Stranger (5 page)

With a sudden grunt, the man collapsed against Catullus. Peering over the unconscious man’s shoulder, Catullus saw something rather amazing.

Gemma Murphy held a heavy rope, one end tied into a large, weighty knot. The stain of red and clump of hair attached to the knot testified to how hard she had hit Catullus’s assailant.

“Dead?” she asked.

Catullus shoved at the man heavily against him. The man crumpled to the ground. “No, but he smells like it.” He strode to where the cudgel-wielding tough still struggled against the net. With one quick punch, Catullus knocked the man unconscious. Like his associate, the thug collapsed to the ground.

“Deft,” Catullus murmured, glancing between the rope she held, then up at Miss Murphy.

She looked back at him with a gleam of triumph hidden beneath careful sangfroid, then turned to the net, still covering the insensate thug. “What are you doing with a net inside a shotgun shell?”

“I had planned on using it for fishing. It has a much smaller charge than with a typical shell.” Which had kept him from blowing his own hand up. He shook it out, losing the last traces of the reverberations.

“Diabolical,” she added, eyeing the intricate wire net.

Catullus smiled modestly.

Then Gemma Murphy glanced behind him with a frown. “Your friends—”

Hell. He’d been so amazed at Miss Murphy’s appearance, he had almost forgotten Astrid and Lesperance. He turned to them now. One of their assailants lay upon the ground, unconscious or dead Catullus could not tell. The other two were giving a hell of a fight. Lesperance bared his teeth as he and his attacker traded punches, while Astrid sent a flurry of deliberate kicks toward the stomach and legs of the thug advancing on her.

The man bearing down on Astrid glanced over to see Catullus standing with Gemma Murphy. His watery little eyes took stock of everyone in the alley, as though cataloguing them for a future report to the Heirs. Yet the thug not only saw Catullus, Astrid, and Lesperance, but Gemma Murphy as well, including her in their ranks. Too late did Catullus step in front of her, shielding her from his gaze. Astrid also darted a glance in Catullus’s direction, giving her attacker a tiny opening. But instead of launching an assault, the man spun on his heels and darted away. He’d calculated the odds and found them decidedly not in his favor.

So he fled.

His comrade wasn’t so lucky. Lesperance punished him with punches until the remaining thug slid in a boneless, bloody heap to the grimy pavement.

“Everyone all right?” Catullus asked.

Astrid nodded, and Lesperance grunted an assent, gingerly adjusting his jaw.

“And you?” Catullus turned to Miss Murphy.

She also nodded, though she held up one slim hand, revealing red, chafed fingers “Little bit of rope burn.” She shrugged off this small injury.

“What are you doing here?” Astrid demanded.

Miss Murphy was not fazed by Astrid’s harsh tone. “I had a feeling that trouble might follow you off the ship.” She glanced over at the huge hole and fissures left by the cudgel, and raised a brow. “I see I was right.”

Catullus took advantage of the brief lull to retrieve the cudgel. With a knife, he scratched off the lion brand, rendering it just a piece of heavy wood. He tossed it to the ground and was gratified that it only rolled along the pavement, rather than cleave a gaping hole in the street.

Miss Murphy still had her questions. “How did they know to find you in Liverpool?”

“The Heirs must have hired men to watch all the major ports,” said Catullus. He was all brisk business as he collected his bags. “Bristol, London. Southampton, of course. And Liverpool. We have to leave immediately. Before more Heir hooligans arrive.”

“One of them got away,” Lesperance rumbled. “I can give chase.”

“How?” asked Gemma Murphy. “He’s probably long gone by now, lost in the crowd.”

“I’ve got a few ways of tracking someone,” Lesperance said, with a small, dark smile.

Miss Murphy didn’t understand, but this wasn’t the moment for explanations.

“No time,” Catullus said. “The authorities might be here any minute and we have to get out of Liverpool
now.
Grab your bags.” He strode toward Gemma Murphy and wrapped a hand around her slender, strong wrist. She glanced down at the sight, then up again, a question in her eyes.

“What are you doing?”

He began to pull her toward the end of the street, toward the train station. “Keeping you alive.”

Gemma hurried to keep up with Catullus Graves’s longlegged strides as they cut through the streets of Liverpool. She had no idea where he was taking her, but he seemed to know exactly where to go. Gemma darted a quick glance behind. None of the thugs followed, though Astrid and Lesperance remained vigilant as they trailed after her and Graves.

“Those men,” she panted. Damn those weeks of travel, leaving her softer and less conditioned. “They were sent by the Heirs?”

“Yes.” Clipped and alert, he didn’t spare Gemma a glance. But he didn’t release her, either. His hand was an unbreakable hold around her wrist. “And they saw you.” This he said with anger hard in his voice. Anger at her? She had just
helped
him.

When a train station loomed into view, Gemma tried to dig her heels into the pavement. “Don’t send me away.”

He didn’t slow, her resistance proving useless against his strength. “I’m not,” he growled. “We are taking a train to Southampton, and you’re coming with us.”

So prepared was she to argue her case, she thought she misheard him. “What?”

On the steps leading into the station, he finally did stop, swinging around to face her. Behind his spectacles, his eyes were deepest brown, gleaming with fury and resolve. “I was a damned idiot,” he snarled. “I let one of those bastards see you, and now your life isn’t worth tuppence.”

His anger was for himself, not her. But she couldn’t allow that. “He only saw me for a second. Surely that’s not enough.”

“For the Heirs, it’s all they need. It won’t take much for them to learn who you are, and know that you fought on the side of the Blades. That means your life is imperiled.” He paced up the stairs to the station, with her still in tow. “The safest place for you now is with me.”

A fast chill ran along Gemma’s spine to think that she was now the target of a ruthless band of powerful, magic-wielding men. She’d experienced danger before—including a trio of unruly fur trappers desperate for female company, though they were less inclined to pursue her after she shot one in the hand and nearly emasculated another. There had been many other brushes with risk. But nothing like this. Nothing where she truly felt her life was threatened.

Graves would keep her close, keep her safe. There was no doubt in him. While she was in his care, he would ensure no harm would come to her.

Inside, the station teemed with activity, almost as chaotic as the docks. Gray sunshine poured in from large skylights, illuminating the cavernous station and people swarming along platforms, where huge, shining black trains waited and steamed. None of the thousands of people here had any idea that a war was being fought for the world’s magic. But they might learn, when she wrote of it.

If she lived.

Graves stopped in the middle of this industrial and
human maelstrom. Astrid and Lesperance caught up, and the Englishwoman shot Gemma a suspicious glance.

“She’s coming with us, then?”

“One of them saw her.”

Astrid nodded with grim understanding, though it was clear from her severe expression that she didn’t care for Gemma’s presence.

Well, Gemma didn’t much like Astrid Bramfield, either. “You aren’t the only woman who knows how to fight.” She had proved it, minutes ago.

“Good.” But there was no faith or gratitude in the Englishwoman’s silver eyes.

“Miss Murphy’s shown she can be trusted,” Lesperance said.

“She’s demonstrated she can swing a rope,” countered Astrid. “That doesn’t mean she’s trustworthy.”

“She’s still coming with us,” said Graves.

“And standing right here,” added Gemma. She didn’t care for being talked about like a unmatched, smelly shoe.

“I’ll purchase the tickets.” Graves finally released Gemma’s wrist to move toward the ticket counter, and she found she wanted his touch again.

“Wait!”

He swung around at her cry. She closed the distance between them. When she reached up to his face, he pulled back with a frown.

Gemma licked her thumb and rubbed it over his cheek, where the thug’s hook had cut him. The contact of wet skin to skin was a visceral charge. “You had a little blood on your face,” she breathed in the close space between them.

The air of hard authority fell away from him for a moment as his frown disappeared. He swallowed, tried to speak, then, finding no words, turned and strode toward the ticket counter. His long, dashing coat billowed behind him as he paced away.

Gemma watched him, saw the crowds part ahead of him,
deferring to his natural air of command. She had seen the swift, confident grace of his movement in combat, the speed of his mind and body working together to create a man of devastating potency. Yet, with her, he became cautious, uncertain. What a paradox, one that fascinated her not as a journalist, but as a woman.

She broke her gaze to find Astrid Bramfield studying her. Gemma sent a challenging look right back. Yet, for some reason, the Englishwoman’s gaze was more contemplative than critical.

A few minutes later, Graves returned and handed each of them tickets. “We’ll have to change trains a few times, but we should reach Southampton by tonight.”

“And then?” asked Gemma.

“And then,” he said, “we will convene with the rest of our friends, plan our attack strategy. Nothing can be gambled when so much is at stake. And you will remain in Southampton under guard whilst we battle the Heirs.”

“Under guard,” she repeated, glowering. “You mean, held prisoner.”

He did not blink at her accusation. “Call it what you like. But you
will
be safe.” He turned away. “We have a train to catch.”

The world rushed by, smokestacks and suburban developments giving way to farmland and fields. Gemma sat at the window, watching England as it unfolded around the rushing train, her mind filling with images and words as it always did whenever she observed something new.

A tame place, she decided, compared to home. Everything she saw out the train’s window seemed old, weighted down with millennia and history. Green, gentle hills and low stone walls. Farmhouses and biscuit-tin villages. She tried to picture the magic that must exist beneath this
cultivated country, the magic the Heirs of Albion would seize for themselves to ensure England’s dominance.

Yet when Catullus Graves sat opposite her in the train carriage, thoughts of secret wars for magic fled from her mind. She couldn’t look away from him. He’d cleaned the cut on his face and now presented the image of an elegant gentleman traveling. One would hardly suspect that not an hour earlier, he’d been fighting in a Liverpool street like a born warrior. But Gemma saw the small powder burns on his left hand and knew that his outward sophistication made up one small part of the whole.

Gemma openly studied him now.

He was abstracted, deep in contemplation, with that ever-present line between his brows. She wondered what he thought about: The Heirs? A new invention? Her?

His distracted gaze drifted to the window, then, restless, moved over her. And as soon as that happened, he suddenly remembered that she was in the carriage, too, and his demeanor changed.

He focused on the landscape speeding past, almost as if too shy to look at her. He’d been so imposing at the train station, and then, moments earlier, he’d been the picture of a brooding general on the eve of battle. Now he was diffident. They were alone in the carriage, Astrid Bramfield and Lesperance having gone to the dining car for something to eat. The air, as it often did when she and Graves were alone together, became charged.

A somewhat awkward silence stretched between them, with the clatter of the train as a steady undertone.

“Did you really make that shotgun shell with the net in it?” she asked.

He turned to her, guarded. “I did.”

“I’ve never seen anything like that. It was remarkable.”

He flushed slightly at her praise, and tugged at the cuffs of his perfectly aligned shirt. “A very simple device, I assure you.”

“Not to me.”

“Inventions and mechanical devices are something of a family trade.”

She was amazed at his genuine humility. “They should be proud of you, then.”

He gazed at her with hooded eyes. “You are still going to remain in Southampton, Miss Murphy.”

Gemma snorted. “I’m not trying to
flatter
you into letting me stay with you, Mr. Graves. My compliment is sincere.”

“Ah.” He was abashed. “Well … thank you. And, if I may say, Miss Murphy—”

“Go ahead and call me Gemma,” she said. “Calling me ‘Miss Murphy’ is too formal, especially after I saved your bacon today.”

“You didn’t ‘save my bacon,’” he said, indignant. “I was perfectly in control of the situation. But,” he added at her noise of protest, “you
did
lend a hand in that fight, and for that, I do thank you.” He made a small bow, one hand pressed to his chest.

She found herself mollified. The man
could
speak so beautifully. Gemma felt she could listen to him describe the digestive systems of jellyfish and she would be enthralled.

“In fact,” he went on, “I cannot think of another woman, who wasn’t a Blade, who could handle herself as admirably.”

The variety of blandishments Gemma received from men often involved her looks. All surface, no substance. Her appearance had nothing to do with
her,
or who she was, not truly.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever complimented me on the way I swung a heavy rope in a brawl.” When he made choked noises of apology, she added quickly, “It’s the best compliment I’ve ever been given.”

“Really?” He blinked at her.

“Usually I get some nonsense about my eyes or my hair
or other trifling things.” She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “But, to be praised for how I fight—
that
means something. So, thank you.”

“Oh.” He fidgeted with the lapel of his coat. “You’re … welcome.”

Then, because she had come so great a distance for so much, she went on. “That’s not the first time you’ve mentioned these people I believe you called the Blades of the Rose. Who are they?”

He tensed, either because she was prying into secrets or because her question had reminded him of the ever-present threat.

Whichever it was, she wanted an answer. “Mr. Graves—

Catullus—”

Her using his given name startled him. And, judging by his indrawn breath, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant to hear Gemma call him thusly. She actually liked it, herself. The shape and feel of his name in her mouth, with its hard opening consonants falling into a soft ululation. A metaphor, perhaps, for the man who bore the name? A hard exterior concealing something much more sensitive beneath.

“You have told me about the Heirs of Albion,” she said. “You have told me about the world’s magic. But there is more. I know that the Blades of the Rose, whoever they might be, are also involved.”

Still, he hesitated.

Gemma leaned forward, earnest. “You say you want to keep me safe—”

“I do.” His voice was firm with resolve.

“Then prove it, and tell me all. How can I begin to protect myself if I do not know everything? Without full understanding, I’m just fumbling around in the dark, at risk from the Heirs as well as my ignorance.” She refused to play the flirt and charm information from him. If Catullus was to open up to her, it must be because he saw something within her to trust and value. She could not respect herself to resort
to cheap ploys, and she needed that self-respect. Without it, all that she worked so hard for was valueless.

For some long moments, they stared at each other. She watched him assess her, his perceptive gaze held with hers, as if he sought to delve into her innermost thoughts.

Strangely, she did not resent this. For the first time in years, she actually welcomed a man into her mind, knowing instinctively that if anyone was to truly understand who she was as a person—not a woman, not a journalist, but the true and most essential part of herself—it would be
this
singular man, Catullus.

So she let him look, holding herself open to his scrutiny.

Peculiar. She hadn’t realized she needed this kind of openness until now. Hard lessons had taught her to keep her deepest self in reserve. Too many times, she’d left herself open, vulnerable, and been wounded by careless, heedless men. Men like Richard. She evolved into a hard-edged reporter and thought herself all the better for it.

She’d been wrong. Some part of her still yearned for closeness, for connection. And that need revealed itself now as she let Catullus Graves gauge her.

After many lifetimes, he gave a barely perceptible nod, reaching an internal decision. Gemma’s breath left her in a rush, and she only then realized she had been holding it.

“Magic exists in many forms,” he said with his rich, deep voice. “Sometimes it’s in families, such as yours; sometimes a single person can possess it. But it is also found in objects that are scattered across the globe. They are potent objects whose powers can run the gamut from the benign to the malevolent.”

“Like the club that thug was using in Liverpool,” she volunteered.

“No—that was a simple charm on an ordinary item. The objects I am speaking of hold vast power. These objects,” he continued, “are known as Sources, and Heirs search the
globe for them, seeking to add the Sources to their arsenal, crushing anything and anyone who stands in their path.”

The idea was beyond horrible. “Something has to be done to protect the Sources,” Gemma objected.

“Something is done,” Catullus said. “By me and Astrid. And people like us. The Blades of the Rose.”

The name on his lips sent a shiver through Gemma, as though hearing a long-forgotten enchantment.

Catullus saw the name register with her, then went on. “It is the sworn mission of the Blades to safeguard Sources around the globe from the Heirs, and others like them. This battle we’re heading into now with the Heirs …” He watched his hands curl into fists. “It will be the biggest any of us has ever faced. We’ve never gone up against the Primal Source, but we have to before the Heirs solidify their power. We have no idea if any of us will survive. But we have to fight. All Blades fight not just for magic, or England, but for everyone.”