Lord of Shadows

by Alix Rickloff

  Shared laughter.

  “. . . focus is all on Douglas. Máelodor’s dead”—the chuckle of conspirators—”. . . information for him. See that he gets it immediately.” A clink of glasses. The squeak of floorboards. The meeting breaking up.

  Daigh fell back from his position. Slipped up the passage, ducking into the first open door, waiting until Black Jacket passed. Follow him, and he’d find the mysterious Máelodor. The spider at the center of this hideous web.

  He’d only just swung back into the passage when the slide of a knife caught him beneath the chin. “Did you catch all that, Lazarus? Or should I fill you in on the parts you missed?” The high tenor of Black Jacket’s fellow conspirator.

  The knife pressed deep into his neck. Blood dripping upon his collar. No time for the cut to heal before another slide of the blade opened a new wound.

  “Inside, if you please.”

  A slippery, vicious crackle of darkness burned along Daigh’s blood. It coursed within him like some foreign evil. Part of him and yet separate. Wanting blood and death and killing. An animal need to obliterate.

  “I wouldn’t try anything if I were you,” the voice warned. “My weapons may not defeat your warding, but my magics can make you wish you were dead.”

  Allowing himself to be drawn into the chamber, Daigh fought against the storm surge of clawing emotion. Cleared a space within himself free of the ferocious maelstrom. A point of sanity among the madness.

  “I told Mr. Bloom you’d not surrender to the grave so easily.” The knife sliced deeper. Daigh’s flesh parting. His blood flowing faster. It scalded his neck. Seeped beneath his coat, his shirt. “Would you, Lazarus? Not now you’ve a second taste of life?”

  The knife fell away, leaving him cold and shuddering against the well of poison infecting him like a disease.

  “Sit, friend. Can I get you a brandy? A glass of wine perhaps?”

  Daigh fell into the chair presented. Finally looked upon his assailant. Blond. Young. Features as cool and sweet-natured as his voice. A wiry body holding whipcord strength. Eyes pale and hard as stones. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing for myself how successful Máelodor was, and I have to say his claims held nothing of the braggart about them.”

  “So you approve?”

  “Oh, yes.” His gaze traveled over Daigh with a lingering yet professional eye. “Amazing,” he cooed. “Simply amazing.”

  Daigh’s skin crawled. Every nerve jumping. “Who are you?”

  “No need to be testy. I’m on your side. But you’re smart to ask. Informants could be anywhere.” He pushed back one sleeve to reveal a tattoo upon his forearm. A broken arrow and crescent.

  Daigh felt his stomach roll up into his throat.

  “You recognize the mark of the Nine, Lazarus?”

  The name landed on him like a blow. “Aye. But not Lazarus. It’s”—we can only hope you don’t end as he did—“it’s Daigh now.”

  His correction was met with a razor smile. “Naming yourself? How droll. But fitting under the circumstances. I too have taken on a new name to go with the role that will soon be mine. You may call me Lancelot.”

  “Are you loyal friend? Or treacherous betrayer?”

  A careless shrug. “Remains to be seen.”

  The man circled him, a hand running casually across Daigh’s shoulders. A touch upon the back of his neck. A breath against the heat of his bloody skin. Professionalism vanished beneath a sultry invitation. “You’re soaked to the bone. Perhaps you should take off these wet clothes and dry yourself by the fire.”

  Blood thickened to ice, Daigh’s body stiffening as he controlled the queasy turning of his stomach. Gritted his teeth, refusing to crane his neck to keep the man in view. “Where does Bloom go from here?”

  Lancelot slid back into his vision. Crossed to pour a glass of wine. Swished it before sipping, his eyes meeting Daigh’s over the rim, coolly amused. “His ship leaves tomorrow morning. Máelodor should have the tapestry within a few days. And we shall be one step closer to final success.”

  “Huzzah for our side.” Whoever’s side that was. The hell if he knew.

  The man placed the glass carefully on the table. “You sound less than enthusiastic.”

  “I don’t count success until it’s achieved.”

  “Oh it will be. Make no mistake. It’s been years in the planning. Máelodor is devoted to completing the Nine’s unfinished work. Reclaiming the world for Other in a new golden age.”

  A golden age? Other dominance? He forced his face into a mask of complete inscrutability. No hint of the wild spin of his thoughts.

  “Bloom tells me you attacked him. That you actually tried to stop him from stealing the Rywlkoth Tapestry. Odd behavior from the one sent to procure it in the first place.”

  Daigh shrugged. Play along. Gain time. Information. “I didn’t recognize him. Thought he was there to stop me from stealing it.”

  Lancelot’s gaze narrowed. “He thinks you’ve gone rogue on us. That you’ve somehow slipped Máelodor’s leash.”

  “He can think as he likes.”

  Candlelight flickered like demon-flame in Lancelot’s eyes, his hair gleaming in the fire’s glow. “Perhaps you should accompany Bloom. Máelodor will be relieved to know his creature is safe.”

  “Do you go?”

  Lancelot offered up a chilly smile, though his eyes continued to burn with a queer, wild light. “I’m flattered, but no. There are rumors Brendan Douglas has been in touch with his family. That he may be en route to Dublin. Máelodor would love to lay hands upon the traitor. Would pay dearly for the privilege of breaking him.”

  Sabrina’s brother in the hands of these men. A long, cruel death would be his. A killing by degrees until the victim prayed for the mercy stroke. An end to the torture. Somehow he knew this. Just as he knew he’d once prayed for that mercy. And been denied.

  His hands curled to fists, anger pushing past sound judgment.

  The man crossed to Daigh. Stood over him, his gaze now leaping with a greedy hunger he did nothing to hide. “You know, I’m curious.”

  “About what?” Daigh pushed from a mouth gone dry.

  They met eye to eye. Sweat beaded the man’s upper lip, a single drop curling down his cheek. “As one of the Domnuathi, you’re bound body and soul to your creator. A slave to his every whim.”

  Daigh’s skin grew hot. Bile choked him. Thick, horrible. But he answered in the only way that would keep this man’s trust. “Aye.”

  Lancelot leaned forward. Close enough for Daigh to smell the heavy scent of musk and sweat. See the scrape of a dull razor. A tiny scar at the corner of his mouth.

  “So if I did this and told you Máelodor ordered it so . . .” He pressed his lips against Daigh’s neck. “Or this . . .” He kissed his cheek.

  Daigh threw himself to his feet, violently shaking. Grabbed him by the collar. “You would find yourself without a head.”

  The man seemed amused rather than alarmed. “Would I?”

  Immediately, Daigh’s lungs collapsed. His body caught in a snare of invisible magic. Binding him hand and foot. Trapping him like a rabbit in a snare.

  The man circled him slowly, flush with success and something more. Something sinister and sexual. “It’s like chaining a man-eating tiger”—he slid the coat from Daigh’s shoulders—“that would sooner tear you apart”—tugged free his cravat—“than look at you.”

  Daigh released the beast. Let it rush forth in a torrent of dark mage energy that crisped the very air. A fiery slash of pain seared his brain. Slid along his nerves with serpent speed.

  He was free.

  His hands went for Lancelot’s throat. Squeezed.

  And like being cleaved from skull to groin, screamed at the agony instantly scything its way through him. Liquefying bone. Sawing through tendons. He dropped, writhing. The sounds of his weeping and screaming muffled by Lancelot’s hand over his mouth.

  “Did you really think you could win against
an Amhas-draoi? Shhh, my beautiful monster. The more you struggle, the more you suffer.”

  The spell eased. And then the man’s mouth was on his. A tongue diving between his lips. Taking from him. Sucking him dry. A twisted, power-mad assault.

  Daigh wrenched his head away, but Lancelot gripped him by the chin and took his fill. Released him on a satisfied sigh.

  Straightening, he adjusted his coat. Smoothed his hair. Finished his glass of wine in a long swallow. “A shame to end our interlude prematurely, but”—he gave a coy shrug—“tell Máelodor I will do whatever it takes to capture Douglas alive and unharmed. He’ll enjoy destroying Kilronan’s brother bit by bit. He has such a talent for inflicting pain.” A hand upon the latch, he turned on Daigh a final gleam of triumph. “Wouldn’t you agree, Lazarus?”

  Sabrina took a deep breath. Immediately sneezed.

  Dust tickled her nose. Clung to her fingers. Coated the book she read and the table where she sat. Even Sister Ursula, the keeper of the order’s texts, seemed as cobwebby and faded as the books, scrolls, and parchments she tended.

  Or perhaps she was merely ice-blue from cold.

  Teresa had been right. It was freezing in here. A double layer of petticoats and her thickest stockings, yet still Sabrina’s teeth chattered.

  “Have you found what you were looking for?” Sister Ursula stuffed a wisp of fine, white-blond hair back under her kerchief. Regarded Sabrina with pale blue eyes.

  Sniffling into her handkerchief, Sabrina returned the smile while trying to hide the pages with her elbow. “I have, thank you.”

  The sister had not managed to hide her curiosity or her surprise at Sabrina’s venturing into her domain. And still observed her with a faint sense of confusion.

  So perhaps scholarly pursuits weren’t Sabrina’s habit, but it wasn’t as if she didn’t read at all. She loved a good mystery. Or a thrilling romance where ghosts rattled chains and the poor heroine wandered about cavernous passages with one stubby candle.

  Not exactly the heights of so-called literary achievement, but Sister Ursula didn’t have to eye her as if she wouldn’t know poetry from prose.

  With a vague nod, the priestess glided away, and Sabrina was left alone to try to make heads or tails out of the gibberish staring up at her from the enormous, dusty tome.

  She reread the last passage, hoping it would make more sense the second time around. Not a bit. The writer of this tract delved in great footnoted detail into the nature of memory. The biology. The physiology. The psychology. Even the chemistry. There were diagrams, tables, charts, and references to other works by other equally obscure scholars with their own sets of tables, charts, and references. Following the circumlocution ended her right back where she started. A dog chasing its tail.

  But still it had been the closest reference she’d found so far to the odd hallucinations she’d experienced. Not that it mattered. Daigh had disappeared. Whatever had caused her to fall into his memories would stop now that he was gone. So why spend her last hours here browsing endless titles, trying to read ancient texts, and puzzling out unintelligible hieroglyphs?

  That was the real question she should be studying.

  She sank her chin onto her hand. Peered up into the weak light coming through the filmy clerestory windows, and tried throwing herself into a memory as if diving off the cliffs below Belfoyle. But no odd shifting and spinning of the room took place. No melting of the stacks and shelves into a damp, dripping wood. No Daigh slanting his mouth against hers in an axis-tilting kiss that sizzled her insides like a torch.

  She sighed. Thank heavens.

  And closed the book.

  Night closed in. The fire dying back to glowing embers. Cooling to gray ash. The temperature dropping with each passing hour until his breath fogged the chilly air, and his body cramped with cold.

  Bloom’s ship left in the morning. Daigh had only hours before he’d lose his chance to follow. Find Máelodor. Make sense of what was becoming an increasingly dangerous conspiracy.

  He tried rising. Dropped back with a pained moan, nerves flayed raw and even breathing almost more effort than he could muster.

  He sought the solace of sleep. Managed only cluttered hideous dreams that left him retching and sick. But awake, he saw only the suffused lust of the man calling himself Lancelot. Heard once more his blood-chilling avowals of Douglas’s torture.

  Sabrina’s brother. A man he’d never met. But fated for a death as gruesome as any devised.

  If the man sought Brendan Douglas he might turn his sights upon Sabrina. Use her as a pawn in the capture of her brother. Surely nothing could harm her while she remained with the bandraoi. Not even Lancelot’s malignant powers.

  Still, Daigh had penetrated the sanctity of their walls. As had Bloom. It wouldn’t take much to separate Sabrina from the crowd. Get her alone. Take her captive.

  His heart turned over in his chest. His brain alive with images each more terrifying than the last.

  He battled back his fear by concentrating on the snatches of conversation. Struggling to fill in the blanks. Bloom and Lancelot spoke of a diary. Kilronan’s diary.

  Sabrina.

  Their first conversation.

  You were asking someone for a diary. Demanding it.

  Apparently he’d succeeded. But at what price?

  A man twisted with hate. A sword arcing silver above him. A battle he nearly lost. And a woman’s tearful pleading for mercy. Piecemeal memories surfaced like sharks to feed, leaving him shuddering and sick. He curled into a ball until it passed.

  Black faded to gray as dawn approached, and strength returned by interminable degrees. Rolling to his knees. Levering himself to his feet. Straightening against the spine-snarling twitch of fried muscles.

  The Earl of Kilronan’s diary had told them where to find the Rywlkoth Tapestry. A tapestry kept with the bandraoi. A tapestry he’d last seen hanging in Ard-siúr’s office.

  Sabrina.

  Lady Sabrina.

  Daughter and sister to the Earls of Kilronan.

  Sister to Brendan Douglas.

  Sister of High Danu.

  The clues clicked into place, creating a heart-dropping image.

  He threw open the door, almost running over the same couple he’d encountered yesterday. The gentleman’s muttered oath and the woman’s gasp of wide-eyed fear giving him a good idea of the picture he made.

  Scary bordering on terrifyingly insane.

  At least he looked the part of monster. Lancelot clothed his evil behind a façade of cultured aristocratic polish.

  The heirs of Kilronan wouldn’t know they were being hunted until it was too late.

  But then—he closed his fist around an invisible weapon—neither would Lancelot.

  “The carriage is ready, Lady Sabrina.”

  She winced at the title used by the shy young priestess sent to retrieve her. Already her exile had begun. The loosening of ties. The move from one existence to another.

  She ran a hand over the coverlet on her bed as she took one last look around. The plaster crack up one wall that resembled an upside-down duck. Teresa’s dog-eared copy of The Children of the Abbey upon a bedside table. The lopsided corner cabinet held closed by a gadget of paper jammed between the doors.

  She didn’t want to leave, and yet the bedchamber no longer seemed like hers. It had already taken on a stark distance. A week from now would all trace of her be gone?

  Heat pricked her eyes. If only she could roll herself in her quilts and play invisible until Mr. Dixon—Aidan’s pint-sized dogsbody—gave up and left.

  “My lady?”

  Sabrina whipped around. “Don’t call me that. Ever.”

  “No, my . . . I mean no, ma’am.” At Sabrina’s continued glare. “I mean no, I won’t. Sabrina.” Darted back out the door like a whipped dog.

  She sighed. Why did the title upset her? Mr. Dixon had been addressing her as Lady Sabrina unceasingly for two days now. No wonder the sisters were confused.


  Standing, she drew on her gloves. Buckled closed her fur-trimmed pelisse. Smoothed the ribbons of her bonnet. All provided by Mr. Dixon with a note from the new Lady Kilronan.

  Excuse the audacity. Aidan insisted I send along clothing enough to see you to Dublin. And you know how he is. If I hadn’t agreed, he would have done it himself and who knows what you would have ended with. Can’t wait to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much. All of it good, of course.

  —Cat

  Catching sight of her reflection, she had to admit—grudgingly—Aidan’s wife had style. No one would ever mistake the elegant fashion plate in the mirror with the scrubbed and unadorned apprentice of a few short days ago.

  Too bad it was all for naught. She never was nor ever would be the Society man-catcher Aidan wanted her to be. And she’d tell him so the first chance she had.

  Catching up her reticule, she sighed. Took one last look around, sending up a heartfelt plea to the gods for guidance.

  This exile was temporary. She’d return to the bandraoi by spring. No later.

  So why did she feel as if she were saying a long and very permanent good-bye?

  Lord Kilronan wasn’t in town. He was expected, but no, he couldn’t say when. Mrs. Norris, the earl’s lady-aunt, was not at home to visitors. No, Mr. MacLir was not welcome to leave a note.

  The strange little dwarf had been firm. As well as extremely unpleasant.

  Unable to pass on his warning, Daigh departed before his frustration turned ugly. Already rage uncoiled from that dark pit in his mind where the presence waited. It fired along his taut nerves. Called to the blackest parts of his soul. Filled his vision with its cold, yellow eyes.

  “Really, Sabrina. Lord Kilronan can’t be a complete fiend.”

  A punch to the gut. A spear to the brain. Both served to kick him loose of the presence’s mounting spiral of violence. He ground to a stop. Spun around to see two women emerging from a coach drawn up to Kilronan’s door.

  Rigidly erect. Face marble white beneath the brim of her bonnet, Lady Sabrina Douglas gazed upon the town house’s brick façade with obvious dread.