Tyon stopped in front of the bench, hands clasped behind his back. “What do you want?”
“My, where are your manners?”
“Don’t make me ask again, Aleximanus.”
“Always so commanding, Captain Sebastyon.” He tossed the last piece of bread. “No one has called me Aleximanus in years. Now I go under the name of Alexander Harcourt. It sounds more modern, don’t you agree?”
“Do you prefer being called sin-breather then, or traitor? And no one has called me captain in years either. After you betrayed your brothers, broke our pact, and destroyed the Order.”
“Ah.” Aleximanus wiped his hands, gloved in fine leather, from the crumbs. “I see, you still feel raw about that episode despite all the years.”
“All the years? Five years have passed since your betrayal. For someone who lived eight centuries, five years are moments.” Tyon’s voice burned with wrath. His hands ached to grab Aleximanus by the neck and shake him hard until he explained why he’d betrayed the Order and become a sin-breather.
He moved a hand over the hilt of his white blade carefully concealed under his jacket. The weapon begged to be released and sink in the sin-breather’s chest, stealing his miserable life once and for all. He had to push the urge down by punching a fist on his thigh where the barbed wire garter of the cilice bit into his flesh. Pain helped keep him focused and anchored, a job once performed by his fellow knights. Without an anchor, his power would explode and threaten to destroy everything in its path. Without his brothers, he had no balance, no direction to follow.
“A knight who took an oath of loyalty and devotion can’t forget or forgive an act of cowardice like yours,” Tyon gritted out, pressing on the cilice again. Months ago, he wouldn’t have needed to fight his urges. Something was changing inside him.
Aleximanus’s eyes glinted, and a shadow crossed his face. “Why don’t you sit, and we chat for a while? We are, after all, in a sanctuary.” His gaze flickered over Tyon’s hand hovering on the hilt. “You can’t attack me here, and I can’t attack you either. So we’re at an impasse. Better having a chat, right?”
“Just be quick.” Tyon flexed his fingers and shifted his stance. “You wanted to see me, I’m here. Say what you have to say and be gone.”
“No pleasantries then. Pity. I love pleasantries. It separates us from the beasts.” He tipped his hat up and crossed his legs at the ankles.
“Pleasantries, fine clothes, and a refined accent can’t separate you from the beasts.” Tyon’s threadbare patience sent a tremor down his spine.
“One of the hallows has been found.” Every trace of amusement disappeared from Aleximanus’s face.
Tyon’s temper cooled in a flash, blood flowing down from his head. After all these years of waiting for a holy relic to appear, it was finally happening. His mind reeled with possibilities. Which one of his knights would he be able to find with the relic? Étienne? Isharamat? Or Artemis? “Where is it? How do you know?”
“I don’t know the answer to your first question, but”—Aleximanus nodded towards a point behind Tyon—“look behind you, and you’ll have the answer to your second question.”
Tyon spun on his heels. A young woman in a burgundy dress was sitting on the bench opposite them. A copy of The Guardian was stretched between her tense hands.
“A woman?” He didn’t try to level his voice, a fresh wave of annoyance spreading.
“Look closer, Captain,” Aleximanus whispered.
He focused on her head right when she lowered the newspaper to her lap. Dark curls the colour of a raven’s wings fell softly on rosy cheeks and framed eyes of the palest mauve. She captured her plump bottom lip between her pearly teeth, a shallow frown settling between fine brows. Her beauty distracted him, and he had to give another squeeze to the cilice. Since when had a woman’s beauty caught him off guard?
When he squinted and released a hint of his power, an emerald halo pulsated around her head—the mark of a relic. This woman had been in contact with a sacred hallow, touched it, handled it, cared for it, and the hallow had marked her, turning her aura into a glittering jade light. “She has a relic,” he muttered.
“I wouldn’t say that.” Aleximanus stood up and neared him. At six-foot-five, he was as tall as Tyon. “She came into contact with it and formed a bond of sort with the hallow, but it’s not sure she possesses it. Her name is Hazel. She lost her job at the museum today, and before you ask, no I wasn’t involved with it, but yes, I know because I have ears everywhere.” He flourished a hand towards her, a smirk tugging at his lips. “In our game like in chess, white moves first. You’re entitled to collect and peruse the hallow before I do. All you have to do is befriend the lady and convince her to give it to you before the hallow loses its power.”
Whatever the hallow was. To make the game more challenging, no one knew what the bloody hallows were. They could be anything, from an ancient sword to a modern woman’s shoe.
Tyon’s heart gave a lurch as he trailed his gaze on Hazel. The harsh cast of her shoulders and the clenching of her jaw spoke of a strong temperament. He unleashed his power fully. It was like extending his limbs and reaching out for her soul. It sparkled in blue and white flickers of light, a small firework of goodness and kindness. Only a few black tendrils. No major sins. Good.
The hallow tended to be changed by the human they formed a bond with, and if the human’s soul was evil, so the hallow would be. But there was another problem as the quiver running through him pointed out. He closed his fists, digging his fingers into his palms.
“What is it, Captain?” Aleximanus tilted his head. “Aren’t you confident you’ll succeed in befriending the lady? Oh, right. You’re worried because of your little balance problem. Tsk-tsk. You don’t think you can resist the temptation of such attractive flesh, such luscious curves. Lust and lack of control are never a good mix.”
Tyon shot him a glare and ground his teeth. “That’s because you broke the pact.”
“Did you have sex in the last five years, Captain?” Humour laced Aleximanus’s words. “Or were you too worried you’ll cause an earthquake to dirty-puzzle with a saucy wench?”
Lord, wielding his blade was so tempting.
“I bet you preferred celibacy. So typical of you.” Aleximanus let out an exaggerated sigh. “God, she must taste like strawberries and smell like a rose. I confess I want to part her petals and have my fill of her nectar.”
Tyon’s hand moved without his permission. It unsheathed the white blade and pressed it against Aleximanus’s throat. He panted, his vision darkened at the edges, and the birds’ chirping, and people’s chatter faded into the background. Anger was taking him over, fuelling his power, making it roar.
Aleximanus didn’t flinch. “Are you going to slaughter me here? On holy ground? Your precious Monk would be disappointed. Not to mention the lady. She’ll have problems trusting you if she sees you kill me here. Hardly a good start in a relationship.”
The weight of Hazel’s stare caused the skin of Tyon’s neck to prickle. She was staring at them, a scowl on her lovely oval face, lips slightly pursed. Her long lashes fluttered down when their gazes met, and she returned her attention to the newspaper, leaving Tyon somewhat colder.
“Besides,” Aleximanus continued, “if you want to set things straight, why don’t you invite me in your house and we have a chat?”
“Nice try, sin-breather.” Sin-breathers couldn’t enter his house unless invited. He sheathed the dagger and rolled his shoulders in the futile attempt to ease the tension in his body. He almost lost control. Humiliation sank its sharp claws in his chest. Aleximanus had spoken the truth for once. Tyon feared defeat.
“Why did you warn me?” he hissed instead of addressing Aleximanus’s accusations.
“It’s the rule, isn’t it? The knights have the right to collect the hallow first.”
“Yes, but you could’ve stayed silent. Why are you telling me?”
A smile holding dark se
crets stretched Aleximanus’s lips. “Did you look at her? Really look at her?” He glanced in Hazel’s direction. “She’s exquisite. Porcelain skin, slim body, mauve eyes. She could be a perfect lust-breather, the ultimate seducer.”
Something angry and ugly roared within Tyon at the thought of Aleximanus soiling Hazel’s soul. “I won’t let you change her into one of your minions.”
“You destroyed my previous lust-breathers. The position is vacant, and humans are so responsive to lust. It turns them into savages. So easy to corrupt them.” He pressed a finger on Tyon’s chest right over the heart. “And I bet, you’ll be her first victim, Captain Sebastyon.”
Tyon didn’t reply, firing another glance at Hazel. A whisper in his mind told him Aleximanus might be right.
Chapter 2
TWO CALLING CARDS in one day. How odd.
Hazel stared at the two calling cards she’d found on the threshold of her apartment’s door in Bayswater as if they were adders.
The first one was a glossy, pearly cream-coloured piece of fine paper that reflected the sunlight and smelled of verbena. Golden letters embossed it. She twirled the card in her fingers. The name didn’t tell her anything—Alexander M. Harcourt. The South Kensington address only confirmed her suspicion that the message came from a wealthy gentleman used to dinner parties and fancy balls. Elegant handwriting filled the back of the card, an invitation to an afternoon tea to discuss business.
The second card was another matter entirely. Sebastyon Sancerre. The man hadn’t bothered with an extravagant card—a slice of rough, pressed paper with black letters printed in the middle stating his name and a Whitechapel address. A few, curt words went with the card. Job offer in antiquity. Interview in my house, lunch time. Don’t be late.
Bossy and not really flattering.
She tossed the cards in a bowl on the table and plonked down into the armchair in front of the cold hearth. After a day of applying to jobs and begging the few gentlemen Leon had mentioned to give her something to work on, she’d drawn a blank, the pile of bills was growing, and the pantry was empty. Her stomach chose that moment to give a rumble as if to protest for the lack of food. She squirmed, and a spring of the old armchair hit her thigh right as bits of wallpaper rained on the floor.
Her apartment was falling into pieces like her life, but this bare wooden floor and the pale, unadorned walls were everything. They were the difference between being considered a whore and a respectable lady. She could rent somewhere else, somewhere cheaper like Clerkenwell. Perhaps she could forget nice clothes, but where would this take her? Every man in London would consider her prey. After all, as the author of How to Dress Well on a Shilling a Day said, “Poverty must, above all things, avoid the appearance of poverty.”
If she had decent dresses and lived in a nice area, in a nice building, she still had a chance to find a proper job that didn’t require removing her clothes. Yes, the hearth was cold because she couldn’t afford the coal, and the pantry hadn’t seen butter in months. But in a world where appearances were everything, her apartment and clothes were her anchor.
She took the cards again. Mr Harcourt waited for her at one o’clock, Mr Sancerre at noon. Well, she hoped Mr Sancerre’s manners were better than his writing skill and that he’d offer her lunch.
~ * ~
HAZEL SMOOTHED HER green moss dress standing in front of Mr Sancerre’s townhouse. Grim dark walls glared at her, and the air was thick with coal dust. The noise of the carriages rattling past ricocheted off the brick buildings. Coal lasses dragged baskets filled to the rim with coal, and dirty children played with empty cans and pebbles.
Her chest constricted as sorrow pressed against it like a gust of cold wind. She’d spent years in a place like this after her mother died leaving her alone. Never again.
Adjusting her plaited hat, she clenched her reticule and climbed the few steps to the front door. Her fist hovered mere inches from the wooden planks when the door flung open. Broad shoulders and a wide chest clad in black filled the doorframe.
The man loomed over her like a stormy cloud. His dark hair was unfashionably short, barely a few inches long, and the stubble on his chin enhanced the harshness of his jaw. She’d seen him before. His build, serious stare, and harsh expression were hard to forget. He’d been in Hyde Park the day she’d been sacked, arguing about something with a blond gentleman.
She took a step back. Those light brown eyes, almost golden, followed her every move as he stared at her with an intensity that made her shake. It wasn’t the debauched stare of a man who wanted to ravish her though, but the stare of someone who wanted to discover her secrets as if she were the most interesting creature in the world.
“Miss Ravenwood, I’m Sebastyon Sancerre.” His deep voice held the commanding tone of someone used to giving orders and being obeyed, no questions asked. Somehow, the simple greeting rooted her to the spot. Her urge to leave not quite gone, but subdued.
She cleared her throat and pretended those amber eyes didn’t unsettle her. “Mr Sancerre, I’ve received your card.” Obviously. She groaned inwardly at the lack of wittiness in her words. Not a great start, considering that this man could be her employer even though temporarily. “I mean, I’d like to know how you learned my name and address.” Leon, she supposed, but she wanted to hear it from Mr Sancerre.
A corner of his mouth quirked up for the briefest of second. He stepped aside and held the door open for her. “Please, enter and I’ll answer all your questions.”
She loitered and glanced at the busy, dirty road behind her. There were no cobbles, and horses’ hooves and carriages’ wheels splattered mud on the pavement and on the passers-by. Gangs of young men milled around. Now and then the blade of a knife flashed in the sunlight. If something happened to her, if Mr Sancerre attacked her, no one here would care.
He shifted closer, all smooth, raw power and predatory menace. “I swear on my honour, you’ll be safe in my house with me,” he said in a grave tone as if reading her mind.
For some obscure reason, she believed him. She didn’t know anything about him or if he indeed was a man of honour, but the way he’d said it sounded like he’d rather die than break a vow.
“Thank you.” She bowed her head and brushed past him while entering.
His heady scent hit her nostrils. It wasn’t one of the usual fragrances gentlemen wore—sandalwood, verbena, or cardamom. It smelled of wild moss, pine wood, and something else spicy she couldn’t identify. She could gladly spend some time nuzzling his broad chest, trying to understand what the missing fragrance was. The image brought heat to her cheeks, and she stared at the polished wooden floor before he noticed her blush.
“The sitting room is over there, if you please.” He didn’t sound like someone who said ‘please’ often. His bulky frame skimmed the walls of the corridor as he walked in front of her.
She rose on her tiptoes to peek past him and caught a glimpse of a sweeping stair leading up and thick oriental carpets covering the floor.
He opened a door to his left and offered a stiff bow, letting her in. She inched forwards into the cosy room. A log fire blazed in the hearth, bathing her in warmth and casting an orange glow over the chintz armchairs. The view made her want to sprawl into an armchair, put her feet up the low cherry-wood table, and wolf down the scones on the tray. Her stomach let out a soft rumble of approval.
But what caused her to gasp was the shelves loaded with leather-bound books. Some of them seemed ancient, judging by the threadbare spines and faded letters. Just their smell—old parchment and dry paper—lured her in, and—
“Tea?” He stood behind her, a wicked threat clad in fine clothes.
She jolted. “Yes, please, sir.”
Mr Sancerre wasn’t what she’d expected. Or rather, his house wasn’t. Polished furniture, old books, Persian carpets, not aristocratic, but they screamed money, and yet he lived in Whitechapel. Apparently, Mr Sancerre wasn’t concerned about thieves if he kept such precio
us things for everyone to see. Just the old books had to be worth a few hundred pounds.
Oh dear. He had to be one of those mobsters who were raging the rookeries. Powerful thugs who ruled with an iron fist on criminals and prostitutes. Her heart pounded like a trapped rabbit. If she weren’t worried to stir his wrath, she’d leave immediately.
He poured the tea, slanting a stare at her. “Are you all right? You paled.”
“I’m fine, thank you, Mr Sancerre.” She gathered her skirts and perched on the armchair.
“Call me Tyon.” He offered her the cup, and she accepted it with trembling hands. He must’ve seen it because his gaze narrowed a fraction.
“I shall.” She touched a tome on ancient runes on the table. “You have an impressive collection. It must be worth a fortune.”
“Maybe,” he said, his tone casual.
“No maids or a butler?” Hazel added a couple of sugars to her tea.
“No,” came the curt reply. Tyon sat in front of her and propped his elbows on his knees. Hardly a gentleman’s posture. And his bulging muscles threatened to rip apart the fabric of his waistcoat and jacket.
“Why? Don’t you need help if you don’t mind me asking, sir? The house is big enough to need constant care I suppose.”
The rattling of her teaspoon in the cup and the cracking of the fire were the only sounds.
“I don’t trust anyone. So no servants.”
“I see.” Although she didn’t at all. She sipped the tea and stifled a moan of pleasure. The tea had nothing to do with the watery brew she drank at home. This one was dark, intense, and expensive just like Mr Sancerre. Her fingers longed for taking a scone and stuff it in her mouth, but she kept sipping instead.
He took a long draught of his tea. “A scone? The baker brought them half an hour ago.”
Yes, the tantalising scent told as much. Hazel lowered her cup and selected a scone. “So what do you need my skills for? Do you want me to translate an ancient text for you?” She could easily pass many hours in this warm sitting room surrounded by books. Perhaps coming here hadn’t been a bad idea after all. The buttery taste of the scone filled her mouth and silenced her stomach. Not a bad idea.
The Pact of the White Blade Knights Page 2