by LENOX, KIM
“Such a bad little brotoi,” Mark hissed. “One who doesn’t know when to shut his mouth.”
The Ripper screamed, punished again by a shallow slash of Mark’s blade.
Selene dropped beside Elena, dragging her from Archer’s embrace. “Go, Archer. End this now.”
Mark called. “Much as I hate it, you’ve earned the honor. But you’ve got to hurry.” Effort strained his voice.
“Go,” whispered Elena. “Stop him.”
Archer pressed his mouth to Elena’s alarmingly cool palm and prayed the kiss wouldn’t be their last before life abandoned her.
Mark growled, “I can’t bind him much longer.”
Archer strode toward Jack.
His eyes gleamed hot, and his blood thundered with murderous rage. His blades hissed from his hands.
“Time to die, Jack.”
“Never,” the brotoi growled. Suddenly, his cloak flew out beside him, and like a great, dark bat, he leapt up, his face a demonic mask.
Archer kicked him in the center of the chest. His blades flashed, and his arms swung round in a double blow.
Jack’s head parted from his neck, and a flash-second later his entire body disintegrated into thousands of tiny fragments. For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of the small particles falling against the roof.
“That’s never happened before,” Mark muttered. He moved closer to where the Ripper had stood and ground his boot into a small pile of the black stuff. Bending, he touched the shining grains and smelled their residue. “Volcanic sand.”
Archer wasn’t listening. He drew in his blades.
Selene looked up. “She’s still alive.”
But Elena had lost consciousness. Archer crouched, gently gauging the pulse of her neck. Grief spread through him like a plague, devouring anything good within him. She was beyond his help. He had spared her life once, and could not do it again. There were no second chances.
He stared, stricken, into Selene’s eyes. “Why did you bring her here?”
“Damn you, Mark!” Selene raged, tears sliding over her cheeks. “If not for your reckless ambition, I would still have—” Her voice broke. “I would still have my friend, and I would still have my brother.”
Archer turned. “You brought Elena into this?”
Mark stared back at him, his bronze eyes unwavering.
With a roar, Archer again extended his blades.
Mark backed away. “If I can come back from this, Archer, I’ll be a legend amongst legends.”
“Come back from this?” Archer stalked the Reclaimer. “You can’t come back from this. I’ve got to slay you now.”
Selene sobbed, “Mark.”
“Break the rule.”
“I can’t.”
“You will. In exchange for what I can offer you.”
“Glory no longer appeals. There’s nothing you can promise me.”
Archer trembled, consumed by hatred and grief. He would slay Mark and then hold Elena until she died.
“I can save her.”
Archer slashed his blades. “Just shut your mouth and die.”
“I saw her on the street below,” Mark hissed. “She wielded blades. Amaranthine silver.”
Selene wiped at her eyes. “My God. That’s right. She had daggers on her. Your daggers. She stabbed them into Jack.”
“What?” Archer whispered, disbelieving.
Just a touch of primordial silver would blister a human hand.
Mark moved closer, daring to come within range of Archer’s blades. “She could cross over, Archer. Like Selene and I did. She’s a mortal, capable of becoming immortal.”
“Hurry,” Selene pleaded. “We’ve got to get her to the portal.”
Archer rushed to claim Elena from Selene’s arms. He lifted her limp body against his chest. Clenching her tight he felt her blood seep through his shirt, warming his skin. Desperation closed his throat. He felt as if he could barely breathe, as if his heart would burst. He had but one chance to save her.
The stairs creaked beneath their combined weight. Soon, he was racing with her toward the street. Mark and Selene, having descended from the ledge above, already climbed into the carriage.
Archer commanded Leeson, “Drive!”
The vehicle lurched forward. Archer cradled Elena in silence. After an eternity, the carriage clattered to a stop before Black House’s steps. He raised his face from the tangled splendor of her hair.
Selene leapt down, racing up the steps to hold the door for Archer. His heart pounded with the enormity of what he intended to do. He carried Elena through the hall and into his study. Mark and Leeson’s footsteps sounded on the marble floor behind him.
Orange light flickered off the ceiling and the walls. A huge fire blazed upon the massive hearth—as if the portals had blasted wide-open with news of the Ripper’s Reclamation.
Selene waited off to the side. “I’ve unfinished business here. Send word, Archer. Tell us if she survives.”
Archer stared at Mark. “They will send me as your assassin.”
Mark’s voice echoed hollowly. “All I need is a good lead start. I’m gone as soon as you disappear into those flames. Watch me, Archer. I’ll be the first to return from Transcension.”
“Hurry, your lordship,” urged Leeson.
Archer paused for a moment to press his lips against Elena’s forehead. She was still alive—he could sense the faint flutter of life within her.
“Be strong for me, darling,” he rasped, knowing the passage alone could kill her.
Shoulders back, he strode into the fire.
A great roar filled his ears. He gritted his teeth. The flames bore against him, a mighty, scorching wind threatening to tear Elena from his arms. He groaned with the effort. He shouted, giving every last bit of strength within him.
He broke through.
The vivid color—
The purity of the air—
He staggered, collapsing to his knees. Gasping for breath, he gently lowered Elena to the grass.
She blinked. “Archer?”
Before his eyes, she grew radiant. Her cheeks flushed pink with life. Even her hair gleamed with ethereal brightness.
“You look so different,” she whispered, staring up at him.
“I couldn’t let you go. Not like that, Elena. I hope you do not hate me for taking the decision from you.”
“This is your true home?”
“Yes.”
“Then I have no regrets.” Her eyes shone, intense with love.
“Welcome home, Ancient.”
Archer looked up. The three Primordials descended the slope of a green hill, their long white tunics carried on the wind behind them. Countless Amaranthines followed—faces Archer had not seen since he abandoned the Inner Realm thousands of years before. They peered with curiosity at Elena. Aitha crouched beside her and gently touched her cheek.
“Welcome, child.”
The tension in Archer’s muscles eased.
Hydros, tall and powerful, placed his hand on Archer’s shoulder. “A job well-done.”
Khaos, whose long black hair swept the grass, took Elena’s hand and helped her stand. “Your mortal talents are not forgotten here.”
“My talents?” She stared at her, showing no fear.
“Your desire to heal.”
Aitha announced, “We cannot lose our most powerful Shadow Guard. But we can strengthen him by enabling you, as his mate, to be an Intervenor.”
Archer exhaled at the enormity of their gift. He took Elena by the shoulders and stared into her beautiful eyes, never having believed his eternal existence could have taken such a sudden turn.
“An Intervenor, Elena. You will spare innocent lives not meant to end just yet.”
Elena’s eyes brightened with tears.
“But you must rest, child, and complete your transition.” Aitha smiled benevolently. “Go to your lands, Archer, and share them with your bride.”
Archer peered d
own at Elena. She touched his cheek. “I always knew I’d love you forever.”
Suddenly, Archer remembered. He turned to the Primordials. “But what of Mark?”
Read on for a special preview of
the next Novel of the Shadow Guard,
SO STILL THE NIGHT
Coming in May 2009 from Signet Eclipse
Willomina Limpett tilted her face toward the voice.
A man stood there, just off to the side, tall and elegant, against the lush backdrop of the steep, grassy hill. The afternoon grew late, and the shadows long, but how could she not have seen him before? A shadowy thrill rippled through Mina, from the top of her crape-trimmed bonnet to the square point of her black leather shoes. It was a highly inappropriate response, given the event of the moment . . . but no one else needed to know.
“Miss Limpett,” he repeated, approaching in measured steps.
He wore a precisely cut suit of rich cloth, the sort only the wealthiest of gentlemen could command from the tailors of London’s famed Savile Row. His silk top hat rose high and gleaming. Opaque, blue-lensed spectacles prevented her from directly meeting his gaze.
She glanced toward her uncle, Lord Trafford, who stood just a few paces away, speaking to one of the funeral guests. Moments before she’d politely excused herself from the conversation and wandered off the path to view the striking beauty of Highgate Cemetery.
“Have we been introduced?” Mina inquired. She knew they had not. He was not someone she would forget.
“Forgive my breach of etiquette.” His voice was rich, and warm. He deftly removed his hat to reveal jaw-length blond hair, streaked an even paler shade of moonlight. “I am . . . Alexander. I saw the newspaper announcement and knew I must come to offer my condolences.”
“You knew my father?” The gravel shifted and crunched beneath her soles.
Not a single one of the professor’s professional or academic peers had seen fit to attend his funeral service. The guests, who presently made their way toward the rows of waiting coaches, were society acquaintances of Lord and Lady Trafford, all strangers to Mina. They would have been strangers to her father as well.
“I dabble in languages. A personal interest, really. Nothing on the level of your father’s expertise.”
“Alexander . . . ,” she murmured. Had her father ever mentioned the name?
“I’ve found myself in possession of something and wanted you to have it.”
“Oh, yes? What is it?”
Again she looked toward her uncle, who remained engrossed in conversation. Her aunt and cousins had disappeared into the funeral carriage.
Mina returned her attention to Alexander, who produced a dark, rectangular object from his hip pocket. He solemnly offered his gift. Their gloved hands briefly touched. A rush of heat coursed high into her cheeks. She lowered her chin, purposefully retreating into the shadow of her bonnet, at the same time, considering the leather case in her hand. She slid her thumb against the clasp and inside found a tintype of two men crouched side by side atop an immense slab of stone.
Her breath caught in her throat. For the first time since her father’s coffin had been sealed in Bangladesh, tears rushed against her lashes. They blurred her vision of the photograph—an image of her father as a young man, his hat cocked aside, and his face beaming with excitement. He had never lost that fervor, that zeal for adventure. Not even in the final moments, when they had said their good-byes.
Lord Alexander murmured, “The photograph was taken at the ruins at—”
“Petra. Yes. He took me there, once. Who is this man with him?” She pointed, lifting the frame for a closer look. “His face is blurred. . . .”
“Unfortunately.”
“He favors you though. He is your father, is he not?”
Alexander cocked his head.
“Thank you,” Mina whispered. “We traveled so much, from place to place. By necessity, I collected few mementoes. I shall treasure this always.”
“I am glad.” He pressed his lips together, as if pondering the words he would speak next. “Miss Limpett . . .”
“Yes?”
“I hope I do not overstep the bounds of propriety in choosing this moment to broach a particular subject, when the pain of your loss must still be so fresh.”
In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to reach up and pull the spectacles from his face. She wanted very badly to know the color of his eyes.
“Please speak freely.”
He nodded. “The professor, I know, possessed an extensive personal collection above and beyond the one he curated at the museum. In particular, I know he owned two very rare Akkadian scrolls.”
Unease, feather-soft, spiraled up Mina’s spine. She stared down into the case, into her father’s eyes.
“Perhaps now that your father has passed, you might be willing to part with them?”
She shut the case. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“I’m prepared to pay handsomely for them.”
She shook her head, and attempted a polite, easy smile, while her mind threw out options for quickly extricating herself from his company—a necessary reversal, given his line of questioning. “The scrolls are not available for purchase.”
“Perhaps you have already sold the scrolls to someone else?”
He edged closer—so close she could hardly breathe for the magnitude of his presence. The boning of Mina’s tightly laced corset pressed uncomfortably against the undersides of her breasts.
His voice lowered and grew almost hushed. “If you could simply provide a name, I would be more than happy to approach them myself.”
Mina’s heart pounded. There had, indeed, been offers. There had also been a few very nasty threats—which was why a pistol presently weighted the tasseled, jet-beaded bag on her wrist.
“I can give you no such name.”
She could not see his eyes, but knew they narrowed by the crinkling of lines that formed at his temples. Her thoughts veered around inside her head, as if he prodded inside her mind—no doubt an unfortunate result of her tortured conscience. She experienced a sudden, overwhelming desire to confess everything.
“Where are the scrolls, Miss Limpett?”
Yet she could not confess.
Instead, she blurted, “With Father.”
The smile dropped from his lips, and suddenly she felt as if she were being considered by an emotionless, flat-eyed wolf. “What do you mean, with Father?”
She looked pointedly toward the Street of the Dead, where it disappeared into the shadowed corridor of evergreens. By now, the coffin would have been lowered on its hydraulic bier, into the tunnel below, and transported by unseen cemetery workers to the catacombs.
Even in the dimming light, his skin appeared to blanch a shade lighter. “You can’t be serious. The scrolls were . . . interred with your father?”
“In the end, they were his most treasured possessions.”
“We are talking about ancient papyri, never translated or transcribed, and you mean to tell me”—he laughed, a deep, incredulous sound—“that they are lost forever?”
“I’m afraid so.” She twisted her hand in the velvet cording of her bag. “It’s been four long months, you see.”
“Oh, now that’s stellar.”
She glanced out from beneath her bonnet’s brim. “I suppose you’d like your photograph returned?”
He responded with a rueful chuckle, but the smile he wore—though a bit tight—appeared surprisingly genuine.
“No, Miss Limpett, I do not wish to have my photograph returned.” As he repeated her words, he imitated her cadence and tone, a light flirtation that even now, sent a pleasurable tremor through her. “I am disappointed, of course, but who am I to object to the last wishes of a dying man? I should have anticipated the same. William always was rather eccentric. Or so I’ve been told.”
Mina nodded. Her father’s eccentricity had been the bane of her existence, yet she had adored him comple
tely, through and through.
“I must take my leave of you now, Miss Limpett.”
“Thank you for coming,” she said quietly, both relieved and disappointed. “Your attendance would have meant so much to Father.”
The edge of his mouth quirked upward, and he returned his hat to his head. “I’d like to think so.”
She watched him stride toward the gatehouse, and eventually disappear through the shadowed archway, toward the main road where additional coaches waited to convey guests away from the cemetery.
“Who was that you were speaking to?” Her uncle approached, black cane in hand.
“I’m not exactly sure. He introduced himself as Alexander.”
Lord Trafford grinned. “I thought I recognized him.”
“You know him?”
“The Viscount Alexander. Haven’t seen him at the club in months.” His gaze wandered toward the gatehouse. “Wonder if I could catch up to him?”
He escorted her past the glass-sided hearse, where six ostrich-plumed horses stamped their hooves, impatient in their harnesses.
When they came alongside the carriage, he said, “Dear Mina, do go on to the house with the ladies. Tell her ladyship I’ll follow shortly behind.”
One of the Trafford footmen, arrayed completely in black, rushed forward to open the door and pull down the steps. Lord Trafford tipped his hat and hurried off in pursuit of the viscount.
Mina looked into the carriage. Three feminine faces, framed by glossy black fur and feathers, peered out from the shadowed interior. She wondered if anyone had ever drowned in black silk. She couldn’t quite bring herself to climb the steps.
The cemetery called to her . . . a keeper of secrets. Her secrets. Her conversation with Lord Alexander left her uneasy. How could she eat? How could she sleep, until she was sure? Sure that her father’s coffin had been interred in its final resting place, behind a locked iron door . . . forever.
She stepped back from the carriage. “Do go on without me.”
“Go on?” Lady Trafford repeated, her blue eyes wide with incredulity.
“I just need a bit more time with Father.”
“Astrid. Evangeline. Accompany your cousin—” A chorus of petulant refusals sounded from within.
“I’d prefer to be alone. I can walk back to the house when I’m finished. It’s not far.”