Page 7 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
He watched in horror as Thornby crawled back inside the boundary of Raskelf and collapsed.
Chapter Three
Thornby woke to yellowsunshine across his bed, dust motes dancing lazily above him. It must be late. He yawned, and winced, and the pain from his face brought yesterday’s events flooding back.
He jerked upright. He was on top of the covers, still wearing yesterday’s mud and blood-spattered clothes. His left hand was wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage, dried blood crusted black under his fingernails. He touched his face, feeling more bandages. His left elbow twinged; it was bruised from Blake’s grip.
Blake had forced him to walk onto Howarth’s land. Thornby had, at the time, half-hoped that with the forceful Mr Blake at his side, he would simply be swept away from Raskelf, across the moors to freedom.
But then, of course, he had wanted to turn back.
And Blake had not let him.
Thornby shuddered. It hadn’t merely been the pain of his tearing skin. It had been that hideous sense of strength and spirit draining away, as if some unseen presence was sucking his essence, leaving him nothing but bone.
He got up, cautiously removed the blood-soaked bandages, and considered himself in the glass. Ghastly. The skin was broken open on forehead and cheekbone as if he’d been flung against a stone wall. The back of his left hand was one big graze, and his fingertips stung as if he’d been shredding nettles.
He dimly remembered Blake helping him back to the Hall, half carrying him. Thornby had been weak as a kitten, every step an eternity of weariness. He’d never taken so ill after trying to leave, but then he’d never got so far before. On his own, he’d managed three or four paces at most. With Blake, he must have taken seven or eight.
Most of the details of the long walk home had faded, but despite the circumstances, the sensation he remembered best was that of Blake’s arm around his shoulders. He closed his eyes to recall better the warmth and strength of Blake’s body next to his. A surprising pang of excitement twisted down through his gut to his groin.
Well, not so surprising. He hadn’t bedded a man for eighteen months, and Mr Blake was quite handsome, even if he was an overbearing bastard. When they’d got back to Raskelf, Blake had taken him to a seldom-used cards room, cleaned the wounds with some smelly stuff, and dressed them. Thornby had been too exhausted to speak, but Blake had seemed to understand that Thornby didn’t want anyone informed of the situation. Then, pushing Blake away, he’d staggered up to bed and been asleep before he could remove his coat.
And now, despite his torn skin—or perhaps even because of it—his stomach was knotting with something that felt a lot like hope. The wounds were proof, and they rather seemed to be proof of magic. What was more, Blake claimed to be a magician. He’d talked as if magic was as real as turnips or table-legs, as if breaking charms and casting spells were plausible, everyday things.
Did Lady Dalton really think Thornby was casting spells on her? He hardly knew her. He avoided her mostly, assuming that, since she’d accepted his father, she must be the biggest fool or the most ruthless social climber in England. She was the orphan daughter of a wealthy industrialist, and had once been fabulously wealthy. As far as Thornby knew, her money was already gone. Father had disposed of it like chaff upon the wind.
He could think of no reason why she would blamehim, not Lord Dalton, for her troubles, but why would Blake lie? Thornby didn’t feel he was a man who made mischief. For all his talk of spells and magic, he seemed intensely practical; a man who took action and expected results and had no need of falsehoods. And he had not been entirely heartless; having conducted his experiment, another man might have walked off and left Thornby bleeding in the mud. Blake had not done that.
Then he remembered Blake saying, “You’re no match for me”, his voice full of scorn, and the pleasant glow of having had a strong arm around him faded. Truth be told, Blake was rather terrifying. If he was a magician, what did that mean? One heard rumours of men who sold their souls in return for occult powers. Was Blake of that type? A devil-worshipper?
A memory popped into his mind; he'd once seen what appeared to be a freshly-skinned baboon galloping down the Strand, dodging carriages and pedestrians. He’d exclaimed, grabbing at his companions, but they’d seen nothing. How they missed it, he’d never understood, for the thing ran right by them, glistening red, jaws agape. Someone had suggested it had been an injured dog, and Thornby had tried to forget about it.
He stood before the looking-glass, heart racing as if the hideous baboon-thing had just careened through his chamber. Was it possible he’d truly seen a devil conjured from the pit of hell? After all, dogs didn’t usually have claws like scythes, or forked tongues.
Did Blake consort with devils? What was in that big, heavy trunk? Did he have some baboon-like familiar lurking in his room? He had no valet. Did that mean he was so unspeakable no decent man would work for him?
