Lord of Shadows (24 page)

But before she opened her mouth to ask the obvious, Jane threaded her arm through Daigh’s. Grabbed him by the ear, drawing him down to buss him on the cheek. “Daigh, you beast. You did come. And you’ve found Sabrina already.” Swung around to Aunt Delia. “Mrs. Norris, may I present my brother to you. Mr. Fletcher is newly arrived in Dublin.”

That twinkle of amusement was back in Daigh’s eyes. And he actually smiled as he bowed over her aunt’s hand. An expression to turn any woman’s head. “I found Lady Sabrina at the punch bowl, complaining of a headache. Perhaps it would be best if she were taken home.”

Aunt Delia was no exception. She fluttered like a schoolgirl. “She always did have her poor mother’s constitution. The merest breath of wind would send her to her bed with a cold.”

“If you would allow it, I’m happy to escort the young women home.”

Sabrina’s head snapped around. Please no. She couldn’t take another moment of Daigh’s company right now.

“That would be perfect. Thank you, young man.”

Sabrina shot Jane a glare. Perfect was just what it wasn’t.

“Brother?” Sabrina complained. “Brother? What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking of your reputation. Something you obviously weren’t.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking of. Or rather the destruction of it. It would have worked. Aunt Delia would have been sure to tell Aidan. And Aidan would have been suitably horrified. Enough to send me back to Glenlorgan with the speed of a cannon shot.”

“That was your plan? A scandal with Daigh MacLir?”

“It would have worked if . . .”

“If what?”

“Never mind.” She rubbed her temples.

“You two were gone quite a while. Did he . . . and you . . .”

“Jane!”

“He is my brother,” she answered smugly. “I have a right to know.”

“You want to know what happened? The whole ugly, sordid episode? I’ll tell you. I threw myself at him. Did everything but stake myself out for his pleasure. Do you know what he did?”

“By the sounds of it—”

“Nothing! Not a thing. He was—more or less—a perfect gentleman. Drat him.”

“Is it the more or the less you have a problem with?”

Sabrina closed her eyes. Saw once more the hard, arrogant beauty of the man as he’d caressed her. Experienced again the persuasiveness of his kisses. And remembered the complete contentment she found in his arms. As if she could live her life within that powerful embrace.

“It doesn’t matter. It was a stupid idea.”

Daigh paid off the hackney. Still four or five blocks from the room he’d taken in Wood Street, but he needed the air. The time. The space to think.

He’d held a dream when he held Sabrina. Insubstantial as cobwebs. Fragile as foam upon the waves. It didn’t matter how certain he was of her place in his previous life, she was as out of reach as his half-forgotten past.

A blast of wind curled down his collar. Rattled shutters. Trash skipped and swirled down the street. But beneath the normal night sounds came a faint rattle. A slide of a broken footstep. A held breath.

He sensed it all between one heartbeat and the next. Battle intensity reining him to a quivering tension of muscles in anticipation. Passing an alley shrouded in wraith-like shadows, he glanced within. Someone watched. Someone followed. His hand fell to the dagger at his waist, but he kept his pace even and unhurried.

A carriage clattered to a stop at the next corner, and a man stepped down into the light of the pavement lamp. The coachman slapped his reins, the carriage barreling off.

Bile chewed its way through Daigh’s gut. A horrible, crawling, humiliating disgust, but he faltered for only a moment before resuming his long, easy stride.

“Did you see our little sparrow home?” St. John’s smile beckoned with angel innocence. Only his pale eyes, reflected in the glow from the lamp, chilled with their malice. “How chivalrous of you.”

Daigh collared him. “Come near Lady Sabrina again and I’ll take you apart piece by bloody piece.”

“Don’t tell me you have feelings for the girl. Fascinating. The monster in love. Does she know what you are, Lazarus?
Can she smell the reek of the grave you give off? Or is she smitten by that sensual animal beauty of yours and doesn’t care?” He raked Daigh with a gaze that held the leering sexuality of Cork, leaving Daigh nauseous and shaking with rage and embarrassment. He released him on a muttered oath. “Easy to lose one’s perspective when confronted with six and half feet of pure animal magnetism. I should know.”

Daigh snorted his lack of concern. Began walking, but St. John wouldn’t allow his escape. Kept apace with him.

“Does she know where Douglas is hiding?”

“Leave her alone, St. John,” he growled.

“Perhaps I will. Perhaps I won’t. It all depends on you. You’ve maneuvered your way into the little sparrow’s confidence. So, you can find out what she knows. Lead me right to Brendan Douglas.”

“You’re the bounty hunter. Find him yourself.”

St. John opened his arms in a surrender gesture. Sighed. “He proves more elusive than expected. But with Lady Sabrina’s assistance—willing or . . . unwilling. And perhaps unwilling might be more fun—I shall capture him.”

Daigh grabbed his shoulder. Spun him around. Pulled him close. “Touch her, and you’re dead as I was. And no Máelodor to bring you back.”

St. John’s mage energy crackled along Daigh’s nerves like acid. Burst at the base of his brain like a hammer blow. He saw nothing but a crimson haze. Heard nothing but St. John’s hissed curses. Felt the glide of a cold hand upon a chest that only minutes earlier had burned with Sabrina’s tender touch. Cold lips pressed to his mouth, making choking vomit rise into his throat.

He fought back. Broke the binding restraining him. Tore himself free of the hands gliding over him with a
sexual insistence. He doubled over, retching into the gutter. Heaving. Sick. Furious.

“See? You do care.” His hand rested possessively upon Daigh’s back. “My sweet deathless beast, you forget what you’ve so recently learned. That I can bring you a pleasure no woman ever could. Or I can break you.” Again the cool fondling hand, but this time it hardened. A weapon appeared. A dagger. It punched into Daigh’s gut. He arched away from the explosion of pain. But it came again. This time to the small of his back as he fell. And again to his ribs.

He dropped to the ground. Blood running in rivers from his wounds, the hurled curse slowing his healing. Pushing him toward shocky numbness.

St. John bent over him. Stabbed him between the ribs.

Nowhere for Daigh to escape. To recover.

Blood filled his mouth. His vision closing in on him until all he saw was St. John’s pale soulless eyes. His gleaming angelic demon smile. “Lady Sabrina will find me Douglas one way or another.”

“Whoreson,” Daigh mouthed.

The kick that followed brought a scream to his lips. He reared up against the inferno of agony. His lungs starved for air. His nerves shriveling against the next attack.

“You search for Douglas?”

A deep voice sounded from somewhere to Daigh’s right. St. John’s attention shifting immediately to a nearby alley.

“Then you’ve found him. But finding and catching are two different things.” The words taunted their challenge yet held an unyielding strength. Whoever this was, he was well able to take care of himself.

Daigh tried moving his head. Couldn’t even breathe
without whimpering. Mage energy infected his blood. Coursed its black power along his veins. He was trapped in a web of pain until it subsided.

St. John vanished from his side. Power throbbed the air. Shot in ribbons of light from street to street. A shout. A curse. And silence as the antagonists receded.

The dark alley. The quiet steps. Douglas had followed. Douglas had watched. And he’d interceded to save Daigh. But not before he’d heard the whole. Knew Sabrina’s danger. St. John’s evil. And Daigh’s ultimatum.

He lay alone on the pavement. Stared up into the coal-thick night. Felt the torture of healing as his body—now free of the
Amhas-draoi
’s interference—knit itself together. Tendons. Muscles. Arteries. Bone.

St. John’s threat the only wound that would never heal.

Máelodor heaved himself into the carriage. Allowed the hovering manservant to settle him comfortably under half a dozen traveling rugs. Place heated bricks on the floor. Still the icy air cramped his joints and settled in his bones until he had to grit his teeth against the ache.

Bloom’s failure had spurred this trip. Bloom’s body scattered to the dogs.

He’d not fail Máelodor again.

“You should be at the coast by nightfall, sir.” The unctuous groom piled on an extra rug. “And in Dublin within a day or two if the weather holds.”

Máelodor waved off the annoying little toad. “And word’s been sent to St. John of my arrival?”

“Aye, sir. We’ve ordered him to meet you.”

“And Lazarus?”

“Nothing yet, sir.”

He closed his fist around the head of his cane.

Máelodor’s wards kept the creature whole. His magics
kept him subservient. So where was he? Why hadn’t he sent word?

He’d already shown the
Domnuathi
in graphic and violent detail what happened to those in his service who showed a disappointing lack of obedience. He smiled. How much more exciting and gratifying when the pain could be strung out forever. No inconvenient death to mar the perfection of the suffering. It would be a fool who tempted a repeat of the process. And whatever Lazarus’s flaws, fool was not among them.

Máelodor’s raising of a soldier of Domnu had started as an experiment. But it had paid out with so much unexpected new knowledge. The second summoning would be all the greater a success for what he’d learned.

Arthur would be tied to Máelodor just as Lazarus was. Inviolate against death. Enthralled to his creator. A perfect tool to create a perfect world.

Daigh opened his eyes, not on the woman who haunted his fevered dreams, leaving him drenched with sweat and heart racing. But on the hard-bitten beauty of Miss Roseingrave, who regarded him with a mixture of revulsion and ridicule.

“How did you get in here?” he growled.

“Your landlady let me in.” Her critical gaze wandered the barren, dusty garret. “You left the Halliwells’ suspiciously early last evening. I assume you’ve something to show for it besides Lady Sabrina Douglas’s deflowering.”

“Jealous?” he sneered, tired of Roseingrave’s hostility. Swinging out of bed, he drew his shirt over his head. Combed an agitated hand through his hair.

She flushed, lips pursed, eyes flashing violence. “Hardly.”

“Then aim your vitriol at me. Not her. She’s done nothing to warrant your claws.”

“Hasn’t she? The Douglases lie at the center of a violent whirlwind. Their father began it with his demented ideas of
Other
supremacy. And the heirs of Kilronan follow in his steps like lemmings. Brendan Douglas threatens our world with exposure and destruction. And if it weren’t for Lord Kilronan’s stubborn stupidity, the
Amhas-draoi
would have his father’s diary, and his cousin would still be alive.” She sucked in a ragged breath. Her eyes burning with tears, her face twisted into paroxysms of rage and grief.