A Dark Heart (25 page)

But she could do nothing without first reconciling with Rowan. Her fury
at him had faded into a more manageable level of general exasperation. His high-handedness
was well intentioned, if nothing else, and after nearly losing Elijah,
Christiana didn’t fancy the thought of continuing to distance herself from
those she loved. They might all be practically immortal, but they weren’t
invincible, not even Rowan.

She found Rowan exactly where he always was, in his study, his head
buried in his estate books. But instead of his typically placid expression, he
was scowling, as if the books had mortally offended him. Even his usually
immaculate toilette looked a bit skewed, as if he’d spent the morning running
his fingers through his hair and tugging on his collar.

His expression cleared somewhat when he looked up and saw her, but he
still seemed troubled.

“That frown’s not for me, is it?” she asked, taking her usual seat
adjacent to his desk.

He touched his mouth, as if he were confirming he was indeed frowning.
“Surprisingly, no. Not this time.” He swept his eyes over her, no doubt
noticing that she was wearing the same thing as when he’d last seen her. His
mood swiftly plummeted. “The Inspector had better come up to scratch, or by
God, I will call him out,” he growled.

Christiana laughed. “Dueling? Really, Rowan? You’re a century too late
for that sort of thing.”

“I don’t care,” he muttered. “I don’t care how much you love the damn
fool, Tia. If he doesn’t have the decency to wed you soon, I’ll tear his head
off.”

“No, you won’t!” she cried, her levity fading a bit.

He sighed. “No, I won’t. But I can fantasize about it.”

“You’re so old-fashioned, Rowan.”

He gave her a droll look. “I was born in the fifteenth century. Of course
I’m old-fashioned,” he snapped.

“You’re in a terrible mood. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so snappish.”

His scowl returned. “It’s that Bartholomew woman. She’s taken a severe
dislike to me, and I don’t know why,” he muttered. “It’s like I did something
to her. But I never even met the woman before yesterday.”

“It’s your eyes, Rowan. Of course she doesn’t like you. The only other
Elder she’s met is Ehrengard. She is understandably suspicious.”

“It’s more than that,” he insisted. “You should have seen the way her
father reacted to me. It was … odd.” He shook his head. “But enough of that.
Has he asked you to marry him yet?”

Christiana rolled her eyes and sighed. He was consistent, if nothing
else. “Not yet, but he will.”

Rowan looked extremely skeptical but wisely kept his mouth shut. He’d no
doubt learned his lesson about what happened when he interfered in her life too
much. Christiana didn’t want another reason to fight when she’d just managed to
forgive him. And besides, on this matter Rowan had absolutely nothing to worry
about. Elijah would marry her, of that she had no doubt, even though he’d not
asked her yet. She knew this with the same utter certainty that she knew that
he loved her, even though he’d not yet spoken the words. Not properly, anyway.
But he would.

In the meantime, she had no problem waiting for his tongue to catch up
with his heart, or for their vows to catch up with their physical relationship.
She’d fallen in love with a man who, underneath all of that brittle cynicism,
needed tender, patient nurturing. And though last night had gone a long way
towards mending his heart, she had work yet to do, and so did he.

“So you are feeling more in charity with me, now that you and the
Inspector have … reconciled?” Rowan asked with an arched brow, his usual good
humor beginning to surface again behind all of his gloom.

She wrinkled her nose at him. “I suppose.”

“Good,” he said. “It’s high time you moved back home.” He gave her a
level stare. “I’ll even allow Drexler to live here with us –
after
the wedding, of course.”

Good Lord, she’d not thought that far ahead. But she rather doubted
Elijah would want to live under the same roof as the Earl. “I don’t know if
Elijah will want to live here,” she said diplomatically.

“Well, you certainly shall not be taking up residence in Whitechapel,”
Rowan said, looking outraged at the very idea.

She just smiled and thought about changing the subject. But she didn’t
have to. Rowan’s tickertext began unspooling on his desktop. As he read the
message, any trace of his good humor faded, his mood growing darker by the
moment.

When he finally raised her eyes and met her own, her stomach sank. She
knew just by the look he was giving her that something had happened to Elijah.

ROWAN tried to
make her stay behind at Llewellyn House, but soon gave up the effort as futile.
He made sure Sasha accompanied them on the journey across town, however,
despite Aline’s protestations, his unease over Elijah’s cryptic message
apparent in the stiff lines of his body. Christiana was no less concerned,
since part of Elijah’s message to the Earl had been to make sure she stayed
behind. If Elijah was that worried for her safety, then something dreadful had happened.

She never should have left him this morning, but she had believed –
had
wanted
to believe – that the worst was over, now that the
Bartholomews had been released. Rowan had obviously felt the same way, or he
never would have left the Romanovs’ either. They couldn’t have been more wrong,
as they soon discovered the moment they pulled up to the curb outside the
townhouse. The massive front door was flung wide, hanging from a broken hinge,
and the Constable guarded it, blood streaming down his temple, a wild look in
his eyes.

Rowan forced her behind him as they mounted the steps to the door, though
she wanted to rush inside.

“What has happened?” Rowan demanded.

The Constable stepped aside and allowed them to pass into the foyer
before he answered. “They took ‘em. Just like that,” he roughed out. “A dozen
or more leeches. Just waltzed in wifout a by-your-leave and took ‘em.”

Romanov gave a distressed cry as they entered the drawing room and found
Fyodor stretched across the floor, blood coating every square inch of skin not
covered by his metal exo-skeleton, his one human eye open but unseeing. A
frail, trembling Helen Bartholomew cradled his head in her lap, tears streaking
down her face as she dabbed helplessly at his wounds. She looked as if she were
about to pass out alongside the Russian Abominable.

“He’s alive,” she whispered to Sasha as he crouched down to check on his
friend, “but barely. He saved us, though,” she said, nodding in the direction
of three still, headless bodies lying next to them, their blood soaking the
expensive carpet. “Those … things … stayed behind to kill us all, but Fyodor stopped
them.”

Christiana shivered and looked around the room, dreading to discover who
was left behind and who had been taken, already half-suspecting the answer. The
only other occupants of the room were Hex Bartholomew, who held a crying girl
in her arms, and an old man with ginger hair who had to be the disreputable
Hubert Bartholomew. What she didn’t expect was the knife Hex pointed in the
direction of the old man, or the rage contorting her face.

“Where is Elijah?” she demanded.

“Taken,” Hex bit out. “Along with Mr. Percy and Hector,” Her voice broke
on the last name, tears starting to pour down her face. She shoved the knife
towards her father. “We were betrayed. By
him
. I should have known. But
I thought even
you
wouldn’t go this far, father!”

Hubert Bartholomew looked stubbornly unrepentant. “What care I for that unnatural
bastard child?” he began. But then he raised his glance and spotted Rowan, and
all of the color leeched from his ruddy face. “
You
!” he breathed.

Rowan glared at the man. “Yes,
me
. I’m back. Should have never
left in the first place. What did you do?”

Bartholomew pursed his lips tight and refused to answer.

Sasha stood up from tending to Fyodor and stalked in the man’s direction.
Few people were more menacing than Sasha was when his temper was stoked, and
Bartholomew definitely noticed. He staggered back a step or two, his pale face
now taking on a greenish cast as he eyed the approaching Russian warily.

“You’ll give us answers, old man,” Sasha said silkily. “Or find out what
happens to men who make me angry.”

“I was promised a cure!” Bartholomew blurted. “And I know it exists. I
know
what men like you can do.”

“Surely you know better than to trust the word of a criminal,” Sasha
said.

“I didn’t,” he muttered. “That was why I took those pages from the
blueprints, as a bit of insurance.”

“He made Hector memorize those pages, and then burned them,” Hex cried.
“How could I be so blind? Of
course
you would do something so …
ridiculous! So selfish! Do you know what they’ll do to him? They’ll kill him
when they’re done torturing those pages out of his head!”

“But is it even possible for the lad to do that?” Rowan asked.

Hex glanced his way but averted her glance sharply, as if she’d been
burned. “He has what they call an eidetic memory. He can recall everything he
sees. Father has often used Hector for … parlor tricks in the past, but this …
this
…” She seemed unable to go on, tossing a sketchbook in the Earl’s direction.

Christiana and Rowan glanced down at an open page. The boy had filled it
with intricate mathematical scripts in a hand that was not childlike at all. It
looked very much like Brightlingsea’s writing. She exchanged a grim glance with
Rowan.

“I did it for Helen,” Bartholomew burst out, flinging his hand in Helen’s
direction. “It was all for Helen.”

“Father!” Helen whispered weakly from where she still cradled Fyodor’s
unconscious bulk. “I never wanted this.”

“I had to try, pet,” he insisted, “you’re dying.”

“Yet you would kill another one of your children to save her,” Rowan
said. “For they
will
kill the boy. Surely you must know that.”

Bartholomew just shrugged casually but could not meet the Earl’s eyes.
“It is no concern of mine. And he’s not my child.”

“No, he’s mine,” Hex bit out through her tears.

“What?” Rowan looked just as stunned as Christiana by this revelation.

Hex turned away from her father and faced the rest of the room, cradling
the little girl in her arms as if she would never let her go, even though the
girl was probably nearly ten years old and far too heavy.

“The twins are my
children
, not my siblings,” Hex said, her eyes
watching the Earl closely for his reaction. Whatever she saw there was
unsatisfactory, for she frowned and turned back to her father. “And they are
your
grandchildren.”

Bartholomew’s jaw hardened with stubborn defiance.

Rowan seemed to have had enough of the old man and stalked in his
direction. “You’re going to tell us where they went. Right now. Don’t tell me
you don’t know.”

A cunning look passed over the man’s face. He knew, all right, but the
wheels of his devious mind had begun to spin.

“Shall I make him speak?” Sasha asked, tracing to the Bartholomew’s side
and lifting him up by the neck. The man sputtered and squirmed, kicking his
feet futilely through the air, his face cherry red.

Rowan’s eyes went wide – he’d never enjoyed violence of any kind
– but one glance in her direction hardened his resolve. He seemed
prepared to go any lengths for her – for Elijah. “Yes, do, Sasha,” he
murmured.

Bartholomew shrieked in protest, grabbing at Sasha’s hand around his
neck. “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you!” he gasped.

Sasha let the man drop to the floor. He fell hard on his backside, his
legs giving way. He coughed, spittle flying from the edges of his mouth, as he
tried to regain his senses.

“Well?” Rowan pressed when the man had caught his breath.

Bartholomew gave him a steely-eyed glare. “I’ll tell you, but only if you
save my Helen.”

“Father!” Hex and Helen cried out simultaneously.

Sasha grabbed the man by the neck once more with a growl of rage.

Bartholomew shut his eyes, not bothering to struggle anymore. “You can
kill me if you want,” he rasped out. “Torture me if you want. But I won’t tell
you a damned thing until you save Helen.”

Sasha looked prepared to follow through with the torture, but Rowan
stopped him. “Let him go, Sasha.”

Sasha reluctantly complied, and the man once again crumbled to the
ground, rubbing at his throat.

“What are you thinking, father?” Helen demanded.

Bartholomew ignored her, keeping his eyes on Rowan. “I know you can do
it. Bonding, you call it. Give her a little of your magic blood, your
lordship
.
It’s the least you can do … it’s what you should have done years ago.”

Rowan looked baffled by the man’s cryptic words, but as the realization
of what Bartholomew wanted began to sink in, his bafflement turned to
apprehension.

“I’ll do it,” Sasha said. “If it’s for Elijah and the boy, I’ll do it,
Rowan.”

But Bartholomew shook his head. “No, it has to be the Earl.”

Sasha looked as if he barely restrained himself from attacking the man
again, but Rowan just looked pale – pale and drained. He turned to
Christiana, as if seeking an answer from her, and the pain that she saw
swirling in his eyes made her gasp. She knew how conflicted he had been about
Bonding her. Being forced to do so again, to another sick girl with no choice
of her own, had to be one of his worst nightmares.

But Elijah’s life, and the life of that poor boy, were at stake. For her,
the choice was shamefully easy to make. He must have read the plea in her eyes,
for his brow creased with more pain, even as his shoulders began stiffen with
grim resolve. He turned his attention to Helen, who still sat next to Fyodor on
the floor, her sunken cheeks pale with shock, her fragile body trembling with
her distress.