Demon's Curse (Imnada Brotherhood)

by Egan, Alexa

  Mac forced himself to ignore the annoying sleight of hand. This was David at his most infuriating. Aloof. Unpredictable. An enormous pain in the arse. “He did more than drink whiskey and swap stories. He helped Adam break the curse. I was right. Adam wrote it all down in his journal.”

  Catching the coin and pocketing it, David lowered his chair’s front legs to the floor. “So we can just whip up another batch of whatever it was and it’s over?”

  “I don’t know. Wallace thinks he can help. I’ve left the book with him. I plan on returning in a few days.”

  “Before you mire yourself in alchemical research, you might want to pay a visit to Mrs. Parrino.”

  “Is she safe? You kept an eye on her, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, ye of little faith. Of course I did, but that’s what’s interesting. She spent the day at Deane House.”

  “What’s so interesting about that? Isn’t his new wife an actress?”

  “Was an actress. Yes, the marriage of Sarah Haye to the Earl of Deane is still the London gossip du jour, but it’s not so much the man’s wife I’m curious about. It’s His Lordship.”

  Mac’s fork paused on the way to his mouth, a lump settling in his throat. “What’s curious about Lord Deane?”

  “He’s one of them, Mac. The Earl of Deane is a Fey-blood.”

  * * *

  Mac leaned upon the sill, staring out onto a smutty red sky, the dull pewter wash of nightfall creeping ever westward, and knew he had mere moments left.

  He’d already disrobed, the October breeze cooling the feral heat of his naked body. Drawing in a gritty, coal-smoky breath, he let it fill his lungs until they burned, then expelled it in a whoosh of frustration, disgust dropping like a weight into his chest. Pressing his forehead against the glass, he closed his eyes, wearier than he’d been in long years. Sighed—or maybe it was a groan.

  What the hell was wrong with him? The soft silken touch of Bianca’s lips, the heady, spicy notes of her perfume, the way her body fit perfectly against him as she looked on him all worried concern and nascent trust . . . And it had all been a lie.

  He should have known better. After all, it wasn’t the first time a woman had played him false. Lina had been the same: beautiful and smart. He’d considered himself the luckiest of men to have had the Ossine choose such a compatible mate for him.

  The curse had destroyed that as it had everything else in his life.

  Lina refused to follow him into exile. She’d laughed at his suggestion as if he’d made a great joke. After that, no matter how often he asked for her or how many letters he wrote, she never responded. Then the Gather elders confirmed his sentence.

  His last sight of her had been at the great hall at Deepings just before he was handed to the Ossine for punishment. She stood between her father and mother, her disgusted gaze passing over him without recognition. In her eyes, he’d become a grotesque figure. Tainted. Spoiled.

  A monster.

  No doubt Bianca would feel the same if she ever discovered the truth.

  He finished off his whiskey, hoping the reassuring burn would ease the tension across his shoulders, the tightness in his back, and the stiffness of his cock. It didn’t.

  He’d been right to mistrust Bianca. Right to believe that she was involved in Adam’s death. David’s surveillance proved she was in league with Fey-bloods. And Fey-bloods were the enemy. The slaughterers of his people. The monsters who stalked his childhood nightmares. And, in the end, the cause of his accursedness and exile.

  With regret and not a little discomfort, he prepared himself to face the oncoming night as twilight became dusk, the sun sliding beneath the horizon.

  He shuddered at the first cauterizing blast of heat that signaled the curse’s awakening. Even on the night of Silmith, when the moon rode round and fat and shifting came easiest, the curse’s possession was nothing like his voluntary transformation from man to animal. He still remained vulnerable while the magic enveloped him. Still knew the ecstasy of release as the chained parts of his being flooded free and he felt himself filled with a sleek, powerful strength. A predator with a predator’s mighty grace.

  But the curse blighted what should have been joy in realizing his aspect. Fire needled along his blood like venom. Muscles strained as bones warped; organs twisted as limbs stretched. His vision filled with a sheet of blue-white rippling flame. Even now, long after he should have inured himself to the futility of fighting the shift, he continued to try. Willing his body to obey. Struggling to break the immutability of a dead man’s final words.

  No use. It never was. The curse never yielded.

  He spun from the window with a shout of pure rage, dragging his hand across a shelf, uncaring at the shattering of broken china, the splintering of wood, the smashing of porcelain.

  Dropping to his knees, he squeezed his eyes closed, tears leaking beneath his lids as the curse consumed him. Above, the curtains billowed in a sudden wind, his shirt sliding off the bed to lie forgotten and unneeded on the floor beside him.

  Sides heaving, he opened his eyes, his feline gaze cutting the darkness like a knife. His claws extended as he stretched his body loose of the last shreds of its humanity.

  The night rolled out before him into a solitary eternity.

  The dream of Bianca Parrino obliterated beneath a bitter, monstrous impossibility.

  There were moments when he envied Adam the peace of death.

  8

  “Molly said you were out here grubbing in the dirt.”

  Bianca looked up from her mulch spreading to see Mac standing on her terrace, his gaze cold as the gray fall sky. Trowel in hand, she rolled back on her haunches, pushing her hair from her face. Dressed in a grubby coat and battered hat, she wasn’t exactly prepared for company, but one look at his clenched jaw and the harsh planes of his face and she knew he’d not come for a comfortable afternoon call. “What brings you back? After all your fine words, I never thought I’d see you again,” she said, working to remain civil but cool. Hard to do as her stomach tumbled and unwanted heat danced across her skin.

  He stepped off the terrace and onto the lawn. “What can I say? You’re becoming a bad habit.”

  Bianca rose, picked up her bucket of tools, and crossed the grass to meet him. “A habit you’ll have to break. I’m leaving for Dublin in a few weeks.”

  His jaw jumped, face unusually grim, even for him. “The queen of London theater is heading for an Irish stage?”

  “Time away will be time for the gossips to forget. Perhaps I can as well.”

  “I hadn’t taken you for a coward.”

  “Courage is tiring. Even the brave need a chance to rest between battles.” Her gaze fell to his side.” Do your ribs still bother you?”

  “They’ll mend.”

  She set down her bucket and peeled off her gloves. Why had he come back? He hadn’t said. She should be wary of his continuing attentions and downright afraid of her unwelcome reactions to them. Too much about him remained a mystery. Too many questions had been left unanswered.

  And yet, he had only to glance at her with that blade-sharp gaze and heat slid along her limbs to pool between her legs, her heart pounded in her chest, and pleasure prickled her skin. Just what she didn’t want or need. She gave herself a mental slap, schooling her rebellious features into their usual expression of calm. “Why did you leave, Mac? I told you I didn’t worry about what people thought. Those I care about know me better than that. The rest don’t matter.”

  “Then why run away to Dublin? Is it the rumors about Adam?” His eyes hardened like flint. “Or something else?”

  Caution slid sharp as a blade along her bones. “Excuse me?”

  “Why did those men attack us, Bianca? Were they in the employ of Lord Deane? Is he behind Adam’s murder?”

  “What do you know about Sebastian?”

  “I know you were at his house yesterday.” Mac’s eyes sparked, the very air around him crackling. “What did he tell you? What
lies did he spin to convince you to betray Adam?”

  Even as she tried to understand Mac’s barrage of accusations, she lifted her chin, meeting him head-on, refusing to drown in those iridescent eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sebastian hasn’t told me anything. Or rather, he told me a story and he gave me a book to read because I asked him to. It’s nothing to do with Adam.”

  “It’s everything to do with him. It’s the reason he died,” Mac snarled. “He trusted you and you betrayed him. Am I next on your list?”

  Faced with his irrational rage, she retreated to the cold, empty place where anger didn’t touch her. Where harsh words and heated threats meant nothing. His questions pounded against her like stones hurled at a wall. She remained unmoved. Unfeeling. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t dent her armor. No matter how she hurt, no hint of it touched her face. “Despite the insane ideas rolling around in that hard, hollow head of yours, I did not betray Adam, nor would I have ever betrayed him.”

  “Bianca, so help me—”

  Instinct overcame pride and she flinched, taking a step back. One foot landed in the bucket. In one farcical moment, she lost her balance, floundering wildly, arms flailing, hat flying. Gloves went one way, tools another, and she dropped with a soft, squishy thud backside-first in the mud. “Damn and blast!”

  His mouth thinned, his eyes widened, and a snort of laughter escaped him.

  “You!” She struggled to her feet, coat spattered with dirt, hair tumbling out of its pins and scarf.

  “Lost for words? I’m surprised, after hearing about your reputation for cutting a man to ribbons with your tongue,” he sneered.

  “I’ll show you what I can do with my tongue,” she snapped.

  “Is that a threat or a promise?”

  “Neither. That is . . . that didn’t come out right.”

  But he’d already grabbed her, crushing the breath from her lungs as his body molded against hers, his mouth blazing a trail over her lips, the power of his kiss turning her bones to jelly. Now she was furious, confused, muddy, and completely and frustratingly aroused.

  The heavens chose that moment to open, unleashing a deluge, soaking her to the skin. He lifted his head, rainwater sluicing over his cheekbones and saturating his coat.

  It was all the time she needed to tear herself from his arms and run like hell.

  * * *

  Had he completely lost his mind? He’d come here to confront her and ended with his tongue down her throat. Not exactly the confrontation he’d envisioned. Yet, all it had taken was a flash of those blue eyes and a tilt of that stubborn chin for his original intentions to swerve dangerously out of control. He chased her down in a small back parlor, sweat splashing hot across his back despite the cold weather, as he fought down the urge to kiss her senseless.

  “It’s best if you leave, Captain,” she said. “Leave and never come back.”

  “You haven’t answered my questions.”

  “You mean your accusations? You’re right. I haven’t and I won’t. Besides, it’s obvious you wouldn’t believe me even if I did.”

  “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  “Good-bye, Mac. We won’t be seeing one another again.” By now her teeth chattered, her body hunched against the cold and the wet. She shouted for Molly as she pulled her coat off, dropping it to the floor.

  Questions and indecision gnawed at him. Was David wrong? Had he misunderstood and Bianca had a perfectly reasonable explanation? Why would she ally herself with a Fey-blood? What would she gain? Was she lying now? Was Mac the biggest fool ever born?

  Round and round he went, with no answers in sight, only anger at himself for giving in to the dazzle long enough to be hoaxed. For believing in her. Perhaps even for dreaming a little. It had been too long since he’d felt this strange swimming of his senses. Too long since he’d held a woman he hadn’t paid for. Too long since he’d had someone in his life who mattered. Bianca shouldn’t matter. But she did. More than he’d ever meant her to.

  She started to leave, but he grabbed her wrist before she could escape. “Wait a moment.”

  “For what?” She flicked a glance at his hand gripping her arm, anger and disappointment in her gaze. “Adam was my friend, Mac. That’s a bond I don’t take lightly.”

  “Nor do I.”

  Her level stare seemed to drill straight through him. “I didn’t kill him. Believe me or don’t. It makes no difference anymore. I’ll be gone in a few days and we never have to meet again.”

  A painful knot formed low in his gut at the idea, which he fought to explain away. He still had questions about the curse. Bianca was his only connection to Lord Deane. He needed her—and not like that, though with her wet gown clinging to her curvaceous body, certain parts of him were definitely experiencing more need than others. “What if I told you I believed you? Would you still go to Dublin?”

  “Of course. There’s nothing for me in London until Adam’s murderer is found or the gossip dies.”

  “I’m here.”

  She shot him a dubious look. “That’s supposed to convince me?”

  “Let’s say I had hopes.” He released her, shrugging out of his coat to drape it over her shoulders before her lips turned blue. It was completely waterlogged, but better than nothing. “Where’s that maid of yours? You’re sopping wet.”

  She reached up to wipe the hair from his face. “You’re just as wet and drippy as I am.”

  He sucked in a quick breath at her touch. Covered her hand with his own, noting the dirt beneath her half-moon nails. The smudge up one wrist. He wanted to lay his lips upon the pulse fluttering there. Hell, he wanted to lay his lips on every part of her sweet body.

  She glanced at their linked fingers. “Your hand is so warm.”

  “ ‘Warm hands, cold heart.’ Isn’t that the saying?”

  “I’ve never heard that before.”

  If she thought his hands were warm, she’d be shocked by how hot the rest of his body grew with every shivering, trembling breath she took. Every brush of those long black lashes against her cheeks. Desire burned like a lit fuse along every nerve ending until his arousal grew embarrassingly evident, inner warnings shoved aside by flat-out lust.

  “How about ‘But kiss, one kiss! Rubies unparagon’d, How dearly they do’t,’ ” he quoted.

  “Cymbeline. The soldier knows his Shakespeare.”

  “Aye. I can read and write and everything.”

  Her lips curved, soft and full and pink as rosebuds. How would they taste? What would they feel like wrapped around . . .

  Shit, he was a bloody goner.

  Bracing for a stinging blow, he drew her against him, leaning in for a kiss, the taste of rain and earth and wind in the sweet velvet lushness of her mouth. But no virago’s temper met his embrace. Instead she breathed soft gasps as she opened to him, his tongue sweeping in to taste her wet, sweet heat. Her scent rose from her damp skin to wrap round him with exotic hints of orange and spice. He cupped her head in his hand, delving deeply, the shivers running through his body having nothing to do with the weather but with a hunger growing every second that he plundered her mouth with kisses.

  His hand skimmed her side, the rounded slope of her hip, the long plane of her torso to the swell of one perfect breast. He thumbed her pebble-hard nipple, eliciting a whimper from deep in her throat, her body swaying against him, one arm coming round his neck to tangle in his hair.

  “The sweet lovers. How touching. I wonder if you’d think the same if you knew what he was, Madame Parrino,” came a thickly accented voice from just behind them.

  Mac and Bianca turned as one to face the startling newcomer: a tall man in a long black greatcoat. Over his shoulder, he carried a canvas bag.

  “I hope you don’t mind me inviting myself in. I sent your maidservant on an errand. A nice long one. So much easier than trying to dispose of a body.”

  Bianca stiffened in Mac’s arms. “Who are you?”

 
The man’s gaze flicked toward Mac, intent written in the brilliant, gold-flecked eyes as he swung the bag to his side and reached into it. “Your savior against a treacherous, blackhearted monster.”

  Mac went rigid, his panther strength boiling up from that secret well where it slept until called upon—or until the curse pulled it screaming forth. His muscles wound taut as a low snarl curled up into the back of his throat. “Fey-blood.”

  The man pulled his hand from the bag. “A gift from my mistress, Captain!” he shouted as he tossed a net fine as spiderwebs toward Mac, the binding silken mesh settling heavy and entangling over his shoulders.

  Silver.

  All Mac’s doubts vanished as a low drone vibrated from the base of his skull down his spine and along his ribs. The Fey-bloods knew of the Imnada’s existence. And, more frightening, knew how to destroy them.

  “Leave him alone!” Bianca grabbed the man’s thick arm and tried to pull him away. The stranger looked down at her, his golden eyes narrowed to violent slits, his mouth curling in a leering, fiendish smile. “Stupid putain, you may have your uses yet.”

  She stumbled as he shoved her off, her hem tangling under his boot heels. Losing her balance, she flailed as she fell, striking the edge of a chair before she sprawled lifeless on the floor.

  “Bianca!” Mind aflame, Mac struggled to drag the strength-sapping weight of the silver net from his shoulders.

  “Crull! Hoyse!” the man shouted. “Vite!”

  Shadows fell over Mac. Someone knocked him to the floor. Hands grabbed him by the elbows, shoving him onto his stomach, dragging his arms painfully behind him. A boot struck him in the ribs. Another slammed against his head. He fought back, but only managed to tangle the net more firmly around him, snared by the buttons on his jacket.

  “It is useless to struggle,” the Fey-blood warned, his black coat billowing like raven’s wings as he pulled a wicked knife from a sheath at his waist.