge of the Chalice ground into his hip as he used his body to press her against the wall. Leaning closer, he whispered in her ear, “The interesting thing is… you thought the darkness was my talent.”

            “My first mistake.” She didn't sound remotely cowed.

            “Darkness is but a home to me.”        

            “Home to thieves, assassins, and whores.” She turned her face, her breath warm against his cheek. Bishop tensed, but she merely laughed, a husky sound that vibrated through his chest. “Now the interesting question remains: what are you going to do with me?”

            And he hesitated.

            She felt it. The tension in the room ratcheted higher, both of their bodies steel. “Well, now,” she almost purred. “That is interesting. You don't know. I didn't think you'd hesitate to take a life.”

            I don't kill women or children. Not after that one time, that one mistake. His heart wrenched in his chest, but he forced the thought aside. Not now. Not when one sign of weakness could cost him everything. “I want answers first.”

            “Perhaps I can be accommodating.”

            Testing the grip he had on her wrists, she let all her weight hang there and lifted those legs, wrapping them around his hips.

            His cock hardened. He sucked in a sharp breath. Jesus, she was brazen. “That's not going to get you anywhere.”

            “Maybe I'm right where I want to be?” That whisper did damage to his willpower as she reached forward and brushed her mouth along his jaw.

            Bishop trembled. Her lips were like silk, and he could feel the crush of her breasts against his chest. The inky black cloud was starting to dissipate as his attention slipped, and he caught a glimpse of her pale face, his hands tightening on her wrists.

            “Where did you get your scars from?” she whispered, licking the one that ran along his jawline.

            That congealed his sagging willpower like nothing else. It felt amazing; wet velvet over raw silk, but with it came the damning memories.

            “That's none of your business,” he growled, and wrestled her toward the desk.

            “You shouldn't be so serious all of the time.”

            “I'm not your friend.”

            “Pity.”

            Somehow she turned the tables on him. He almost had her pinned to the desk, prying her legs from around his waist and disentangling her arms, when she hammered a blow into his jaw. His foot slipped on the rug beneath him, and he fell to the floor.

            He cracked his head on the marble and the spell dissipated completely. Light sprang back into being just as a whirlwind of action accumulated in the doorway.

            His thief smiled as Bishop lay sprawled on his back.

            “Such a shame. Just when we were getting to know each other.” Her gaze slid down over the hard, naked planes of his chest, almost regretfully. “Just as an aside, I can teleport further than five feet, but a part of me wanted to get to know you a little better.” His thief blew him a kiss. “Sometimes the thrill is in the chase.”

            Boom. Crackle.

            She was gone. And so was his tracking ward.

            “No!” Bishop darted for the window and slammed his hands on the ledge, but the gardens outside were silent and empty.

            Nothing moved.

            His heart hammered in his chest. Guilt and failure formed a bitter stew in his gut. He'd never been so distracted that he'd lost his mark before.

            Damn it. He had to get the Chalice back before someone dangerous got their hands on it.

            And now it was personal.