Demon's Curse (Imnada Brotherhood)

by Egan, Alexa

  A pensive line formed between her brows.

  “Adam’s house was searched. I want to know why, Mrs. Parrino.”

  “Do you think I can help you? Or are you hoping I’ll confess?”

  “Did you kill him?” he asked bluntly.

  If she spat fire before, this time it was as if an entire fusillade had been leveled in his direction. “I won’t even dignify that with an answer, Captain.”

  “The gossips claim you were the last person to see him alive.”

  “According to those same gossips, I’ve either made the Prince Regent weep with heartbreak or borne his secret love child. One of the reasons I pay little heed to what people say about me anymore.”

  “Then tell me about the last time you saw Adam,” Mac said, ignoring her anger. “Convince me of your innocence.”

  “Why should I? You’re not a magistrate, and like everyone else you’ll believe what you want whether it’s complete and utter hogwash or not. Besides, what’s your opinion one way or the other?”

  “Speculation has a way of growing. A dead man in St. James’s Park nearly at the gates of Buckingham House is no small matter. People will be on the hunt for an answer.”

  “And you believe a man’s whore is an easy scapegoat.”

  He shrugged. “A crime of passion is a momentary lapse, not likely to be repeated. Makes everybody feel better.”

  “Except me.”

  “So, tell me what I want to know and I’m an ally if things get sticky.”

  She snapped off a long willow tendril. It lay across her lap as she picked it apart. “Fine. You want to know what happened the last night I saw Adam? Absolutely nothing. He arrived at the theater just before I was due to go on and proceeded to pace around my dressing room like a caged bear while I finished applying my makeup.”

  He latched onto one word. Dragged it free, turning it round and round in his head. It couldn’t be. She must be mistaken. “Night? Not earlier during the afternoon?”

  “No, it was half past six or close to it. I remember because my dresser was complaining about Adam interrupting just as the bell rang announcing the half-hour warning. The performance was due to begin at seven. By the time I came back down to change between the first and second acts, he had left.”

  Mac’s pulse thundered in his ears. “Did you see Adam often at night?”

  Her gaze grew shuttered, no emotions marring the impenetrable mask of her face. “As our schedules allowed. He had his life. I had mine.”

  Mac barely heard her answer. His earlier fears of exposure to an out-clan drowned beneath the avalanche of a new discovery. One that could spell an end to the living death of an emnil. A return to the clans.

  His stomach tightened, nerves jumping beneath his skin, the same burn along his veins that accompanied his shift. The same wild exhilaration. “But that night? Are you certain it was after sunset?”

  Now she was beginning to look on him as if he was mad. And maybe he was. But if she’d seen Adam after dark . . . If she was certain . . . If . . . if . . . if . . .

  “As I’ve said more than once, yes, Captain Flannery, the sun was down when Adam arrived. It was dark when he left. The night usually is.”

  Mac fought the urge to shout his elation. To confess his excitement. To swing Bianca Parrino into his arms and kiss her as she ought to be kissed. But he couldn’t fight the stupid grin he knew had plastered itself all over his face. Because if Bianca spoke the truth . . . if Adam had come to her that night . . . if Adam had been seen after sundown . . .

  . . . then Adam had found a way to break the curse.

  3

  “ ‘Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; and would . . . and would . . .’ ” Bianca shook her head. “ ‘Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; and . . .’ ” Took a deep breath. “ ‘Unless you could teach me to forget a banished father, you’ . . . Drat!”

  She should be able to recite Rosalind in her sleep. It was one of her favorite roles and one for which she was becoming known. She should not be stumbling over her opening line. She refocused with a rolling of her shoulders and a crack of her neck.

  “ ‘Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; and would . . .’ ”

  Concentrate, Bianca. Captain Flannery with his impertinent questions and keen, searching gaze was long gone. And while Adam’s murder and the whispers surrounding it proved all too sickeningly familiar, there was nothing they could do to her. She was innocent—this time.

  “ ‘Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress—’ ”

  She flung her script away.

  Loss ached in her bones like cold weather. Did she believe the captain’s theory that more lay behind the murder than a random attack on a dark garden path? That Adam might have known his killer? That she might be blamed for his death?

  Her mind snapped back to the horrible, humiliating night she interrupted him entertaining that . . . that man.

  Flannery had described an intruder with reddish hair. Tall. Dangerous. The pieces fit, but the picture they made only begat new questions.

  Could she reveal what she knew without divulging Adam’s secret? Would she allow her best friend’s murder to go unpunished at the price of his reputation? Would she risk her own standing by keeping silent? Much as she hated to admit it, perhaps Captain Flannery had a valid point. Perhaps she did need to worry over the vicious rumors beginning to circulate if Adam’s killer remained unfound.

  “Toodles!” A voice interrupted her thoughts, followed by an explosion of rapping. “Bianca, sweeting. Are you there?”

  Bianca swung around from the mirror. “Sarah! I didn’t know you were in London. Weren’t you supposed to be spending the autumn at Coldham with Sebastian’s family?”

  Brazen and beautiful in scarlet and gold, the new Countess of Deane flittered in like a frenetic butterfly. “He’s decided to delay the trip until after the new year. He wants to wait for the worst of the scandal to die down before we beard the lioness in her den.”

  Bianca had known Sarah long enough to sense the disappointment behind her care-for-nothing attitude. The shocking marriage of the powerful and wealthy Earl of Deane to a common actress had set the cat among the pigeons, and while outwardly Sarah disdained those who shunned her as an interloper, Bianca recognized her insecurities.

  “Sebastian knows his mother better than anyone,” Bianca soothed. “Besides, do you really want to spend the winter stuck in the country with the dowager and be cut to ribbons for your trouble?”

  “Hmph. I’ve always wanted to play the lady bountiful role,” Sarah challenged, the glimmer back in her eyes. “Visiting the poor, judging flower shows, sitting in the front pew at the village church. That sort of thing.”

  “And you’ll be perfect when the time is right.”

  “But what if I let him down? What if he’s disappointed in me?” Sarah prowled the cluttered dressing room, arms windmilling with dramatic flair. “Maybe he’s already regretting the marriage. Maybe that’s why he’s delayed our trip.”

  “Stop it. Seb loves you. Anyone with eyes in their head can see that. He’s head-over-heels smitten and no spiteful talk or nasty gossip will change his mind.”

  “I know you’re right. I just never knew it would be so hard to live happily ever after.”

  “Is he here with you tonight?”

  “I left him talking horses with Lord Grenville and Mr. Dunnett. It was that or slit my throat from sheer boredom.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “He sends his good wishes. He wanted me to tell you how much he enjoyed that book you sent for his birthday. The man pored over it for two straight weeks with barely a break.”

  “It was Adam’s idea,” Bianca confessed. Grief robbed her of breath, and she fumbled with the edge of her shawl.

  Sarah leapt from her seat to envelop Bianca in a flower-scented hug. “My darling, I’m so sorry. I read about it. Such a horror. It’s gotten so one can’t walk about the streets of London without an armed guard.�
�� She offered Bianca a handkerchief. “No tears, sweeting, you’ll smear your makeup.”

  “Ever the practical one.”

  “Speaking of practicality, Mr. Hayworth’s come again tonight.”

  Bianca’s shoulders sagged, but what did she expect? She’d allowed Society to believe her one man’s mistress. It was only natural others would try their luck now that Adam was gone.

  “He’s the heir to his uncle’s viscountcy, you know,” Sarah chided. “If you play your cards right, you can—”

  “Win the heart of my lord as you did yours?” Bianca bought time in a refreshment of her hair, a check of her flounce in the mirror. “Neither Mr. Hayworth nor any of the flirtatious sprigs of fashion camped upon my doorstep are interested in matrimony. Besides, I’ve lived that charade already. I have no wish to repeat the performance.”

  Sarah offered her a schoolmarmish stare. “ ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’ ”

  “And: ‘Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage,’ ” Bianca countered.

  “Tish tush. We could trade quotes all night. You say they’re all interested in bedsport only, but you don’t know that for certain. You can’t tar all men with one brush.”

  “If the brush fits . . .”

  Sarah’s expression took on a rarely seen solemnity, all the more forceful for being so unusual. “Banter aside, Bianca, you can’t hide forever. What are you really afraid of?”

  “Shall I list them alphabetically or in order of importance?” she quipped, but Sarah’s gaze remained implacable.

  Bianca met it without flinching, though her mind saw naught but dark memories. “You want to know what I fear?” she answered softly. “I fear love’s end. I fear looking into my husband’s eyes and seeing nothing but indifference where once I saw desire. I fear the heavy hand of jealousy and hate when all I crave is an affectionate caress.” She scowled, banishing Lawrence’s shade back to the recesses of her thoughts. “When one has been burned, it’s only a fool who places his hand back into the fire.”

  “Or an optimist.” Sarah’s face broke into a smile. “Mark my words, Bianca. One of these days a man will make you forget that odious husband of yours.”

  Bianca responded with an unladylike snort. “Only if he whacks me over the head and I wake with amnesia.”

  * * *

  The normal backstage bustle and chaos had quieted, most of the actors long since departed for engagements elsewhere. Only a few hardy souls remained—some prop and scene men organizing for tomorrow’s performance, dressers tidying up costumes, maids dumping trash and sweeping passages, clerks counting tonight’s till.

  Bianca sat rubbing lotion into her hands, delaying the moment when she had to leave the serenity of her dressing room for another more difficult performance. That of carefree, glittering actress, bubbling with enthusiasm and sparkling with wit.

  She grimaced at her reflection as she affixed her earrings. It might be hell sometimes, but it certainly beat the alternative—home to an empty house with only her thoughts for companionship. Better to exhaust herself dazzling the crowd than to lay awake for hours pondering the choices that had landed her here.

  “Mrs. Parrino, are you in?”

  A question hardly worth asking, since Mr. Harris, Covent Garden’s manager and her boss, had not bothered knocking before barging through the door.

  She rose to sweep the long draping silk of her scarf across her bare shoulders. “Just on my way out. Can it wait until tomorrow? I’m due to dine with the Astons and Lord Pollian.”

  “Actually, mum. It can’t wait.” Mr. Harris rolled back and forth on the balls of his feet, his red face redder than normal, his wig askew on his stubbled head. “You see, Mr. Kemble and I have been discussing the situation.”

  “What situation is that?”

  “The . . . uh . . . the recent and unfortunate death of your . . . your particular friend, Mrs. Parrino. Now, I don’t normally make it any of my business to poke my nose into the talent’s lives. Long as you show up for work sober and you bring in an audience, you can do as you like on your own time.”

  “That’s very liberal and decent of you.”

  “But there’s a time when I have to make a stand and that’s when one of my company is being talked about in the same breath as a murder.”

  “Who would that be, Mr. Harris? And don’t tell me it’s Sally Randall. You know her. She threatens to kill off her no-good philandering husband every other day. We all know she’s talk and no action.”

  “It is not Sally Randall. I’m afraid it’s you. The stories are running like fire that you had that fellow murdered in the park last week.”

  Bianca’s stomach tightened into a knot, her palms instantly clammy as she was reminded of the days and weeks following Lawrence’s death when the fear of arrest hung over her like a pall. It had never happened, the coroner ruling her late husband’s fall an accident, but the irony wasn’t lost on her now. Cleared of a killing she’d caused only to be suspected of a killing she knew nothing about. Cosmic justice at its most absurd?

  “Does anyone believe these stories?”

  “Not much, no. But I can’t have my Rosalind suspected of murder. It’s not proper.”

  “Do you believe I killed Mr. Kinloch?”

  “Of course not. I think I know you better than that. But it’s not what I think that counts. It’s what the public thinks. Mr. Kemble doesn’t want any trouble, not with the place barely recovered from the last riots. Remember what happened in oh-nine? And that was over ticket prices! Imagine the tumult if our lead actress is carted off the stage mid-soliloquy by the Runners. We’d have the place in ashes around us.”

  “What do you propose I do, Mr. Harris? Pronounce my innocence like Anne Boleyn before the sword? If we gave credence to every rumor afloat in London, Princess Charlotte’s paternity would be in doubt and Lord Asbury would be selling his wife’s services to Mr. Keeling for fifty pounds and use of his shooting lodge in Perthshire.”

  “Be that as it may, I’m going to have to ask you to step aside. Just until the gossip cools off and a new story catches fire.”

  “Mr. Harris—”

  “Tomorrow night will be your last performance. That should give Sally time to prepare to take over. Think of it as a chance to rest. Take a little trip. Visit the seaside or the lakes. Go north for the shooting. Anything.”

  “Just don’t turn up at your theater.”

  He nodded, smiling now that she had agreed without throwing a scene. “It’s only until things get back to normal. Then you return, good as new.”

  “Is this a suggestion or an order?”

  He grabbed her hand, pumping it as if he were drawing water from a well. “Thank you for being a jolly good sport, Mrs. Parrino. A week. A month. We’ll be in touch.”

  She removed her sweaty hand from his grip with a thin-lipped smile. “That would be an order, then.”

  * * *

  From his position across from the theater’s stage door, Mac glanced up at the night sky. Clouds spread thick and reaching, a waxing orange moon slipping in and out between streamers of dank fog.

  It was almost Silmith, the night of the full moon. In every clan holding from Ireland and Scotland to Wales and Cornwall, the Imnada would be paying tribute to the mother goddess. The Ossine would be offering tribute to her power. Younglings who’d reached maturity would be allowed on their first hunt beneath her watchful gaze. Promised mates would be joined in marriage, their first hours together blessed by her magic.

  And under her harsh silver glare, swift and brutal punishments would be meted out to any transgressors of clan rule.

  He shut that memory away, focusing instead on the ease with which he’d shifted to his panther aspect tonight, his body’s transformation as smooth and fluid as the muscles beneath his glossy hide. He would enjoy the respite while he could, for as Silmith gave way to the waning quarter moon of Berenth, the debilitating violence of the curse intensified as ancient magics warred for
control of his body. He hated the moonless nights of Morderoth, for then the shift became impossible, and he spent those long hours of darkness trapped in his human form, crushed between the goddess’s powers and the Fey-blood’s spell.

  But could an end to the suffering be close at hand? A way to break the cycle of dawn and dusk that had come to rule his life? If Bianca Parrino spoke the truth, Adam had found the answer. But how? What had he discovered? And why hadn’t he informed the rest of them? Elation and fury warred within Mac. Was Adam’s silence a betrayal of their friendship? Or had he meant to tell them all and been killed before he found the chance?

  Damn it to hell!

  To be so close to freedom, then have the solution die with his friend, knotted Mac’s gut. But there was still a chance, and Bianca Parrino was the key. He had known it as soon as he laid eyes on her. As if the mother goddess herself had offered him a sign by searing Bianca’s image on his mind, he’d been drawn from the sanctuary of his rooms despite the risks, her arctic-blue eyes acting like a lodestone.

  He had to discover what she knew.

  He had to see her again.

  The performance had ended hours earlier. Crowds spilling from the theater like bees from a kicked hive. Loud, raucous laughter, shouts for passing hackneys, the jangle of harness as carriages jostled for the curb. Society men in elegant black with rainbow-hued women on their arms. The crude excitement of clerks and shopkeepers, lawyers and military men in glittering gold and silver braid. The fluttering fans and swaying hips of courtesans and demireps.

  Then they were gone, the streets of Covent Garden empty as the theatergoers moved on to dinners and balls, clubs and concerts. The night would ring with the clink of china and the sparkle of witty conversation. Flirtations and scandal. Jealousies and petty vengeance. And finally, in the darkness, men and women would come together in passion. Hold each other close as the bliss subsided and sleep stole over them.

  For Mac, night had become a purgatory to be survived. As long as he lay under the curse, there would be no woman to share more than a quick emotionless coupling. He was emnil, dead to the clans. Forbidden a marriage within his own race and burdened with the certainty that no human female would ever see him as more than a monster to be slaughtered as Adam had been.