Shadow's Curse

“I’m a good listener.”

She shot another nervous glance out the window. So far, there had been no sign of Corey’s henchmen in hot pursuit, but she’d be a fool to think he’d give up without a fight. He’d not risk such a loss of face as to have his intended bride slip her leash. She tried not to recall the feel of his hand closing around her neck as he issued his vicious threats. To do so would shatter her fragile nerves. She needed to remain calm and in control if she wanted to win her way to freedom. She forced herself to take a slow relaxing breath. “The man you saw with my brother—they call him the king of the stews.”

“I know Victor Corey. Aside from his criminal empire, the villain holds markers from half the ton. He’s got ministers, MPs, and more than a few peers in his pocket. Your brother plays with dangerous friends.”

“He’s not a friend. Branston borrowed heavily when we first came to London. Far more than we could ever pay back, even should we have made a success of the business.”

“So Corey decided to accept your maidenhead as compensation. Crude but not surprising, given the man’s past. That still doesn’t answer the question. What’s in the bag? And what business are you in?”

She fiddled with the leather strap, shifted upon her seat. “These are my bells. I use them in my work.”

“Which is . . .?” He motioned with his hand.

“People come to me after a death.”

“You’re a gravedigger?”

“They come for solace, not for spades.”

He lifted a brow. “Now I am intrigued.”

She pinched her lips together in a frown. What was it about their every conversation that left her flushed and flustered? Annoyed with herself, she blurted, “Pull your mind from the gutter. I’m a traveler into death. A summoner of souls. A necromancer.”

* * *

There was no time to pursue what had suddenly become a very interesting conversation. The slam of a pathed sending ripped across David’s mind—a scream of terror, a plea for help.

Shit. When it rained, it bloody well poured.

He rapped on the roof, signaling the driver to pull over. “Stay here, Miss Hawthorne. Sit tight. Say nothing.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

But he’d already swung from the hackney, only a slight hitch in his stride as he hurried toward Cumberland Place, senses on alert for any possible trouble.

Carriages jammed the street and men and women crowded the flagways; laughter and conversation floated on a damp spring breeze. Lamps blazed from the windows and above the door of No. 3, while liveried footmen stood at attention on either side of the marbled steps leading to the fan-lit entryway. Of course. The Fowlers’ ball was tonight. He’d been sent an invitation. In fact, Lady Fowler had brought it to him herself, stayed far longer than was necessary, and returned home much happier than when she’d arrived.

A smug smile curled his lip. The woman was wasted on that dottering old baronet she’d married.

“What’s going on?”

David whipped around to find Callista standing behind him. “I told you to stay with the carriage,” he growled.

“You didn’t think I’d let you sneak off that easily, did you?”

“I’m not sneaking.”

“You certainly look as though you’re sneaking.”

He closed his eyes on a deep calming breath before he answered. “I’m reconnoitering. You really don’t trust me, do you?”

“No,” came her curt response, but there it was again. A tiny curve of her lips, a brightness to her eyes. She needed to do it more often. It smoothed years from her face. Unfortunately, the current situation didn’t exactly seem well suited to smiles and laughter.

He shook off the distracting thought and bent all his attention back to the problem at hand. The sending had stopped abruptly, the mental shout of surprise and then alarm had fallen silent. “Something’s not right.”

She peered over his shoulder at the aristocratic throng clogging the pathways and making their way up the wide steps. Tilted her head, a look of intense concentration on her face, eyes locked on an invisible distance.

“My house is just there.” He motioned to the far end of the crescent. “It seems quiet, but—”

Callista’s body jerked as if she’d been struck, her eyes wide and midnight black in a face drained of color. “The door into death is open,” she said in a shaky voice.

“What the hell does that mean?”

She flashed him a determined glance. “It means someone’s died. Violently, by the feel of it. ” She grabbed his hand and tugged him back toward the hackney.

Questions fired like gunshots through his frazzled brain and his body ached with every second he couldn’t lie down and collapse in a heap. He dug in his heels. “Wait. If we’re going to make it farther than Islington, I need money and clothes.”

David swung around, the blood draining from his head into his ankles in one vicious rush. On the front steps of his house stood his worst nightmare in the flesh. Cold, empty eyes, a lipless slash of a mouth curled at the edges into a permanent snarl, and a whippet-thin body that nonetheless bore the strength of the strongest of beasts—Eudo Beskin. I know you’re out there, St. Leger. The traitor Kineally’s dead.

The enforcer’s sending threw David back in time to the moment two years ago when the Ossine had come for him. He had explained. Then he’d pleaded, and finally he’d fought. But there had been no escape. His stomach clenched as memories of pain churned his insides and sizzled like fire along his limbs.

He sent up a prayer for Caleb Kineally. There would be no funeral pyre. No rites or rituals to help his soul pass through the Gateway to the land of their ancestors. As punishment for his crimes, he would be buried in the ground, staked with silver through the heart to hold his spirit fast to the earth for all eternity.

Should have known you were involved with these rebels, Beskin continued. Should have killed you when I had the chance.

David took Callista’s arm. “We need to get out of here now!”

She took a few scrambling paces after him until she dragged to a halt. “Stop! Those men that just rounded the corner. I recognize the tall one. He’s Mr. Corey’s lieutenant. They must have followed us.”

Two men strolled up the flagway as if out for an evening walk. Nothing in their outward appearance spoke of murderous intent, but David knew dangerous men when he saw them—the way they carried themselves, the expressions in their eyes. Neither had come here tonight looking to dance.

“Come,” David said in a hushed voice. “I have an idea.” Outflanked, he made the only move he could in this deranged chess match. He dragged Callista Hawthorne through the jewel-encrusted perimeter of the Fowlers’ guests.

“Hey, now!”

“The nerve of some people.”

“He’s ripped my train with his big feet.”

“Oof! How dare you, sir!”

David and Callista elbowed their way to the top of the steps, where Lady Fowler welcomed her guests. Her eyes lit with delight when she saw David coming toward her, and she spread her arms as if she meant to crush him to her ample bosom. “Mr. St. Leger! What a lovely surprise.”

Damning the woman’s big mouth and parade-ground bellow, David cringed as all eyes swiveled in his direction. Revealing no hint of the growing anxiety tightening viselike in his gut, he bent over Lady Fowler’s outstretched hand, hoping his knees didn’t give out and send him straight into her lap. “You’re a vision as always, Lady Fowler. The belle of the ball.”

She gave a coquettish laugh and smacked him playfully with her fan. “You’re such a tease, sir. I’m merely the evil stepmother tonight.” She leaned close, her lips brushing his ear. “God, but I’m wet for you, my darling man.”

David snapped to attention, yanking Callista up the final step to stand beside him. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought my . . . second cousin with me. She’s from . . . uh . . . Dorset. Turned up out of the blue today.