Master of the Shadows (8 page)

It was harder for her to feel his emotions when distance separated them, but sometimes the strongest came through their heart bond. She felt the tightening of his chest as regret filled his heart. She tasted the sweat on his lip as fear and rage fought for dominion over his head. Finally the love he felt for her, the love that had saved them both so many times, conquered the ugliness. As the door to the chamber began to give way, he calmed and put his swords back in the cabinet.

“I am going into shadows,” he told her. “If I stay too long, only your voice will bring me back. Remember.”

Rebecca covered her mouth with her hand to stop from crying out.

“I love you, wife.” His talent reached across the bond, became the boundaries of a dark dream. “Now hurry into the tunnel, before they find you.”

Reese didn’t resist the guards holding her or give them any reason to think she understood their language. She kept her expression frightened and her demeanor helpless, and deliberately stumbled now and then over her own feet.

“This one is a rabbit,” the burly guard observed, his grip loosening a few degrees. “We should keep her to serve us in the hall.”

The other guard scowled. “Saetta said the mortals are to be kept in the tunnels with the garrison.”

“So they might feed on and take their pleasure of them at their leisure while we choke on bagged blood?” The burly guard spit on the floor. “’Tis a foolish waste of good humans.”

“They have not so many,” his companion said, as if to console himself. “They will have to ration them.”

It disgusted Reese to hear herself spoken of as if she were nothing more than food, but she kept the fear on her face as she surveyed the corridor ahead of them. A fan of short lances displayed beside a window caught her attention before she lowered her gaze and gathered her will.

“At least we are to patrol the house,” the burly guard said. “I do not envy our brothers on perimeter patrol. They will be the first to fall.”

“This American lord would not dare siege his own stronghold,” the other guard replied. “Not if he values the lives of his men.”

Reese moaned and curled over, halting the guards in their tracks. She dropped, clutching at her belly.

“What is she about now?” the second guard demanded.

“I don’t know their tongue any more than you do,” the burly one snarled. When Reese made retching sounds, he released her. “Oh, she is going to puke.”

The other guard let go of her arm and stood back. As soon as he did Reese straightened and lunged for the lances, grabbing two and extending her arms so that the copper tips pressed into each guard’s chest.

“On your knees,” she ordered them in Italian. “Hands behind your heads.”

Both men sank carefully down on the stones, folding their fingers over the back of their necks.

“Where is Locksley?” she demanded. When neither man answered, she jabbed them with the lances. “Tell me or die.”

“The lord is in the city,” the burly one said sullenly.

Reese swallowed against the shriek of frustration that rose in her throat. “You,” she said to the scowling guard. “Toss your pistol onto the floor.” She turned her head toward the burly one. “You pick it up.” When he did so, she added, “Shoot him.”

“What?”

She drove the lance an inch into his chest. “Shoot him, or I will skewer your heart.”

“You cannot escape the house,” the scowling guard told her. “Our men have—” A dart appeared in the side of his neck, and with a grunt of surprise he fell backward.

She placed the tip of the lance she had used on the unconscious guard under the fat chin of the burly one. “Now shoot yourself.”

“Saetta will drain you dry.” With an ugly look he turned the pistol on himself before he, too, collapsed.

Reese crouched to retrieve the pistol. “Saetta wouldn’t like the way I taste.”

She took what she needed from the burly guard, retrieved her bag from Will’s rooms, and looked for her phone without success. The third guard, she decided, must have taken it with him. From there she made her way downstairs, and, once she located the entrance to the first basement level, she slipped inside.

No one stopped or questioned her as she made her way through the tight warren of passages to the dark stairwell leading to the subbasement level, carefully avoiding the storage tunnels where Locksley’s garrison had been imprisoned. After using another vial from her bag, she found a dark corner and rested for a few minutes.

Robin of Locksley had not returned to Rosethorn, so all the months of careful planning were worthless now. There was no hope of completing her mission unless she returned to the city, found Locksley, and retrieved the book. She would have to use Will one last time.

But to leave Rosethorn under siege…

What the Italians and the English did to one another was not her concern, her father would say. These were matters in which they did not become involved. Their duty was to the mortal world, and the threat to innocent lives.

The scent of clover teased her nose.

Slowly she pushed herself up from the floor and silently followed the sweet fragrance, which led her to a third and final set of stairs, these concealed behind a large group of crates. They inclined sharply down to a single, dark tunnel.

This one, Reese knew, had been built under Locksley’s land, and would likely be more than a mile in length. It had not been in the building plans, but Father had assured her it would be there.

“After the
jardin
wars, they always installed an escape tunnel,” he told her. “It will be at the lowest point of the stronghold. If something goes wrong, find it and it will lead you to a vehicle you may use.”

As Reese entered the tunnel, she saw the glimmer of electric torches and smelled other scents blending with that of the clover. The women, she realized, had escaped the house, and even now were hurrying toward freedom.

And Rebecca, who had been so kind to her, was leading them.

Will worked quickly to manage the humans caught up in the attack on the gallery, aware as he did that Robin had deliberately revealed himself to Chris in order to separate her from the others. Will didn’t approve—unwitting or not, the meddling federal agent had provided both Guisbourne and the contessa with the perfect opportunity to rout his master—but he had no more say in the matter than he suspected she did.

Once he had dealt with the police and the gallery patrons, he used his contacts in the Atlanta Police Department to complete the arrangements and obtain the location of the patrol unit that had taken Robin and Chris away. He took the limousine and caught up with them on a deserted stretch of highway just outside the city.

Will saw Robin holding Chris, both of their garments disheveled, as the policeman escorting them walked back to his unit. He parked behind the patrol and got out.

As he approached, Will saw how furious the mortal female was, and how determined his master looked.

“How did you make him do that?” Chris was demanding.

“I promise you, I shall explain everything when this is over.” Robin saw Will and turned to him. “Were you able to deal with all of them?”

“I sent the police back on patrol; they were most obliging. Our friends in the department will see to any records. The guests are locked inside the building. They will sleep until dawn and have no memory of the attack. The ice should be melted by then, and then our friends will go around and finish tidying up.” He indicated Chris. “She is the only one left.”

The mortal’s eyed narrowed. “You’re not drugging me.” She fought against Robin’s grasp.

“Tell me his name,” Robin said, “and I shall release you.”

So she had been a part of this plot. “Let me have her, my lord,” Will said, removing one of his blades. “She will tell me what you wish to know.”

Chris eyed Will’s dagger and then addressed his master. “His name was Paul Sherwood. Now let go of me.”

“I said I would release you,” Robin advised her. “I did not say I would do it now.” As she began writhing against him, he said to Will, “Be aware that
l’attrait
has no affect on her whatsoever. I am none too sure that our talent does, either.”

“I could kill her,” he offered. “That would solve the problem.”

Robin frowned at him and then saw Chris’s expression. “He is only joking,” he told her. To Will, he said, “Take us back to the penthouse.”

On the journey back to the Armstrong building, Will kept the divider window down and listened, but the mortal female remained silent, and did not try to fight his master or free herself. When he felt sure she had acquiesced—for the moment, anyway—he placed calls to some of their human friends to confirm her claims.

“She told the truth,” he said to Robin after finishing his calls. “A Paul Sherwood left Atlanta International on a chartered flight for Rome. The charter was paid for by a Helen Moran. Our people at the airport are examining their security tapes to see if this Sherwood matches Guisbourne’s description.”

“He will,” Chris said, sounding resigned. “Helen Moran manages the clothing shop next to the gallery.”

“Thank you,” Robin said.

“If he’s left the country, there’s nothing you can do,” she said, changing her manner abruptly. “Let me go, and I’ll alert Interpol. They’ll arrest him as soon as he steps off the plane in Rome.” When his master said nothing, her voice grew sharp. “Robin, that book is priceless.”

So is Reese
, Will thought.

Chris tried once more to run when Will stopped outside the building, but his master seized her up in his arms and carried her struggling form inside. He didn’t put her back on her feet until they were in the elevator and traveling up to the penthouse level.

“Were there any of our Kyn who were not at the stronghold when Salva’s men took over?” Robin asked as he pried the remains of the policeman’s manacles from his wrists and gave them to Will.

“Fazio, Mason, and Sullivan were on guard duty here.” The three warriors were good men, but Will would have traded them all for his castellan, who in his human life had besieged dozens of strongholds. “Sylas said to give his love to Rebecca, so I think his wife must have gotten some of the humans and the other women out before they could secure them.”

Robin nodded. “Rebecca will bring them to our friends in Marietta before she attempts to contact us. As soon as she reports in, I shall speak to her.”

“Should we not call on our allies for assistance, my lord?” Will shoved the twisted steel cuffs into his pocket. “Suzeraina Jayr could have her garrison here in a matter of hours.”

Robin’s face became a stony mask.

“No. I do not wish the suzeraina involved in this.” The elevator stopped and he stepped out into the corridor, frowning when Chris did not. “You cannot stay in the elevator all night, love. There is no place to sit but the floor.”

She didn’t join him. “You took those cuffs off like they were made of plastic. You can make cops—anyone—do anything. You’ve got
fangs.
” Her gaze skittered to Will’s face, and he saw the panic in her eyes. “What
are
you people?”

Had she been a Brethren operative, she would not have wasted her time feigning such innocence. She would save her energies to do whatever it took to kill or escape them.

Some of the ugly suspicion cleared from Will’s head as he said to Robin, “I shall prepare some tea.”

“Make it strong and sweet. Everything will be all right, Chris. Come.” Robin coaxed her out of the elevator and led her into his penthouse.

Will retreated to the kitchen. He stood over the sink, turning on the taps and splashing his face before he filled the kettle and put it on the stove. If they somehow survived this siege, and his master decided to install Chris in his city home, Will would have to look into purchasing a Teasmade.

Two, perhaps, if Reese survived.

Slowly he prepared a tray with a porcelain cup, saucer, cream, and sugar. He had no idea what the American took in her tea; they did so many barbaric things with it in this country that the possibilities were endless. To keep his hands busy, he took a lemon from the bowl of fruit he kept out for the mortal staff.

“There is nothing wrong with peach tea,” Reese had said to him one night after she’d raided his small larder to concoct the beverage. “It’s traditional.”

“No, tea is traditional,” he argued. “Squeezing peach juice into it is revolting.”

“You’re just jealous because I can drink it and you can’t,” she said, laughing as he took the glass from her. “Don’t do it,” she warned as he lifted it to his lips. “Remember what happened when you tried my favorite champagne?”

“I beg your pardon,” he said as he returned the glass to her hands. “Refresh my memory. Who was it who said champagne was simply fizzy wine?”

“I said to take a sip, like so.” She sipped the tea, her eyes smiling at him over the rim. “Not drink half the bottle.”

He gathered her against him. “Give me a taste.” When she lifted the glass to his lips, he took it and set it aside. “Not like that.”

The sharp smell of lemon made Will look down. He had crushed the lemon in his hand, and all that remained of it was a pulpy mess. He discarded the pulverized fruit, took another from the bowl, and sliced it before carrying the tray out to the front rooms.

His master lay on the floor with the mortal female atop him.

“All the way through, love,” Robin said. “Half measures don’t work on my kind.”

“I am through playing this game, Robin.”

“So am I.”

Will smelled blood and bergamot, and hurried forward. When he saw that Chris held a knife to his master’s throat, the tray dropped out of his hands and smashed to the floor. “Bloody hell.”

“Stay where you are, Will. Whatever she does to me, you will not touch her.” Robin didn’t look away from the mortal’s reddened face. “Kill me and it will be over. My seneschal will not harm you. But the contessa will see to it that hundreds will die—humans and Kyn, my entire
jardin
. One of them will be your partner.”

Her head turned from side to side. “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe any of this.”

“If I give you proof, will you help me get the book?”

Chris sat up and took the dagger away from Robin’s neck. Will caught his breath when he saw the shallow wound on his master’s throat, which promptly disappeared. The federal agent held herself rigid, and a strange look came over her face.

Will knew that look, and went to gently remove the blade from her fingers. She didn’t try to keep hold of it.

“It can’t be real.” Chris tottered to her feet, her arms hanging limp at her sides as she stared down at his master. “You can’t be.” She put out an arm, and her eyes rolled up into her head.

Will got to her before she collapsed, and lifted her into his arms. The paleness of her young face made him sigh. “I’ll make more tea.”

Robin got up from the floor. “Put her in my bedchamber,” he said. “And bolt the door.”