Evernight

by Kristen Callihan

  “Nonsense. I—”

  “I was not finished,” he bit out, his gaze holding hers, gleaming platinum taking over his irises. “Life is not merely about creating through work. There is joy. Call it the creation of joy, if it pleases you. But joy, love, laughter—they mean something too.”

  Holly stifled a yelp when he lashed out, grabbing a fistful of her hair. He held on firmly at the base of her neck as his eyes roved over her face. “And you, my perfect Miss Evernight, do not know shit about any of those things.”

  He released her so abruptly that Holly wobbled on her stool, her sudden freedom dizzying her. Already he was halfway across the room, striding for the door.

  “We are going out in one hour.” He did not bother to turn around. “I expect you to comply or I will come and collect you. Bodily.”

  The door slammed behind him. It was then, in the ringing silence, that she collected her wits enough to see that he’d left his book lying open upon her drafting table. Only it wasn’t a novel, or a manual, but a sketchbook. There, rendered in pencil and done with unquestionable skill and uncanny accuracy, was her face.

  Will fully expected to have to haul Evernight out of the house. Part of him anticipated it. He’d throw her over his shoulder, hold onto her plump arse when she struggled. Then there would be the lash of her sharp tongue he’d pretend to ignore, when inwardly he relished her quick wit. All in all, it would be an enjoyable diversion. Besides, she bloody well needed to get out and about. It well… worried him that she hadn’t left the house in these many months. It was unnatural. Especially for a human.

  However, the sight that greeted him in the front hall had him coming to a full stop, and his plans dissipated like fog against the harsh burn of sunlight.

  Evernight stood in perfectly calm repose, her face a neutral mask as she looked at him. She wore not one of her usual plain house gowns, but a walking dress of dusky purple taffeta. The basque mimicked a man’s jacket with black velvet lapels and little black buttons marching down the center. Far from being mannish, it hugged her torso with loving care and made one think of undoing those buttons with one’s fangs. The matching skirt was unadorned but swept back into a proper and rather enticing bustle.

  Tolerating his appraisal with a mere lift of one graceful black brow, Evernight cocked her head to the side, bringing his attention to the jaunty little purple hat pinned upon her neatly coiled hair.

  “Shall I do, Mr. Thorne?” Her tone implied that she did not give a whit what he thought, and just might have been mentally bashing his head in.

  “Passably,” he retorted with a bored sigh.

  Her pink lips curled slightly. “Felix,” she called, “my mantle.”

  Felix drifted out of the shadows, a black velvet mantle in hand, and settled it over her shoulders. Will found himself frowning as old, deeply ingrained lessons learned from childhood rose to the fore. He ought to be helping her, to be the one carefully doing up the onyx toggles to assure she was protected from the cold.

  Possessiveness was not a welcome emotion. Damn it all, he’d somehow grown fond of the walled-up little inventor. He was bonding with her. Which made him damned uncomfortable. But he wasn’t surprised. Sanguis bonded fairly tightly, and in many forms. Bonds were emotional ties that wrapped about a sanguis’s soul tightly and dug in deep. He’d bonded almost immediately with Jack Talent when they were both young lads. His demon side had simply said, yes, here is one who will be a part of your life, who will be a good friend to you. And that was that.

  But he didn’t view Holly Evernight as a friend. Will shook his head and, when Felix moved to hand him his overcoat, he ripped the thing from the man’s hands and shoved it on.

  Evernight’s smile grew amused, yet oddly tighter. In truth, tightness lingered about the corners of her eyes and along the line of her slim shoulders.

  “Right, then,” Will muttered, putting on his top hat. “Let us proceed.”

  The crest of her cheeks turned milk white, but she gave him a nod. “By all means.” She sounded a little unsteady.

  He ignored it and, grabbing her hand, hooked it over his elbow. “There’s a cab waiting for us. Nan tells me you don’t maintain a carriage.” Yet he’d seen the mews. The Evernights certainly could afford to have one, and the staff to care for both it and the horses.

  “I sent the carriage and stable staff to Ireland.” She shrugged. “I didn’t see the need for them here.”

  Because she never went out. Will liked this less and less. No matter. They were going out now. And if she felt the need to dig her fingers into his forearm as revenge, then so be it. He liked the bite of them anyway.

  The hack was waiting, the driver hunched against the cold wind that rattled along the pebbled drive. Great, grey clouds billowed in the sky, promising rain. A lovely day.

  Will guided Evernight down the front stair then turned to open the hack door for her. Only to find she’d left his side. A snarl of irritation tore from him as he whipped around.

  Evernight stood, stiff as marble, at the edge of the portico that hung over the front drive. Her dark eyes were glassy and wide in the pale oval of her face. In truth, she looked moments away from being sick. All over the flagstones.

  Something softened within him, and he approached her carefully.

  She drew in a sharp breath through her nose, as if she expected him to shout. He kept his voice neutral. “What is it?”

  She hovered at the portico, her face utterly white. “I…” Her words broke like glass at his feet. “I cannot.” Evernight wrapped her arms about her middle and pressed herself against the stone support pillar. “Thorne…” She swallowed hard, and her eyes filled.

  Will’s blasted unnatural heart nearly ground to a stop. His proud, unmovable Evernight, tearing up? Will could not abide such a thing. She had to fight him. It was the one constant he could count on.

  He wanted to reach out and draw her into his embrace. But he rather thought she would not appreciate the gesture. Not when she struggled so valiantly to hold back her tears. So he merely stepped close to her, buffering her slight form from the wind, and lowered his voice. “Speak to me, love.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath that seemed to steel her spine. “You were correct. I hide out of fear.”

  Tentatively, he pressed a hand to the middle of her slim back. “But why? I promised nothing shall harm you, nor will I let the Nex have you. I swear it. Do you not believe me?”

  A breath left her, warming the cold skin on his cheeks. “He might be out there.”

  “He?”

  “Don’t make me say his name.”

  All at once, Will went still. Amaros. She’d been chained. What had she endured? Why hadn’t he asked? Shock and guilt shook him. He was a shite for pushing her. And here he was about to take her out of the frypan and into the fire. “He’s dead, petal. He cannot harm you anymore.”

  “I know. I know this!” She glanced about, as if expecting the diseased fallen angel to jump from the hedgerow. “My bloody fool emotions cannot seem to accept that truth, however.”

  Holly leaned against him, her shoulder just touching his. A gesture of trust. A shock to his system. Slowly, he wound an arm about her cinched waist. He looked up into the grey sky. He did not know how to offer true comfort. Sexual release? Of course, with pleasure. But to coddle a frightened woman? What could he do?

  He could hold her, but it would not take away her fear. Giving her one last squeeze, he drew her back and peered into her eyes. They glimmered like polished lapis. “Here is what we shall do. You put your hand in mine, keep me sane while I keep you safe. And then you shall put one foot in front of the other until you no longer have to count your steps, and I will not let you go.”

  Her pink lips trembled, so soft and succulent that he wanted to taste them. But he held fast and kept his gaze locked on hers. “One step, petal mine. Surely that you can do.”

  Dimly, she nodded. “One step. Yes. I can manage that.”

  Swiftly, h
e kissed her smooth forehead, just beneath the dark curls of her fringe, then caught her hand in a firm hold. Gods, but she was cold. Her fingers twined with his and squeezed to the point of tender pain. Will did not let go.

  “One step,” he said, leading the way to the carriage.

  She mumbled an agreement, but then looked up at him sharply. “Petal? What sort of nonsensical drivel is that?”

  Ah, there was his Evernight. The corners of his mouth twitched. “You are soft and delicate like a petal.”

  “Bosh.” She gave an inelegant snort, her neat, little boot heels clicking against the pavers. “There is nothing soft about me.”

  This time Will gave her a wicked smile. “Having had my hands on you, I can safely assure the contrary.”

  She went scarlet. A rare blush. And he reveled in it. “Softer than a petal, really,” he pointed out, his chest feeling buoyant now that she’d recovered enough to grouse. “Especially your arse. Why, just last night, I likened it to a plump pillow—”

  “Oh, all right,” she snapped. “Enough of that, thank you.”

  He laughed, happy to note that she climbed the carriage steps without hesitation—afraid maybe, but she was with him, and he would not give her cause to regret it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Being in the carriage was better. Contained. Confined. Holly pressed her spine into the poorly sprung seat and stared straight ahead. She could almost pretend that she was sitting in her study. Only the damned thing rocked and bounced over the road, reminding her at each point that she was not safe at home. All due to the bullying horse’s arse sitting next to her.

  Had he crowed over her fear or been smug, she would have bitten his head off. No, she would have turned him into a lump of metal and left him on the flagstone drive. But he’d been kind. Comforting. His care had disarmed her enough that she found herself obeying his command, putting herself into his keeping. How horrid. How foolish.

  A bitter well of panic rushed up her throat like acid. And though she did not make a sound, somehow he knew. His grip upon her hand—for he never truly let her go—tightened.

  “Lovely day, is it not?” he observed lightly.

  Rain misted the windows, and the lamps had to be turned up high to ward off the dark. At her speaking look, he smiled. “Well, for a sanguis, at any rate.” He leaned back, crossing one long leg over the other, causing his foot to sneak up under the hem of her skirts. Holly shifted her legs away from him.

  “Although,” he went on, “I do admit, it would be better if there was a nice, thick fog, and a warm, balmy temperature instead.” He winked at her. “I do so love the warmth.”

  Good lord, had the man turned into her great aunt Patty in the last block? Was he going to wax on about knitting patterns next?

  Thorne craned his head to peer out of her window, and his chin nearly touched hers. “Perhaps the rain will soon stop.”

  She pushed at his shoulder. “Are you attempting to simultaneously bore and annoy the fear out of me, Mr. Thorne?”

  He turned, bringing his face, mouth, and eyes far too close to hers. His warm breath touched her cheeks. “Is it working, Miss Evernight?”

  “Yes.” She gave him another push. “Now give me room to breathe, or your efforts will be for naught.”

  He hovered there, his eyes lowering to her lips, and his own lips parting. Everything within her went tight and warm, but then he did as bided and sat back. “Interesting to note,” he said, his gaze watchful, “that my nearness sets you into a panic.”

  She smoothed her skirts, thankful that her black leather gloves hid her damp palms. “More like I understand the concept of social distance while you do not.”

  “Ah, but petal, a demon’s sense of social distance is far more intimate than a human’s.” His sudden, wide grin had her pulse leaping as he added, “I suppose we’ll have to meet somewhere in the middle.”

  Indeed. She needed to be out of this coach. Though Thorne was lean, his shoulders seemed to take up entirely too much space. Properly kitted in a charcoal grey suit and a fine black wool overcoat, he might have appeared the perfect gentleman, were it not for the fall of snow-bright hair over his shoulders. Paired with the top hat tilted down over one eye and his blade-sharp male beauty, William Thorne was something exotic, dangerous, and far too tempting to be allowed to roam through bland and somber London.

  “How does a demon end up with such a proper English name?”

  “Ah,” he propped a polished boot heel upon the base of the opposite bench. “I suppose we ought to thank my proper English mother for that, hadn’t we?” His smile was not at all nice. “I come from a long line of William Thornes. However, I have the distinction of being the one inhuman of the lot. Quite the taint to the illustrious line of the Marquis of Renwood. I daresay my ancestors would be rolling in their graves had my family failed to be rid of me.”

  “You’re a Marquis?”

  It certainly explained his arrogance and bearing.

  “No,” he said patiently. “I am a sanguis demon. Left for dead on the streets of the East End while—” another cold, tight smile—“a distant cousin stepped in to take up the title upon my untimely death.”

  Holly turned to stare out of the window where the grey clouds hung upon a bleak, white sky. “How did you end up in a human household?”

  “It is the way of demons, you see.” His smooth voice filled up the space. “We crave luxury, warmth, frivolity. Things that go hand in hand with money and power. Things,” he added, “we aren’t allowed to obtain in our own right because we must hide our true nature from humans. Thus, when it comes time to procreate, a demon will take on the identity of some titled nob, wealthy merchant, or what have you, and put his seed in the bloke’s wife.”

  Her stomach turned. “And what of the man whose identity was stolen?”

  He shrugged, making the gesture appear casual, when the dark look in his eyes was anything but. “A demon needs the person’s blood to take on his appearance, and they don’t want to be caught. So…”

  They used the victim’s blood for as long as need be, then killed him. It was the number one crime the SOS fought against.

  Seeing her look, he made a noise of dark amusement. “Not the most noble of actions, I grant you. But in the demon’s eyes, he is providing his offspring with a step up in life. Alas, many humans never catch on that they’ve birthed the devil’s get. Until it’s too late.”

  A strangled sound escaped her. “It is horrid,” she said. “To deceive and toy with the lives of others in such a fashion. To take what you have no right to.”

  “What is horrid,” he answered in clipped tones, “is that we must pretend to be something we are not for fear of your delicate sensibilities. That we must take, like thieves and beggars, when if we were free, we could be something so much more.”

  Such bitterness there.

  “And I didn’t say I was planning to do likewise,” he said dryly. “Personally, I’d rather make my way in the world upon my own merit. I am merely explaining how I came to be the son of a Marquis. Not—” he lifted a finger as if giving a lecture—“that I can truly claim to be of his blood. Although my mother was an earl’s daughter so I suppose there is some true-blue English blood in me after all.”

  “How glib you’re being, Mr. Thorne.”

  His eyes narrowed, flashing filaments of pure platinum. “How would you prefer me to act, Miss Evernight? Ashamed of something I had no say in? To apologize for my origins? Oh, but I almost forgot. You are SOS.” He sneered. “You lot expect us demons to beg and scrape as we crawl back into Hell so that you may pretend we never existed.”

  Abruptly, he turned away. A muscle ticked in his clenched jaw.

  Holly’s insides cringed. “You are correct. You had no say in the matter.” She frowned down at their clasped hands. How was it that they still held hands and she hadn’t noticed? She relaxed her grip. “I apologize for insulting your honor.”

  His grip eased as well. “No need
. It is all rather unsavory. And yet one more reason I loathe the way my kind must hide what they are.”

  Holly wasn’t about to dwell on that discussion to save her life at the moment. “What is your natural form then?”

  “What you see is what you get, love.” His mouth quirked. “Well, aside from this metal muck.”

  Holly shook her head. “But you said demons needed blood to take on the appearance of a human…”

  He rolled his eyes. “To steal another’s identity. Really, you ought to know better. Aside from raptors, and a few unsavory breeds who feed off of evil and are never allowed out of Hell, we are essentially human in appearance.” He inclined his head towards her. “We onus are, after all, part human.”

  Her cheeks heated. “Of course.” The onus were the offspring of primus—the original, and rather rare, first demons of creation, and humans.

  Despite an inner warning that she’d not tread further upon his feelings, her curiosity was running rampant. “The color of your hair is distinctive. Has no one recognized you?”

  “Once I grew out of leading strings and could no longer be mistaken for towheaded, they colored it. Plain brown. Regardless, we see what we want to see. I assure you, my former family turns a blind eye to me. And I them.”

  “And yet you go by the name they gave you.”

  When he did not answer, Holly risked a look. His profile was to her, stark and tight with displeasure. “That I do,” he finally murmured.

  “And you never knew your real father?”

  Thorne blinked once, so slowly that it seemed as though he braced himself. “No. But I heard quite a bit about him.” He stared out of the window. “He fell in love with my mother, you see. So much so that he revealed himself.” He grew silent, and Holly thought he would speak no more. Then his voice drifted out like a ghost in shadows. “She killed him and then waited to see if I’d turn out the same as he. She told me this on the day I began to mature and my demon nature became clear. The day she let me out in the East End and told me never to darken her doorway again.”