Master of the Shadows (6 page)

“Your generosity will not be forgotten.” Saetta turned and issued an order in Italian, repeating it in English. “We are among friends here. You are to speak in their tongue and respect their customs. If you do not know, ask and you shall be told.”

The men responded in silent unison by each going down on one knee and crossing an arm over his chest.

“You are welcome here,” Sylas said. “Now come—come and meet your American Kyn.”

The hard line of Saetta’s mouth finally eased. “I have thought of little else since getting off that cursed boat.”

Once he had led the Italians to the main hall, Sylas kept watch over the two groups as they came together. Rosethorn had many Kyn visitors over the course of the year, but never had so many of their kind descended at once. He felt proud as he watched his men greet Saetta’s and separate them into smaller groups. The ladies appeared with bottles of blood wine and goblets, offering their smiles as they served the
cavalieri
. Saetta accepted a goblet but remained at Sylas’s side.

“The one with the golden brown hair and the face of a Madonna,” the
maréchal
said, nodding in her direction. “She is yours?”

“Yes, that is my wife.” Sylas eyed him. “How did you know?”

“Her smile changes when she looks upon you. There, now.” He gestured with his goblet as Rebecca smiled across the room at Sylas. “She is lovely.”

“She is.” Sylas didn’t like other men complimenting his wife, or even looking at her—such was the price of their bond. “The first time a Kyn male admired her in my presence, I believe I threatened to rip his head from his neck.” He glanced at the Italian. “I think I have mellowed in my old age. Now I only wish to tear out his tongue.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “She is
sygkenis
as well as wife.”

Sylas asked Saetta about his journey from Italy, and as they discussed the perpetual hazards of travelling among mortals, the
maréchal
seemed to relax, enough to make Sylas turn the conversation to more delicate matters.

“Your men are too few to make a proper
jardin
, and too many to join another,” Sylas said. “How did your mistress prevent them from abandoning her to become rogues?”

“After our suzerain was killed in battle, and our lady refused to accept another in his place, some of the men spoke of leaving Venice. Those of us with wives and blood Kyn needed more protection, and considered pledging ourselves to another lord paramount.” Saetta’s tone grew distant as he gazed out at the assembly. “I think we would have, if not for the fire.”

Fire had always been a threat to the Kyn, as being burned was one of the few ways they could be killed. “Was it a Brethren attack?”

“Of a kind.” All expression left the
maréchal
’s countenance. “Our women kept their faith better than we did. They still attended services together in our lord’s chapel several days each week. After the
jardin
wars, they decided among themselves to secretly install a priest. They thought they could control him. They discovered they were wrong when he trapped them inside the chapel and set fire to it.”

Sylas looked at the faint burn scars on the men’s faces and limbs. “The men tried to rescue them.”

Saetta inclined his head. “We lost eighteen that day, but none of the women survived. My wife, Francesca, and our daughter, Mariposa, were among them. Then there were the suicides. Another five.” He paused, removing his gloves to reveal strong hands and forearms, every inch covered in faint but visible burn scars. “I should have been the sixth, but for the contessa. She tended our wounds herself, never resting, never leaving us until we had healed. She promised us that she would make our lives worth living again. She saved all of us.”

Sylas tried to imagine surviving Rebecca. He couldn’t think of his life without her in it. “Forgive me for reminding you of your loss.”

“You did not know.” The Italian looked out over the assembly. “We pledged our lives in service to our lord, and our loyalty to him never wavered once. But I tell you this: Every man here would gladly die for our lady.”

Reese felt Alain watching her as she snapped a few more shots of the tapestries hanging from the work frames. “I’m almost done.”

“You are depressingly industrious,” he informed her. “Are you quite certain you do not wish to see my chambers? I have many things there that might please your eye. The furnishings are especially fine, too.”

“I’m flattered, but as Rebecca said, I have to leave soon.” Reese moved to another angle, one that brought her closer to Alain. “You’re not English, are you?”

“No, I was Irish in my human life. A traveling minstrel with more hot blood than cool sense.” He came to stand beside her and looked down at her intently. “Damn me, lady, but I swear I know you.”

Reese shut off her camera and tucked it into her purse. “Perhaps we met once in the city.”

“I think not. It is not your face, pretty as it is. It is your scent. I never forget a woman’s sweetness, and yours…” He bent his head and breathed in. “’Tis like something in the night.”

“A field of berries at moonrise,” she finished for him.

“Yes. Exactly.” He straightened. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

“I didn’t.” She put her closed hand on his chest. “It’s what you said the first time we met.”

He gave her a broad grin. “I knew it. When—” He stopped and glanced down at the sharp-ended pressure cartridge sticking out of his shirt. Then his clouding eyes met hers. “Why do you this, girl?”

“I can’t leave,” she told him. “Not yet.”

He stiffened. “I know you now. You came at night. You brought me…”

“I know.” She caught him as he staggered and held him until he sagged. “I’m sorry.”

It took a few minutes to take what she needed from Alain before she secured him where he would not be immediately found. Once Reese had seen to that, she checked the hall and then left the workrooms. The timing of the Italians’ arrival could not have worked out better for her; all she needed to do now was conceal herself in the lord’s chamber and wait for him to come to her.

Robin of Locksley occupied the largest suite of rooms at Rosethorn, but the furnishings were unexpectedly plain and the decor uncluttered. A great many plants and small trees had been brought in, enough to make a visitor mistake the chamber for a tidy greenhouse. Among the beauties of nature Reese noted a number of incredibly old artworks, carvings, and tapestries, all dating back to the time when Locksley had been human. He could not return to that forgotten world, Reese thought, but he surrounded himself with constant reminders of it.

She opened a door to another set of rooms, smaller and much less cluttered, and switched on the lights. She knew they belonged to Will from his scent, as dark and rich as bittersweet chocolate, which still lingered in the air.

Instead of the expected red, Robin’s seneschal had chosen the blue of ice crystals, the paleness of cream, and a blue-tinged onyx for his colors. Shades of winter, she thought as she wandered about, touching the surface of the old black oak desk where he had neatly sorted piles of estate paperwork and letters.

She picked up a pretty fountain pen, the barrel made of an ivory-streaked dark blue, and removed the end cap. He’d used it so often that he’d worn down one side of the golden nib. “Who taught you to write?” she asked under her breath.

Silence gave her no answer.

She replaced the pen where she had found it, and glanced over at the bed. It was large and placed close to the fire, and she could almost see him sleeping there, warm and safe, dreaming of some adventure with Robin, smiling a little as he remembered those happy times.

Did he ever dream of the nights in Aubury? she wondered. Or had he forgotten?

Her pocket buzzed against her hip, making her jump. With a shaking hand she took out her phone, expecting to see her father’s number on the screen.

But no, it was her Lover boy.

She stared at it for a long moment, and then flipped it open. “Hello, Will.”

“You are doubtless furious for being made to leave the house,” he said, all in a rush, “but let me explain.”

“You don’t have to,” she assured him. “I know the protocol involved with visiting Kyn. Get all the un pledged mortals out of the house, and then break out the bagged blood.”

“You sound hoarse. Are you ill?”

“My throat is a little sore.” She looked around her. “I had thought you’d do your rooms in red.”

“You’ve been to my chamber?”

I’m standing in them right now.
“Rebecca was kind enough to show them to me. You need a new fountain pen.”

He chuckled. “A pity you cannot sneak back into Rosethorn tonight. I would very much like to see you in my rooms.”

“I haven’t left the house yet. Maybe…Hold on.” Reese heard shouts from the hallway and crossed the room to listen at the door. She opened it a bare inch to peer outside, and saw one of the guards collapse a few feet away. The dark-haired warrior standing over him held a dart gun, and paused long enough to reload it with two cartridges filled with blue liquid before hurrying off.

“Reese?”

“I thought I heard something.” Reese carefully closed the door and ran for the bag she had left on the desk. She searched through it until she found the small cigarette case at the bottom. Her hands shook as she opened it.

“You cannot stay at Rosethorn,” Will said. “Come to the gallery show. I’ll ask Rob to give me a few hours for myself. We can go dancing.”

She removed one of the thin glass vials from the case. “I don’t think I can do that, Will.”

“Why not? With the Italians there, you cannot stay to do your work. What else have you to do but sleep?”

She didn’t answer him until she had swallowed the contents of the vial and replaced the case. “I’ll call you when I get out of here.” She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth against the pain.

“I will be waiting for your call,” he warned. “Until then, sweetheart.”

“Good-bye, Will.” Reese ended the call and started for the door when three men brandishing tranquilizer guns came into the room. She threw the phone at them and ran, but two of them caught her before she could escape and pinned her between them.

“She is no threat to us,” the burly one holding her left arm said in Italian. “Only another of their mortal servants.”

The third, a tall, lean man with sad eyes, nodded. “Take her down to the tunnels and lock her in the dungeons with the others.”

At the downtown gallery, Will parked the car where it would be easily accessible—long experience serving as Robin’s second had taught him to always prepare for a hasty departure—before he opened the rear door and helped the contessa out.

“
Grazie
, seneschal.” She shook out her skirt, spreading the scent of marigolds around her before she surveyed the gallery building. “Are you sure this is the place? It looks too small.”

Will didn’t like Salvatora Borgiana or her aura of lazy contempt. So far tonight she had complained about the weather, which she considered too humid, the mortals in the city, whom she decided overcrowded it, and even the limousine ride from Robin’s building, which she felt had taken too long. She might be a refugee seeking sanctuary, but she conducted herself like a disgruntled queen among peasants.

You
were
a peasant
, he reminded himself. “I shall go in first and scout the premises,” he told his master.

“That will not be necessary.” Robin took Salvatora’s arm, but he had eyes only for the gallery. “Check their security measures and then report back to me inside.”

Will almost refused—he took his duty to keep Robin safe very seriously—but then saw the glitter of copper in his master’s eyes. “Yes, my lord.”

A quick and quiet reconnoiter of the building revealed the federal agents strategically posted at the front and back entrances as well as the roof. He noted that the windows and doors had also been wired with sensors, doubtless connected to a monitoring station inside. The mortal authorities had fashioned the entire building into a trap, but their crude methods were no match for Robin of Locksley.

Once he felt satisfied, Will went inside the gallery and looked for Robin. He spotted him with the contessa, but saw no sign of Chris Renshaw.

“That scowl on your face makes me think the woman with the titian locks is your Agent Renshaw,” Salvatora was saying to him. “She was staring at you just before she scurried off to hide.”

Will was tempted to join them, but decided to watch from a distance. Robin guided his companion away from an eager young girl who had inexplicably dyed her short, spiky hair a glowing shade of pink, and accompanied her to a pedestal case set somewhat apart from the other exhibited artworks.

He had never seen
The Maiden’s Book of Hours
, but the ancient manuscript inside the glass case atop the pedestal seemed to match the description Robin had given him. It seemed the thing his master had coveted for so many centuries was finally to be his. The odd thing was, once standing before it, Robin barely spared it a single glance. His gaze, bright with hostility, kept straying toward the closed door to the manager’s office on the other side of the room.

“Did we come here for the book, or for her?” Will muttered.

Will moved toward an unoccupied corner, where he stood with his back to the walls and kept watch over his master and the contessa as well as the crowd of mortals surrounding them. Standing guard was, for the most part, boring work, but he usually had no difficulty keeping his mind on his duties. Nor would he have tonight, if not for the call he’d made to Reese from the car.

He wondered why her voice had sounded so strained. She’d made the excuse of a sore throat, which must have pained her greatly, for when she had first started speaking she’d sounded like a man. But under the hoarseness he’d heard something else—sadness, or perhaps loneliness—exactly as he had before, when they’d met in the club. It made little sense to him, for Reese had always been a happy, energetic woman. It had been the first thing that had drawn him to her.

No, there was more to it than that. Will rarely got involved with mortal women, but from the first time Reese had come to his master’s city home, she had made her attraction to him quite transparent. Accustomed to females being immediately drawn to his master, Will had felt both startled and flattered by her attention. He didn’t mind standing in Robin of Locksley’s shadow, but it had been quite pleasing to step out of it for once.

All of that had changed since last night. Something had happened to Reese, perhaps, something that had persuaded her to think differently of him. But Will would swear that she still cared, even more so than in past. He had felt it in her looks. He had heard it in her voice. It had called forth the same response from him.

He dragged his thoughts back to the present as he saw Robin abandon the contessa and stalk across the room and force his way into the manager’s office. Suppressing a groan, he went after him.

By the time Will reached the door, Robin had closed it and jammed the knob. Will had no choice but to stand outside and listen.

“I didn’t notice you coming in,” he heard Chris Renshaw say.

Robin’s response was quick and vicious. “You are a better liar than that, madam.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rob. I have to get back to the show.” Her footsteps came toward the door. “Excuse me.”

“No,” Robin snapped. “I do not excuse you.”

Will put a hand on the knob. He knew his lord was greatly put out by how Chris Renshaw had used and deceived him, but she was still a mortal. In his anger, Robin might forget that.

“I know you saw me,” his master continued. “Why did you not come to me?”

The female’s light footsteps retreated from the door. “All right, I did catch a glimpse of you and your companion when one of the press asked me about you. I didn’t come over because I felt awkward about approaching you.”

“Awkward.”

“I didn’t want to say anything that might embarrass you in front of your date.” Chris’s voice paused for a long moment. “I didn’t mean to be rude. Again, I apologize.”

“You were protecting me. I see.” Heavier footsteps moved across the room. “Tell me, what did you think would embarrass me most? That you might slip up and mention that you used me for sex? Or perhaps that you never told me your full name? Or that you left my bed this morning without bothering to wake me or say farewell?”

Will winced.

“I wrote you a note—”

“Oh, God, yes, how could I forget? The effusive, affectionate, one-line note of thanks.” Like Chris’s, Robin’s voice came from the back of the office now. “I’ve not earned such an unstinting amount of gratitude since the last time I held a door open for an elderly woman using a cane.”

“Rob.”

“Robin.
That
is my name. Say it. Say all of it.”

“Robin.” Chris’s voice grew so soft Will could barely make out her next words. “Listen. I’ve never done anything like that, and I really didn’t know what to do except leave. I told you, I don’t pick up guys in bars. I don’t have one-night stands.”

“There, now, that has a ring of truth to it.” His master’s tone changed as well, and became deceptively soft. “But technically speaking, I wasn’t a one-night stand, was I? You didn’t stay the night. By my calculations, love, you owe me two more hours. I’d like to collect.”

“Excuse me,” the young woman with the pink hair said as she appeared before Will. She eyed the door. “Is there something going on in there?”

“Nothing to concern us.” Will guided her away from the office and into the short hall beyond it, where he deliberately shed some scent. When her pupils expanded, he said, “Leave the gallery and return to your home. Think no more of this night.” He glanced at her vivid locks. “And please stop putting that color in your hair.”

“Leave. Forget. Color.” She nodded vaguely and wandered off toward the front entrance.

Will resumed his listening post in time to hear Chris say, “Someone is going to come looking for me any minute.”

“Let them try.”

“Robin.” Garments rustled. “Please stop.”

His master’s next words came as tentative as the hurt coloring them. “Did it truly mean nothing to you?”