Shadow's Curse

He couldn’t help it. A laugh escaped him, rough and painful as it ripped up through his aching chest. “No, Callista. Not this time.”

Her scowl deepened, and he realized he’d called her by her first name. He waited for her to scold him for his presumption, but she merely gave a slight shake of her head, her hair falling forward to shield her expression. “But you won’t tell me what it is.”

“It’s a long, dull tale. Hardly bedtime story fare.”

He sensed her watching him. Sensed the questions on the tip of her tongue. The clues were there in the taut way she held herself, the hesitation in her breathing, her hand splayed palm down upon her leg, nails digging ever so slightly into the fabric. He should insist she leave. Pretend this inappropriate visit never occurred. It was the smart thing to do. The proper thing to do.

But he didn’t. For some reason, he didn’t want to be alone. Not with time to think. Time to rage.

Still, if she was going to stay, he needed to make at least a cursory bow to propriety. He hefted himself to unsteady feet long enough to retrieve his shirt and drag it over his head.

“Very well,” she said, breaking the silence between them as she tucked her hair behind her ear. “At least tell me who that man was tonight and why he wanted to kill you.”

“Us.”

“Excuse me?”

“Beskin wanted to kill us,” David clarified. “Me for treason. You for being . . . you. A Fey-blood. The enemy.”

“I’m not an enemy.”

“Your kind is. The Other have been the enemies of the Imnada for a thousand years and more.”

“So I’ve put you in danger.”

“No, Callista,” he replied with a weary shake of his head. “I was an outlaw to my people long before I met you. You’re the excuse, but not the cause.”

“What’s the cause? What’s happened to exile you from your own kind?”

Exile. Emnil. The word turned like a knife in his chest. Just as it had done since it had been pronounced over his bowed head within the Gather’s circle. Under other circumstances, he’d have laughed away the feeling, his expression one of bland amusement. But tonight it was impossible. Tonight every nerve had been stripped raw and he ached with more pains than he could count. He shuffled to the window, drawing back the curtain, using the dark street and the setting moon to hide the gnawing pain at his heart. And said nothing.

“It’s bound up in this illness, isn’t it?” she asked.

“You’re perceptive,” he said without turning around.

He heard her moving behind him. The creak of the bed. The swish of fabric. His body tensed as he half expected, half hoped she would lay a hand on his shoulder or brush fingers over his arm. “No, just observant. It helps in my profession. I know without asking what my clients truly need from their visit.”

“And what do I need?” He spoke without thinking, then clenched his jaw tight, wondering what truths she might peel free from the dark places where he kept them locked away. “Wait. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

Awkward silence threatened until Callista’s voice broke through the rising tension, her tone uncertain, her words breaching the stone round his heart. “You don’t have to pretend with me, David. I know what it is to be alone.”

“You have a brother and an aunt.”

“You have a clan.”

His back twitched in remembered agony. A vise clamped his skull as he fought back the ghosts of those horrible days caught in Beskin’s brutal care. “To my clan, I’m a traitor and a rogue.”

“To my family, I’m an embarrassment and a disgrace,” she whispered. “We’re more alike than you realize.”

He left the window to sink into a leather armchair, closing his eyes on the lingering sway of the room. The draught worked, but slowly. “We’ll leave at dawn tomorrow.”

“You can barely stand.”

“As long as I continue to take my medicine, I’ll be fine.”

“That horrid potion? Is that what . . . is that why your hand . . .” Before he knew what she was about, she’d grabbed his wrist, forcing him to open his fingers, revealing the open cut across his palm, the myriad silver lines marking his earlier dosings. “You work powerful magic, David. Powerful Other magic.”

A ghost of a smile curved his lips. “Not powerful enough.”

Callista scowled, eyes fierce with shock, cradling his hand in one of hers, the tips of her fingers brushing over his palm. She leaned over him, so close that her hair fell against his chest and he could lean up and kiss her lips. She smelled of mint and lavender and something else, something earthy and sweet that filled his head. His stomach tightened, his body alive with her closeness.

Her gaze locked with his. He forced himself to meet her stare, though fear curdled his insides at what he might see within the midnight reaches of her eyes. Yet no pit opened beneath him to send him spiraling down where his darkest memories lay like serpents and the future gaped like a wound before him. Instead, he sensed the heat of her flesh even through the layers of fabric and the telltale tremble in her fingers as they cupped his hand.

Her voice slid soft as silk over his skin. “Why take the risk, David? You’re free now. You could simply turn your back on our agreement. Pretend it never happened. Put me on a northbound coach and assume that made us even. Why do you help me?”

Which is exactly what he’d planned to do; get rid of her and pretend it never happened. Pretend his life was just as he preferred it. But who the hell was he kidding?

He shrugged. “When one can’t help oneself . . .” he murmured, “what else is there?”

6

“I knew it. Damn it, I knew that shifter would be worth a fortune and now he’s gone!” Hawthorne paced the study feverishly, jowls quivering, his face a dangerous ruddy shade.

“Sit down,” Corey ordered. “You’re giving me a headache.”

Hawthorne collapsed into an ornate velvet chair, pudgy fingers drumming on the carved arm. “There’s no telling what the fiend has done with Callista—or to her. These Imnada aren’t like normal men, Corey. They have appetites . . . hungers.”

“According to my men, Callista looked a willing partner rather than a kidnap victim, and the knife cuts to those ropes bear this out. I’d heard St. Leger had the women of London eating from his hands, but thought your prunes-and-prisms sister was made of sterner stuff.”

Hawthorne sat up, eyes wide. “You know the shifter’s name?

Corey smiled. “Why do you think I let them slip away so easily? I wanted to know where the man went . . . who he was . . . what made him tick. Now I know that and far more. David St. Leger is a former decorated army captain. Sold his commission after Waterloo. He’s currently the pet of every discontented wife and the nightmare of every overprotective father. He’s a rogue, a gambler, a pink of the ton.”

“He’s a damned shifter is what he is.”

“Just so. But one so distinguished will find it hard to remain hidden forever. He’ll turn up, and when he does—”

“When he does, we hold him,” Hawthorne interrupted. “Wrap him in silver and cage him behind steel bars if need be. He’s our route to the top. Having him under our control will be like having the Bank of England printing us money.”

“So you claim, but is your source trustworthy?” Corey’s gaze fell once more on the withered, pock-faced man huddled in the corner of the room. He crouched fearfully, his rheumy eyes darting here and there over the