Marissa Day (29 page)

“And what would you want for yourself?” Rathe was asking.

“I want safe passage for the woman. Beyond that . . . I don’t care.” That wasn’t true. He cared passionately, for he wanted to be with Jane. He wanted it more than he wanted his next breath. But if his life was the price this man wanted for her freedom and safety, Thomas would strike the bargain and thank him for it.

“I’ve no authority to promise anything of the kind.”

“You’ll find you do have it, if you want the information I can give you,” Thomas told him. Rathe was playing for time. He might have already summoned his allies and maybe even his superiors. If he was half as smart as he seemed, he’d be trying to hem Thomas in, and Thomas could not let himself be trapped before he had guarantee of Jane’s safety.

Rathe tilted his head. Thomas felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Rathe was hearing some inner voice, some sympathetic communication. If Thomas opened his perceptions, he might be able to overhear, but Rathe would be able to sense him listening, so he held himself closed.

Rathe straightened. “Very well. No one will pursue Lady Jane DeWitte, and she will face no punishment for her part in your plan, if in return, you will give to us all you know of the Fae queen and her plans. This I swear by my breath and blood.”

“And I agree.”

Rathe moved forward, wary as a panther. Thomas let him approach without flinching, keeping his hands spread out and open. Rathe did not stop until he was almost within Thomas’s reach; almost but not quite.

“Then prove your agreement. Tell me your name.”

Thomas had been ready for this. It was no simple request coming from a Sorcerer. Names gave those who knew them power. A name could be used to summon the owner, and to bind them.

“My name is Thomas Lynne. My father was Mathias Lynne, captain of Her Majesty’s privateer
Free Hand
. His father was Reynold Lynne, a common sailor aboard old King Henry’s vessel
Dover’s Pride
.”
There, Rathe. You could call me from the grave with that.

“Thomas.”

For a moment, he thought it was the Sorcerer who spoke, but Rathe whirled around. Hooves and hobnailed boots thudded on the dirt, and a mob poured from the alley.

First, Thomas saw Fiora, looking straighter and stronger than he had seen her since he came to London. She rode sidesaddle on the spotted gelding, its head low and its eyes glazed from the force of the spell that bound it. Around her clustered a gang of squat men with bowed arms and crooked legs. They could pass as any crowd of dockworkers, until you looked in their eyes and saw how they were round and black as crows’ eyes.

Goblins.

Rathe shouted and threw up his hands. Magic crackled and rushed into the air, but the goblins charged forward in a body. Around them, men shouted and whistled. The goblins knocked Rathe to the ground and charged past and over him without hesitating. Thomas backpedaled, shoving his hand into his pocket, scrabbling for his pilfered nails, but the goblins barreled straight into him. Thomas fell sprawling on the dirt. The nails flew from his hands, and the monsters piled laughing on top of him. He kicked out with all his strength. He punched and flailed, but they were creatures of wood and stone, and his blows fell like leaves on them. They lifted him onto their crooked shoulders, holding him tight and grinning in triumph. Thomas saw Rathe struggle to his feet. One of his captors lashed out carelessly and knocked him flat again. He thought he felt another wash of magic, thought he saw Rathe’s compatriots running up the bank, but then a blow fell against temple and he saw nothing but a painful blaze of stars.

Come along now, Thomas Lynne,
said Fiora’s voice inside his mind as consciousness spiraled away.
Our queen is asking for you.

J
ane
.

Jane lifted her head from her pillow. She was certain that it was the early hours of the morning. Far past Thomas’s usual time for calling to her. Or, at least it had been until the night before.

Jane squeezed her eyes shut, torn by indecision. Since she’d returned from the interminable supper at Mrs. Beauchamp’s, she had longed for nothing more than a moment to compose herself. The moment had not come. The duchess wanted to be up and walking, and Frau Seibold was determined she should be perfectly at rest. Jane found herself caught in the middle of the tussle between the two, being ordered to fetch and carry pillows and blankets, bring them here, take them there, fetch the maid for tea, take all this horrid food away, to read this book, no, the letters . . .

When at last the duchess was in her bed, Jane had to sit by her side reading her German Bible for well over an hour until she at last fell asleep.

“The baby is very close now,” said Frau Seibold. “We must be ready at any moment. You will be required to help when the time comes. You are prepared for this?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” What other answer was she going to make? She’d crept to her bed, just to try to get a little rest, and had surprised herself by falling deeply asleep.

And now Thomas called. Their stilted empty conversation in Mrs. Beauchamp’s parlor pressed against her, robbing her of breath. She was certain he was about to leave her, and equally certain he had said he loved her. If she went to him now, she might be granted a final chance to make peace with all she had done, as well as with the man who had captured her heart and yet some how set her free doing it.

But if she should be absent when the birth began . . .

Urgency surged through her. Jane bit her lip and made her decision. She would have to risk it.

She struggled out from under her blankets to claim her robe and slippers. The hallway was empty, dark and ice-cold. Jane made her way down the back stairs and through the maze of the ground floor rooms. As she reached the cupola room, the clock chimed the hour. Four in the morning. This was not right in so many ways. She felt it to her bones. Dawn was too close. The servants would be up and about in less than an hour. She was putting herself in worse danger than ever before. But she had to see Thomas. She had to speak with him. She would have no peace in her mind or heart if she did not. Even if he told her that he was leaving, that whatever he felt for her was not enough to cause him to travel past a brief affair . . . she could accept anything as long as she
knew
. As long as she could see him just once more.

Jane hurried on. Drafts curled around her ankles and shoulders and Jane clutched her robe tightly about her. The lantern guttered and threatened to go out with every hurried step.

There it was, at last, the familiar corridor with its four doors. But something was wrong. She felt it in the way her skin crawled on the back of her neck and the way her hand holding the lamp trembled. It too was drafty, and Jane swore she smelled the rain. There was something else though. It took her a handful of heartbeats, but then Jane realized the welcome was missing. Welcome. Thomas’s welcome and the happy anticipation, which she had felt each and every time she had made this journey were entirely absent now.

Jane backed away from the corridor’s mouth. She turned to run.

A wind blew hard around her ears, and the walls of Kensington House melted away like a dream.

Jane pressed her fist against her mouth to stifle a scream. Trees loomed high against the sky heavy with clouds. She spun around, searching desperately for some landmark, and behind her saw a straight road and high brick wall topped with iron. It was the outer wall of the Kensington grounds, and it was yards away. Her hems and slippers were sopping wet and stained with grass. Rain tapped on her cap and hissed on the sides of the lantern’s glass chimney.

She barely had time to wonder how she had gotten out here or to comprehend that this was some new magic when she was aware of silhouettes shifting under the trees that lined the road in both directions, and the glint of eyes.

“So, this is Jane.”

“Sweet Jane.”

One by one the owners of the voices emerged from the shadows. They came out from under the trees, and dropped from the branches. They rose straight up from the ground. They wore human shapes, but each one of them moved with the fierce and feral grace of hunting animals. Their hair tumbled free about their shoulders, and their clothing was nothing more than thin tunics and kilts hanging loose about their bodies.

“Pretty Jane.”

“Pretty pigeon, Jane.”

The words were smooth and cutting as flint. The voices that uttered them had a strange musical sound that Jane couldn’t identify as male or female.

“Come here, pretty pigeon.”

“Come here now, Jane. Your lover needs you.”

The words surrounded her like the creatures did, and seemed to come from every direction at once, as if they were not many, but a single being with a single voice between them.

“Pretty, pretty Lady Jane.”

“Pretty pigeon.”

“Such a pretty peach. No wonder he sought to nibble your ripe flesh.”

Jane turned again, seeking escape, but their ring drew tighter as they stalked forward and left her no place to run. She could see their eyes now, and the slim semblance of humanity about the creatures vanished. They looked at her from beasts’ eyes and birds’ eyes; from the eyes of cats, the eyes of wolves, and tiny glittering eyes that could have belonged to snakes.

“Who are you?” Jane demanded.

“What?” cried the voice, although no mouth moved. “Didn’t he tell you?”

“So careless of him.”

Him. There was only one person they could be speaking of. “Where is Thomas?”

“Yes, where is he?”

“Where is Sir Thomas?”

“Where?”

“Where is the pretty Thomas? Pretty Jane wants to know.”

“How thoughtless not to keep his tryst.”

“Fickle Thomas, cannot choose who he loves the best.”

A cold laugh rippled round the ring. Then in front of her the bodies parted, and a woman stepped into their circle.

She was a tiny woman. Her head barely came up to Jane’s chin, but in the strange silver light, Jane could see she was beautiful. A wealth of red hair spilled down her shoulders, blowing freely in the night wind. Strong, round limbs and ample curves showed beneath her light tunic. She looked up at Jane and smiled, and Jane saw that her eyes appeared human, but they were far too old and watery for the impish maiden’s face that held them.

She knew those eyes.

“God in Heaven,” she whispered. “Mrs. Beauchamp.”

“Oh, very good, Jane!” cried the little redhead. “But then you always were such a clever girl. And so kind to old ladies.” Her smile sharpened, becoming bright and cruel. “Or perhaps it’s just their handsome godsons you’re kind to.”

“What’s happening here?” Jane cried. “What do you want?” The world had already turned over, it had already shaken her to the core. But the other creatures had been strange beyond the realm of comprehension. This incredible transformation of someone she had known her entire life pierced her straight through. Jane thought she might be sick, or faint.

“I should have thought it was obvious, Jane.” Mrs. Beauchamp cocked her head at Jane in the dreadful parody of the old, friendly woman she had once been. “We want you.”

Fear bit down hard. Jane swung the lamp out. Mrs. Beauchamp skipped back, and Jane ran. In her panicked mind, Jane hoped to startle the other . . . creatures with her sudden charge, but they just closed ranks. She hurled the lamp at them, but it was dodged easily, and she ran straight into their arms. They wrapped cold hands around her shoulders, waist and ankles. Jane had never been weak, and she kicked and struggled now, but it was as if she was clasped in iron bands. They bore her to her knees, cruel fingertips digging hard into her flesh, and Jane cried out as she fell to the rain-soaked grass.

“Now, Jane,” said Mrs. Beauchamp, or whoever this diminutive redheaded girl in front of her truly was. “Don’t make this any worse than it has to be.”

She caught Jane’s wrist and held it with the same unnatural strength as the others. Someone grabbed her hair at the roots and forced her head up so Jane looked into the other woman’s ancient blue eyes.

“Lady Jane Markham DeWitte,” intoned the creature who held her wrist. “You will give over to me.”

It was as if a vein in her soul had been opened. Strength, breath, vitality all fell away. Jane felt somehow she was fading, becoming a thing of mist and dreams. At the same time, the woman who had been Mrs. Beauchamp changed. She grew taller. Her fiery red hair darkened, her face softened.

And Jane was looking at herself. Only the penetrating, cruel blue eyes remained unchanged. Otherwise, it was as if she looked in a dark mirror to see her own face and figure, and neat night attire.