Demon's Curse (Imnada Brotherhood)

by Egan, Alexa

  Bianca crushed her reticule as she awaited his answer.

  Ringrose stopped, hands still tangled in his beard, eyes narrowed. “Never heard of it. Sounds made-up to me. Now, be off with you and let me get back to my luncheon.”

  He started to dive back behind the curtain, but Bianca snatched his sleeve. By now her eyes watered, her vision narrowing. The pain seized her brain in a vise-like grip, pushing down into her spine, and she wanted to be sick. “If you remember or come across it, please send for me—Mrs. Parrino.” She handed him her card. “It’s very important.”

  His glittering gold stare moved from the card to her face and back again. “Parrino, is it? The one who murdered the chap in St. James’s Park?”

  He twitched free of her, diving behind the curtain, leaving Bianca shaky-kneed and splashed with perspiration, hopes cracking in her chest.

  “It’s over, Bianca. Come along.”

  She hung back, expecting the old man to return, tell her it was all a mistake, and present her with the specimen. Like a child anticipating a treat, she dragged her feet, throwing expectant glances over her shoulder—right up until the door closed behind them, and they were left standing out upon the street, a buzzing in her head, and a pain in her heart.

  “I’m not giving up,” she vowed.

  “Maybe David’s right. Maybe I’m chasing phantoms,” Mac said, a harshness to his features she’d not seen before.

  The chill in the air acted like a slap to the face, the worst of her sickness seeming to fade in the brisk river wind. “The answer is out there. Adam wouldn’t have listed it if it didn’t exist. We just have to find the right person to ask.”

  Mac looked on her, eyes blazing in his stark and pale face, cupping her cheek in one shaking hand. “I have found exactly the right person, Bianca.”

  * * *

  “Thank you for coming with me. Sebastian’s been too busy and Sarah isn’t exactly up on her swordplay. And since the truth has come out, they both have barely let me out of their sight.”

  “They rise in my estimation every minute. It’s unsafe for you until Madame Froissart is contained.”

  “You mean killed, don’t you?”

  “She’s dangerous, Bianca. Any Fey-blood powerful enough to manipulate my krythos is a force to be reckoned with. I’ll not have you hurt.”

  “A bit late for that,” she said with a rueful twist of her lips.

  She moved up the stairs and into her bedchamber, the hearth black and cold, curtains drawn against a dim afternoon, Mac’s tread slow behind her. “Gray explained what happened . . . why Renata Froissart seeks you.”

  Mac’s face tightened until the bones stood stark and sharp under his skin, eyes like dark pools, fists clenched. “Did he?”

  “He told me everything, including Adam’s role. You didn’t kill anyone, Mac. It wasn’t you who murdered the chevalier and his family. It was Adam. He killed all of them.”

  But I would have if I had been there in his place,” Mac answered. “I would have wielded the sword just as effectively. I would have done my duty and eliminated the threat.”

  Her heart galloped in her chest. “And now?”

  He gazed at her with an expression she’d never seen before. It frightened her and thrilled her at the same time. “I could no more harm you than I could cut off my own arm.”

  Gripping the back of a chair, she turned away, unable to face the intensity in his pale eyes. Her headache had receded, leaving in its place a hollow emptiness, his words seeming to echo against the fragile shell of her skull.

  “Why did you want to come back?” he asked. “Couldn’t Deane have sent someone round for your things?”

  “He could have, but I needed to see the place, if only to convince myself that the last few weeks haven’t been some grand hallucination. That I won’t suddenly open my eyes in my own bed and discover you and the Imnada and Fey-bloods and . . . and the two of us together wasn’t just a crazy dream.”

  “Are you convinced?”

  “I suppose I have to be, but it’s almost disappointing. I think I expected a unicorn to meet me in the hall or faeries to be dancing on my dining room table. It’s just musty and damp and no magic in sight.”

  “As I recall, unicorns only show themselves to virgins, and the Fey are a dour, arrogant lot. You’d never catch them doing anything as frivolous as dancing.”

  “Have you ever met one?” she asked, trying to keep the tone light despite the tension humming in the air. She knew that if she turned, he’d be watching her, his eyes focused like a beast upon its prey, body coiled like a spring. Crossing to the cabinet beside her bed, she slid open the top drawer, drawing out her pistol.

  “No, though I’ve heard of Imnada who have and some who’ve never returned from the meeting or come away shades of their former selves.” He spied the weapon in her hand, taking a startled step back. “Bloody hell. Bianca.”

  “Relax. This is what I came to collect.” He continued to eye her as if she’d run mad. “You asked me once how I managed to fend off all those unwanted suitors. Now you know. I keep it by my bed, just in case. Always have done since Lawrence . . . well, since his death.”

  “You’re a constant surprise, Bianca Parrino.”

  “I told you once before, I do what I must.” A shiver jumped down her spine as she placed the gun in her reticule.

  Sarah called love a risk. Jory spoke of living versus surviving. Even Sebastian in his way had thrown a gauntlet at her feet. Clasping her hands together in front of her, Bianca breathed slowly through the fluttery excitement bubbling through her. “It all looks a little flamboyant and tawdry after Line Farm. Pink-and-gold wallpaper? It’s like a bordello in here.”

  “You can’t compare this place to the Wallace house. May as well compare apples to pumpkins or yourself to Marianne. There’s no similarity.”

  She rubbed the dust of weeks between her fingers, glancing back at him over her shoulder. “Isn’t there? I’d say we have quite a lot in common.”

  His gaze flickered and was still. “I stand corrected. You and she are much alike. You both made the mistake of falling in love with a shapechanger.”

  Dust forgotten, she dropped her hands to her sides. “Was it, Mac? Truly? I sent you away, but now I have to know. Was what we had between us a mistake? Was it nothing to you but a way to keep me close and persuade me to help you with Adam’s journal?”

  Risk it all. Throw the dice. Ask the question. That’s what she’d done. Now it was up to Mac to offer the response. The silence stretched thin as wire between them, until she wished she’d held her tongue. Here, then, was her answer, much as it grieved her to admit it.

  Unable to withstand the damning quiet, Bianca flung herself away, but a hand grabbed her arm, holding her captive. He spun her around until she stood pressed against him, the buttons of his uniform poking into her skin, his grip cutting off the circulation to her fingers, his dark gaze burning a hole through to her brain.

  She didn’t care. It was enough that he held her. That he would not let her escape. It was hope where she’d had none.

  Slowly, Mac reached up to push a stray curl behind her ear, his gaze alive with a scorching hunger until she felt she must melt beneath his devouring stare. “Nay, Bianca,” he said, his voice hoarse, his breathing ragged. “No mistake and no trick. Not then. Not now.”

  He lowered his mouth to hers in a kiss, gentle despite the urgency radiating off him like heat off sand. Even in his ruthless need, he held back, the strength it took visible in the rock-hard tension of his muscles, the racing of his heart beneath her palm. She shivered with love for this man who could offer her such a precious gift.

  Threading her fingers into his hair, she pulled him closer, as if he might come to his senses if she allowed him time to think, or as if she might, given the opportunity. After all, they’d settled nothing between them. Not really. The curse still clouded every moment. Renata Froissart still hunted them. Mac’s decision to return to the clans ha
d not changed. And as far as she knew, she remained unwelcome at the theater.

  But who the hell cared?

  Not her. Not while his tongue dove deep into her mouth, his erection pressed temptingly between her legs, and every nerve in her body jumped with wicked impatience.

  She wanted Mac’s hands upon her body, his lips plundering her mouth. She needed him moving inside her, slow and deep until the sweeping, thundering rush of ecstasy shattered her. She wanted to feel all these things. Time for weeping later.

  As if they raced against fate, pulse-pounding urgency drove them onward. Hands fumbled with buttons and ribbons as they unwrapped each other, breath coming in quick gasps, her hair tumbling loose down her shivering spine. No whispered endearments. No playful banter. Just a powerful urge to lose themselves in the pleasure of the moment in case a moment was all they had.

  He backed her against the bed, the two of them falling onto it, skin meeting skin. His body curving over hers as she caressed the scarred muscles of his back, his mouth making its delicious way down over her neck to her breasts. His tongue teased her nipples erect, his teeth grazing them until she arched into his tantalizing fingers.

  Questions were driven away as they took comfort in the sinful need to escape. Fear and heartbreak pushed aside as he thrust hard into her, her hips lifting to welcome him. The tempo rapid as he pounded into her, flesh sweat-slicked and salty on her tongue, legs locked around his waist in a savage need to escape fate and a future apart.

  Pressure claimed her as every muscle twisted tighter and tighter, friction drawing her satisfaction closer with every thrust. She opened her eyes, wanting to see his face, wanting to memorize every line and angle, the curve of his brow and the shadow on his jaw. His gaze met hers as if he strove to do the same, his eyes like twin embers, raging with lust and fire and sinful greed. His face tightened, his jaw jumping, and with a cry he found his release. She tilted her hips to take him deeper, feeling her own desire peak, bliss spasming through her in a dazzling haze of sweet, arcing explosions. Tears stung her cheeks.

  As he rolled her over onto his chest, his hands skimmed the line of her back, his touch once more gentle, his eyes no longer alive with a dangerous light but warm with mischief. “Pink and gold are my new favorite colors, mi am’ryath.”

  Mac’s deep voice vibrated along her bones, his incredible heat keeping her warm despite the chill of the room. And yet, she was deaf and blind to it all. The answer bursting into her head like the spark of a kindled lamp in a dark room.

  Am’ryath.

  The language of the Imnada.

  Of course!

  * * *

  The second golden strand of hair shriveled and curled into dust upon her open palm, the endless sea of billowing smoke and exploding cinder fading into the crackle of her sitting room fire.

  Close. Too close. The Imnada had almost recognized her intrusion. She’d felt him seeking her out, the questing touch of his mind invading the void where she lurked like a wraith. Only the ancient graybeard’s interruption had saved her from discovery. For that, perhaps she would spare him his life. She could afford to be generous now that her quarry had been cornered.

  She leaned back in her chair, enjoying the silence of her widow’s solitude. Alonzo would be here soon, his demands on her body no less fervid, though far more enjoyable, than poor dead Émile’s. But until then, she could bask in the full appreciation of her coming success, for with the knowledge gathered this afternoon she would reel Bianca Parrino in like a fish.

  Bait the trap.

  Catch an even greater prize.

  Her quiet laughter shattered the stillness like a bomb blast, and tilting her hand, the line of gray ash drifted onto the floor, where a maid would sweep it away.

  22

  “How could we be so blind? It was staring us in the face all along and we never saw it. I never saw it.”

  Bianca had donned a dressing gown as she rummaged among her books, but she could be wrapped in a coat of chain mail and still Mac would smell the spice and sex coming off her skin like the headiest of perfumes, taste her luscious core on his tongue. His cock hardened anew at thoughts of pearly flesh and tight, wet heat, and he fought back the urge to sling her across his shoulders and carry her back up to her bedchamber, where he’d peel off the silken slip of fabric with his teeth and stake his claim once and for all.

  So much for keeping silent until he dealt with Renata Froissart.

  Fangs extended, he felt the feral ruthlessness of his aspect like lava in his veins.

  Bianca Parrino would bear his mark. She would carry his scent.

  He would rip the throat out of anyone who dared harm her.

  She belonged to him—now and forever.

  Victory dancing in her eyes, she looked up from her book. “We can’t find Aquameniustis because there is no such plant. It doesn’t exist.”

  From cock-hardening arousal to being doubled over as if he’d had the breath kicked out of him. “Are you saying Adam didn’t break the curse? There’s no way to stop the Fey-blood’s magic?”

  “No. I’m not saying that at all.” Caught up in her discovery, she seemed completely unaware of the horrible despair closing over his head until he couldn’t breathe. “I’m saying between Adam’s poor handwriting and my own ignorance, I transcribed the notes incorrectly.” She slammed the book closed, snapping him free of his panic like a fist to the jaw. “Where’s the journal now?”

  A throbbing pain lanced his temples; he wanted to be sick. “In my office at the Horse Guards.”

  “Good. It doesn’t matter yet, but we might have to be certain when it comes down to it.” Her head remained buried in the book she held; she barely even glanced up to toss him a quick, reassuring smile.

  Where was the bewitching siren who’d lured him onto his knees, her whimpers as she came around him sparking his answering release? He grabbed her, dragging her into a chair. “Bianca, please. Speak slowly and calmly. Is there or is there not a way for me to break the Fey-blood’s spell?”

  She nodded. “I think so, yes.” A slim crease appeared on her forehead. “No, I don’t think. I know. I’m absolutely sure of it.”

  Exhaustion rushed in to replace his earlier panic. “Explain.”

  She pushed her hair back over her shoulder and clasped her hands in her lap, her face aglow with a new strength. Not the showy dazzle of the actress or even the opalescent shine of the passionate lover, but a deep, calming light that turned her blue eyes to stars. “Adam wrote down the name of the plant, but in his haste and excitement he wrote it not in English or even Latin. He wrote it in the language of the Imnada. That’s how the plant was originally known to him, so that’s how he wrote it down. Like the am’ryath.”

  “Then we learn what plant he meant and—”

  “And we have the answer. Yes. The rest falls into place like links in a chain. The draught. The end of the curse. The lifting of your exile. You can go home, Mac. It will be over.” She swallowed, her hands tightening on the book she held, the light in her gaze dimming as if someone had shuttered a flame. “It will finally be over.”

  He leaned in, cupping her face between his hands. “And if I’ve decided I don’t want it to be over just yet?”

  “You don’t mean that.” Bianca gulped back a quick breath. “Not really. All you’ve wanted, all you’ve fought for, has been to break the curse and rejoin the clans. What if you give that up for me and then come to regret it?”

  Here, then, was his choice. The vow he’d not been able to say because to do so would set him upon an irrevocable course—a course taking him away from his safeguarded clan holding. Away from the open moors and misted vales of home.

  “It won’t happen, Bianca.”

  “You can’t be sure.”

  “I’m more certain of what I feel for you than of anything since I turned my back on my father’s suffocating grief and left Concullum to join the army.”

  “How can you give up your dream?”

&
nbsp; He leaned in to kiss her, feeling the rightness of his choice sing in every cell in his body as their lips met. “By taking on a new one, alanna.”

  * * *

  “Well? You know the language. What do you think?” Bianca pushed Adam’s journal across to Mac.

  Upon their arrival at Deane House, Bianca had hustled Mac through the halls to the library, praying she’d not run into Sarah. The woman had a knack for sniffing out scandal, and it wouldn’t take more than a tilt of her nose to smell the delicious contentment curling off Bianca like smoke.

  No, she would face the questions when they came, accept every I-told-you-so her friend uttered, but not yet.

  She wanted time alone with Mac. Time to discover the habit he had of running a hand through his hair when he read and to recognize the single-minded intensity he maintained even at rest. She needed to commit to memory the male scent of him and the way his lashes swept down over his high cheekbones like shadows. And finally, she sought to remember the tingling, bubbling happiness that tugged at her lips and sent butterflies fluttering through her stomach whenever their eyes met in a moment of shared desire.

  All these moments she would lock away in her heart so that if the worst happened, she would not forget. Ever.

  “It could be”—he turned the journal sideways, squinted at the slash and loop of every letter—“it looks like ‘Og’mnithris.’ ”

  She observed his long fingers, the sprinkling of hairs upon the back of his hand, the silver-white scars on his wrist from the Frenchman’s ropes, and an ache pressed against her chest and under her ribs with the power of this new emotion. “Never heard of it.”

  “Nay, it’s as you said. It’s a word in the language of the Imnada. A language hardly spoken anymore.”

  “But Adam spoke it.”

  “Aye, he did.”

  “So, what does it mean? What’s Og’mnithris?”

  Mac rubbed his chin, his cat-slanted green eyes locked on the word, his gaze distant. “It’s a small shrub. Grows in river basins and near streambeds, anywhere swift water moves. In English, it would be . . . it would be called death-bringer.”