Demon's Curse

by Alexa Egan

  And while he was no longer doomed to pass his nights in his clan aspect of the wolf, these small, vicious hours had become a solace, the cluttered, squalid stews, his personal hunting ground. The Fey-blood’s recent discovery of the Imnada’s survival only added to the knife-edge thrill he craved like an addict. Something he knew all too much about these days.

  The clouds passed over the full moon, the breeze kicking up in starts to ruffle the fur along his back, the bristly ridge at his neck. He lifted his face to it, felt it curl over his muzzle, bringing with it the salty tar-laden stench of the Limehouse docks. Just then the victim moaned, stirring as he regained consciousness, a hand groping feebly for the knot at the back of his head. Shoving the pouch in his coat pocket, the assailant lifted his knife with deadly intent. Theft soon to become murder.

  Thought fell to instinct, and, with fangs bared in a vicious snarl, David sprang.

  * * *

  Callista rubbed a cloth over the last silver bell before placing it back in its case alongside the other three. Closing the lid, she secured the lock with a roll of her thumb over the circular tumblers. But instead of putting the mahogany box back upon the high shelf beside her bed, she remained at her desk with the box in front of her. Her finger followed the familiar loops and swirls decorating the lid. Her mother’s box. Her grandmother’s. Her great-grandmother’s.

  Necromancers, all.

  The power to walk the paths of the dead had been gifted the women of her house, stretching back beyond anyone’s memory. At least that’s what Mother had claimed. Callista couldn’t know for certain. She’d never met any of the women of her house beyond Mother to ask them.

  Now she couldn’t even ask Mother.

  Callista slid open the top desk drawer, removing a bundle of old yellowed letters wrapped in a frayed ribbon. The wax was dried and crumbling, the writing smudged and faded. Mother had kept them all. Every single missive she’d sent to her family that had been returned unopened. The proud and prominent Armstrong family of Killedge had never forgotten nor forgiven the shame of their daughter’s elopement. Callista pulled free the top letter, reading the words though she knew them by heart. A newsy cheerful letter, despite the anguish and the dread that had prompted this last desperate attempt to reconcile. Mother had died a month later.

  The letter had been returned a week after the funeral.

  The door behind her opened, a breeze stirring the hair at the back of her neck, raising gooseflesh over her arms. As Callista quickly slid the packet of correspondence back into the desk drawer, she felt Branston’s thunderous stare bore into her, his fury like a shimmer of red behind her eyelids.

  “I almost wish Mr. Corey hadn’t found you in time for your appointment,” he said. “Better to postpone the summoning than have poor Mrs. Dixon’s hopes dashed so cruelly.”

  “Your concern for the grieving mother is touching,” Callista answered wearily. “I’d not have taken you for a sentimentalist.”

  “What I am is a businessman, and you, my dear, are the business. A fact you keep forgetting.”

  As she rose to confront her brother, his small, washed-out blue eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared as if he smelled something rank. “That’s where you’re wrong. I know it all too well. You haven’t let me forget for one moment in the past seven years.”

  His hands flexed and curled into fists, his well-fed body wired with tension. “Is that what your sulks are about? Your feelings are hurt? You don’t feel appreciated? Is that why you decided to dash a grieving mother’s hopes by telling her you were unable to speak to little Jonny?”

  “It’s not right to take these people’s money without offering them something in return.”

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, her half brother shrugged away from her. “We offer solace. Reassurance. Hope. Worth it at double the price,” he said, in the same tone he used to hawk her skills during their years traveling town to town and fair to fair. “We’re their only link to their loved ones beyond the grave. To the infinite knowledge of the future the spirits can offer us.”

  “Yes, if I’m able to find the spirit they seek and the client’s questions are answered. But I never found that woman’s son. I walked as far as I dared into death. I tried every path I knew. I couldn’t lie to her.”

  “Perhaps you need to delve farther? Walk paths you’ve yet to explore?”

  “I’m not trained for the deeper reaches. Mother died before she could teach me those lessons, and without the proper instruction it’s too dangerous to attempt.”

  “I don’t bloody care.” He spun round, jaw clenched. Brotherly concern, a pose obviously 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 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 dead, and if it weren’t for me, the only gift keeping you from the gutter 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 whiskey 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 sees fit. He’s 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 acknowledge you once you’re ruined and stuffed with a man’s bastard child?”

  Cold splashed across her back, nearly buckling her knees. She gripped the edge of the table. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Wouldn’t I? Victor Corey wants you for his wife, the gods only know why, and I’ve accepted his proposal. It matters little to him whether he beds you before or after the ceremony.”

  Callista wanted to be sick. “I’ll not marry Corey. He may dress like a dandy and ape the manners of a gentleman, but he’s nothing more than a common street thug.”

  Branston grabbed her, his fingers digging into her upper arms until tears burned in her eyes. “If Corey wants you, he’ll have you if I have to drag you bound to the altar. Do I make myself clear?” he spat.

  “Completely.”

  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, Callista. Haven’t I always ever seen to your best interests? Haven’t I always been there to take care of you, unlike those high-and-mighty relatives of your mother’s? Corey’s an important and wealthy man with important friends. You should be happy he wants you.”

  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 have ever paid 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 should you need anything.”

  Hardly a comfort. The old bawd acting as Branston’s housekeeper was another of Mr. Cor
ey’s associates. Since setting up shop in London six months ago, their household had slowly been taken over by the gang leader 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, blood welling behind the thin cut. Holding it above the glass he’d prepared beforehand, he waited as three drops large fell into the viscous slime-green liquid, then snatched up a napkin to wrap around his wound. Already the initial sting became a steady throb moving up his arm into his head until spots bounced in front of his eyes and his stomach squirmed ominously.

  He’d almost left it too late.

  Swirling the liquid round 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.

  He wasn’t sure which was worse—the cure or the curse.

  Placing 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 the knife once more, David waited—and listened. He’d take no chances. Not with the Ossine’s brutal enforcers stalking the countryside in search of rebel Imnada. Not when wielding silver might be the difference between life and extermination.

  Sooner or later they were bound to suspect exiled clan members of collusion if not outright allegiance to the traitors. And when they did, David would be ready. They’d not lay their hands on him again.

  He’d die first. And take a few down with him before he went.

  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 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 or am I special?” Mac snarled, his cat-slanted green eyes narrowed in fury.

  “You’ll always be special to me,” David quipped with a smile despite his shaking knees and the renewed rush of dizziness spinning his head. He tossed the knife with a clatter onto a nearby table. “But if you lurk around doorways in the middle of the night, you can’t complain about the less than friendly welcome.”

  “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, he poured one for Mac, who was rubbing at 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’ve done nothing wrong, unlike some people who are up to their necks in traitorous revolution.” David settled into a chair. It felt good after the busy night he’d had. He tossed back the whiskey, feeling the burn all the way to his toes. “Much as I appreciate the warning, couldn’t it have waited until morning?”

  “You’ve always been more of a night owl. I see things haven’t changed.”

  “Darkness suits me,” David said with a sly curve of his lips. “Does Gray know about this meddlesome Ossine?”

  “Gray’s gone north to Radcliffe. I haven’t heard from him in weeks. I’m starting to worry.”

  “And so you should. If the enforcers ever 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 his head pained him. “I know, but Gray doesn’t listen. Personally, I think this whole rebellion is his way of getting back at his grandfather.”

  “Do you blame him? The old man could have saved him. He could have saved all of us. Personally, I think a nice blade between dear Grandpapa’s ribs would be much easier, but to each his own.”

  A tense silence sprang up, though neither strove to break it. The three friends had reached a tacit agreement. They never spoke of the last chaotic days of war when a dying Fey-blood had set his vicious spell upon the three of them. Nor did they talk of the cure they had discovered that had fast become a deadly addiction. They could not stop. They could not continue. Either choice brought sickness and, finally, death. In their struggle to free themselves of the enchantment, they had ended trapped and tainted by the magic of the Fey—again.

  Mac found solace from his pain in love, Gray in revenge.

  David found it at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.

  “So, now that your message has been delivered, care to stay for a drink—or three?” He started to rise.

  “There’s another . . . small matter.”

  David sighed, dropping back into his chair. “There always is.”

  A shuffling step sounded from just outside the door followed by a click of a heel on the parquet. David snatched up his silver blade and was halfway to the door before Mac grabbed him. “Wait.”

  David swung around, eyes wild. “What the hell—”

  “Caleb!” Mac called. “Show yourself. It’s all right.”

  A thin man with a long, pockmarked face and dingy brown hair stepped into the study. His eyes darted around the room as if gauging safety.

  “St. Leger won’t harm you. Will you, David?”

  “That depends on who the devil he is.” He turned once more to the sideboard. Mother of All, but he needed another drink.

  “This is Caleb Kineally,” Mac began. “He’s—”

  “Imnada.” David finished Mac’s sentence at the first mental brush of shapechanger magic against his mind. “I take it he’s one of Gray’s rebels.”

  Mac ran a hand over his haggard face, and for the first time David noticed the waxen pallor of his friend’s features, the smudges hollowing his eyes. “Aye. He needs to lie low while that enforcer’s on the loose.”

  “Is there a reason you’re telling me all this?”

  “I want you to look after him.”

  “Me?”

  “While Gray’s gone, you’re the only one I trust to keep him safe. Bianca’s been through enough already. I can’t ask her to place herself in danger again. Not with a baby on the way.”

  David’s resolve wavered at mention of Mac’s out-clan bride, but he shoved his better nature aside. Mac had asked for the trouble when he’d bought into Gray’s mutinous rhetoric. It wasn’t David’s problem nor his cause.

  “It’s just until things quiet down,” Mac pleaded.

  “No. It’s too dangerous. You and Gray can delude yourselves into thinking you’ll make our lives better by defying the Ossine. I know the truth. You’ll end up dead. But you won’t take me with you.”

  “We’re dead either way though, aren’t we?” Mac answered. The simple truth of those words hit David like a kick to the stomach.

  So much for tac
it agreements.

  “Please, David.”

  He’d never heard Mac beg. Not in Charleroi with battle looming and the Fey-blood’s spell singeing their veins like acid. Not when he’d been brought in chains before the stern-faced Gather to have the sentence of emnil pronounced. And not even when his back had been a charred wreck and death seemed a mercy. Mac did not beg. He suffered. He endured. It’s part of what David had always admired about his friend.

  “You once told me the dead were the only ones who might make a difference,” Mac said. “You once believed in the cause as much as any of us.”

  “Did I? Must have been drunk at the time.” David tossed back his whiskey. Was this his third or his fourth? He’d lost count.

  Mac eyed him over the glass with a last-throw-of-the-dice look on his face. “What if I told you the name of the Ossine on Kineally’s trail is a man by the name of Beskin?”

  David’s back twitched with remembered pain, the whiskey turning sour in his gut. Eudo Beskin remained in his head as a brutal nightmare from which there was no waking. If keeping Kineally safe thwarted the dead-hearted bastard, he would do it gladly. “Very well. He can stay. But that doesn’t make me one of you.”

  Mac smiled his success as he placed his glass upon a sideboard. “Scoff all you like, St. Leger.” He tossed a newspaper on the sofa open to the headline MONSTER OF THE MEWS PREVENTS MALICIOUS MURDER. “But you’re one of us whether you admit it or not.”

  * * *

  The man sat at his usual corner table, his plate emptied of dinner, a brandy before him. Those in the crowded chophouse who noticed him at all dismissed him without a second glance. Just as he’d planned it when he set the spell in motion that repelled eyes and minds, allowing him to disappear while remaining in plain sight. A useful gift. In his early days on the street, it had kept him alive in the chaos of London’s slums when food had been his primary goal. But as his skills grew so did his ambitions. After all, why be given such a talent if it wasn’t to be used?

  “. . . big as a bear with teeth like a lion’s and claws like the barber’s razor. Seen it myself . . .”