“I don’t bloody care.” He spun around, jaw clenched. Brotherly concern, obviously a pose too difficult to maintain. Not that he’d ever tried very hard. Perhaps if they’d been closer in age or she’d been born a boy or if he’d not been an ill-tempered, spiteful, good-for-nothing sod.
“Do what you need to do to satisfy the customer, Callista. If you won’t risk it, then lie. If you’d done that tonight, the old cow would have left here pleased as punch, thinking little Jonny was with dear old Dad doing ring- the-rosy in heaven. She’d have been happy to be comforted in her time of grief. I’d have been happy to relieve her of her money.”
“We’ve only begun to recover after the fiasco in Manchester. Do you want to be arrested this time? Or worse? Mother always said—”
“What I want, Callista”—he slammed his hand upon the table—“is for you to do as you’re told. I don’t give a damn about your bloody bells or your Fey-born gift or your sainted mother. She’s long dead, and if it weren’t for me, the only gift keeping you from starvation would be the one between your legs. So, you’ll tell these sniveling, drippy, hand-wringing women with their sob stories whatever they want to hear, because if you don’t”—he shoved his face close enough for her to smell the whisky on his breath—“I’ll make you very, very sorry.”
She refused to cower before him, though she knew it only made him angrier. Instead she locked her knees, forced her shoulders square, and met him glare for glare. “You’re no longer my guardian, and I won’t be forced to act as your circus sideshow any longer.”
His gaze grew icy, a wicked smile dancing over his mouth. “The next time you leave, I’ve told Mr. Corey he can return you in any condition he chooses. I’m sure he’d be more than willing, and, knowing him, any struggle on your part will only increase his ardor. You suppose that high-flown aunt of yours you’re always running on about will take you in once you’re ruined and stuffed with a bastard child?”
“You wouldn’t dare.” Cold fear splashed across Callista’s back, nearly buckling her knees. Aunt Deirdre, her mother’s elder sister, resided in Scotland as a priestess of High Danu. Callista had never met her, but for seven years, she’d dreamed of traveling to the convent at Dunsgathaic. Of finding a home with her long-lost relative. Of finally escaping Branston.
“Wouldn’t I?” Branston grabbed her, his fingers digging into her upper arms until tears burned in her eyes. “You’ll do as I say. No more arguments. No more running. Do I make myself clear?”
“Completely,” she answered, forcing a calm she did not feel.
He released her to pat her cheek, an unpleasant smile stretching his wide mouth. “You make it so much harder than it needs to be. I’m only looking out for your best interests. Haven’t I always been there to take care of you, unlike those high and mighty relatives of your mother’s?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, eyeing him like the disease he was. “Your persuasive abilities continue to amaze me. It’s no wonder none of your schemes pay off.”
Annoyance flickered in his gaze. “Get some rest. We’ve two appointments tomorrow, and I want you at your best. I’m going out. Mrs. Thursby will be here if you need anything.”
Hardly a comfort. The old bawd acting as Branston’s housekeeper was another of Mr. Corey’s associates. Since they set up shop in London six months ago, their household had slowly been taken over by the ruthless gang lord and his underlings. But why? What really lay behind his continued and growing interest in them?
“Where are you going?” she asked.
Branston chucked her chin as if she were ten years old. “Worried for me? Don’t be, dear sister. I’ll always be here to look after you. Always.”
She crossed to the hearth, though no warmth touched her frozen, shivering skin. Always was what she most feared.
No matter how many times he did it, David St. Leger always hated this part.
With held breath and steady hand, he eased the silver-bladed knife across his opposite palm, wincing as blood welled behind the thin cut. Holding his hand above the glass he’d prepared earlier, he waited as three large drops fell into the viscous slime-green liquid, then snatched up a napkin to wrap around his wound. The initial sting became a steady throb as the silver’s poison moved up his arm into his head until spots bounced in front of his eyes and his stomach squirmed ominously.
Swirling the liquid around as if he were appreciating a fine brandy, he raised the glass to his lips, closed his eyes, and downed the vile, greasy brew in one shuddering swallow. It had been almost two years since the dying Fey-blood had spat his evil curse over him. A few months since the discovery of the draught that prevented his unnatural shift from man to beast with each setting of the sun.
David wasn’t sure which was worse—the cure or the curse.
Leaving the glass on a nearby table, he sank into an armchair, leaning his head back against the cushions, until the dizziness passed and the potion took hold. The clock struck the hour. A log in the grate fell apart in a shower of sparks. Rain pattered against the window.
And then there were the sounds that didn’t belong. A far-off click of a latch. The brush of a boot against carpet. A rattle of a knob. Not a servant. He’d sent the last one to bed on his arrival home an hour ago.
Taking up his knife once more, David waited—and listened. He’d take no chances. Not with the Imnada’s brutal Ossine enforcers searching for any shapechanger suspected of going against tradition to seek an alliance with the Fey-bloods. The rebels claimed it was their only chance to save the race from extinction. The Ossine called it treason.
David might be innocent of insurrection, but he was still
But David would not be taken down without a fight. The Ossine enforcers would not lay their hands on him again.
Ever.
The sounds came closer. David hung back, the knife ready, every muscle tensed for the attack. The door opened and a shadow fell across the floor. Unhesitating, he lunged, his arm sweeping out to catch the intruder. A shout erupted. Glass shattered. A knife flashed. The intruder’s neck ended trapped in the crook of David’s elbow, his back arched against the silver blade pressed to his kidneys.
“Are you barking mad, St. Leger?” the man growled from between clenched teeth.
David closed his eyes on a string of profanity. Dropped his arm and his blade.
Captain Mac Flannery.
“Is this how you greet all your guests?” Mac snarled, his cat-slanted green eyes narrowed in fury.
“Only those who sneak in like thieves,” David quipped with a smile, despite the renewed rush of dizziness spinning his head. He tossed the knife with a clatter onto a nearby table.
“I knocked, but I expect your housekeeper’s retired for the night.”
David cast a glance at the mantel clock. “It’s two in the morning. Of course she’s retired.” He poured himself a drink. On an afterthought, poured one for Mac, who was straightening his waistcoat. “What the hell are you doing here at this godforsaken time of night anyway? Shouldn’t you be home making mad passionate love to your new bride?”
“I wish. I came to let you know there’s an enforcer skulking around London.”
“Let him skulk. I’m not up to my neck in traitorous revolution like some I could name.” David settled into a chair. It felt good after the busy night he’d had. He tossed back the whisky, feeling the burn all the way to his toes. “Much as I appreciate the warning, couldn’t it have waited until morning?”
“I didn’t want an audience for my arrival . . . just in case.”
“Does Gray know about this meddlesome Ossine?”
“Gray’s gone north to Addershiels. I haven’t heard from him in weeks. I’m starting to worry.”
“And well you should. If the enforcers discover his involvement with the rebel Imnada and their Fey-blood conspirators, he’ll end in pieces and us right alongside him.”
Mac rubbed his temples as if staunching a headache. “I know, but Gray doesn’t listen. I think this whole uprising is his way of getting back at his grandfather.”
Among British society, the Duke of Morieux was known as a shrewd and cunning aristocrat with the wealth
