So Still The Night

by Kim Lenox

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Read ahead for a sneak peek at Kim Lenox’s next novel, DARKER THAN NIGHT

  Praise for Night Falls Darkly

  “A new and fascinating mythos is being created before our eyes. . . . This spin on immortality has some hints of things that have been done in the past, but is also quite original. Readers are in for a mental treat, with no tricks.”

  —Huntress Book Reviews

  “Night Falls Darkly is so compelling, it grabs the reader and keeps them entertained and on the edge of their seat until the dramatic conclusion. . . . Kim Lenox sketches extraordinary characters and visualizations that engage the reader. Her style of writing hooks the reader and keeps them interested to the last page. For those looking for romance, passion, suspense, and believable characters, this impressive read has it all.”

  —Coffee Time Romance

  ALSO BY KIM LENOX

  Night Falls Darkly

  SIGNET ECLIPSE

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, May 2009

  Copyright © Kim Lenox, 2009

  eISBN : 978-1-101-04765-1

  All rights reserved

  SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

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  http://us.penguingroup.com

  With love,

  for Mom and Dad

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It takes a very special kind of person to put up with a writer. My sincerest thanks to the following individuals for their continued love, support, and patience:

  Eric, who has my wholehearted love and devotion for believing in me and my writing from the start.

  Cindy Miles, my cohort in daily mischief and mayhem—and NYC exploration. Taxi!

  Kim Frost, for all the Empire Café and Java Dave’s writing dates.

  Kelley Thomas, for the talks, fun, and friendship.

  Kim Lionetti, my agent, for being such a steadfast believer in my work and my abilities.

  Laura Cifelli, my editor, for nailing me on the weak spots and pushing me toward bigger and better stories.

  Gene, Victor, and Shirley, for creating such beautiful Shadow Guard covers.

  Prologue

  “They’ve found us.” Professor Limpett burst into the tent. Ice crystals glistened on his gray beard. Snow dusted the slopes and crevices of his woolen toque, and the shoulders of his heavy coat.

  Mina looked up from the ledger, where, by the light of an oil-fed lantern, she’d just recorded the coordinates of their encampment as provided to her by Lieutenant Maskelyne, their British guide. The gloves she wore made it difficult to hold the pen, and while the small stove beside her radiated a pleasant amount of heat, she remained so heavily bound and buttoned into layers of wool garments that she could barely bend an elbow. Wind battered the tent from all sides. The canvas walls snapped and the ropes creaked.

  “We have visitors?” she inquired. Perhaps one of the local chiefs approached the encampment. Such a thing had been a common enough occurrence as their expedition traveled up through India and into Tibet toward the Himalayas. “Should I prepare tea?”

  A few leaves of tea and half a tin of frozen biscuits were all they had left to offer by way of hospitality.

  Two nights before—the same night they’d departed the mountainside temple that had been their sole destination—one of their hired Sherpas had disappeared from the camp, only to be discovered the next morning, bloodied, broken and dead at the bottom of a crevasse. The event had sent the camp into turmoil. Claims of whispering fog and moving shadows had rippled through the ranks of the Bengali pack carriers.

  But the worst had come this morning when the English travelers awakened to the reality of a mutiny. More than half of the Bengalis had disappeared during the night, along with most of the camp’s provisions and pack animals. Lieutenant Maskelyne had immediately sent for replacement supplies from Yangpoong. Because they could not continue the return journey to Kolkata until the necessary stocks arrived, the expedition could do nothing but wait, reduced in number and undeniably unnerved by the previous days’ events. Though Mina had not spoken the suspicion aloud, it was almost as if a curse had befallen the expedition after its members had taken possession of the four ancient ivory scroll rods from the Tibetan monks. The sound of the temple’s gongs still reverberated inside Mina’s head.

  Rather than answer her question, her father seized the hanging curtain that separated their quarters and shoved it aside. He leaned over his blanketed wooden cot to rummage beneath the pillow. “I have put you in such terrible danger by allowing you to come on this journey with me.”

  Mina slowly set the ledger aside and forced a light tone to her voice.

  “No, you haven’t, Father. These things happen. Remember the time in
Gangtok when our horses were stolen, and we were left stranded for nearly a week?” She rubbed her gloved hands together. “Our supplies will arrive tomorrow or perhaps the day after, and we’ll continue our descent as planned.”

  “I’m not talking about supplies.” When he turned, he held a pistol. “I mean they have found us.”

  Her gaze fixed on the weapon. A chill that had nothing to do with temperature scraped down her spine. “Tell me who, Father. Who has found us?”

  The professor had been behaving strangely for months, ever since being accused by the British Museum of “inappropriately borrowing” museum artifacts. His superiors had forced him to resign his position as a language scholar, and she wondered once again if the strain of those events had pushed him over an emotional ledge, because since that time his words and his actions had become tainted by paranoia. Swearing her into his confidence, he’d told her of a secret society of men who, like him, wished to discover the secrets of immortality—but for dark and wicked purposes. He’d warned her that the men would do anything to seize control of the two ancient Akkadian scrolls—the scrolls he presently kept in a locked case under his cot, and which had only days before been reunited with their original scroll rods.

  Sadly, Mina did not know whether the dangerous men were real or whether the “secret society” was a creation of an aging and deteriorating mind.

  The professor rushed toward her, extending the firearm with its barrel pointed to the carpeted floor. “Promise me you will carry this on your person at all times.”

  “Father.” She stood up from the chair and held her hands behind her back, refusing to accept the weapon.

  “Take it.”

  “No.”

  “Do as I say.” A frantic edge sharpened his voice.

  “Tell me what has happened,” she demanded. “Have you seen them? Are they here in the camp? Can you tell me who they are?”

  Lips pressed firmly together and nostrils flared, he hooked his fingers into her belt and wedged the weapon inside the wide leather strap. In the next breath, he seized her face between his frigid bare hands and pressed a fervent kiss to her cheek.

  Drawing back, he whispered, “You must return to Kolkata.”

  Her alarm grew. “Where are you going?”

  He squeezed her shoulders, but avoided meeting her eyes. “We must separate. It’s the only way.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  He turned from her. “You will return to England. To London. Your uncle will not turn you away. You must tell them all that I am dead.”

  “Dead?” Shock numbed her lips.

  “Yes, that I died here on the mountain in Nepal.”

  His words echoed in her ears, and yet still, she could hardly believe he’d actually spoken them.

  “You’re talking nonsense, Father,” she whispered. “Madness.”

  He claimed a knapsack from the foot of the cot and spoke over his shoulder. “That poor Sherpa, dear . . . his death wasn’t an accident. His injuries were so horrible, they couldn’t have come only from the fall. They killed him as a warning to me. I won’t have the same violence befall you.” He exhaled raggedly. “Bury me, Willomina, next to your dear mother. Be sure everyone knows.” He withdrew a crumpled slip of paper from his waist pocket. “This is the name of a man in Kolkata who will help you with the necessary papers and . . . everything else.”

  She stared at the paper as if it were a large, dangerous spider. He reached past her and placed it on the table.

  “This must be our good-bye.”

  Was he telling her the truth? Had the Sherpa been murdered by these never-before-seen men or had her father lost his mind? In the end, it didn’t really matter.

  “I won’t do it,” she whispered. “I won’t leave you, and you’re not going to leave me. We’re staying together, no matter what.”

  Her father stilled.

  “Father,” she pleaded. “Look at me.”

  Shoulders rigid, he took up his folded woolens and stuffed them into the knapsack. Kneeling, he grasped the narrow box containing the scrolls. That, too, he shoved inside.

  “That’s it, then?” Tears stung her eyes. “You’ll tell me nothing more?” She backed toward the tent’s flap. “Then you’ve left me with no other choice. I’ve got to involve Lieutenant Maskelyne.”

  Her father reached for a leather-bound journal and a circular tin of tooth powder.

  Mina claimed her parka from the wooden drying rack and pushed through the canvas flap. Frigid air frosted her lungs. A cluster of solemn-faced Bengalis looked up from where they crouched around a blazing fire pit, warming their hands. Above the camp, the mountain range stabbed upward through the purpling twilight, into a dense blanket of clouds. Mina thrust her arms into the coat sleeves, and tied the belt at her waist. Her boots sloshed in the mud as she maneuvered through falling snowflakes and the maze of canvas tents. A stalwart chest appeared in front of her. Large hands closed on her arms. From beneath a cap of dark fur, Lieutenant Maskelyne’s square-jawed face peered down.

  “Mina, you look distraught.” His breath formed a small, vaporous cloud. “What has happened?”

  “Please, you’ve got to talk to him.” She swallowed down her tears and gestured over her shoulder. Wind tore at her hair, plastering a thick strand across her cheek. “I think he’s lost his mind. He’s claiming all sorts of wild things.”

  “Wild things?” he repeated, frowning. “Like what?”

  “That we’re being followed, that the Sherpa’s death wasn’t an accident.”

  He squeezed her shoulders, and tilted his head. “Perhaps it’s a simple matter of elevation. Sometimes altitude does strange things to a person’s mind. I’ll go to him now.”

  She nodded, pressing past him and making a path toward the edge of camp.

  “Where are you going?” he called after her.

  “For a walk.” She needed to be alone, needed time to think.

  “Don’t go far,” he warned.

  Her gaze settled on a small outcrop of stones. “I won’t.”

  Chapter One

  “I’ll give you a damn good poke, that’s what I’ll do.”

  Mark perceived the words through a weighty shroud of slumber, but didn’t consider the threat to be aimed at him. After all, he was invisible. Invincible.

  A shadow.

  “. . . damn tired of waiting for you . . .”

  The voice, male and teasingly familiar, hovered behind a curtain of darkness, along with other distant sounds. A pleasant, redundant creaking. Water slapping against wood.

  The River.

  Mark succumbed to the velvet embrace. Oblivion tugged him downward, into the dreamlike images he’d momentarily left behind. Shapely, floating limbs, arms and legs, all stained a warm and seductive shade of scarlet.

  Something jabbed at his ribs. Hard.

  Rage rippled through him. Like a provoked serpent Mark heaved up . . . only to strike a blazing wall of sunshine and sound. Horns and clanking. Distant voices. His linen shirt and woolen trousers lay wet and plastered against his skin. Every bone in his body, every muscle and every inch of skin seethed in dismay, as if his body awakened from a thousand years of sleep. As if he awakened from the dead.

  His brain pulsed, threatening to explode inside his skull. With a dull splash he collapsed backward into the bilge water gathered against the center of the narrow hull. His teeth rattled as the skiff bobbed on high, choppy waves.

  Mark curled onto his side, groaning, and ground his fists into his eye sockets, too weak to care that the brown river water lapped against his cheek.

  “Hell,” he rasped. Even his vocal chords stung, deep in his chest.

  “No, Lord Alexander,” the voice corrected cheerfully. “Not hell. London.”

  Through slitted eyelids, Mark confronted the soon-to-be very unfortunate individual who had forced him into this excruciating state of awareness. A gray-haired, mustachioed gentleman in trousers, crisp white shirt and green and blac
k-striped vest grinned from his perch at the prow of the wooden skiff. A narrow black strap crossed his forehead, holding a black patch in place over one eye. The man chuckled, lifting a pole hook, and pointed the tip at Mark.

  “You jounce me with that thing again, Leeson, and I’ll kill you,” he growled.

  The immortal barked out a laugh and settled the pole across his knees. “My apologies, your lordship. Thought you were drifting off again. I’ve waited a good long while for you to awaken. Since Tilbury, no less.”

  Mark forced himself up onto one elbow. Planting the heels of his boots against the center of the hull, he shoved himself a few inches back until he could prop his shoulders against the wooden cross-bench behind him. God, he ached. Through grit-filled eyes he took in a familiar scene: the quay and warehouses of the London Docks, swarming with laborers and watermen, and to the west, the jagged, jaw-toothed spires of the clock tower and Parliament. A massive cargo barge lumbered past. Its wake set the rowboat to rocking again. He curled his fingers over the wooden rail.

  How in the hell did I end up here?

  “I can’t say I know the answer to that, sir,” Leeson replied. “Last I knew, you were off to the far side of the earth in search of that professor and his scrolls.”

  Immortals couldn’t read one another’s thoughts, but they were capable of silent communication. Mark reminded himself not to speak in such a manner in Leeson’s company, unless he wished to be overheard. In the privacy of his newly shuttered mind, he attempted to reconstruct some framework of memories. Last he could recall, he’d been anchored in the Bay of Bengal, preparing to go ashore in pursuit of Professor Limpett’s inland expedition, when a dense fog had rolled in from the sea.

  But London? London was the last place he wished to find himself, if he wanted to stay alive. He fumbled at his shirt pocket and brought out dark spectacles, their ear wires hopelessly bent. With unsteady hands he angled them onto his face. Blessedly, they dimmed the obscene glare of daylight. God, it was warm. His clothing, the air, smothered him.