Dangerous As Sin

by Alix Rickloff

  Cam could tell the man was already smitten. Morgan had that effect. Like a blow between the eyes. It was the follow-up punch to the gut you had to watch for.

  “I don’t get visitors,” Traverse apologized. “Except for Mrs. Brumby, my landlady. And she only comes to bring me my dinner. She’s scared. They’re all scared. And I don’t blame them.”

  Cam took up a position by the window. Adjusted the curtains to keep an eye on the street. Traffic was steady. Carts and wagons. An occasional carriage. Pedestrians threading their way between them all.

  “You were attacked a week ago?” Morgan asked.

  Traverse nodded. “Ten days. And since then…well, you can see for yourself.”

  “Do you remember anything?”

  He ignored the food. As he raised his tea to his lips, his hands trembled. He dropped the cup back into its saucer as if self-conscious. “I’ve already spoken to my commanding officer. And the physicians. They thought I was making up stories.”

  “Will it bother you to repeat it?”

  He took a slow, wheezy breath. “No. I’ll tell you everything I remember if you think it will help.”

  She offered him an encouraging smile. “It might.”

  Oh, she was good. Traverse was eating out of her hand. Cam glanced back to the window. He could swear he’d seen that peddler pass by once already. His gaze narrowed, his attention split between the street and Morgan’s questioning.

  “It was late. I was coming back here after meeting friends when I was jumped.” Like his eyes, the ensign’s voice remained disconcertingly boyish. Reminded Cam of his younger brother Alisdair. They’d be about the same age, though Al would die rather than get within twenty leagues of the army. Especially after rumors revealed Cam’s dirty little part in it. “They must have knocked me cold. When I woke, I was tied. It couldn’t have been long. It was still dark. The moon was high.”

  “They?”

  “Aye. There must have been three or four men. Mayhap more. It was too dark to see.”

  “Could you tell where they’d taken you?”

  “Out on the moor. There’s a group of stones. The locals call it the Giant’s Fist. A place near where we run exercises. I recognized it. But then the men…” His words faded as his memories took hold.

  The peddler passed by again, and this time glanced up at the house.

  Cam broke in. “Did they have the sword?”

  “What?” Traverse jumped, his eyes unfocused. Confused.

  Morgan glared at the tactless interruption. “Colonel Sinclair wants to know if any of the men carried a weapon.”

  Cam gave Morgan a look that meant something was up. She frowned. Nodded her understanding.

  “It burns,” Traverse hissed. His face went deathly white, his hands gripping the chair arms, his plate sliding unnoticed to the floor with a crash. “It burns still. Here.” He pounded above his heart. “I told the doctors what they did. The captain. My friends. I even told Mrs. Brumby. None believed me. They think I’m mad.” He looked from Morgan to Cam, his voice growing louder. Stronger. Almost frantic. “But you believe me, don’t you? You know what they did to me.”

  As if possessed, he ripped his shirt open. “Look for yourself,” he shouted.

  A pale silver scar slashed its way across the left side of his chest. But he said he’d been attacked two weeks ago. This scar looked as if it had healed over years hence.

  “The sword glowed. I swear it glowed. And just seeing it, you knew you were in the presence of death. It was like the first shovelful of dirt just hit the top of your coffin.”

  Cam was grim. “They did this to you that night?”

  “He told me it would be all right. That to be struck by the blade wouldn’t kill me.”

  “Who was he?”

  “I don’t know. The leader, I expect. The other soldiers seemed to obey his orders.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  Traverse screwed up his face in concentration. “That’s the funny thing. He wasn’t masked like the others, but his face—it just never seemed to be clear enough to see. Blurry…or runny…or…it doesn’t make sense, I know. But you have to believe me.” His voice had grown loud again as if he could convince them through sheer volume.

  “We believe you,” Morgan said, trying to calm him back down.

  A movement across the street caught Cam’s eye. The peddler had been joined by another. A man in a scarlet jacket. An officer. Cam’s hand slid to the hilt of his saber while he let Morgan pick up the questioning.

  “You didn’t see his face. What about his uniform?”

  Traverse plucked at the fringe of his shawl. “It was old. Piecemeal. As if he’d worn it for years or picked up bits and pieces along the way. A faded jacket. An old-fashioned hussar’s shako. Cavalry boots.”

  By the exaggerated gestures and the curious glances of passersby, the peddler and the soldier were arguing. Cam would have given a small fortune to know what they were saying.

  “Did he sound cultured? Rough? An accent?” Morgan continued.

  Traverse took time to think. “No accent, but the others were frightened by him. I could tell.”

  “Anything else?” Morgan pressed. “Anything that might help us identify him?”

  He squeezed his fingers to his eyes as if trying to focus. “Nothing. I saw the sword. And then he lifted it.” His voice shook. He sobbed, drawing Cam’s attention away from the window. “I didn’t believe it would happen until he slammed it into me. I don’t remember much after. The pain. The blood…” By the time Cam looked back, both the peddler and the soldier had vanished. “…and then it was like acid running through every vein. I broke the ropes…there was a man. I caught him. He shouted, but I had his neck…. The others scattered…I…”

  He’d held together this long, but the memories unmanned him. He broke down, dropping his head into his hands, his weeping loud and angry like a child’s. “I don’t want to be this way. I want my life back. My friends.” He looked up, his wrinkled face splotched red. “My body. Help me. Can’t you help me?”

  Cam felt an unexpected rage churn his stomach. How would he feel if this were Alisdair sitting here sobbing his guts out and cursed by some magical sword? He looked to Morgan. She was the damned sorceress. Couldn’t she alacazam Traverse back into his old body? He waited for her to say something helpful. More of the quiet kindness she’d shown earlier. Instead she sat, biting her lip, looking everywhere but at the broken-down, old-young man. As if she didn’t care. Couldn’t be bothered.

  The room was silent but for the ensign’s gulping sobs until Cam couldn’t stand it. “It’ll be all right,” he said gruffly.

  That got Morgan’s attention. She rose. Motioned him toward the hall. “Excuse us. Colonel Sinclair and I need to speak privately.” Taking him by the arm, she dragged him to the door. “What do you mean telling him it’ll be all right?” she demanded in a hoarse whisper.

  “You saw him,” he said so only she could hear. “I couldn’t just leave him in that state. You’re the witch. Fix him.”

  “Keep your voice down.” She pursed her lips. Looked over to the ensign and back. “It’s not that easy. If my gram were here or even my brother…They understand this sort of thing. Not me. I don’t know.”

  Unease settled across his shoulders. “But you can fix him. Right?”

  “I. Don’t. Know,” she repeated slowly. “I don’t want him to think we’re here to heal him. We’re here to find out what we can about the men who attacked him. That’s all.”

  “So once you’ve found out what you need, you just walk away?”

  “I came to do a job. Find that sword. Get it back to the Fey. If I succeed, no one else will suffer like he’s suffering. Isn’t that enough?”

  Cam turned to go back to Traverse afraid that if he stayed he’d answer Morgan’s cold-blooded logic with some choice words of his own. Still, he couldn’t leave without saying something. His emotions were too charged. His body strung tight.


  He spun back to face her, fury licking his words. “Take a good look at him, Morgan, and you tell me. Do you think it’s enough?”

  Chapter 5

  Doran polished the long obsidian blade of the Aztec dagger. Until recently, the most prized possession among his rich and varied collection. Three other blades and an ornate Byzantine fighting axe taken from the storming of Seringapatam lay on the table in front of him already sharpened and oiled.

  “So they’ve come, have they?” He carefully placed the Aztec dagger back among the rest. “I knew it would take the Fey this long to admit they’d lost control over…” He paused. “…over Andraste’s sword. I wish I could have seen Scathach explaining that little failure.”

  He never referred to Neuvarvaan by name if he didn’t have to. He’d found out months ago that speaking it aloud seemed to strengthen its already considerable influence. His head would buzz for hours with the black speech of the Morkoth, the forgers of the blade and the ones who’d imbued it with the power of undying.

  In their hands, it had been a weapon of destruction. In his, it would be a keeper of the peace. His peace. For who would dare challenge a ruler with an army of immortals?

  “I’m surprised the Duinedon army colonel’s in league with Scathach, though,” he continued. “Can’t say I saw that one coming.” He gave a snort of astonishment.

  Captain Burfoot shifted uncomfortably, threading his hat brim through his hands. As if he were on trial. As in a way, he was. There was always a need for—volunteers. Neuvarvaan demanded it. And who was Doran Buchanan to deny the sword anything it demanded if it gave him what he wanted in return?

  “Do you want us to deal with the colonel and his woman like we did Hurley?” the captain asked.

  Burfoot had described a fiery-haired beauty with the focused eyes of a hunter. Had to be Morgan Bligh. There weren’t two such among the ranks of Amhas-draoi. But did Scathach really think an untested mage chaser had a chance against him? It was almost insulting.

  Doran raised an amused brow. “This woman’s no common soldier’s trull. Haven’t you learned anything I’ve taught you? Bligh’s Other like us. And more than that, she’s Amhas-draoi. You may be able to take Sinclair. But she’d fry you before you got within fifty yards of her.” At Burfoot’s look of skepticism, Doran laughed. “Don’t let her sex fool you. She may look like a good ride, but she’d strip the meat from your bones in less time than it took you to mount her.”

  Even as his mind turned over the implications of this odd pairing of mortal and Fey, he felt the tug of Neuvarvaan. It called to him. A thread of ancient words beckoning him to unsheathe it. Admire it.

  He needed to hold the inlaid hilt. Marvel at the mastery of silverwork. Feel the rush of power burst through him when he gripped it. Andraste’s sword whispered to him. Tempted him with unimaginable rewards. And he knew he was close. So close. The gift of immortality was in his grasp. The dark magics that ruled the goddess blade almost clear to him now.

  And once all had been revealed, he’d begin the recruiting. He’d be swamped with enlistees, for certain. And why not? No more death by cannon or bayonet. No more maiming from shrapnel. His army would be the best of the best. Respected. Feared. And completely unstoppable.

  All Neuvarvaan asked in return was blood.

  A bargain at any price.

  Burfoot fidgeted as if he too felt the sword’s influence. Heard its whispered words. He cleared his throat. “So what are my orders?”

  “I don’t want to leave town,” Doran answered. “I need the deeper Fey magics that surface at the Giant’s Fist.” He stared hard at the shadows of death gleaming in the black heart of the Aztec dagger as if the answer were writ within. “Watch them. Don’t let them out of your sight. But don’t get too close, and for damn sake don’t use magic. Bligh will sense the mage energy and be on to you in a flash.”

  “And if they start to get too close?”

  Doran couldn’t help himself. He glanced at the locked cupboard. His body hummed with an almost sexual need to curl his fingers around the hilt. Caress the sharpened steel.

  The sword responded to his attention. A crackle of black speech leapt into his mind. Buried its hate. Made it his own.

  He offered the captain a thin, cruel smile. “The sword hungers again. Mayhap we should invite Colonel Sinclair to dinner?”

  Cam slid into the seat across from Morgan, his face gray with fatigue, a slightly wild look in the blue chill of his eyes. He immediately searched out the barmaid, waving her over.

  Morgan’s temperature rose, her hands tightening around her glass. She was already in a foul temper after being left behind. Cam had convinced her Traverse’s commanding officer would never speak freely in the presence of a woman. And though she wanted to argue, she knew he was right.

  Instead, she’d spent her day exploring the town. Starting at the heart of Bedford Square, she’d ranged outward, investigated every alley, dead end, and blind corner. She’d scouted the water’s edge, up-and downriver before falling back to note where the soldiers gathered. Taverns, inns, and a rickety, dingy set of barracks still inhabited, though most of the militias had been disbanded.

  Where could Doran be hiding? He’d cloaked his magic, a task requiring discipline and great strength. Both qualities the man held in abundance. But it made her hunt that much harder. She’d not felt a trace of mage energy. Not caught even a hint of a trail to follow. Worse, if he were disguising himself beneath a glamorie, he could be anywhere. Anyone.

  “You’re late,” she complained. “You said six. It’s almost eight.”

  A corner of his lip twitched. “Miss me?” He downed the whiskey—the barmaid ogling him like a piece of raw meat—and ordered another. When the woman pranced off to fill his empty glass, Cam gave Morgan an apologetic smile. “You can’t snarl at me forever, can you?” When she glowered even harder, he grimaced. “Apparently, you can.”

  This time, she fought a smile. Pursed her lips together, fully immune now to the Sinclair charm. “I was worried.” His brows rose in amused surprise. “Yes, worried,” she repeated. “Obviously we’ve been followed.”

  Cam grew serious. “Obviously. The man Traverse said he caught—I checked with the major. His name was Hurley. A private from the Eleventh Foot.”

  “Was?”

  “Hurley’s been murdered.”

  Her stomach plummeted, the hope of an easy break vanishing. Hurley had been a connection to Neuvarvaan and Doran. A connection severed before he could tell them anything.

  She was saved from responding by the return of the simpering barmaid. Gods, had the woman never seen a good-looking man? She was doing everything but exposing herself. And with Morgan—Cam’s supposed wife—sitting right there. She could only imagine what the slut would attempt if he were alone. She gritted her teeth. Flashed the woman a dangerous look that sent her scuttling back to the bar. “So what the hell happened to Hurley?”

  Cam winced at her language, which only served to raise her temperature another notch. “He was unconscious and under guard. They’d found him after Traverse arrived back in town raving about the attack on the moor. But of course since Traverse had no obvious wounds and Hurley was nothing but broken bones, Traverse was arrested. Later a guard was placed on Hurley as well. When Ensign Traverse…” He paused. “…aged, the military were more baffled. Downright scared, if you ask me.” Cam slammed back the second whiskey, only now beginning to lose the strung, haunted look he’d carried with him into the taproom. “The major in charge was happy to wash his hands of the mess and hand it off to us. This is the second incident at the Giant’s Fist in two months. The first soldier died.”

  “And Hurley’s actual killing?”

  “The guards don’t remember anything. According to them, they never left their posts. Never slept.”

  “Magic. I’d bet my life.”

  Cam didn’t argue. Just stared into the bottom of his empty whiskey glass.

  Prepared for a fight, Morgan
felt deflated. As if he’d cheated her out of something. Frustration pounded through her with every breath. Resentment at being left behind. Cam’s embarrassed reactions to her lack of refinement. And now exasperation that the only link to Andraste’s sword was dead. Anger clawed at her, demanding an outlet. An escape.

  Cam was the perfect target. She knew if she picked at him, he’d give her the fight she wanted. And her scorn and annoyance would remain alive. Hard emotions. Safe emotions. “Ready to believe now, are you?” She sneered. “Not so quick with the snotty comments after seeing Neuvarvaan’s power.”

  He lifted his head, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to throttle her or kiss her—or both. His eyes glittered, silver blue like the heart of a flame. She could drown in those eyes. Had once.

  Her skin prickled as her stomach gave a strange, lurching plunge. She blinked and looked away. Ashamed of her petty needling. More ashamed of her unbidden reaction.

  “Have you sent word to your family about Traverse?” He’d chosen to ignore her waspish comment, but his expression was stern, almost disappointed, which only infuriated her more. As if she were acting the child.

  Her jaw clenched, her stare as icy and forbidding as she could make it. “I told you I would. But don’t expect an answer right away. And even if my grandmother comes, that’s no guarantee.”

  He shrugged, a grim smile curving the corners of his mouth. “No guarantee, but it’s a hope Traverse didn’t have before. Thank you.”

  She knew what he was thinking. That she was cruel. Heartless.

  It wasn’t true.

  She liked to think of it as single-minded. Driven. Focused on what needed to be accomplished. And those were positive traits, weren’t they?

  “So, have you checked on Traverse?” she asked. “If those men silenced Hurley because of what he might tell us, the ensign could be in danger.”