Stranger (13 page)

Standing up in the stirrups, Catullus took in the surrounding landscape, gauging exactly what could get them past the Heirs without going too far out of their way. Rerouting even a few miles could cost time that wasn’t theirs. Then he saw the solution.

“There.” He pointed toward a narrow river cutting through the vale. “That’s the river over which the bridge spans. The Heirs will be watching the roads, but not the water.”

“Will we be able to sneak past them without being seen?” asked Gemma, but there was no fear edging her words.

Catullus smiled. “I’ve got a way to ensure their attention is elsewhere.” He glanced at Astrid. “Tell Lesperance to land. I have a job for him.”

“Don’t think anyone can
tell
Nathan anything,” Astrid murmured wryly. Yet she pulled from her coat pocket a heavy Compass, then used its polished surface to send a signal up to Lesperance.

Gemma peered at the Compass, curiosity illuminating her face. With her sharp journalist’s eye, she couldn’t have failed to notice the Compass’s unusual design, its metal casing covered with fine engraving, the four blades that marked the cardinal directions. Catullus saw Astrid’s use of it now as a sign of her growing trust in Gemma, for the Compass was closely guarded by the Blades.

“That’s the Compass,” Catullus said in answer to Gemma’s unasked question. “All Blades carry one as a badge of office and means of identification.”

“Including you?”

“Of course. It’s our most prized possession. My great-great-grandmother Portia created the very first Compass.”

Gemma chuckled ruefully even as she shook her head at Portia’s innovation. “It’s claimed my great-great-grandfather
Lucca created a fountain that endlessly poured wine, but no one was ever able to prove it.”

“Endless, hm? I’ll have to work on that. Could prove profitable.”

“It wasn’t for great-great-grandfather Lucca. They say that when he died, he owed money to at least seven men and three women.”

“Women?”

“A handsome man, Lucca. A little
too
handsome.”

They shared a smile just as Lesperance alit on Astrid’s outstretched arm. Reluctantly, Catullus turned from Gemma to address the hawk—a process he
still
wasn’t used to, speaking with an animal that wasn’t truly an animal but a man. Sometimes, he thought with an inward sigh, it was deuced difficult to reconcile science with magic.

Nevertheless, he asked blandly, “Ever spooked a horse, Lesperance?”

The hawk gave a small cry that could only be described as eager. It seemed that Lesperance had lost none of his rebellious spirit.

Hidden behind a bend in the shallow river, Catullus, Gemma, and Astrid watched the bridge. It was a newer iron bridge, thirty feet above the river. Normally, Catullus liked to study bridges, contemplate what the engineer had attempted and whether the effort could have been improved. Not a few coins in the Graveses’ coffers came from helping to build bridges just like this one. Bridges ensured that the grinding poverty of rural life could be alleviated through regular deliveries of food and modern convenience.

Today, however, Catullus wasn’t scrutinizing the bridge, but the men on it. Three of them, mounted, their expensive horses gleaming with the obsessive care that only wealth and privilege could afford. The men surveyed the road, attentive to anyone who might pass. Catullus, mounted on a
much more economical horse, watched the men through his spyglass.

“Are they really Heirs?” Gemma whispered.

“Costly clothing,
de rigueur
moustaches, autocratic posture, and aura of entitlement.” Catullus ticked off a list of attributes. “Those are most assuredly Heirs.”

“I don’t understand how they knew we would be here.”

“They knew we abandoned the train and likely have men scattered throughout the area.”

“Do you recognize any of the bastards?” growled Astrid. She, more than any Blade, had a personal vendetta against the men who killed her husband and tried to capture and torture her years later. “Is Bracebridge or Gibbs with them?” Her hand strayed to her coat, where her revolver waited.

“No.”
Thank God.
As dedicated as Astrid was to their mission, Catullus wasn’t certain she wouldn’t give their position away by simply shooting either Bracebridge, the mage who tried to kill Lesperance, or Gibbs, one of the two men personally responsible for Michael Bramfield’s death. “And they all start to look the same after a while. Pompous and self-congratulatory.” He shut the spyglass and returned it to his saddlebag. “There’s Lesperance.”

Sure enough, Lesperance swung his hawk form down from the sky and disappeared behind several buildings lining the road. Then, in a burst of silver and black fur, a huge wolf darted out and ran straight toward the bridge.

The Heirs’ overbred horses sensed the wolf before their riders. At once, the animals began to rear up, whinnying in terror. The Heirs tried to rein in their horses, lashing them brutally with their riding crops as they shouted for control. Before the mounts could be restrained, the wolf snarled and charged. This proved too much for the poor, skittish horses, who had likely never seen a wolf, especially one so enormous. All three horses bolted, tearing off the bridge and down the road, their riders clinging to their backs. There
wasn’t even time for any of the Heirs to draw a weapon and fire at the wolf.

“Now!” Catullus commanded.

He, Gemma, and Astrid urged their own horses into a swift canter, darting through the river and underneath the bridge. Water splashed up as they sped down the center of the river, the horses’ hooves clattering on the rocky river bottom. But it didn’t matter how much noise they made. The Heirs would be halfway to Torquay before they regained control over their terrified mounts.

As Catullus, Gemma, and Astrid raced through the river, Lesperance appeared in hawk form to fly alongside them. He gave a victorious cry, and they all shared a brief smile of triumph. So many obstacles, many of them deadly, lay ahead. None of them truly knew what
did
await them. A consciously reckless plunge into the unknown.

Everyone needed to savor whatever victory they could, however transitory. And Catullus’s gratification came not just from thwarting the Heirs, but also from Gemma’s smile.

“We stop to eat and rest,” Catullus said, hours later. He slowed his horse, and Gemma and Astrid did the same. There was one other member of their party. Gemma looked up to see the red-tailed hawk bank and then alight upon a tree branch. The hawk watched as the horses came to a stop in a sheltered glade.

She still could hardly believe that animal was actually Lesperance. She thought she knew about magic, but so much existed beyond what she was coming to learn was her own limited scope. A good deal of magic remained a mystery to her. But she had a feeling that she’d learn more, much more, before too long. The thought frightened and thrilled her.

Right now, however, she just wanted off this damned horse.

She’d been shipbound and idle for too long. Her bottom ached from nearly a full day in the saddle. She needed to relieve herself. She was hungry.

Her complaints went unvoiced. Whining never did anyone any good, and Gemma was determined to show the Blades of the Rose that she could be as tough and resilient
as any of them. Astrid continued to warily scrutinize her. And Catullus …

As everyone dismounted—Gemma fighting not to wince—she gazed at Catullus. He moved with athletic grace, and surveyed the glade with a strategist’s eye, sure and alert. Astrid asked him a question about distance and travel to Glastonbury, and he answered with a ready air of authority and command. When he caught Gemma looking at him, he smiled; then his smile faltered as if he became aware of himself. He glanced away, removing and polishing his spectacles with a spotless handkerchief. Once the already-clean lenses gleamed, he busied himself with tying up his horse, and wouldn’t meet her eyes again.

This, from the man who’d touched her intimately, who’d given her a devastating climax with his extraordinary, wonderful hands! Such a damned puzzle.

Once her own horse had been secured, Gemma started toward the shelter of some bushes. Catullus appeared, blocking her path.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“To tend to my personal needs,” she answered, level.

“Oh.” He blinked. “Just … ah … be careful.”

Tired and sore as she was, she didn’t feel particularly charitable toward his shyness at the moment, and said dryly, “I mastered the task a while ago.”

“Right. Of course.”

Gemma stepped around him.

His voice stopped her. “The Heirs are out there, somewhere. So, please, be cautious. If you need anything just … call out.”

Damn it—she couldn’t keep up her temper when he was so gallant.

She hurried off to the privacy of the shrubs and, after ensuring that no one was about, relieved herself, sighing. Adventuring was all very well and exciting, but one’s bodily
needs didn’t disappear just because the fate of the world’s magic and freedom was at stake.

After she was finished, she knelt beside a nearby creek to freshen up. She dipped her fingertips into the water, then pulled them back, hissing. Too cold! But she needed to wash, so she forced her hands back into the creek to rinse, then splashed some water onto her face and the back of her neck. Her fingertips turned blue within seconds. On a brighter side, only a dead person could be unaffected by such a chilly bath. Gemma’s senses glittered back to life.

As she knelt, she became aware of a presence behind her.

Her hand crept toward the derringer in her pocket.

“Only me,” said a deep, Canadian-accented voice.

Gemma relaxed as Lesperance, clothed in trousers and an open shirt, feet bare, came forward silently and crouched beside her. A striking man, lean of body, with a profile that should be minted onto coins. Any sighted woman would enjoy looking at him, and Gemma definitely had eyes. She admired him the way one might admire any art—all theory and aesthetics, but nothing that stirred her desire.

Not the way a reserved, bespectacled inventor with dark eyes stirred her.

Lesperance plunged his hands into the frigid water. She waited for him to pull back or at least grimace from the temperature. He didn’t.

“I thought my hands would freeze off,” she noted. “You don’t seem to be bothered, though. Is that a facet of being able to … change?” Only minutes earlier, he’d been flying overhead as a hawk. And before that, he’d run as a wolf. Catullus said that Lesperance could even take the form of a bear. Now she was
talking
with Lesperance.

What a story he must have.

He nodded, unaware that her journalistic impulses bubbled furiously. “Grew to like the cold, actually. Ever since my power to change showed, I run hot.”

Oh, didn’t Gemma know it, judging by the way he and Astrid carried on in bed.

Instead of voicing this, she asked, “When did your changing ability manifest?”

He tensed, then realized she wasn’t employing the Key of Janus to force him to answer her question—just as she’d promised Catullus she wouldn’t. Lesperance raised a brow. “Interviewing me for a story?” Before she could answer, he asked, “You like finding out people’s secrets—is that why you became a reporter?”

“Cross-examining me, counselor?”

They met each other’s gaze with cool challenge. Neither spoke. Until—

“A trade,” Gemma proposed. “We each ask a question, we each have to answer.”

“Well negotiated.” He gave an appreciative nod. “All parties agree to the terms. As a show of good faith, I’ll start. I discovered my ability to shift just after you saw me at the trading post.”

She gaped. “That was only a few months ago!”

“Take that surprise you’re feeling, then multiply it by a thousand.” A corner of his mouth tilted up. “That’s how I felt when I learned I was an Earth Spirit.”

“But … how did it happen?”

He held up a finger. “Not your turn. Answer my question first.”

Right. Her end of the bargain. “Ever since I was small, I wanted to be a reporter. Learning. Observing.” She mulled this. “It’s not secrets that interest me, but the truth.”

“Once you discover the truth, what then?”

Now she held up a cautioning finger. “Not your turn, counselor. You owe me an answer.”

“The Primal Source released a dormant power in me.” His expression darkened. “Those son of a bitch Heirs tried to enslave my people.”

“Tried, but didn’t succeed.”

“Because we fought back. The Earth Spirits, and the Blades.” He scowled. “That’s two questions you asked me.”

“Technically, I didn’t ask you anything. I made a statement, and you confirmed it.”

He smiled, almost grudging. “You still have my question to answer.”

She might have known that Astrid’s lover would have a will of iron. “When I uncover the truth, whatever it is, I write about it.”

He looked at her, his gaze hardening. “Not any of what I just told you. Not my people. Merely a few printed words about them would destroy their lives.”

The stab of conscience in conflict with her journalistic instincts pierced her. Write and publish, giving full knowledge to the world, or remain silent to protect innocents. “Damned ethics,” she muttered, “getting in the way of a good story.”

“Try being an attorney sometime—
then
we’ll talk about conflict with ethics.” Yet his look didn’t soften. “I don’t want to threaten you, but I will do anything to protect my people.”

“And I’m no threat to you, or the Earth Spirits.” She pressed her lips together, then said, “They’re safe from my pen.”

He relaxed slightly.

Something occurred to her then. “She asked you to interrogate me.”

He knew precisely who Gemma meant. “’Interrogate’ is a word for criminals. But, yes, she’s wary of you.”

“She keeps looking at me as if I were a keg of gunpowder that could detonate at any moment.”

Rather than look offended, Lesperance chuckled. “Protective.”

This startled Gemma. “Blindfolded, drunk and asleep, that woman could take me apart. She has nothing to fear from me. I can’t hurt her.”

“It’s not you she’s protecting. It’s Graves.”

Surprise gave way to annoyance. “Catullus is a grown man who can take care of himself.” She had direct knowledge, in fact, that he was fully an adult. Remembrance of the night before heated her cheeks as she glanced down at her hands. She’d touched Catullus with those hands, stroked him and felt him shudder with release.

“Astrid told me that Graves … he’s brilliant, but bring women into the equation …” Lesperance shook his head. “Not the most worldly.”

“I’ve never met a more complex man in my life.”

“Doubt he’s ever met anyone like you. I’ve only known him for a short while, but I know Astrid as well as I know the contours of my own soul. She sees how you affect Graves, what you mean to him. That makes her cautious.”

Gemma rose to her feet, and Lesperance did the same. “I’m not that important to him.” If she was, wouldn’t he be more assertive? Catullus kept backing away.

Lesperance held her gaze steadily. “You
do
matter to Graves. Even I can see it.”

She prided herself on being levelheaded. Journalists needed to present to the world an unflappable façade, needed to believe in their own sangfroid to be impartial to what they reported. Personal emotions clouded truth. So Gemma was implacable, even when presented with the most flagrant case of political corruption she’d ever encountered. She reported the facts calmly, objectively—until her editor took the story away from her and gave it to a male reporter, who then heaped adverbs, adjectives, and accusations all over the piece. Even then, she didn’t let loose her scream of frustration, but calmly continued with her work as she inwardly seethed.

This time, however, she couldn’t hide her amazement. Catullus felt something for her, something hidden by his reticence. And what she felt for him … whatever it was,
burgeoning, taking shape, she knew it went beyond hunger for simply his body.

She’d thought the same of Richard, too. But once she and Richard had been sexually intimate, he had tried to change her, to impose himself on her. He assumed they would marry, but never went to the trouble of actually
asking
her. After they wed, Richard had said, she must give up journalism. It was the only respectable thing to do. Or, if she insisted on writing, perhaps she could write more suitable material … like children’s books.

Shaken, it had taken Gemma too long to realize Richard truly believed she would give up everything she wanted, everything she was, to suit him and his needs. She returned the ring he’d once confidently put upon her finger. He fumed, then pointedly ignored her. He married a girl from his neighborhood six months later. The girl, Gemma learned from a friend, wrote nursery rhymes.

Catullus did not make demands. He seemed to like her exactly as she was. A tentative hope began to unfurl within her, hope for something she thought couldn’t be hers.

“It’s never been this complicated before. Not with anyone else.” She gnawed on her bottom lip. “Nothing simple about Catullus.” Or how he made her feel.

“Didn’t trust Graves when I first met him,” Lesperance said. “But he saved my hide a dozen times over. Aside from Astrid, there’s nobody I’d rather have at my back in a fight. He’s become a friend, and I don’t want him hurt.”

“Why does everyone think I’m going to hurt him?” Gemma demanded. “Maybe he’ll hurt me!”

“Never willingly.”

Gemma let out a frustrated sigh, uncertain of her next move. “Was it this perplexing with formidable Astrid?”

His sudden grin turned Lesperance from extremely attractive to devastatingly handsome. “A maze within a labyrinth. Kept me a shotgun’s distance away, fighting the whole time. But I knew with every part of myself that we
were meant for each other. I didn’t give up, didn’t let her fear of herself stand in our way. So I learned her—pushed when she needed pushing, gentled when she needed gentleness.”

Gemma considered this, her mind churning. “Sounds like quite an experience.”

“Still is.” He laughed, rueful. “Damned skittish Blades. They can protect the world’s magic, but when it comes to seeing to their own hearts, the lot of them are as baffled as a pride of lions in a library.”

Gemma and Lesperance returned to the glade. Both Catullus and Astrid, standing close to one another and talking in low voices, looked up sharply at their approach. Astrid immediately came forward, seeing only Lesperance, while Catullus remained where he stood. He looked at Gemma as if nothing intrigued him more, yet he did not know where to begin his exploration.

Lesperance and Astrid took hold of each other’s hands and drifted off to one side. Within a moment, they were deep in private conversation.

Thinking about what Lesperance had told her, Gemma walked toward Catullus. He held out an apple.

As she took the offered fruit, Gemma murmured, “From the tree of knowledge.”

His brows snapped together. “Pardon?”

“Which makes me Eve, and you the coaxing Serpent.” She bit into the apple, and smiled at the taste of sweet, crisp flesh.

Catullus watched her avidly. “Surely I’m not so devious.”

She chewed, swallowed. “Maybe not, but you
are
tempting.” Her gaze held his, and his dark eyes widened behind the glass of his spectacles.

“Ah,” he said. Then, as though forcing the words from his mouth, he said, “You, also.” A tentative smile, heartbreaking
in its caution, curved his mouth. Then, his gaze sliding away from her as his smile faded, he removed his spectacles and began methodically polishing them.

Gemma, eating her apple, remembered what Lesperance had said. A careful dance, learning when to push forward, when to give ground.

“What were you and Astrid talking about?”

He exhaled in relief at the change of topic, replacing his spectacles. Vision restored, he glanced over his shoulder, as if confirming Astrid’s presence. She and Lesperance continued to converse, their eyes locked, hands interlaced.

Turning back to Gemma, Catullus said, “We were discussing how much distance we’ve to cover. A matter of hours to reach Glastonbury, if we keep this pace.”

“Once we get to Glastonbury, what then?”

Catullus rubbed his jaw with his large hand. Gemma’s mind and body both recalled the feel of his hands on her, touching her intimately, drawing pleasure from her, as she’d done with him. Desire to kiss him—in front of Astrid and Lesperance and whoever might be watching—overwhelmed her.