Shadow's Curse

by Alexa Egan

  David’s gaze fell to his hands. He noted with curiosity that they were shaking. Barely, but enough. “That may be, but she doesn’t know about me. About the curse.”

  “Why should she, if you continue to take the draught?”

  David fisted his hands, forcing them to still. “Because the damned draught is back at my house. Because the need grows ever greater as the effects grow ever shorter. You must have noticed it too.”

  Mac nodded. “I’m lucky if I can squeeze a fortnight out of a single dose.”

  “The other symptoms grow stronger as well. The dizziness, the fatigue, the headaches.”

  Worry darkened Mac’s catlike green eyes. “Bianca tells me I should quit taking it. Let the Fey-blood’s curse take hold once more. She thinks that will end it.”

  “You haven’t told her everything?”

  Mac squeezed his eyes shut, shoulders hunched. “How do I tell her that it wouldn’t make any difference? That either way, she’s married to a dead man? I can’t. It would destroy her and I’ve put her through enough as it is.”

  “She’s your wife, Mac. She has a right to know.”

  Mac’s fury blazed in his face. “What would you know about husbands and wives?”

  David shrugged. “Enough to recognize that falsehoods have a tendency to turn around and bite one in the ass. I’d not want Bianca angry with me. That cool façade hides a dangerous streak.”

  Mac gave a dry bark of laughter. “A fair enough reading.” The laughter died in his eyes. His neck muscles taut with some deep inner turmoil, he sucked in a quick painful gasp as if just speaking the words pained him. “We made so many plans, David. We had so many dreams. And now . . .” He opened his hand in a gesture of futility, myriad scores crisscrossing his palm, the marks of his own fight to keep the curse at bay.

  “Now it hangs by a thread unless we find a cure for our cure? Should have known it had been too easy.”

  “Everything hangs by a thread. Not just our future but the future of all the Imnada. I won’t have my youngling hunted down by the Ossine as a half-blood freak to be exterminated.”

  Mother of All, would the Ossine really do that? Kill a child simply for bearing mixed blood? Had things come to such a desperate pass?

  Mac looked up. “Will you do it? Will you take the book to Gray?”

  David sighed. “Do I have a choice?”

  “That’s the spirit. Who knows? Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

  David slanted Mac a disbelieving glance. “Hope? What’s that?”

  Mac shoved his hands in his pockets with a small shrug and a weak smile. “It’s all we have left.”

  Leave it to Mac to get the final word in.

  * * *

  Callista stood at the window, looking down upon the dark street. Despite the late hour, a few carriages still rattled their way past, on their way home from some fancy ball or extravagant musicale. And once or twice she caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure making his way north toward Cavendish Square to the comfort of a warm, snug bed and a good night’s sleep.

  A warm, snug bed waited just behind her. But the good night’s sleep she’d found to be impossible.

  Her thoughts ran in too many circles, and so she watched the waning crescent moon hover in the west, its light barely enough to penetrate the heavy coal-fired haze. Berenth, St. Leger had labeled it; the crone face of the Mother Goddess. This period fell between the full moon of Silmith, when the goddess looked down on the clans as both fertile lover and mighty warrior, and Morderoth, when death took the moon and the skies were absent of her light until reborn as the maiden at Piryeth.

  All this and more David had imparted as they fled from his house in Cumberland Place to the Flannerys’ on Holles Street. By the time they’d climbed the front steps, he was babbling sixteen to the dozen and barely able to point both eyes in the same direction.

  Surely he should have improved once she’d removed the silver chains that poisoned him. Instead, he seemed to worsen, as if his body were slowly crumbling to bits in front of her eyes. Her last sight of him as Captain Flannery led him away had truly frightened her.

  What would happen if he became too ill to escort her to Scotland? What would happen if he died? Callista had thrown all her eggs into his basket. If his assistance was lost, she’d be once again at the mercy of strangers—or worse. The captain and his wife had been more than kind so far, but she couldn’t count on them once they understood the threat Mr. Corey posed. Captain Flannery seemed capable of handling any danger, but why should he bother when handing her over to Branston would be so much easier?

  No. David couldn’t die. It was as simple as that.

  Her fingers tightened on the curtain. Simple? Who was she trying to fool? She, better than anyone, knew death was never simple. And cheating it, impossible.

  As if conjured from her worries, heavy footsteps sounded outside her door. Not Captain Flannery. He’d retired over an hour ago. She’d heard him pass her room. Heard a low, urgent conversation with his wife just before their door shut. So, this was David . . . Mr. St. Leger . . .

  David.

  The steps were slow but steady. They paused, and Callista felt her breath still in her chest. Would he come into her room unasked? And then what? Take her in his arms and kiss her as he’d done in the Fowlers’ alcove? The idea prickled along her skin and shimmied like lightning up her spine until she squashed it flat.

  No, David might tease her with his banter and his quick, sly glances, but she knew, without quite knowing how she knew, that he’d never press his attentions where they weren’t wanted nor take a woman unwilling. He might bend rules, but he respected boundaries.

  After a long moment, the steps resumed. Five . . . six . . . seven. Then came the snick of a latch and the quiet bump of a closing door.

  She let out her breath in a whoosh of slumped shoulders before a frown pinched her mouth and a new more troubling thought burrowed its way into her heart.

  How completely selfish could she be? David was ill, and it was her fault. She’d been the one to drag him into this predicament in the first place. He’d come to her rescue and she’d thanked him by bashing him over the head. She should have insisted on making sure he was being attended to. She should have asked after his welfare. For heaven’s sake, she should have thanked him—just once.

  She’d done none of those things. No wonder she paced the room sleepless and guilt-ridden. She’d go to David first thing in the morning. As soon as she saw him, the first words to roll off her tongue would be Thank you. Not difficult at all. Two little syllables and she’d no longer feel like an ungrateful wretch.

  Satisfied, she lay down on the bed, pulled the covers up to her chin, and closed her eyes. Waited for sleep to catch up with her. But still her brain whirred like a top and David’s face hovered against the backs of her eyelids like an accusation. Apparently good intentions weren’t enough. She huffed a frustrated breath.

  If she couldn’t sleep until she’d spoken to David and assured herself he was not about to expire, then that’s what she’d do. A niggling voice warned of what befell women who visited men in their bedchambers. Callista chose to ignore it. Despite her babbling justifications to Mrs. Flannery, it was obvious her reputation couldn’t sink any lower.

  Before the voice grew more insistent, Callista slipped from her room, padded the few paces down the corridor, and lifted her hand to David’s door; stopped just before her knuckles gave a sharp rap. What if he was asleep? She didn’t want to wake him. She’d simply sneak in, take a peek, and, if he was asleep, leave. No harm done. No questions asked.

  She turned the latch, cracked the door, and stepped a pace into the room, and stopped dead.

  He definitely wasn’t asleep.

  * * *

  “David?”

  He spun around, dagger gripped in one hand, the other fisted tight, blood oozing from a deep cut across his palm. By now pain chewed at his muscles and silver-blue flames crowded his vision. The last thin
g he needed was an audience.

  “Dear gods, what are you doing?” Callista demanded.

  “Swooning?” he said as his legs buckled.

  Before he hit the floor, a shoulder propped him up and an arm came round his back to edge him unresisting down on the bed. “You’re burning up with fever. Is it the silver?” she asked. “Is that what’s wrong?”

  He snatched up a cloth, winding it tight around his hand, and glanced down at his naked torso. Not that Callista hadn’t already seen him in every way, shape, and form, but somehow this was different. The silver’s poison was an external weakness. But the curse’s slow destruction was his own body betraying him. A death best endured alone.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I’m sorry,” she answered caustically. “Should I leave so you can drop dead alone?”

  He winced as he shifted on the bed, putting a few crucial inches between them. “You’re the necromancer. Can’t you just fetch me back?”

  “It doesn’t work that way.” She started to rise. “Should I get the captain? Perhaps he—”

  “No!” David grabbed her back. “Let him sleep.” He drew a shuddering, painful breath. His strength waned with every moment he delayed. He needed to either toss her out or ask for her assistance, and he didn’t have the energy to toss her out. “Just hand me the . . . the cup over there. I don’t think my legs will carry me that far.”

  She did as he asked, giving the contents a wary sniff before she handed it to him. “Ugh, what is it? It smells horrible and looks worse.”

  “Life.” He brought it to his lips with a held breath. Sucked the contents dry. Then closed his eyes on a weary sigh. “Thank you.”

  “That was supposed to be my line,” she answered quietly.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time since she entered his room. She was dressed for bed, the ribbons of her nightgown tied at her throat, the sash of her robe cinched tight. But her dark hair hung loose and shining down her back, her toes peeked endearingly from beneath her hem, and her Fey-blood aura shone under her skin like a lamp. Hard to reconcile this slip of a woman with the shadowy powers he’d experienced while trapped within her gaze. Even harder to reconcile his unexpected attraction to her. She was Other. He’d been taught from birth to despise her kind. To fear and loathe her magic. To kill or be killed. And yet something about her called to him in a way he’d never experienced.

  “Did you risk scandal by coming to my room simply to offer your gratitude?” he asked.

  She dropped her gaze to her lap and her hands threaded tightly there. “I couldn’t sleep. I was worried about you, and . . . well . . . I wanted to say thank you for all you’ve done.”

  “Almost getting you gutted like a fish?”

  Her eyes flew to meet his. “No. For . . . for not . . .” She paused. Drew a breath and started again. “For helping me escape.”

  “Did I have a choice?”

  Her expression seemed to close, any hint of what she was thinking wiped clean.

  He tightened his bloody hand on the cloth. Already, the draught moved through his system, repairing, maintaining. He would not shift. He would not die.

  Not today.

  “Consider us even, Miss Hawthorne. Bloody hell, more than even, in fact. I still owe you one. You’ve a hell of a brutal swing. Give you a cricket bat and you’d be unstoppable.”

  She offered him the makings of a smile before rising to pace halfway to the door, hands fisted at her side, hips swaying ever so slightly. He thought about calling her back, but he was tired, plague-sick, and what would he say to her anyway? He didn’t know, which was a first. Normally the witty patter came without effort. Not tonight. Not with her.

  She placed a hand on the doorknob. Paused for a long moment before swinging around and returning. Surprised him by seating herself back on the bed beside him, legs drawn beneath her.

  “Forget something?” he asked.

  Her sharp gaze traveled over his bare chest before locking on his face. “You look terrible.”

  “Thank you.”

  She frowned. “You know what I mean. Is it the silver?”

  He couldn’t help it. A laugh escaped him, rough and painful as it ripped up through his aching chest. “No, Callista. Not this time.”

  Her scowl deepened, and he realized he’d called her by her first name. He waited for her to scold him for his presumption, but she merely gave a slight shake of her head, her hair falling forward to shield her expression. “But you won’t tell me what it is.”

  “It’s a long, dull tale. Hardly bedtime story fare.”

  He sensed her watching him. Sensed the questions on the tip of her tongue. The clues were there in the taut way she held herself, the hesitation in her breathing, her hand splayed palm down upon her leg, nails digging ever so slightly into the fabric. He should insist she leave. Pretend this inappropriate visit never occurred. It was the smart thing to do. The proper thing to do.

  But he didn’t. For some reason, he didn’t want to be alone. Not with time to think. Time to rage.

  Still, if she was going to stay, he needed to make at least a cursory bow to propriety. He hefted himself to unsteady feet long enough to retrieve his shirt and drag it over his head.

  “Very well,” she said, breaking the silence between them as she tucked her hair behind her ear. “At least tell me who that man was tonight and why he wanted to kill you.”

  “Us.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Beskin wanted to kill us,” David clarified. “Me for treason. You for being . . . you. A Fey-blood. The enemy.”

  “I’m not an enemy.”

  “Your kind is. The Other have been the enemies of the Imnada for a thousand years and more.”

  “So I’ve put you in danger.”

  “No, Callista,” he replied with a weary shake of his head. “I was an outlaw to my people long before I met you. You’re the excuse, but not the cause.”

  “What’s the cause? What’s happened to exile you from your own kind?”

  Exile. Emnil. The word turned like a knife in his chest. Just as it had done since it had been pronounced over his bowed head within the Gather’s circle. Under other circumstances, he’d have laughed away the feeling, his expression one of bland amusement. But tonight it was impossible. Tonight every nerve had been stripped raw and he ached with more pains than he could count. He shuffled to the window, drawing back the curtain, using the dark street and the setting moon to hide the gnawing pain at his heart. And said nothing.

  “It’s bound up in this illness, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “You’re perceptive,” he said without turning around.

  He heard her moving behind him. The creak of the bed. The swish of fabric. His body tensed as he half expected, half hoped she would lay a hand on his shoulder or brush fingers over his arm. “No, just observant. It helps in my profession. I know without asking what my clients truly need from their visit.”

  “And what do I need?” He spoke without thinking, then clenched his jaw tight, wondering what truths she might peel free from the dark places where he kept them locked away. “Wait. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

  Awkward silence threatened until Callista’s voice broke through the rising tension, her tone uncertain, her words breaching the stone round his heart. “You don’t have to pretend with me, David. I know what it is to be alone.”

  “You have a brother and an aunt.”

  “You have a clan.”

  His back twitched in remembered agony. A vise clamped his skull as he fought back the ghosts of those horrible days caught in Beskin’s brutal care. “To my clan, I’m a traitor and a rogue.”

  “To my family, I’m an embarrassment and a disgrace,” she whispered. “We’re more alike than you realize.”

  He left the window to sink into a leather armchair, closing his eyes on the lingering sway of the room. The draught worked, but slowly. “We’ll lea
ve at dawn tomorrow.”

  “You can barely stand.”

  “As long as I continue to take my medicine, I’ll be fine.”

  “That horrid potion? Is that what . . . is that why your hand . . .” Before he knew what she was about, she’d grabbed his wrist, forcing him to open his fingers, revealing the open cut across his palm, the myriad silver lines marking his earlier dosings. “You work powerful magic, David. Powerful Other magic.”

  A ghost of a smile curved his lips. “Not powerful enough.”

  Callista scowled, eyes fierce with shock, cradling his hand in one of hers, the tips of her fingers brushing over his palm. She leaned over him, so close that her hair fell against his chest and he could lean up and kiss her lips. She smelled of mint and lavender and something else, something earthy and sweet that filled his head. His stomach tightened, his body alive with her closeness.

  Her gaze locked with his. He forced himself to meet her stare, though fear curdled his insides at what he might see within the midnight reaches of her eyes. Yet no pit opened beneath him to send him spiraling down where his darkest memories lay like serpents and the future gaped like a wound before him. Instead, he sensed the heat of her flesh even through the layers of fabric and the telltale tremble in her fingers as they cupped his hand.

  Her voice slid soft as silk over his skin. “Why take the risk, David? You’re free now. You could simply turn your back on our agreement. Pretend it never happened. Put me on a northbound coach and assume that made us even. Why do you help me?”

  Which is exactly what he’d planned to do; get rid of her and pretend it never happened. Pretend his life was just as he preferred it. But who the hell was he kidding?

  He shrugged. “When one can’t help oneself . . .” he murmured, “what else is there?”

  6

  “I knew it. Damn it, I knew that shifter would be worth a fortune and now he’s gone!” Hawthorne paced the study feverishly, jowls quivering, his face a dangerous ruddy shade.

  “Sit down,” Corey ordered. “You’re giving me a headache.”