Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology, #1)(34)

The woman, after whispering to her companion, raised her paddle for one thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds.

Bacchus raised his. “Two thousand three hundred.” His low voice carried across the room.

A small gasp sounded from the row behind him.

Almost immediately, the man in gray raised his paddle, and Bacchus’s heart dropped to his ankles. “Two thousand five hundred.”

Bacchus could not meet the price, let alone beat it. Not without taking foolish measures, succumbing to debt, and hurting those who depended on him.

“Going once,” called the auctioneer.

It tempted him. Surely he could make it work. Just a small push, a little discomfort, and the tome would be his. Might be his. He hadn’t a clue how much the man in gray was worth.

His arm twitched as he squeezed his paddle. He needed that spell. If he didn’t get that opus, he didn’t know where to turn next.

“Going twice.” The threat echoed between the walls.

He wanted to claim he was so desperate for the spell because he needed it for his tenants, his property, his holdings. It was true, in a sense—it would help him serve them—but they didn’t need him. Ultimately, the spell was for him.

Bacchus’s fingers slackened in defeat.

“Sold to eleven!”

But he was not defeated yet.

Several grumbling people stood and made their way to the door as the next item was brought out for bidding. Not wishing to draw attention to himself, Bacchus remained seated for the rest of the auction, which drew out far too long with far too many petty things. The whole time, he kept his eye on the man in gray. He looked to be in his forties, well groomed. He was balding and had a straight spine. He also remained for the duration of the auction, bidding on two other items, winning one of them.

When the bidders were finally dismissed, Bacchus pushed through the crowd to the edge of the room, keeping an eye on the man in gray. Not a difficult task, given his height.

Rainer found him. Before he could offer any condolences, Bacchus said, “Tell me you know that man’s name.”

“Felton Shaw,” Rainer replied without hesitation. “Owns several gentlemen’s clubs.”

“Aspector?”

“Yes, but rumor says he’s topped off.”

Topped off? Meaning he had already reached his magical limitations. Some people, no matter how much they paid and how much they studied, simply couldn’t become powerful aspectors because their bodies lacked the ability to hold enough spells. Topping off was usually kept private. Shaw was either barely a master or he’d paid handsomely to get that blue paddle.

Did he even have the paperwork to own a copy of an opus?

Right now, the man’s reasons didn’t matter.

Mr. Shaw took his time finding his way out, choosing a side door instead of fighting through the crush at the back. Bacchus stuck his manners in his pocket and pushed his way through the crowd, taking long strides once he was free. He met Mr. Shaw at the turn of the hallway.

He bowed. “Mr. Shaw, congratulations on your wins. I hope to strike up a matter of business with you.”

The older, smaller man lifted a monocle to his eye and studied Bacchus for an instant. “I’m listening.” He sounded unsure.

“The opus you won,” Bacchus began.

“The copy, you mean. Yes, you did a good job of driving up the price.”

That’s how auctions work. “I would pay a fair sum just to read one of the spells within it. I’m ready and willing to provide you with the proper certificates.”

Mr. Shaw’s eyebrows climbed into the brim of his hat. “Is that so? I don’t know every spell it contains, mind you, only what was listed in the description.”

A description that had not been released until after Bacchus entered the auction house. “I seek the master ambulation spell.”

The Englishman’s countenance fell slack. “That’s illegal.”

“I assure you it is not; I am a registered aspector and have the necessary clearance.”

“I will not sell any of the master spells.” Mr. Shaw took a step forward, but Bacchus stopped him with raised hands. His pulse hammered in his wrists.

“Allow me only to memorize it. It is for my own progress. I will pay handsomely.”

He was offering the man a silver tea platter with cups full of gold. He’d give it all just to know what made that spell work. He needed it.

“Two thousand—”

“No.” Mr. Shaw cut the overly generous offer into pieces. “I have plans for the master spells, plans that are more lucrative even than your coffers. I must decline.”

He stepped around Bacchus.

Bacchus spun. “You are a man of business. Surely you must see reason—”

Mr. Shaw paused only long enough to spit, “Ask me again, and I’ll alert security.”

Bacchus froze and watched the petulant, rich Englishman stalk away. The urge to pick him up and throw him into a wall—no magic required—burned in his arms. His pulse sang in his ears.

First the assembly, and now this. He couldn’t wrap his mind around all the stuff and nonsense. Had England changed so much in the few years since his last visit? Was there some sort of political thread he wasn’t cutting? Why was this so bloody hard?

To frustrate matters further, he was already growing tired. He moved his hand to his diaphragm, to the spell etched into the skin there. It wouldn’t hold forever. Bacchus had only so much time. Time that spilled through his fingers like sand.