The Hunter (41 page)

Then he heard it. Distant and chilling, like the sound of a reaper whispering in his ear.

Screams.
Her
screams.

“Millie!” He ran faster, sliding around turns and pushing off walls. His legs felt alternately strong and weak. She was
alive
. She was in pain. She was screaming. Desperate sounds of strain and fear punctuated by moments of terrible silence.

God, what was happening to her? What sort of unspeakable terrors had Dorshaw already enacted? He hadn’t had her in his clutches for long … but every moment was a drop of blood, the slice of flesh, the space of a breath.

Every breath she took was precious. Every inch of skin was beyond priceless.

Though he’d never heard anything so horrifying in his life as the sound of her cries, Argent prayed for them to continue. They were his beacon in the dark. They were his torment. His hell. But he needed them to find her. So he could rescue her.

So he could pull every scream of hers from Dorshaw’s own throat a hundredfold.

Dorshaw’s malevolent voice repeated through the catacombs. His awful threats invoking a dark, evil rage within Argent’s chest.

He turned the corner and caught the dim flicker of lanterns on stone. His vision narrowed. Chains rattled against walls. A struggle ensued behind those bars.

“Christ, no …
no
.” With a burst of speed, he leaped for the narrow ancient iron gate.

And nearly choked on his astonishment.

Millie,
alive
. Her dark hair in wild disarray, her shimmering teal bodice torn away and milky breasts heaving above her black silk corset. Her dark eyes snapped with an unholy fire. Her teeth were bared in the savage imitation of a lioness, the chain manacled to her delicate wrists wrapped around Dorshaw’s neck as she used her knee for leverage. Her slim elegant muscles strained against the skin of her bare arms.

In that lightning flash of a moment, Argent knew two things:

That her fierce strength was waning and she might not be able to hold the struggling, bleeding Dorshaw in check long enough to choke him unconscious. And—

That he was in love with her.

“No,”
he whispered. Not certain which fact terrified him the most.

Drawing his pistol, he trained it on Dorshaw, but the angle made a shot too dangerous. At this caliber, the bullet could go through Dorshaw and puncture Millie.

Besides, he wanted to get his hands on the man with a relish he’d not thought possible.

Standing back at an angle to avoid ricochet, Argent shot through the thick iron lock.

The sound reverberated against the stone with deafening force, but Argent had been prepared for it, and he wrenched the chains off the gate and kicked it open.

*   *   *

The blast of the pistol broke the haze of bloodthirsty rage holding Millie in its thrall. She knew who’d come for her before she looked up. She trusted that she was safe, that this nightmare was over. Because a man who somehow continued to perform incredible, nigh
impossible
feats had kicked down the gates to her prison, liberating her body and soul.

The lanterns set his hair ablaze and glittered off eyes the color of the frozen north. His strength and prowess magnified the depth of his wrath as he entered, the pistol still smoking in his hand.

Millie realized that she’d been so, so wrong about him. All this time, she thought she’d made a deal with a demon. With the devil himself perhaps. That she’d signed her sinful contract in blood. That he was a man forged in the depths of hell and, as such, irrevocably doomed to a life of darkness and despair.

But that was just not so.

Christopher Argent was her fallen, avenging angel.

Not a seraphim. Nor a cherubic innocent garbed in white. But a guardian. A warrior. A boy who had traded his halo and wings, and perhaps even his soul, for a knife and a garrote and ultimate vengeance. He’d been baptized in blood and now he rose from the ashes, something hard and sinister and unholy, but ultimately redeemable.

He had a heart. She could see it in his eyes as he drank her in.

His arrival revitalized Dorshaw, whose struggles increased as her strength waned. She could feel the trembling now, the burning in her lungs and the aching of her muscles. She wanted to think that she could have done it. That she could have saved herself, that she could have taken a life. But it became clear that she would never know.

Christopher said nothing as he reached her and gently pried the chain from her aching fingers. His nostrils flared and taut muscles tested the seams of his shirt as he took a moment to thoroughly examine her, unspoken questions twitching on his hard lips.

“I—I’m all right.”

Nodding, he turned his attention to Dorshaw, and Millie couldn’t help but feel a slight touch of compassion for the villain.

Without seeming to put forth any effort, Christopher pulled the chain tight. Dorshaw’s eyes bulged, but an awful squeal of breath still struggled into his constricted throat. Exerting just the right amount of pressure, Christopher leaned down and put his cold, brutal,
beautiful
face the space of a breath from Dorshaw’s.

“Your death will
not
be quick.” Christopher repeated Dorshaw’s words to him, as a vein popped out on the dark assassin’s straining forehead. “You will twitch and struggle.”

And, indeed, he did. His boots made terrible sounds as they scraped across the dirt in frantic, panicked reflexes. Hands pawed at the chains, then at Christopher, but he ignored them as he pulled the chains incrementally tighter, knowing
just
how much pressure to exert.

“You’ll watch the demons come for you, and you’ll welcome them if only to escape the horror of my face. If only to flee from the knowledge that it was
I,
the
superior
monster, who ended you.”

Millie had never seen the throes of death this close before. No matter how evil the man had been, it was hard to watch him die, but she forced herself to. She wanted this. Wanted to experience this, knowing it would change her forever. It was the only way she’d not look for Dorshaw in the shadows. That she’d not see him down every alley, waiting for him to pounce. If she watched him die, she could let him go.

And so she did. Attached to the chain that killed him, she watched him struggle his last, and finally understood how one could take pleasure in the taking of a life.

When it was done, Christopher let the body drop to the dirt.

He wouldn’t look at her. Didn’t touch her.

“Christopher?”

While he searched for a key, other men spilled into the room like a foulmouthed river of peril, filling up the small chamber until she could no longer see the gate.

Their exclamations of pleasure and surprise at finding her alive were at once endearing and overwhelming. When she felt the first manacle fall away, she made a small noise of relief, and Christopher crowded her against the stone wall to unlock her other wrist.

His closeness was like a balm. He was a pillar of hard, warm muscle that directly contrasted with the cold stone at her back. Once free, she melted into him. His arms enfolded her and they stood like that in silence. In absolute stillness. Words escaped them both, but every sentiment passed between them with such intensity, to try and vocalize them would have cheapened the depth of their consolation.

The room fell quiet, as one by one, each of the men stood witness to something they’d never thought would transpire, and that they wouldn’t soon forget.

Christopher Argent, the largest, coldest, deadliest assassin any of them had ever heard of, swept a half-naked Millie LeCour off her feet, and held her to him and said not a word as he carried her out of the London underground and out into the night.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-
SEVEN

Farah held Millie’s hand through the entire police interview. Had Chief Inspector Morley not been stabbed, they might have been able to keep the police out of the entire ordeal, but too much had transpired in one day to keep hidden.

Morley had indeed survived his wound. A doctor was seeing to him in his bachelor terrace mere blocks from the Blackwell manse.

Lady Northwalk’s soft blue receiving room, with its jewel couches and crystal lanterns, felt like a palace next to the pit Millie had been carried out of. She’d been allowed a tearful reunion with Jakub, and she’d tucked him in so sweetly, allaying his fears and his awful guilt. She hadn’t wanted him to overhear as she recounted the events of the night to the police.

The villains of this nightmare, it seemed, had both been defeated. Lord Thurston had obviously been ordering the deaths of previous lovers, of women who’d borne him sons, in the most despicable way imaginable.

Only a few troubling questions remained: what had happened to those boys, the illegitimate sons of a madman? What had Dorshaw done with them? And who had paid Dorshaw to kill Thurston? Lady Thurston? The dreadful St. Vincents? The murdered Mr. Dashforth?

The police were going to keep looking for the missing boys, but at this point, everyone knew they were searching for corpses.

Millie and Jakub, however, had escaped such a fate, thanks to Mr. Argent, and were safe to return to their lives as they wished.

Sometime after a very terse and awkward conversation with the police, Christopher had slipped away from the chaos. Millie felt his absence like a palpable irritant. An itch beneath her skin and a pang in her heart. One moment he’d been hovering behind her, big and silent and pulling curious glances from the myriad of coppers and criminals milling through the halls of the Blackwell estate. Though he didn’t excuse himself, and no one remarked at his absence, she
felt
the second he’d slithered away. The shadows were colder. The air less full of masculine potency.

She was alone in a room full of people.

Signing a few autographs and playbills after all was said and done, she thanked the police who had absolutely
nothing
to do with her rescue. She’d relied upon her practiced charm until they left, and sagged inside the coat Argent had given her as Dorian rudely ushered them out.

Was it truly over? Did things just … return to normal? How could they? Millie couldn’t even fathom what normal had been only days ago. She couldn’t remember what it felt like to be carefree. She couldn’t seem to consider the days
before
 …

Before she’d been kissed by a killer.

“Millie dear.” Farah squeezed her hand, soft gray eyes full of understanding. “I’m going to insist you and your son stay here for the night. I’ve already had the staff draw a bath, as I’m certain you wish to wash that horrid place off you.”

As always, the countess looked as fresh as a spring orchard blossom in a high-necked lily-white gown bedecked with sage-green ribbons and stitched paisley skirts.

Millie could only nod, a melancholy exhaustion weighing her shoulders down. “You’ve been so kind,” she said. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

“Nonsense.” Farah helped her to stand and looped an arm through Millie’s in a show of support. “Friends don’t think in terms of compensation.”

“Speak for yourself.” Blackwell sauntered into the room appearing much too relaxed for a crime lord covered in dust who’d only just been host to half the police force of the city. “I always think in terms of compensation.”

Farah rolled her eyes heavenward, as though praying for strength.

“The exception being this case, of course,” the Blackheart of Ben More amended, casting a chastised look at his wife. “You are most welcome to call upon us for anything you need, Miss LeCour. My wife has quite taken to you, and any means at our disposal are yours for the asking.”

Millie couldn’t think of a thing to say, and Dorian Blackwell seemed to understand as she stared at him, dumbfounded. He nodded, moved to kiss his wife on the temple, and merged with the shadows of the hallway, doubtless in search of his own bath.

“I wish to look in on Jakub one more time,” Millie murmured.

“Of course you do.” Farah guided her up the main flight of stairs, their steps muffled by lush ivory carpets, and down toward the nursery where Jakub slept in a small but well-appointed guest chamber. “He was so afraid for you, but he was brave. And
so
sorry. I hope you’re not terribly cross with him. Your son loves you dearly.”

“I’m not angry with him in the least,” Millie said. “It makes me sick to think of what could have befallen him, but I feel as though he’s chastised himself enough for slipping away. And he’s not the kind of boy to forget such a hard-learned lesson.”

“No, I don’t suppose he is.” Farah smiled fondly. “In fact I—”

Jakub’s agitated voice drifted into the hall, and Millie quickened her step, though she and Farah both paused at the contrasting baritone of Argent’s reply.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep again,” Jakub confessed, his voice anxious and waterlogged.

“I brought your mother back as I promised, and you’re both safe here. There’s no reason to be afraid.”

“Then why can’t I stop weeping?” Jakub hiccupped.

Heart clenching, Millie made to rush to her son’s bedside and sweep him into her arms.

“Do you want me to fetch your mo—”

“No!” Jakub cried. “No, don’t get her!”

Millie paused, hurt trickling down her ribs.

“I don’t want her to see me. I can’t face her! Not like this.”

“Why not?” In the face of the storm of youthful distress, Christopher’s cool, temperate voice was a strange and effective balm to her son.

“I don’t have a f-father.” Jakub sniffed. “Which means … I’m the m-man of our family. She has no one else. I’m supposed to protect her from distress, aren’t I? I’ve not done a very good job. I’m not acting like a m-m-man.”

Millie’s hands flew to her mouth; the shame in her son’s voice was too much for someone so young. Had she made him feel this way? Had she put the responsibility of her happiness, of her
loneliness,
on his tiny shoulders?