Shadow's Curse (9 page)

“Stop! Corey wants you!”

David couldn’t fight. He was too weak. Too slow.

With a muttered oath, he tossed the sword away, shot a last rage-filled glance at Beskin, and, grasping Callista’s hand, fled into the dark.

Mac wasn’t at home. Of all the possibilities David had envisioned, that one hadn’t even entered his mind. Mac was always at home. The man barely budged from his hearth these days. He and Bianca had been married for almost six months, and though David assumed the novelty of a bride would have worn off by now, Mac seemed content never to leave the side of his new wife unless absolutely necessary. Now that she was breeding, he was practically glued there.

Except for tonight, the one night David needed his help . . . urgently and without delay. “You’re certain he didn’t leave word telling you when he would return home? Or where he was going?”

Bianca eyed him with a look of waning patience. “Would you please tell me what’s going on, David? I’ve seen that ghastly death-warmed-over look before. Something bad has happened, hasn’t it?”

Despite the late hour, she’d welcomed them attired as if she’d only just arrived home. And perhaps she had. He remembered vaguely reading about her
most recent role as Desdemona at Covent Garden. She must have performed tonight, though he personally couldn’t imagine Hamlet’s suicidal girlfriend played by a woman as round as a pudding.

“It’s nothing,” he hastened to reassure her. “At least, nothing to do with Mac. That is . . . not directly.” He was babbling but couldn’t seem to stop.

Bianca gave him her famous ice queen stare, the leveling power of a firing squad behind her Arctic blue eyes. “Don’t treat me like a child, David St. Leger,” she snapped, strain edging her words. “Miss Hawthorne, do you know what this is about?”

“I’m as clueless as yourself,” Callista answered.

Though not for lack of trying. She’d peppered David with questions every time they’d slowed to catch a breath. Which in his present state had been frequently. He’d dodged her pointed interrogation with a rambling monologue about the three faces of the Mother Goddess and a long roundabout legend involving Idrin the Traveler and a ship that sailed among the stars. At least, he told himself that was the reason for his meandering, one-sided babbling. In fact, he might have just been entering the final stages of delirium right before complete collapse. He couldn’t be certain.

Bianca gripped a chair back, fear overtaking her anger. “If Mac is in danger, so help me God, David, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” came a deep voice from the doorway. “Send out the cavalry? Storm the fortress with sword and buckler? Claw your way to my side like the Valkyrie you are?” Mac Flannery entered the drawing room, flapping the water from his dripping greatcoat.

“All of the above.” Bianca swung around to greet her husband, but not before David caught the fleeting look of complete and utter relief cross her face.

“Bloody spring weather,” Mac grumbled as he accepted a kiss from his wife, dragged off his coat, and ran a hand through his wet hair. “Halfway up Bond Street, it began pouring like the second flood.”

David sent up a silent thank-you to the Mother of All. Hopefully, the downpour would erase any scent trail Beskin might follow. The last thing David wanted to do was to lead the enforcer straight to Mac and Bianca.

Mac’s gaze traveled over Callista before settling on David, his expression sobering, though David caught the shock that passed across his face.

He rose to meet his host, though his legs didn’t seem to want to hold him, and he had to grab the chair back to steady himself. “We need to talk.”

Mac lifted his brows in an obvious question. David answered with an almost imperceptible shake of his head and a slant of his gaze toward the women. Events had grown too complicated, and he was far too tired to path his explanation. The look, the gesture; both were enough. Mac nodded in understanding. “My study.”

“Mac?” Bianca said. “What’s going on? David refuses to explain.”

Mac shot David another cautious glance before turning to his wife. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

Bianca placed her hands on her hips, her pose one of imminent argument. “Cormac Cuchulain Flannery . . .”

Mac wrapped an arm around his wife’s waist, whispering a few quiet words in her ear. Whatever he said seemed to mollify her for now. She offered David a
sharp nod and, with the bustling maneuverings of the soon-to-be mother, took Callista in hand. “I’ll find Miss Hawthorne some supper and a place to sleep.” Just before she left the room, she turned one last spearing gaze his direction. “But don’t think I’m through with you, David St. Leger. You’ve got some definite explaining to do.”

Once the women were gone, David motioned with a wave of his arm. “After you, Captain.”

Only after he’d spoken the words did he realize how often over the years that phrase had left his lips. They had fought together from Lisbon to Waterloo, but it had always been Mac who’d been the first to volunteer, the first to leap into any situation no matter how dangerous, the last to retreat no matter how impossible. If David had to describe his comrade, the words
duty
,
honor
, and
courage
would have come first to mind. Followed by
stubborn
,
single-minded
, and
a pain in the ass
.

But
friend
would have been emblazoned at the top of the list.

It had begun as a company of four. Adam, Mac, Gray, and David. Infantry scouts. Imnada clansmen. They had quarreled, teased, laughed, and loved like brothers. The friendship had frayed after the Fey-blood sorcerer set his curse upon them in the chaotic days before Waterloo, but it had never unraveled completely. And when Adam had been murdered last year, it had been his tragic death that finally reminded the remaining three of that unbreakable bond.

Oh, they still quarreled. David thought Gray a self-righteous prig and Mac a besotted fool, but he’d lay down his life for either one of them. It was as simple as that.

Mac closed the study door behind them. “You can collapse now if you like. There’s none to witness it.”

David’s legs gave out as if his strings had been cut. Only Mac’s quick shove of a chair in his direction kept him from falling to the floor in a heap. He closed his eyes, a shudder running through him as he fought the teeth-chattering cold that overcame him all at once. Even breathing was almost too much effort, but he managed to squeeze out, “Kineally’s dead.”

David heard Mac take a seat at his desk. He could picture the spark of tamped fury in his pale green eyes and the battle tension tightening his shoulders. Mac might have sold his commission, shedding his scarlet tunic and gold braid for more sober attire, but he would always be pure soldier. Never happier than with a weapon in his hand and an enemy in his sights. Always had been. Only now, his was a war of secret meetings and quiet conspiracies. What he needed was a good, solid, face-to-face, till-the-death, fight-to-the-finish brawl.

“He was a good man,” Mac said quietly. “He’ll be mourned.”

David snorted his cynicism. “By who? Not his family or his clan. To them, his treason placed him lower than the lowest dung bug.”

“He chose to join our cause, David. He wasn’t forced. You see now how great the Ossines’ power has grown. They send enforcers into the heart of London to seek us out. They’re no longer merely defenders of the clans. They bring the battle to us.”

David forced his eyelids open to meet Mac’s sober gaze. “Who says this was initiated by the Ossine without the Gather elders’ approval? Perhaps the Duke of
Morieux has given the enterprise his personal stamp of approval.”

While each of the five scattered Imnada clans as well as the Ossine shaman had a seat at the Gather council, the Duke, as hereditary ruler, remained the final arbiter of clan law. Gray’s grandfather had always been a thoughtful if somewhat cautious leader. A man who wielded his position lightly, though none had ever been in doubt that he was in charge. That had changed with his son’s untimely death, and after Gray’s disgrace and exile, the old duke had grown increasingly frail, his hold on the Gather progressively more ineffectual.

Mac gave a sad shake of his head. “The Duke is near death. Few but Sir Dromon Pryor have even seen him recently. The Arch Ossine controls all access to His Grace. He’s the real authority these days.”

“What of the N’thuil? Pryor may be head of the Ossine but, bound to Jai Idrish, old Tidwell must have some say in clan matters.”

They called the faceted crystal sphere the Imnada’s heart, but Jai Idrish might be more correctly called the shapechangers’ soul. It had come with Idrin the Traveler when the Imnada first arrived on this world. Some said the sphere had guided them here, laying a path through the Gateway from their old dead world to this new one burgeoning with life and hope. Some said when the time was right, it would show them the way back. David didn’t know if that was true, but the power contained within Jai Idrish was supposed to be as vast as the universe the Imnada once navigated. All of it contained and focused by one person, the N’thuil, the voice and vessel of Jai Idrish.

It was said that the N’thuil’s body was flesh and bone, but his heart was pure crystal. In Muncy Tidwell’s case, it was more like mountains of blubber surrounding a heart soft as his fat head.

“Tidwell does as he’s told,” Mac explained. “Besides, Jai Idrish hasn’t made itself felt for centuries. Not even the oldest clan members remember a time when it spoke its will. The position of N’thuil is barely more than one of figurehead these days, and that’s just how Tidwell prefers it.” He made a useless gesture with his hands. “No, David. Pryor’s unchallenged in his bid for control of the clans. And as long as Gray remains in exile, leaving no obvious heir to the Duke, the Arch Ossine’s grip on power will remain unbreakable. Any hope for a reconciliation with the Fey-bloods will be impossible.”

“You’re awfully conversant with internal Imnada politics these days.”

“We have to be.”

David struggled to sit up. His chills were being overtaken by a feverish heat that damped his already clammy skin. “Damn it, I don’t care about the Duke or the N’thuil or who’s fucking in charge of the Ossine. Because of you, Beskin believes I’m in league with your rebels and that I’m carrying some blasted book. He wants it back and he’s determined to add my head to his trophy wall to gain hold of it.”

Mac didn’t flinch. Hell, he didn’t even bat an eye. “I’d think you’d be used to pursuit by those with murder in their hearts. How many outraged husbands and scorned mistresses have queued up to put a bullet through you? There must be scores by now.”

“Flannery . . .” David said with an impatient growl.

Mac shoved himself to his feet and walked around to lean against the desk, a sly smile creeping over his face. “Where does the woman come into it?”

“Her name is Callista Hawthorne.”

“No wonder Beskin believes you guilty of treason. She reeks of Other magic, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“Of course I bloody well noticed,” David growled. “If I’d known what she was at the time, you can be sure I’d have run the other way as fast as four legs could carry me.”

“At the time?” Mac’s face cleared to one of dawning comprehension. “You played your avenger act again in some slimy back alley, didn’t you? What happened? Did you save her from a tragic fate worse than death, only to find yourself stuck with her?”

“You’ve got the stuck bit right.” David slumped farther into his seat. “But the humiliating truth is . . . she saved me. Twice.”

*  *  *

“Here’s a nightgown, Miss Hawthorne. It should be about the right size. I wore it pre-belly,” Bianca Flannery said with a grimace and a pat of her rotund mid-section, though she looked anything but unhappy at her growing bump.

Callista had seen the famous actress once before, back when she was still Bianca Parrino and London theater’s darling. She could never in a million years have imagined one day she’d be standing in the woman’s guest bedchamber borrowing nightclothes. But why had David brought her here? It was obvious he knew Captain Flannery and his wife. But did that mean . . . could it be that the captain was one of these
Imnada as well? Could both husband and wife be shapechangers? Or was it just the opposite and Mrs. Flannery had no inkling of her husband’s powers?

“I’ll have Molly bring you some supper. You look completely done in.”

A minor understatement. Callista would gladly have crawled between the covers of the bed behind her, turned her back on the plague of unanswered questions, and slept for a month.

“I’ve some cold chicken and biscuits and there may even be a bit of cake left.”

Callista’s stomach gave an embarrassing growl.

“Yes, definitely supper,” Bianca Flannery affirmed. “And two slices of cake.”

“It’s not what you think,” Callista blurted “That is, David . . . I mean, Mr. St. Leger and myself aren’t what you think . . .” Her words trailed off into an embarrassed silence and her face grew hot, almost unbearably so. Mrs. Flannery looked up from turning back the bedcovers to regard her with a mix of compassion and kindness; two emotions all but unknown in Branston’s household.