Midnight Never Come (35 page)

They were almost to the courtyard entrance. Then Deven’s footing betrayed him, his ankle turning on an uneven patch of ground, and what should have been a lunge became a stagger, his sword point dropping to strike the dirt.

And a sandaled foot descended on it from above, snapping the steel just above the hilt.

A calloused hand smashed into his jaw, knocking him backward. Deven punched out with the useless hilt and connected with ribs, but he had lost the advantage of reach; an instant later, the man was behind him, locking him into a choke hold. Gasping, Deven reversed his grip and stabbed blindly backward, gouging the broken tip into flesh.

The stranger ignored that wound, as he had ignored all others.

The world was fading, bright lights dancing with blackness. The hilt fell from his nerveless fingers. Deven reached up, trying to find something to claw, but there was no strength in his arms. The last thing he heard was a faint, mocking laugh in his ear.

T
URNAGAIN
L
ANE
,
BY THE
R
IVER
F
LEET
:
May 6, 1590

The sluggish waters of the Fleet reeked, even up here by Holborn Bridge, before it passed the prison and the workhouse of Bridewell and so on down to the Thames. It was an ill-aspected river, and always had been; again and again the mortals tried to cleanse it and make its course wholesome once more, and always it reverted to filth. Lune had once been unfortunate enough to see the hag of the Fleet. Ever since then, she kept her distance.

Except when she had no choice.

The alehouse her instructions had told her to find was a dubious place in Turnagain Lane, frequented by the kind of human refuse that clustered around the feet of London, begging for scraps. She had disguised herself as an older woman, and was glad of her choice; a maiden wouldn’t have made it through the door.

She had been given no description, but the man she sought was easy enough to find; he was the one with the wooden posture and the disdainful sneer on his face.

Lune slipped into a seat across from him, and wasted no time with preliminaries. “What do you want from me?”

The glamoured Vidar tsked at her. “No patience, and no manners, I see.”

She had barely sent word off to the Goodemeades when Vidar’s own messenger found her. The added delay worried her, and for more than one reason: not only might Invidiana wonder at her absence, but the secrecy of this meeting with Vidar meant he had not called her for official business.

She had not forgotten what she owed him.

But she could use that to her advantage, if only a little. “Do you want the Queen to know of this conference? ’Tis best for us both that we be quick about it.”

How had he ever managed his extended masquerade as Gilbert Gifford? Vidar sat stiffly, like a man dressed up in doublet and hose that did not fit him, and were soiled besides. Lune supposed the preferment he got from it had been motive enough to endure. Though he had been squandering that preferment of late; she had not seen him at court in days.

Vidar’s discomfort underscored the mystery of his absence. “Very well,” he said, dropping his guise of carelessness. What lay beneath was ugly. “The time has come for you to repay that which you owe.”

“You amaze me,” Lune said dryly. She had made no oath to be polite about it.

He leaned in closer. The face he had chosen to wear was sallow and ill shaven, in keeping with the tenor of the alehouse; he had forgotten, however, to make it smell. “You will keep silent,” Vidar growled, “regarding any other agents of the Wild Hunt you may uncover at court.”

Lune stared at him, momentarily forgetting to breathe.

“As I kept silent for you,” he said, spitting the words out one by one, “so you shall for me. Nor, by the vow you swore, will you let any hint of this matter leak to the Queen — by
any
route. Do you understand me?”

Corr. No wonder Vidar had been so absent of late; he must have feared what Invidiana would uncover about the dead knight . . . and about him.

Sun and Moon — what was he planning?

Lune swallowed the question, and her rudeness. “I understand you very well, my lord.”

“Good.” Vidar leaned back and scowled at her. “Then get you gone. I relish your company no more than you relish mine.”

That command, she was glad to obey.

F
ARRINGDON
W
ARD
W
ITHIN
, L
ONDON
:
May 6, 1590

Her quickest path back to the Onyx Hall led through Newgate, and she walked it with her mind not more than a tenth on her surroundings, working through the implications of Vidar’s demand.

He must have formed an alliance with the Hunt. But
why
? Had he given up all hope of claiming Invidiana’s throne for himself? Knowing what she did now, Lune could not conceive of those exiled kings permitting someone to take the usurper’s place. If he thought he could double-cross them . . .

She was not more than ten feet from the Hall entrance in the St. Nicholas Shambles when screeching diverted her attention.

Fear made her heart stutter. In her preoccupation, someone might have crept up on her with ease, and now her nerves all leapt into readiness. No one did more than eye her warily, though, wondering why she had started in the middle of the street.

The noise didn’t come from a person. It came from a jay perched on the eave of a building just in front of the concealed entrance. And it was staring straight at her.

Watching it, Lune came forward a few careful steps.

Wings flapped wildly as the jay launched itself at her face, screaming its rasping cry. She flinched back, hands coming up to ward her eyes, but it wasn’t attacking; it just battered about her head, all feathers and noise.

She had not the gift of speaking with birds. It could have been saying anything, or nothing.

But it seemed very determined to keep her from the entrance to the Onyx Hall — and she did know someone who might have sent it.

Lune retreated a few steps, ignoring the staring butchers that lined both sides of the shambles, and held up one hand. Now that she had backed away, the jay quieted, landing on her outstretched finger.

Something in her message must have panicked the Goodemeades. But what?

She dared not go to them to ask. She had to hide herself, and then get word to the sisters. Not caring how it seemed to onlookers, Lune cupped the bird in her hands, closing her fingers around its wings, and hurried back out through Newgate, wondering where — if anywhere — would be safe.

T
HE
O
NYX
H
ALL
, L
ONDON
:
May 7, 1590

Instinct stopped him just before he would have moved.

He could feel ropes binding his ankles together, his arms behind him. The stone beneath him was cold and smooth. In the instant when he awoke, before he shut his eyes again, he saw a floor of polished black and white and gray. The air on his skin, ghosting through the rents in his clothing, was cool and dry.

He knew where he was. But he needed to know more.

Footsteps tapped a measured beat on the stone behind him. Deven kept his body limp and his eyes shut. Let them think him still unconscious.

Then he began to move, without a single hand touching him.

Deven felt his body float up into the air and pivot so that he hung upright, facing the other direction. His arms ached at the change in position, cold and cramped from the ropes and the stone. Then a voice spoke, as cool and dangerous as silk over steel. “Cease your feigning, and look at me.”

For a moment he considered disobeying. But what would it gain him?

Deven opened his eyes.

The breath rushed out of him in a sigh.
Oh, Heaven save me. . . .
They had spoken of her beauty, but words could not frame it. All the poetry devoted to Elizabeth, all the soaring, extravagant compliments, comparing her to the most glorious goddesses of paganism — every shred of it should have been directed here, to this woman. Not the slightest imperfection or mark interrupted the alabaster smoothness of her skin. Her eyes were like black diamonds, her hair like ink. High cheekbones, delicately arched brows, lips of a crimson hue both forbidding and inviting . . .

The words tore their way free of him, driven by some dying instinct of self-preservation. “God in Heaven . . .”

But she did not flinch back. Those red lips parted in an arrogant laugh. “Do you think me so weak? I do not fear your God, Master Deven.”

If she did not fear the Almighty, still His name had given Deven strength. He wrenched his gaze away, sweating. They had spoken of Invidiana’s beauty, but he had imagined her to be like Lune.

She was nothing like Lune.

“You are not surprised,” Invidiana said, musingly. “Few men would awake in a faerie palace and be unamazed. I took you for bait, but you are more than that, are you not, Master Deven? You are the accomplice of that traitor, Lune.”

How much did she know?

How much could he keep from her?

“Say rather her thrall,” Deven spat, still not looking at her. “I care nothing for your politics. Free me from her, and I will trouble you no more.”

Another laugh, this one bidding fair to draw blood by sound alone. “Oh, indeed. ’Tis a pity, Master Deven, that I did not have Achilles steal you sooner. A man who so readily resorts to lies and deception, manipulation and bluff, could well deserve a place in my court. I might have made a pet of you.

“But the time for such things has passed.” The idle amusement of her voice hardened. “I have a use for you. And if that use should fail . . . you will provide me with other entertainment.”

Deven shuddered uncontrollably, hearing the promise in those words.

“You are my guest, Master Deven.” Now it was mock courtesy, as disturbing as everything else. “I would give you free run of my domain, but I fear some of my courtiers do not always distinguish guests from playthings. For your own safety, I must take precautions.”

The force that held him suspended now lowered him. The toes of his boots touched the floor; then she pushed him farther, until he knelt on the stone, arms still bound behind his back.

His head was dragged forward again; he could not help but look.

Invidiana was lifting a jewel free of her bodice. He had a glimpse of a black diamond housed in silver, edged with smaller gems; then he tried to flinch back and failed as her hand came toward his face.

The metal was cool against his skin, and did not warm at the contact. An instant later Deven shuddered again, as six sharp points dug into his skin, just short of drawing blood.

“This ban I lay upon thee, Michael Deven,” Invidiana murmured, the melody of her voice lending horror to her words. “Thou wilt not depart from this chamber by any portal that exists or might be made, nor send messages out by any means; nor wilt move in violence against me, lest thou die.”

Every vein in his body ran with ice. Deven’s teeth clenched shut, his jaw aching with sudden strain, while six points of fire fixed into the skin of his brow.

Then it was gone.

Invidiana replaced the gem, smiling, and the bonds holding him fell away.

“Welcome, Master Deven, to the Onyx Hall.”

D
EAD
M
AN’S
P
LACE
, S
OUTHWARK
:
May 7, 1590

There was something grimly appropriate, Lune thought, about hiding a stone’s throw from an Episcopal prison full of heretics.

But Southwark was a good place for hiding; with its stews and bear-baiting, its prisons and general licentiousness, a woman on her own, renting out a room for a short and indefinite period of time, was nothing out of the ordinary way. Lune would simply have to be gone before her faerie gold — or rather, silver — turned back to leaves.

Had the jay in truth belonged to the Goodemeades? Or had it taken her message to another? Would the Goodmeades come? What had happened, that they were so determined to keep her from the Onyx Hall?

Footsteps on the stair; she tensed, hands reaching for weapons she did not have or know how to use. Then a soft voice outside: “My lady? Let us in.”

Trying not to shake with relief, Lune unbarred the door.

The Goodemeades slipped inside and shut it behind them. “Oh, my lady,” Gertrude said, rushing forward to clasp her hands, “I am so sorry. We did not know until too late!”

“About the pact?” Lune asked. She knew even as she said the words that wasn’t it, but her mind had so fixated on it, she could not think what Gertrude meant.

Rosamund laid a gentle hand on her arm. The touch alone said too much. “Master Deven,” the brownie said. “She has taken him.”

There was no refuge in confusion, no stay of understanding while Lune asked what she meant. Fury began instantly, a slow boil in her heart. “I trusted you to warn him. He’s as much in danger as I; why did you warn only me?”

The sisters exchanged confused looks. Then Rosamund said, “My lady . . . the birds stopped you of their own accord. Her people ambushed him on the street yesterday. We did not even know of it until later. We sent birds some time ago, to watch you both. They had lost you, but when one saw him taken, they chose to watch the entrances and stop you if they could.”

Lost her. Because she had tried so very hard to keep anyone from following her when she went to meet Vidar. Where had she been, when they attacked him? Had Vidar distracted her on purpose?

“Tell me,” Lune said, harsh and cold.

Gertrude described it softly, as if that lessened the dreadfulness of what she said. “A will-o’-the-wisp to lead him astray. A tatterfoal, to replace his own horse and carry him into the trap.” She hesitated before supplying the last part. “And Achilles, to bring him down.”

One tiny comfort Lune could take from that: Invidiana must not mean to have Deven battle to the death, or she would have saved Achilles for later, and sent Kentigern instead.

“There’s more,” Rosamund said. “His manservant Colsey was following him, it seems. I do not know why, or what happened . . . but he’s dead.”