Shadow's Curse (10 page)

“That is to say”—Callista scrambled to fill the silence—“we’re merely traveling in company. Not as a couple . . . or . . . anything scandalous.”

Though it
was
scandalous, disastrously so. It didn’t matter if they never did more than spend time in a closed carriage together. Just the fact that she was an unmarried female in the company of an unmarried male was enough to ruin her. Would it be enough for Mr. Corey to break off the engagement? Perhaps if she was very lucky. But would it also be enough to keep Aunt Deirdre from taking her in?

In Callista’s haste to escape, she’d not thought that part through. Or if she had, she’d pushed it to the side as a future problem she’d sort out once the more immediate problems had been dealt with. It had been enough just to escape Branston. She had the entire length of the country to worry over minor technicalities like David’s awkward presence.

Perhaps she could pass him off as a footman or a . . . a cousin on her father’s side. Someone harmless and innocent and free of nefarious motivations.

Right. The man was about as harmless and innocent-looking as the wild beasts in Exeter Exchange.

Seeming to understand the welter of emotions chasing their way through Callista’s brain, Bianca guided her down onto the edge of the bed with a comforting pat. “There’s no need to say any more, Miss Hawthorne. Not to me,” she said reassuringly.

Such a small gesture, but Callista hadn’t had anyone offer the small gestures since her mother’s death. A strange lump caught in her throat and her eyes stung, which is probably why she couldn’t read the expression on her hostess’s face, though she definitely felt her tremble when she touched her arm.

“You’ve been very kind,” Callista said, blinking the mist from her eyes.

Bianca’s gaze softened. “It’s obvious something has happened to throw you and David into the sauce together. I’m more than familiar with the sort of impossible tangles one can find oneself in, but I’m certain there’s nothing unseemly between you.”

“You are?”

“Of course. Call it woman’s intuition, or perhaps just knowing David like I do. He has a penchant for
leaping in and out of scrapes and loving every minute of it. But if it were that kind of trouble following you, I doubt he’d have brought you here to us. He’s far more surreptitious about his light o’ loves.” She smiled another one of those disarming sisterly smiles that made Callista want to cry or throw herself in her arms or confess the whole horrid story. Maybe all three. It had been so long since she’d had anyone to confide in.

“Besides,” Bianca Flannery added, “you look far too clever to fall for David’s practiced scoundrel’s charm. And he tends more toward blond, plump, and brainless. Easier that way, I suppose.”

Lady Fowler’s round china-doll face and Rubenesque body sprang to mind. Callista should be relieved her reputation remained intact. Instead it just irritated her.

Bianca gave her one final pat on the shoulder before she headed for the door. “I’ll go see about supper while you try and get some rest. And don’t worry. Whatever has happened, you can be sure David and Mac together will sort it out.”

But was she as convinced as she tried to sound? Or had Callista stumbled into deeper troubles than she’d left behind?

*  *  *

“Scotland? Are you insane? That’s an entire country away.” Mac paused in his pacing to spear David with a gaze of complete disbelief.

“Thank you for pointing that out, Mac, but I’m well aware of the mileage.”

“And you agreed to take her?”

“What the hell else could I do? I was hardly in a
position to haggle. I figured I’d purchase her a ticket to Edinburgh on the Royal Mail and be done with it—with her. I didn’t realize I’d be dragging her across London with murderous Ossine on my tail.”

“So much for best-laid plans,” Mac quipped.

David cast him an evil look as the room began to sway alarmingly and spots formed at the edges of his vision.

Mac folded his arms across his chest, his grim stare dropping David’s heart into his shoes. “I have the book Beskin is after.”

David sat up. “You? I should have bloody known.”

“Kineally was supposed to hand the book over to Gray. His death and Gray’s unexpected trip north to Addershiels have thrown those arrangements out the window.”

“A shame the poor man’s murder complicated your treasonous plotting. Damn it, Mac. My life was a shambles already. The last thing I needed was another shovelful of shit making it worse.”

Ignoring David’s outburst, Mac tapped his chin in thought. “You can’t go home. And with Beskin nosing about, you’re not safe in the city.”

“Thank you for stating the obvious.”

“Why not take over Kineally’s assignment and deliver the book to Gray?”

Forget heart in his shoes; David’s heart plummeted through the floor and into the basement. “Are you mad? Beskin will be on me faster than a vulture on a carcass.”

Mac ticked off his reasoning on his fingers. “Gray needs the book. I can’t leave Bianca. And you were headed north anyway. It’s the perfect solution to both our problems.”

“It’ll take days to reach Scotland with Miss Hawthorne.”

“I thought you’d count that a bonus.” Mac leaned against the mantel, a boot propped upon the fender, his gaze lost amid the flames. “She already knows you’re Imnada.”

David’s gaze fell to his hands. He noted with curiosity that they were shaking. Barely, but enough. “That may be, but she doesn’t know about
me
. About the curse.”

“Why should she, if you continue to take the draught?”

David fisted his hands, forcing them to still. “Because the damned draught is back at my house. Because the need grows ever greater as the effects grow ever shorter. You must have noticed it too.”

Mac nodded. “I’m lucky if I can squeeze a fortnight out of a single dose.”

“The other symptoms grow stronger as well. The dizziness, the fatigue, the headaches.”

Worry darkened Mac’s catlike green eyes. “Bianca tells me I should quit taking it. Let the Fey-blood’s curse take hold once more. She thinks that will end it.”

“You haven’t told her everything?”

Mac squeezed his eyes shut, shoulders hunched. “How do I tell her that it wouldn’t make any difference? That either way, she’s married to a dead man? I can’t. It would destroy her and I’ve put her through enough as it is.”

“She’s your wife, Mac. She has a right to know.”

Mac’s fury blazed in his face. “What would you know about husbands and wives?”

David shrugged. “Enough to recognize that falsehoods
have a tendency to turn around and bite one in the ass. I’d not want Bianca angry with me. That cool façade hides a dangerous streak.”

Mac gave a dry bark of laughter. “A fair enough reading.” The laughter died in his eyes. His neck muscles taut with some deep inner turmoil, he sucked in a quick painful gasp as if just speaking the words pained him. “We made so many plans, David. We had so many dreams. And now . . .” He opened his hand in a gesture of futility, myriad scores crisscrossing his palm, the marks of his own fight to keep the curse at bay.

“Now it hangs by a thread unless we find a cure for our cure? Should have known it had been too easy.”

“Everything hangs by a thread. Not just our future but the future of all the Imnada. I won’t have my youngling hunted down by the Ossine as a half-blood freak to be exterminated.”

Mother of All, would the Ossine really do that? Kill a child simply for bearing mixed blood? Had things come to such a desperate pass?

Mac looked up. “Will you do it? Will you take the book to Gray?”

David sighed. “Do I have a choice?”

“That’s the spirit. Who knows? Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

David slanted Mac a disbelieving glance. “Hope? What’s that?”

Mac shoved his hands in his pockets with a small shrug and a weak smile. “It’s all we have left.”

Leave it to Mac to get the final word in.

*  *  *

Callista stood at the window, looking down upon the dark street. Despite the late hour, a few carriages still rattled their way past, on their way home from some fancy ball or extravagant musicale. And once or twice she caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure making his way north toward Cavendish Square to the comfort of a warm, snug bed and a good night’s sleep.

A warm, snug bed waited just behind her. But the good night’s sleep she’d found to be impossible.

Her thoughts ran in too many circles, and so she watched the waning crescent moon hover in the west, its light barely enough to penetrate the heavy coal-fired haze. Berenth, St. Leger had labeled it; the crone face of the Mother Goddess. This period fell between the full moon of Silmith, when the goddess looked down on the clans as both fertile lover and mighty warrior, and Morderoth, when death took the moon and the skies were absent of her light until reborn as the maiden at Piryeth.

All this and more David had imparted as they fled from his house in Cumberland Place to the Flannerys’ on Holles Street. By the time they’d climbed the front steps, he was babbling sixteen to the dozen and barely able to point both eyes in the same direction.

Surely he should have improved once she’d removed the silver chains that poisoned him. Instead, he seemed to worsen, as if his body were slowly crumbling to bits in front of her eyes. Her last sight of him as Captain Flannery led him away had truly frightened her.

What would happen if he became too ill to escort her to Scotland? What would happen if he died? Callista had thrown all her eggs into his basket. If his
assistance was lost, she’d be once again at the mercy of strangers—or worse. The captain and his wife had been more than kind so far, but she couldn’t count on them once they understood the threat Mr. Corey posed. Captain Flannery seemed capable of handling any danger, but why should he bother when handing her over to Branston would be so much easier?

No. David couldn’t die. It was as simple as that.

Her fingers tightened on the curtain. Simple? Who was she trying to fool? She, better than anyone, knew death was never simple. And cheating it, impossible.

As if conjured from her worries, heavy footsteps sounded outside her door. Not Captain Flannery. He’d retired over an hour ago. She’d heard him pass her room. Heard a low, urgent conversation with his wife just before their door shut. So, this was David . . . Mr. St. Leger . . .

David.

The steps were slow but steady. They paused, and Callista felt her breath still in her chest. Would he come into her room unasked? And then what? Take her in his arms and kiss her as he’d done in the Fowlers’ alcove? The idea prickled along her skin and shimmied like lightning up her spine until she squashed it flat.

No, David might tease her with his banter and his quick, sly glances, but she knew, without quite knowing how she knew, that he’d never press his attentions where they weren’t wanted nor take a woman unwilling. He might bend rules, but he respected boundaries.

After a long moment, the steps resumed. Five . . . six . . . seven. Then came the snick of a latch and the quiet bump of a closing door.

She let out her breath in a whoosh of slumped
shoulders before a frown pinched her mouth and a new more troubling thought burrowed its way into her heart.

How completely selfish could she be? David was ill, and it was her fault. She’d been the one to drag him into this predicament in the first place. He’d come to her rescue and she’d thanked him by bashing him over the head. She should have insisted on making sure he was being attended to. She should have asked after his welfare. For heaven’s sake, she should have thanked him—just once.

She’d done none of those things. No wonder she paced the room sleepless and guilt-ridden. She’d go to David first thing in the morning. As soon as she saw him, the first words to roll off her tongue would be
Thank you.
Not difficult at all. Two little syllables and she’d no longer feel like an ungrateful wretch.

Satisfied, she lay down on the bed, pulled the covers up to her chin, and closed her eyes. Waited for sleep to catch up with her. But still her brain whirred like a top and David’s face hovered against the backs of her eyelids like an accusation. Apparently good intentions weren’t enough. She huffed a frustrated breath.

If she couldn’t sleep until she’d spoken to David and assured herself he was not about to expire, then that’s what she’d do. A niggling voice warned of what befell women who visited men in their bedchambers. Callista chose to ignore it. Despite her babbling justifications to Mrs. Flannery, it was obvious her reputation couldn’t sink any lower.

Before the voice grew more insistent, Callista slipped from her room, padded the few paces down the corridor, and lifted her hand to David’s door; stopped
just before her knuckles gave a sharp rap. What if he was asleep? She didn’t want to wake him. She’d simply sneak in, take a peek, and, if he was asleep, leave. No harm done. No questions asked.

She turned the latch, cracked the door, and stepped a pace into the room, and stopped dead.

He definitely wasn’t asleep.

*  *  *

“David?”

He spun around, dagger gripped in one hand, the other fisted tight, blood oozing from a deep cut across his palm. By now pain chewed at his muscles and silver-blue flames crowded his vision. The last thing he needed was an audience.

“Dear gods, what are you doing?” Callista demanded.

“Swooning?” he said as his legs buckled.

Before he hit the floor, a shoulder propped him up and an arm came round his back to edge him unresisting down on the bed. “You’re burning up with fever. Is it the silver?” she asked. “Is that what’s wrong?”

He snatched up a cloth, winding it tight around his hand, and glanced down at his naked torso. Not that Callista hadn’t already seen him in every way, shape, and form, but somehow this was different. The silver’s poison was an external weakness. But the curse’s slow destruction was his own body betraying him. A death best endured alone.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m sorry,” she answered caustically. “Should I leave so you can drop dead alone?”

He winced as he shifted on the bed, putting a few
crucial inches between them. “You’re the necromancer. Can’t you just fetch me back?”