Demon's Curse (Imnada Brotherhood) (41 page)

Realing.
A magical servant bound to a specific person or place.

Rogue.
An unmarked shapechanger without clan or hold affiliation.

Signum.
The mental imprint set on every shapechangers mind at birth by the Ossine. It identifies clan
affiliation and rank. Those cast out of the clans have their signum stripped, denoting their outlaw status.

Silmith.
The night of the full moon when the shift comes easiest and the powers of the Imnada are at their height.

Warriors of Scathach (Amhas-draoi).
An Other brotherhood of warrior mages who serve as guardians between the Fey and human worlds.

Ynys Avalenn
. Also known as the Summer Kingdom, this is the realm of the Fey.

Youngling.
A child of the Imnada who has not yet reached maturity or been marked.

Keep reading for an excerpt from

SHADOW’S CURSE

Book Two in the Imnada Brotherhood Series

by Alexa Egan

Available from Pocket Books in October 2013

1

LONDON, MAY 1817

The man stood over his victim, his knife flashing in the dim light of Silmith’s round yellow moon. The scent of blood and urine hung on the stale breeze. The clink of a money pouch echoed in the quiet of the alley. David hung back in the shadows, awaiting his moment. The thief would have to pass by him to reach the street and escape within the warren of dockside wharves and warehouses. When he did, David would be ready. It was a scenario he’d perfected over the course of the past year.

Not once had he allowed his prey to escape his own brand of justice. Not once had he been caught or even seen except as a ghostly shape, an enormous rippling shadow with glowing yellow eyes. Some called him a demon or a monster: the newspapers who prospered from his exploits and those who worked the darkness for their own gains. But those who’d been saved by his intervention labeled him a guardian angel, a mysterious hero.

He was neither. Merely bored.

And angry.

Very, very angry.

If any member of the five clans of Imnada were to discover he spent the time between sundown and sunrise saving the lives of humans, they’d think him mad. Not that he cared what they thought anymore. He was
emnil,
dead to his clan. An outcast and an outlaw.

And while he was no longer doomed to pass his nights in his clan aspect of the wolf, these small, vicious hours had become a solace, the cluttered, squalid stews, his personal hunting ground. The Fey-blood’s recent discovery of the Imnada’s survival only added to the knife-edge thrill he craved like an addict. Something he knew all too much about these days.

The clouds passed over the full moon, the breeze kicking up in starts to ruffle the fur along his back, the bristly ridge at his neck. He lifted his face to it, felt it curl over his muzzle, bringing with it the salty tar-laden stench of the Limehouse docks. Just then the victim moaned, stirring as he regained consciousness, a hand groping feebly for the knot at the back of his head. Shoving the pouch in his coat pocket, the assailant lifted his knife with deadly intent. Theft soon to become murder.

Thought fell to instinct, and, with fangs bared in a vicious snarl, David sprang.

*   *   *

Callista rubbed a cloth over the last silver bell before placing it back in its case alongside the other three. Closing the lid, she secured the lock with a roll of her thumb over the circular tumblers. But instead of putting the mahogany box back upon the high shelf beside her bed, she remained at her desk with the box in front of her. Her finger followed the familiar loops and swirls decorating the lid. Her mother’s box. Her grandmother’s. Her great-grandmother’s.

Necromancers, all.

The power to walk the paths of the dead had been
gifted the women of her house, stretching back beyond anyone’s memory. At least that’s what Mother had claimed. Callista couldn’t know for certain. She’d never met any of the women of her house beyond Mother to ask them.

Now she couldn’t even ask Mother.

Callista slid open the top desk drawer, removing a bundle of old yellowed letters wrapped in a frayed ribbon. The wax was dried and crumbling, the writing smudged and faded. Mother had kept them all. Every single missive she’d sent to her family that had been returned unopened. The proud and prominent Armstrong family of Killedge had never forgotten nor forgiven the shame of their daughter’s elopement. Callista pulled free the top letter, reading the words though she knew them by heart. A newsy cheerful letter, despite the anguish and the dread that had prompted this last desperate attempt to reconcile. Mother had died a month later.

The letter had been returned a week after the funeral.

The door behind her opened, a breeze stirring the hair at the back of her neck, raising gooseflesh over her arms. As Callista quickly slid the packet of correspondence back into the desk drawer, she felt Branston’s thunderous stare bore into her, his fury like a shimmer of red behind her eyelids.

“I almost wish Mr. Corey hadn’t found you in time for your appointment,” he said. “Better to postpone the summoning than have poor Mrs. Dixon’s hopes dashed so cruelly.”

“Your concern for the grieving mother is touching,” Callista answered wearily. “I’d not have taken you for a sentimentalist.”

“What I am is a businessman, and you, my dear, are the business. A fact you keep forgetting.”

As she rose to confront her brother, his small,
washed-out blue eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared as if he smelled something rank. “That’s where you’re wrong. I know it all too well. You haven’t let me forget for one moment in the past seven years.”

His hands flexed and curled into fists, his well-fed body wired with tension. “Is that what your sulks are about? Your feelings are hurt? You don’t feel appreciated? Is that why you decided to dash a grieving mother’s hopes by telling her you were unable to speak to little Jonny?”

“It’s not right to take these people’s money without offering them something in return.”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, her half brother shrugged away from her. “We offer solace. Reassurance. Hope. Worth it at double the price,” he said, in the same tone he used to hawk her skills during their years traveling town to town and fair to fair. “We’re their only link to their loved ones beyond the grave. To the infinite knowledge of the future the spirits can offer us.”

“Yes, if I’m able to find the spirit they seek and the client’s questions are answered. But I never found that woman’s son. I walked as far as I dared into death. I tried every path I knew. I couldn’t lie to her.”

“Perhaps you need to delve farther? Walk paths you’ve yet to explore?”

“I’m not trained for the deeper reaches. Mother died before she could teach me those lessons, and without the proper instruction it’s too dangerous to attempt.”

“I don’t bloody care.” He spun round, jaw clenched. Brotherly concern, a pose obviously too difficult to maintain. Not that he’d ever tried very hard. Perhaps if they’d been closer in age or she’d been born a boy or he’d not been an ill-tempered, spiteful good-for-nothing sod. “Do what you need to do to satisfy the customer, Callista. If you won’t risk it, then lie. If you’d done that tonight, the old cow would have left here pleased as punch, thinking little Jonny was with dear old dad
doing ring-the-rosy in heaven. She’d have been happy to be comforted in her time of grief. I’d have been happy to relieve her of her money.”

“We’ve only begun to recover after the fiasco in Manchester. Do you want to be arrested this time? Or worse? Mother always said—”

“What I want, Callista”—he slammed his hand upon the table—“is for you to do as you’re told. I don’t give a damn about your bloody bells or your Fey-born gift or your sainted mother. She’s dead, and if it weren’t for me, the only gift keeping you from the gutter would be the one between your legs. So, you’ll tell these sniveling, drippy, hand-wringing women with their sob stories whatever they want to hear, because if you don’t”—he shoved his face close enough for her to smell the whiskey on his breath—“I’ll make you very, very sorry.”

She refused to cower before him, though she knew it only made him angrier. Instead she locked her knees, forced her shoulders square, and met him glare for glare. “You’re no longer my guardian, and I won’t be forced to act as your circus sideshow any longer.”

His gaze grew icy, a wicked smile dancing over his mouth. “The next time you leave, I’ve told Mr. Corey he can return you in any condition he sees fit. He’s more than willing, and, knowing him, any struggle on your part will only increase his ardor. You suppose that high-flown aunt of yours you’re always running on about will acknowledge you once you’re ruined and stuffed with a man’s bastard child?”

Cold splashed across her back, nearly buckling her knees. She gripped the edge of the table. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I? Victor Corey wants you for his wife, the gods only know why, and I’ve accepted his proposal. It matters little to him whether he beds you before or after the ceremony.”

Callista wanted to be sick. “I’ll not marry Corey. He may dress like a dandy and ape the manners of a gentleman, but he’s nothing more than a common street thug.”

Branston grabbed her, his fingers digging into her upper arms until tears burned in her eyes. “If Corey wants you, he’ll have you if I have to drag you bound to the altar. Do I make myself clear?” he spat.

“Completely.”

He released her to pat her cheek, an unpleasant smile stretching his wide mouth. “You make it so much harder than it needs to be, Callista. Haven’t I always ever seen to your best interests? Haven’t I always been there to take care of you, unlike those high-and-mighty relatives of your mother’s? Corey’s an important and wealthy man with important friends. You should be happy he wants you.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, eyeing him like the disease he was. “Your persuasive abilities continue to amaze me. It’s no wonder none of your schemes have ever paid off.”

Annoyance flickered in his gaze. “Get some rest. We’ve two appointments tomorrow, and I want you at your best. I’m going out. Mrs. Thursby will be here should you need anything.”

Hardly a comfort. The old bawd acting as Branston’s housekeeper was another of Mr. Corey’s associates. Since setting up shop in London six months ago, their household had slowly been taken over by the gang leader and his underlings. But why? What really lay behind his continued and growing interest in them?

“Where are you going?” she asked.

Branston chucked her chin as if she were ten years old. “Worried for me? Don’t be, dear sister. I’ll always be here to look after you. Always.”

She crossed to the hearth, though no warmth touched her frozen, shivering skin. Always was what she most feared.

*   *   *

No matter how many times he did it, David St. Leger always hated this part.

With held breath and steady hand, he eased the silver-bladed knife across his opposite palm, blood welling behind the thin cut. Holding it above the glass he’d prepared beforehand, he waited as three drops large fell into the viscous slime-green liquid, then snatched up a napkin to wrap around his wound. Already the initial sting became a steady throb moving up his arm into his head until spots bounced in front of his eyes and his stomach squirmed ominously.

He’d almost left it too late.

Swirling the liquid round as if he were appreciating a fine brandy, he raised the glass to his lips, closed his eyes, and downed the vile, greasy brew in one shuddering swallow.

He wasn’t sure which was worse—the cure or the curse.

Placing the glass on a nearby table, he sank into an armchair, leaning his head back against the cushions until the dizziness passed and the potion took hold. The clock struck the hour. A log in the grate fell apart in a shower of sparks. Rain pattered against the window.

And then there were the sounds that didn’t belong. A far-off click of a latch. The brush of a boot against carpet. A rattle of a knob. Not a servant. He’d sent the last one to bed on his arrival home an hour ago.

Taking up the knife once more, David waited—and listened. He’d take no chances. Not with the Ossine’s brutal enforcers stalking the countryside in search of rebel Imnada. Not when wielding silver might be the difference between life and extermination.

Sooner or later they were bound to suspect exiled clan members of collusion if not outright allegiance to the traitors. And when they did, David would be ready. They’d not lay their hands on him again.

He’d die first. And take a few down with him before he went.

The sounds came closer. David hung back, the knife ready, every muscle tensed for the attack. The door opened and a shadow fell across the floor. Unhesitating, he lunged, his arm sweeping out to catch the intruder. A shout erupted. Glass shattered. A knife flashed. The intruder’s neck ended trapped in the crook of David’s elbow, his back arched against the silver pressed to his kidneys.

“Are you barking mad, St. Leger?” the man growled from between clenched teeth.