Blood Kin (17 page)

His blue eyes were inscrutable. “If you wish.”

Fine. If he wanted to play it cool, then I could accommodate him. “We need to talk about what happens when we get to the Swallow,” I said. “You haven’t changed your mind about playing my lover?”

He shook his head.

“Good. Then we have to get it right from the start.”

“Yes,” he said. His hands flexed again and he stared down at them for a moment. “Which reminds me. We can’t go straight there. Is there a sigiler in Brightown? A good one?”

“A sigiler?” Nerves curled uneasily in my stomach. “What do you need a sigiler for?”

He held up his hands. “You were right, I won’t get far in the Night World with these. Plus everyone outside the Night World needs to believe I’m an ex-Templar.”

He was going to do something to his tattoos.
Oh, Guy,
no
. This time I managed not to say it out loud. “Isn’t there another way?”

“No. I asked Lady Bryony. She couldn’t come up with anything that wouldn’t damage my hands. She agreed with you that a glamour was too risky. So, do you know where there’s a sigiler or not?”

“Yes,” I said, trying not to let my voice sound anything other than professional. “There’s one in Gleaming Street.”

Guy leaned forward and rapped on the hackney wall. When the driver answered, he gave our new destination.

I leaned against the worn leather seat, feeling sick. He was going to change his tattoos. Change the very thing that showed the world who he was. “Was Bryony sure?” I had to ask.

“Yes,” Guy said. “She said they were too old, too deep. I was nineteen when I took my final vows.”

My head twitched toward him. So young. Nineteen. Too young to decide something that would seal the rest of your life. Then again, at nineteen, I’d been forced to put my mother in a sanatorium and then try to figure out how to support her and me without becoming a whore. I didn’t remember feeling particularly young back then. Maybe Guy hadn’t either.

Still, what made a man choose to become a Templar?

I wasn’t entirely sure I understood faith. There’d never seemed to be a God looking out for me particularly. In fact, I suspected, if there were deities up there . . . be it the Lady of Fate or Guy’s God or the more esoteric beings who populated the Fae’s belief system—of whom my understanding was sketchy at best—then I was somehow not on their lists of favored daughters. Surely favorites of the gods didn’t end up in my situation or feel as though betrayal awaited them wherever they turned.

But Guy didn’t share my doubts. He believed in something. He’d shaped his whole life around those beliefs. Even now he was prepared to risk his reputation and the very thing that was the embodiment of his faith to keep pursuing what he believed was the right thing to do.

Not an easy way to live, perhaps.

His face was unreadable as he swayed with the jolts of the hackney. I couldn’t help looking down at his hands. He’d worn those crosses since he was nineteen. From what I knew of him, he was at least a few years past thirty now. They were part of him.

And now, because of the deal we’d made, he was losing that most public symbol of his belief. Permanently.

A fresh wave of anger at my father washed over me. Everyone he touched seemed to end up worse off, and I hated the fact that he’d turned me into his instrument.

Geas or no geas, he and I were going to have a reckoning at the end of this.

GUY

Holly paused on the grimy doorstep of the sigiler’s shop. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

I flexed my hands, trying not to think too hard about it, and took another pull on the bottle of whiskey she’d procured for me after the hackney had dropped us near Gleaming Street. She wouldn’t take no for an answer when I’d tried to refuse.

Now I was glad of her insistence. The plan called for me to be drunk and angry when we finally reached the Swallow. That wasn’t going to be difficult. “I’m sure,” I said, and pushed past her to open the door.

The sigiler’s shop was small, sparse, and dimly lit. A short wooden counter was bare except for a small brass bell. In front of it were three plain wooden chairs. Behind it a moth-eaten green velvet curtain cloaked whatever might lie beyond.

The walls were covered with scraps of paper displaying detailed designs in all the colors of the rainbow. I ignored them. I didn’t need a design. I knew what I was here for. I took a breath, trying to ready myself. The place reeked of the incense burning in a black china dish set on a bracket on the wall behind the counter.

The smell didn’t sit well with the whiskey and rage filling my stomach. I sat on the nearest chair and tried not to think.

Thoughts crowded in anyway. I knew the cure for that. More whiskey. I tilted the bottle. The liquor burned my throat, and my stomach twisted. Not from nerves but from revulsion at what was to come.

“You can still change your mind,” Holly said.

“There isn’t any other way.” I jerked my chin at the bell. “Ring.”

As she lifted the bell, the jangling noise grating against my ears, I put the bottle down on the floor. Too much now and I wouldn’t feel what was about to happen. And I needed to feel it.

A few seconds after Holly rang the bell, a short, dark-haired woman appeared from behind the curtain’s folds.

She looked from Holly to me with intelligent black eyes. “Yes?”

“My friend . . .” Holly paused for a moment and looked at me as if asking one last time if I really wanted to go through with this.

I stayed still. Stone.

“My friend has need of your services.”

“Yes?” the woman repeated again. Her voice had a faint lilt. Echoes of the Silk Provinces? Or somewhere even more exotic? I didn’t care. I brushed off the sudden burning wish to be in the hells-damned Silk Provinces, or anywhere away from the City really, and stood. Two steps and my hands were flat on the desk.

“Yes,” I said. “I want to do something with these.”

The woman arched dark eyebrows. “Templar? Templars have their own sigilers.”

I forced myself to shrug. “Was a Templar. Now I’m not. So I don’t give a fuck what they do.”

The eyebrows rose higher, but she didn’t press her point. Good decision.

“What do you want?”

“Something simple,” I said. “They put their goddamned mark on me and the useless healers tell me it can’t be removed, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be remade.” I slashed a finger across my hand, trying not to think about what I was doing. “Black. Whatever you think best . . . as long as it makes it clear I’m not one of theirs anymore.”

Beside me, Holly was very still. Very quiet. But the way she’d folded her arms tightly across her chest spoke volumes. She was unhappy with this turn of events.

Well, that made two of us.

It’s for a good cause, what you swore to do,
I reminded myself.
And it doesn’t actually change who you are
. The last part I was finding hard to believe just now.

The sigiler peered up at me. “You been drinking?”

“A little. Not enough to change anything. Do you want the work or not?” I pulled a gold sovereign from my pocket. More than ample compensation for what I was asking.

She looked at the coin, then at me. The coin vanished into her pocket. “On your head, then,” she said, and beckoned us to come around the counter.

The room she led us to was hardly bigger than the outer one. It reeked of the same incense mixed with the acrid tang of the inks. I remembered that smell from my investiture.

The sigiler told me to sit. Holly hovered in the background at first, and then sat beside me when the woman hissed impatiently at her. The sigiler took my hands in hers, studying them for a long time. Finally she nodded once and let go of me. With neat, precise movements she set out inks and needles. Then she poured some clear liquid from a bottle and swabbed down the back of my hands. The liquid tingled and the smell of herbs and alcohol cut through the other scents.

Another smell I remembered.

Don’t think
.

I forced myself to stay still as the sigiler turned her attention back to ink and needles and the dull brass hammer, changing the way she’d laid them out a little.

I remembered those too. Remembered how brightly the needles and hammer had flashed in the light pouring through the cathedral windows as the order’s sigiler had lifted them to be blessed.

What I didn’t remember, I realized as the sigiler placed the first needle and set to work, was the pain. I fought the urge to pull my hand away as the woman worked with her inkpot and the sharp biting needles, her black hair—black as the ink in the pot before her—falling forward to hide her face. I gritted my teeth and stared at Holly, not wanting to see what was happening to my hands.

She watched the sigiler, eyes intent and unhappy. She didn’t flinch at the sight of blood at least. But she hadn’t looked directly at me since I’d taken my seat at the sigiler’s bench and spread my right hand flat on the table.

That was fine with me. I was in no mood for small talk. But the silence, broken only by the tap, tap, tap of the sigiler’s long, thin hammer against the needles and my own forcibly smoothed breath, started to close in around me as the pain spiked my skin.

Just pain. Nothing I hadn’t dealt with before.

I saw myself for a moment, kneeling in the chapel at the Brother House at nineteen, surrounded by the sounds of the brothers’ voices chanting as I raised my hands to the sigiler to be marked. Then I’d been filled with joy and the pain had been nothing. I barely remembered the sensation other than fierce pride and knowing that I had taken the right step.

So young. So certain.

Now I was old. I’d known more pain than I’d imagined possible. I’d borne most of it, as I would now, with set teeth and God’s grace.

“You want a rest?” the sigiler asked abruptly. I realized the pain had stopped, other than the deep throbbing burn in my hand. The black eyes watched me with professional concern.

“No. Just get on with it.” I didn’t look at what she’d done. The back of my hand felt as though she’d set it alight, but the pain would fade. I reached for the bottle, the fire redoubling as I curled my hand around the neck and took another swig, then laid my left hand on the table. The still-whole cross seemed even redder than normal and beside me, Holly sucked in a quick breath as I spread my fingers.

“Talk to me,” I said to her, dragging my eyes away from the cross and up to her face.

She turned her head to meet my gaze. “What do you want to talk about?”

I wanted to ask about her mother. About where we were going. About how she was going to find the information we sought. Wanted her to tell me that this wasn’t all going to be for nothing. But we were supposed to be establishing my cover. So I forced myself to reach for the drawl I could slide into at will and shot her a smile.

“How ’bout we talk about exactly what you’re going to let me do to you once we’re done here, sugar?”

Her eyes widened for a moment, the pupils flaring. Then I saw her remember the game too. She tossed her head as the sigiler snorted softly and drove the needle into my hand.

I didn’t let my smile falter.

“Who says I’ve decided to let you do anything?” Holly said with a suddenly dazzling smile. She’d dropped her voice low and smoky. The female version of my drawl. It worked. My attention was arrested by the sudden shift in her posture, which went from tense to “come and get me” in an instant.

Spy, I remembered. Game player. She had to be a good actress to do what she did. So I shouldn’t be stupid and let myself believe that any of it was real.

Still, we had to play the game. So I kept the grin on my face and managed a wink. “Darlin’, you know you want to.”

Chapter Ten

HOLLY

It
was risky, this game we were playing. The force of Guy’s grin hit like a blow. Some might think Simon was the more handsome of the two, but not once they saw Guy smile. He could fell legions of women with one of those smiles.

I couldn’t afford to be one of them. Because it was all just a game. But at least the game meant I could indulge myself a little. Give myself a moment to pretend there were no problems in my life, nothing more important than the man in front of me and the pleasure we could share.

I leaned closer, put a hand on his cheek. “I think you’re the one doing the wanting,” I said, flexing my fingers slightly, so the stubble starting to shadow his face pricked my skin.

Flirting was a kindness. It would take his mind off what the sigiler was doing to him with those bright flashing needles and the pot of night-dark ink.

I had watched the transformation—desecration maybe—of his right hand with a churning stomach. Watched the darkness blot out most of the red, changing a symbol of faith to one of violence. Watched the blood well and Guy’s arm tense as his face went blank and distant, his eyes looking anywhere but down.

I didn’t want to watch anymore, but if he was strong enough to have this done, then the least I could do was bear witness without flinching. And distract him.

I leaned in farther. “Are you wanting anything?” I whispered when my lips were close enough to his that it would only take a little movement to bring us together.

Our eyes locked, his blue as the heart of a candle flame, burning into me. Making me forget that this was supposed to be a game.

Making me want something more.

Careful, now
.

I pulled away. “Like more whiskey perhaps?” I reached for the bottle near his free hand, careful not to bump it.

Guy’s eyes followed my movement and he froze, staring down at his hand. The skin no longer bore a cross . . . well, not just a cross. Now there was a snarling face—a wolf or a dog or some hellbeast—black and jagged with eyes and mouth burning red, from the ruined cross beneath.

The ends of the arms of the cross framed the head, but now they were joined by a row of black thorns. It was striking and beautiful in a horrible way. Rage and violence limned on skin and given life.

My stomach rolled as I looked at it and I desperately wanted some of the whiskey for myself. But one of us should stay sober, and Guy deserved to be the one to wash away his pain.

“Here,” I said, snatching up the bottle and holding it to his lips. The bleak look in his eyes as they met mine made me wonder if it wouldn’t just be kinder to knock him over the head with it. “This will help.”

“I know something that will help more,” he muttered before taking a swig of the whiskey. Then he pulled me forward to kiss me fiercely. He tasted of whiskey, rich and warm, and the answering swirl of dizziness that swept through felt much like taking a gulp of the finest malt.

Addictive.

Potent.

Enough to knock me off balance and make the world spin momentarily.

Dangerous
.

I tried to remember who I was and where we were. I just about remembered that we were meant to be playing lovers. So instead of staggering backward to try and catch my breath and my wits, I forced myself to tap his nose and smile. “Not just yet,” I said. “I want you to have use of both hands when we get to that part.”

As if in answer, Guy winced, glancing down at his hand, then reached for the bottle again. A third of it had already vanished.

I hoped he had a good head for liquor. Playing the drunken, embittered, recently ousted Templar was different from actually being a drunken, enraged, recently defaced Templar. But I couldn’t bring myself to warn him off. Couldn’t bring myself to do much more than look at him, trying to read what was going on behind his outward calm and not think too much about how much I wanted to kiss him again.

“Finished,” the sigiler announced suddenly as Guy and I stared at each other.

She poured something pungent onto a cloth from a small blue bottle and wiped both of Guy’s hands. “This will keep them clean.” She shoved the bottle toward him, then did the same with a small jar. “Helps you heal. Use both, three times a day for one week. Keep dry as much as possible. No infection.”

I nodded when Guy said nothing, and reached for the bottle and the jar, putting them into my bag. “Thank you. It’s beautiful work. Do we owe you any more?” I expected her to say no, given Guy had already paid her a sovereign, but her black eyes narrowed speculatively.

I tried to stare her down, but she named a somewhat startling figure. I was tempted to haggle, but another look at Guy staring at the beasts now snarling from his hands made me rethink.

I dug in my purse, put the money on the table, and stood. “Come on, big boy,” I said to Guy, trying to break the trance he seemed to have fallen into. “The night’s still young.”

He got to his feet and followed me out into the street, whiskey bottle dangling from one hand.

His knuckles were white and I wondered how much his hands hurt.

“Are you all right?” I said in a low voice when we’d walked a little way down the street. He still hadn’t spoken. It was making me nervous and I was trying to decide whether or not to tell him we should call off the whole thing and send a note to Simon to come take him home.

But that would make a mockery of what he’d just done, so I bit my lip and waited for him to speak.

“Yes,” Guy growled. He flexed his empty hand, angling it under the gaslight to look at it. I winced. It had to hurt. And the physical hurt was probably the least of it.

“Come on, then,” I said. “Let’s keep moving. It’s not safe this time of night.”

He shot me a look, reminding me that he knew as much as me about the dangers of these streets at night. He had fought and bled here. Lost comrades here. His lips peeled back in what some might have called a smile. I thought it was closer to a snarl and hoped like hell that nobody did challenge us tonight. A fight would offer the perfect opportunity for Guy to take out whatever frustrations he was battling. But I didn’t want him to have to deal with hurting or killing someone for no good reason in addition to everything else.

“We’ll go to the Swallow,” I said. “I’ll buy you another bottle of that.” I nodded at the whiskey. “You can sleep.”

“I thought we were meant to be working,” he said, his tone still low and underscored with a rumble of anger.

“We’re meant to be establishing your cover,” I said. “Me dragging you through the Swallow and up to my room should start that process quite nicely.”

“I can think of other things that would help with that,” he said, moving toward me suddenly.

“Such as?” I tried to keep my voice light, but nerves quivered in my stomach. I knew I should move away, should keep walking, but I was frozen as he reached for me in the lamplight, big and strong and in pain.

“This.” The whiskey bottle dropped to the cobbles and shattered as his lips came down on mine again. I knew how it felt. My own grip on common sense fractured as well, splintering into glittering shards of delight that scattered in all directions.

His mouth was hot and fierce. Demanding and seeking at the same time. His hands curled round my waist and gripped fiercely as if he could pull me inside him completely. There was desperation in his kiss, the taste of a man seeking oblivion. I’d come across it once or twice before. Men in pain will drink or fight or sometimes seek to shut it out or ward it off by other means. I’d taken hurting men to my bed before.

But I didn’t want that to be the reason this man came to my bed. I pulled away. “No. Not like this,” I said, feeling my heart pound. “If we do this it will be because we both want pleasure. Right now you just want escape.”

His brows drew together. “I—”

“Don’t,” I said. “We need to get to the Swallow.” I stepped carefully around the glass. “Now you definitely need more whiskey.”

GUY

I followed Holly down the street, trying to clear the fog from my head. My hands burned as if someone had rubbed acid into the skin. And my head throbbed. Not as badly as my cock, though. Hell’s balls. What was I thinking? Three times I’d kissed her now and every fucking time it had been a mistake.

Not that my body agreed with that assessment right now. No. It knew what it wanted. It wanted the woman stalking down the road in front of me, her back ramrod straight and her skirts swishing with the angry taps of her boot heels. I’d managed to annoy her with that last kiss. I couldn’t blame her. She’d been right. I hadn’t been particularly thinking of her. I’d just wanted something to make me stop thinking altogether. In her place I’d be pissed too.

I was feeling pretty pissed myself. This had been my idea, true, but I hadn’t bargained on feeling this way when I’d seen what the sigiler had done to my hands. It had made me want to vomit, seeing the symbol of what I believed turned into mere pictures.

Made me long for hot water and the chapel in the Brother House. Anything to feel clean and whole again.

But that wasn’t Holly’s fault. We needed each other if we were going to survive this mad scheme. Which meant I needed to find my footing and get on with it and my body needed to just get used to the fact that it wouldn’t be getting any more tastes of that mouth any time soon.

Playing lovers was one thing. Actually becoming lovers with a Night World spy could only lead to trouble.

And we already had more than enough trouble on our hands.

I kicked the neck of the bottle across the street, where it hit the gutter and shattered. Then I followed Holly. The least I could do was make sure that no one accosted her between here and the Swallow. I was still a Templar. Losing my crosses didn’t change that. I was oath-bound to protect. And so I would.

Still, I couldn’t help feeling disappointed when we reached the Swallow without anyone trying anything. Beating up a would-be cutpurse or thief might have made me feel better. Plus surely a street brawl would add to the story we were meant to be building.

Holly turned as we neared the front door. “Right,” she said. “This is it. Once we go through there, we’re in this. No going back. Last chance to back out.”

I held up my hands, showing her the snarling beasts once more. “I didn’t do this on a whim,” I growled.

“My mother and my friend, remember?” Holly said, lifting her chin. “They’re just as important as your information. We’re trying to do both.”

She was fierce, this one. Single-minded in pursuit of what she wanted. Protecting what was hers.

I recognized that. Respected it. But I wouldn’t let it stop me from protecting what was mine.

I nodded. “Yes.” Did she really think that I’d forget about her mother? Holly still hadn’t said much about who it was she thought had taken her mother, but it couldn’t be anyone good. Nice people, as a rule, didn’t kidnap sick old ladies from sanatoriums.

“All right.” She reached up and tugged at my shirt collar, doing something I couldn’t quite figure out to it. “So drunk or lustful?” she asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Drunk or lustful? There are two ways we can play this.” She moved in closer to me as a couple of men came down the street. To a casual observer it would seem we were about to embrace, or had just finished doing so, the warmth of her body temptingly close. Drunk seemed the sensible option, but the whiskey I’d already drunk rode uneasily in my stomach. I felt the way I did when I’d fought too long on too little sleep. I needed food, not more alcohol.

“Lustful,” I said with a stern warning to certain parts of my body that this was only an act.

She blinked, her changeable eyes dark in the gaslight. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Her mouth twisted, but then she stepped back. “All right, then. Lustful it is.” She did something at the front of her dress and there was suddenly quite a bit more of her flesh on show than previously.

The gaslights at the front of the Swallow were bright, and I had a perfect view down to the curves of her breasts. My hands flexed as I went hard again and even the pain of the new tattoos wasn’t enough to kill the surge of lust.