The Dark Matters Quartet

by Claire Robyns

  Kelan took the whiskey and crossed the room to the bank of windows. “You and I both know my father’s death wasn’t a natural consequence of his condition.”

  A strangled noise from Lily spun him about. She stood in the doorway to the passage, clearly halfway out before his words had caught her.

  Her gaze widened on him, then dropped as she turned. “Sorry, I was just leaving.”

  “No, stay,” he countered. “You should hear this.”

  He tossed back the contents of his glass while he waited for her take a seat. She didn’t. She didn’t leave either. She pressed the door closed and put her back against it, her arms loosely folded over her chest.

  “You recall the night the Winterberry demon turned Stobcross House into a frozen wonderland,” Kelan said. Not a question. A leading statement. And he still wasn’t sure if Agares and the Winterberry were one and the same. Until then, he kept them separate, refusing to make assumptions.

  “How could I forget?” A shiver trembled Lily’s murmur.

  “That evening, I went to the farmhouse—”

  “And banished the demon I’d seen,” Lily inserted with a small frown. “This is about Saloese, isn’t it? You didn’t banish it after all.”

  “We banished it,” Armand told her.

  Kelan shot him a look. “But not before I bartered a deal for information. I thought I was so damn clever.” His eyes returned to Lily. “I had nothing to lose, you see. It wanted a piece of my heart. Nothing that would physically harm me or any of mine. Those were the terms and…” He shrugged. “Well, I didn’t need my heart for anything and never would. I thought I’d outsmarted the bastard.”

  He strode to where he’d left the dictionary he’d been looking through earlier. Searching for a reprieve, for redemption. He’d found none. Depositing his empty glass on the table, he lifted the book and opened it on the dog-eared page.

  “Harm: to do or cause damage,” Kelan read. He glanced up from the page to Armand, reciting the rest from memory. “To hurt, mentally or physically. To do bodily harm or damage.”

  Armand’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know for sure.”

  “It says nothing here about not killing. For us, for a human mind, we may construe one meaning from the other. To demons, physically harming someone and actually killing them are miles apart.”

  “Demons can’t be killed,” Lily said, so quietly, almost inaudible. “They do not die.”

  “So, I do know,” Kelan said to Armand, “I do know for sure.”

  His gaze swerved to Lily as she spoke.

  “That doesn’t mean you’re responsible—”

  “It does,” he said firmly. “Some essence of Saloese attached to my heart. That’s how it passed through our protection runes and inside these walls. That’s why your demon glass brought you into the library. Saloese was here, and that essence jumped to my father. Not enough for you to trace until it exposed itself, not strong enough within these walls to do much damage, but as soon as my father stepped outside…”

  He slammed the book shut and tossed it against the wall, hard. It bounced off a bookshelf and landed on the strip of hardwood floor with a resounding, final thud. “I killed my father.”

  “Kelan,” Lily pleaded, “don’t do this to yourself.”

  “That’s all,” Kelan said, no longer looking at her as he flung his suddenly weary, too heavy, body into the nearest chair. “Go.”

  Seconds passed, minutes, and then he heard her leave, the door clicking behind her.

  “What are you doing?” Armand said, his voice hard and angry.

  Kelan shoved a hand through his hair, held it there as he peered across at the man. “She should know the truth about me.”

  “I’m not speaking about Lily, although it may do you well to remember she is your wife and not your sworn enemy.” Armand stalked to the window without any of his elegant grace, his hands fisted at his sides, the tension in his body almost tangible. “If what you believe is true, then I’m as much to blame as you. If I hadn’t brought Keither here… If I hadn’t told him about this forthcoming war, he would still be in Florence and out of Saloese’s reach.”

  Kelan just looked at him. He had no fight left. Not tonight. And maybe there was some truth in Armand’s words as well. Unfortunately, sharing the blame didn’t halve it for anyone.

  EIGHT

  The view from Greyston’s window was magnificent. Midnight stars twinkled above the dark currents of the Balearic Sea. The roar of a crashing tide resounded in the cove directly below and echoed up the cliff face to infuse his chamber with the tangy taste of salt and the sound of unleashed nature. In the distance, the ragged outline of the mainland was no more than a benign looming shadow.

  A pair of arms looped low around his hips from behind. Playful fingers worked the buckle of his belt while Georgina’s warm, sweet breaths fluttered at his ear, “Come to bed, darling.”

  He set his glass down on the wide window ledge and closed his hands over hers, firmly halting any progress as he turned around in her embrace. Black leather breeches hugged her form. She wore one of his white cotton shirts, mostly undone, mostly falling off her shoulder to reveal she wore no corset beneath.

  His hands travelled up her arms, gently pushing her a step back as his gaze met hers. Her eyes held an iridescent glitter in the flickering candlelight and her smile…

  A grin cracked his jaw but he shook his head slowly, “I want you to stay.”

  “And so I shall,” she declared, arching a cocky brow at him. “You still have me for three whole days.” She brought her hands up between them, wrists stamped together. Her smile turned downright wicked. “You’re welcome to shackle me if you’re scared I’ll run before my dues are settled.”

  A momentary irritation scratched his mood. Not at Georgina, only at himself. She was beautiful, reckless and free-spirited. He should take what she offered and savour every day for what it was. But she was a kindred spirit, stunning in looks and character, damn intoxicating, and he knew that would never be enough.

  He was past the point of erotic thrills and stolen nights.

  Greyston clasped one hand around her stamped wrists and tugged her close, bringing his mouth down in a crushing kiss. Her lips parted, her tongue darting between his to tease and taste and stroke. Desire burned along his veins and throbbed hard to his erection. The effect she had on him was, as always, instantaneous and explosive.

  His mouth dragged off hers and along her upturned jaw in sweeping kisses. When he dipped the tip of his tongue into the hollow behind her ear, she gasped breathlessly, pressing her soft body to his hard shaft, her arms circling his hips once more.

  “Maybe I should shackle you,” he murmured against her skin as his mouth trailed down her throat and along her bared collar bone. His arms went around her, his hands cupping her firm backside, pressing her closer and closer until not an inch of air separated any part of them. “For forever and a day.”

  “Three days and one more,” she countered on a groan as he ground his hardness against her core. “That’s my final offer.”

  His blood was hot and stirred, his only explanation for the husky, “Marry me, Georgina. Wear the shackles of my ring. Stay with me.”

  He felt her stiffen against him before she shifted to put space between them.

  She tilted her chin up at him, her lips curved into a smile that was warm and sensual and without a trace of her usual mischief. “Well, I must admit, this is the most bizarre marriage proposal I’ve ever received.”

  “How many damn proposals have you had?” he said gruffly. What the hell have I done? Not only that, but looking into her eyes, remembering the endless hours of fun and adventure in and out of the sheets, he wasn’t sure what response he hoped for. Rejection or acceptance.

  She ignored his gruff question.

  “Shackling me with your ring.” She gave small laugh, warm, gentle. “Not quite roses and champagne and bended knee, is it?”

  “You’re not a
roses and champagne kind of lady,” he reminded her, forcing a lightness to his tone that he did not feel. Suddenly his heart felt like a rock weighing him down. He didn’t know if he wanted marriage or not, but he did know he didn’t want to lose Georgina. In this moment, he knew without a doubt, that he spoke true. “That’s one of the things I love most about you.”

  Her eyes widened at his declaration, losing all traces of glitter in those seconds before she turned from him.

  “I may not be partial to roses,” she said, “but champagne is every lady’s nectar.”

  Greyston clenched his jaw as he watched her walk away from him, not knowing what came next. She could throw herself on the bed and invite him over, into her arms and into her life. Or she could just keep on walking, straight out the door. She was such an unpredictable creature, neither would come as a surprise. Another thing he loved most about her. Now that he’d admitted his feelings, to himself and to the woman in question, the reasons for that love knew no boundary.

  Georgina, of course, did neither.

  She crossed to the bedside table where an open bottle of the champagne she favorited nestled in a silver bucket. She stood with her back to him, the room silent except for the splash of melted ice and the tinkle of glasses, and the muted roar of the ocean’s waves far below.

  Her smile was in place when she turned and made her way back to him, carrying two glasses of the bubbling liquid.

  She pressed one glass into his hands, then lifted her own in anticipation, waiting for him to join her.

  Greyston raised his glass, acquiescing with a dry, “Are we celebrating or commiserating?”

  She laughed softly, taking a small sip.

  Greyston threw back his entire glass in a couple of large gulps. The only way to drink the vile, fizzing brew. It hit the back of his throat with a particularly bitter edge that curled his lips.

  Georgina noticed and rolled her eyes. “It cannot possibly be that bad.”

  “It’s an acquired taste,” Greyston grunted, feeling the aftereffects starting to roil in his stomach.

  “Like me?” She gave him a saucy wink, then grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the bed.

  That wink, more than the finger she put to his chest, pressed him down. He rolled onto an elbow as she perched on the bed beside him. He thought of reaching out, tugging her closer, preferably beneath him, but that thought never went anywhere. His head thickened, the arm he tried to raise inexplicably leaden.

  “I do love you.” Georgina leaned across, running her fingers over his jaw. The light had left her eyes, replaced with something that his gut told him was regret...or sadness. “I think I have for a while.”

  He opened his mouth, to say her name, to soothe away the look in her eyes, but then his sight was blurring and his mouth couldn’t seem to form the word. His elbow collapsed, slamming his cheek into the pillow. Drunk as a green-horned sailor on his first shore leave. His eyes closed on that thought.

  Greyston awoke to a dull pounding at the back of his head. His first attempt to open his eyes was met with blinding sunlight that sent a screech straight into his skull. He lay there for a good long while before he tried again. His mouth tasted like sour grit. How the devil much had he had to drink last night? Maybe two whiskeys…? And that glass of champagne, he remembered. With that came another memory.

  He’d asked Georgina to marry him.

  He thought that through, hard, but it was useless. How could he not know her answer? The last thing he remembered was her fingers feathering his jaw. I do love you. I think I have for a while.

  But something was wrong. Something about that memory prickled the hairs at his nape.

  His eyes shot open, taking in everything at a glance. The silver bucket on the table beside the bed, the neck of the champagne bottle peeking over the top. The high sun, definitely late morning, glaring in through the open window.

  He lay on top of the covers, fully clothed, the spot beside him undisturbed. Georgina hadn’t spent the night there. In her place, a folded page of cream paper had been left, propped against the pillow.

  Greyston reached for the paper, flicking open one level of the fold with his fingers as he brought it closer to read the extravagantly loopy handwriting.

  The Tragic Ending

  Forgive Me, Darling

  Unamused by Georgina’s theatrics, he rolled off the bed. His eyes landed on the silver bucket and he scooped the bottle out so he could drain the water in the bottom. Apparently he was going to need a clear head this morning.

  Walking toward the open window and the welcome breeze, he smoothed the note properly flat and realised he’d missed the most important part.

  P.S. I have borrowed your sail boat

  Head due west for the mainland

  I’ll leave her tied at the first dock

  Or port town I come upon

  Greyston lurched forward, his upper body stretched out the window, his head pounding double at the sheer drop as he looked down the cliff face to the cove directly below. No sign of the custom built 22ft Cavalier tugging at its ropes and bobbing on the swells. She’d actually done it. She’d taken the boat, sailed herself to the mainland.

  He pulled himself upright, his gaze scanning the sea between Es Veda and the mainland. The waters were fairly calm. And the Cavalier was a sturdy build, small and compact, designed to be handled by a crew of one.

  A grin cracked his jaw. The woman is damned magnificent.

  Then he remembered that she’d run away. His grin faded. As much as she’d larked about being his prisoner, they both knew she was free to leave whenever she desired. She did not have to steal away in the middle of the night.

  Unease tightened his gut as he re-read the note. This time, the words were less theatrical and more menacing.

  The Tragic Ending.

  Forgive Me, Darling

  He crumpled the page in his fist, staring out over the sea, unable to make sense of what his gut tried to tell him. He stood there for an age, until his head finally stopped pounding and cleared, until the cold truth of his arrogance gnawed the edges of his heart.

  He’d first met Georgina at the Duke of Harchings’ ball. She’d never denied her close affiliation to the man. Her husband had served under the Duke. And then she’d stepped into his life again, out of the blue, at Harchings Castle in Surrey and lost no time in enthralling him.

  He wasn’t a complete fool. From the beginning, he’d sensed the thrill of danger in any relationship that was to be had with Georgina Bonnington. Maybe his subconscious had catalogued the coincidences. Maybe it had just been his instinctive reaction to the nature of the woman. But he’d known, and he’d thrived on it. He’d assumed he could always stay one step ahead of her. Instead, he’d started imaging himself in love with her. And that’s all it was, a figment of some grotesque imagination… Everything they’d ever shared, every encounter, every word and touch, had been nothing but one of those elaborate tales she liked to fabricate.

  I am a complete fool.

  “Christ!” Greyston whirled away from the window, his jaw rock hard, his blood ice-cold. He knew with a sudden, absolute certainty, precisely what game she played.

  She was in Harchings’ pay and he’d always known what the Duke was after. Hell, he’d even invited the Duke to take it, if he could.

  He strode to his wardrobe and flung the door open, pushed aside the shirts and leather coat on the rail. The safe built into the stone wall behind hung wide open. The lock mechanism was coded, his brother Aragon’s birthdate, not a number Georgina could ever have known. But there was an override hidden beneath a false cover along the top edge of the safe, a triple-pin lock that would be difficult, but not impossible, to pick.

  He reached deep inside for the leather folder that should be right at the back, already knowing what he’d find. Nothing.

  The scheming wench had stolen the blue prints for the Red Hawk. If she’d left during the night, she could already be in London. Harchings finally had the revo
lutionary design he needed to power the Gossamer.

  NINE

  Lily studied the morose expression sunken on Greyston face like an embedded thunder cloud while she tried to make some sense of the words coming out of his mouth. He looked almost as bedraggled as she did, but she had an excuse. She’d been training in the courtyard with Ana when he’d arrived, the Red Hawk swooping down through the Aether in a gracious arc.

  “You’re saying the build of the Gossamer has resumed?” Her brow wrinkled as she took a step back, waving Greyston off the porch and inside. “Did you find something?”

  “Harchings has acquired the blue prints for the Red Hawk’s circulatory steam propulsion system.” Greyston’s fist slammed into the front door as he passed inside. “We always suspected he wanted—needed the design to power the Gossamer and now he has it.”

  Lily wasn’t entirely convinced. “Devon is the Secretary of Alternative and New Threats. Evelyn says the position was created in order for Britain to keep abreast of modern technologies.” She led the way into the library as she spoke. “If he has acquired your blue prints, his reasons may not be related to the Gossamer at all.”

  “Dammit, Lily.” Greyston shoved his hands through his already messy hair. “I know the man is married to your bosom friend, but this isn’t the time to be blinded by stubborn loyalty.”

  “Not loyalty,” she snapped, her stomach dropping as the implications settled. “Sheer wishful thinking. If the Gossamer is built—”

  “—and we can assume Agares still has a driving interest in the war ship,” Greyston cut in. “Our worst fears are about to present themselves.”

  “But how?” Lily folded her arms, shaking her head at him. “How did Devon get the blue print?”

  “Georgina has been in his pay all along.” His tone was cold and flat, but emotion broiled in the depth of the gaze he set on her. “She used me. She stole the blue print last night and fled from Es Vedra.”