Master of the Shadows (5 page)

She didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. She had to know more, though. She couldn’t go through with her mission if she didn’t. “How do you feel about that?”

“How do I feel?” He laughed. “I want more.”

“More of the same?”

“More of you.”

He would have her, in a sense, but he would never know—and that was probably the kindest thing she could ever do for him. “You may change your mind before the next time you see me.”

“I think not.”

“Okay.” She got out of bed. “As much as I’d love to chat with you, I have to go and get ready for work now. My boss wants me to stop by the office before I drive out to Rosethorn.” She closed her eyes and added a flirtatious lilt to her voice. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”

“You will wait for me?”

Had she ever done anything else? “Always.”

It took Will only a few hours, a quick trip to the auction house, and a number of phone calls to discover that the mortal female who had seduced and then so angered his master was not, in fact, whom she appeared to be.

The final revelation came down from the Darkyn suzerain of Chicago himself, Valentin Jaus.

“This woman has gone to some length to conceal her true identity,” Jaus said after relating what he had discovered about Chris Renshaw. “My people have been unable to discover any connection she might have with the Brethren, but that, too, is a possibility. Perhaps Robin should consider relocating to the country until your people can deal with her.”

Will rubbed his eyes. “I do not think the suzerain will be of the same opinion, my lord.”

“I would come to provide my aid directly,” Jaus added, “but I have promised my
sygkenis
that I will not travel by plane for some time.”

“I must agree with your lady, my lord.” Will remembered how desperately they had searched for Jaus when his private jet had been hijacked and forced down by a Brethren agent. Robin, who had originally invited Jaus to fly to Atlanta, had blamed himself for the terrifying incident, and had not quit searching until word of Jaus’s rescue had been sent. “I thank you for your assistance with this matter.”

“I have never repaid your master for sending my grandfather’s sword to me, Will,” Jaus said. “Give Robin my compliments, and please call on me if he has further need.”

After speaking with Jaus, Will left his office and went to the gallery where Chris Renshaw worked, where he fortunately encountered a mortal who provided him with the reason the woman had created a false identity for herself.

Chris Renshaw was not an art dealer, but a federal agent.

Upon his return to the Armstrong building, Will first checked in with the guards. Robin refused to travel with more than a few men, so Will felt obliged to arrange for the most competent, experienced warriors from the
jardin
to accompany them when they came to the city. He found Sylas and Bergen warily attending to a small group of Italian
cavalieri
in one of the reception rooms on the first floor.

“Seneschal.” Sylas came over to him to report. “We have divided the contessa’s men into small groups and provided them with stores and beds in the barracks.”

Will scanned the faces of the
cavalieri
sitting at the table with Bergen. “What of these men?”

“They are the contessa’s bodyguards. They await their mistress.” The castellan nodded toward the corridor, and Will followed him out of the room. Once out of earshot, Sylas said, “These Kyn have no lord with them. Only the lady.”

“The contessa is a widow, and a recluse,” Will said. “After the
jardin
wars, she would not permit another to take the place of her late husband. It seems she and the master are old friends.”

“Old friends or not, a woman cannot control more than seventy Kyn males.”

Will shrugged. “Jayr of the Realm has five times that number, and she manages well as suzeraina.”

“True, but I still cannot like it. ’Tis unnatural, the way they look to her.” Sylas paused, searching for words. “Will, I know many have been made to flee the Brethren in Europe, but there is something wrong here. I can feel it.”

Will trusted his male instincts, but he needed more than a bad feeling. “Name what it is, and I will go to our lord with it directly.”

“I wish I could.” The big man sighed. “But no, they conduct themselves as they should, and I have not seen or heard anything that would mark them as a threat.”

“You have been on duty too often these last weeks,” Will said. “Return to the estate and your
sygkenis
. Send Waltham to take your place.”

“I should send more than one guard, if you mean to accommodate the contessa’s men here,” Sylas said.

“Too many for town.” Will hadn’t thought about where the contessa and her men would stay while in their territory. Because the
cavalieri
were not familiar with the United States or the customs of the country, they would need some time and space to adjust and learn how to behave before they were permitted to mingle freely with American mortals. “I expect our lord will send them to Rosethorn. You had best to prepare for that.”

“I shall, as soon as I arrive.” Sylas bowed and strode off down the corridor.

Will went to the private reception room where Robin was still entertaining the contessa. He stood outside and listened for a break in their conversation before he knocked and went in.

“I beg your pardon, my lord, my lady.” Will bowed first to the contessa and then to Robin. “I would not intrude, my lord, but an urgent matter has arisen in regard to last night’s business with the mortal female that I must relate to you at once.” He could not say more than that in front of the contessa, and gave her a meaningful look.

“The contessa is an old and trusted friend,” his master told him. “You may speak in front of her.”

“I went to the auction office as you directed, and obtained the information you desired,” he said. “The female listed a Chicago address that I verified with our friends in the north. If it existed—which it does not—it would occupy the middle of Lake Michigan.”

Robin didn’t appear impressed by this news. “Someone must have noted it wrong.”

“I thought so as well at first,” Will continued, “but the driver’s license she provided was not registered with the Chicago Department of Transportation. Also, her credit card was issued by a government-managed credit union in Washington, D.C., but one week ago.”

Robin’s expression tightened. “What else?”

“I felt I should go to the gallery to question her employer,” Will said. “It is closed until the night of the show, but I intercepted one of the humans exiting from the back door—a man named Dennis. Under my influence, he admitted that he did not work for the gallery or any art dealer. He is an electronics expert who specializes in covert monitoring devices. He said that he, the woman, and everyone associated with this show are special agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

The contessa, who was listening closely, pressed her full red lips together.

Robin looked as dumbfounded as he had when he discovered the mortal gone from his bedchamber. “She is an FBI agent.”

“Aye, my lord, and that is not all that the man told me.” Will wished he could soften the blow somehow for his master’s sake, but decided the truth was best. “Agent Renshaw came to Atlanta to work undercover as an art dealer, and set up what they refer to as a ‘sting operation.’ The FBI wishes to identify and arrest those responsible for transporting to the states the stolen art recovered by the Kyn in France.”

Robin fell silent for a time, and then said, “I am the one responsible for that.”

“Yes, my lord.” Will became uneasy. “According to the man Dennis, the FBI has been interested in your, ah, activities in the art world for some time. The agents have not yet identified you by name or appearance, and they have no witnesses, but they know a great many details about your most, ah, daring exploits. They call you ‘the Magician.’”

The contessa produced a tiny laugh. “Most appropriate, my lord, given your skills at making things disappear.”

Will didn’t care for her fawning or her flattery; it sounded false to his ears. “I do not believe that the female knows that you and the Magician are one and the same,” he told Robin. “If she did, she surely would have tried to arrest you last night. But she and her cohorts are staging the gallery show specifically as a trap for you.
The Maiden’s Book of Hours
is being used as the bait.”

“How could she know that I wanted that manuscript?” Robin sounded angry now. “For that matter, how did they know I live here, in Atlanta?”

Will moved his shoulders. “I cannot say, my lord, but their information is very good.”

“Too good.” Robin rose and walked from one end of the room to the other. “You are certain that she does not know who I am?”

“My lord, given that your activities date back several decades, the FBI believes you to be an elderly mortal,” Will replied. “Even if Agent Renshaw did suspect, you appear too young and affluent to fit what Dennis called their ‘profile.’”

“I cannot believe it.” Robin shook his head slowly. “First this mortal treats me like a discarded garment, and now she means to entrap and imprison me.”

The contessa, who was watching Robin’s face with a singular intensity, spoke then. “If I may be so bold as to make a suggestion, my lord?” When Robin faced her, she said, “As I have told you, my talent is persuasion. I could attend this gallery show with you, and easily convince this mortal female to surrender the manuscript to you voluntarily. Would that not be fitting revenge for what she has taken from you?”

Robin swept his hand to one side. “She took nothing from me.”

“Perhaps nothing material, my lord,” the contessa said. “But your trust has obviously been violated, and by a woman who would gladly do much more harm to you. You are a suzerain; she is but a mortal. If word of this were to spread among our kind…”

It sounded almost as if she were threatening him, Will thought. It certainly looked as if she were relishing every detail.

“No one need know anything about this,” Will said, glowering at her. “I’m sure such an
old
and
trusted
friend as you, my lady, will keep my lord’s confidence.”

“You can depend on me to be as silent as a mute,” the contessa agreed before she turned to his master. “But what will you do about this mortal who dares to hunt you, my lord?”

“Teach her a lesson,” Robin said flatly. “One she will not soon forget.”

“Welcome to Rosethorn, Ms. Carmichael,” a melodic female voice said. “I hope your journey from the city was a pleasant one.”

Reese automatically straightened her jacket as she turned and saw the willowy form of a light brown–haired woman standing just inside the sitting room. At first glance Rebecca of Daven appeared angelic, almost radiant, as if her flawless features had been fashioned in some higher place by an unearthly hand. As accustomed as Reese was to the physical beauty of the Darkyn, this slim goddess just might surpass all of them. For a moment she didn’t know whether to offer her hand or go down on her knees.

As Rebecca came toward her, however, one glaring imperfection made itself known. The goddess had a limp—a bad one. She stepped out with her right leg but dragged the left along the floor, as if she couldn’t bend the knee or use her hip properly. That explained the heavy material of the floor-length skirt of the dress she wore; she was either covering up a cast or a leg brace.

Chris’s envy dwindled. “Very pleasant, my lady.” She glanced at the nearest love seat. “Would you care to sit down for a few minutes?”

“No, I’m quite well, thank you. Forgive my ungainliness.” She touched the side of her skirt. “I had the crippling sickness when I was a human child. What do you Americans call that disease?”

Reese thought for a moment. “I think you mean polio.”

“Yes, that is the word for it.” She came a little closer and studied Reese. “You seem quite young to be in service. I had thought
tresori
remained in training until their third decade.”

“Most do, but a few of us are permitted to begin serving late in the second.” Reese knew she had to change the subject, and quickly. She gestured around the room. “You run this entire household by yourself?”

“I have my ladies to help me, and my husband, Sylas, serves our lord as his castellan,” Rebecca said. “Together we are able to cope with most of the domestic crises.” She offered an encouraging smile. “Will Scarlet tells me that you have not yet pledged yourself to Lord Locksley. Have you some concern that has not been addressed?”

Reese seized on that. “I know so little about the suzerain or the estate. When I make my choice, it’s going to be for life, and I’d like to be sure I’ve made the right one.”

“You might have talked this over with Will,” the chatelaine chided. “No one knows Lord Locksley or Rosethorn as well as he.”

Rebecca had her there. “There are things you just can’t ask Kyn males. They don’t always understand what’s important to a female
tresora
. They look at Rosethorn and see a well-guarded Darkyn fortress. I see property that, under certain circumstances, can be seized and searched by the authorities.” Reese nodded toward the painting hanging between two windows: a delicate portrait of a young woman gazing into a mirror. “I know that is a Vermeer. What I don’t know is if it really belongs to Lord Locksley or someone else.”

Rebecca eyed the painting. “That once belonged to a mortal who fled to South America from Germany after one of the mortal World Wars. No one knows it still exists.” She frowned. “But we would never permit the authorities to see it.”

“Unless they came during the day, when all of the
jardin
is at rest,” Reese pointed out. “Then I would have to know whether to hide this painting, or let them admire it while I served them coffee.”

“Now I see your meaning.” The chatelaine gave her a look of approval. “I also understand why they let you serve at so young an age. You are a clever and thoughtful young woman, Reese Carmichael. We would be blessed, I think, to count you among our mortal friends.”

A pity she never would. “Thank you, my lady.”

“’Tis Rebecca. Come now, I will show you where you might take your photographs.” The chatelaine limped out of the room, and Reese followed her toward the double winding staircase. “I think we should begin with our sewing rooms, where we keep the tapestry work. Our ladies are quite industrious.”

“They are as busy as they are beautiful,” a man drawled from behind Reese. “But they dim before you, my lady.”

Reese smelled something warm and green, like a field of sweet herbs, and glanced over her shoulder at the Kyn male standing there. Like Rebecca, this man had been blessed with extraordinary beauty, although his was more vibrant and earthly. His hair, streaked with all the colors of autumn leaves, hung loose around a face that belonged in an old master’s painting. Dark brows and lashes made his amber brown eyes look like polished gems.

Tiger eyes,
Reese thought, and then remembered. “I doubt that, my lord.”

“I am called Alain.” He circled around as he gave her what should have been an insulting personal inspection. “Chatelaine, is it my birthday?”

“You know it is not,” Rebecca said, her soft voice suddenly sharp.

“How tragic.” He reached out and fingered a strand of Reese’s hair. “Is it hers?”

“This is Miss Reese Carmichael, sent from the city by Will Scarlet,” Rebecca said. “Reese, this is Alain, captain of the garrison.”

“I’ve always envied Will’s eye for beauty, Reese, but never so much as at this moment.” He made the single syllable of her name sound like a symphony as he held out his hand. “I am enchanted, my lady.”

Reese tried to make the handshake brisk, but as soon as their fingers touched his closed around hers, and he breathed in deeply.

“Alain.” Rebecca’s tone grew sharp. “Miss Carmichael has come here at Will’s invitation. She is
his
guest, and I have assured him that she will be treated with every courtesy while she is here.”

“Naturally.” Slowly the cool hand withdrew from Reese’s, but the tiger eyes kept watching her. “Miss Carmichael, have we met before?”

The chatelaine sighed his name. “Alain, please.”

“It is only that she seems somehow familiar to me.” He smiled at Reese, transforming his lethal charm into amused resignation. “Forgive my poor manners. Welcome to Rosethorn, Miss Carmichael.”

If she could deceive him, she could do the same with the rest of them. “Thank you, my lord. I am very happy to be here.”

“Were you sent to entertain our Italian brothers,” Alain asked, “or do you prefer more civilized lovers?”

Reese gave Rebecca an uncertain glance. “I’m not here to entertain anyone.”

“Alain, we have no Italians here,” the chatelaine said.

“We will as soon as introductions have been made.” He nodded toward the front of the property. “Our lord has sent more than seventy of them from the city to stay with us, and they have just now arrived.”

When he arrived back at Rosethorn, Sylas had first seen to preparing quarters among the garrison’s barracks for the contessa’s
cavalieri
. He had meant to go from there to see his wife and warn her about their possible visitors, but a call from Will Scarlet confirmed that the Italians were already en route to the estate.

“I’ve only just arrived myself,” Sylas told the seneschal. “I will need more time.”

“You have none,” Will said bluntly. “I am sorry, Sylas, but our lord is not thinking clearly tonight, and I have my hands full with him. Do what you can.”

Sylas immediately called for his senior men, relayed the situation, and issued orders. “We are to regard these Italians as guests, but I want the patrols doubled and the interior guards to stand watch day and night.”

“You expect some trouble from them?” Bergen asked.

“No. Their mistress is an old friend of the master’s.” Sylas looked around him at the sober faces of his best warriors. “Regardless, I expect us to be ready for anything.”

Word came over the radio a few minutes later from the perimeter guards that several large, chartered passenger vehicles had stopped just beyond the first gate, and that Kyn males walking in presentation formation were approaching the estate. Sylas summoned an equal number from the garrison, ordered them to arm themselves, and sent them to stand ready in the lower courtyard.

The castellan remained behind long enough to call his wife over the radio. “Rebecca, where are you?”

“I am in Ireland, of course,” she called back. “I think I shall visit the high lord and ask him how I might rid myself of a husband too busy to properly greet me when he comes home.”

Sylas chuckled. “Forgive me, my lady; ’twas something of an emergency. Have you word of our visitors?”

“Yes, Alain brought word to me and my ladies. We should have the main hall ready in a few moments. Did you miss me?”

“Aye.” He smiled. “I will show you how much later.” He remembered what she had said earlier. “Is that mortal—Will’s friend—with you? She will have to go.”

“I left her with Alain,” Rebecca said. “She needed but a few minutes to take photographs of the workrooms, and then he will escort her from the stronghold.”

Having a strange mortal under their roof at the same time strange Kyn were arriving made Sylas uneasy. Still, he had no time to chase after Reese Carmichael, and Alain would assure that she came to no harm. “Very well. I will see you shortly in the hall.”

Not for the first time, Sylas was glad of the work he had done to disguise Rosethorn’s fortifications from the ever-curious eyes of the mortal world. Flower beds and turf covered the steep inclines of the curtain walls’ plinth bases. Trees planted along the inside of the lower courtyard cast shade over the subtle crenellations and hoardings where the Kyn on perimeter patrol stood watch. The plaster veneer of the keep, which had been designed to appear as a large contemporary manor house, concealed five-meter-thick masonry walls.

The decorative casings above the large picture windows housed rolls of steel slats that at the push of a button could be dropped down to form an impenetrable barrier over the glass panes; dual wooden shutters on hidden tracks flanking the windows covered tall, narrow arrow loops. The garages, gardening sheds, generator, and pump houses were actually smaller versions of the old gate towers and were manned by armed guards around the clock. Even the collapsible ramps leading from the lower bailey up to the shield walls had been paved with granite cobblestone and lined with flowering shrubs to appear to the ignorant eye as nothing more than pleasant, well-landscaped walkways.

Robin had disagreed with his castellan over the need for one last, outmost barrier against invasion. While the modern world had developed formidable means and firepower since the age of castles, water still presented a sizable and difficult obstacle. The suzerain, however, had maintained that nothing could adequately conceal or explain away a wide, water-filled trench encircling the entire property. Sylas had to be content with a series of retention ponds and ditches for which he fashioned collapsible borders and a massive underground system of supply pipes. Should the stronghold come under attack, he could flip a switch and flood the ditches within minutes, creating an almost instantaneous moat.

Knowing the stronghold was well guarded did not relieve all of Sylas’s misgivings about their unexpected visitors. If the Brethren had tracked the Italians after they had fled Venice, they might have followed them across the sea to America. Hopefully their mistress had been too clever to lead their mutual enemy directly to Robin of Locksley’s door.

Sylas led his personal escort down the ramp to where the Italians were waiting. Their leader, a tall warrior whose dark face gave away none of his thoughts, stepped forward and performed a respectful bow.

“I am Saetta,
maréchal
to Contessa Salvatora Borgiana, sent here by leave of your suzerain, Robin of Locksley.” He straightened and met Sylas’s gaze with the steadiness of an experienced leader. “We are grateful for the sanctuary you provide.”

As castellan, Sylas had considerably more rank than Saetta, whose position in Italy was roughly equal to that of a head groom or stablemaster. Under any other circumstances it would be an insult to have such a member of the contessa’s household act as her liaison. Still, Sylas knew that Salvatora Borgiana and her
jardin
had been without proper leadership since the death of her lord paramount and husband, Arno, during the
jardin
wars. That Richard had permitted the situation to persist for so long puzzled him, but was not a matter for him to question or challenge.

“Sylas of Daven, Lord Locksley’s castellan.” He walked forward a few steps, eliminating most of the space between them before returning the bow. Among the Kyn, it was a gesture of confidence as well as a silent offer of friendship. “You and your men are welcome here,
maréchal
.”

“We will endeavor not to create any hardship for you or your men, castellan.” Saetta turned and introduced his most senior men, who exchanged the proper greetings while keeping a wary eye on the battlement patrols watching them from above.

All of them, Sylas noticed, had old, faint marks on their faces, hands, or arms that he recognized as burn scars. It was not unusual for Kyn to suffer scarification from fire—burns healed slowly, and the flesh always retained some mark from it—but he had never seen so many afflicted.

Once Sylas had accomplished his turn at introductions, Saetta gestured toward the front gates. “What weapons we managed to bring with us from Italy are stowed on our transport vehicles. I have allowed my men to retain their daggers for personal protection. I ask your permission to permit them to continue to carry them during our stay at Rosethorn.”

Seventy men armed with daggers could inflict a great deal of damage. “You are under no threat here,” Sylas pointed out.

“True, but to strip a man of all his blades after he’s been driven from his homeland and obliged to seek shelter in a strange country, among those who are not blood Kyn…” Saetta made a subtle gesture. “It is a matter of personal dignity.”

He would not beg for his men, Sylas thought, but nor would he see them suffer unnecessarily. His respect for Saetta rose another notch.

“It took me fifty years to grow accustomed to not wearing a sword outside our territory. As long as your men conduct themselves appropriately, I will allow it.” He raised his voice a degree. “All of the mortals who serve at Rosethorn are
tresori
, and are to be treated as such. Females are given the right of choice, and the right of refusal. All Kyn women here have been claimed or are bonded.” He expected to hear a few soft groans, but none of the
cavalieri
made a sound. “We will see to your needs. Rosethorn has ample stores, and I will arrange to provide you with transportation at regular intervals to territory where you may hunt.”