Warrior's Curse (Imnada Brotherhood) (39 page)

A key turned in the lock, bringing her up short, and the door swung open. She caught her breath and braced for the worst as Mr. Thorsh stepped into the room.

“Ever hear of a whipping boy, Lady N’thuil?” He grinned. “I’ll wager de Coursy has. And I’ll wager he gives me what I want to keep you from being harmed.”

“You’re mad.”

Thorsh backhanded her. She fell across the bed
with a gasp of pain, ears ringing. She brought her bound hands to her swollen mouth, refusing the tears burning her eyes.

He grabbed her up, pushing her roughly ahead of him out the door, down the corridor. She stumbled on the stairs, nearly falling through the broken banister, but he dragged her up again and marched her on.

A lamp had been lit in the library, a few sconces, and a candle sputtering on the mantel; more than enough light to see Gray, hunched and bleeding, on a chair set close to the desk amid his scattered ruined books. He looked up, an eye swollen shut, his shirt ripped to his waist to reveal deep black and purple bruising. Low on his ribs, he bore an ugly blackened blast wound. “What is she doing here?”

Thorsh drew free a long serrated knife. “See this? You answer a question. I don’t hurt her. Simple.”

Gray’s throat worked as if he fought to speak.

Meeryn gave him a quick shake of her head, her eyes focused on the knife. If she could just . . . her fingers moved as she worked at the rope on her wrists. It wouldn’t be easy and would probably end in dismal failure, but she and Gray were out of options.

Thorsh glanced at her, and she offered him a fearful, cowed look. Not hard to conjure. She was fearful . . . in fact, blubbering panic was as close as a heartbeat and a shaky breath away, but falling to the floor and weeping buckets would serve no one. And she refused to give the enforcer the satisfaction.

“Where have you hidden Jai Idrish?” Mr. Thorsh demanded, fingering the blade.

Gray’s lips pressed tight, his cold stare hard as stone.

She never felt the sting of Thorsh’s knife until the blood welled from the cut to her cheek. She put a hand to her face with a gasp.

Gray’s gaze was murderous, every muscle strained as he fought his bonds.

Meeryn shook her head again, inched closer to Thorsh, though every fiber of her being told her to run for the hills. She angled her body slightly, braced herself against the desk. One try . . . she’d only get one try . . .

“Let’s try again,” Thorsh demanded. “Where’s the sphere?”

“Fuck off,” Gray growled. His eyes flashed to her in warning.

Another darting blur of Thorsh’s arm and Meeryn’s upper arm burned with the pass of steel, blood soaking hot into her sleeve.

“You’re a slow learner, de Coursy. That or you want me to carve your woman to pieces. This blade was made for me special. Sharp enough to take a man’s head off with one lop. I’ve done it. Twice. The rogues never knew what hit them.” Thorsh fingered his knife in a gloating show of force, sliding it past Meeryn as if he might strike.

She gave a quick jerk of her head, and Gray lunged forward, dragging his chair with him. Startled, Thorsh fumbled the knife—the moment Meeryn was looking for.

Pushing off from the desk, she swung her knee up and into Thorsh’s groin. He shouted, his hands unconsciously dropping to cradle his balls. She was ready. Her hands flashed out, and snatched the blade free. Drove it up and into his stomach with all the strength in her body.

He roared and batted her away. The knife clattered from her hands.

Blast and damn! She’d not killed him, merely made him very, very angry. Not good. Not good at all.

She slid across the desk, hoping to avoid his bull rush, landed hard on her side, smacking her head on the edge of a fallen cabinet. Her hip throbbed, and white lights danced across her vision.

He snatched up a broken table leg, swinging it above his head as if to club her. His face was contorted into a mask of rage and shock and pain. He drove it down, but she rolled one way. He swung again, and she rolled back, the leg smashing into the wall, a table, papers flurrying around her, the lamp toppled to catch on the books. Flames burst from the spilled oil and the old parchment. Singed her hair and beat white-hot against her skin.

She backed away from the cudgel, came up hard against the wall. Nowhere to go. Thorsh was an enormous shadow above her, backlit by rolling smoke and the flicker of flames in his pale eyes. One hand was clamped to his stomach, where blood spread like a poppy across his front. “Bitch!”

She cringed and squeezed her eyes shut, anticipating the blow she could not avoid. Something heavy fell hard beside her, followed by a softer rolling thud.

“It’s over, Meeryn.”

Gray’s voice. She opened her eyes. He stood above her, one arm held out, ropes loose about his wrists. Thorsh’s bloody dagger in the other. Of Mr. Thorsh, there was only a decapitated corpse, his head a few feet away, staring at her with consternation, as if still not quite believing in his own death.

“He was right.” Gray tossed the knife on the dead man’s chest. “Sharp enough to take a head off with one stroke.”

Smoke filled the room, and the flames had caught the downed curtains, licked at the cushions of the chairs. A sound like thunder pummeled her ears as the fire spread.

“You killed him,” she murmured.

“It was a team effort. Conal would be proud.”

She felt the first shuddering tremors chattering her teeth, the sweat breaking out across her back, and the sick roiling of her stomach. “I couldn’t see any other way.”

“There was no other way.”

She ran her hands down her face, bit her lip and shook her head. “I’m not a soldier, Gray.”

“No, but you are a fighter.”

He sat in the closed traveling coach, watching flames light the night sky. Men and women scurried like ants to stem the conflagration before it spread to neighboring houses, while a fire brigade barked orders, their hoses and tools of little use at this point. Thorsh was dead. Dromon had sensed the man’s killing, the strand between master and servant severed with brutal finality. Gray and the girl had escaped. That had been conveyed to him by his Ossine, who had trailed the pair deep into London’s rookeries where they’d disappeared into the chaos and filth of crooked lanes, dangerous alleys, and foul company.

The enforcers had been stymied, even their heightened abilities useless amid the maze of such an enormous city. The one sent to confess this failing had bowed before his Arch Ossine, apologetic but full of assurances of success sooner or later.

Dromon did not have sooner or later.

De Coursy must not be allowed to bring Jai Idrish and the Gylferion together. He must not be given the
opportunity to lift the curse that kept him from his throne.

He turned to his traveling companion with an open, pleasant countenance and hands lifted in surrender. “My dear Lady Delia, I fear the future hangs upon you.”

She lifted an arched brow in world-weary ambivalence. “And how would I possibly know where they’ve gone? London is a large city. They could be anywhere.”

“They could be, but they are not. They are heading to the one place where de Coursy believes he can work the magic that will save him. He would not have begun this life-or-death chase if he didn’t have its end planned to the last detail. An organized mind, our young duke. A methodical, practical conspirator who does nothing without understanding every implication.”

“You sound almost admiring.”

“I am. After all, he and I are much alike. We see the whole picture where so many see only the bits and pieces that concern them personally. He sees the future of the clans over generations, as do I.”

“Then why do you two war if you’re such boon companions?”

“Because what he sees is a false hope, a mirage”—his chin lifted in anger—“a Fey-blood conjuring woven to entice us beyond our borders. But I’m trained in the arts of divination and schooled in the history of our past. I understand the dangers, and I see through the web of lies your people have wrapped about our young lordling.”

“The Imnada are not our enemies.”

“No? What of these recent murders of Imnada by
your fellow Other? What of the growing call for a renewal of the hostilities between us? What of the
afailth luinan
? Can you tell me the Fey-bloods would not kill to gain the healing power of our blood?”

She looked away, flames dancing in her golden eyes. “You paint us with a broad brush.”

“I use only the palette your kind has shown me.” He caressed her cheek before cupping her chin and turning her so that she must look at him. “Where is de Coursy? Where has he taken the girl?”

She wrenched away. “I don’t know. Gray doesn’t tell me everything.”

“Only what he wants to be certain I hear, is that it? He sends his little Fey-blood bird to scatter her secrets where she will gain the most crumbs. And he pays you well for that service, doesn’t he?”

“I do all right.”

“But I pay you as well. In coin and in . . . safety.”

“Hardly enough of one and even less of the other recently. Excuse me if I’m less inclined to offer up what I know.”

“Thorsh was not a rough lover, was he? A bit crude perhaps, but you’re used to such ungentlemanly handling. Your string of lovers is prodigious. Prinny himself is said to have tasted of your fruits.”

She pressed her lips together and sought to turn away.

“But you were not always this way, were you, Lady Delia? Your first lover, he was all that was gentle and loving. A charming young man with a golden future.”

He smiled when he felt her tense, saw the way her throat muscles tightened, her jaw clenched. “I barely remember my first,” she replied. “As you’re always
so quick to point out, the numbers who have parted my legs are too numerous to hold long in my vague memory.”

“Oh, no doubt. But this one was difficult to forget. He offered you his love and then his seed”—he leaned in close, inhaling her fear like a drug—“seed that bore fruit. Your child would be, what . . . seventeen? Eighteen? A young man strong of limb, handsome of face, and bearing the blood and powers of his father.”

Her hands gripped her skirts, but the trembling was obvious.

“Where is de Coursy?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“As I said, I’ve paid you both in coin and safety. Not just for yourself but for your son.”

“You’re bluffing. You might know of his existence, but you have no idea where he is. No one does. Not even Gray.” Her chin wobbled, but she thought herself a match for him and so held her tongue.

“That is where you’re wrong, my dear.” He leaned close enough to smell her perspiration mixed with her perfume. Feel the small hairs at the nape of her neck tickle his nose. He whispered the name of a village in her ear. Sat back with satisfaction to watch the sickening draining of blood from her face and the way her eyes widened in shock before glassing over in surrender.

“Bartholemew Ringrose,” she answered dully. “His shop lies in the shadow of London Bridge.”

“As always, you are a font of knowledge, my dear.”

The upthrust dagger entered just below her heart. She was dead before they rounded the corner and left the flames behind.

*  *  *

Ringrose’s shop was dark; no candlelight shone from behind the dirt-smudged glass, no movement in the shadows. The way was clear. Gray avoided the street, instead leading Meeryn through a narrow lane to a muddy fenced yard where weeds sprouted from a crumbling cistern. A family of rats seemed the only ones interested in their passing.

He shoved open the unlatched door and stepped into the narrow back hall of the shop. Angry voices could be heard farther up the passage. “You cannot ask it of him. It is not fair of you. It is not right.”

“The Gylferion were created to imprison Lucan within the emptiness of the between. He is bound to their magic and they are bound to his life force. There is no telling what might occur should he be one of the four.”

“It’s Badb and Ringrose,” Meeryn whispered.

Gray stepped into the shabby back room, his eye traveling over the flushed and hostile faces of Lucan, Badb, and Mac. Ringrose hovered in a corner, worrying at his beard with a harassed look upon his sharp features. They swung to meet the two of them, stern expressions melting into relief.

“You made it,” Mac said, stepping free of the circle.

“By the skin of our teeth,” Gray said, wiping a hand down his blackened face. Behind him, Meeryn shook her skirts, ash dusting the floor.

Mac eyed their sooty, slightly singed features and ash-blackened clothing. “What the hell happened?”

“The Ossine slipped through the lines we set. We managed to escape with Jai Idrish, but the town
house is gone, or close to it. By the time we got out of there, a bucket brigade had formed to keep the rest of the street safe from the fire, but my place was engulfed.”

“Where’s St. Leger?” Badb asked sharply, peering into the darkness of the alley.

“David’s here, isn’t he?” Gray asked.

Mac shook his head. “When you didn’t turn up, he went out looking for you.”

“Damn it to hell. You mean that bastard is still out there somewhere? Why didn’t you stop him?”