Heir of Danger

by Alix Rickloff

  Brendan tensed in sudden anticipation of approaching trouble. He dropped a careful hand to his dagger. The plan might be to draw Máelodor’s assassins to him, but it wasn’t easy to put aside years of discipline. And he refused to go without a fight.

  The shop door opened again, this time on a group of laughing, shouting men, their faces bearing signs of more than a passing familiarity with the crippling effects of cheap whiskey. Red-veined noses, jaundiced eyes, skin lying slack on brittle bones.

  One of the newcomers pulled aside the curtain, shouting for Lyddy, his friends egging him on. Apparently this had not been the first stop on their tavern-crawl.

  Immediately, Rogan was there, his long, thin body seeming to fill the doorway, his normally placid face dark with an emotion Brendan had never seen in his eyes. He’d yet to put on his jacket, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows to reveal the dark curved edge of a tattoo.

  “You speak like that again and I’ll have your tongue from your head,” he threatened.

  The drunk looked cowed for a moment, but his boldness returned as his friends joined him. “I pay good money. I expect good service,” he brazened.

  Rogan’s gaze flicked down to the man’s groin back up to his eyes, contempt twisting his features. “Why don’t you and your friends stick to goats?”

  The men surged forward as one, Rogan disappearing beneath the crush of bodies.

  Devil take it. Did the man have to play knight errant for a damned doxy?

  Brendan shoved up from his chair, sliding his dagger free. Drew to a halt before he’d gone two steps.

  One rascal had fallen to his knees, a second came away with a bloody nose. But the last two fell back as if they’d been stunned by a hammer blow between the eyes.

  Rogan laughed, throwing his arm around the bully who’d first called for the woman. “Arrah, now, you don’t want to be bothering my girl Lyddy. She’s a good lass. She doesn’t do that sort of thing anymore.”

  Mage energy shivered the air, flickering against Brendan’s skin before sinking into his bones, running with his blood.

  “No?” the man said, still with a look of dazed amazement. His companion following after with a glassy acquiescence.

  “You want to take yourselves off and find another shop,” Rogan offered. “The one in Braithwaite Street, or try Martha above the skinners in Marrowbone Lane.”

  “I’ve been there. Martha’s a ripe one,” the man said, nodding stupidly.

  “Of course she is,” Rogan purred. “She’ll be just the thing. Go on and take your friends with you. And we’ll forget about our little brangle.”

  Rogan’s gaze concentrated upon each man in turn, the persuasive power of the leveryas settling over the turbulence of the dram shop. It pulsed along Brendan’s muscles like a drug, the calm easing the tension banding his back. He released the dagger and dropped his arm to his side as the men filtered out, subdued under the influence of Rogan’s subtle yet unbending mental pressure.

  “Come, Douglas.” Rogan motioned toward the door. “We’ll follow to be sure they’re headed toward Marrowbone Lane.”

  Anything to get the hell out of here.

  Brendan tossed a coin on the table, casting a swift glance at the corner table, but the strange man with the black and silver hair was gone. No sign of him in the shop anywhere. He must have slipped out during the commotion.

  Brendan joined Rogan outside. They trailed behind the foursome as they made their way down Bridgefoot Street and away from the river.

  “You’re lucky they didn’t beat the hell out of you. The leveryas is a dicey thing to control.”

  Rogan laughed. “If they’d been sober, I’d say you were right to be nervous. But the stench of whiskey rising off them was enough to drop a bull in his traces. No fears they’d have broken free.”

  “You must care for the woman to risk mob dismemberment.”

  “Lyddy’s a good girl, Douglas. She doesn’t like working there, but she’s not had much choice. She ran away from home when she was a wee thing. The first time she worked the mage energy.”

  Brendan sucked in a quick breath. “She’s Other?”

  “Aye, mind ya, she’s no master-mage, but she carries the blood of the Fey, no doubt of it. Her family sought to drive the devil from her.” His voice hardened. “Bolloxy Duinedon sons of bitches damn near killed her.”

  “They don’t understand.”

  “And that gives them a right to go about murdering young girls? Burning out whole families? Driving people from their homes just because they’re Other?” Rogan spat in the gutter. “It might not be such a bad thing to have Arthur back. Show those ignorant bastards we’re not a bunch of demon spawn.”

  Brendan grabbed his arm, spinning him roughly around. “That’s dangerous talk. It could get you into trouble.”

  Rogan pulled free. “And what’s doing nothing got me?” He looked past Brendan to where Lyddy stood in the doorway, a hand shading her eyes. “Or any of us?” He raked a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, defeat in his rounded shoulders. “Here, now, I’m sorry for gabbling on at you like that and I know you’re right, Douglas. It’s just”—he sighed—“sometimes I wonder: Can the world get any worse for us than it is now?”

  Brendan gave a harsh bark of laughter. “That’s a question to bring down Armageddon if ever I heard one.”

  “Yet you don’t answer me.”

  “You want an answer? Then yes, Rogan.” Brendan kneaded the throbbing muscles in his hand. “Take the word of one who knows: Should Máelodor succeed, hell will be the refuge.”

  “More pigeon pie? Cold mutton?” Madame Arana asked.

  Elisabeth allowed the platter to pass her by. Not that she couldn’t have eaten another helping, but already her stays bit into her sides and the borrowed gown she wore clamped around her middle. One more piece of bread and she’d be relegated to a sheet and a smile.

  “Grand-mère!” Helena snapped.

  Madame Arana jerked her head up, a guilty smile quirking her lips.

  “I’ve allowed that walking flea hotel the freedom of the house. The least you can do is not feed him from the table.”

  “He’s hungry, ma minette,” she replied, unmoved by Helena’s scolding.

  Killer, obviously realizing he was the topic of conversation, moved to Helena with a soulful look and a wagging rear end before dropping to the rug to roll over in a love-me pose of abject patheticness.

  “Don’t even try your canine wiles on me. If you’re not careful, I’ll use your bony carcass for a throw rug,” she warned.

  The dog knew when it had met its match. It slunk under the table to lie like a hot, furry lump across Elisabeth’s feet. He’d been missing since last night with none to say when or how he’d gotten out. And now here he was, as if he’d never left. Did he have a girlfriend? Was he hunting rats in the mews? Taking in the city’s sights? Impossible to say with Killer. Sometimes he almost seemed human.

  As dinner progressed around her, she sank into a pensive silence. She’d risen this morning to an empty bed. Brendan gone. She’d have almost doubted her own memories had she not smelled the musky foreign spice of him in her sheets and on her skin. Seen the marks of their marriage upon the flesh of her breasts, her stomach. A love bruise high upon her thigh. She hid her blush behind her wineglass, sipping slowly of the fine French claret.

  “You look like a woman in love, ma puce. Marriage with young Douglas agrees with you.”

  Madame Arana’s knowing grin deepened Elisabeth’s flush. Heat flamed her face.

  “You’ve been waiting for him many years, I’m thinking.”

  “Since I was ten and put a toad down his shirt,” Elisabeth admitted. From the corner of her eye, she caught Helena shaking her head, mouth pulled into a disgusted frown.

  She’d been this way ever since the wedding. Locked in her own thoughts. Surlier than usual.

  Madame Arana didn’t seem to notice her granddaughter’s dark mood. Either that or she was used
to it. She beamed as she buttered her bread. “Ah, a young girl’s first love. And now you have him. No more waiting at the altar. It is done. Tout de suite. Just like that.”

  Elisabeth had him, all right. A tiger by the tail.

  But had marrying Brendan been less about saving face and more a drastic last-ditch effort to hold on to him? A desperate measure meant to force a pledge made out of duty by a callow twenty-year-old? If so, she was a simpleton.

  Oh, he’d given her all she asked for. Had awakened a wicked craving within her and then sated it with delicious thoroughness. He’d even allowed her a glimpse of more than his usual icy cynicism. But what did it mean if duty still drove him and nothing else? Fulfilling the letter if not the spirit of their vows? Could she live with that?

  Was she insane to want to dare the deep waters when sense told her to remain satisfied with the shallows?

  Did it matter when all hung upon such a precarious knife edge?

  “You mustn’t fret. Helena knows what she is doing. She would not ask it of young Douglas if she did not think their bargain would work out.”

  “Grand-mère!” Helena snapped again.

  Nerves fluttered Elisabeth’s stomach, making her relieved she’d not taken that helping. “Didn’t think what bargain would work out? What have you asked of Brendan?”

  Helena put down her wineglass. Crossed her arms in front of her, her gaze steady and inscrutable. “Douglas is Máelodor’s only hope of finding the Sh’vad Tual. We’re using this to our advantage. Luring Máelodor out from the shadows where he’s hidden for so many years. Once he’s exposed, the brotherhood can no longer dismiss his existence. We can move against him in force.”

  “You’re using Brendan? He’s spent the last seven years running from Máelodor, and now you want him to stake himself out like human bait?”

  Helena’s lips pursed, her body shifting ominously in her chair. “And why shouldn’t he? It began with him. It’s only fitting he should end it.”

  A sliver of fear seeped in to join Elisabeth’s stomach’s nervous dance. “What began with him?”

  “Douglas has told you nothing of his past?”

  Helena sounded surprised.

  Feeling herself on the defensive, Elisabeth met bold gaze with bolder. “He’s told me enough.” She didn’t like where this was headed. “I know Brendan’s powerful among his race. That he was a source of great pride for the old earl, much to the chagrin of Brendan’s older brother, Aidan.”

  “But not what havoc he wrought with that great gift.” Contempt riddled Helena’s tone. She pushed back from the table to stand, leaning her arms menacingly upon the table. “Did Douglas tell you he was part of the Nine like his father? Like Máelodor? That’s why he ran. That’s why he hid. And that’s why he agreed to our bargain. Because if he didn’t, he knew I wouldn’t have hesitated to fulfill my duty and execute him for the cold-blooded, ruthless murderer he is.”

  The word hit Elisabeth like a punch to the stomach.

  Murderer? Was it true?

  I can’t go home. Not ever.

  Now she knew why.

  “I want the truth, Brendan. All of it—not just the bits and pieces round the edges, but the whole stinking heap.”

  “And good evening to you too.” Hair still damp from a bath, Brendan looked up from pulling on his boots, his cravat hanging loose against the open collar of his shirt. His jacket lying on the bed beside his waistcoat. A dab of paper stuck to his chin where he’d nicked himself shaving.

  Ridiculous as it sounded, it wasn’t the glittering, lynx-gold stare he fixed upon her that sent heat flooding her cheeks. Nor the sudden bunch of his muscles that made her stomach tingle. Not even the slow, dangerous smile creasing the tiny sun lines at the corners of his eyes that set her heart galloping.

  No, it was that dratted bit of sticking plaster on his jaw.

  Evidence of his vulnerability. His humanity.

  Her stupid, self-destructive, jelly-kneed infatuation.

  “Answer my question,” she snapped. “For once.”

  He dropped the boot to the carpet with a thud, creases deepening either side of his mouth, a guarded look instantly entering his gaze.

  “I thought this was just about keeping that stone of yours safe, but it goes far and away beyond that, doesn’t it?” she demanded. “No evasions. No snappy repartee. Clear, simple answers.”

  He bent to pull on his other boot before straightening slowly, spreading his hands palms up as if to show he had nothing to hide.

  “Helena says you’re going to set yourself up as a decoy to lure Máelodor out,” she said.

  His body tensed, a chill descending like a knife between them as he resumed dressing.

  She’d pushed too far to surrender now. She’d never get a better chance. Brendan would not allow himself to be cornered again. “You said your father and Máelodor were part of the Nine. That the Amhas-draoi executed the members of the group. You never said why. What did they do, Brendan?” She swallowed. “What did you do?”

  The sticking plaster had fallen off. And whatever she’d taken for vulnerability had vanished in the grim-edged contours of a face carved in stone. His mouth ringed in white, furrows in his brow. Eyes ablaze.

  A man who frightened her with such a concentration of intensity, he seemed to radiate like sun off sand, yet despite everything made her feel and yearn as the Brendan she knew had always done.

  “Lissa—” He spoke hoarsely, as if holding himself together by the barest of threads.

  “Don’t call me that.” She drew in a shaky breath. “Tell me Helena lied and I’ll believe you, but I want the truth.”

  As if she’d touched a nerve, the blaze in his eyes flared like oil thrown upon a fire.

  “Shit.” He lurched away with a sickened groan. “Isn’t it obvious? The truth has been staring you in the face for weeks. Father spent his life searching for the relics, but to him they were merely artifacts. Pieces for a museum. It was me. I devised the damned plan. To use the Sh’vad Tual to break the wards shielding Arthur’s tomb. I unraveled the spell that would resurrect the king as one of the Domnuathi. And when the violence escalated and the deaths began, I didn’t care. As long as I could dig as deep as I wanted into the forbidden Unseelie magics, it didn’t matter who was hurt along the way. I turned a blind eye to all of it. Now do you see?”

  She shook her head, hearing the disgust in his voice. She would deny his words. It wasn’t Brendan. No matter how many sins he’d committed, this was not the man who’d carried her home through the rain. Who’d allowed her to tag after him from the time she was old enough to escape her nurses. Who’d agreed to marry her when it would have been easier to walk away. And whose kisses seared a blast of heat straight to her dazed brain and whose touch melted her to sweet liquid ecstasy.

  “You’d have done better to hold to your ignorance,” Brendan said. “Knowledge is dangerous. It can blow up in your face.”

  She couldn’t fit these pieces together into any puzzle that made sense. “If your goal is the same as Máelodor’s, why didn’t you give him the stone years ago and be done with it?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She latched onto his silence as a brief hope within the maze of her confusion. “Could it be because you’re not the criminal they think you? It’s been seven years. People change in seven years.”

  “People may change. They may wish with all their heart they could undo the things they’ve done, but the crimes remain. The stain of that legacy never leaves.”

  “You spoke once of your part in the murder of your father. What did you do, Brendan? What happened to him?”

  Again he did not answer.

  “That’s why you came back to Dun Eyre. That’s why you’ve agreed to this insane scheme of Helena’s. To make amends.” Terror fluttered up from her stomach into her chest. “Don’t do it, Brendan. It’s too dangerous. You said yourself Máelodor wants you—”

  “Alive.” His expression softened to one o
f sorrow. “And he’ll keep me that way as long as I know where the stone is. And as long as I keep scream—” A shudder of his body. “As long as I entertain him.”

  She grabbed him as if she might hold him back. Keep him here with her in this room where they were warm and safe and where Other and Duinedon didn’t matter. Where evil couldn’t touch them. “Tell Helena you won’t do it. Tell her to come up with some other way.”

  “There is no other way.”

  “You can’t do this alone.”

  He shook her off. “I like alone.”

  “Then why did you marry me?”

  Hand on the knob, he turned back, face graven with scorn. “Why indeed, Lissa?”

  Brendan descended to the parlor. Voices rose and fell and silverware clinked from the dining room across the hall, but, thank the gods, this room was empty. He couldn’t face any witnesses to his dance so close to the razor’s edge.

  He eyed the piano in the corner, deliberately turning his back on the instrument. Music wouldn’t be enough to drive the devils from his mind tonight.

  His temples throbbed as he lifted the decanter. His hands shook as he poured, whiskey sloshing over his fingers. He sucked it off, the bite of the alcohol lying sharp on his tongue. Falling into a chair, he clutched the glass before him, rolling the smoky gold whiskey around and around. Unable to drink, though he shivered uncontrollably, his gut in knots.

  His body craved a different temptation. A tall, voluptuous figure filling a gown to distracting perfection. A wild riot of red hair meant for a man to run his fingers through. And dark, velvety eyes hinting at secrets a man would want to tease from a pair of full, pouty lips.

  He shook his head, cursing his folly. He’d spoken the vows, signed the license, but his marriage with Elisabeth was as much a sham as ever. And now that she knew his criminal past, there was less than a blizzard’s chance in the Sahara for the two of them. And that was a good thing. He’d only cause her grief. He excelled at hurting those closest to him.