Lois Greiman (25 page)

“I’ll kill him.” His voice was as steady as a stone, now, as if there were no alternatives. No choices, and with that cool announcement, terror stormed through her.

She jerked away, twisting as she did so. “Don’t say that,” she demanded, but not a flicker of emotion showed on his set features. The goodness was gone from his eyes, replaced by deadly determination.

Her heart lurched.

“Where is he?” he asked.

She scrambled to her feet, naked and shaken. She’d wanted these few moments, just this tiny span of time for happiness, but horror had stolen back in with sly insistence. “I’ll not tell you.”

He followed slowly, watching her. “Then I’ll wait here for him.”

“No!” She was on him in a moment, her fingers like
claws against his arms. “Damn you! You promised! You said you’d leave.”

“And you said you’d follow.”

“I never—” she began, but he pried her hands away.

“I will kill him,” he repeated quietly, and turned to collect his clothes.

“No.” Her voice sounded flat and lifeless in the failing firelight. “He’ll kill you.”

He turned to watch her. There was something in his eyes now. Sorrow perhaps, but no regret. Limned by the firelight, with the ragged bandage crossing his beautiful chest, he looked like an angel of death, of vengeance.

“So be it then,” he said and pulled on his pants.

Her throat ached. “You don’t care?”

He smiled as he tugged on his shirt. “That used to be the case,” he said, as if mildly fascinated by some internal debate. “Now I find I care too much. Life is strange.”

“So you’ll die. For me?”

“Yes,” he said, and touching her face, gave her a wistful smile.

Fear shivered through her like an icy lance. Fear and hate and love so strong it nearly knocked her to her knees.

“Then he will kill me,” she intoned. “For betraying him.”

His fingers froze on his buttons. Their gazes clashed.

“You know it’s true,” she said. “When you are gone, there will be no one to stop his hand.”

“He won’t know about this.” Will’s eyes were narrowed and steady on hers. “He’ll have no reason to believe I had anything to do with you. How could he?”

“I’ll tell him.” Her voice was low and flat and deadly in the flickering dimness.

“No,” he said.

She felt the single tear track hot and silent down her cheek and onto her breast. “Yes,” she argued, “if you die, I die.”

“Damn you,” he swore.

“Too late,” she murmured. “I’ve already been damned.”

S
he had been gone for days, not even returning at night. Will paced and prayed and found himself lying awake, listening for the slightest sound. But of course, in the end, he never heard her return. She was simply there in the morning. It was all he could do to keep from pulling her into his arms, from shaking her, and cursing her, and kissing her.

Instead, he said nothing. She looked gaunt and pale, but so far as he could tell she was unhurt. So his prayers had been answered. So there was a God. Still, after all these years there was a God, waiting through the oblivion he had made of his life.

Gem, too, was back. Though she still spent a good deal of time beside the Highlander’s sickbed, she was often gone during the evenings, and the Scotsman waited, watching, though he seemed to be asleep. Except when the girl was there, then his eyes would follow her, deep-set and brooding. It was clear that when all hell broke loose Gem, at least, would have a protector.

The thought surprised Will, but perhaps it should not have. He was waiting, though he didn’t know what he waited for. But something was about to happen. He knew it suddenly, as surely as he knew Shandria had returned.
And he was already scheming how to see her alone. He closed his eyes against the idiocy and tried to discourage himself, but in the end there was no need, for Poke returned that same evening.

“My cubs,” he said, standing in the doorway like a returning hero, “I hope all has gone well in my absence.”

Will quieted the hate, calmed his breathing, waited.

Poke turned to face Shandria. Her nonexpression was perfectly in place.

“All is well enough,” she said.

He raised a brow. “Was there trouble?”

“Nim was nearly caught near Overstreet,” she said. “I think he should not return there for a spell.”

Poke spread his hands, palms up. “Of course, as you wish, my love. Are there other problems I should be informed of?” he asked, and skimmed the faces around him, but when he arrived at Will, he stopped and raised his brows slightly. The glimmer of a smile played across his plump lips. “What of you, Mr. Slate? Any…frustrations on your part?”

Frustrations? Rage roared through Will like a hurricane. Every screaming instinct demanded revenge. But this was not the time. Not now, he told himself, and remained as he was. “The weather has made our tasks difficult,” he said. “Not many care to venture out to have their pockets picked, what with the rain and cold.”

Poke stared for several seconds. Muscles bunched with anticipatory need in Will’s back, but he waited, breath held, and finally the bastard turned away.

“And what of you, wee Gemini? How is your ward faring? Any improvement?”

“’E’s stronger,” she said, and skimmed a dark glance at Oxford, who leaned against a nearby wall. “But ’is mind don’t seem very sharp.”

“Ahh,” Poke tsked. “Well, perhaps it never was, aye?”

“Oxford’s been baiting him.”

“Has he now?”

Gem shuffled restlessly. “I think Uncle might be of some assistance to us should ’e mend proper.”

Ox straightened. “That fucking turnip ain’t got no place ’ere in Darktowne. I shoulda put an end to ’im first thing. But I guess I’m too kind’earted.”

“Kind’earted.” Gem’s face was pale. “You ain’t got no ’eart.”

“And ’e ain’t gonna either when I get through with ’im,” Ox snarled.

But Poke laughed. “Ahh, ’tis good to be home. Truly, I missed you all. So much in fact, that I brought gifts.”

They stared.

He laughed again. “’Tis the Yuletide season, my dears,” he said. “Time for merriment and peace. Princess, my love, would you fetch the parcels I left in the hall?”

She nodded blithely and turned away, returning a moment later with a cloth sack.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, taking the bag from her and setting it upon the nearby table. “Who shall be first?”

No one spoke. “Well then, I shall simply distribute them myself.”

He did so, digging into the bag and dragging out one gift at a time. Each item was wrapped in brown paper, tied with twisted hemp, and passed down the line to the appropriate recipient.

“Very well then,” he said, rubbing his hands together when the bag was empty. “You may open them.”

It was like a parody of Christmas, like a surreal mockery of the same. Will unwrapped his gift to reveal a silver flask.

“As good as any fine baron might possess,” Poke said, his eyes gleaming. “We must share a drink this night.”

Will nodded and loosened his grip, remembering to breathe.

Ox received a knife, long and curved and deadly. He grinned as he tested the blade. Shandria watched, her expression unreadable, her eyes flat.

“Princess,” Poke said, “you’ve not opened yours.”

She did so now, bowing her head slightly and revealing a small medallion on a golden chain.

“For my lady. Here, let me see it on you,” Poke said. He took the necklace from her fingers, stepped around her and clasped it behind her neck…over her wounds. The wounds he had caused. Will tightened his fists. “There.” He kissed her neck and turned her toward him with a smile, as if he weren’t a soulless monster, as though he didn’t deserve to die slow and ugly. “It looks lovely on you, my dear. Don’t you think so, Mr. Slate?” Poke’s dark eyes were sly as they turned to Will. Their gazes met and caught.

Hate burned like acid in Will’s soul. The other silently raised a brow.

“Mr. Slate?”

“She looks like a princess,” Will said, and though he tried to keep emotion out of his voice, he fear he failed.

Nevertheless, Poke laughed. “Aye, she does that. Well, my wee cubs…” He clapped his hand happily. “What do you think of your gifts?”

There were murmurs of thanks.

“Good then.” He clapped his hands. “Time to go about your business, aye.”

The occupants scattered like late-autumn leaves, all but Gem, who hurried off to where the Scotsman slept in the corner.

Will turned away.

“Mr. Slate.” Poke’s voice was matter-of-fact, but when Will looked back, he saw the predatory gleam in the other’s eyes. “I’d have a word with you if I may.”

Will tried to think of an excuse, but finally he nodded, loosened his aching grip on the flask, and followed the other out of the room.

Walking to a battered sideboard, Poke uncorked a bottle and smiled. “’Tis what I appreciate most about my wee cubs,” he said, pouring out a glassful. “Loyalty. I can leave my Scotch in plain view.” He raised the bottle. “And not a drop disappears.”

Will said nothing.

“Come here, Mr. Slate. Come here.”

He had little choice and no excuse. Taking the flask from Will’s frozen hand, he carefully filled it from the bottle.

“Happy Christmas,” Poke said, and, lifting his own drink, nodded for Will to do the same.

And despite his hatred, despite his blinding rage, he wanted nothing more than to drink. But his hand was steady even if his mind was not.

“Cheers,” Poke said, and lifted his glass.

How long had it been? Weeks certainly. Weeks of agony and deception and danger. One drink would not hurt. One drink. But Shandria’s face glowed in his mind.

“I’d best not,” Will said, and lowered the flask with a hard effort.

Poke raised a brow. “You’re refusing to drink with me?”

“If you’ll remember, I had something of a bad experience the last time I indulged.”

“Ahhh yes,” Poke said, and laughed. “But you are whole and hale now. Indeed, you look quite marvelous. I
think life at the Den has agreed with you.” Motioning to an upholstered chair, he sat down in the other.

Will took the seat indicated, holding the flask tight in a white-knuckled hand.

Poke drank again, still watching. “Aye, marvelous,” he repeated. “There is nothing like larceny to put color in your face and muscle in your arm, aye.” He sipped elegantly at the amber swirl of Scotch. “Unless it is love.”

Will lifted his gaze to Poke’s. The flask trembled in his hand.

Poke raised his brows. “Which is it, Mr. Slate, love or larceny?”

Will shrugged. The movement all but cracked the frozen muscles of his shoulders. “It must be larceny. Since love is hard to come by.”

“Is it?” Poke asked. “Even for a handsome bloke like yourself?”

He said nothing. The Scotch called to him. He refused to look. Refused to answer.

“But what of my princess?”

He caught his breath, but kept his tone steady. “What of her?”

Poke waved a graceful hand and smiled. “Surely ’tis a bit late to pretend you’re not drawn to her.”

Far too late.

“After all, I believe we had a discussion on the topic not so long ago.”

“I’ve learned a great deal since then.”

“Have you?” Poke asked. “Enlighten me.”

“She’s not interested,” Will said, then canted his head as if mildly amused. “And…you’d kill me.”

Poke stared for several seconds, then threw back his head and laughed. “Very good, Mr. Slate. Very good indeed. I like you.” He drank, still smiling. “I hope you’re-
happy here at the Den.” He seemed to wait for a response.

“Happy enough.”

“Good. Good, for ’tis time for me to call in that favor.”

He watched Poke raise his cup. Watched him swallow.

“Favor?” He could barely force out the word.

“The documents I spoke of.”

“The ones you want me to retrieve.”

“Just so.”

“Where are these documents?”

“A place called Shirlmire Court. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

“I’m afraid I’m not welcome in those circles.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Would I be here if I were?”

Poke laughed. “So Tambrook won’t recognize you should you be seen.”

“Tambrook? He’s the lord of the estate?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t usually filch documents.”

“This is a special occasion.”

“What would I gain for my troubles?”

Poke rose slowly to his feet, his gaze not leaving Will’s. “So bold, Mr. Slate. So bold. But that’s what I like about you, aye? Let me just say I will make it well worth your time.”

Nothing was worth his time, nothing but watching Poke die, slow and painful, with fear in his eyes. “Very well then,” he said. “When would you like me to go?”

“As it happens, Tambrook is hosting a masked ball on the morrow. ’Twill be the perfect time. My friend is becoming impatient.”

“Your friend?”

“You didn’t think I wanted the papers for myself, did you?”

“I hadn’t considered.”

“And yet you agree to take on the task. ’Tis very commendable of you, Mr. Slate. Your loyalty is much appreciated.”

Will rose to his feet, the flask still gripped hard and fast.

Poke raised his glass. “To larceny,” he said. “And love.”

Will clicked his container against the cut crystal. Poke drank, then eyed him over his rim.

“I don’t like to drink alone, Mr. Slate.”

And there was the threat. Though thinly veiled, it was easily recognizable. And yet nothing mattered—not the pistol that bulged beneath Poke’s jacket, not the memory of the blank look in Black’s eyes as he died. The only reality was the sight of the scars that marred Shandria’s neck. The jagged feel of the burn beneath his fingertips. The fear in her eyes.

“Drink, Mr. Slate,” Poke said.

There was nothing else to do, not if he hoped to see her safe. He raised the flask to his lips and drew in the slightest amount. It seemed, almost, as if he had never tasted it before. As if, in all the years he had spent intoxicated, he had only guzzled it and never truly appreciated the exquisite amber glory of it.

His hand trembled only slightly when he lowered the flask.

Poke smiled. “Very good, Mr. Slate. Get some rest why don’t you. I go to spend some much-needed time with my lady.” Refilling his glass, he set the bottle on the sideboard and left the room.

William watched him go, but in his mind’s eye he saw
Shandria. She lay on Poke’s bed, her breasts bare, her eyes half-closed.

He strode to the door, stopped, paced back. The flask shook in his hand. Oblivion. It was right there. So close. So damned—He drank. It felt like bliss going down. Like life and death, heaven and hell. And suddenly the flask was empty. He turned and found the bottle.

“Was it all a lie then?”

He started back. Jack stood only inches away, his eyes narrow and somber.

“What are you doing here?” Will’s voice sounded odd to his own ears.

“I live ’ere,” Jack said.

“Why?” He had offered the lad much. Had given him a room, meals.

“I been wonderin’ the same ’bout you.”

The Scotch called to him. He glanced at it. Holding it at bay one ragged second at a time.

“You come to enlighten me again?” the boy asked. “To teach me letters and honor and all them things the old man tried to beat into me?”

“I apologized for him.” Will tightened his grip on the flask. He should have beaten the damned schoolmaster to within an inch of his life. But Will had been oblivious then, well above the mundane pain of a tattered street urchin. And the old bastard had come with sterling credentials. He’d tutored Sedonia’s royal heirs, after all. Surely that was enough said. Or so Will had told himself. But it was all foolishness, of course, for he knew evil came with noble titles. Had learned that as a child.

The boy shrugged. “It don’t matter none. ’E didn’t even leave no scars.” He shuffled his feet, eyes narrowed. “But I been wondering about ’er.”

Will knew immediately who the boy referred to.

“Princess Tatiana.” She had saved the lad when he’d been caught red-handed with a fat jewel tucked into the ragged lining of his coat. She had stood up to her bloodthirsty advisors. Had, in fact, forced Will to take the boy in. He almost smiled at the memory. But the whisky called, rankling his concentration.

“No.” Nim said. “The other one.”

Will shifted his gaze restlessly back to the lad. Those had been turbulent times for Sedonia. Turbulent and dangerous. The princess was young and new to the hard responsibility of the throne. Few knew her well, except Nicol, the viscount of Newburn, of course. And yet, even Will had seen a change in her that spring. A change he suspected had something to do with the journey Newburn had made to Teleere. Something to do with the maid he had met there. Had the viscount actually set an impostor on the throne? he wondered suddenly. Will should have suspected such a thing before, of course, but hard drink had a way of fogging one’s perception. And it was all but impossible to believe—until he looked into the boy’s eyes. The lad knew the truth, had guessed it long ago, though Will couldn’t imagine how. But then, the lad hadn’t been dulled by liquor and raging self-pity, had he?