Shadow's Curse

by Alexa Egan

  “You’ll find my brother in his office counting his coins,” she said. “Why don’t you go gloat over the misery of others with him and leave me alone?”

  Corey spun her around to face him, leaning in close. She could smell a mix of cloves and brandy on his breath. “You think you’re better than me, don’t you? I have news for you, you’re nothing but a sideshow freak. The same as that chap locked upstairs.”

  The man upstairs. David.

  The name suited him. Strong yet with a touch of upper-class panache.

  Unfortunately, knowing the prisoner’s name only made her feel worse about knocking him over the head and dragging him into this mess. Not to mention that had she accepted his help as it was meant, she might have made her escape. She might even be aboard a northbound coach by now. Free and clear. On her way to Scotland and Aunt Deirdre.

  Safe.

  “All of our kind are afflicted with powers that make us strange and different. Make us more than human.” Corey looked past her and muttered a few words of household magic, causing the candles upon a side table to burst into flame and the fire in the hearth to roar to life. “It’s what we do with them that’s the key.”

  “Just because you use your powers to swindle and scam doesn’t mean I should do the same.”

  She winced as he turned the same intensity of expression on her that he’d used to kindle the candles. “Those powers were all that kept me from starving when my pa chucked me out. Six years old I was, and lucky he didn’t have me tied in a sack and drowned in the river for being a monster. But I didn’t starve, did I? I succeeded. Got rich. And made sure the old man knew it, right before I gutted him like a market hog.”

  She tried to edge away from him, but the table dug into her back, the chair cutting off her escape. “I didn’t know.”

  His scarred face twisted in a cold look of fury. “Of course you didn’t. You think I go about advertising what I am or where I come from? You think you’re something special, but you’re not. You’re a dealer in dreams just like I’m a dealer in goods. We each use what we have the only way we can to get ahead and to hell with the stupid prats who don’t have our advantages. They deserve to be swindled.”

  She dropped her gaze to her hands, the truth of his words more painful than the grip he had on her chin. “That can’t be all there is. Or the only reason for our gifts. I won’t believe it.”

  “So grand and selfless, but the world doesn’t bow to the meek and the righteous. It’s power and money that make men respect you.” He smiled, licking his lips, undressing her with his eyes. “Another few weeks and you’ll belong to me. Together we’ll show the world what monsters can do. We’ll show them real power.”

  “What do you mean?” Callista asked, though she knew already she’d not like the answer.

  “Hasn’t Branston broken the news? Your brother has accepted my very generous offer. You and I are to be married by special license in a few short days.”

  She wanted to be sick. “I’ll never marry you. You may dress like a dandy and ape the manners of a gentleman, but you’re nothing more than a common street thug.”

  Corey grabbed her, his fingers digging into her upper arms until tears burned in her eyes. “I’ll have you if I have to drag you bound to the altar and afterward I’ll show you just how common I can be.”

  Before she could respond, he clamped his mouth on hers, shoving his tongue between her teeth while his free hand fondled her breasts. She struggled, but it only made him press his body closer to hers, his excitement shoved between her thighs. She couldn’t breathe. His hand pinched at her nipple until tears stung her eyes. The case fell with a clang of spilled bells to the floor, their ring sizzling along her bones, the paths into death opening like a tumbled knot in her skull, her spirit lifting away from her.

  He bit her lip, blood mingling with his spit, and she was yanked back into her body in time to slam her knee into his groin.

  “Bitch!” he shouted, releasing her with a shove that sent her hurtling backward to trip and sprawl on the rug near the fallen bells.

  She wiped her mouth on her sleeve, eyeing Corey with disgust and loathing.

  He loomed over her, fury making him seem even larger, his scar white against the scarlet of his flushed complexion. “I’ll show you what kind of proper gentleman I am and not take you on this floor here and now. You can play the simpering innocent, but not for long, my darling Miss Hawthorne. Not for long.”

  “You’re a pig.”

  He smiled as he bent, placing a hand around her throat, his fingers gently squeezing. She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. She couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe. Madness flickered in his gaze. “I’m going to enjoy our wedding night. Pain can be such an aphrodisiac, did you know?” She clutched at his hand, trying to loosen his hold before she passed out. “So, if you want to keep all that lovely pink flesh intact, you should be very careful how you speak to me from now on.”

  He released her, straightening to adjust his cuff, pluck a hair from his sleeve.

  Callista scrambled to her feet, her chest heaving as she sucked in great lungfuls of air. If he had hoped for screams or sobs, he was disappointed. She glared at him, fury hazing her vision. “Why me? You could buy any woman in London for your bride.”

  His eyes slid casually over the bells scattered on the floor before returning to her face with a blaze of triumph. “Because I’m a businessman, Miss Hawthorne. And I know a bargain when I see one.”

  Before she could respond, voices sounded in the corridor: “. . . must have dropped it in the room . . . go and have a look . . .”

  Mrs. Hopewell.

  Callista didn’t think twice. Leaving her bells behind, she ducked between the curtains where a hidden door led to the dining room. Fumbling with shaking hands for the handle, she yanked it open, tumbled inside, and threw the latch behind her. Fleeing up the stairs, she slammed her bedchamber door shut. Not that it would keep anyone out. Corey had been right on one point. She and David did have much in common.

  They were both prisoners whose time was fast running out.

  * * *

  By the gods, he was dead.

  Pocketing the key filched from Branston’s office, Callista rushed to David’s side. He remained as she’d left him twenty-four hours earlier, knees drawn up, eyes closed. But now all the color had drained from his skin and long purple streaks inched their way up from his bound ankles. Matching ugly patches of red stretched from the ropes at his wrists almost to his shoulders. Unthinking and in a panic, she knelt, placing her cheek upon his bare chest, praying for a heartbeat.

  “You smell like cabbage.”

  The deep voice rumbled against her ear, throwing her back onto her haunches. “You’re alive.”

  A corner of his mouth curled up in a tired smile. “Really? What gave me away?”

  “I didn’t sense death like I usually do right here”—she tapped her breastbone, then added with a frown as she realized he was joking, not actually asking for an explanation, “Do I really smell like cabbage?”

  “Good, comfortable smell. Reminds me of the army.”

  She gave herself a surreptitious sniff. “I’ve been in the kitchen assisting Mrs. Thursby. She needed someone to keep her gin glass filled.”

  “Knew a soldier in the Forty-third. Killed a man over a plate of boiled cabbage. Shot him right between the eyes.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  He chuckled, his smile widening to a boyish grin. “You didn’t taste the cabbage.”

  Feeling herself blushing, Callista hid her discomfiture in a quick scan of the room. A nearby trunk looked her best bet. Dragging it over, she rummaged through old magazines, a moth-eaten fox muff, and a set of mildewed cravats. “I suppose I should be relieved. If you’re well enough to tease, you’re probably not in imminent danger of expiring.”

  He gave a gruff bark of laughter. “You’re not like most women, are you?”

  She paused, every sense on alert.
“What makes you say that?”

  “Most women, upon being told they smell like boiled cabbage, would fly into the boughs over the insult.” Even now, a spark of impish mischief lurked in his bleary, bloodshot eyes. Did he never take life seriously? She thought of her own predicament. Did he never despair?

  She shrugged and continued to search through the trunk. “You’ll have to do better if you’re going for outrage. I’ve grown a thick skin over the years.”

  “Actually, I was going for compliment. Illness has affected my aim.”

  “But obviously not your tongue.”

  “Minx,” he muttered.

  She withdrew an old velvet frock coat and draped it over his midsection. He didn’t seem to be cold, but he was definitely, awkwardly, very . . . very . . . male.

  “Glad to see you safe, Fey-blood,” he said, licking some moisture back into his chapped lips. “Worried you caught trouble sneaking up here last night.”

  “You’re a prisoner, tied up and half-dead, and you’re worrying about me? That’s rich.”

  “What, this?” He shifted, wincing as he did so, a quick indrawn breath between gritted teeth. “Minor setback. Hardly worth mentioning.”

  She eyed him speculatively. The bone-white pallor of his body worried her. His gaunt, sickly features scared her to death: eyes sunk within deep hollows, lips tinged blue. Had she waited too long? She’d batted her idea back and forth all day and seen no other alternative. But now the reality of the plan seemed ludicrous. Even if she didn’t sense the presence of imminent death, he was clearly unwell. But was that her only reason for second-guessing herself? Or did it have more to do with his quicksilver charm and his stomach-fluttering stare?

  She’d no experience with men of his quality. She felt like a child as she struggled to counter his witty banter and a fool as she melted at his enticing smile. But better a live fool than a dead bride. If anyone could help her escape Branston and Corey, this man could. He was her best—and maybe her last—hope.

  “I have a proposal for you.”

  “Really?” The smile vanished. She caught a glimpse of the dangerous beast she’d watched savage Corey’s hired killers and was oddly reassured. “Go on.”

  “If I help you escape, you agree to take me with you.”

  His brows inched skyward. “You’re more brazen than you look.”

  This time she refused the blush stealing up her neck. Yes, she was proposing a very unorthodox idea to a nude man, who even sick as death looked like your average Greek god, but it was that or marriage to Corey. Embarrassment was nothing compared to what awaited her at his hands.

  “I need an escort to my aunt in Scotland. You need the knife I have secreted in my pocket. I think we can help each other.”

  “What about your brother?”

  “He doesn’t want . . . that is . . .”

  “Scotland is your idea. Not his.”

  “I’m of age. He has no legal right to keep me here.”

  “Why doesn’t your aunt come and collect you?”

  “The particulars of my dilemma aren’t your concern.”

  “It’s my concern if I’m carting you all over the countryside with an irate brother after me.”

  “Your choice is simple, Mr.—”

  “David.”

  “It’s simple . . . David; escape with me or rot here alone.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Callista.”

  She straightened, chin up. “Miss Hawthorne to you.”

  Amusement flickered in his eyes. “When?”

  “Now. My satchel is packed, my brother won’t be back for hours. Mrs. Thursby is downstairs sleeping off her gin. Hold still.” Sliding the knife between the rope and his ankles, she began sawing until the cords gave way in a ravel of frayed ends. She pulled it free while unwinding the thin silver chain, revealing ugly black welts where the silver had rubbed his skin raw.

  “Is the housekeeper our only watchdog?” he asked.

  She moved behind him to cut the ropes at his wrists. “I heard Mr. Corey telling my brother he’d left two men to guard the house. They don’t trust that I won’t attempt to escape again.”

  “Again?” Freed of the ropes and the silver chains threaded through them, he slowly rolled his shoulders, rubbed at the deep black welts encircling his wrists.

  “Three attempts. Three failures.”

  “Four times the charm?”

  “Let’s hope so. Are you sure you’re fit to travel? You don’t look well.”

  “The silver weakens me. I’ll recover—sooner or later.”

  “Hopefully sooner rather than later. We don’t have all night.”

  “Haven’t left the attic, and you’re already nagging me? Here we go.”

  With a deep gulping inhale and a few expletives, he shoved himself to his feet, dragging the blanket with him. Callista stood poised, waiting for him to topple over or faint dead away.

  “Mother of All, even my hair fucking hurts,” he grumbled while casting her a swift measured glance as if gauging her reaction. When she said nothing, he gave a good-natured snort and a shrug. “You really aren’t like any woman I’ve ever met.”

  “Another compliment?”

  “Most definitely.” He tugged at the coat wrapped around his hips. “Did you bring me clothes?”

  “I thought you’d . . . that is, that you might just . . .”

  “You thought I’d shift?” He grinned. “I like how your mind works, sweet Callista.”

  She opened her mouth to protest. Snapped it shut with an audible click.

  He agreed to her scheme. He was helping her escape. He could call her anything he bally well wanted.

  * * *

  The shirtsleeves stretched only as far as David’s forearms and the boots pinched his feet, but the breeches fit, and the three-caped greatcoat Miss Hawthorne had purloined from her brother’s closet was voluminous enough to hide any style faux pas as well as the death-on-a-stick pallor he was currently sporting. “What do you think?”

  Callista threw a darting glance over her shoulder before turning around, though personally he thought it was a bit late for modesty on her part. There wasn’t an inch of his body she hadn’t already seen. “Oh dear.” A tiny smile curved the very edges of her mouth, her eyes crinkling with unvoiced laughter.

  He ran a preening hand down his shirtfront.“That bad?”

  “Absolutely horrid.” She sobered. “Are you certain you can’t just . . . you know . . . change? It might make our escape easier.”

  “The word is shift, and no, I can’t.” He inhaled his first comfortable breath since she’d cut his bonds. Not a deep breath yet—his lungs still ached too much for that—but since breathing at all was a minor miracle, he’d not complain. “Three days of silver poisoning my body, you’re lucky I’m upright.” When her brows began to draw together in a frown, he grinned. “No worries, Fey-blood. I’m not completely without resources.”

  Clearly unamused, Callista pursed her lips and gripped the handle of her satchel as if she might swing it at his head.

  This only caused him to grin wider. He’d always been perverse that way.

  “Can we leave now?” For the first time, David sensed the rising panic in her voice. It was obvious that the potential dangers Callista Hawthorne faced by escaping with him paled in comparison to the definite dangers she faced if she remained here.

  “We made a bargain,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look up at him. “Trust me.”

  Drawn to her eyes, he found himself focused on the strange shimmering intensity he saw there, an almost hypnotic sweep of storm clouds flickering across her gaze. The longer he looked, the more dizziness set the room around him swaying. But instead of narrowing, his vision expanded until it felt as if he might walk directly into her mind. Images flashed in front of him: a woman kneeling, her hair falling to shield her face, a man’s broad form rising behind her, a dagger clenched in his bloody fist.

  David dragged a
horrified breath from his lungs, bowels cramping in terror.

  “Trust you? I’ve heard that line before,” Callista said quietly. “Forgive me if I remain skeptical.”

  She blinked, long black lashes sweeping down over the rose of her skin, and his odd light-headedness receded. Even so, he kept his hands upon her shoulders a moment longer, just to reassure himself he wouldn’t fall over when he let go and undermine all his encouraging words.

  They had been this close only once before, during the time she took to cut his bonds. Or should he say, Callista had only allowed herself to get this close to him that one instance. Since then, she’d maintained a civil but definite distance. But now, he felt the warmth—and the tension—of her body where his fingers rested. He noted the soft roundness of her cheeks and the fullness of her coral lips, but there were also deep smudges beneath her eyes and a tightness to her mouth. Whatever experiences pushed her to seek his help also hardened her expression to wary suspicion and made her seem older than her years. But for that one small half-smile, quickly snuffed, he’d have said she was incapable of anything less than a scowl.

  He took her skepticism as a personal challenge. The doubt he saw in her face made him want to prove himself. But it was the dimple at the edge of her lips and the clean linen scent of her hair that drove him to kiss her.

  That or he was a whole lot woozier than he thought.

  As kisses go, it was less than spectacular. In fact, it was a bloody great failure. Instead of melting against him, eyes fluttering closed in sweet surrender, she went rigid as a tent pole, shock in her gaze, lips pressed tight. The farce ended when she jammed her bag up between them, catching him a blow to the ribs with one brass-reinforced corner.

  He stumbled backward with a gasp and a curse. Nearly tripped over a hassock and fell arse over end. Not the reaction his advances usually caused.

  “That is not part of our bargain,” she said, fairly quivering with rage.