“Why did you do that, Davis?”
He fidgeted with the manacles, head twitching right and left. “She, she was needed.”
“For what?” Tyon sucked in a deep breath again and stole another scrap of sin from him.
Davis scrubbed the back of his neck hard enough to draw blood. His fingernails dug into his skin, cutting, slashing.
Harrisons gazed at Tyon again, brow furrowed in worry. His thumbs released the waistcoat, and he inched closer to Davis. Tyon gave him the slightest headshake. It was better to let Davis do the scratching and not interfere.
“What did you plan to do with her?” Tyon prompted.
“My master needed her.” Blood trickled from Davis’s neck to the starched collar of his shirt. His eyes showed too much white.
“Master?” Harrisons whispered, a note of horror creeping in his voice.
Tyon stilled and wiped his clammy hands on his trousers. “Who’s your master and what did he need the woman for?”
“Can’t.” Davis slammed his hands on the table and dug his fingernails on the wooden top, scraping it. Wooden splinters peeled off the table and mingled with the blood oozing from his broken fingernails. Veins pulsated in his reddening neck.
Harrisons took a step towards him, but Tyon held up a palm to stop him.
“Answer the question, Davis,” he thundered. “What does your master want?”
Davis’s brown eyes turned obsidian, lips curling up into a snarl. “Her blood, her heart, her soul. Power.” His fingernails cracked and bled as he left ruts on the wood.
A ritual. This master wanted to sacrifice the woman to gain power. Tyon’s chest tightened as a dread cold hand closed around his heart.
“Where did you have to take her?” he almost growled.
Davis’s neck twitched right and left at odd angles, seemingly to the point of breaking. “There’s a church on the top of a hill . . .” he chanted.
Harrisons ran a hand over his face. “Oh my God.”
Tyon frowned at the detective’s shivering hands.
“Where the demons wail of a tragic tale,” Davis continued with a sneer. “Where innocents’ blood will soak the glade.”
“What is this song?” Tyon asked. A chill slithered up his arms at Harrisons’s pasty-chalk face.
“The massacre of West Hampstead,” the detective muttered the words as if worried a ghost would materialise and eat him whole.
Davis kept humming the haunting tune in rhythm with the scratching.
“What happened there?”
Harrisons licked his lips. “Seven girls were slaughtered in front of the altar in a church in West Hampstead. It was five years ago. I was a simple officer then.”
“Five years ago?” Coincidences didn’t exist. Aleximanus betrayed them, and seven girls were slaughtered in a church.
“The church was declared blasphemed,” Harrisons said. “The culprit was never found.”
The cold fist squeezing Tyon’s heart clenched tighter. Power through sacrifice was the most effective and fastest way for a sorcerer to gain evil energy. A lot of energy. Davis’s master could be the Hierophant.
“There’s a church on the top of a hill . . .” Davis started again. Cracks split his lips and skin.
Tyon smacked a fist on Davis’s hand and pinned it on the table. “Who’s your master?”
Davis flashed a lopsided smile and ran his tongue over his dry and cracking lips, a common occurrence in humans with such a corrupt soul. When they started talking about what they’d done, the ugliness of their soul showed on their bodies.
“Answer,” Tyon hissed although the Hierophant would know better than reveal his identity to his minions.
“He’s so powerful, Captain Sebastyon,” Davis whispered, "more than you can ever imagine. He’ll crush your little band of white knights, take your woman, and turn her into his whore. He’ll hurt her. Badly. Thoroughly. Until what is left of her is a broken spirit.” He showed his teeth and ran his darkened tongue over them.
“What’s he talking about?” Harrisons started. “How does he know your name?”
Tyon released Davis’s cold hand. It was his turn to shiver now, and he didn’t do anything to hide it. His very core froze in fear, veins filling with ice. How Davis knew his name wasn’t the matter that worried him. And he didn’t know Hazel was his woman until Davis’s master threatened her.
~ * ~
HAZEL WOKE UP with a jolt and bolted upright on something soft. Sunlight streamed from the window, sneaking between the half-closed curtains—exactly how she’d left them after she’d spied on Tyon. An ache pounded in her head, not extremely painful though.
Tyon’s dressing gown was still tied around her, her legs entwined with its folds. Her hair fell loose on her shoulders, and she pushed it out of her face. She’d braided it last night when—
The sword. The Monk. She’d seen him in Tyon’s bedroom. She fumbled with the long sleeves and shoved them out of the way to bare her hands. Her palm was smooth and unmarred. No glowing phoenix on the skin. And how had she reached her bed? She didn’t remember that.
She sagged back onto the pillow. A dream. Only a dream. It’d been so real, and she’d been in shock after Rachel’s death and the disaster in her apartment. It was only logical that she had nightmares.
Rubbing her face, she stood up and changed into her dress. Her light, cheap stay had hooks on the front and didn’t require the help of a maid, but her hair could use some help. Sleeping with wet, uncombed hair had turned it into a wild mane, and it took half an hour to tame her tendrils into a loose chignon. The vanity’s mirror reflected her pale face. Despite the night’s sleep, exhaustion still weighed down her shoulders, her muscles sore, the back of her eyes hurting.
A bit of rouge would colour her cheek, and a strong cup of tea would help with the fatigue. She slogged downstairs, following the smell of freshly baked bread and brewed tea.
Tyon stood in the foyer, tall and dark, looming over a young man in a brown tweed suit. They chatted in hushed tones, then he handed a few guineas to the man who bowed and gazed up. A smile spread on the man’s lips when he saw her. He touched the rim of his newspaper-boy hat and hurried away.
Hazel climbed down the last steps while Tyon loitered in the foyer, hands clenching and unclenching.
The hard lines of his forehead softened, then deep worry creased his brow again. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
Among bad dreams, gory visions of severed hands, and the horror of her savaged bedroom, no. She hadn’t slept well. “Well enough, thank you.” She glanced at her palm again, just to be sure.
“Hazel, I . . .” His golden gaze was troubled as if a battle was raging inside him. He swallowed and raked a hand through his hair. “Hungry?” He gestured towards the dining room. “Breakfast is ready.”
“Yes, thank you.”
The list of reasons she shouldn’t keep working for him had grown since last night, but it was hard to stay angry and surly after a hot cup of tea and buttered toast. In the morning sunlight bathing the dining room, medieval swords, floating gas lamps, and monks seemed ridiculous.
“Did you think about what I told you last night?” he asked, from the rim of his cup.
“You mean if I believe in curses and immortality?” Her tone sounded harsher than she meant.
He lowered his cup. “I’ll find a way to prove to you I’m speaking the truth.”
She didn’t know what to say about this. How could he prove it?
Tyon ate slowly and sipped his cup, staring out of the window where grey clouds promised a wet day. When he finished, he folded his napkin and laced his fingers on the table. “I have news about Rachel’s death.”
“Already?” The tea almost came up her throat.
“I have a few informants in the city. Some of them are police officers, but a handful of pounds convinces anyone to spill some information.”
The man in the foyer had to be one of his informants. “And?” she aske
d, perching on the edge of the seat.
“Rachel was engaged to be married to Sir Morris a few months ago, but then she met a young man, Reginald Cosworth, and she fell in love with him. The engagement with Sir Morris was broken. He was furious and showed up at her door almost daily.”
“You suspect Sir Morris might be the killer.” She poured herself another cup of tea. She needed it.
“He certainly had a motive, but Rachel’s love for Reginald didn’t last. A few weeks later, she stopped seeing him and refused his calls. He didn’t react well, made a scene in her house, and Rachel ended up with two angry, scorned lovers.”
“Oh dear.” The headache pounded harder on her temples.
“Both men visited Rachel the afternoon before the dinner party.”
“What did they talk about?”
“We don’t know, but Rachel’s best friend, Miss Verna, was present, and I’m planning to meet her this morning. She lives in South Kensington.” He leaned closer, those tiger eyes widening. “Would you come with me? I’m sure Miss Verna will feel more comfortable talking with another woman. If you have decided to help me, that is.” He waited, shoulders tense and jaw locked.
Hazel tormented the napkin on her lap. “I’m not sure.”
“Listen.” He stretched out an arm as if to reach out for her hand, but then stopped. “I’m sorry I’ve involved you in this mess. You’re in danger. I put you in danger.”
“You couldn’t know Rachel would be killed or someone would ravage my apartment. It’s not your fault.”
“I always keep my promises, and I swore to protect you.” His intense stare sent her insides in confusion, a mix of fear, need, and excitement. “I need you.”
Tyon needs you, the Monk had said in her dream. She touched her palm again. The skin didn’t tingle, but for a split moment, it was as if the Monk’s finger was tracing the phoenix again.
Tyon meant to help, and a girl had been killed. If she could do anything to catch the killer, she’d do it. “I’ll help interrogate Verna, but Tyon”—she suppressed the thrill his sigh of relief brought up her spine—“I don’t believe in curses and sorcery. I’m sorry. I won’t carry on with your quest to find this hallow. It’s—” She was about to say absurd and crazy, but stopped her tongue in time lest she offended him. “It’s not for me. I believe you think this is all real, and I wish I could help you, but I don’t want anything to do with this.”
His strong fingers curled and dug into his palms. “I understand and won’t ask you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
“Thank you.”
He swallowed hard again, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his throat. Somehow, the movement ensnared her gaze.
“I have to pay a visit to Aleximanus before seeing Miss Verna,” he said.
“Who is—oh right.” Mr Harcourt was apparently an eight-hundred-year-old sin-breather called Aleximanus son of someone.
“If you come with me, maybe you’ll believe in my story.”
She doubted that. Aleximanus might confirm Tyon’s story, but he’d be just another deluded man who thought witchcraft was real. But she’d given her word. “All right. Let’s go.” She scraped her chair back and brushed a few breadcrumbs from her lovely evening dress. Who would’ve thought she would find herself in the middle of a crime scene when she’d bought the dress?
“Would you like to change?” he asked, seemingly reading her mind.
A short laugh escaped her. “Yes, but I don’t think going around in men’s clothes is a good idea.”
He cocked his head. “Who said anything about men’s clothes? I took the liberty to order a few items on your behalf this morning. They’ve been delivered an hour ago and are now in the sitting room.”
“You did what?” Again, her voice came out a bit too harsh.
“You don’t have to keep them.” He placed his knuckles on the table. “But after what happened last night, I didn’t think you wanted to go back to your apartment any time soon. I hope I didn’t offend you.”
“Lord, no. Sorry. You just caught me by surprise.” As usual. “I didn’t hear anything.” She held a fistful of skirts and headed towards the sitting room.
“You probably were soundly asleep.”
Boxes and bags occupied the sitting room, filling the couch, armchairs, and the carpet.
Hazel paused and arched a brow. “Just a few things?”
Tyon shrugged his broad shoulders.
She strolled to the middle of the room and opened a few cases. Velvet hats, reticules, cloaks, boots, afternoon and evening dresses spilled from them in an explosion of silk, satin, and laces. She ran a gentle hand over the soft fabric. Her pulse sped up half in exhilaration, half in concern.
“I didn’t know what you liked, so I ordered a bit of everything.” Tyon walked next to her, casting glances at the exquisite, complete wardrobe that must’ve cost a fortune.
She closed the lid over the most delicate and beautiful plaited hat she’d ever seen and smoothed her skirt. “This is too much. I can’t accept it.”
A flicker of sadness crossed his face and darkened the golden light of his eyes, but it lasted a moment. He shrugged again. “Then don’t. Use what you want for now. After you manage to buy your own clothes, you can get rid of all this.”
Get rid sounded like the harshest and cruellest thing ever. A knot tied in her gut, but she nodded. “I’ll get changed then.”
After all, she had only to meet a several-centuries-old immortal crusader.
~ * ~
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Tyon was pacing in the foyer when Hazel swished into view in a flurry of blue and indigo skirts. The colour matched her eyes, and the cut complimented her slim waist and full breasts.
A sudden lash of desire sliced through him, and with it came a sprout of his power. The sconce on the wall rattled. He choked his lust with anger. He hated the influence she had over his weak flesh, the danger the mere sight of her started, but he couldn’t deny the thrill coursing through his veins either.
“Is something the matter?” She halted midway, concern etching her lovely features. “Do I look all right?” She patted her hair and hat.
“You look beautiful,” he croaked out.
The tension left her shoulders, and she smiled. “Thank you.”
The ride in the carriage was a new form of torture and agony Tyon had never experienced. Her presence and scent seemed to fill the entire space, crowding him, hunting him as if he were a scared rabbit. She kept rubbing and staring at her palm, and worry for her surged with hurting speed, pushing down his desire.
“Is everything all right?” He moved closer to her.
Hazel rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, which brought to the fore his pulsating need for her. He ran a hand on the back of his neck. A few days with her and he was an unstable mess like a lad at his first experience with a woman’s warmth.
She opened her mouth then closed it. “Nothing. I was thinking about a bad dream I had last night.”
“I’m not surprised. Too many things happened.” He couldn’t draw away from her. “About your apartment, I promise you we’ll catch who did it. Do you have any suspect?”
“The only person who hates me is Sir Morris.”
“He could’ve easily gone to your apartment after he left Lord McCormack-Brighton’s mansion.”
She sighed. “I know, but I still don’t understand.”
“He was furious. Perhaps he needed to vent his wrath.” He didn’t add a sin-breather might be involved. She’d been clear about her beliefs on the matter.
After the carriage stopped in front of Aleximanus’s house, Tyon exited and waited for her to climb out. It was the least he could do.
He knocked on the door, keeping an eye on the street in case who ransacked Hazel’s apartment was lurking around.
Hazel adjusted her tight jacket, and his gaze flickered over her breasts.
“Why are we here?” she asked.
“Aleximanus needs
to give me some answers.”
The door swung open, and the butler welcomed them with a bow. “Good morning, ma’am, sir. How can I—”
Tyon waved dismissively. “I need to see Aleximanus.”
“Who?” The butler didn’t move.
“Alexander.” Tyon squeezed himself through the door, almost shoving the butler aside.
“But, sir!” The man stomped a foot on the floor.
“Sorry.” Hazel hurried behind Tyon in a swish of petticoats and satin.
Aleximanus was sitting in the lounge. His dressing gown carelessly draped over his shoulders left half his chest bare. A woman in equally scanty clothes sat on his lap, laughing. Their cups of tea and plates of eggs and toast lay forgotten on a low table. She jolted when Tyon marched into the room.
Hazel let out a gasp and turned towards the window, cheeks reddening. “Oh God.”
“Tyon, what a pleasant surprise.” Aleximanus adjusted the woman on his lap, his hands on her hips.
She circled his neck with her arms and shot a smug smirk at Tyon, biting her bottom lip.
He focused on her head. A dark halo vibrated around her, pulsating like a heartbeat. Its solid pitch-black aura with no white marked her a sin-breather. He inhaled, taking a sip of her sins. Rot and decay with a hint of burned moss. Greed. “Can we talk in private?” he asked.
“Of course.” Aleximanus patted the woman’s butt, and she hopped from his lap, giggling.
Hazel’s cheeks turned crimson, and she pulled up the collar of her shirt.
The woman’s dressing gown slipped over a shoulder, baring a breast. In a slow gait, she strolled out of the room, casting a long, appraising ogle at Tyon.
When the door closed behind her, he stalked closer to the couch. “Greed?”
Aleximanus cast an inquisitive glance at Hazel.
“I told her everything.” Tyon stepped closer to her, not liking Aleximanus’s stare on her. “So the sin-breather? Greed?” he prompted to change the subject.
Aleximanus’s posture slackened, and sadness flashed over his face.
For some reason, Tyon didn’t like Aleximanus’s sadness. It opened an old wound in his chest where his affection and respect for his former brother had been.
The Pact of the White Blade Knights Page 11