Authors: Alix Rickloff
“Twice in two days? You grow sloppy.” Asher stood in the front room of a rundown cottage among broken furniture, smashed glass, and dead bodies. None of them Bligh’s. His hunters had failed again. At least Bligh had saved him the trouble of punishing the
Keun Marow
himself.
The creature shrugged. “These not for Bligh. Not expecting trouble.” His nose slits widened. He half-closed his eyes as he searched the house for scents.
“The
Other
did this?” Asher gestured at the dead hounds.
“You lie. I sense Bligh’s magic. He was here.”
The
Keun Marow
nodded. “But not alone. He and the new
Other
we seek. Together.”
This new information sent Asher into a fury. The reliquary should be his. His brothers should be free. With the renewed power of the Triad, they would seek vengeance on those
fey
who’d dared to imprison them. But alone, he was nothing.
His hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms until blood dripped between his fingers. He’d only needed minutes in the chapel. Minutes before the casket’s seals would have been irreparable. But Bligh had gotten to the man first, halting the release. Asher had tried to take the reliquary then. He’d come close, the chapel stinking of blood and death before it was over. But he’d been weak from the escape, and the
amhas-draoi
had won—that battle.
Asher smiled, thinking of Bligh’s sister. Now that had gone as planned. One more victory like that one, and Bligh would beg for death before the end.
A tentative knock on the shattered front door broke him from his thoughts. “Miss Reskeen?”
Was this the
Other
his hounds kept speaking of? The owner of the house returning to survey the damage? With a flick of his wrist, Asher extended the spell of
glamorie
over the
Keun Marow
, both the hound standing beside him as well as the dead scattered around the room. Whoever it was, he would see nothing Asher didn’t want him to see. If it was the
Other
he sought, all to the good. And if not, he still might supply some answers. Who did live here? Why had Bligh come? Where had they gone?
Not put off by the broken door, the intruder entered. “Ellery? Is anyone here?”
Upon seeing Asher, the man stopped short. His eyes traveled over the room, but his mind showed him only a tall polished gentleman standing amid a tumble of discarded clothing and torn furniture.
“Who are you?” the man blustered, casting wary glances at the mess. “What have you done with Miss Reskeen?” He drew his scrawny body up in a pose of haughty belligerence, running a hand down his front, drawing attention to a large pearl pin.
Asher’s lips curled in a sneer as he stepped over a broken table. “Do you mean the owner of the house? I’d hoped you could tell me. A broken door. Evidence of a scuffle. And now you, sir, skulking about outside in the dark. What have you to say for yourself?”
The man’s skinny neck worked as he swallowed. “I’m the—” he squeaked before clearing his throat. “I’m the owner. Mr. Porter. Miss Reskeen rented this cottage from me.”
“But no longer?”
“I evicted her for lack of payment.” He warmed to his sense of ill-usage. “A deceitful baggage. By the looks of things she came to a bad end, and I’m not surprised. Her brother, he says. I know a criminal when I see one.”
Asher could hardly contain his delight. It was almost too easy. “You say this woman left with a man?”
Mr. Porter nodded. “A scoundrel. He threatened me. Me, sir. A man of means in this community. Not an ounce of respect for his betters.”
“Where did they go? Did they tell you?”
“I can’t imagine where Miss Reskeen would go. She’s no family that I know of. A dead soldier’s bastard.”
Asher’s body went still, his mind turning Mr. Porter’s information over and over. A soldier. The reliquary had been breached by one such. A man in a scarlet uniform armed with sword and musket, though they had availed him little against Bligh’s attack. Could there be a connection? Was this why Bligh was here? Not because she was an
Other
, but because she held the reliquary?
Wait. The reliquary. A dead soldier’s bastard. The pieces fell together, sending Asher reeling back in horror. The soldier who opened the reliquary at San Salas was dead. But this girl carried his blood. She could be used to repair the seals.
She could destroy everything.
His concentration faltered, dissolving the
glamorie.
The
Keun Marow
dead and living reappeared. And the elegant façade Asher had chosen for this world vanished, revealing his true form. He stretched, the black expanse of one wing tip coming within inches of the man’s face.
Mr. Porter shrieked, backing toward the door. But Asher’s
fey
hunter was there before him.
Asher licked his lips, enjoying the man’s terror. “Do you always come calling on an empty house at such a late hour?”
The man fell to his knees, blubbering, his eyes round with panic as they flashed back and forth between Asher and the gray, reptilian creature behind him. “Dear God in heaven. What are they? What are you?”
“Where is Bligh? Where is this girl? Answer me, or it feeds on your flesh.”
Mr. Porter wagged his head back and forth, moaning and clutching his hands. “I don’t know. I came for my treasure. My jewels. They’re mine. Hidden away. I came to get them.”
“Describe these jewels.”
The
Keun Marow
placed a clawed hand upon Mr. Porter’s shoulder. He screamed, his words spilling out of him like vomit. “A pearl like this one. A ruby. Molly gave them to me. She said there were others. It was Molly.”
Asher stiffened. The reliquary
had
been here. He took a long look at the stone on the man’s chest. Mr. Porter cringed as Asher tore the pin off his shirt and held it to the light. “It’s no pearl.” He threw it to the floor where it shattered into dust. “It’s paste.”
Mr. Porter sobbed. “No. It’s not true. It’s real, I tell you.” Asher tried to reach out, feel the presence of the reliquary. But there was no answering call.
The casket and his brothers were gone. Bligh and his sacrifice were gone. So too was his chance at prying into this girl’s magic, gaining pleasure in her screams, arousal in her pain.
But he would find them before Bligh could act. And he would have his revenge. On Bligh. On the
fey
.
He walked past the cowering Mr. Porter, calling back over his shoulder. “Burn the bodies.”
Once again the elegant English gentleman, he closed the door behind him.
Conor scanned the rain-laden clouds with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Or was that the nausea again? For the last few hours just putting one foot in front of the other was a victory of sorts. Sweat stung his eyes, yet he shivered with cold.
He glanced across at Ellery. In his jacket, with his greatcoat dragging out behind her like a train, she looked like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s things. Or maybe her father’s. Anyway, there was no help for it. He couldn’t very well take the only clothing she had from her. He’d make do.
It was fatigue coupled with the transference of Ellery’s wounds; that was all. And it didn’t help matters that his body had still been healing from his first tangle with Asher’s hounds. No wonder every muscle screamed in agony, his bones grated together with each step, and his stomach was somewhere in his throat.
He stumbled, Ellery gripping him with a steadying hand. “When were you going to admit that you’re ill?”
“What are you talking about?” He winced at the pressure of her fingers around his arm. It remained sore and stiff, the break slow to knit.
She put a palm to his forehead. Her touch felt cool against his hot, achy skin. “You’re feverish. And you’re pale as chalk.”
He pulled her hand away. “I’m fine.” He eyed the clouds again. “But we need to find shelter. Rain’s approaching. And the
Keun Marow
will be active once night falls.”
“Mayhap we can find a posting house or tavern.”
“And why’ll we’re at it, why don’t we leave a trail of breadcrumbs for them to follow. I was thinking of a barn or a shepherd’s hut. Somewhere safe.”
Ellery stared at him, stubbornness evident in the jut of her jaw and the way she stood with her hand on her hip. “If you think I’m going to wander Cornwall until May first in my petticoats, you’re mad.”
He remained silent.
She threw open the coat, holding her arms out to the side. “Look at me, Conor. I’m not exactly dressed for a forced march.”
She had a point. Her gown and stockings were gone. Her bloody shift hung to her ankles, allowing him easy glimpses of her long, muscled legs. His jacket draped over her hands, the gaping lapels doing little to hide the shapely curves of her breasts.
She hugged the coat back around her. Her gaze softened. She took his hand, clenching it tightly. “Please, Conor. If you feel half as bad as I did before you…before you healed me, then you feel bloody awful. You can’t keep going without some time to let yourself recover.”
He should oppose it. Tell her to soldier on for a bit longer. That they couldn’t afford to stop. But he didn’t want to admit how nice it felt to have a woman fuss over him. For some reason, Ellery’s concern didn’t instantly set him on edge.
His indecision must have been clear in his eyes. Her lips curved in a shy smile. “A day in bed for you, time for me to re-supply, and we can be back on the road by this time tomorrow.”
Conor found himself focusing on Ellery’s lush full lips, before dropping to linger on the tempting body he knew lay hidden within his coat.
She cocked her head, waiting for his answer. He turned away, hoping his thoughts weren’t visible to her.
“Conor?”
“All right. I do know of a place where we might be safe. It’s to the west of here. Another few miles. But we leave tomorrow at dawn.” It was the most he could compromise.
Ellery flashed him a quick smile that lit up her face. “Done.” He turned off the track to head across the fields, praying he could make it as far as Evan’s place. One foot in front of the other. Eyes ahead. Every sense alive to the presence of trouble. Ignore the crushing exhaustion. The deep, pressing ache in every bone and joint. The throb of mage poison coursing through every vein. Just another mile or two. He could make it that far. He had to.
They passed the first few cottages just as the rain began. He raised his face to it, letting it ease the heat of fever and frustration.
Ellery’s voice snapped him back to the present. “Up ahead. We’ll find a room there.”
The inn sat back from the road, light spilling through greasy mullioned windows, the steeply pitched roof black with moss and smoke and rain. As they approached, the door was thrown open and a large, ruddy-jowled man emerged, jamming a hat on his head as he muttered about the weather. Conor’s eyes flicked to Ellery.
Damn. Speaking of breadcrumbs. He couldn’t let her be seen like this.
He summoned the
fith-fath
, throwing the illusion of two well-dressed travelers over both of them, hoping his strength would hold.
He caught and held the man’s gaze, daring him to challenge them. Praying he wouldn’t. It was taking all his strength just to keep their true appearance masked. Apparently sensing something of Conor’s true nature, the man crossed himself as he stepped aside. Conor’s lips gave a cynical twitch. Did he really think that would do any good? Cold iron. Maybe.
The man’s gaze followed them as they passed through the doors of the inn. Superstitious he might be, suspicious he most definitely was. Conor pulled Ellery close. She glanced up, but he gave a warning shake of his head.
The interior of the inn smelled of boiled meat and stale beer. Long scarred tables sat under each front window, two uncomfortable-looking wooden settles beside a great stone hearth. All stood empty. No sign of Evan.
The publican greeted them before they had shaken the rain from their heads.
“A private room if you have one,” Conor said. “Overlooking the street. And water for bathing.”
“And your luggage, sir?” the man asked, mistrust evident in the way he sized them up.
“I heard no carriage arrive.”
“We lost a wheel on the road south of Bolventor. My coachman and groom are attending to it. My wife was impatient to be in out of the weather. We walked.”
“But that’s five miles and across Maidenwell Heath. Rocky, it is. And wild country.”
“Which is why we’d appreciate a room and not a lecture.” The floor swayed, the long tables tipping and falling like boats on a river. Black specks danced at the corners of his vision. Ellery’s hand encircled his upper arm, and he focused on the aching pressure to steady him.
A rush of cool air signaled the opening of the door. The man from outside had returned. Conor’s hand moved to the grip of his sword. To the men, it looked only as if he dropped his hand to his empty waist. But Ellery did see. She tensed, her eyes moving from the tavern keeper to the man and back. Without warning, she went limp. Conor almost fell, trying to catch her. His arm burned, his fingers went numb but he managed to pull her in close.
Ellery’s eyelids fluttered open as she wiped a trembling hand across her forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m feeling ill and so very tired.” She gave the tavern keeper a wide-eyed pleading look that would have done Sarah Siddons proud.
“You have money for a room? I won’t be havin’ no tinkers or gypsies sourin’ the place for my payin’ customers.”
“Give ’em a room, Kay.” Conor whipped around. He’d never even sensed Evan slipping in from the kitchen. But there he stood, looking as he always did. Tall and gangly with a shock of black hair and eyes dark as pitch.
The innkeeper looked as if he wanted to refuse. He muttered something about troublemakers and brothers-in-law, but he ushered them toward a rickety set of stairs at the back of the inn. Conor had to duck as they followed him down a low-ceilinged hall, stopping at the third in a row of four doors.