Shadow's Curse

by Alexa Egan

  Images flickered past like beads upon a string; a woman holding a fan of black lace across her mouth, her face round and pink-cheeked; a man with dark curls dancing in a room ablaze with candles; a bed surrounded by worried faces and hushed whispers, screams as if someone were being cleaved in two and then the piteous weak cries of a blue-faced child.

  “Your past you have shown me. Now I wish to see a future. I wish to see what lies in the years beyond your living.”

  Callista opened wide her eyes as the ache blossomed in her chest to an agony and the world tipped and spun in a silver wash of stars. Her vision settled. A woman knelt, head bowed, hair a dark ripple down her back. A man approached her from behind, his face lost in the encroaching shadows, but the knife he gripped in a white-knuckled fist flashed silver. He reached for the woman as if he meant to embrace her, the knife sliding across her throat in a gleaming arc.

  Callista gasped and lurched free of the spirit’s aura, breaking the connection, dissolving the vision.

  “I see only death,” the spirit of Violeta repeated.

  Shaken, Callista rang Summoner again, freeing the spirit from her prison. It hovered for a moment still in the form of a woman before shrinking down to a diffuse glimmer of light and flitting off across the gray lawn toward the dark house.

  Callista watched the spirit glide away, wanting to chase it down, force it to show her a different future, a different vision. But a sound brought her head up in a swift catch of cold breath.

  It came again, a lone, fearful howl that chilled her already frozen skin.

  She retraced her steps, the tidy brick path of her arrival now a tangled, root-strewn track of beaten earth through dense briars and across shallow streams of sluggish gray water. Only the statues remained, their faces twisted in agonies, their bodies ripped and slaughtered. She sensed the buzzing, spine-snarling magic of the door, traced the final pattern in the air with hurried strokes of her tired arm, and she was through.

  A warm spring breeze melted the frost upon her shoulders and in her hair, the fire snapped and crackled, throwing a rosy glow over the faces around her, and the raucous sounds of fiddle, squeeze-box, and drum from somewhere in the fair grated on her ears. She stared into the dancing flames. Took a sip from the cup someone had placed at her elbow, the burn of gin sizzling its way into her belly.

  “You can’t be finished already,” Sally whined. “You just sat down.”

  Callista’s fist wrapped round the handle of the bell, her fingers numb. “Time is . . . different in death.”

  “Whatever you say,” Sally answered with an impatient flick of her fingers, “but what did you see? Am I covered in jewels and riding in a fine carriage? Does Lettice lose our wager?”

  “You are . . .” Callista shivered. “That is, I saw . . .” She closed her eyes, trying to re-create the vision in her mind, to see it clearly, the hair—“an expensive carriage”—the way she knelt—“a fine house”—the way she cupped her outstretched hands—“and a man as rich as Croesus.” Her voice shook. “I saw all of it.”

  Sally crowed her delight, but Callista barely heard her over the drumming of her heart as she sought David out. He had to be here. She needed to speak to him. Instead her eyes took in Lettice’s miffed disappointment, Big Knox’s wide-mouthed laughter, and Sam’s always hungry stare, but David had vanished.

  With trembling hands, she placed her bells back in their box, rolled the tumblers shut, and rose, hoping her legs held her upright. It couldn’t be. She’d made a mistake.

  “Are you all right, Cally?” Nancy asked softly. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  She had seen one. And it had shown her, not Sally’s future, but her own.

  * * *

  David reclined against a log, short stubby branch in one hand, knife in the other, no real purpose to his whittling but a way to pass the time and relax the knots squirreling his gut. The fire had long since burned down to a few glowing embers, but it was more than enough light for him to see by.

  Callista slept a few steps away. He pictured her soft lips and soft skin. Every cell in his body burned with the image. He’d thought Beskin’s sadistic methods had been agonizing, but the rat bastard had nothing on Miss Callista Hawthorne. Mother of All, but Gray couldn’t reach them fast enough.

  He slid the knife forward, shaving off a long peel of wood in a tight curl that fell on the crumpled map at his side; a map he despised with every fiber of his being. By its reckoning, they were still a good hundred miles from Addershiels. They’d been lucky so far, but luck was a fickle friend. Soon or late, she’d turn her face against them and danger would strike. The only real question in his mind was, who would find them first?

  Another slide of the knife against the wood. Another moment to gather his thoughts and make his plans. Another moment he didn’t have to be cooped up beside Callista with her hair tickling his chest and her body’s curves melded against his own. He drew the blade toward him with a flick of his wrist and a brace of his thumb and swore silently at the first stirring of hairs at the back of his neck and the quickening of his pulse. He adjusted his grip on the knife, ready to spring before turning the move into a stretch, as Sam Oakham plopped himself down across from him with a drunken belch and a black stare.

  “That’s a good way to get yourself killed,” David commented, itching for a fight to ease the tension crackling along every nerve.

  The man grunted, drizzling the last of his flask into the fire in a burst of alcoholic flames. “By you, pretty boy? Not bloody likely.”

  “Throw a punch. I dare you,” David challenged, a wild recklessness twitching his muscles and firing his brain. “Hell, I’m begging you to do it. Just one. That’s all I’m asking.”

  Oakham snorted, his dark eyes boring into David. “I don’t know who you think you are, but if I didn’t fear being strung up for murder, I’d put a bullet in your brain and be done with it.”

  David refused to be intimidated. Instead he gave a bark of humorless laughter, his expression hard. “I’m sorry for Nancy’s predicament, but don’t confuse me with the horse’s ass that abandoned your sister.”

  Oakham jerked, his great bulk almost coming off the ground and across the fire in a wrestler’s throttling move. “Don’t even speak of my sister, you poncy son of a bitch. You’re not good enough to wipe the muck from her boots.”

  Here was his perfect excuse to be offended, to beat the crap out of a man who’d made his life miserable for over a week, and to work off his edgy nerves at the same time. Not that it would solve anything. He’d be as trapped, frustrated, and cheesed off as ever. And Oakham would hate him even more—if that were humanly possible. Instead, David drew his knife in another long slow peel of the branch, letting his fury run off him like water. “Nancy’s a woman grown, Sam. She made her choice.”

  “What do you know of it?”

  “I know she’s been hurt by a bloody little shit, and I know you want to murder the weasely bastard. I would, too, if she was my sister. But I’m not the guilty son of a bitch, so don’t push me unless you want to be knocked on your backside again.”

  Oakham folded his arms over his chest and stared into the fire, his voice laced with simmering belligerence. “Men like you think it’s all a lark, a quick bit of fun when you’re bored and looking for some sport. But it’s not you that has to clean up afterward, is it? You just run off to the next party, the next bit of fun, the next woman to lift her skirts for you. You don’t see the tears or suffer the cruelties when people talk.”

  “Nancy’s strong,” David replied.

  “Nancy’s blasted ruined!” Oakham shouted. “She’s got a babe on the make and no man to wed her. And Cally’s next. I ain’t blind, St. Leger. I can see what’s happening in front of my own nose. You’re not running to Gretna Green to marry Cally. You aren’t even thinking about marrying her.”

  David let the branch lie forgotten in his lap, the handle of his knife digging into his palm. “Cally’s a woman gr
own as well. And she, too, made her choice.”

  “Aye,” Oakham snapped, “but if she knew the truth, would her choice be the same? Answer me that.”

  David wanted to refute him. Hell, he wanted to plant his fist in the smug asshole’s face—repeatedly—but Oakham was right . . . or would have been at one time. David had played for years with no thought to consequences. As an Imnada, he was bound by clan law to accept the bride picked for him by the blood scrolls. The strength and purity of the race depended on it. And after . . . his back twitched, his stomach knotted in memory . . . after he was pronounced emnil and cast out, broken in mind and body, what was the point? The curse had taken it all away.

  The knife handle snapped. Blood trickled between David’s white-knuckled fingers. “And if I did want to stay with her forever, but couldn’t? If it was impossible? What would you say to that?”

  Oakham spat. “I’d say you were lying through your teeth.”

  “Then you know less than you think, Sam Oakham.”

  David tossed away the wood. It had failed him. He was more wire-taut now than ever. He rose to his feet, mouth dry, need terrible. To hell with his promises—to Mac, to Callista—he would drown them all.

  * * *

  David strode the town’s high street in search of a tavern. Or rather, another tavern. The first one had shown him the door after a brawl involving broken bottles, a smashed window, and three broken bones—none of them his. It wasn’t his fault. The three who’d accosted him had been looking for a fight. He’d been more than happy to oblige.

  But now his buzz was wearing off. He needed more whisky to deaden his last remaining nerves. For that, a bathtub full might be about enough.

  David snorted his disgust. What was wrong with him? He’d promised to get the girl to Skye. Nothing more. Once she was taken behind the gates of Scathach’s fortress, he would return to London. Take up his life, take out his rage. And be taken in turn when the curse finally destroyed him.

  End of story.

  Callista was one of many. Nothing special. Nothing to turn him from his path.

  And yet, when he closed his eyes, the dream was always there. A dream where she was everything to him, and his path lay strewn with blood and fire and crow-pecked corpses; where only his death remained constant. That never changed, waking or sleeping.

  He drew up in front of a three-story, half-timbered building of mullioned windows, various levels of mossy roof, and smelly, gurgling drains. A battered, illegible sign hung from one rusty chain, but the stench of stale beer and tobacco smoke was unmistakable.

  Success.

  The scruffy interior held all the welcoming ambience of a murderous thieves’ den, though it didn’t seem to affect business. Crowds packed the place, peddlers and drovers mixing with farmers and fairgoers.

  David waded through the hanging pall of smoke to take a seat at the counter between two bleary-eyed gaffers working on their gin blossoms. Accepted a whisky and a helping of greasy stew of nameless meat and gritty potatoes from a taciturn barman. He must have spoken. Words must have been uttered, but David heard nothing. Instead, he stepped around the counter and ripped the nailed broadsheet from the wall behind the bar.

  “Somethin’ wrong?” the barman asked, his words finally penetrating.

  From the tone of his voice, the nervous expression, and the militant way the man gripped a heavy pint glass, David’s shock must have showed on his face. The gaffers muttered between themselves, one getting to his feet as if in solidarity against a common enemy.

  “Why, David. I thought that was you. You’re just the person to see me safely back to the fairground.” Looking like the cat that’s caught the canary, Sally linked her arm with his. She nodded to the men. “Good day, gentlemen,” she said as she guided David unresisting from the tavern.

  Outside, he shoved the notice in his coat pocket, his brain turning over this new wrinkle, adjusting plans, picking through alternatives. Unfortunately, his whisky fog made that difficult.

  “I’d stay out of town if I were you, Mr. St. Leger. You’ve done a fair job at hiding yourself, but you’re not exactly inconspicuous, are you?”

  It took a moment for her words to sink in. Then he stopped, pulling her to a halt beside him. “What do you know?”

  “Only what’s on that paper you tried to hide. You’re not just haring off to the north to get hitched, are you?”

  “You’re a bright girl, Miss Sweet.”

  “I’ve had to be, sir.”

  “So what do you plan on doing with this newfound information?”

  “You want to make it worth my while to keep my gob shut?”

  “It could be arranged,” he answered.

  She ran a hand down his chest, gazing on him with undisguised lust. “And what did you have in mind?”

  He ignored her hand and her invitation. “Once we reach Scotland . . .”

  “If you reach Scotland. If the road north is plastered with those placards, it’s doubtful you’ll reach Newcastle without them catching up to you. I’d rather take my payment now, if you don’t mind.”

  “I have a little money. Not much, but—”

  “Who said it’s money I’m looking for?” Her hand dropped lower as she leaned in. Her breath smelled of onions, her body of sweat overlaid with heavy perfume. He thought of Callista’s subtle but pleasing scent and his chest tightened on a hitch of breath.

  Sally reached up on tiptoe. “Come to my wagon tonight. I’ll make sure Nancy’s gone. You come see me and my lips are sealed about that little bit of paper there. Never saw it. Don’t know nothing. Deal?”

  An easy way to keep her silence. A simple choice. There was no reason to feel guilty or disloyal to Callista. Sally’s fingers slid beneath his waistband, her tongue sliding over the curve of his ear. His stomach rolled in response as if the entire day’s alcohol intake were about to end on his boots. He grabbed Sally’s wrist, sweat curling down his spine. “Your price is too steep, Miss Sweet. I’ll have to take my chances on your better nature.”

  She wrenched her arm away, her winsome smile turned ugly, eyes hard and lip curling. “Your loss, St. Leger. In more ways than one.”

  10

  Callista came awake as soon as David pulled the blanket over the both of them, her body going instantly rigid, a hitch in her breathing. “Where have you been?”

  “Out,” he growled. “I know we’re feigning an elopement, but you’re not my wife yet.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She rolled over and sat up. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Yes, but not nearly enough.”

  “What’s wrong? Why are you so angry?” As she’d done earlier that night, she reached out to touch him with a hand that would be cool on his fevered skin, a hand that would make him yearn for more than this ridiculous fantasy they’d embroiled themselves in. But this time he flinched and she withdrew, her fingers tacky with his blood.

  “You’re hurt—again.” She sat up, throwing her legs over the side of the bunk. “One would think you seek out trouble.”

  He sank back on the bed, closing his eyes. “I was managing fine until someone we know took a board to my skull.”

  “So you just happened to be in that alley, David St. Leger? Or should I call you . . . Monster of the Mews?”

  He opened his eyes to see her staring down at him, hands on her hips. “Figured it out, did you?”

  “Two and two . . . I’ve always been good at sums. But why?” she asked. “Suppose someone caught you?”

  “Someone did.”

  “Exactly. Why would you put yourself at such risk for complete strangers?”

  “Why does anyone do anything, sweet Callista?” he answered. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Much like this . . .” Before he could think better of it, he rolled up and off the bed to cradle the back of her head as he kissed her. She jerked once in his arms but did not run. He ran the tip of his tongue across the tight seam of her lips until she slowly relaxed into
his embrace. He felt the mix of fear and want within her but carefully, delicately, he teased her into compliance. Her body slackened, her lips parted to allow his tongue to plunder the velvet within. Edging closer, he reached to palm the luscious curve of a breast—and gasped as a hot slash of pain sizzled down his arm to his fingers.

  She jerked away, dazed but quickly refocusing. “I knew it was more than a scratch. Let me take a look.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, though the wagon did seem to be pitching and rolling more than it ought—or was that his stomach? Difficult to tell after the insane amount of gin and whisky he’d poured down his throat, not to mention a disgusting brew that tasted like turnips but carried the devil’s own kick.

  “I’ll be the judge. Let’s go outside where I can see”—her gaze swept the cluttered wagon’s interior—“and we have some space to breathe.”

  He sighed. So much for his famed prowess with women. He’d hoped for a courtesan and had gotten a nurse. He closed his eyes, jaw clamped tight, nostrils flaring in a huff of ironic laughter. Best to surrender to her ministering and get it over with.

  Outside, the sky shone black as ink, stars high and cold. She sat him down beside the smoldering gray ash of the cookfire, whispered words under her breath as she fed it kindling and stoked it with the end of a burnt stick until the flames burned bright, dancing in her eyes.

  Better flames than death.

  “Do you have a healer’s magic as well, Fey-blood?” The sarcasm was unwarranted, but his body throbbed from temples to toes, an effect that hours in the single-minded pursuit of inebriation had done little to curb.

  “No, but you can’t just let it fester. You’ll sicken.”

  Before he could argue, she had his shirt off with only the slightest hesitation. Her expression grim and businesslike, she dabbed at the long, shallow gash just below his collarbone. The bleeding had stopped, but a thin trail of it remained smeared across his chest, the trail of her finger easily visible even in the thick gloom. “How did it happen?”