by Gaelen Foley
“Well, it is true I think you’re a villain. But this isn’t for you. It’s for Drake.”
He let out a wan laugh. “Clever girl.”
Emily frowned. Though clearly in pain, the old man did not seem much perturbed by his imminent death, a fact she found even more unsettling than his seeping wound.
“How long do I have?” he asked with a wince.
“I don’t know for certain. You might pull through, it just depends—”
“Miss Harper, the time for lies is past. How long?” he repeated.
She shrugged in dismay. “Perhaps an hour. Maybe less.”
“Then I must act swiftly. Send in Drake at once,” he forced out. “I wish to speak to him alone.”
She hesitated.
“Oh, bother, there are greater matters at stake than the life of one miserable old man!” he snapped. “Go, girl! Get me Drake at once.”
Far be it from her to deny a man his dying wish.
She did not know what he was about, but she could see in his eyes that his mind was made up. She rose, adjusted the pillow behind his head in spite of herself, then stepped out to summon his distraught bodyguard.
Drake had all the requested items in his arms and was on his way back to the parlor, giving instructions to his underlings on his way. His face darkened when he saw her waiting. Emily folded her arms across her chest, chilled by the memory of his ruthless capability. Mainly, however, she was furious at herself. They had been so close to escape!
If only she hadn’t let herself be seen trying to catch that stupid horse. She shook her head.
Drake dismissed his men and marched over to her, bracing himself for the worst. “How is he?”
She searched his eyes before answering, praying that the terrible night would not set him back too badly. He had been doing so well. “He is dying,” she admitted.
Drake flinched and looked away.
“He’s asking for you.” She gestured toward the room. “He wants to talk to you privately.”
“Very well,” he said with a nod. Then he paused. “Are you all right?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head with a sigh. “Don’t ask me that.”
He lowered his gaze, took a deep breath, and squared his broad shoulders. Then he went in to see James.
“Good God, don’t look so gloomy,” James said wryly when he walked in. “Everyone’s got to die sometime. I’m old. And, frankly, I’m surprised I lasted this long. We both know I rather had it coming for quite a long time.”
Drake sat down heavily on the chair beside the divan. He shook his head. “This is all my fault,” he said in a taut voice. “If I had not turned away—”
“Then Emily would be dead.”
“You knew I could only save one of you.” He studied him. “You gave your life for her.”
“Well, as I said, I’m old. She’s young . . . and probably carrying your child already.”
Drake looked at him in surprise. “Am I so obvious?”
“I have eyes, boy. I’m not a fool.”
Drake shook his head, still torn by his choices in the thick of the fight, playing it over in his head, trying to find the mistake. “If I had been faster—”
“Please. You have already saved my life three times. You pulled me out of the path of an Order agent’s bullet back in London. The second time, you kept me from drowning when our ship sank in the North Sea.”
“If it weren’t for that Waterguard vessel, we’d both have frozen,” Drake murmured.
“Then at the Pulteney Hotel you saved me from Niall Banks. Unpleasant fellow. If you hadn’t come along when you did, he would have strangled me and taken the Alchemist’s Scrolls.”
“You really can’t stay out of trouble, can you?” he said with a fond half smile in spite of their dire situation.
“Well, I’m afraid it’s caught up to me this time.” Though James smiled weakly, the bandage he held to his middle was turning red.
“I failed you.”
“It does not signify. It was bound to end like this for me sooner or later. If you play with fire, and all that. No more glum talk. There is a reason I wanted to speak to you privately, while we still have time.”
“Yes, sir?”
“It’s about the girl . . .”
“Emily?”
“Yes. I have been watching the two of you since she arrived. To be honest, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Like what?” he murmured uneasily.
“Her love for you.” James searched his face. “Everyone professes to love something or someone, but they are few, those who would carry it out to the end of the line, unto death. She is not afraid to die for you.”
“Nor I for her.”
“But you are a warrior. You have the training. All she has is her heart.” He shook his head. “We are both undone by her, in our separate ways.”
Drake eyed him warily. “I don’t understand.”
“Ah, my boy, I have defied priests, philosophers, indeed, the laws of justice all my life for what I deluded myself into believing was the love of Mankind. Our Promethean vision . . . bringing all the earth under the rule of one benevolent power . . . no more wars. Universal brotherhood . . . it sounds so inspiring, doesn’t it? And yet look at the means we use to try to achieve those ends.”
He shook his head. Drake stared at him.
“And here is little Emily, with her perfect willingness to give up her own life. Asking nothing for herself. Pure, unselfish humility . . . Her innocent devotion to you is the genuine article. That is love. She has shown up all our high-minded notions for what they truly are, a sham. You must understand, in my eagerness to do good, I never intended to hurt anyone . . . but it’s too late for excuses. All is folly. The truth is, I have sunk into evil.”
“James—”
He shook his head, silencing him. “What I wore as virtue was a fine cloak over a monstrosity—and now I must go and face whatever lies beyond the veil. If anything is left of the man I once was, long ago, then I must act now, with my last breath, to try to reverse the consequences of my actions.”
“What are you saying?” Drake whispered.
“I was wrong. My whole life has been wrong.” He groaned, looking away. “You must know I did not give a damn about you when I first had you removed from that dungeon.”
Drake stiffened, but, of course, he knew.
“I have not given a damn for anyone since I let them kill my son.” James shook his head with a fierce, inward stare. “He was eleven when I sent him to the altar. Dearest blood. He’d have been about your age by now. You must not let them do this to Emily.”
“I never meant to,” Drake informed him slowly.
James turned to him at last with an odd, weary smile. “I thought not. Yes . . . I see you clearly now, Lord Westwood. The Initiate’s Brand may have marked your body, but the Order’s seal is on your soul.”
Drake held his stare.
“That is why it all depends on you now. You must finish this.”
He looked at James in question.
“Finish what we both know you came here to do. I can help you destroy this bloody death cult once and for all. I can put you into position, but it’s up to you to carry it through to the end of the line. Will you do this?”
“Yes.”
The old man grasped his hand with a clawlike hold, staring feverishly at him. It was the only time Drake had ever seen his control slip. “Promise me,” he rasped.
Drake’s heart pounded. “I promise.”
“Destroy them all,” James whispered. “And then may my son be avenged.”
Emily had moved among the rooms in the castle’s main floor, helping the injured. The question of which side they were on at the moment seemed irrelevant. They were human beings, and there were more of them in desperate need of aid than the guards’ surgeon could handle alone.
Still, as she followed the sounds of their groans, it was difficult to walk past the place where th
e dead men lay on the floor with her arrows sticking out of them.
She could not stand to look at them even though it was they who had attacked her, and if she had not defended herself, they would have killed her. They had laughed at her. None of them had thought she’d really shoot.
She hurried into the great hall, a place of carnage. The rug in front of the fireplace was hopelessly ruined, along with most of the upholstered furniture. Lord knew her plan to use the monkshood would have been a great deal tidier.
She picked her way around the bodies and their pools of blood to assist the surgeon with another bleeding lord of the Promethean Council.
She mused on how Lord Rotherstone and the other Order agents would have relished this sight, their enemies laid low. She wondered where he was, if he had even received her letter.
As she and the surgeon helped their patient, one of Jacques’s men gain his feet—he was not too badly injured—she saw the parlor door open down the corridor.
Drake stepped out. He must have finished saying his private good-byes to Falkirk. His grim expression was hard to read from that distance, but he called all the survivors in to hear some words from James.
The dying head of the Council wished to speak to all the survivors right away.
The many Prometheans who had come to the castle from all over Europe began shuffling in to hear what he had to say. Emily drifted in surreptitiously, keeping to the outskirts of the room. She wanted to know what was going on. She hoped no one noticed her.
Meanwhile, Drake returned to Falkirk’s side. She watched him, still not quite able to believe some of the things she had seen him do that night.
When all the survivors of the attack had assembled, she sensed fear in the hush that fell over them as they gathered around their stricken leader.
“Gentlemen,” Falkirk began in a weak voice, “as you’ve heard by now, I shall be leaving this world shortly. No, it’s all right,” he assured those who let out sounds of protest. “The important thing is that Malcolm Banks has left it, too—thanks to Drake.”
His voice quavered weakly when he spoke again. He cleared his throat.
“Unfortunately, this leaves you all without a leader.
“Losses on the Council have been heavy. Nevertheless, the light always breaks in the darkest hour. I have called you together because I believe that tonight, the moment of our destiny has arrived.”
Emily looked at Drake. His hard, beautiful face was inscrutable. He looked like he was carved from stone as he stood by James’s side, his arms folded across his chest. Remote, cold, intimidating. His coal black eyes were ominous, his clothes streaked with blood.
He barely looked like the same man, the same tender lover, who had caressed her so passionately the night before.
A silence had fallen over the room.
“There are many secrets hidden in the Alchemist’s Scrolls, but one . . . whose time, I feel, has come. I had told the Council earlier . . .” His speech was growing more labored. “But now the time has come for me to reveal it to the rest of you, as well. I think you will agree.”
“What is this secret, my lord?” one of the men near the front spoke up.
“Valerian’s greatest prophecy, telling of how our ultimate victory would come . . .”
They leaned closer; Emily stared.
“The Alchemist recorded a vision of a knight who would forsake the Order of St. Michael and join our ranks. A warrior-prince who would rise to the apex of our creed and lead our armies to the victory we have so long sought.
“Gentlemen,” Falkirk whispered, “I give you Drake Parry, the Earl of Westwood. You saw his performance this night. It was he who killed Malcolm. He is the one we have awaited for an age.”
Emily held her breath, immobilized as her blood ran cold.
“He is one of us now. He knows the enemy’s ways. Listen to me,” James insisted, as their shocked whispers flew around the room. “We were defeated under Malcolm, a corrupt financier concerned only with lining his own pockets. He was bound to fail, and for myself, I am just a humble scholar, old and weak. But Drake is a warrior. He is what we need right now. Look at him! Strong, fearless. Unbreakable, though our torturers did their best. He proved his loyalty tonight with his sword, and I tell you, he is the key. Now, my brothers, I urge you with the lifeblood I have left to accept this man who has saved my life three times as your new head of the Council, and the fulfillment of Valerian’s greatest dream.”
Emily was horrified, but Drake appeared blackly serene.
“What say you?” Falkirk urged, scanning them.
“A-are you willing, Lord Westwood?”
Drake turned, expressionless, to stare at the man who had asked the question. “I am willing.”
“Well, I’m not!” Emily cried, pushing away from the wall and shoving through the crowd so he could see her. “Are you truly mad?”
“What is she doing in here?” someone protested.
“Who let her in?” another huffed.
“You cannot do this. I will not let you!”
They ignored her.
“Mind you, this girl is no longer an acceptable sacrifice for the night of the eclipse,” Falkirk told them sharply. “She killed three men tonight.”
“She did?” someone muttered in shock.
“This disqualifies her as an innocent. Miss Harper, please leave.”
“I will not!”
“Emily, go,” Drake ordered.
She stared helplessly at him, but was forgotten again before she could decide whether she was inclined to obey.
“You must put it to a vote among yourselves. Quickly, now,” Falkirk urged the others. “I have told you my will. My strength is nearly gone.”
“James, is this really the counsel you would give us? To make this creature of the enemy our ruler?”
“He is no enemy! I swear by dearest blood that what Valerian recorded centuries ago has come to pass. Drake is the only one who can bring our great struggle to a victorious end, at last.”
Somber glances were exchanged. Grim nods.
“Very well, then. Let the brethren vote.”
“So be it.”
“All in favor?”
Emily watched, shaking her head and overwhelmed at this calamity, as bloodied hands were raised, one by one, around the room.
“It is unanimous, old friend,” a distinguished gentlemen near the front informed James. “Your successor has been chosen.”
Drake nodded in acceptance of their lauds and raised his chin. They pledged their loyalty to him.
Falkirk eased back against the divan, tension easing from his ashen face, as though he had just accomplished some great feat.
Then the frightened, wounded men began asking Drake’s instructions on a dozen matters all at once; but Emily, who had still refused to leave, could only stare at him in disbelief. She could not wrap her mind around it. This had to be a ruse, though she did not see how.
So much for taking him home safely.
Her beloved Drake had just been made the terrifying new leader of the Prometheans.
Chapter 18
James was dead, his body burned in accordance with the creed. Malcolm’s followers had also been disposed of, and the eclipse was just three nights away.
Bizarre as it was to find himself in that position, Drake knew he had to act like a proper ruler of the Prometheans. And somehow he found this alarmingly easy to do.
No sweeter revenge could have been offered up to him than to be given total power over his enemies. He loved more than he cared to admit having them bow and scrape to him. None of them dared cross him.
Those who had tortured him in mind and body now found themselves at his mercy. With a word, he could order everything done to them that had once been done to him, and worse.
He enjoyed seeing them quake when he walked into the room. They tripped over themselves to grovel to him, and the fear he read in their eyes when he spoke to any of them was highly gratifying.
After all, their fear of him was key to his security, and Emily’s.
Likewise, it was only Drake’s fear of what Emily would say that stopped him from using his delicious new power as he might have wanted to.
But God knew he was tempted . . .
Strange that after James had undergone a deathbed conversion to the light, his own views were trending darker.
Head of the Prometheans . . . What would his old friends in the Order think of him now?
He was well aware that he was playing a game more dangerous than any Order agent before him had ever attempted. The Promethean secrets open to him were wider and farther-reaching than any agent had ever gained access to, as well.
Sitting at a large oak desk in the study that very afternoon, he had before him a full list of the Promethean safe houses throughout Europe, the locations and suppliers of their ammunitions stores, the names of their agents embedded in foreign governments and universities, and, most importantly, the information James had been waiting for—the far-flung bank accounts where Malcolm had stashed the fortune the Prometheans had amassed through their deviltry in the stock exchange.
He was leaning on his elbow, musing on all the secrets exposed to him, when Emily came in.
He looked over. Despite everything on his mind, he was glad to see her. Unfortunately, there was no missing the uneasy look in her violet eyes. It had been there ever since the battle in the great hall. They had not really discussed the events of that night. What was he to say after what she had seen? He did not know how to account for himself.
She had known, at least intellectually, that he was trained to kill. Now she had seen it for herself, and she had killed, as well.
He had never wanted her to experience such a thing, but she had done what she had had to do. It was a curse she had brought upon herself by following him there.
As she sauntered toward him, in any case, they were doing their best to carry on with some shred of normality.
Drake was just happy there was no more sickening talk of her as the sacrifice. He was now the Promethean leader, and she was his woman, his concubine. She was safe in this position. They both were, for the moment.