Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology #1) - Charlie N. Holmberg Page 0,41
to blend in, but he needed to be sure the auctioneer noticed him. Turning the paddle in his hands, he watched the podium until the auctioneer, his mustache long and graying, stepped up to it.
The first item was a painting of a teapot that went for a surprising amount of money. The second was Master Bennett’s journals, five in total, well worn and engraved. One would think the personal musings of a father would be kept in the family, but if there was any chance Master Bennett had shared a spell or two in those pages, they would be worth a great deal. Unsurprisingly, the bound books went for double the cost of the painting.
Bacchus stiffened when the next item came out. Before it was even announced, he knew this was the opus he sought. A thick tome, bound in polished, red-hued leather with half a dozen burgundy ribbons streaming from its spine. The pages, clamped shut, had rough edges that sparkled when the book was placed on its easel. This was the opus of a true master, and a wealthy one at that.
“The opus of the late Lord Master Cassius Bennett, physical aspector, deceased 1894. Opening bid will start at five hundred eighty pounds.”
A price that could make a man weep. But this was a master opus.
Bacchus’s hand tightened around his paddle as he forced himself to wait. A man in gray near the front lifted his. Five hundred eighty pounds. Six hundred. Six hundred twenty-five. “Six fifty? Do I hear six fifty?”
Bacchus’s paddle surged into the air.
His bid was noted with the tip of the auctioneer’s pen. “Six seventy-five? A truly magnificent opus. No? Six seventy.”
The man in gray raised his paddle.
Bacchus raised his.
A woman in the back raised hers.
Sweat pricked Bacchus’s hairline and spine. The bidding continued apace, but he practiced forbearance, waiting for a lull.
“One thousand and twenty?”
He raised his paddle.
So did the man in gray.
His palms began to sweat. With a start of five eighty, he’d felt confident the bidding would stay under his cap. Neither the painting nor the journals had taken long to find a buyer. This competition had begun to drag, however, the number climbing ever higher.
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