Draycott Everlasting

by Christina Skye

  He answered on the first ring. “Joe’s Pizza.”

  Harding’s voice was clipped. “I have a job for you. I’ve lost contact with one of my people in southern England. She’s at a place called Draycott Abbey.”

  “I know of it. I was there not long ago. Any signs of foul play?”

  Typical of Teague to get right down to the crucial details. “Just a precaution at this point. But my agent hasn’t answered her cell phone, and that’s not like her. Where are you now?”

  “Outside London,” Teague said.

  That left most of England, Harding thought. Trust Teague to be as close as the grave about his current work, which was probably for another law enforcement organization. “How soon can you make contact?”

  A car door closed. “Roughly ninety minutes.”

  “Do it. Call me on this number once you reach the abbey.”

  Papers rustled. A motor growled to life. “What am I supposed to be looking for?”

  “Agent Sara Nightingale. She’s there doing research. Find her and see why she hasn’t answered her phone.”

  “Copy, sir.”

  No extraneous questions. No excuses. There was a reason Teague had a solid-gold reputation for success. But Harding still couldn’t relax, not until he had a detailed assessment of the situation at the abbey and the status of his agent there.

  AFTER HE CLOSED his cell phone, Izzy Teague sat for a long time without moving. Outside in the darkness a bus roared past. A crowd of noisy college students milled drunkenly at the corner.

  It had been nearly a year since he had visited Draycott Abbey, but the beautiful, rose-covered walls were impossible to forget. Izzy had a great deal of respect for Nicholas Draycott, the abbey’s owner, and he wondered what kind of research an FBI agent was doing there.

  “Not your problem, pal.”

  Edwin Harding was a cool operator. There had to be a solid source of risk for him to call in Izzy.

  Because he was a careful and meticulous man, Izzy continued to sit without moving, watching car lights flash past. He pulled out his laptop, found the wireless connection he had been using before the call had come in and coded his way into the FBI’s personnel files.

  He didn’t like going into a mission blind, especially when the name Sara Nightingale rang a whole lot of bells. As he scrolled through her personnel records, Izzy found the profile of a dedicated overachiever with some of the highest forensic evaluation scores in Bureau history. Impressed, he kept on digging and turned up two notes of citation for excellence by her superior, Edwin Harding. Everything added up to the picture of an agent on the fast track.

  Right up until the week when Sara Nightingale had been assigned to work on a kidnapping case in Maryland. After an impressive piece of forensic analysis of the kidnapper’s notes, she had been shifted to surveillance. Then something had gone wrong.

  Izzy reread the passages, scanning the pictures of the crime scene, seeing the rigid stance of the FBI agent in question. Sara Nightingale’s partner had been badly wounded during the confrontation with a kidnapper. The details were not clear. Had she slipped up and brought her partner into harm’s way?

  After a long time, he powered down his laptop and punched in the main phone number at Draycott Abbey.

  No answer.

  Izzy knew there could be a dozen reasons why no one had answered, but a thread of uneasiness worked down his shoulders. He pulled out into the rushing traffic of the M40, headed southeast, already playing out scenarios in his mind. Edwin Harding was not one for bursts of fancy.

  Neither was he.

  CHAPTER SIX

  GABRIEL OF MONTFORD and La Varenne, duc de Navarre, stared at the night, feeling the old betrayal as freshly as if it had happened yesterday. The air had been hot and still, the smell of the battlefield like a curse. All of the Crusaders’ force had been hushed, as if all knew a storm was about to break.

  The storm had come at dawn, when the first Turkish archers had loosed their poisoned arrows. His whole family had been taken that day while he was sent to fight. Brothers, sisters, mother and invalid aunt, all were butchered mercilessly, and Draycott had allowed it to happen, coveting Navarre’s land back in France. Navarre had seen the written order with his own eyes, dropped from the hand of one of Draycott’s knights.

  Not content, his oldest friend had plotted to seduce his innocent ward, whom Navarre hoped to marry once the year’s campaigns were done. But she was promised in marriage to an English relative of the king, and only by his exploits in battle could Navarre hope to win her hand for himself. Until the king’s favor changed, they hid their true feelings carefully, scrupulous to preserve the proper distance of ward and guardian in public.

  Draycott had acted sooner. He had lain with her the last night of the siege and then spirited her away to some hidden estate for his further pleasure, spreading lies about her real location. The mere thought set Navarre’s blood to the boil.

  So the greatest knight of Christendom had nursed thoughts of his revenge through cold, harsh hours as he faced the invading army. Before the revenge could be worked, he had been cut down, outnumbered eight to one. His hand shattered, his body broken, all hope was gone.

  And so began his long captivity, caught in the darkness between worlds, while his hatred grew. Now, by Adrian’s slip and Navarre’s own magic, revenge was once more within reach.

  Before the next moonrise, house, lands and the man would be destroyed. Navarre had the power to shatter, learned over the long darkness since his death, while he was caught in the gray purgatory that stretched between worlds.

  He had no regrets, no second thoughts. Revenge was all he had left. If the woman chose to stay, she would die, too. He had no thought of clemency.

  Somewhere in the house a shrill ring caught his attention. Although bound out of time, Navarre had watched the change of centuries and the passage of war and kings during his captivity. He knew the ringing meant people could talk at a distance, though how he could not say.

  The ringing began anew.

  The woman would not answer the summons, Navarre thought. Not until he released her from the roof.

  He remembered her heart-shaped face and the keen blue eyes. There was surprising strength in her slim body and though she wore ugly clothes in stiff fabrics that would have called forth wild laughter in his day, there had been a deeper force that touched something old and half forgotten inside him.

  But he had no time for weakness.

  Navarre cast a spell of forgetting. When that was not enough, he threw out one arm and drew a circle in the air, sealing away the past. And then he breathed deeply.

  All emotion was gone. All he had left in his heart now was the vision of revenge.

  SARA STALKED THE ROOF.

  She scowled and cursed and searched vainly, but there was no way to push free and reach the steps, and no other way down except along a narrow drain pipe, which she was not foolish enough to attempt.

  The moon rose, a thin crescent between swift clouds. In its pale light she saw the glint of the moat and the swans plying its curves.

  She had stopped trying to rouse the estate agent. He stood still, saying nothing, and Sara was painfully aware that a heart attack had never affected a patient like this. She tried to believe that no magic was at work. More likely it was some kind of stroke or mental collapse, though strokes did not keep people frozen upright.

  But magic might.

  She shoved her hands in her pockets and turned to pace again, stopping at the far corner of the roof. Maybe she could find a way down. There was a narrow balcony fifteen feet below. Maybe she could…

  She muttered and turned away. Impossible to try. She was in good physical shape, but no climber. One miscalculation meant she’d lose her footing and end up a bloody mess on the cobblestones far below.

  For now she was caught here.

  Something shifted at the middle of the roof. Sara realized she had seen the movement before—and from that space of shadow ca
me other shadows. An oily shape quivered and slipped down onto the stones. Behind that came half a dozen more.

  Fear twisted in her chest. As she backed away from the restless darkness, something slipped by her feet, turned and rushed back, cold against her skin, leaving a sick stench of death.

  Fighting nausea, she kicked at the shadows, only to see them climb higher, circling her legs. Gagging, she swept at the dark things, but her hands caught nothing.

  A sound brought her around.

  In the moonlight she saw movement, a shimmer of sleek muscle. She watched rapt as a great black horse sailed through moonlight and hit the stones of the abbey at the gallop. Head high and mane flying wild, he neighed, turning mere seconds from the roof’s edge.

  But the shadows had followed, clinging to his back, swarming over his legs and neck until he bucked skittishly, his flailing feet dangerously close to the roof edge. The creature would die, cast over the parapets any second.

  Sara moved by reflex, lunging toward the twisting shapes, driving them away from the horse. But they were more shadow than flesh, more imagination than muscle, and her hands clung to cold tendrils, sticky and foul, with nothing to catch and fling away.

  The great horse bucked again, his massive hooves inches from her shoulder. Sara flinched, but held her ground. “Still now. There’s nothing to fear but shadows, and you’re too big and strong to be afraid of a few wisps of nothing.” She grabbed at his mane, whispered whatever words came to her mind, stunned when the huge horse nudged at her. Then he neighed, drew his head up and pawed the ground as if in some strange recognition.

  Then he stilled, bowed, facing her as if he meant for her to mount.

  As if she had mounted him this way many times before.

  Her fingers closed over the black silk of his mane. When he nudged her side, she threw herself over the powerful back as if it were the easiest thing in the world. When the horse danced sideways in the moonlight, Sara steadied him with quiet commands, feeling the muscles tense and ripple beneath her. The oily things were forgotten now, the roof a magical place that belonged only to Sara and the great horse who strained beneath her.

  Over the downs a clock struck twice, each peal echoing on the wind. Moonlight brushed the gleaming mane. Sara felt a keening in her blood, a wild exhilaration she’d never known before.

  Free. With the power to match the wind itself.

  She crooned softly to the horse in a voice that didn’t sound like hers, with a touch that knew exactly how to steady and calm.

  Impossible. She had only ridden twice in her life.

  The mount shifted in the moonlight. Sara felt as if one step would send her sailing out into the air, out into the sky with the ground stretching away beneath her. The thought left her giddy with delight—and sweating with terror.

  Madness.

  Pain struck at her ankle, talons digging cruelly at her skin. The smoky shapes had flowed up from the roof. Now they bit hard, clawing everything in their path. Sara bit back a cry of pain, clutching at the horse while the powerful legs lashed wide. She was flung into the air, stone and moonlight blurring beneath her.

  Pain cracked through her hip. She hit the roof, and the world blinked out.

  THE NEIGHING WAS HIGH and wild.

  Navarre had not heard that sound for centuries, yet it caught him cold. It was a horse’s neigh, caught on the edge of frenzy, the same sound he’d heard in Acre as the infidels closed on the Crusaders’ lines.

  But the sight of the creature on the roof robbed his breath. The great destrier was covered with roiling shadows, half mad.

  Navarre knew but one way to defeat the dark shapes. He drew his sword, placing the flat of his metal against the mouth of the tear between worlds.

  Light glinted against shadow, metal against cold space. The shadows shuddered, stilled.

  Navarre moved closer, close enough to feel the prick of small teeth and hungry claws, which he knew well. But the blade did its job. The shadows strained, then slid back and vanished.

  The crack of hooves against stone made the Crusader turn. The great horse neighed, ready to bolt. Only now did Navarre see something between the horse’s dancing hooves, on the verge of being trampled.

  The shape moved and made a small sound of pain.

  The woman.

  He lunged for the destrier—his own great war horse, ridden in three countries over a decade of battle. The animal reared up, warning him back. The Crusader ground his teeth, but slowed his hand and offered low, murmuring words of comfort until the dashing hooves fell.

  “No need to fear me, old friend. No need to move away. It is your oldest friend, Navarre.” The horse calmed, listening to the familiar voice. Then he backed up, the woman safe beneath him.

  “I never thought to see you again. By heaven, there’s no need to pace away. No need to skitter now. All is safe.” The horse paused, listening to the Crusader’s voice. His tail twitched.

  Navarre waited as the woman groaned, then fought slowly to one elbow, her face pale. “What happened?”

  “Best not to move. The horse is skittish and you’re lucky to be alive.”

  “He threw me when those things…” She sat up carefully. “It had to be my imagination. If I weren’t a fool, I’d say they were some kind of sickening creatures.” She caught a shaky breath. “I tried to stop it—them. Whatever they were, they wouldn’t leave. The horse was too near the edge. I tried to calm him. I slid onto his back.” She closed her eyes. “Then they were everywhere. All over us. That’s the last thing I remember before I was thrown off.”

  “You rode him? He allowed you?”

  “More than allowed.” She knelt, wincing. “In fact, he nudged me until I had little choice.”

  Navarre was speechless. He stared at the great horse standing still, awaiting the touch of his master.

  “What’s the problem?” Sara eased out from under the horse, which obliged by stepping sideways, completely calm and obedient now. She patted the dark mane, then rubbed her hip, moving stiffly.

  Navarre noticed that, too.

  He shouldn’t have cared if she’d been hurt. Her pain was of no import to him. She was going to die soon enough.

  “I asked you a question, Mr. Navarre. Why are you staring at me like you’ve seen a ghost?”

  “Because no one rides this horse. Not man nor woman.” Navarre crossed his arms. “None save his lord, which would be me.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  HIS MIND demanded answers. “Tell me this again. You rode my horse?”

  “Yes.” She snapped the word. She was pale. Irritated. Her fingers opened, tangled in the long mane as she swayed a little. “I already told you that. You act as if he’s royalty.”

  Closer than she knew. His noble Ferrant came from a bloodline guarded by kings and caliphs, more regal in his way than half the rulers of France.

  Then Navarre had his second shock.

  His destrier, feared and renowned throughout Outremer, lowered his dark head and neighed softly at the woman, bumping against her hand as though they were the oldest of friends.

  More than recognition was in that motion.

  Almost obeisance.

  The knight felt a wave of disorientation, images flooding his mind from centuries before. But too much had happened. Too many years lay in between the man he had once been and the gaunt shadow he was now.

  “Ferrant?”

  The horse turned, flicked his tail, and Navarre started to growl more questions, but in the light of the rising moon, he saw the woman wince, gripping the horse’s side.

  She had a bruise on her cheek, a cut on one hand. Navarre was aware of her sudden exhaustion. With an intensity he had never felt in his life, he sensed the chill of her skin and the broken catch of pain in her breath. Yet even in her exhaustion, she did not complain.

  Perhaps he had misjudged the woman. Perhaps she was more than Draycott’s minion or spy.

  No more time for questions. Her hands clenched, she sank ag
ainst the horse, one arm outstretched for balance. When Ferrant danced lightly, she swayed and would have fallen.

  Something stirred inside Navarre, something he had not felt for too long to imagine. It was the first stab of need, and an almost unrecognizable tenderness. But these he could not allow. How could he, when his chance for revenge was before him?

  Softness would not serve him. The warmth of a woman’s skin was useless.

  He ignored the hated Lord Draycott, still motionless. All of Navarre’s attention was on the woman as she winced, rubbing her shoulder. “You have been hurt?”

  She blew out a breath. “I’ve had better days.”

  “Yet you protected my horse.”

  “Anyone would.”

  It meant nothing. It changed nothing.

  So he told himself. Then she staggered. Her fingers slipped down the horse’s back.

  “Go away. Leave us alone. You’re…frightening the horse with your anger and questions.” She closed her eyes, struggling to stand.

  Willful and arrogant, Navarre thought. She had the bearing of a queen.

  And he caught her as she fell. Lifting her into his arms felt utterly natural to him. She was warm, and her scent reminded him of all the things it meant to be a man. When her breath stirred on his cheek, it pricked more memories, more hungers he had thought long buried.

  Not buried at all, it seemed.

  Ferrant neighed and bumped his shoulder impatiently. Navarre smiled just a little. “Demanding as you ever were. Very well, we’ll be on our way. But not just yet.” Pulling the sword from its resting place between two stones, he waved the silver blade across the restless place of shadows, cutting the shapes that trickled free. They skittered away from the bright metal, as dark will always withdraw from light. After that Navarre set the blade on the stones so that moonlight pooled from its surface, sealing the shadows into the Other Place.