Moonless (25 page)

His sunken face turned to Alexia’s, eyes widening. She frowned, studying his uneven shoulders, hollow cheeks and stringy hair. Where had she met this lanky adolescent before?

“I’m going to muck out the stalls.” His melodic baritone struck her, so beautiful she expected the heavens to open and sing along.

“Go!” Nelly laughed as the youth tripped out the back door. “Young boys these days, don’t know how to act in front of pretty young women.”

Alexia blushed and Edward offered her a seat. “Let us eat.”

Nelly prattled on about the changes in the garden and scores of supplies that needed to be fetched from town now that the weather had turned. Edward nodded absently with an occasional, “Indeed,” but Alexia thought he must be rather anxious to escape and rest his ears.

He rose the instant she’d finished eating. “Do you wish to see the rest of the house?”

“Truly.”

She kept her eyes wide as he directed her to the other end of the structure where they found the servant’s quarters and a music room. Upstairs the majesty continued. The right wing harbored guest lodgings—three large ones—and an art gallery. The other end of the upper floors housed an office and master suite.

The tour ended. She hadn’t seen any weapons, but John had called it a source of power, so what could it be? She extended many compliments, thanked Edward and exited, promising to express his gratitude to Ethel for the muffins.

She was going to have to search deeper, enter people’s confidences if she wanted to find this weapon. But did she? This was a comfortable living.

Her mind danced over the possibilities as she left, that this could have been her house. Its finery and comforts might have been her daily vistas, and Edward, kind, considerate Edward, might have been her husband. Where there lacked any true possibility of romance, she could not imagine a more ideal circumstance.

She turned into the woods. Rustling called her attention. The trees heavily oppressed late afternoon rays, hiding a shape in the shadows.

70

Relentless

Kiren dodged into a darkened doorframe, gasping for air. A breeze cooled the sweat trickling down his brow. He peeked around the stone corner, squinting against the sun and searching for pale faces in the busy coach yard.

None.

He leaned on his knees and coughed. When he’d taken up this search for Alexia, he’d never considered he might end up a target in every city he crossed. The Soulless were watching for him.

He brushed damp hair back from his face. Three months of searching, and not a whisper of her. She lived, he knew that much, but where? Certainly not in the whole of England, and he’d been through the Celtic lands. What remained but to cross the British Channel to search France and Germany?

Unless . . .

No. It was too terrible a thought to consider. He closed his eyes and breathed, begging silently with God to let it not be so.

The gurgle of a damaged windpipe hissed from around the corner. His eyes snapped open. He leaned back into the shadows, straining to hear the scrape and tread of an uneven stride. There had been three earlier, but he could sense only one.

Good enough.

He reached out and grabbed, fingers encircling a mottled neck. Biting his own lip to keep from crying out against the burning flesh beneath his grip, he shoved his pursuer up against the stone.

Nail-less fingers pulled at his grasp. Crimson pupils glowed in the shade. Fetid putrescence suffused the alcove, and Kiren swallowed his bile.

“Why are you after me?” he demanded.

The creature resembled a man he’d known several years ago, now the husk of what he’d been. It choked and spat.

He shook its rotting frame, and smacked the back of its head into the unforgiving masonry. “Tell me!”

A laugh burbled into hacking. He released the thing’s neck and whirled it around, locking its arms at its back and smashing its face against the gray arch.

“I can make this very painful for you,” he whispered in its ear.

“The others will be here soon.”

He glanced out into the street. It could be true, but it might also be a lie. They couldn’t keep track of one another during daylight hours.

“Can you risk waiting that long?” He cranked its shoulder at an odd angle, yanking the bone out of socket.

It shrieked and wheezed. “Vengeance!”

He loosened his grip. “For what?”

“Lies!” it barked. “Passionate lies.”

He fell back a step. The creature scraped down the stone, landing on its knees. Blazing red pupils turned up at him.

“What lies have
we
fed your kind?”

The thing braced up on all fours, dragging its useless arm. “Peace. Negotiations for peace.”

He shook his head. Something was not adding up here. “Who made such promises?”

“An emissary.” It sneered. “The child.”

Child?
Kiren groaned inwardly. Bellezza. What was she after now?

The hiss and rasp of hole-infested lungs snapped his head around. Two nearly-white vagrants sprinted toward him from down the lane.

He bolted from the doorway.

71

Stranger

A hand landed across the nearest trunk.

Alexia jumped.

Heavy veins stood obtrusively against tanned skin. Hollow cheeks and the dark lines of a face that rarely slept peered out from the brush. Wide teeth surfaced in an awkward grin.

“Hello,” Miles greeted, not meeting her eyes. The lush tone of the single word sent a shiver down her spine.

“I know you.” She squinted.

He nodded.

“How do I know you?”

“Wilhamshire.”

She thought back to her first visit there, when she spent four days in that awful house, when she met Bellezza for the second time, when she nearly died, when she was rescued by a boy on horseback . . .

“You are the lad—the one who saved Sarah and me from the Soul—” She clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Gave my horse a good workout.” He smiled. “But as I recall, you went by a different name.”

Her heart sank. The game was up. Now he would march her back in to Edward, force her confession, and the feint would end.

“You ran away?” His head tilted.

“You will not tell them?” She advanced a step. “I cannot go back. Cannot!”

“I won’t tell anyone.” His hands lifted in surrender, gaze swinging back toward the house. “But you should.”

She frowned. If Edward learned her true identity or purpose, would he return her to Father? Would he insist she consent to be his wife? Or would he despise her—and rightly so—for willfully deceiving him?

Miles watched her with a grimace, quickly looking away when she met his gaze. “Welcome, Alexia.”

“Christianne,” she corrected.

“Christianne.” He nodded.

***

Another week came and left. She spent most of it in the company of Ethel, afraid Miles might go back on his word, but nothing changed.

Thinking back on the night he’d saved her from the Soulless, she recalled their conversation about the monsters, and the hate in his eyes. He’d lost loved ones. Given the chance, he may prove an ally in uncovering the coveted weapon. But could she trust him?

Darkness pressed in as Alexia snuck a candle out back, Ethel deep in slumber. She found a corner of the house shielded from the wind, and lit the taper. Stolen ink and a paper trembled in a breeze as she penned out assurances she’d arrived safely for Sarah. Tears dripped down her face, running some of the ink, but it could still be deciphered. At last she folded the paper, secured it in her undergarments and glided back inside to get warm.

When the sun rose she excused herself for a walk.

Double doors hung quietly on the barn. She stepped through a mess of straw and dirt. Maintenance tools dangled on the left wall, a single window emitting cheerful light. To her right hung a rack of old bottles, jars, supplies and harnessing equipment. Directly ahead a little round table hunched, converted from a barrel, with a candle in the center. A three-legged stool sat by. Straw lumped in the corner, smashed as though someone had lain there. Beyond that, dual stalls obscured her view.

“Miles?” Movement drew her attention, but it came from the horse who’d been startled. She advanced cautiously. “Hello?”

“What are you doing here?”

She turned.

He stood between stalls, arms propped on either side, loose straws poking from his disheveled locks. His brows hung low, but he would not meet her gaze.

She swallowed. “Were you sleeping?”

He ran a hand through his hair, discovering the culprits. “I don’t sleep. Too many . . .” He glanced at the paper in her hand and sucked in a breath. His translucent gray eyes met hers. “What do you want?”

“Nothing, I . . .” She scowled. “Do you have freedom to disappear without alarming the household?”

He nodded.

She held the missive up. “This is a letter for my aunt, Countess Sarah Dumont von Faber, lady of the country estate one day east of Wilhamshire. You have met.” She stepped closer. “She will pay you upon delivery. That much I can promise.”

He stiffened. His nose twitched, gaze turning away.

She hesitated. “My aunt does not know I survived—”

“When is your birth date?”

She blinked back at the inquiry. His gray eyes probed hers, undaunted. She cleared her throat. “The twenty-third of June, the year of our lord, seventeen-fifty-two.”

His mouth broadened into a smile. “Mine too.”

“Oh?”

He nodded.

“That . . . that is . . . strange.” She shook it off. “I would deliver this myself, but I do not know the distance or direction. Please Miles, will you help me?”

He scrutinized her openly.

“What is wrong?”

“You’re much prettier than you think you are.” He stated it as fact, as though he intimately understood the debate she faced with each glimpse of a mirror.

She blinked at him. “Will you help me or not?”

“No.”

She retreated a step. “Oh.” Perhaps he was not the ally she sought.

A smile twitched across his face. “But I will deliver the letter for you.” He reached out, hesitated, and grasped the submission. A strange buzz ran through her arm and she let go. His head shook as he chuckled. “
Alexia Dumont,
a lady alone on the road, traveling unprotected.”

She grinned at the idea.

He stood back, arms crossed. “You trust far too easily. Have you considered I might run off with this letter, destroy it, and lie to you?”

She reddened. “You saved me once, Miles. I trust you.”

He straightened with a serious air. “Do you?”

She nodded. Something about him told her she could, that he’d never harm a soul, that he was good and only wished to be loved, to be accepted.

His face darkened.

“Thank you, Miles. This means more than you could know.”

“I doubt that.” He slid the paper into a saddlebag.

“Excuse me?”

A secret smirk wound up one side of his face. He picked up a saddle and hefted it into the nearest stall. “We’ll talk when I get back, and you’ll tell me why you ran away.” He glanced back at her. “I’ll consider that payment.”

She swallowed. Could she trust him
that
much?

“You better head back now.” He slid the bit into the horse’s mouth.

She turned obediently to the exit, pausing when she reached it. He was right. She needed to be more careful. She didn’t know him, any of them. Not really.

He patted down the animal kindly, whispering in its ear.

A night rescue, returning her to Sarah after the imprisonment, keeping her identity secret from everyone here, delivering a covert letter . . .

She
could
trust him. She knew at least that much.

***

No one seemed concerned when Miles disappeared. She waited and anxiously watched for him to return.

“Ethel, why does Miles live in the stable?”

The older woman didn’t even pause in her labors. “He likes animals. Has a bit of a gift. He is exceptional and most people do not understand rare talents. I suppose that is where he feels most comfortable.”

Talented? Exceptional? Knew about the Soulless?

If he weren’t ghastly she’d fully believe him another of the Passionate. She’d half convinced herself that was the case anyway. 

***

“Come, Christy, gather up your things.” Ethel handed her a bag. “We are staying at the manor tonight.” The woman tucked her toiletries into a pack, smiling. “It is Mister Hampton’s birthday.”

They trekked up the road where Nelly and Edward greeted them warmly. Alexia helped Nelly in the kitchen and soon they sat over dinner in the lavish banquet hall.

“More wine!” Mister Hampton called, tipping the empty bottle upside down.

Nelly went to rise.

“Allow me, please.” Alexia hurried to her feet, pushing the cook back into her chair. “It is about time I started contributing around here.”

Nelly clucked gratefully, and the girl went to her duty.

A chilly night greeted her. For all this house’s comforts, she wished the builder had had the foresight to build a cellar beneath the building rather than behind it. Alexia padded silently around to the cellar door, placing her candle aside. The fastening fell back easily enough and she wondered why they didn’t keep it locked. Did they not fear thieves or vagabonds? Perhaps they lived far enough from civilization that people never stumbled on the place.

She realized, curiously, only two visits had occurred since her arrival—both from the same small boy on a large, tawny mount. Each time he left Edward trumpeted new gossip.

Pitch yawned beneath her. She took her candle and slid into the hollow, her mind echoing that night so long ago at Baron Galedrew’s estate—when she clambered into a similarly narrow, similarly sinister, similarly uninviting hole.

She took hold of the first bottle and leapt back up the steps, throwing the cellar doors shut. Her candle went out in the breeze and she laughed at herself. She really was as bad as Rupert.

The thought saddened her. He believed her dead. She may as well be. She’d never see him again, or laugh at him for being absurd, or have a chance to say farewell.

“Ouch!” She kicked a twig out from under her sole, surprised she hadn’t noticed it before stepping. Why was it so unusually dark? Her eyes turned upward. She gasped.

No moon.

Her heart skipped a beat.

She took a step and froze. A shrouded figure towered over her.