Lois Greiman (14 page)

“Where are you going?”

She smiled. It was a miracle she could make it happen. “To my lover, of course.”

He grabbed her arm again, hard and fast. She glanced down, and her heart beat like mad against her ribs. “Don’t go,” he said.

She didn’t close her eyes. Didn’t melt. Didn’t weaken. “Whyever not?”

His eyes smote hers. “Why?” His fingers bit into her flesh. “A man is dead.”

“Many men are dead.”

“Did you know the one called Black?”

Black was dead. She knew it, felt it in his words. More death. She could smell it. Could taste it. It strangled her. “Who killed him?”

“You’re not surprised he’s dead.”

Her heart was tearing, ripping in two. “Did the giant…”

“Poke killed him.”

“Oh.” Relief rushed through her, and in some corner of her mind she knew that was twisted and strange. But
she had taken Dag’s life to save another’s. And if that other was a murderer…

“Your lover has killed a man, splattered his brains against the wall like so much…” He ran out of words, out of breath. She could hear him struggling for control. He shook his head. Even in the darkness, she could see the agony in his eyes. She turned away from it, shielding her heart. “And you’re not even surprised? Not even—”

“You think I don’t know what he’s capable of?” she hissed, jerking back. “You think I don’t know?” Her hands were shaking. She pressed them against her skirt. “He’s not what you think he is.”

“Then what is he?”

She shook her head, feeling crazed and frenetic, drowning in terrified uncertainty. “He’s a ghost,” she whispered. “A magician. He can make you believe lies and doubt the truth.”

“I believe he’s a thief and a murderer.”

She laughed and shook her head. “A thief? Oh no, not Poke. He has others to do that. Hundreds of others.”

“I think you overestimate him.”

“Then you think wrong,” she whispered, leaning close. “If it is stolen in Sedonia, there will come a time when he will hold it in his hands, no matter how much blood is spilled to place it there.”

“Then where does he keep the goods?”

She stared at him, her throat tight. “Don’t do it,” she murmured. “Don’t even let it cross your mind.”

“Do what?”

“He’ll know,” she said, and felt her throat contract with the need to retch.

“He’s not God,” he said, and touched his fingers to her cheek. Warmth spread through her like the lap of a golden
fire. Comfort. Hope. Strength. It was there in his hand, but death was there, too.

“God?” she said, and pulled resolutely away. “There is no God in Darktowne.”

“Lass.” His tone was nearly silent, his eyes entrancing. “You don’t need to stay—”

A noise sounded from the alley. Her heart lurched. “Leave,” she hissed. “Go, before it’s your brains on the wall.”

He remained exactly as he was, watching her, drilling into her thoughts.

“And what of you?” he whispered. “What of your safety?”

She slanted her gaze rapidly to the right. Someone was near! Maybe within hearing. Her heart knotted up hard, but she turned back to him. “Don’t be a fool. He’ll not hurt me.”

His fingers dug into her arms, and he laughed, low and harsh. “Because you’re his princess.”

“No,” she said, and yanked from his grasp. “Because I’m his property.”

W
illiam roamed the streets of Skilan, but it seemed as if he had never seen them before, and perhaps he had not, for he had different eyes now, different clothes, a different mind.

He was sober, and never had he regretted that more deeply. Reality was a terrible beast to face without the comfort of a drink. A muffled roar rose from the Blue Fox. He had never been inside that particular pub. It would be safe to go in. His hands shook as he held the thought at bay. But why should he not imbibe? He wouldn’t be recognized. And he had a few coins. He could buy a glass of wine, just enough to slake his thirst.

He paused at the door. One drink. Just one. He needed it, ached for it. Surely one glass would do him no harm. But dark honesty crept sneakily into his subconscious. One drink was not what he wanted, what he longed for. Oblivion was what he cherished—the sweet unconcern of inebriation. He scraped his knuckles across his mouth, knowing without a doubt that intoxication would get him killed, would leave her alone—with Poke.

He swore viciously, gritted his teeth against the punch of temptation and moved on, his stride stilted, his body stiff, for the truth was undeniable. The memory of his
roiling stomach no longer kept him from drinking. It was the memory of the face of a woman who, by her own admission, belonged to another. A woman who had no feelings for him.

And yet she had saved him. Repeatedly. Didn’t that suggest some sort of emotion? But no. She had killed Dag, had crushed his skull in an attempt to keep a stranger safe. If she had feelings, it was for the populace at large and not any particular to himself. But maybe she had lied. Maybe the giant was no stranger. After all, she had cried. The street seemed to go silent at the memory. In his mind’s eye he could see her in Peter’s arms, all her icy strength melting away as she surrendered to the boy. Not sexually. But so much more importantly—emotionally. She had cried. And Peter had done the same. Is that why she allowed the lad to touch her, because she found something in him she could not receive from others? Was it honest emotion that she longed for?

God knew Poke had no soul. But perhaps Will’s soul was gone as well. When was the last time he had cried? Not in years certainly. Not even at his family’s funeral.

Anger tore at him, burning inside, and he turned rapidly back toward the pub, determined to do away with this mind-numbing sobriety, but images of his son’s tiny face flared up in his mind.

No, he had not cried at the boy’s passing as he had not rejoiced at his birth. What did that say of him? Why had he failed to live? Why had he spent all those years in a dull haze? And why had they died instead of him?

Questions tormented him. But he had no answers. Only gnawing uncertainty. But he would learn.

“He makes lies seem like truth.”
It had seemed that Elisabeth had died because of her own decisions. But what was the truth?

“If it is stolen in Sedonia, there will come a time when he will hold it in his hands,”
at least according to Shandria. But nothing had been stolen from her carriage. Unless she had taken her leather journal with her. Unless the highwaymen were not out to gain jewels and coin, but had something more specific, more scientific, in mind.

Will shook his head. What could she have been working on that would have been worth her life? The theory was crazy. But it was the only theory he had. Thus, he had little choice but to pursue it, for he had vowed at Nicol’s wedding to learn the truth. And in order to do so he must remain at the Den. Of that much, he was certain. And he could not remain there unless he had something to show for his efforts. He glanced down the street. There was an inn some way along the rutted thoroughfare. His stomach crunched with hunger. There would be food there and families with enough funds to pay their way. Perhaps he could steal some coin. His heart cranked up in time with his stomach, and he strolled past. Courage. The courage it must take to steal was incredible. He had not considered it before. Indeed, he had always thought it a coward’s life.

A carriage passed him, carried by a smart four-in-hand that strutted like peacocks. The occupants watched him through the small square windows. Well fed and impeccably groomed, they stared as though he were so much rubbish on the street. He glanced down at his own shabby attire and nearly laughed. Except for the coat and hat he had taken from the lusty boy, his costume was despicable. What would he have thought if he had seen such a person on his way to the pub? Would he have condemned him as slovenly and contemptible or would he have seen more, looked deeper?

But wasn’t that why he had dulled his senses? So that he wouldn’t have to look at all.

Up ahead a stable appeared on his right. The shingle above the tall door was barely visible in the waning light, but the aroma was enough to announce it as an equine establishment, and the warm scents called to him. Avoiding the crackled ice of a half-frozen puddle, he crossed the rutted street and paused in the doorway. Inside, a cock-hipped piebald snorted contentedly from its stall, then returned to munching oats from a badly cribbed manger. The place smelled of well-cured hay and leather oil, of horses and wealth. Of home, though he had never felt it fill his senses like this.

A harness hung from a nearby peg, its buckles shining in the last rays of the setting sun. Will touched a line, feeling the suppleness of it and letting his mind slide back to the past. Yes, there had been pain. There had been loneliness and loss, but there had been laughter, too. Feasts, fine clothes, and soft beds. Why had he never noticed? he wondered, but rapid, pounding hoofbeats drew his attention back toward the door.

Two gentlemen galloped in, laughing as they came.

The younger man was lanky and loose-limbed. His striped waistcoat was well fitted, his stock undone. Flushed with youth and Scotch, he’d thrown his coat over his gelding’s whithers. It flared dramatically over his skinny thigh as they bumped to a halt.

“You there,” called the older of the two. He glanced down, top hat askew over his apple red nose as he sawed his steed to an openmouthed halt. He held a silver flask in his right hand, and his voice was slurred. “Steady my animal.”

Will stared at the flask, and every question seemed to
be answered there. His very hands shook with the need for that ancient, intoxicating wisdom.

“Are you daft?” snarled the gentleman. “I said hold the beast while I dismount.”

Will reached out to grasp the stallion’s reins. Its burnished, liver chestnut hide shone in the failing rays of sun, and it rolled its eyes as its rider swung a fat leg over the cantle. But his energy could not be stilled, and he pranced grandly, swinging rhythmically in place.

“Damm it all!” Jostled against the pommel on his descent, the rider bumbled to the hard-packed clay of the aisle, then steadied his stance and his flask. “What kind of demmed hostler are you? He ’bout made a eunuch of me.”

The younger man grinned as he toppled from his gray. “Can’t have that. The ladies at Grayson’s would be sorely put out, and that would be bad indeed.” Taking a drink from his own flask, he tipped it slyly toward his companion. “Since we’ve already worn out the Bryerly lassies, aye, Percy?”

The inebriated fellow snorted, seeming unimpressed by his companion’s wit and keeping his scowl trained on Will. “What’s your name, boy?”

Boy. Will stared. What an intresting phenomenon. Had he been so arrogant, so rude, so god-awful, grindingly irritating?

“Good Christ, we’ve got a sharp tack here,” snorted Percy and leaned in closer to speak in slow, spitting syllables. “What the fuck’s your bloody name?”

“I’m called Slate,” he said, meeting the other’s eyes and feeling a strange stir of earthy superiority.

“Are you now?” Percy asked, and stepped back to watch Will narrowly, as if assessing the even answer.
“Well, they call me Lord Perceval of Dalkirk Manor. Can you get your mouth ’round that, boy?”

Will said nothing, and the gentleman laughed. “Thought as much. I hope he’s better with horses than he is at speaking, aye, Douglas?”

Douglas took a long draught from his own flask. “Bound to be,” he managed, and slapped his gelding’s reins into Will’s hand.

“Have them tacked and ready upon our return, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Hell from your wife if we’re late,” Douglas chortled, and drank again.

Percy ignored him and narrowed his eyes as if to punctuate his message. “This stallion’s worth more than you’ll make in a lifetime, laddie, so look lively.”

What did one make in a lifetime as a thief?

Percy thumped him on the chest with a blocky index finger. “You listening to me, boy?”

William turned his gaze from the handsome stallion to the bloated master. “Aye, my lord,” he said, and almost smiled. A clear head, he realized, was a dangerous thing. “I am.”

“Good,” said the other, and, turning unsteadily, marched from the stable. The younger man gamboled after like an unsteady satyr until the two were out of sight.

Reaching up, Will straightened the stallion’s forelock. The animal was tall and gallant, far too good for the likes of the man who rode him. But perhaps that was generally the case. And perhaps it was time to right one wrong in the world.

Glancing toward the back of the stable, Will came to a foolishly sensible decision. Taking the redingote from the gelding’s neck, he pulled it on, buttoned it to the neck, and swung onto the chestnut. The seat felt as natural as
breathing. The stallion pranced, the gelding followed, and the piebald munched distractedly as they left the solace of the stable. Snowflakes drifted languidly from an ebon sky, lighting delicately on the horses’ manes.

It wasn’t more than a ten-minute ride to the next livery. A flame burned in the square-paned lantern that hung beside the gray stone building.

Will dismounted as a gnarled old man shambled outside, gray cloth cap pulled low over bushy eyebrows. He scrunched his face as he studied the horses, showing a lack of teeth but a keen mind. “A handsome pair of steeds you have there, my lord. You’ll be wantin’ them put up for the night?”

“Non,”
William said in his best French, and laid a regretful hand on the stallion’s elegant neck. “I sail for home with the morning tide. I fear I must sell them.”

The Den was quiet when Will stepped through the door. Morning had only just risen over the eastern horizon. Not a soul intercepted him as he made his way through the echoing foyer and into the parlor.

Gem sat beside the bed where the giant lay. She lifted her gaze as Will stepped inside. Dark rings accented her evergreen eyes, and her sharp, vixen’s face looked gaunt and pale.

“You should sleep,” Will said, but Gem scowled and shifted her gaze back to her ward.

“’E’s going to need something to eat soon as ’e wakes up.” She fussed with the blanket that covered him. He made not the slightest movement. Indeed, if he was breathing, Will could not tell it. “Big bloke like this…” She cleared her throat. Her hands shook.

Will stepped up close. Her patient’s face was as pale as hers now that it was washed clean of the blood that had
soaked his hair. If he wasn’t dead, he soon would be, Will thought, but he would not say the words out loud. Was that mercy or weakness?

“Get some rest, Gem,” he said, but she was already shaking her head. “’E wouldn’t rest. Not if it was me. ’E’d…” She paused abruptly and spurted her gaze to Will’s, eyes wide and feral.

He shifted his own to the door and back, but they were alone. “He’d what?”

She said nothing.

“What would he do?”

She tightened her hand in his blanket and cleared her throat. “Well there’s no tellin’ really, is there? I’m just…” Her usually bright mouth was pale and pursed. “I’m pretendin’ is what I’m doin’. Thinkin’ girlish things,” she said, but a single tear dripped down her cheek. “Spinning tales in me head.”

From the far side of the house, a noise scraped the morning silence. Poke? Ox? It hardly mattered. Both were deadly, feeding on the emotions of others.

“Pretendin’,” she said again, her voice dreamy.

“Well quit.” Will’s tone was firmer than he would have believed he could make it, and though his muscles quaked, he reached out and shook her. “Unless you want to see him dead, you’ll keep your thoughts to yourself.”

“’E—”

“Quiet,” he ordered, and leaned closer. “Listen to me. I don’t know who he is. He could be your own father for all I know, but you must stick to your story. And stick fast. You don’t know him. You’ve no special feelings for him. He’s just a daft fool who stumbled into the Den, much as I did. Do you hear me?”

Her lips parted as if to protest, but she nodded.

He drew a careful breath. “Does anyone else know you were here all night?”

“Don’t think so.”

He nodded, then, reaching into his pocket, he drew out a silver buckle. Footsteps sounded in the hall, heading their way.

He shoved the buckle into her hand and closed her fingers over it. “You got it off a fancy sop in Berrywood. You hear?”

“Aye,” she said, and bobbed her understanding. “Passed out cold, ’e was, with ’is wine bottle beside ’im—1810.” A glimpse of her old spirit shone in her lightning-quick eyes. “’Twas a damned fine year.”

William almost laughed.

Gratitude scampered across her foxy features, then she hid the trinket away quick as lightning. “I won’t forget,” she said softly. “And neither will ’e, once ’e comes to.”

Will glanced at her patient. Not a flicker of awareness shone there, not a breath of hope. But perhaps the lass called Gemini was accustomed to hopelessness and hoped anyway.