by Gaelen Foley
The seconds ticked by like hours while he waited, and a bead of sweat gathered on his brow. He was besieged by gory visions of being eaten.
But Azrael soon discovered that it wasn’t really the dogs who were the dangerous ones here, as three large men came sauntering out of the shadows, approaching from the hallway down which the butler had gone.
Astonished, Azrael recognized them from Parliament—they were all his fellow peers. Good God, the Marquess of Rotherstone!
He wasn’t much for ton gossip, but the last he’d heard, Rotherstone had been making a drunken nuisance of himself on a highly inappropriate Grand Tour of Europe, never mind the war in progress. He watched the battles like a tourist, according to rumor.
Black-haired and gray-eyed, the marquess’s presence was tolerated by the officers because the man was said to be as rich as Croesus.
Meanwhile, in the center of the trio towered the rugged and fearsome Duke of Warrington, who usually stayed at his castle in Cornwall, having his way with the local wenches, so Azrael had heard.
To Warrington’s left was the more quietly lethal and urbane Earl of Falconridge, a highly clever man by repute. He was supposed to be some sort of diplomat to Russia.
But Azrael stood there astonished to realize that the stories of where these highborn fellows had been for the past few years, and what they’d supposedly been doing, were utter cock-and-bull tales.
Or rather, cover stories.
At the moment, to be sure, not a one of them looked like rakehells in the slightest.
They looked like trained killers.
Closing in on him.
From an adjoining room stepped a hearty-framed fellow of about sixty, with fierce eyes, bushy auburn hair streaked with gray, and a short red beard. Azrael did not know him, but the older man had the snakeskin box in his grasp now, as well as the agent’s ring.
The master of the house, Azrael concluded at once. Spymaster is more like it.
Clearly, the older fellow was in charge here, and had probably been the one eavesdropping on his conversation with the butler.
“I’m Virgil,” he said with a strong Scottish brogue. “And ye’re probably a dead man, comin’ here. What is the meaning of this?”
“I’ve come in peace and in the hopes that we might be of mutual benefit to each other.”
Rotherstone scoffed, while Falconridge shook his head, looking amazed. “Rivenwood, of all people,” the blond diplomat murmured.
“Promethean scum,” mumbled Warrington. Azrael then noticed a black cloth hood dangling from his fellow duke’s massive clenched fist.
“Son of a bitch! I don’t believe this,” Rotherstone said to his colleagues. “We’re off risking our bloody necks to fight them in Europe, and he’s operating a bloody Prome cell right here at home?”
“No, you’re wrong,” Azrael said, but the marquess drew a knife, his wolfish stare fixed on him.
“Virgil, let me do the honors.”
“Gut him, Max,” growled Warrington.
“Wait,” the Scot ordered, holding up his hand, much to Azrael’s relief. “Let him explain himself first.”
“My lords,” Azrael forced out, nodding at the box, “I’m not operating anything. But you’re right, there is a coven here, and I know who’s involved. I want them gone as much as you do.”
“Lies. Never trust one of their kind,” Warrington said, glowering at him.
“But this is unheard of,” Falconridge murmured to his colleagues. “A Promethean simply waltzing up to our front door and popping in for a visit? What game are you playing, Rivenwood?”
“This is no game. I have information. Lots of it,” Azrael said, losing patience with their doubt, though it had probably been drilled into them from the same age Azrael had been when his father and company had started loading up his brain with hatred of the light.
Only, their training had never quite taken.
He hoped to God these people at least gave him a chance. “I’ve brought you this cache of their records. I’m sure you’ll find it useful.”
“We’ll see about that,” Virgil said, then glanced at his agents. “Bag him, lads, and take him to the Pit.”
The three moved on him at once, and the next thing Azrael knew, the black cloth hood was over his head, blinding him and stifling his breath. Good God, Dunny wasn’t jesting. They seemed quite expert in abduction.
Shoved and jostled about, Azrael lifted his hands and offered no resistance. But fear of their intentions spurted cold in his veins, and his heart pounded with the question: What the hell is the Pit?
# # #
Serena sat by the window in her bedchamber, staring out anxiously at the black night.
Worry clawed at her insides, for she knew that by now, Azrael would have reached London. He might be knocking on the Order’s door at this very moment.
And she might never see him again.
Her bedroom door creaked, and in the reflection of the windowpane, like a black mirror, she saw her mother peek into her chamber. “May I come in?”
“Of course, Mama.” She managed a fond smile, feeling closer than ever to her mother now that she understood her so much more.
“My, you are in love with him, aren’t you?” the countess teased upon finding her daughter brooding.
But knowing Azrael had changed Serena. Everything she’d been through these past few months had. To think now she’d be his duchess, his wife…
“I’m so worried about him, Mama. Do you think he’s safe?” she whispered as her mother came into her bedchamber.
As she approached, Serena noticed that the countess looked weary and drained from the emotional tumult of the past two days.
Yesterday, through the walls of Dunhaven Manor, Serena and her brothers had heard the muffled sounds of their parents’ tearful exchange as they faced the reckoning of their past.
From what she’d overheard—certainly without trying to—Papa had made up his mind early on to love his beautiful Mariah in spite of her unfaithfulness, and to accept Stiver’s by-blow as his own. He’d never said a word about it to spare his wife’s pride and his own, because he knew why she had done it.
All these years, he’d been as ashamed about his powerlessness to free them from the Prometheans’ clutches as Mama had been about the exploitation she’d endured as payment for their safe exit.
Serena was already learning to despise Lord Stiver for what he’d put her parents through.
At least now, thank God, all their family secrets and lies were coming out into the light, where they could be resolved. But one thing was certain. Whatever may have happened in the past between her parents, it was plain that they loved each other very much now.
Serena found it very touching. She just hoped she’d get the chance to grow old with Azrael like her parents were doing.
“Try to have a little faith, my love.” As Mama sat down in the window seat beside Serena, she seemed different, worn out but more peaceful. The countess offered a smile and shivered a bit. “It’s drafty over here. Are you warm enough?”
Serena just shrugged. Even if she had a hundred blankets on her, she’d have still been cold with fear, not knowing Azrael’s fate.
Mama laid her hand on Serena’s forearm. “He’s kept himself alive so far, hasn’t he?”
Serena nodded tensely. “He’s very intelligent. And courageous. He’s had to be, to outwit these people ever since he was a boy.”
“Considering his influences, it’s a wonder he has a soul at all.”
“Oh, he does,” Serena said with a pang in her heart. “What was he like as a boy, Mama? Did you know him then?”
“Yes, but not very well. From a distance, mainly. Especially after Stiver chose him for your husband. You were just a newborn and Azrael was a lad of thirteen. For his part, he had no idea about the match for years, by the way. But I knew. So I kept something of an eye on him, since I assumed he would eventually be your husband. Lo and behold, now he will.”
“Quiet, a bit shy, very self-controlled. Wary of everybody. He always seemed very deliberate and careful to me. Well, except when he was around all those silly animals. Then he lit up and acted like a normal child. Animated, laughing, relaxed. His father collected exotic animals, you see—I have no idea why; he probably liked having things in cages. The Rivenwoods had a menagerie at one of their estates at one point.”
Mama shrugged. “I just remember being relieved to see that side of him and to notice how kind he was to the creatures. Given his father’s cruelty, I was worried how he’d treat you. But you know, I thought even then that those poor animals seemed to be his only friends. I daresay they probably saved his life.”
Serena fought back tears. To think of how people called him eccentric and a recluse back in London infuriated her.
They had no idea what he’d been through. What had made him that way. She repented that she’d ever thought the same.
She shook her head and made a private vow that once they were married, she would fill his life with joy and all the love that he’d missed out on in his youth.
If he survived this.
She glanced out the window again, worried sick about him.
Mama caressed her hair. “It’s in God’s hands, my love.”
Serena was in no mood for her mother’s religiosity right now, and bit her lip against a flash of impatience.
Faith was the evidence of things not seen, and she was desperate for solid proof that the man she loved was safe.
“I will pray for him,” Mama said softly. “I suggest you do the same.”
Serena nodded, a lump in her throat. There didn’t seem much else that she could do for him right now. She hated the helplessness she felt, simply waiting for word.
Gazing out restlessly into the darkness on the other side of the glass, Serena tried to take heart. But it seemed like she’d lose either way.
If anything happened to Azrael, she’d be shattered.
Of course, if his quest succeeded, then her real father would probably die at the hands of the Order before she ever got to meet him.
She had no idea how to feel about that.
The worst part was this deep-down, gnawing fear that had taken hold of her tonight. It whispered that the so-called curse on their families—the one she didn’t believe in—might yet rise up somehow to wreck their newfound happiness.
“Mama?” She looked at her mother, eager to hear her say that it was all nonsense. “You and the others back then didn’t really think you had been cursed, did you?”
“Oh, I know we were,” the countess said, a shadow passing behind her eyes.
Serena furrowed her brow. “So you really believe in that stuff, then? Just like Toby?”
The countess considered for a moment. “Let me ask you a question. Do you believe in angels, Serena? Guardian angels and such?”
The question surprised her, but she shrugged. “Actually, I do, I suppose.”
“Well, if they’re real, wouldn’t that mean the other kind exist as well? Evil spirits, demons. Not as strong as the good side, but just as real.”
Serena eyed her uncertainly. “You really do sound like Toby now.”
“All I know is that curse took its toll. Misfortune struck everyone involved. We should never have opened that barrow.” She shuddered and lowered her gaze, obviously loath to say more. “But if there can be tangible blessings in life, like a beautiful daughter or good health, then why not curses, too? I know there are demons,” she added. “I’ve met them.”
A chill ran down Serena’s spine; she sat stock-still, pondering this.
Her mother fell silent and looked away with a small sigh. “I should like to meet an angel someday.”
I already have. Serena wrapped her arms more tightly around herself, missing Azrael with every fiber of her being.
It struck her then that that was what he really looked like, with his shining hair and pale blue eyes—not a fey prince, but a beautiful angel, celestial and strange.
Perhaps his father hadn’t been so far off the mark when he had named his son after the archangel of death.
And given Azrael’s vow to wreak destruction on his enemies, it seemed the time had come for her beloved to live up to his dark and terrible name.
# # #
Azrael was scowling when a rough, unseen hand pulled the sack serving as a blindfold off his head. He’d been transported to he knew not where, though he did not believe they had left the building.
Immediately after they’d seized him, shackling his hands behind his back as though he were some common criminal, he’d been marched across the entrance hall. He knew because he’d heard the clicking nails of the dogs hurrying out of the way.
After that, stepping clumsily, unable to see, he’d heard creaking pulleys similar to the cables on a dumbwaiter. Then he’d felt his stomach lurch with a drop of downward motion.
Somehow he kept his mouth shut, though he was incensed at such treatment—for a duke, no less—when he’d come here in good faith, and by invitation of one of their own.
He’d arrived twenty-two years late, true. But still.
God, if they killed him, who’d take care of Serena?
Downward the dumbwaiter took him and his captors, finally lurching, scraping to a halt. He’d sensed the air turn clammy and damp as somebody hauled open what sounded like a sort of stall door; he noted at once that the sounds around them had taken on a hollow, echoing quality.
Then he was marched across what felt like a stone floor underfoot, and shoved into a hard wooden chair.
“What was the point of all that?” he muttered, blowing a stray lock of his hair out of his eyes when they yanked the hood off his head. “I’ve already seen your blasted faces. I’ve voted with you in the Lords, for God’s sake.”
Rotherstone sat down slowly before him. “How did you know about Dante House?”
“And where,” Virgil growled, staring at him, “did you get that ring?”
Azrael drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, while his quick glance around established they were in a subterranean cave of some sort. Probably built right under the old house.
Warrington gave him a warning poke in the shoulder. “Answer the question, mate.”
“Untie my hands. Oh, for heaven’s sake, if I meant you any harm, would I have arrived alone, unarmed, knocking on the front door, as Falconridge pointed out? Would I have brought you the secret records from my father’s group?”
“Who sent you?” Falconridge demanded.
“Nobody! In fact,” Azrael said with a huff, “there are those who’d gladly kill me—slowly and painfully—if they knew I was here.”
Virgil narrowed his eyes then sent Rotherstone a terse nod.
The marquess rose from the wooden bench where he sat, looking disappointed. “You try anything unfriendly, Rivenwood, and we’ll stop being so polite.”
Azrael harrumphed, but once Rotherstone had freed his wrists from the manacles, he rubbed them in relief, straightening up in his chair. He had to admit that seeing the three spies staring at him like that was a little unnerving.
Fortunately, his father had hardened him early to fear. He stared right back at them.
“Why are you here?” Warrington asked.
“How many times do you want me to say it? I have information for you. Whole troves of it, actually.”
Falconridge laughed at his offer. “And why should we ever trust a bloody Promethean?”
“I am not a Promethean! My father was. He also happened to be a raving lunatic.” Azrael glared at them. “I, however, am sane.” Then he glanced around at the men uncertainly and mumbled, “Which is why I need your help. And frankly, you need mine.”
“Your help?” Virgil echoed.
“Aren’t you still in the bu
siness of routing out Promethean cells? If so, then yes, you need me as much as I need you. I want rid of them. They’ve been trying to control me all my life. I’m set on marriage now, and I won’t have them threatening my wife or trying to lay claim to my children in the future. Surely you can understand that. But I can’t take them on alone, which is why I came to you, and I can see now it’s a good thing I did, because you obviously have no idea who the hell they are!”
They glanced around at each other.
Then Rotherstone nodded. “We’re listening.”
“Start at the beginning,” Falconridge added.
And after rubbing his wrists where the shackles had chafed him, Azrael obliged.
It was going to be a long night.
CHAPTER 17
Coming Home
Exactly eight days later, Serena heard hoofbeats and the rumble of carriage wheels coming up the drive to Dunhaven Manor. It was a sound her ears had strained to detect from the moment she had kissed Azrael goodbye.
He had written a few days ago, thank God, to let her know he was still alive, but his message had been cryptic, ending with the promise that there’d be more news to come shortly. Though she had rejoiced to receive his promised letter, it was torture that he had not said when they would see each other again.
She knew she had to be patient. At least the Order hadn’t harmed him. Her prayer had been answered.
But that morning, in mid-conversation with her family at the breakfast table, hearing someone coming up the drive, Serena jumped to her feet and raced to the front door, barreling past Bosworth on his way to answer it.
She flung it open and looked out, heart pounding, eagerly expecting to see Azrael’s team of magnificent black Frisians, Paulson, and her love coming up the drive.
Instead, it was a strange carriage, brown and weather-beaten, pulled by four chestnut horses, with four riders flanking it, moving along at a businesslike trot. She studied them in wonder as they stormed up the drive.
They were dressed in ordinary clothes, but as this mysterious cavalcade arrived at the house, she thought they had the rugged, sun-leathered look of military men, as did the driver and the armed groom riding beside him up on the box.