Authors: Alexa Egan
She opened her mouth to speak. Thought better of it.
David sat upon a boulder, his back to her, head bowed. His left elbow was propped on his left knee. His left hand was spread as he drew a silver-bladed knife blade across his palm, the flesh parting in a thin crimson line, blood welling to slide over his open fingers. His shoulders jerked in a flinch of pain and she heard him catch back a gasp before muttering a muffled “Fuck.”
Beside him on the log rested a cup, a handkerchief, and a leather wallet unrolled to reveal a few small vials and a flask. As she watched in horrified silence, he tilted his hand over the cup, the blood sliding into it one sickly drop at a time.
“As always, your timing is perfect,” he said without turning around. He reached for the handkerchief, closed his hand around it.
Skin crawling, she took a step forward as blue and silver light rippled like shadows over David’s body. “I thought silver weakened you and made you ill.”
He slid the blade into a heavy leather sheath, rolled it into the wallet. “It does, but it’s part of the spell. The draught doesn’t work otherwise. Not that it works very well anyway.”
“I can feel the magic,” she said. “It’s dark and reeks
of evil.” A twinge creaked her sternum. “Not death but the Unseelie void, the pit where the blackest demons lurk.”
“Funny. If you ask the Fey-bloods, they’ll tell you that’s where I come from.” He turned toward her, and she saw his drawn face and hunched shoulders. “It’s vile, filthy muck but it’s the only thing keeping me alive—to a point.”
“I don’t understand. You said this magic was bound up with your exile and part of the reason that man tried to kill you in London.”
“Beskin’s his name.”
She made an impatient gesture, angry at herself for worrying over him. Angry at him for keeping secrets. No good reason for feeling either emotion, but still her words came shrill as fear slithered up from her stomach into her chest. “I don’t care a fig for his name, David. I want to know why he’s hunting you and why you’re ill and what’s going on.”
“Is it any of your business?”
“We’re friends. Of course it’s my business.”
He gave a humorless, almost angry laugh. “Friends? Is that what you’re calling it?”
“What would you call it?”
He stood, the bandage round his palm drawing her eye. Then he moved, and the strange blue and silver light fell across his face and shimmered against his skin, turning his gray eyes to silver. Her heart twisted uncomfortably, her body taut with a different emotion than worry, though one just as useless. As she had already concluded, David was not hers to claim or lose.
“I’ve never had a female friend before.”
“We’re just like males but we don’t slap one another
on the back, consider bodily functions humorous, or discuss sporting events ad nauseam.”
“You do have a dim view of the male species, don’t you?”
“David,” she repeated, hating the crack in her voice. “Please.”
He hesitated for only an instant, but when he spoke, it seemed to her there was as much relief as there was sorrow. “Very well. You want the whole rotten stinking horrible truth? I’ll tell you. I’m cursed, Callista Hawthorne. Cursed by a Fey-blood’s spell. And death is the only thing to save me from its grip.”
* * *
The wheel was fixed amid much grumbling, and the wagons moved ponderously back onto the roadway. David held the reins loosely in one hand, though he could have thrown them completely away and still the mules would have placidly followed the wagon ahead. The plodding, unwavering gait and the warmth of the afternoon eased the pounding in his chest that seemed to vibrate out along his ribs until his whole body felt squeezed by a giant’s grip. He’d taken the draught, so it wasn’t the curse that clawed at his innards and throbbed at his temples. It was the woman seated beside him, hands folded, body swaying with every bump and shimmy of the wagon.
Friends, she’d called them. That was rich. Friends implied trust, reliability, constancy, honor. By that definition, he was the epitome of enemy. Would she still consider him a friend when he bundled her into a coach bound for Edinburgh and told her to have a nice life? Probably not. But then, that whole plan held
less and less appeal as the miles rolled on. Would she be all right on her own? Would her aunt take her in or would she refuse to acknowledge the relationship, leaving Callista without a place to stay or family to protect her from Corey and that odious brother of hers?
Did it matter? She wasn’t his problem. She wasn’t his responsibility. And she sure as hell wasn’t his friend. He had friends, and he’d never felt about Mac or Gray the way he felt about Callista.
“You’ve stalled long enough, David. Are you going to explain what’s going on?” She gave him a long look that allowed no vacillation. She would have the truth, and—Mother of All, friend or no friend—he wanted to tell her. The words seem to claw their way up his throat, hot and furious. He could no longer choke them back. Instead they spilled from his lips in between gulping breaths as if he were running, his hands tight on the reins.
“There were four of us,” he said. “We fought together during the war. We were comrades . . . brothers.”
“Was Captain Flannery among them?” she asked.
“Yes.” David recalled the house outside Charleroi, the long golden fields alight in the afternoon sun, the bloody bodies scattered among the yard, the Chevalier d’Espe in his study, face aflame with vengeance made real.
“There was a Fey-blood. He recognized us as shapechangers. I don’t know how nor what black arts he used to force the shift upon us, but he did. We retaliated as we’d been taught from the cradle. Fey-bloods are the enemy. And a Fey-blood who learns of our existence must die.”
Her flinch was noticeable, but she continued watching him with those great dark eyes, shadows lurking within the murky depths.
“With his last breath, he cast a spell upon us. It corrupted our powers. Tainted our lives. We were no longer acceptable to the clans.” He shrugged away from the memory, his back and mind on fire with a phantom pain. “We became
emnil
. Rogue. Less than the dirt upon the road or the smallest ant. We became nothing.”
If the silence had been tense before, now it thickened like a blanket of ice. She no longer looked at him, but down at her hands in her lap. He sighed, ran a finger along a stain on his breeks, and wished for a bottle of his best burgundy.
“Is there nothing that can be done? No Other that can undo this spell?”
He snapped the reins, the mules breaking into a trot for a few lazy steps, a grim smile curling his lip. “I can’t very well go about asking, can I?”
He didn’t fear dying. He’d begged to be killed once until his voice had become a mere croak from parched lips. And since he’d begun taking the draught, he’d always thought he knew how his death would come.
Until Callista.
Within her gaze, he had witnessed a new and infinitely more horrible demise. One he could never have imagined in a million years. One he prayed was wrong—for both their sakes.
“Perhaps my aunt or one of the sisters at Dunsgathaic can help.”
“Or perhaps they’ll lop off my head and tar it for their ramparts. I suppose, either way, my problems
will be solved.” He heard the bitterness in his voice, and pressed his mouth shut. None of this was Callista’s fault. And really, if he had to be running for his life, he was oddly pleased that she was the one he was running with. Perhaps that was the definition of a friend.
* * *
The wagon might have looked ungainly and enormous from the outside, but the interior was far smaller than Callista could ever have imagined. She stepped inside, the door banging her rear as it shut, cutting off the dancing light from the cookfire. Down the left wall ran a long, cluttered counter, shelves beneath. To the right trunks and boxes held props and costumes, and one larger than the others seemed to double as a table. A newspaper lay spread beneath a dirty plate and a stool was drawn up beside. Above, a soot-blackened lamp hung from a chain.
Big Knox was not exactly a superior housekeeper.
At the back of the wagon was a bunk on a raised platform, a curtain on rings that could be drawn for privacy. Callista’s eyes settled on the thick mattress, scattering of pillows, and rumpled sheets before her eyes slid away, her stomach flipping as wildly as any of Big Knox’s juggling plates.
She undressed quickly, afraid David would come barging in. Lay down on the bed, sheet drawn to her chest, wondering why he didn’t. Had he decided to sleep outside again tonight? Had he disappeared into the countryside, his body sliding from man to beast beneath the light of the setting moon? Did he find her ugly, skinny, nosy, irritating? Would he rather curl up with a pillow for a rock than join her in this closet on wheels?
Doubts slammed her from every side, or maybe that was her heart, beating wildly and out of rhythm. Impossible to say.
Outside, the rest of the company retired for the night. Conversations waned, then ended. Doors closed. The fire was doused, its flickering glow no longer splashing pink and orange over the far wall. Silence, but for the creak of the lamp upon its chain. She felt herself drifting to sleep, eyes fluttering closed, mind rising out of the lumpy bunk to inhabit a dreamworld where she could arrange things just as she wished.
In this fantasy, David lay beside her, his body almost feverishly warm. He cradled her against his side, his breath soft on her cheek, his heart beating steadily beneath her palm. A kiss brushed her brow and she curled closer. Since her mother had died, she’d not had anyone to kiss her good-night. It felt good, like coming home after a long journey.
“
Ormeko mineai a’sitha
. Sleep well, lovely dreamer.”
She frowned, her hand caressing the hard chiseled planes of a very male torso. Definitely not her mother.
A gasp caught in her lungs as she realized her dream had been anything but. David lay beside her on the bed—and not just beside her. She had curled into the crook of his arm, a leg thrown across his thighs as if she owned him.
She snatched her hand away, scrambling back as far as she could before she bumped into the wall.
A rumbling chuckle oozed through her like warm honey. “Ease yourself, Fey-blood,” David said. “I may bear the soul of an animal, but I’ve not yet sunk to taking a woman unwilling. You’re safe from my dishonorable intentions.”
“You kissed me without my consent.”
“You’re safe from
most
of my dishonorable intentions. But see, both my hands are present and accounted for and all useful bits are tastefully covered.”
She relaxed at the tartness of his tone. He certainly didn’t sound like a man bent on seduction. Still, her skin prickled all over and a tugging ache stirred low across her belly.
“You did realize we’d be sharing the wagon, didn’t you?” he asked.
“Of course,” she replied, trying to feign calm. “I was standing right beside you when Big Knox made the offer. Though it’s been almost a week. I suppose I assumed you didn’t . . . that is, that you’d . . . sleep on the floor.”
But there was no floor. Or rather, not enough of one after all the clutter to accommodate David. Only a very narrow, very tight-fitting bed where even the air seemed at a premium.
“Our companions were growing suspicious about our sleeping arrangements. Lettice kept asking if we’d had an argument, and Big Knox warned me that if this was how things stood before the wedding, it would be ten times worse after you had a ring on your finger. And I won’t even tell you what Sally said, except to say I had to scrub afterward.” He shuddered. “Personally, I think Big Knox only offered us his wagon to bait Oakham, the sneaky pot-stirrer.”
“It worked. Sam looked as if he’d swallowed a mouse.” She giggled.
“Poor bugger. He does have it in a bad way. Is there no hope for the poor bastard?”
She turned to face him; his eyes shined like silver
pools. “Five years ago, I might have said yes, if only to escape Branston. But now . . . he’s too late.”
The two of them lay quiet in the dark with the night sounds beyond the tiny window, the bed curtain drifting in and out with every little breeze. She rested beside him unmoving, his arm touching her arm, his leg touching her leg. She’d never been so intensely aware of the scratchiness of his linen shirt or the softness of his leather breeches or the smoky, soapy man scent of him in her nose.
How different this silent solidarity was from Victor Corey’s vicious arrogance, his bruising touch and ugly words. Cold washed over her skin to replace the heat of David, and a small sound escaped the back of her throat as if the terror of that afternoon finally caught up with her now, days later. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be married already—to Corey.” She shuddered.
“Dreadful thought.” His voice was quiet, but she knew he hadn’t been asleep. There was a waiting in his body, a coiled tension.
“He’s a dreadful person,” she said. “He once claimed that together we would show the world what ‘monsters’ were capable of.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“I have no idea, but with him anything is possible. He’s obsessed with proving himself to the world. He thinks respect comes through fear and he uses his Other powers for his own criminal ends. Twists them and makes—”
David rolled up onto one elbow. “Other powers? The man is a Fey-blood?” The tension exploded into irritation and frustration.
“Didn’t you know?”
“How the hell should I have known that? I never saw him except with your brother and I thought . . . Shit all!” Now the quiet was anything but comfortable as David’s expression hardened. “Let’s examine this,” David mused aloud. “Corey wants a wife, but instead of buying himself entrée into respectability with some aristocratic daughter whose family’s on their knees in debt to him, he chooses a dowerless, friendless nobody with the power to journey into death.”
“I would be insulted by that remark if my intended groom were anyone other than Corey.”
He grimaced. “The delivery was faulty, but the question remains. Why does he want you so badly that he sends his network of carriers all over England to drag you back?”