Kissed by Death - Book three of the Trueborn Heirs Series

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Kissed by Death - Book three of the Trueborn Heirs Series Page 32

by Queen, Nyna


  The Provost stiffened in his chair. His breath condensed in the air in front of him. Cold. So cold.

  “He is dead, because you assigned him to kill me.” Darken’s voice was a soft, dangerous croon, a midnight whisper full of graveyards and caverns, more forbidding than any yelled threat could have been. A killer’s voice. The voice of Death.

  Falcrum’s heartbeat sped up. The air in his lungs seemed frozen, biting the inside of his throat. A whimper escaped his mouth, and the words rushed out incoherently, “Darken … must understand … an order … left me no choice…”

  “That’s your excuse for everything, isn’t it?” Darken snarled. “That you received an order? How many more good men are you willing to sacrifice because of an order?”

  “Y-you have the power to end this, Darken,” Falcrum pressed, wetting his numb, frozen lips. “No more men have to die. If you were to surrender…”

  Darken’s features were glacial, a cold mask that couldn’t possibly belong to a human. “You have to do better than that.”

  Darkness flowed from him in whispering tendrils of black, slithering fury. Falcrum felt the death magic shiver over his skin and wind around his throat, squeezing it together like an invisible hand.

  “Darken, don’t be stupid,” he gasped in rising panic. “Make this easier on yourself. If you come quietly now, at least it will be over quickly. If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for your family. The more people die while you’re on the run, the more publicity it will attract, and it will be your family’s name that will be tarnished. Your niece and nephew, you care for them, don’t you? Do you really think they can suffer another scandal right now?”

  Darken’s eyebrows drew together. “What are you talking about?”

  Now it was for Falcrum to frown. “The arrest of your brother, of course. The murder charge.” His eyes grew big. “You didn’t know.”

  “Murder charge?” Darken asked too softly.

  Falcrum nodded hesitantly. “Yes, yes. Early this morning, your brother was arrested at his house in Ciradell and taken into investigative custody at the Blackrock High Security Prison.” He paused, feeling a tiny prick of excitement. This might be exactly the kind of lever he needed. “They are investigating the murder of Senator Edward Debayne. Apparently, a body is involved,” he said slowly, as if considering the information. “Naturally, your mother already tried to post bail, but I heard she was refused. I’m sure you understand … a case of this magnitude…”

  Darken’s eyes flared like two pits of hellfire. “You’re lying.”

  “By all means, no, Darken. I’m telling the truth. Here, see for yourself.” He nudged the newspaper halfway hidden underneath his fishing magazines on the table over to Darken, pointing at the front-page article. His servants always left the newest issue for him, but he’d already read the paper at work—there had been hardly another topic today.

  Darken’s gaze flickered over the article, his face growing darker at every word. “My brother is innocent.”

  Falcrum’s mind raced at high speed. Perhaps he could use this to forge a connection, to establish the kind of trust he needed to steer Darken in the right direction.

  He touched his chest and let a sympathetic note slip into his voice. “I understand, and personally, I have the greatest of doubts that your brother would be involved in such a nefarious action. But that remains for a court to determine, yes?” He spread his arms. “According to the press, they want to get this affair over with as quickly as possible, to appease the masses, you see. A first hearing before a full criminal tribunal will be scheduled in the near future.” He sighed with a pained expression. “Your family is facing hard times, Darken. Hard times. Spare them any more unnecessary pain.”

  He hesitated, as if weighing the next words very, very carefully. “If you wish … I’m not without authority myself as you know … I mean, yes … yes, I believe I could get you into the Blackrock Prison … arrange a last meeting with your brother … a chance for a proper goodbye…”

  Darken, the bastard, laughed. “So that they can execute the both of us? Two Dubois brothers for the price of one? I don’t think so.” He gently shook his head, a queer glitter in his eyes. “I would’t even get through the front door without a bullet in my head, you know that as well as I do.”

  The Provost helplessly wrung his hands. “Darken, be reasonable,” he pleaded. “You’re just making this worse for everyone involved. You must surrender. You cannot keep running forever. Even you can’t take on the entire Order.”

  The look he received from those dark eyes chilled him deeply to the bone.

  “Watch me.”

  Darken rose. The sound of the chair legs scraping over the tiles was startlingly loud in the brittle silence of the house. Falcrum winced and instinctively crouched deeper in his chair while he watched with rising terror as Darken approached him, shrouded in black wings of misty lightning, eyes two glowing red pools of fire—knowing he was looking Death in the eye.

  He was a statue, unable to move no matter how hard he tried. Darken paused beside his chair and bent down to him. Falcrum felt his breath on his cheek, hot like a demon’s. “They invited me to this dance, and I intend to see it through to its very last accord.”

  The Provost’s composure broke. He crumbled in his chair, shaking uncontrolledly and sobbing. “Please, d-don’t kill me. I didn’t want … I n-never meant … please.”

  A hand came to rest on his left shoulder, long fingers squeezing it in an almost gentle caress, yet the cold that seeped from those fingers bit through his shirt into his skin, and numbed it. Darken leaned even closer, his deep voice saturated with contempt.

  “Despite your best efforts to the contrary, I’m not a mindless murderer. I won’t kill a defenseless, unarmed man.” His fingers dug deeper into Falcrum’s shoulder, nails pricking the skin and the cold numbness expanded into his arm. “But I strongly suggest that you never cross my path again. Because if you do, I will kill you, and I will do my best to thoroughly enjoy it.”

  Lord Falcrum whined softly and closed his eyes. The hand vanished from his shoulder, and he held his breath, waiting for the death blow which, in contrast to the words, he was sure to come.

  Seconds passed. He didn’t hear steps, didn't hear a door closing—didn’t hear anything at all—but suddenly warmth enveloped him as if someone had turned on every heater in the house to full power at once.

  When he opened his eyes, the kitchen was empty except for a few small puddles on the ground.

  The Forfeit was gone. Like smoke. Like a ghost.

  The Provost shuddered and sagged, limp in his chair. Liquid heat trickled down his legs, and he realized he had wet himself.

  He knew he should call for help, that he should make an immediate report and send men after Darken, but he was still unable to move. He just sat there, shivering in spite of the returned warmth in the kitchen, praying that he would never have to see that queer glitter in Darken’s eyes again.

  It was a long while before he eventually heaved himself up from his chair and made the required calls. After that, still soiled and stinking of urine and fear, he grabbed a bottle of his most potent cognac and sat at the kitchen table facing the door, too afraid to let it out of his sight. Too afraid to go to sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  A WOLF’s howl echoed through the darkness. Another wolf answered, the wild, eerie sound getting lost between the hills.

  Alex didn’t stir from her perch on the low ridge above the valley. The pack was six, seven miles away, maybe more, gathering for the nightly hunt. But she wasn’t their quarry.

  No, tonight, she was a huntress herself. And she had already sighted her prey.

  Hidden in the shadows of a little grove, Alex shifted her halfborn binoculars a little to the left and focused it on Roukewood’s manor that lay about a mile and a half below her vantage point. Huge and dark, curving amidst an immaculately kept garden of vivid greens, it looked like a pampered dragon i
n emerald silk sheets. But even a pampered dragon would spit fire if roused from sleep.

  Turning the diopter adjustment ring, Alex zoomed in on the third story of the house where a few windows were still illuminated; servants getting ready to hit the pillow. It was a weekday, there were no visitors at the house, and one by one the household was getting ready to turn in. When she caught sight of an older woman undressing behind the curtains, Alex quickly lowered the binoculars a little to give her some privacy. She wasn’t a bloody peeper.

  The binoculars were standard halfborn issue, though of the better quality—one of the various gifts from Rachel’s treasure chest. Thanks to her shaper senses, Alex’s night vision was nearly as good as her day vision, and her eyesight was naturally keener than that of a regular human, but there were limits even to a shaper’s vision. At this distance, the binoculars came in quite handy.

  Alex turned them downwards and surveyed the movement of the guards patrolling the garden behind the high, wrought-iron fence that girdled the entire estate.

  The moon was bright tonight, illuminating the perimeter and allowing Alex to see lots of tiny little details. Unfortunately, the same held true for the guards. And Roukewood had many. A shitload of them, in fact. Just in her current field of view she spotted at least five uniformed men, sedulously doing their rounds behind the fence. Approximately fifteen feet high and made from thin, ornate metal, it looked almost feathery, more like decoration than protection, but Alex wasn’t deceived. The fence was completely warded and knowing Senator Roukewood, it was most likely meticulously maintained and charged to kill. The ward’s magic was saturating the air with so much buzzing energy, Alex could feel it even up here, a constant, annoying tingle on her skin.

  She shook her head in the dark. Trueborns! To have a ward on a private property! Stephane had told her how abhorrently expensive their maintenance was. Apparently, the main estate of his parents had one as well, though since the death of her husband, Heloise spent less and less time there. You had to be extremely self-important if you thought that you needed this kind of security. Not to mention filthily rich. Or hiding something.

  In Roukewood’s case, it was all three.

  Alex made a face. Her attendance at the senator’s dinner party three nights ago had confirmed what she had already feared: his home was a freaking fortress, nearly as well-guarded as the Royal Palace itself.

  If someone had asked her a week ago if it was possible to break in there, her answer would have been a clear and unambiguous ‘no’.

  However, it always depended on the incentive, and with Darken’s life thrown into the balance… She'd still say it was impossible for a human. But for a shaper? Well, tonight would tell.

  After a very exquisite dinner Alex hadn’t been able to enjoy one bit, Roukewood had treated his select guests to his private gallery. Alex had acted the part of the awed country flower, pretending to almost faint over a couple of particular boring pieces that were supposed to be the height of artistic grandeur. It hadn’t escaped her notice either that Rapture by Jean-Pierre Arville-Mysom, the painting she’d marveled at so much during their visit of the Kaelta Gallery Center Hall, had occupied a top spot in his gallery. Alex wondered if the senator had meant to buy it anyway, or if he’d acquired it simply as a means to impress her. She wouldn’t put it past him.

  It had been rather obvious that the dear senator wouldn’t have minded giving her an even more private tour, just the two of them—touching allowed for a change. Roukewood had shown a possessive fixation on her during the entire evening, from seating her next to him, to staying close and ‘accidentally’ touching her whenever the situation allowed it.

  Drawing on that fixation, Alex had lash-batted and cajoled him into giving them a grand tour of his house, feigning great interest in the other paintings and art objects scattered throughout the mansion as well as in the security measures that ensured they stayed in their rightful place. Luckily, the other guests had been equally intrigued and asked their fair share of questions, diffusing the impression that she was purposefully milking him for information on his defense mechanisms.

  While clinging to Roukewood’s arm and liberally showering him with compliments, Alex had quietly mapped the building in her mind, committing to memory everything that might be of interest for further visits.

  If the opportunity had presented itself, she would have gladly snuck away like she had in Elizabeth Saunier’s home and gone for a little stroll by herself, seeing if she could, by any chance, find some compromising evidence. The voluminous dark-red skirt of her sensuous, floor-length dinner gown hid several big pockets on the inside for just that purpose. However, the senator was very careful with his guests. If someone departed from the group, even if it was to just visit the bathroom, there was always at least one ‘helpful’ servant in vision range, making sure the guests didn’t get lost in the house. Considering that Roukewood was hosting this event for mainly political reasons, and that the ones he tried to twist around his little finger might be secretly giving their loyalty to another election candidate and were potentially just snooping for disgraceful information on him, it was probably smart of him to do so.

  To be completely truthful, Alex hadn’t really expected to get a chance to explore, but that didn’t stop her from being disappointed all the same.

  Once coffee had been served in the drawing room and the first guests had started to leave, she had sensed that Roukewood was groping for an excuse to keep her there with him. To Alex’s utmost relief, there had been no getting rid of Bonny. The other girl hadn’t left Alex’s side all evening, completely oblivious to Rouekwood’s advances on Alex. Seeing his silent frustration grow had been one sweet bite in the sourness of Alex’s week. When the last of the politicians had departed and Alex and her friend were the only guests left, Bonny had declared that they, too, shouldn’t encroach on the senator’s valuable time any longer, and there had been no gentlemanly way for him to suggest that Alex stay back alone. So they’d bid him goodbye and boarded a cab coach.

  Bonny had no idea how much Alex owed her.

  The last light in the mansion winked out, letting the house sink into the darkness, except for the tiny glowing dots of nightlights in the garden. Alex checked the halfborn plastic watch on her wrist. Eighteen minutes past twelve.

  She waited, watching the minutes stretch like stale, old chewing gum, while the need to move was making her stir-crazy inside. But she wouldn't ruin this one shot out of impatience.

  Five minutes…

  …ten…

  …fifteen…

  At last the watch showed a quarter to one. That should be enough.

  Stuffing the binoculars into her backpack, Alex extracted a black ski mask and pulled it over her braided hair, then tugged a thin piece of dark cloth up over her mouth and nose, turning her into a first-rate movie assassin. A formfitting black catsuit made of an elastic material covered her from neck to wrists to ankles, fitting her like a glove. When she’d presented it to Stephane, he had blushed crimson and then made an excuse to leave the room. It was originally meant as an undergarment to wear underneath one of Edalyne’s suits, a sheer affair of pure white, but Alex found it way better suited for her purposes. Wearing it, she was close to invisible in the night and completely free in her movements. This would have been the perfect thing to put on for training after she’d molted. If she survived tonight, she would so keep this one.

  Bending low, Alex scurried down the hill, summoning her threads of darkness and weaving them around her, fusing her with the night. A minute, and she was merely a hundred yards away from the fence. She dropped to ground in a small pit in the grass, becoming one with the land.

  The magical energy of the ward crawled over her skin with the chitinous legs of little insects. The ward wasn’t the only thing emitting a magical charge out here, but it was the reason why she had limited her magical gear to a minimum and wasn’t going to use any of it as long as she was outside the property. This might not be Go
morrha, and she doubted that Roukewood’s defensive ward was linked to trapping spells the way Gomorrha’s was, but it was still highly likely that any magic used in its vicinity would be detected. She didn’t want to risk getting busted because of the use of magic devices when she didn’t really need them in the first place. Unlike most trueborns, she’d made do without magic most of her life, and that was the ace up her sleeve tonight.

  Alex squinted at the darkness before her, her true eyes solid black in her face. The mansion was built like a historical castle, set off from the nearest vegetation by a stretch of clear ground. From her position to the fence, there was no more cover, nothing but the moonlight-flooded expanse of short grass. But that wasn’t what was holding her back right now. It was the motorus tactilis, the magical motion sensor system that was keeping her at bay.

  Comparable to the movement detectors the more well-heeled halfborns used on their properties, these metal-inlaid crystal spheres created rotating, overlapping energy fields that stretched out from the fence to a distance of about two feet from where Alex was lying and would sound an alarm if they tracked any significant movement. They blinked at Alex like tiny red eyes, watching her and waiting for her to make her move. In the visual spectrum of her shaper senses, their fields flared like transparent blue wings, performing a constant, intricate dance around each other. The spheres were installed at the top of the fence in regular intervals, and their moving fields overlapped each other almost completely. ‘Almost’ being the operative word.

  Alex’s fingers absently rubbed the skin below her right ear. She had spent the last two nights studying the fields’ movements and committing their motional pattern to memory. At first, their movement had seemed random, but after a while, she realized there was a certain pattern to it, leading to tiny unguarded spots between the sweeping layers. No normal human would be able to run quickly enough to make use of those tiny windows. But she wasn’t normal, and for once, she didn’t regret it.

 

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