Shadow's Curse

by Alexa Egan

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

  David found it at the bottom of a whisky bottle.

  “Your message has been delivered, Captain. Care 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 the click of a heel on the parquet. David snatched up his 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 lay low while the enforcers are close. I want you to look after him.”

  “Me?”

  “While Gray’s away, you’re the only one I trust. Bianca’s been through enough. I can’t place her 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 trouble when he’d bought into Gray’s mutinous rhetoric. It wasn’t David’s problem nor his cause.

  “Just until things quiet down,” Mac pleaded.

  “You and Gray are deluding yourselves if you believe you’ll make our lives better by defying the Os-sine. 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 delusions.

  “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 clan Gather to have the sentence of emnil pronounced. And not even when they’d burned away his clan mark, leaving his back a charred wreck and making death seem like mercy. Mac did not beg. He suffered. He endured. It was 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 whisky. 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. “The Ossine on Kineally’s trail is a man by the name of Beskin.”

  David’s back twitched with remembered pain, the whisky 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, David would do it gladly, but he glared at Mac for playing his trump. “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 brutality and chaos of London’s fetid alleys and dank winding passages, when finding 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 and claws like the barber’s razor. Seen it myself . . .”

  “. . . 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 steelyard . . .”

  “. . . 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.

  “You don’t 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 boot-licking poltroon took for granted, Victor Corey, king of the stews, scrabbled to grasp. But grasp it he would. 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 might not respect him, but it feared him. An emotion that served him twice as well.

  Nervousness flickered now in Hawthorne’s gaze. Corey relaxed back in his seat, taking a sip of his brandy. “Who or what are Imnada? They must be important if they kept you from our meeting.”

  Hawthorne licked his lips and 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 grass on a hill 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 paid them back for their treachery—”

  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. But his long exhale was choked off at a single cold stare from his host. “They shift from man to ruthless wild beast. As soon 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 move uneasily in his seat before gla
ncing 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 continued 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 dressing-down. 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 neck cloth. “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 bed sport. 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 in to death. And when one possesses the key, one controls the door—both who goes in and, more importantly, what comes out.

  The realm of Annwn was full of dark spirits bound to the underworld’s deepest paths. Dark spirits who only needed a guide to lead them up to and through the door separating life and death. 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 already called him a gang lord and a prince of thieves.

  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.

  2

  The gang closed in on the woman from two sides, leaving her nowhere to run but toward the alley. False hope, for that way ended in a brick wall. Too high to jump, and while the stones of the empty tenement backing onto the passage were held with barely more than plaster and a promise, no slip of a female would be able to bring them down and win a way out.

  Alone, she was as good as caught, and judging by the ripe odors of alcohol and brutality rising from the men, she’d be lucky to escape with her life, much less her honor. She must have known it, too, for she grabbed up a broken plank, holding it in front of her like a sword. Or like someone who’d never handled a sword might hold one. She whipped the board from side to side, her eyes darting between her captors as they circled.

  David slunk from his position in the lee of St. Martin’s Lane, threading the mews, coming up behind the old tailor’s shop. Then through the broken crawl space under the abandoned brewery before arriving at the other side of the wall. Six and a half feet straight up. His fur rippled with excitement. A growl vibrated low in his chest.

  Too high for the woman.

  An easy leap for a wolf.

  He took a short approach before curling his back legs under and vaulting skyward with every ounce of force, front paws stretched for the ledge. A momentary scramble, and he was up.

  His gaze moved slowly over the tableau spread beneath him. The woman backed against the wall, her cloak thrown off her shoulders to reveal a heavy satchel dragging her off-balance, her arms wobbling under the continued weight of the plank as her attackers chortled and swaggered with their success. The fizz and burn of Fey-blood magic jangled at the base of his brain, crawled over his skin. Which one of the group bore the blood of the Other in their veins? David tried focusing on the source, but he was interrupted by the woman’s scream as one of her attackers slammed her against the bricks. His mates cheered him on as he tore the plank from her hands and pressed against her, groping his way under her cloak to squeeze her breast.

  “How dare you!” She lashed out, her palm connecting with his cheek.

  “Spitfire, this one is.”

  “Don’t let Corey see ya pawing the girl, Bates. He’ll cut your dick off and shove it up your arse.”

  “Just softening ’er up is all.” Bates released her with a shove, but his lecherous, wild-eyed look remained. She scrambled for the plank, but he kicked it to the side and out of reach. “Your brother’s worrit sick about you, he is, miss. Wouldn’t want somethin’ to happen to ye alone in the big city at night. Mayhap you’ll run into a fella who’d want to stuff his cock into ye . . . or mayhap a whole group of fellas with stiff cocks. What-cha think of that?”

  The others sniggered.

  A mite early for gloating. David’s lips curled back in a toothy grimace, a low snarl rolling up from deep in his throat to bounce eerily between buildings. Immediately, what had been an easy abduction erupted into chaos. They looked up, freezing under the inhuman stare from the enormous black shadow, their frightened shouts warming his heart, his laughter sounding as another low, frightening growl.

  In one flowing move, David leapt from the wall and sank his teeth into Bates’s arm. The blood leaked hot into his mouth, bones cracking under the pressure. The man’s face went chalk-white, his mouth opening and closing in a silent scream. Shaking him from side to side, David thrilled at the man’s choking gasps and jerking blood-spattering twitches before he went silent and then limp. Passed out? Dead? David didn’t care. The vile filth had been a rapist and a murderer.

  “. . . monster from the papers . . .”

  “. . . Devil of Dawlish Street . . .”

  David lifted his head, lips pulled back from his fangs in a dripping gruesome smile. Hadn’t heard that one before.

  The remaining men retreated, their shouts and panicked cries better than a Beethoven symphony.

  “Hold your ground, boys,” someone shouted. “We ain’t gonna let no ruddy animal scare us off.”

  The panicked men rallied under the newcomer. A knife sailed past David’s face to clang against the bricks. Then a broken bottle.

  So much for easy.

  David lunged for his nearest attacker, savaging him with a rake of his claws. Tearing clean a chunk of thigh. Breaking an ankle between his jaws. The man screamed, hunched and shaking against further attack. A bullet smashed into the wall above David’s head. He whipped around in time to catch another murderous bastard aiming a long steel knife. One focused, ruthless look from David was all it took for the rascal to flee in a mad scramble for safety, his shoes ringing loud against the cobbles.

  One more murderous gang of cutthroats to spread the word of the mysterious monster prowling the midnight streets. One more victim saved by the ghostly beast of the night.

  He turned his head for his first real look at the woman when a sudden burst of pain ripped through his skull and his brain exploded with a dazzle of fireworks. His gaze narrowed on the upraised plank gripped in the woman’s shaking hands. The plank swung down, the fireworks became a bomb blast, and darkness rose up like a wave to swallow him whole.

  * * *

  “Wake up. Please wake up,” Callista whispered as she shook the man by his shoulder.

  He groaned, blinking bleary, unfocused eyes. “Go ’way, Mac. Head’s splitting. Whisky . . . too much . . .” Then he slumped back against the wooden post he’d been lashed to, wrists taut behind him.

  She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders against the a
ttic’s chill and shook him again. “I’m not Mac, but please, you have to wake up.”

  Even though long familiar with the otherworldly, what she’d seen back in the alley still seemed unbelievable. The strange blurring of air around his prone body as a swirling wind burned against her face, the prick and sting of unfamiliar magic up and down her arms as wolf gave way to naked man. Her shock lasted mere seconds, but it had been enough time for Corey’s men to return. She struggled as they grabbed her, but it was no use. She and the unconscious stranger had been brought back to the house.

  She’d been locked in her bedchamber. She’d not seen what they’d done with their prisoner. Not until a jimmied lock and a quiet search had ended here in the attic among dusty trunks and broken furniture.

  She shook him once more, trying very hard to keep her eyes on his face and off the rest of him, which remained as he’d been found—very, very naked. Not that it was difficult to keep her stare fixed above his shoulders. He was the most exquisite man she’d ever seen. A face like a fallen angel, all chiseled angles and stern lines, a stubborn chin, a straight nose, and a sinfully full mouth. His blond hair curled against his neck, slightly longer than fashion allowed, but obviously cut by a very good barber. In fact, even without clothes to label class or rank, it was easy to perceive he was no Whitechapel thatch-gallows. From the impossibly broad shoulders to the well-defined, muscular body, the man oozed elegance and the confidence that comes with wealth. Hard to manage being nude and trussed like a Christmas goose awaiting the farmer, but the gentleman did it in spades. The only incongruity was his back, which bore horrible scars as if he’d been through a war—or two. Still, that only added to the raw physicality of the man. If that were possible.

  Her gaze snapped back to his face and off his . . . “Can you hear me? Please say something.” Who knew how much time she had before Branston checked on her—or the prisoner. She needed to speak with the man first. She needed to find out who he was.