Shadow's Curse

the first time David had realized the difference between his family and the shapechangers who stayed hidden behind the Palings shield wall. The children had called him avaklos, meaning “one who lives beyond the wall,” and mocked his London clothes and his city ways. They had split his lip and shoved him down on the rocks and he’d cried to his mother, who wiped his tears and soothed his fears.

Better a brave avaklos than a craven andala who cowers within his holding and prays that the Fey-bloods pass him over. The Palings serve a purpose, but we cannot cower behind them for all time. Look at the Duke of Morieux. He understands this. He does not wrap himself in mists and shadow and pretend there is no world beyond. He strides out boldly and unafraid. He knows that sometimes the best hiding place is right under your enemies’ nose. You are the wolf and your bloodline lies deep here in Wales, but the wolf does not burrow into the ground like the badger. And when the battle’s joined, he does not run and he does not hide. Remember that always, David.

He and his father had returned to the holding in Wales only two years later, and this time there was no mother to soothe his hurts when the taunts began, but he’d grown larger and prouder, and this time he did not need assistance. He stopped them on his own and called himself avaklos.

Funny, he’d not thought of those visits to Wales in years. Nor spent more than a passing thought now and again for his gran or his mother. But the spirits seemed to hover closer these days and memories he’d fought to lock away pushed to the surface of his mind. Was it Callista and the power she possessed who caused this dwelling on people long dead and events best forgotten? No, as he’d told her once before, she was the excuse, but not the cause.

He’d been feeling this way since Adam’s murder last year. The first of the brotherhood to fall, though not the last. Each of them faced a painful death, and all knew there would be no funeral pyre lit in their honor, no gathering of clan and kin to speak the words and send them back to the stars. They would be bound to the earth to rot, their souls trapped and unable to rejoin their families beyond the Gateway. Exiles even in death.

But how long until there were no Imnada left? A generation? Five? Already, the magic of the Palings waned, the holdings became vulnerable, and elders of the five clans far outnumbered the younglings born of the blood. Under siege from Fey-blood and human alike, what chance did the clans have? None. Not with the Ossine’s clamp on power holding them captive to the outdated ways of andala isolation and men like Beskin hunting down the few who spoke out against it.

He rubbed his face. Shook off the oppression with a shrug of his shoulders and a crack of his neck. What he needed was a damn drink. A nice big whisky or a pint or two . . . or ten. Surely one of these men possessed enough alcohol to wash away a lifetime of sorrows, though he doubted any would offer him as much as a sip and risk Oakham’s anger.

It would be water or cider, if he was lucky.

“Are you waiting for your valet to bring you dinner, St. Leger? Better eat. Breakfast will be bread and cheese. We won’t have time to stir up the fire so that you can dine on sausages and tea.”

Nancy Oakham had joined him under the trees, her chin thrust in a challenge, her expression a mixture of bravado and suspicion. She held out a plate of stew, the smell enticing. He accepted it with a nod, but she didn’t withdraw. Instead, she followed the track of his gaze, her lips pressed tight.

“I still can’t believe Cally’s here. She’s the last person I ever thought to see again. And in company with a fancy man like yourself.” She gave a bark of laughter.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“She must be extremely desperate to turn up asking Sam for help after the way things were left between them.”

“You’ve met Branston Hawthorne. What do you think?”

“The man was a slug and a bully.” She cast him a dubious glance. “But can you tell me you’re any better?”

“No, but I can say I’m definitely no worse.”

“Hawthorne should have accepted Sam’s suit. He’d have made a good husband for Cally,” she said pointedly.

“Perhaps he wanted more for his sister than a traveling player, no matter how good a man he was.”

She gave a lift of her brows and a quick sniff in response. “Then why are you running?”

“Anyone ever tell you it’s not polite to pry into other people’s business?”

“As long as you’re traveling with us, you and Cally are my business.”

“Let’s just say that if Branston Hawthorne wants his sister back, he’ll have to go through me.” A corner of his mouth twisted in a humorless smile, almost wishing Hawthorne would appear to give him an outlet for the frustration boiling just under his skin.

“Tough words for a London gent”—Nancy folded her arms over her chest—“if that’s what you really are.”

Every muscle wound to spring, fire chewing up through his belly. “What else would I be?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” she answered coolly.

He forced himself to relax, even give a nonchalant shrug and a quick practiced grin. “No mystery. I’m just a pretty boy fancy man, Miss Oakham.”

“You’re more than that. Nobody bests Sam who isn’t a notch above.” As if hearing his name, her brother eyed them grimly from his seat by the fire.

“I told you,” he said. “I was a soldier.”

She continued to eye him suspiciously. “Mm-hm. That’s what you said. But I’ve known soldiers before and I think there’s more to you than mere training at drills and guns. I saw it in your eyes when you were fighting. And the way you moved. It was different somehow. Better.”

“I was a very good soldier.”

“Just remember, St. Leger. I’ve got my eye on you. Cally’s had her share of trouble. I don’t want to see her hurt. And I’m not nearly as easy to best in a fight as Sam. You’ll never know what hit you. You got that?”

“A threat, Miss Oakham?”

“Plain speaking. I protect my own and while Cally travels with me, she’s family.”

“I’m traveling with you.”

Her lip twitched with reluctant amusement. “You look plenty able to protect yourself.”

“I’m feeling hungrier already.” He scooped up a forkful of stew, but Nancy refused to take the hint and leave. Instead, she seemed determined to remain, her stance unyielding, expression dogged.

So be it. Two could play at question and answer. He’d see how she liked being interrogated. “Who was your fancy man, Nancy? Was he a soldier too?”

She stiffened, but he noticed her hand drop to the apron spread across her growing stomach. “I don’t need your pity, St. Leger. I’m not a softheaded maiden and I knew even as he was whispering sweetness in my ear that he’d leave sooner or later.”

“Why is that?”

She glanced to the fire, where Callista sat chatting with Sally Sweet, and back to David, suspicion once more shrouding her face. “Because no gentleman is going to marry a peddler’s daughter, no matter how much he says—or doesn’t say—he loves her. Is he?”

8

Victor Corey pulled on his gloves and accepted a walking stick from his valet; selected more for the heavy knob of its handle than for the elegance of its design. One good swing could crush a man’s skull like a ripe melon.

His coach stood waiting. A footman to open the door; another to carry his bags. A third waiting to place a hamper of food upon the seat beside him for the long trip. Hell, if he snapped his fingers, he could have a damned footman wipe his arse . . . or kiss it. All it took was coin, and he’d plenty of that. Enough to make this journey