The Pact of the White Blade Knights

by Barbara Russell

  “A witness, a maid who was cleaning the apartment underneath yours, said she saw a man the night of the crime”—he fished out a notebook from his pocket—“medium height and build red-hair, around thirty, dressed in a tailored suit. He yelled and cursed while rushing downstairs. Does it ring any bell?”

  She leaned against Tyon, only an inch, and he didn’t shrink away from her although his brows were drawn together and his lips pressed into a firm line.

  A knot of worry squeezed her heart. The description sounded like Sir Morris, but accusing a peer without evidence was something a jobless, middle-class person couldn’t afford. “Yes, but I don’t have any proof, only a suspicion.”

  Harrisons closed the notebook and stuffed it in the pocket again. “Miss Hazel, you can tell me anything. It’ll be strictly confidential, and it’ll help understand what happened.”

  Tyon gave her an encouraging nod.

  “The description fits Sir Morris. If you remember, I told you I worked with him at the museum.”

  “Ah, Sir Morris again.” Harrisons twirled his hat. “He courted Rachel, made a scene during the party, and might’ve broken into your apartment. Quite a few coincidences.”

  “Is there anything you can do?” Tyon asked the detective, curling a hand around hers.

  “He’s a peer, but I have enough material to call him for a few questions.” He spread his arms. “I’ll do my best to get some answers.”

  Harrisons didn’t sound optimistic, but at least Sir Morris would know she was fighting back. “Thank you, Detective,” she said.

  “You’re welcome.” He smiled, his thin moustache quirking up. “Well, I’ll leave you to your evening.” He flipped his hat onto his head and bowed.

  Tyon held the cab door open for her, a hard light in his gaze. She slid into the seat, and he sat next to her.

  “Is something the matter?” she asked, adjusting her skirts.

  “Yes.” He fiddled with his cravat. “Westfield Cemetery, please,” he said to the driver.

  “The cemetery?” Hazel frowned. “I thought we were going to Maida Vale.”

  “Harrisons told me we’ll find Reginald there. His men are following him.”

  “Are you upset about Sir Morris?”

  “I don’t like the idea of Sir Morris prowling around your apartment and wrecking it.” His fists closed, golden eyes smouldering with a wild hue.

  “There’s something more.”

  He angled towards her, the crease on his brow deepening. “Please, don’t run away from me like you’ve done earlier. It’s dangerous.”

  Ah, that was the reason. But he’d said ‘please.’ “I was with Leon, a friend. I was perfectly safe.”

  “I’m not sure of that. Someone wants you dead. I was about to follow you when I met Harrisons.” He held her hand. “Promise me you’ll stay close to me.”

  “I promise.” That was easy to promise.

  The tension left his shoulders as he sagged against the seat. His hand lingered on hers for a moment and stroked it before he removed it.

  Westfield Cemetery’s brick wall appeared from behind a turn. With its tall cypresses and weeping willows, it resembled the entrance of a mansion rather than a cemetery, but the swaying canopies and the falling leaves from the oaks radiated depression. The wrought metal gate stood ajar, spiked bars towering it like a beast’s teeth.

  “What is Reginald doing in the cemetery this late?” Hazel asked after they exited the cab.

  “Harrisons told me Reginald had a breakdown after Rachel’s death and comes here every evening to stand next to her grave.”

  A shiver rippled through her, and she huddled her jacket closer. “This is awful.”

  Tyon clicked his tongue. “Not if he’s the killer. Remorse after having taken a soul doesn’t bring the dead back or clean your sins.”

  “Yes, but it means he’s sorry for what he has done.”

  “No, it means he was too weak to stop himself before committing the murder.”

  “Would the Monk agree with that?”

  He grinned. “I don’t think so, but he’s supposed to be the forgiving one.”

  Hazel’s boots crunched the gravel on the white path that snaked through statues of angels and graves full of flowers. Some were fresh, and the scent of roses and lilies wafted, but others bent over the tomb, wilted and crumbling like a mourner.

  A man in a long dark coat loomed over a white tomb shaded by bushy weeping willows. In spring, it had to be a lovely sight with the emerald leaves brushing the marble and the buttercups growing around it, but under the grey autumn sky with the barren branches sweeping the ground, the view inspired sorrow. Hazel’s chest constricted as they advanced towards Reginald’s hunched figure.

  Tyon paused, his keen gaze trained on him. His jaw tightened when he inhaled deeply. Golden glows swirled in the depth of his eyes. A warm gust of wind brushed her cheek, and she wondered if the breeze was his power eating Reginald’s sins.

  “Do you think it’s him?” she whispered.

  Tyon closed his eyes, his face paling.

  She put a hand on his elbow. “Are you all right?”

  He opened his eyes and smiled, a warm, genuine smile that made her toes curl. “Yes. I’m channelling the evil to the earth.”

  “For what reason?”

  “I can’t keep them in my body for long. The earth absorbs the sins and stores them so the evil can’t spread.”

  A few days ago, she would’ve laughed at this. Now she found it fascinating. She lifted a foot and stared at the ground. Who would’ve guessed? “Did he have many sins?”

  “Yes, but he was happy to let them go. Eager even.”

  They walked over to him. He didn’t turn to them despite the noise of their footfalls. Hazel’s heart pounded harder, preparing her to flee just in case.

  “Mr Reginald?” Tyon stepped in front of her. “I’m Mr Sancerre and this is Miss Ravenwood. Can we ask you a few questions?”

  Reginald faced him. His bloodshot eyes were filled with tears. “What do you want?”

  “We’re investigating Rachel’s death.”

  At the mention of Rachel, a shadow crossed Reginald’s face. A sob shook him. “Rachel.”

  “We know you bought something from an apothecary near Cromwell Road,” Tyon continued, merciless.

  Reginald wiped his face with his sleeve, but didn’t nod or shake his head.

  “Why did you buy the atropine, Reginald?” Tyon’s voice held its usual commanding tone as if he were addressing a subordinate.

  Reginald didn’t flinch. If the questions had surprised him or offended him, he didn’t give any sign. “I loved her.”

  “But you wanted to hurt her,” Hazel said.

  “I didn’t kill her.” He raked a hand through his matted hair. “The atropine was meant to make her feel sick, so she wouldn’t go out without me.”

  She shared a glance with Tyon and mouthed, “True?”

  He gave the slightest nod.

  Reginald might’ve been caught by a fit of rage after feeding Rachel the poison and stabbed her on a whim, but if he hadn’t killed her then they were back to square one.

  “If she’d stayed home, she wouldn’t have met her lover,” he whispered. “That was all I wanted.”

  “Lover?” Tyon and Hazel asked.

  “She was supposed to go to The Sepulchre with her friend,” she said.

  “No. She had a lover,” he spat. “I found the letters, love letters they exchanged. She had a secret lover. During a tea party, in her house, I waited for the right moment and sneaked into her room. I suspected she was seeing someone, mayhap that idiot Morris. And I found these letters on her drawer.” He shoved a hand in his pocket and pulled out a handful of crumpled papers. “The afternoon before the party, I slipped the atropine in her tea because I didn’t want her to meet him. See, Rachel? Your lover brought you to death.” He tossed the papers on her grave, dropped on his knees, and wept. Awful, choking noises tore from his th
roat.

  A pang of pity pressed on Hazel’s chest. She caressed his head. He might’ve done bad things, but he was suffering.

  Tyon crouched and collected the papers.

  “Can’t you help him?” she asked.

  “Why?” Again that merciless cast of his shoulders.

  “He’s a wreck of a man. He’s in pain.”

  Reginald rocked back and forth.

  Tyon slanted a gaze at Reginald’s weeping form and put a hand on his head. A flash of white light glowed. Reginald heaved a sigh, and his sobs diminished.

  “You’ll go to the police, ask for Detective Harrisons, and confess having poisoned Rachel and stolen her letters. Is that clear?” Tyon ordered.

  Reginald nodded eagerly, tears hanging on the rims of his eyes. “I will.”

  “Good.” Tyon beckoned him towards the exit.

  Reginald trotted away, slowly at first then he picked up speed as if eager to go to the police.

  “Thank you for that.” Hazel caressed Tyon’s cheek, smoothing a worry line on his face.

  He smiled. “Let’s go.”

  She cast a last glance at Rachel’s white grave. A buttercup blossomed right next to the stone, a ray of sunlight shining on its petals as a promise of rebirth.

  Chapter 16

  TYON FLATTENED THE last letter on the table of his sitting room. Wrinkles and ink stains made a few sentences impossible to read, but the meaning of what Rachel had meant to say was very clear. She described in detail how she wanted to be kissed and touched by her lover, where she wanted to be tongued and nipped, how hard she wanted to be penetrated, and how sweet her orgasms were.

  Lord, the images these letters conjured in his mind were all with Hazel naked and writhing underneath him. He wiped his sweaty brow and shifted his position as if this could quench the fire in his gut.

  Sitting next to him, Hazel frowned while reading one of the letters. Her cheeks reddened, and she squirmed in the chair.

  He coughed in his closed fist and discretely tagged at his trousers where his cock was begging to be freed. “Found anything exciting?” No, he shouldn’t have said that. “I mean, any clue on who this mysterious lover could be?”

  “I, I have a theory.” She folded the letter and pushed it away.

  “What theory?”

  “Well.” She squirmed some more. “It’s obvious this lover was a good friend. She confided him many intimate things. They weren’t just lovers but friends.”

  “Go on.”

  “And I think they saw each other often. He has to be a family friend, but Rachel knew her father wouldn’t approve of their story, so she had to keep it secret.”

  “Hmm.” He slumped back into the chair. “We can ask Lord McCormack-Brighton about one of Rachel’s close friends he wouldn’t approve as her husband, but I don’t think this lover is a family friend.”

  “But look.” She shuffled through the letters. “Rachel often mentions details about luncheons and dinners at her house where the lover was present.”

  “Yes, but what if her lover was a servant?”

  She drew her brows together. “I see. Someone she saw every day, who knew everything about her family, but worked there.”

  “Her father would’ve never blessed a marriage between his precious daughter and a footman, waiter, gardener?”

  “It makes sense, and it’ll be easier to interrogate the staff than to talk with Lord McCormack-Brighton.”

  He stretched his arms and crossed them behind his head. “We have a lead, but why did Reginald find Rachel’s letters in her room? He should’ve found her lovers’ letters since Rachel mentions having received letters as well.”

  “I have a theory about this as well.” She flashed a smug smile that made him smile in turn.

  “Do you now?”

  She nodded. “I think she broke up with him. In the last few letters, she became more desperate, more worried to be discovered. They were growing bolder, stealing kisses in the house when no one was around, but either someone saw them, or she simply became more concerned and decided to stop the affair.”

  “So he got angry and returned her the letters.”

  “Yes. There’s a detail though. We have twelve letters but”—she rummaged through them—“one of them is missing. Rachel was very methodical. She wrote every Tuesday, describing in detail how they kissed and . . . well, you know, the previous day together, which makes me think they could meet mostly on Monday. She never missed a date, except for May. The second Tuesday of May is missing.”

  Tyon scanned the dates reported on the top of the letters. “Do you think he kept it?”

  “As memento perhaps, or it was a particularly passionate letter he didn’t want to be parted from.”

  “Tuesday. What did Rachel do on Monday? We’ll have to ask her family again.”

  “But tomorrow.” A yawn escaped from her, and she stretched her arms over her head. “I’m exhausted.”

  “Bed time.” He smiled. He often smiled when she was around. Taking care of her started a warm flutter in his chest, something he’d missed since he’d been separated from his brothers.

  She cocked her head. “You should smile more. Your eyes turn brighter, and your face more handsome.”

  “Handsome?” He lowered his arms. “Do you think I’m handsome?”

  “I do.” She laughed, a crystalline, pure sound that stroked his skin like summer rain. “You’re very handsome.”

  “You should laugh more too.”

  Her laugh stopped, and she turned serious. “I didn’t have much to laugh about in the past years.” She brushed a lock from her face. “My father was right. Whatever he saw, he knew sorcery was real.”

  “Don’t feel guilty because you didn’t believe him.” He caressed her hand, surprised by how natural the gesture was. “It was hard to believe him. Don’t blame yourself.”

  “But he died thinking we didn’t support him.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “Last time I saw him, he was boarding a ship to Greece. I yelled at him, told him he was mad. He was so sad and hurt.” Another tear followed.

  He shoved to his feet and gathered her in his arms. “I’m sure he knew you loved him.” He held her and caressed her hair until the sobs faded.

  “Is there a great beyond?” she asked, peering up at him. “Will I see him again?”

  He didn’t know. The Monk had never talked about that. “If magic and sin-eaters exist then everything is possible.” It wasn’t the reply she wanted, but he didn’t crush her heart further. “To bed now. You look exhausted.” And beautiful.

  She wiped her tears with her sleeve. “Thank you.” She hugged him fiercely before sauntering out of the room and leaving his heart full of love.

  ~ * ~

  ALONE IN HER bedroom among her neatly piled new clothes, Hazel adjusted her dressing gown. She gazed towards the direction of Tyon’s room, wondering what he was doing. The way he’d held her and stroked her head had started something in her chest, something more than attraction.

  It was the first time she chased a man. Badly. Up until now, she’d thought men were only trouble, and last thing she needed was more trouble, but Tyon was different.

  She shook her head. Of course he was different. He was an eight-hundred-year-old crusader with the power to eat sins and cause earthquakes. It was ironic that the first time she really longed for someone, he needed to control his lust for her.

  Fatigue stretched within her like a lazy cat. Perhaps she was too tired. She turned off the gas lamp on the nightstand and lifted the blanket when a stirring in the air made her pause. A cold gust of wind troubled her hair.

  “Tyon?” She turned around, searching for an open window, but the curtains didn’t move.

  The blow in the head hit her from behind.

  ~ * ~

  ALEXIMANUS HELD HAZEL in his arms when she passed out. A crimson trail of blood trickled down her forehead where he’d hit her. But aside from that, with her eyes closed and her lips stretched in
to a half smile, she could’ve been asleep.

  He laid her on the floor and unsheathed his obsidian dagger, the blade hissing in anticipation. She might be protected against primary evil, but a stab in the heart would kill her. The jagged teeth carved in the cold hilt dug into his palm when he wielded it. A quick stab and Kaela would be with him. The nightmare would be over.

  Kaela. Her words still echoed in his mind.

  Don’t kill anyone for me, Father.

  She had the same pure heart of her mother, but she didn’t understand. How could he condemn her to an eternity with the Hierophant when Hazel’s death would free her? He’d killed before. He’d done horrible things. This murder would end his and Kaela’s torment, and it was an act of mercy for Hazel. It was better for her to die here than become the Hierophant’s pet. Killing her was a way to protect her. Yet his hand didn’t move.

  Hazel lay helpless on the floor, her head tilted to the side, arms spread. It’d be so easy to kill her. He panted, his arm trembling.

  Don’t kill anyone for me, Father.

  He was a monster. It was too late for him. His soul was tainted, but he could save his daughter.

  Don’t kill anyone for me, Father.

  Kaela’s pleading gaze pierced his mind. Even Hazel was innocent, just like Kaela. She didn’t deserve to die. A tear, hot and sharp like his blade, crept down his cheek, leaving destruction on its wake. It was wrong.

  Hazel stirred, a moan escaping from her mouth. Her eyes fluttered open, and instant horror filled them as she eyed the cursed blade. Her lips parted, but no sound came.

  Something cracked inside him as if he still had a beating heart. He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it. The chains tightened around him in protest.

  Aleximanus lowered his dagger, his chest heaving hard. He probably was the worst sin-breather to have ever walked the earth. “Hazel,” he whispered. “I’m—”

  A roar thundered, shaking the walls. The floor lifted and lowered. He glanced up. Tyon stood on the threshold, lips curled up in a menacing snarl. The tendons of his neck and chest stood out underneath the thin shirt.

  He pounced before Aleximanus could explain he didn’t want to hurt Hazel. Tyon’s huge body crushed Aleximanus’s and shoved him against the wall.