Casting Souls

by Becca Andre

  Grayson? She hadn’t stopped playing and now focused on him. He had been studying Orson, but now turned his attention on her, watching her with his alien eyes, the blue-gray irises masking the whites. But worse than the physical difference was the way he stared at her. It was like he didn’t know her at all. She was just some anomaly that had caught his attention.

  Come back to me, Grayson. She reached out through her song, sharing her warmth and, as he claimed, her soul in an effort to remind him of what it meant to be human.

  “What are you doing?” Orson asked her.

  She ignored him, her whole focus now on Grayson. She shared her love and her desire to be in his arms once more. To have him reciprocate as any human would.

  He tipped back his head and closed his eyes. To her relief, the dorsal spines began to retract, but the wings were another story.

  Straightening, his eyes met hers—human eyes—and a crooked smile twisted his lips. “I think I have a problem.”

  She lowered the fiddle and laughed at him, so relieved to see that familiar humor in his eyes that it made her weak in the knees.

  “Hang on,” Orson said. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket and flicked it open. “Dear God,” he muttered, stepping around behind Grayson. “You really do have wings.”

  “Yes,” Grayson answered, though his eyes still held Briar’s. It had been a while since she’d played so openly for him. She knew he still felt the connection, as she did.

  Fabric ripped as Orson went to work, cutting away Grayson’s coat. “Does this happen often?”

  “More often than I would like.” Grayson continued to hold her gaze, suggesting that he preferred that she be the one cutting off his clothes.

  Grayson! Her cheeks heated, and she stepped over to the side table to put away her fiddle, trying to regain her composure.

  “I can’t be sure.” Orson’s soft words just reached her. “But I think it worked.”

  “It did.” A certainty replaced the teasing note in Grayson’s voice.

  Orson muttered something, but she didn’t catch his words this time.

  She latched the fiddle case and faced them. “How do you know?”

  Orson had Grayson’s coat off while Grayson worked on his waistcoat buttons.

  “Grayson?” she prompted.

  “I felt it.” He kept his attention on his buttons. “It worked just like I remembered. Better, actually.”

  She frowned, about to prompt him further when Orson helped him pull off the shirt and waistcoat.

  Briar pressed her hand to her mouth as Grayson looked up, his eyes meeting hers. The skin had receded from his collarbones just below his throat and on the point of each shoulder, the silver bones glinting in the late-afternoon sunlight.

  She stepped around behind him and gasped again. As his wings folded away, she could see that his spine was once again a solid strip of silver, along with the upper sections of his shoulder blades.

  “No,” she whispered. All the metal that had vanished after he made Darby soulless was visible once again—plus some.

  Chapter 8

  Briar stared in horror at the freshly exposed metal in Grayson’s back.

  “What is it?” Orson asked.

  She didn’t answer, standing mute as Grayson came forward and took her in his arms. She collapsed against his bare chest and wrapped her arms around him. She didn’t want to touch the metal, but she really had no choice.

  His embrace tightened. “I’m more devolved than the last time she saw me,” Grayson answered Orson.

  “Because of what you did for me?”

  She felt Grayson shrug before he answered. “That’s the way it works.”

  Orson cursed under his breath, surprising Briar that he actually cared. Perhaps all ferromancers weren’t as cold and indifferent as Solon or Farran.

  “Briar?” Grayson’s lips brushed her forehead as he spoke her name. “I must admit, I find it a bit disturbing the way Felipe and Solon are staring at you.”

  “It’s only temporary.” She lifted her head from his chest and looked over at the two men. Grayson was right, it was unnerving, but it also gave her an idea.

  Releasing Grayson, she rubbed a tear from her cheek, then turned away from him. “Solon, come here.”

  “My lady?” Solon immediately stepped forward, an eagerness on his features that didn’t match his personality.

  “Are you certain it’s temporary?” Orson asked, a hint of anger beneath the words.

  “Yes,” she answered. “And it’s not something I would take advantage of, normally.”

  “Normally?”

  “Solon has made my life hell.”

  Before Orson could respond, she kneed Solon. Hard. He doubled over with a pained grunt.

  “What the hell?” Orson demanded, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she headed for the door.

  Briar? Grayson reached out to her.

  I would like to be alone. She couldn’t bear to look at all that exposed metal.

  Even if I pull on a shirt? There was a hint of humor, but beneath, she sensed his own despair. He was putting on a brave face for her and Orson, but it wasn’t what he truly felt. That bothered her more than all the metal.

  I need to collect myself and think about this. It was the best excuse she could come up with, but he’d no doubt already picked up on the depth of her floundering emotions.

  All right.

  She fled the parlor, escaping upstairs to her little room. She closed the door and engaged the lock—knowing it would keep no one in this house out—and collapsed on the bed. She kicked Esme’s journals onto the floor and buried her face in the pillow, letting the tears come.

  Briar didn’t fall asleep this time, but after a good half-hour or more wallowing, she got up and washed her face. Sometimes, a person needed to grieve, but she wasn’t one to indulge in lengthy periods of emotion. She preferred to take action and fix what had gone wrong. She had no idea how to fix this problem, but she could still take action in the form of a walk. Perhaps getting out of this room, out of this house, would help clear her head.

  She longed to return to her boat, but with her crew out visiting family, it would be a lonely vessel. Instead, she decided to take a stroll in the back garden. She used to visit it frequently when she stayed here. Andrew didn’t like to get dirt on his shoes, so it made a great place to escape him.

  The house was quiet, but Briar didn’t look for company. Using the backstairs, she left through the rear door and stepped out into the courtyard. The carriage house stood across from her, and to her amazement, she saw Andrew hard at work polishing the landau—his most prized carriage. He had even removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves to more effectively address the task.

  “That’s looking nice,” she said by way of greeting, not in the mood to start an argument.

  Andrew glanced up from his work before turning back to cleaning the brass housing of a lantern. “Master Solon appreciates a spotless carriage.”

  “You’re doing this of your own initiative?”

  Andrew lifted his chin. “Of course.” He eyed her a moment, the usual proud sneer on his face, before turning back to his task.

  Briar frowned, watching him work. A sense of sadness filled her, along with an inexplicable sense of guilt. Though none of this was her fault, she had failed Uncle Charlie. She hadn’t watched out for Andrew.

  “Does Solon reward you?” she asked, curious as to why Andrew was—she struggled a moment to come up with the word—devolving. Yes, he was devolving.

  “Naturally,” Andrew said over his shoulder, a proud smile on his face. “Just last week, he moved me a step closer to immortality.”

  “He gave you another metal organ?” And absorbed more of Andrew’s limited humanity.

  “That’s how it works, Bridget.” He squatted beside th
e wheel and began to polish the spokes, rubbing away the light coating of dust.

  “Good luck with that.” She left him to his work, walking toward the garden that had been her destination.

  Molly had taken great pleasure in this garden. The sight of the untended flowers and hedges sent another twist of sadness through Briar’s heart. This walk was proving to be no help at all in relieving her melancholy.

  Finding no satisfaction walking the garden, Briar decided to return to the house. Maybe she could find something to read in Andrew’s well-stocked library. Once again, it had been Molly who ordered and maintained it. Andrew had only used the library as a showplace to entertain his male dinner guests around the brandy decanter.

  She rounded a leafy shrub and stopped with a gasp when she found the path blocked. It wasn’t so much at being startled, as to who was blocking the path.

  “Well, well, if it ain’t the famous Briar Rose.” Dale Darby gave her a wide smile, the sun winking in his gray eyes. The light made it easy to see the fine overlapping metal plates that had taken the place of his blue irises.

  “Darby.” Briar gritted her teeth and fought down the nausea that had washed over her at the sight of the man. It wasn’t his appearance that turned her stomach. Aside from the eyes, he looked the same as he always had. What made Briar sick was knowing that Grayson was part of him.

  “Reckon I shouldn’t be surprised to see you. Not with the way you whored yourself to my master.”

  “Watch it.”

  An ugly grin creased his face. “I bet it really sticks in your gullet that I’m the one he gave immortality to. Maybe you ain’t so good between the sheets.”

  Without thinking, Briar smacked him. Hard.

  The blow took Darby by surprise, and he stumbled to the side but recovered immediately. “Why, you little bitch.”

  “I told you to watch it.”

  He sprang forward and caught her by the neck before she could even think of stepping back. Emotion had gotten the better of her sense. For a moment, she had forgotten what it was like to face the soulless.

  He lifted her from the ground with one arm, grinning the whole time.

  She gripped his bony wrist with both hands, struggling to breathe.

  “Maybe I ought to finish what my girl Hester started.” He pulled a knife from his belt with his free hand, not struggling in the least to hold her suspended.

  Briar considered kicking him, but knew that would do little. Even if she did manage to momentarily hurt him, it would barely slow him down. She’d learned that from Owens. Time to swallow her pride.

  Grayson!

  An instant later, she felt the brush of his mind. She wasted no time relaying the problem.

  “Didn’t like the way you made me look the fool,” Darby said softly. He lifted the knife. “I can’t decide whether to disfigure you or kill you.”

  Briar couldn’t respond, even if she wanted to. It didn’t make it any easier to focus with the dark spots floating across her vision.

  Grayson, where are—

  “Release her, Darby.” Grayson seemed to materialize behind Darby.

  Darby reacted instantly, opening his hand and letting Briar drop to the ground. Her weak knees didn’t hold her, and she fell, landing on her butt.

  “Briar.” Grayson was kneeling beside her in the next moment, his warm palm cupping her cheek.

  She didn’t respond, too busy taking deep breaths to drive back the darkness that encroached on her vision.

  Grayson’s hand fell to the side of her neck, his thumb pressing against the front of her throat. It reminded her of the time he had healed Zach, which made sense; he was healing her now.

  “Master?” Darby’s whiny voice came from above them.

  “Silence,” Grayson snapped. His angry eyes met hers. “I ought to make him go sit on the bottom of the river—for a week.”

  “Grayson.” Her voice was little more than a raspy whisper. She swallowed and tried again. “Don’t.” She managed more volume, but switched to a mental communication anyway. It was far more expressive and left little doubt to her meaning.

  You are not a monster. Don’t act like one.

  Are you sure?

  Completely.

  Even with my soulless standing above us?

  You certainly have trouble letting things go. We’ve been over this and over it. My feelings haven’t changed.

  Grayson took his hand from her neck. “Even though he just tried to strangle you?”

  “I’m sure he’s been wanting to do that for some time.” She looked up to find Darby watching Grayson with apprehension. “Isn’t that right, Dale?”

  Darby’s gaze moved to her, and anger instantly replaced the concern. “I’ve been wanting to do a lot more than that.”

  Grayson rose smoothly to his feet and faced Darby, who took a step back. He bowed his head, shoulders slumped. “What would you have me do, Master?”

  Briar hurried to her feet and gripped Grayson’s arm, half afraid he’d shove his hand into Darby and rip out his iron heart. She wouldn’t mourn Darby, but she didn’t want Grayson to give in to such rage. That was how Darby ended up soulless in the first place.

  Grayson smoothed the lapel of his coat, his hand shaking with restrained emotion, but when he spoke, his voice was ferromancer cool. “You will not touch her, unless it is to lend aid.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “I’m not done.” Grayson took a step closer, and Briar tightened her grip on his arm.

  “Not only will you not harm her,” Grayson continued, “you will protect her from harm—to the point of sacrificing your own pathetic existence to save her. Understand?”

  “Yes, Master.” Darby curled in on himself.

  “Nor will you speak ill of her, or speak cruelly to her. She is my heart. Fail me, and I will remove yours.”

  “I won’t fail you, Master. Never.”

  “Very well.”

  Darby looked up, his expression now hopeful. “What would you have me do, Master?”

  Grayson looked past him, a frown on his face and apparently at a loss. His gaze fell on Andrew who was still busy working on the carriage.

  “Go speak to Mr. Rose. Tell him you’re mine and that I’ve instructed you to lend your assistance in the running of this household. Mr. Rose can assign you a task.”

  “Yes, Master.” Darby dropped him an awkward bow, then with a happy smile, turned and hurried off toward Andrew. That’s when she noticed Tristan.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked. He stood only a few feet away, but Briar had no idea how long he’d been there. “You just jumped up and ran,” Tristan said to Grayson.

  “I’m not certain I’d call things all right,” Grayson answered, “but Miss Rose is no longer in danger from the monster I created.”

  “Grayson,” Briar chided him softly. She squeezed his arm, then stepped past him to address Tristan. “Everything’s fine.”

  Tristan didn’t look reassured. “I didn’t realize you had any soulless,” he said to Grayson. Was it her imagination, or did that sound faintly like a reprimand?

  “It was an accident,” Briar said before Grayson could speak. “That man gave me to another who…hurt me. Grayson overreacted when he found out.”

  Grayson sighed. “I’m not so certain that makes the act any more palatable. It just makes me sound unstable.”

  “Or it makes you sound like you care,” Tristan said, then blushed when they both turned to him. “I wish Father wouldn’t make the soulless.”

  “I can’t blame you there.” Briar didn’t mention that one of his father’s soulless was the one who hurt her. “So what were you two doing before I called Grayson away?”

  Tristan brightened. “Drake was teaching me to repair a pocket watch.”

  “Oh?” She directed the qu
estion at Grayson who gave her a halfhearted smile. “Shall we get you back to it? I love to watch you work.”

  Grayson’s bitter smile softened. “If you like.”

  “I do.” She gave Tristan a grin that he returned.

  “Very well. Shall we?” Grayson gestured toward the house.

  Briar and Tristan fell in beside him as they started walking.

  “And Tristan?” Grayson continued when the young man looked up. “Call me Grayson.”

  Grayson and Tristan had been working at a table in the library. The nice-sized room was lined with oak bookcases, and a cluster of leather chairs were arranged in front of the fireplace. The floor-to-ceiling windows let in large amounts of afternoon sunlight, making the room bright and cheerful. Briar had spent many happy hours in here when Andrew hadn’t been home.

  The table near the window held Grayson’s open tool bag, and a towel bearing the inner workings of a pocket watch.

  Grayson and Tristan took their seats, after Grayson pulled up a chair next to his.

  She sat down beside him, wondering if he’d sought solace in a recreation he loved, or if Tristan had asked him for instruction? Either way, it made for a pleasant interlude.

  Briar scooted her chair closer to Grayson’s, and she was soon lost in the intricate world of watch repair.

  Tristan listened eagerly, frequently asking questions and trying his hand at various tasks Grayson assigned him.

  While Tristan bent over the open watch casing, Grayson took her hand beneath the table.

  Are you all right? he asked her.

  He would know it was a lie if she gave an affirmative answer, so she shared the jumbled mess of emotions she was attempting to sort out. Yes, Darby had rattled her, but what bothered her far more was the devolvement Grayson had suffered while helping Orson.

  He pulled in a breath at the sudden onslaught. Fortunately, Tristan was too absorbed to notice his reaction.

  Grayson’s hand tightened on hers, and he shared his own mixed-up feelings. He was pleased to have finally figured out how to stop another’s devolvement, but he was as alarmed as she was by what it had cost him. Then there was the horror that was Darby. But above all, he felt guilty about putting her through this.