The Magic Knot (3 page)

After squaring off the pack, she pressed the cool cards against her forehead. What did the Ten of Swords mean? How would Niall stab her in the back? The prediction filled her with disquiet, but it wasn’t the card’s fault.

“Thank you,” she whispered. The characters on the Magic Knot tarot cards had been her companions from her earliest memories. When her mother went on a binge, Rose had always turned to the cards for comfort. For a sad, lonely little girl, the characters had been her only family.

With a sigh, she slid the pack into its velvet bag and cinched the drawstring. She checked her face, then grabbed her purse and briefcase. When she stood, she straightened her body into professional mode. Let Niall O’Connor try to stab her in the back. Forewarned was forearmed. She had plenty of experience dealing with difficult people, from the uncooperative to the downright rude. “Bring it on, Mr. O’Connor. I’m ready for you.”

At nine o’clock, Rose steeled herself and entered the small, untidy office Michael had shown her the previous evening. She felt deflated when there was no sign of Niall O’Connor.

Using a duster and polish borrowed from the woman cleaning the bar, she kept busy while she waited by tidying herself a workspace. At nine twenty, when she had the surface of the desk clear and gleaming with lemon-scented beeswax, Niall still hadn’t appeared.

She set her briefcase on the corner of the desk and took out the file from the bank. Then she arranged neatly around the space her cell phone, which had no signal in this back-of-beyond place, her calculator, her PalmPilot, and her pencils and pen. She leaned back in the rickety swivel chair and surveyed her handiwork.

Awareness tickled the back of her neck. She swung the squeaky chair around and checked the door.

A man stood in the open doorway, shoulder against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest in a relaxed pose at odds with his alert expression. Rose had a strange moment in which reality twisted into a different shape. He looked like Michael O’Connor, only the oozing
charm had been replaced by a faint air of menace that fluttered dark thrills of anticipation through her.

Every feature of his face matched Michael’s, from the startlingly blue eyes to the perfect lips. How was it possible for two men to look the same and yet so different? This man had short hair and wore a loose brown shirt, green combat pants, and brown leather hiking boots. Of course, the man on the motorcycle had been Niall.

“You and Michael are identical twins.”

“I know,” he said flatly as he appraised her, his eyes blank, his face expressionless. “Who might you be?”

“Rose Tremain. Michael didn’t tell you?”

“Obviously not.” He raised one eyebrow slightly. “What’re you doing in the office?”

“Waiting for you.”

“Me?” A hint of a frown creased his forehead and then was gone.

She’d managed to surprise him. For some reason, it felt like a minor victory.

Rose stood, slipped a business card from her pocket, and held it out. “I’m hoping you’ll take me through the last three years’ accounts, Mr. O’Connor. Your brother told me you keep the books for the pub.”

Niall pushed away from the door frame, took a stride forward, and pulled the card from her fingers. He stared at the words for a moment, then tapped the card’s side against his palm.

“Don’t go telling me Michael’s bankrupt.” He glanced down and swore under his breath.

She was surprised he recognized the letters after her name that indicated her insolvency qualification. “I’m afraid he’s missed the last six months’ loan payments to his bank. I’m here to do a report.”

Niall placed her card on top of the filing cabinet
beside the door and shook his head. “Michael’s misled you, Ms. Tremain. I don’t get involved in running the Nest. This here’s me brother’s passion.”

Rose stared at him, a knot of dread tightening her belly. “Then who does keep the books?”

Niall glanced at the dusty heaps of documents piled against the wall. “I’m guessing nobody.”

Rose gripped the back of her chair so tightly her fingers hurt. “Someone must have prepared the accounts in previous years. What about paying the taxes? He must account for tax when he pays his staff.”

Niall shrugged, a brief flick of his shoulders, as though he objected to responding. “Employees get paid cash out of the till. I’ve seen him do it.”

“Didn’t you say anything? Tell him he needs records?”

Niall stared at her, his penetrating blue gaze probing. His eyes were the same color as Michael’s, but they didn’t make her think of inviting Mediterranean seas. There were sharks swimming within these waters.

“I don’t go wasting me breath.” He turned to leave, and a little spurt of desperation surged through her.

“I can’t do this job without the records. No way am I starting from scratch with source documents.”

He paused in the doorway and gave her a challenging glance. “Leave it then. Take yourself back to London. I’ll sort matters here.”

“If I walk away, I’ll have to notify Inland Revenue.” Technically, she shouldn’t inform him of that fact, but he’d have to be stupid not to realize. And she was certain Niall O’Connor was not stupid. “Do you think he really wants a tax inspector on his doorstep?”

“What about if the arrears are paid off?”

Rose watched him rest his long fingers against the
door frame. With a strange tingle in her belly, she remembered the old wives’ tale comparing the length of a certain male body part with the span between thumb and index finger. She blinked and swallowed awkwardly. What the hell was the matter with her? Exposure to Niall’s brother must have addled her brain.

“I’m sorry. Once the instruction’s been issued, we’ve got to continue with the investigation unless the bank cancels the request. Even if you pay the arrears, it’ll take a few weeks to filter through the system.”

Anyway, how did he intend to pay off the loan? Unless…She remembered the King of Coins from the tarot reading. Maybe Niall had money. She considered his scruffy clothes and thought of the old motorcycle. If he was wealthy, he did a damn good job of disguising the fact.

Niall slapped his hand against the doorframe, making her start. “All righty, I’ll get you the old accounts. Radcliffs in Lostwithiel prepared them until last year. For the current year you’ll have to work with these.” He nodded toward the heaped documents.

Her heart dropped. “What about a computer? Michael mentioned you’re the computer expert.”

“No computer. Michael doesn’t like them.”

Great. Wonderful.
What century were they living in? She shook her head. “He’s obviously not averse to modern technology when it comes on four wheels with a Porsche logo stuck on the front. Maybe he could sell that and pay the bank. Or is it on finance as well?”

The expression on Niall’s face didn’t change, but she got an inkling that he was uncomfortable. “Ask Michael. I’m not his keeper.”

As he walked away, she moved to the doorway and
her eyes strayed from the width of his shoulders to the play of muscles in his tight backside as, with determined strides, he disappeared down the hall by the kitchen. She bit her lip.
How are you going to stab me in the back, Niall O’Connor?
She knew with certainty that he wasn’t being completely honest. Michael had told her Niall was the computer expert, yet he claimed there was no computer. And she’d been forced to drag every bit of information out of him. Niall was hiding something that affected her investigation. His name might not be listed as an own er of the business, but she was certain he had his long, sexy fingers in the pie. And he didn’t want her to find out.

Nightshade left the bright morning sun behind in the upper rooms of Trevelion Manor and descended the twisting stairway into the warren of caves and tunnels that riddled the ground below.

The previous evening, Tristan had been tight-lipped about the identity of the pisky female who’d crossed into Cornwall. Maybe a few hours working alone had loosened the man’s tongue, and he would be ready to confirm Nightshade’s suspicion that Princess Ailla Tremain had returned. Thirty years ago, he’d yearned for her and she’d rejected him. If she had returned, he would find her, forge a blood bond, and take her for his mate.

Holding an oil lamp aloft, Nightshade walked on silent feet through the cavernous underground chamber that had once been the meeting place for his people. Remembered laughter from his childhood among the Cornish piskies rang in his head and echoed hollowly in his heart, happy memories from a time before he’d matured and they’ cast him out. It was natural,
his pisky mother told him; nightstalkers were meant to be solitary creatures.

Raising the lamp, he cast a sideways glance at the paintings illuminated by the flickering circle of light. Ailla had decorated the walls with art nouveau murals in jewel-bright colors celebrating Samhain and Beltane, the two hinges of the year.

He paused and recited words he had not spoken for many moons.

In his mind’s eye, he saw Ailla, copper curls caught in a ribbon behind her delicate neck, paintbrush in hand. Such a talented artist—talent Tristan had forced her to use in a terrible way. Guilt scraped Nightshade’s conscience and he pushed it away. She had been as bad as the rest of the piskies, rejecting him, forcing him out, even though he’d risked Tristan’s anger protecting her little girl.

He passed down a short hallway and halted at Tristan’s workroom. As he pushed open the carved oak door, the stench of decay and death made him gag. In the muted light from six black candles, he watched Tristan push the nozzle of a hot-glue gun in the backside of a baby rabbit. The rabbit’s lifeless glass eyes stared back at him in despair.

Tristan glanced up, a thin smile of satisfaction stretching his lips. “What do you think?” He balanced the rabbit kit on its wooden stand and tipped his head to one side. “Pretty good, if I do say so myself. Not
many people have a delicate enough touch to mount the smallest animals.”

Nightshade could not imagine why anyone in his right mind would mount a carcass that should be returned to the earth. Over the years, he had learned to keep that opinion to himself. He grunted in acknowledgment; even one as accursed as he could not offer praise for such blasphemy.

As he walked into the room, the sense of death was swept from his awareness by the sizzling presence of spiritual energy so pure and concentrated it flashed along his nerves like lightning. “Curse you,” he ground out. Pressing fingers to his throbbing temples, he scoured the room for the source.

Racks of animal skins filled the space: the chestnut fur of fox, the black and white stripes of badger. Nightshade swung his gaze the other way. In the farthest corner, he spied the two globes that haunted his nightmares, full of dancing golden lights that fluttered within their glass prison like trapped fireflies. He shielded his eyes from the glare. “Cover them. Now.”

Tristan’s lips peeled back in a smile. “They know you’re here. They’ll never forget your betrayal.”

“As if I need reminding.” With an arm shielding his face, he stumbled forward, ripped a fur from its rack, and covered the sparkling globes. Immediately, the pain in his body eased back to a dull ache. He rounded on Tristan. “Why not just stick me with one of your bloody dissection tools if you want to hurt me?”

“I have no intention of hurting you, silly boy. I feed on them. You feed on me. We’re all part of the circle of life.”

Nightshade stared at the packed earth beneath his feet, grimacing at the twisted analogy. There were
times when he loathed Tristan so deeply he wanted to crush the life from his frail body. He looked up at the druid’s white mask of a face. “I don’t know why I ever let you use me.” How naive he’d been in his blind need for revenge on the people who’d cast him out.

“We used each other,” Tristan said matter-of-factly, and placed the rabbit on the bench behind him. A nimbus of black fire shimmered around Tristan’s hand as he walked forward and laid his deadly palm against Nightshade’s chest. “We still do. I need you. You need me.”

In the flickering light cast by the candles, Nightshade gazed at the paper-thin skin clinging to Tristan’s emaciated flesh. “If I smash those globes and release the piskies’ spirits, you’ll wither and die, old man.”

“Free them, and they’ll torment you for your treachery. They may hate me for trapping them, but you betrayed your own kind.”

Grief and despair pierced his soul. Nightshade snapped his wings angrily and stepped back.

Tristan’s hands darted out and gripped clawlike into Nightshade’s biceps. “Bite me,” he coaxed. “You know you want to.” He angled his head, loosening the silk cravat to expose his neck. “Renew our bond. It’s been too long.”

Pain lanced Nightshade’s gums as he gritted his teeth to stop his canines from lengthening. The yearning for Tristan’s blood rode him every minute of every day like an alcoholic’s thirst for drink. He turned his head away as his stomach clenched with a mixture of hunger and nausea. He needed blood, but feeding on Tristan disgusted him.

Nightshade’s only hope of forging a new blood bond was the pisky woman. Faking a conciliatory smile, he raised a hand to caress the dry skin of Tristan’s cheek.
“I don’t wish to feed now, master. Maybe later.” He eased back and tried to sound indifferent. “Who is this pisky female, anyway?”

Fingering his cravat, Tristan sighed, then turned back to his work. “No one you know.”

Frustration warred with Nightshade’s need for composure. Silently, he counted to ten. “I knew all who lived with the Cornish troop.”

Tristan struck a match and lit some fresh candles, then raised the baby rabbit to eye level and stroked its face. When he placed the carcass back on the bench, he gave Nightshade a sideways glance. “She was born shortly before we imprisoned the piskies.”

Born thirty years ago? Surprise lanced him. The woman must be Ailla Tremain’s child, Tristan’s daughter, Rosenwyn. Nightshade stared into the golden candle flames licking the darkness. He shuddered at the memory of the little girl’s screams, when day after day Tristan locked her in the dark and threatened to starve her unless Ailla finished the portraits.

“Rosenwyn,” he whispered, and caught a flash of vicious anticipation in Tristan’s eyes. He hoped Rosenwyn’s mother had warned her about her father. “Why would your daughter come back after thirty years?”

“Who knows?” Tristan shrugged and started sliding his tools into their case. “It’s good timing, though.” With a sly smile he added, “I have plans for her.”

Nightshade no longer wanted any part of Tristan’s plans. He needed someone to feed on to replace Tristan, and if it couldn’t be Ailla…Rosenwyn had been his friend when she was a child. Now that she was a woman, he’d make her much more.

For the first time in years, life held promise. Nightshade smiled to himself. After dusk fell, he’d go a-huntin’ and catch himself a mate.