Lord of Darkness

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  Alive. Alive. Alive.

  She didn’t even know how they made it inside the carriage, for she’d begun to shake, and once inside she simply let go and sobbed. Great, heaving, sloppy tears that held all the pain and fear she’d held back for the last several hours. He wrapped his arms around her and she gripped him tight because there was simply no way she was ever going to let him go again.

  After a bit, she quieted enough to hear him murmuring as they rocked through the London night, “Hush, Meggie mine, hush. It’s all right.”

  But his words only brought a new wave of grief. She squeezed her fingers into his shoulders until she knew she must be hurting him, but she couldn’t let go.

  “No.” She shook her head against him. “It’s not right. You left.”

  She felt his palm against her cheek, pressing as if he was trying to see her face, but she wouldn’t move.

  “What’s not right, Megs? Why are you so upset?”

  “Because I found you in your Ghost costume in St. Giles. You went after Lord Kershaw, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said, and even without seeing his eyes, she heard the hesitation in his voice.

  “How could you, Godric?” Her left hand curled into the back of his neck, her nails gently scraping against the short hairs there. “What if you’d succeeded in finding him? What if you never returned? I couldn’t bear it if—”

  “I did find him,” he broke into her half-hysterical words. “He’s dead, Megs.”

  She did draw back at that, staring in horror at him, and moaned. “Oh, no!”

  He frowned, looking very confused. He opened his mouth, shut it, and then finally opened it again to ask cautiously, “I thought you wanted him dead in revenge for the murder of Roger Fraser-Burnsby?”

  “Not at the risk of you being hurt or killed!” she nearly shouted.

  He blinked. “I’m sorry … what?”

  “I wasn’t thinking properly earlier. I should’ve made it clear that you mean more to me than revenging myself on the earl. I should’ve told you that it didn’t matter anymore—which wouldn’t have been strictly true, but really, Godric, it would’ve been better than you going off to get killed without even a word to me. If you’d gotten yourself killed tonight, I would’ve never, ever forgiven you and—”

  She gave up at that point because he was looking even more bemused and obviously she hadn’t communicated her main point.

  So she simply thrust both hands into his short hair and yanked his head down to kiss him.

  Ah, there. The tightness of her chest relaxed a bit at the touch of his lips. He might not understand her words, but he was enthusiastic about her kiss, immediately opening her mouth farther and thrusting his tongue in. She hummed contentedly, stroking through his shorn hair, caressing the rim of his ear. He shuddered a bit and she wondered idly if his ears were particularly sensitive. If so—

  He pulled back, staring at her in the dim carriage, his brows still knit. “Megs?”

  Oh, right. She still hadn’t told him. Well, it was his own fault; his mouth was simply delicious.

  “I love you,” she said, speaking clearly so that there might be no confusion. “I love you utterly and completely. I love your elegant hands and the way you smile with only one side of your mouth—when you smile at all—and I love how grave your eyes are. I love that you let me invade your house with nearly my entire family and yours, and never even turned a hair. I love that you made love to me when I asked you, purely for politeness’ sake, and I love that you got mad at me later and made me make love to you. I love that you let Her Grace and her puppies construct a nest out of your shirts in your dressing room. I love that you’ve spent years selflessly saving people in St. Giles—although I want you to stop right now. I love that you killed a man for me, even if I’m still mad at you about it. I love that you saved my letters before we even knew each other well, and I love the curt, overly serious letters you wrote to me in return.”

  She looked at him very seriously.

  “I love you, Godric St. John, and now I’m breaking my word. I will not leave you. You may either come with me to Laurelwood or I’ll stay here with you in your musty old house in London and drive you mad with all my talking and relatives and … and exotic sexual positions until you break down and love me back, for I’m warning you that I’m not giving up until you love me and we’re a happy family with dozens of children.”

  She paused at that point because she’d run out of breath and looked at him.

  His face had gone still and for a moment her heart sank and she had to fortify herself for a battle.

  But then his mouth quirked like that and he said, “Exotic sexual positions?”

  And she knew even before he said anything else that it was all going to be fine—more than fine. It was going to be wonderful.

  Still she listened attentively when he said, “Much as I’d like you to convince me to fall in love with you by the use of exotic sexual positions, you don’t need to. I’ve loved you, Meggie mine, since you sent that second letter.”

  He might’ve said more, but she had to interrupt him at that point to kiss him again.

  Long moments later she drew back to frown as sternly as she could at him. “No more Ghost.”

  “No more Ghost,” he agreed docilely, his hands busily shoving the velvet cloak off her shoulders. He laid his open mouth against her bare shoulder and she shivered, gasping.

  “I have a confession to make,” he whispered in her ear.

  She just barely managed to open her eyes. “Yes?”

  His eyes were dark and laughing. “I didn’t agree to bed you for politeness’ sake.”

  He bent back to her shoulder, and after that there was no more conversation, which was just as well.

  She had other matters to concentrate on.

  FOUR WEEKS LATER …

  Godric watched as a small bird with a bright orange breast hopped along a branch and disappeared into a hole in the apple tree. In all his years of living at Saint House, he’d never seen a robin here … but that was before his Meggie came to live with him.

  “I told you that apple tree wasn’t dead.”

  He turned at the sound of her voice. She was wearing bright pink and apple green this morning and looked like the very embodiment of spring as she picked her way down the gravel path.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  An hour ago, she’d sat down to breakfast, picked up a piece of toast, and then hurriedly dropped it and rushed from the room. He’d gone to see what was the matter, of course, and had found her draped over a chamber pot.

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “I can’t believe you stayed and helped me whilst I was gruesomely sick. I’ve never been so mortified in my life.”

  “I love you, sick or not.” He raised his brows, searching her face for any signs of lingering nausea, but her cheeks were their regular healthy pink now. “Are you better?”

  “It’s the oddest thing,” she said, coming up to him and slipping her hand through his elbow. The scent of orange blossoms drifted to his nostrils, welcome and warm. “Now I’m so hungry I could eat an entire fish pie. In fact, I would very much like a fish pie … and perhaps some scones with gooseberry jam. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

  “Lovely,” he agreed, although privately he thought the combination of fish and sweet gooseberries might be … odd. “Have you told Cook?”

  She shot him a look that privately he’d classified as “wifely”—he rather liked that look. “Godric, we can’t just ask Cook to make fish pies and go in search of gooseberry jam on a whim.”

  “Why not?” he asked. “I pay her wages. If you want fish pie, you ought to have fish pie. And gooseberry jam.”

  “Silly.” She shook her head and gazed at the apple tree again, softly murmuring, “Not dead at all.”

  He smiled wryly because she pointed out the old apple tree every time they walked in the garden—at least once a day and more often twice—as an example of her garden
ing acumen.

  It was a rather spectacular sight.

  The tree had covered itself in an embarrassment of pink and white blossoms, a fragrant, joyous cloud that drew the eye as soon as one stepped into the garden. He was never, ever going to hear the end of this from Meggie.

  Not that he was complaining.

  “Oh, look,” Megs exclaimed. “A robin’s nest. And I saw baby bunnies hopping about yesterday evening. I didn’t know there was so much wildlife in the heart of London.”

  “There never was before a goddess came to live here,” Godric muttered.

  She glanced at him. “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  He wrapped his arms about her, watching with her as the robin took flight. No doubt his garden would be infested with squirrels and badgers and baby hedgehogs soon. Her magic was quite potent, it seemed.

  Thank God.

  He leaned down to murmur in her ear, “Have I told you how glad I am you invaded my house and turned my life upside down?”

  She turned her head so that her cheek brushed his lips. “Every day”.

  “Ah.” He smiled against her soft skin. “You saved me, you know.”

  She shook her head again. “Silly.”

  “It’s true,” he said, because it was. “And now I’m going to save you by demanding Cook make you a fish pie.”

  She pursed her lips.

  “Yes,” he insisted, turning her until she faced him. “Nothing is too good for the mother of my child.” Her cheeks deepened to rose and she bit her lip, though that didn’t stop the smile she was trying to stifle. “You’re sure now, aren’t you? That’s what this morning was about?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’m certain.”

  The grin she gave him was brighter than the sun. It echoed the swell of happiness in his heart as he bent to capture her lips with his.

  Together they turned to go into the house in search of fish pie and gooseberry jam.

  Epilogue

  “Wait!” Faith cried. “Where are you going?”

  “To meet the Devil,” the Hellequin said.

  “Then I shall come with you,” she replied.

  He looked at her, and for a moment Faith thought she saw an emotion in his eyes: sorrow. Then he held out his hand to her.

  Faith took his hand and he pulled her in one movement onto the back of the big black horse. She wrapped her arms around his middle and for a very long time they rode in silence through the Plain of Madness.

  At last a towering stone arch appeared before them, jagged and black.

  “Is this Hell?” Faith whispered.

  “Yes,” the Hellequin said, “this is the mouth of Hell. Remember: whatever the Devil says to you, he has no power over you, for you live and breathe. He rules only the dead.”

  Faith nodded and gripped the Hellequin tighter. The Hellequin rode the big black horse through the Mouth of Hell and into utter darkness. Faith looked about her, but she could see nothing and hear nothing. It was a place so hollow and bleak and cold that had she been alone, she might’ve simply shriveled up and lost herself. But Faith still held the Hellequin, and as she laid her cheek against his broad back, she heard the steady thump of his heart. A thing in the shape of a man appeared before them, and though he was pale and thin and not particularly tall, the utter void of humanity in his eyes made Faith shudder and look away.

  Even so, the Hellequin took her hand and dismounted, leading her to stand with him before the thing.

  “You’ve let loose the soul I sent you to collect,” the Devil said, for of course it was he.

  The Hellequin bowed his head.

  “You know,” the Devil said quietly, “what forfeit you must pay.”

  Faith’s heart squeezed. “What is he talking about?” she asked the Hellequin. “What is the forfeit?”

  “My soul,” the Hellequin replied. “The Devil demands a soul and since I lost one, I must pay him back with my own.” “No!” cried Faith.

  The Devil’s thin, cold lips curved as if he were amused. “The living are so passionate. Shall I chain you to a red-hot rock and roast your flesh for a hundred years, girl?”

  Faith lifted her chin, and though it made her tremble to do so, she met the Devil’s pitiless gaze. “I live. You have no power over me.”

  “Ah. The Hellequin has been speaking out of turn, I see.” The Devil shrugged. “Begone from my domain, then, human.”

  “I shall go,” Faith said, “but not without the Hellequin.” The Devil threw back his head and laughed—a sound like a blade drawn along a whetstone. “Silly girl. The Hellequin is not human and hasn’t been for a thousand years.”

  “He drinks like a human,” Faith said.

  The Devil’s eyes narrowed.

  “He eats and he sleeps like a human as well,” she continued bravely, hope rising in her chest. “How is he not a human?”

  “He does not draw breath like a human,” the Devil snapped.

  Faith’s eyes widened and she saw that she had lost, for the Hellequin had never drawn breath the entire time she’d ridden with him.

  Faith turned to the Hellequin, her eyes swimming in tears, and stood upon tiptoe to place her palms on either side of his black face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  And she laid her mouth on his and with a kiss blew air from her lungs into his.

  The Devil shrieked in rage and around Faith and the Hellequin a roaring wind began to spin. The wind rose, spinning higher and faster until all Faith could do was close her eyes and cling to the Hellequin.

  Then the wind was gone and she opened her eyes to find that it was night and they both stood on the crossroads where her beloved had breathed his last breath. The Hellequin was making an odd rasping sound. He clutched his side and fell to his knees.

  Faith knelt beside him, alarmed. “What is wrong?” “Nothing,” he said. “It hurts to draw breath after a millennia of stillness.”

  He threw back his head and laughed—and unlike the Devil his laughter sounded warm and alive.

  The Hellequin drew Faith into his arms. “Dearest, you have given me food, drink, and sleep. You have made my heart beat and breathed life into my dead lungs. You have outwitted the Devil and saved me from Hell, a thing I have never seen before. I am not a good man like your beloved, but if you will take me as husband, I will spend the rest of my mortal life learning how to make you love me.” Faith smiled. “I love you already, for you would have given your own immortal soul simply to free my beloved’s—and to please me.”

  And she pulled his head down and gave him the first of many kisses as a mortal man.

  —From The Legend of the Hellequin

  THREE MONTHS LATER…

  As Lady Penelope Chadwicke’s companion, Artemis had witnessed many ill-advised ideas. There had been the time Penelope had decided to take over the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children—and had been pelted with cherry pits. Once Penelope had tried to start a fashionable craze by using a live swan as an accessory—who knew how irritable swans were? Then there had been the debacle involving the shepherdess costume and the sheep. A year later the scent of wet wool still made Artemis flinch.

  But—hissing swans notwithstanding—Penelope’s ideas weren’t usually dangerous.

  This one, however, might very well get them killed.

  “We’re in St. Giles and it’s dark,” Artemis pointed out with what she hoped was a persuasive tone. The street they were on was deserted, the tall houses on either side looming in a rather sinister manner. “I do think that fulfills the letter of your wager with Lord Featherstone, don’t you? Why don’t we go home and have some of those lovely lemon curd tarts that Cook made this morning?”

  “Oh, Artemis,” Penelope said with that disparaging tone that Artemis had really come to loathe, “the problem with you is that you have no sense of adventure. Lord Featherstone won’t hand over his jeweled snuffbox unless I buy one of those awful tin cups of gin at precisely midnight a
nd drink it in St. Giles, and so I shall!”

  And she went tripping off down a dark lane in the most violent section of London.

  Artemis shivered and followed. She had the lantern, after all—and while Penelope was a vain, silly ninny, Artemis was rather fond of her. Perhaps if they found a gin shop very soon, this would all end happily and Artemis would have another amusing tale to tell Apollo when next she visited him.

  This was all Miss Hippolyta Royle’s fault, Artemis thought darkly as she glanced warily around the awful lane. Miss Royle had captured the imagination of most of aristocratic society—the male half, in fact—and for the first time in her life, Penelope had a rival. Her response—to Artemis’s deep dismay—was to decide to become “dashing,” hence this foolish wager with Lord Featherstone.

  “That looks promising,” Penelope called gaily, pointing to a wretched hovel at the end of the lane.

  Artemis briefly wondered what Penelope considered promising.

  Three large men reeled out of the hovel and started their way.

  “Penelope,” Artemis hissed. “Turn around. Turn around right now.”

  “Whyever should I turn—” Penelope began, but it was already too late.

  One of the men raised his head, saw them, and stilled. Artemis had once watched an old tomcat freeze in the exact same way.