Desire Me

by Robyn DeHart

  “Perhaps it was nothing more than a robbery,” Calliope offered. “Yes, I’m certain that’s what this was. Stores get robbed all the time.”

  “Still, they could have been after the elixir,” Lydia said.

  “Something doesn’t fit. Why were there three of them? It’s the Chosen One, not the chosen three.” Sabine shook her head. “I heard them, and they weren’t looking for anything in particular. They were common thugs, nothing more. I cannot believe the Chosen One would send bumblers to do such an important job.”

  Atlanteans were warned of the Chosen One, since he was the most powerful enemy of her people—cunning and clever, with ways to detect the presence of elixir. Would a person like that make such a mistake? She didn’t think so.

  They were quiet for a moment as if considering her words, then Lydia took a few steps forward. “Was the use of the elixir necessary tonight?”

  “I did what I had to do. You saw his wound. It was deep, the bullet was lodged, and I worried about infection,” Sabine said.

  “Yes, but he is an Englishman,” Lydia said.

  Sabine stood from her bed to create distance between her and her eldest aunt. She opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, Agnes spoke. “I am the Healer. It was my choice.”

  Lydia took a deep breath and nodded, but said nothing more.

  Sabine had to get her hands on the prophecy, sooner rather than later. Tomorrow she would pay Maxwell Barrett a visit.

  Chapter Five

  Tonight’s kill would be simple. His plan was so clever he still couldn’t believe how easy it had been to set up. Spencer waited in dense woods, just outside London, perched on a black horse. Luring his prey had taken some creativity. He had to be careful.

  No one investigating these murders could link them to him. Not yet. So he hadn’t been able to send notes or invitations. No, he’d made his requests in person. But in the end, his hard work would pay off. Because of his brilliance, he would get two with one clean swipe.

  The Times had not printed his last two letters, warning the guardians the time had come and their end was near. Perhaps this would get their attention. Though somehow he doubted it. The English were ridiculously arrogant, foolishly believing nothing and no one could cause their country significant harm. Hell, he could send a letter detailing his entire plan, and they would never believe anyone could be capable of such a feat.

  He didn’t plan on giving these two gentlemen the choice of joining him. Two generals killed at once would guarantee the authorities took notice. After he took care of the men tonight, he would be leaving for Cornwall. It had taken him a while, but he had finally located the next guardian.

  For the completion of the prophecy, he required all three amphoras of elixir. As legend had it, the person who had all three amphoras of elixir became immortal.

  Horses’ hooves sounded off in the distance, and his own mount stomped in response. He ran his hand down the mare’s neck to calm her. Slowly he slid from the saddle, then tied her loosely to a tree. He retrieved a halved apple from his pack and held it out to her. Her whiskers tickled his palm as she took the treat.

  The frigid night breeze bit into the exposed flesh on his ears and face. He would have been far warmer enclosed in his carriage, but he couldn’t afford to have another witness. Already he had the other driver to be concerned about. Now carriage wheels rumbled closer and closer to his hiding place.

  He made his way to the middle of the road and withdrew his pistol. Aiming it straight at the approaching carriage, he held his stance. Though the dark of night was beginning to settle, light from the horizon still illuminated enough of the sky for him to see the surprised and fearful expression of the driver. The man made an effort to swerve, but at the last minute, he pulled the reins, and the horses skidded to a stop inches from Spencer. The steeds stomped restlessly.

  He’d made a mistake at the last killing with that servant girl. Having extra bodies for the authorities would only sully his message. He could not afford to indulge himself so carelessly again.

  With purposeful steps, he made his way to the driver, never lowering his gun. “Run,” he told him. And the driver made no delay in doing precisely that.

  “What the devil…” One of the men from the interior opened the door and sputtered when he saw the gun aimed at him. It was Clyde, the adjutant-general, which made him the most senior officer in her majesty’s army, though many remained perplexed by how the man made it that far.

  And Spencer knew precisely who would take his place—a fine gentleman already sympathetic to Spencer’s cause. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said calmly.

  “Cole,” Clyde said in surprise. Then the man chuckled. “Quite a jest”—he nudged the man next to him—“pretending to rob our coach.” He motioned to the pistol in Spencer’s hand.

  Clyde, of course, was the easy prey, always up for a night of drinking and prurient entertainment.

  The other man, Mercer, found no humor in the situation. Naturally more suspicious, he had been harder to tempt onto this deserted country road. Clyde had achieved his position through the connections of his powerful family, but Mercer had clawed his way to the top through cunning and ambition. “I thought we were meeting you at the Hog’s Hair Inn.”

  Spencer shrugged. “Change of plans.”

  “What do you want?” Mercer asked.

  “What’s going on?” Clyde asked.

  Mercer’s shrewd eyes narrowed. He had quite the reputation for being a brilliant strategist. He put his hand to his belt.

  “There’s no need to go for your weapon,” Spencer told him as he raised his own gun. “There isn’t time. I can assure you I’m a perfect marksman.”

  “Our money,” Clyde said as realization struck him. “You can have our money.”

  “I’m afraid money is not what I’m after.” Mercer pulled out his own pistol, but Spencer was faster. He fired a shot straight into the man’s heart. Then he shot the older man in the head.

  Clyde’s expression froze into a look of permanent surprise, and Mercer clasped a hand to his chest, struggling to get off a single shot as his heart pumped the last of his blood from his body.

  “And you make five.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Max cursed loudly as he pulled off his shirt. He tossed it into the newly lit fire warming his bedchamber. The flames roared as they engulfed the linen. He stood in front of the mirror looking at the gunshot wound just below his shoulder. The stitches were even and small; she’d done a good job, he’d give her that. The wound, though, was an angry red mark and hurt like the devil. He’d be fortunate if it didn’t leave one hell of a nasty scar.

  But tonight had been futile.

  Except for the kiss. She’d been surprisingly passionate. Yet full of pluck and fire. Precisely the sort of combination he found irresistible in women. He’d been tempted by their interlude at the gaming hell, but now he knew how Sabine Tobias felt in his arms. Under normal circumstances, he would pursue her, yet she seemed utterly unmoved by his charms. Of course, this wasn’t surprising given that he had broken into her home.

  He had not gone there for a kiss, though, while it was a worthwhile diversion. And he certainly hadn’t gone there to offer protection to her or her aunts. Protecting people had never been his forte. Information was what he’d been after, and still he knew nothing about her connection to his map. She refused to admit knowing anything significant about it, but he knew she was lying. Most collectors preferred more legitimate ways to obtain items of their interest. Once or twice over the years, he’d been contacted by solicitors representing such individuals, but he’d never even considered selling the map.

  Earlier that evening, his security guard had alerted him to the presence of a waiting carriage with four women inside. It had been hidden well, but with a clear view of his front door. They’d waited for a couple of hours, then had given up and left.

  Her underhanded approach led him to only one conclusion. There was more to the charmin
g Miss Tobias than met the eye. The late-night visitors to her shop only backed up that theory. Unfortunately for Miss Tobias, he was a man who enjoyed a challenge. And he fully intended to find out exactly what she was hiding.

  Sabine wanted that map, and when she came to retrieve it, he’d be here waiting.

  “Say it again. Slowly this time,” Cassandra said through gritted teeth.

  “We didn’t find nothing,” Beaver said, scratching at his scruffy chin. His dirt-encrusted fingernails made Cassandra shudder. Filthy beast.

  “Nothing,” Cassandra repeated. She strolled through her parlor, running her fingertips over the furniture as she passed. “Nothing.” She sized up the three men and offered them a smile that was more snarl than anything. “How is it that you found nothing?”

  Johns stepped forward, holding his stocking cap against his abdomen. “Miss, we searched the entire residence.”

  Five years her junior, Johns was a perfect male specimen, as if his muscular frame had been chiseled first in marble. And his face rivaled that of Adonis. His sheer size was normally enough to frighten anyone away from him, but Cassandra knew he was not quick to violence, and she could persuade him to do almost anything. He was her most trusted employee and, though it galled her, most frequent lover.

  “We didn’t really know what we was looking for,” Johns continued.

  “Anything that resembled the healing waters.” It was what she’d told them she was after, a simple lie for simple minds. No one could know about the fountain of youth. “Or notes or a recipe for their products.” She stepped around the parlor furniture to where the three men stood before the hearth. Eyeing them closely, she took her time to make them nervous. “Tell me, did you talk to any of the women, give them any indication what you were looking for?”

  “No,” Beaver said, his head shaking back and forth in confirmation. “We ran when they started shooting at us. There was a man, too. Broke my nose.”

  She steepled her red-painted nails beneath her chin. “A man lives with them?”

  “I don’t think so,” Johns said. “I didn’t see him, but I think they was shooting at him, too.”

  “Interesting,” she said. She stepped over to the third one, enjoying the fact that she stood a head taller than the scrawny man. “What about you, Platt? What do you have to say for yourself?”

  The man simply stood there.

  “You know, Miss, he don’t talk,” Beaver offered.

  “So you keep telling me,” she said, never taking her eyes off Platt. “But it’s always been my experience that if you kick a dog hard enough, he’ll always yelp.” She winked at Johns before walking away.

  Once she’d reached her gold brocade settee, she sank into the luxurious fabric. “Now then, gentlemen,” she said tightly. “What is it that you’re going to do to make this little foible up to me? You know how I loathe disappointment.”

  The three men looked blankly at one another, presumably hoping that one of them would have a brilliant idea. Which, of course, she was not expecting. She decided how things were done around here, and they knew that, but that didn’t prevent her from taunting them.

  “I prefer to think I’m a generous employer. I should think among the three of you, you might come up with one entire brain and find one worthwhile idea.”

  “We looked all through the storeroom,” Beaver said. “We tried to get upstairs to search, but that’s when the man jumped out at us.”

  She needed to find out who this man was. Perhaps he knew of the fountain, too. Perhaps she had competition.

  Cassandra was on the right track. She knew that much. Max had provided her with the confirmation that this Tobias woman was where Cassandra should be looking. She had something to do with Atlantis or Max wouldn’t be sniffing around the woman’s shop.

  She held up one of the jars she’d purchased. Something in this crème made women look younger. She’d already experienced it herself. But using crème wouldn’t keep her forever young, Cassandra knew that. She needed the fountain itself.

  “Leave,” she commanded her men. “I will devise a new plan. In the meantime, stay out of trouble, and I’ll send for you when I need you.”

  They all turned to go, and she caught sight of Johns’s broad shoulders. “Johns, not you. There is something else I need you to attend to.”

  Chapter Six

  Max had just swallowed his first sip of brandy in an attempt to dull the pain when a knock came on his bedchamber door.

  “A gentleman to see you,” his butler said.

  Max frowned. “At this hour?”

  “He is with the Metropolitan Police, my lord. He’s waiting in your study.”

  Son of a bitch. He’d barely gotten home, and they’d already sent the police calling on him. They’d shot him; he would have thought that enough retribution for breaking into their shop. Not bothering to put on another shirt or shoes, Max made his way downstairs to his study, and upon entering, he found Justin Salinger standing in the doorway. Justin was a fellow member of the exclusive legend hunter’s club, Solomon’s. Max relaxed a little, knowing he wouldn’t have to come up with some story to explain his presence at their shop.

  “I need your help,” Justin said.

  “It’s bloody late, Salinger. Help with what?” Max asked. Normally Max was more hospitable, but the gunshot wound irritated the hell out of him. He knew Justin, but not well. The man was new to Solomon’s, so they had only met on a few occasions. Max came around his desk and motioned for Justin to have a seat opposite him. “Brandy?”

  “No. My apologies about the time,” Justin said with a smile as he noted Max’s appearance. “It’s for an investigation, actually.”

  “Here on official business with the Yard, then?” He flopped into the chair adjacent to the inspector. Perhaps Justin really was here to arrest him. “That little minx. Did they report me right after I left?”

  “Report you?” Justin shook his head. “No, I’m here about a murder,” Justin said. “Five of them, actually.”

  “Well, then, if you’re not here to haul me off to prison, I think I’ll have a brandy. Are you sure you don’t want one?”

  Justin smiled. “You’ve convinced me. Brandy would be good.”

  Max relaxed a little and poured them each a drink. He handed one to Justin.

  “I have to ask”—he pointed to Max’s stitches—“what happened?”

  Max shrugged as he returned to his chair. “I got shot tonight.”

  “The little minx?” Justin asked, repeating Max’s earlier words.

  “Not exactly, but close enough. I haven’t decided yet if she’s going to be worth all the trouble she will no doubt cause.”

  “But you’re going to wait her out.” Justin smiled.

  “Something like that.” Max took a swig. He still didn’t know what the hell any of this had to do with him, but at least the inspector wasn’t here to bring him in. “Five connected murders?” Max asked.

  “I believe so. Someone’s after the crown.” He took a sip of his drink, then balanced the glass on his knee.

  Max frowned. “What are you talking about, Justin?”

  “The generals that have recently died. Have you seen anything about that?”

  Max nodded. “In the papers. They did say there were a couple of suicides,” Max said. “Something about a mistake in a mission in Africa.”

  “The first death was initially believed to be a suicide or even merely an accident. But the bodies have continued to mount, and we’re now considering that first one a homicide. Five generals in a shockingly short amount of time. Last night, General Lancer was found in his study with an apparent gunshot to the head.”

  Max leaned forward. “It does seem unlikely the first isn’t connected to these others,” he said.

  “General Reasoner was the one killed in the fire. We assume now he was our first. Then General Carrington had his throat slit, and Lancer was shot in the head,” Justin said.

  “What of the other
two?” Max asked.

  Justin leaned back and wiped a hand over his face. “Killed tonight in a carriage just outside London. Mercer and Clyde. They were together, presumably heading to a meeting of some sort, though it’s unknown whom the two of them would be meeting together. Under normal circumstances, an army officer would not meet with one from the navy. And it was well known that they didn’t care for each other.” Justin shook his head. “Makes no sense. They were ambushed. The driver is missing. We’re still trying to find him, but…”

  “Perhaps the driver shot them and then stole their valuables,” Max said.

  Justin exhaled slowly and then came to his feet. “It was the first thing we checked. Both men had substantial amounts of money on them and were still wearing their jewelry.”

  “Those two men together.” Max whistled. “The highest-ranking military officer and a naval officer.”

  “I know. We know with certainty that their deaths are connected to the other three. We found a damned note.” Justin leaned forward, bracing his arms on Max’s desk. “Not written by either victim.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I really shouldn’t discuss these matters with a civilian, but I need your expertise.”

  He pulled the parchment out of his pocket and dropped it onto Max’s desk. As Max reached for the note, Justin slammed his own hand down onto it. “If you tell anyone I showed these to you, I’ll shoot you.”

  “Get in line,” Max said with a chuckle.

  “The other letter didn’t make much sense. We suspect there might have been one with Carrington, but perhaps his wife took it. She found the body. We’ve sent an officer over to discuss the matter with her.”

  Justin handed Max the note across the desk. Max unfolded the parchment, then scanned the florid lines.

  “Bastard wants us to print this in the Times,” Justin said. “The language is so peculiar. ‘Seven rings of Atlantis,’” Justin quoted. “What the hell does that have to do with our military?”

  Max looked up from the letter. “This is why you came to me?” Max asked.