Demon's Curse
Page 32
“. . . this before or after you’d spent your week’s pay on blue ruin . . .”
“. . . found old Moseby last week, gutted like a mackerel in an alley near the steel yard . . .”
“. . . wager his old woman did him in rather than some slavering monster . . .”
The nearby conversation grated on his already strained temper. He’d not come to hear gossip from two red-nosed drunken knaves with less in their heads than they had in their pockets. He checked his watch, sipped sparingly at his drink. Half his success came as a result of keeping a clear head among a rabble of half-soused alley scum.
The door opened and Branston Hawthorne scrambled in as if he had a constable on his tail. Out of breath, he darted his suspicious eyes round the room before sidling over to slide into the seat opposite. “So sorry,” he wheezed. “A group of us were meeting to discuss these rumors about the Imnada. Hope you weren’t waiting long.”
“What are Imnada?” Victor Corey sipped unconcernedly at his brandy. It wouldn’t do to show too much interest. Keep them guessing. Keep them off their stride. Never show your hand. That had always been his way.
“Don’t you know about the shapechangers?” Hawthorne asked, disbelief creeping into his voice.
“Damn your eyes! Would I ask the question if I knew?”
Corey hated that he must rely on fools like Branston Hawthorne to instruct him in a magical world that should have been his birthright. He hated that the knowledge this bootlicking poltroon took for granted, Victor Corey, king of the stews, scrabbled to grasp. But grasp it he had. It had taken years to fully understand his power, both its limits and its possibilities. The results had gained him wealth and influence, if not admiration. No matter. The world may not respect him, but it feared him. An emotion that served him twice as well.
It flickered now in Hawthorne’s gaze. Corey relaxed back in his seat, swigging his brandy as if it were the gin he craved. “Who or what are Imnada? They must be important if they kept you from our meeting.”
Hawthorne licked his lips, rubbed the side of his nose with one pudgy finger. “Yes . . . I mean no . . . I mean of course. I’m happy to explain. The Imnada are shapechangers. Used to be plentiful as the coins in your pocket until they betrayed Arthur at the last battle. Their war chief cut the king down where he stood”—he snapped his fingers—“just like that. But the Other showed them. For their treachery they—”
Corey scowled. “King Arthur? Is that the Arthur we’re talking about?”
“Aye, last great king of our kind, old Arthur was. Said to be more Fey than human. But it didn’t stop the Imnada from doing him in. He bled same as anyone with a sword stuck through his gut. Afterward, the shifters were hunted down, the whole monstrous lot of them. Killed in droves like vermin until none were left . . . or so we thought, the sneaky buggers. It’s said they’ve returned bold as brass and twice as dangerous.”
Corey leaned back in his chair. “They change shape? Into what exactly?”
Hawthorne sighed as one might when confronted with a small child’s incessant questions, his long exhale choked off at a single cold stare from his host. “They shift from man to ruthless wild beast. As soon as kill you as look at you. The Other are organizing. We’ll not be taken unawares by a bunch of dirty shifters.”
“Pitchforks and torches?” Corey said smoothly. “I’d love to see a mob like that parading down Bond Street amid the hoity-toities. Give them a good scare.” He held Hawthorne’s gaze long enough for the man to shift uneasily in his seat, before glancing away with a lift of a shoulder and a wave to the barman. “Enough about your bogeymen in the night. I invited you here to find out what you plan on doing about your sister’s defiance. I don’t appreciate being made a fool of, and I’m sure you don’t want me to change my mind about our arrangement.”
He regarded Hawthorne’s unease with satisfaction. “No, of course not, Mr. Corey. You’ve been more than generous with your offer and I’m indebted to you for your patience in the matter.”
“You’re indebted to me for far more than that, Hawthorne. And I expect payment in full. The girl or the coin. Which will it be?” Though, he already knew the answer. He’d made sure Hawthorne was up to his neck in debt with no hope of repayment. Not that it had been difficult. The man had the business acumen of a babe in the cradle.
Hawthorne straightened in his chair, his chubby face breaking into a smile. “You’ll have Callista, Mr. Corey. No worry on that score. I’ve given her a good talking-to. There won’t be any more of her foolishness.” He took a long greedy swallow of his wine, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, unaware of the red drops flecking his neckcloth. “She can be a handful at times, but a stern husband should settle her down right quick.”
Corey smiled. Oh, he’d settle Miss Callista Hawthorne down all right. Once tamed, she’d make good bedsport. The woman was ripe for a man’s attentions. All she needed was the right man to show her the way.
But while he would enjoy introducing her to the pleasures of the flesh, it was Callista’s gift of necromancy he truly desired. She was his key into death. And when one possesses the key, one controls the door; both who goes in and, more importantly, what comes out.
Annwn was full of dark spirits bound to the deepest paths of the underworld. Dark spirits who only needed a guide to lead them up to and through the door between realms. Once that door was breached, Branston Hawthorne with his round little body and unctuous pandering would be the first to die. And from there, who knew . . .
With an army of the underworld at Corey’s command, his grip on London would tighten like a noose. They called him a gang lord.
Soon, they’d call him mayor.
Perhaps in time they’d hail him as king—or better. Arthur might have been the last great king of the Other. Victor Corey could be the next.
Some thought him mad to take a dowerless nobody as his wife, but he knew better. Callista Hawthorne would bring him the world as her marriage portion.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Alexa Egan
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First Pocket Books paperback edition January 2013
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ISBN: 978-1-4516-7290-9
ISBN: 978-1-4516-7294-7 (eBook)
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