Firelight

by Kristen Callihan

  “Despite all evidence to the contrary,” she snapped. Her skin crawled with the desire to move away from him.

  Mckinnon’s eyes skimmed over her form, lingering at the low edge of her bodice. “You keep jumping to conclusions and I’ll wonder if you like the chase.”

  When she glared, he smiled. “Oh, I want you, to be sure. But I’d rather you see the error of your ways. You’ve aligned yourself with the wrong man. And I fear it will get you hurt.”

  “Do tell me, sir, how is it that I’ve got the wrong man?”

  He crossed one long leg over the other. “Is that your first question?”

  “No. It was rhetorical, you boor. What is West Moon Club? And I will not accept one-word answers.”

  His teeth flashed. “Very well. They were a society of scholars, noblemen all who had one common goal—use science and medicine to discover ways to enhance men, to cure them of disease.” He choked over the word as though it was distasteful to him. “And ultimately, find a way to end death itself.”

  She could see how Archer, who dreamed of tombs and death, would find such a mission appealing. It would bring him a sense of purpose. But how had it gone so very wrong?

  “What precisely were they trying to discover?”

  “That is, you realize, another question. But as I am feeling generous…” His expression grew utterly impassive. “Immortality.”

  “Immortality?” Shock prickled over her cheeks. “But how? Did they find it? Of course they must have believed so… Does Archer believe—”

  “Barring the repetitive nature of the first question,” Mckinnon drawled, “I believe that was three more questions. You owe me one first.”

  “Very well,” she said through her teeth.

  His gaze was a caress as he rested his temple against his fist. “Do you feel pleasure when you let it free?”

  Heat flamed instantly over her skin. She swallowed repetitively, tasting bile. The fire in the grate roared with merry contentment as she stared into it. Of all the questions.

  “Have you ever been burned?” she asked. “Your father has. Has he ever spoken of it? Of the unending pain of having one’s flesh seared? I’ve only burned my fingers, accidents of cooking. I can tell you that was enough to bring a sweat to my skin at the thought of fire consuming me.”

  She glanced at him to find his countenance pale. “I roasted that man. Yes, he intended to defile me, just as most men of the streets would without a second’s thought. And I burned him alive. I’ve caused agony beyond endurance, destroyed fortunes. And you think I derive pleasure from such knowledge?”

  Mckinnon ducked his head to study the brocade settee with undue interest. “I am sorry, Miranda. I did not think.”

  Unexpected guilt punched into her. The ugly truth was that she did feel pleasure when the fire broke free. It coursed through her veins like lust. But she would rather die than have someone know it. Such darkness went beyond understanding.

  “You may not believe me,” he said, “but I understand what it is to lose control to disastrous consequence.” When she would not look at him, his voice softened further. “You have the next question.”

  “You know my questions.”

  Mckinnon’s voice rolled over the divide between them. “They found what they thought was key to life everlasting. I do not know how it was achieved. Father refuses to say. Archer drew the short straw, as it were. Unfortunately, the results were not what they intended. Whatever happened to Archer was horrific enough to disband the club and send the members scurrying for cover.”

  Her disjointed breath was a rustling in her ears. “Immortality.”

  “Stranger things, my dear.” Mckinnon smiled sadly. “The experiment transformed Archer. Irrevocably. Fits of rages, obvious physical deformation. He is unstable, perhaps mad.”

  She jumped to her feet. “Bollocks. You’re saying this to turn me against Archer.”

  He watched her pace. “Florid language aside, you know that is not true. Well, yes, true that I want to turn you against him. But this is not a falsehood. Have you never heard the rumors? Of him beating Lord Marvel to a pulp? I assure you, there are other stories…”

  “Rumors. Such as the one that claims I came straight from a bawdy house?” His mouth opened but she rushed on. “I live with the man. He is not mad. Has a temper, yes, but it is not madness.”

  “Then you don’t believe that he sought immortality?”

  She paused. Stranger things. Her skirts pooled in a wash of burgundy as she sank back next to him. “I don’t know what to believe.” Miranda worried her bottom lip; everything about this business confused her. “An odd name, West Moon Club.”

  “Quite.” Mckinnon settled farther into the couch. “It is in reference to the Norwegian fairy tale, East of the Sun and West of the Moon.”

  “I know this story,” she said, the long-forgotten memory making her smile. “One of father’s sailors once told it to me while the men unloaded cargo. A great polar bear takes a young woman as his bride and, in return for her obedience, he gives her great riches. Only she discovers that he is really a prince caught in a sorceress’s spell.”

  “Mmm…” said Mckinnon, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Thus you will remember that when the nosy young lady ignores the bear’s request for privacy and discovers his secret, he is whisked off to a place east of the sun, west of the moon, destined to marry a troll princess.”

  She plucked at a stray strand of her hair that had drifted to her skirts. “Yes, well… But she did save him in the end, did she not?”

  Mckinnon looked at her askance before going on blandly. “East of the sun and west of the moon is essentially nowhere. The club existed nowhere, the meeting place to constantly change.”

  Miranda sighed and blinked up at the ceiling. “I shouldn’t believe any of this.” Scorn laced her voice, yet part of her whispered to listen well. “Why… why is someone killing these men?” She glanced at him. “Does he want the secret? Is he trying to torture it out of the victims?”

  “And risk the same end as Archer?” Mckinnon frowned. “But there is another way—one that even the club considered, although it was ultimately deemed too horrific even for them.” He shifted and watched her carefully. “There are those who believe that by imbibing a man’s flesh, one absorbs the victim’s power and his soul. I didn’t say I believed it,” he protested, catching her skeptical look. “But it is an accepted practice, performed as far back as ancient Egypt. I happen to know that Archer himself translated several hieroglyphs on the subject.”

  “Ridiculous.” It was a strangled gasp. “Eating flesh simply makes one a cannibal. You’re trying to frighten me. Immortality is a myth.”

  “Does it matter?” Bright blue eyes held hers. “Whether or not Archer became an immortal isn’t the point. Those men believed they’d found immortality—unequivocally. Forgive me, my dear, but you have no notion how powerful an inducement belief can be for one who is desperate for a cure—” He stopped and took a deep breath. “To evade death, cure disease, whatever the motivator may be, someone out there is hacking these members up and taking their hearts—the known house of the soul. Personally, I think it is quite clear. Someone is hell-bent to gain immortality any way he can.”

  He leaned forward, and his warm breath caressed the curve of her cheek. “If that is the case then he really ought to leave the rest alone and dine on Archer.”

  Incensed, she reached out and grabbed his wrist. His skin was shockingly warm, as though fevered, yet he appeared in perfect health.

  “Know this,” she said in harsh tones, “if anyone should find my husband”—she swallowed past a lump of nausea—“appetizing, should one hair on Archer’s head be harmed, I shall leave little more than ash of that unfortunate fellow.”

  To make her point, she turned her gaze to the hearth. The densely packed coals, burning a steady orange, appeared to swell, going vermilion and then white hot before exploding within the grate.

  A trickle of
sweat rolled along Mckinnon’s brow, but he smiled. “How very protective of you.” He turned toward the parlor windows where the setting sun had painted the sky purple with streaks of gold. “It appears Lord Archer has returned.”

  All was quiet, then the soft clips of hooves sounded on the gravel drive. Mckinnon set his eyes upon her. “Shall I stay and discuss things further?” A devilish grin pulled at his cheeks as his thumb moved to caress her wrist where they were still joined.

  She released his wrist with a jerk and was composed when the front door opened. Mckinnon, however, got to his feet with practiced insolence. And as Archer strolled into the parlor, dreadfully unaware of his presence, Mckinnon made great show of straightening his clothes.

  Blood drained from Miranda’s face. She knew how it must look and hated that she had put Archer in a position of vulnerability in his own home. He stopped, framed in the open doorway with his feet planted wide, his large hands curled into tight fists as his broad chest heaved.

  “Ah, and the man behind the mask gives us a tantalizing peek.” Mckinnon’s smug barb cut through the silence, and she winced at the realization that Archer had left off his outer mask, a further humiliation in his eyes.

  For a moment, simply seeing him again caused her heart to flip, then she noticed his expression. Rage, rage like nothing she’d ever seen colored his flesh, made his eyes blaze. The tip of his nose and lips stood out bone white.

  “Archer…” She trailed off as his eyes flicked to her. And the rage yielded to such unmitigated hurt that her heart squeezed tight.

  “Get out.”

  His words were a knife in her heart. But his eyes looked past her.

  “Get out of my house,” he said again to Mckinnon.

  Mckinnon gathered his gloves and top hat from the side table. “I shall take my leave here.” His eyes took on a sudden twinkle, making Miranda wonder if irritating Archer had been Mckinnon’s true purpose all along.

  Mckinnon caught her hand before she could move. The weight of Archer’s eyes bore into her as the devil leaned over her hand and kissed it. It snapped her out of her shock, and she wrenched her hand free. “Oh, do get out!”

  He laughed lightly as he sauntered by Archer, who stood like granite in the doorway. Mckinnon paused before him, and the men stared at each other for an agonizing moment, while her blood rushed like wildfire. Archer’s eyes trailed over Mckinnon, pausing at his hands as though he would like nothing better than to rip Mckinnon’s gloves from his grasp and hit the man with them. Something wild gleamed in Archer’s eyes for a moment before it was snuffed out, and his gaze returned to Mckinnon’s face. A dead calm went over the men, and she tensed, ready to push between them, saving Archer from having to act, but Mckinnon put on his hat and slipped past.

  “Good evening then,” he called lightly in the hall.

  The door slammed shut with a reverberating crack, and then there was silence.

  “Archer.” It came from her lips in a rasp.

  He looked at her for one long moment, his face devoid of emotion, his eyes blazing like stars, then he turned and quietly walked away.

  Archer had disappeared as if made of ether. Facing empty rooms, Miranda headed toward the stairs when Eula’s voice stopped her.

  “The Prince of Darkness is in the greenhouse.”

  Miranda paused, her hand upon the newel post. Greenhouse? In all her wanderings, she’d never happened upon a greenhouse. The housekeeper saw her confusion and snorted. “Take the back stairs to the top. You’ll find it.”

  “Eula,” Miranda fought a smile, “you’re helping me? I’m touched.”

  “Pish.” Eula stomped off, waving Miranda away as if she were an insect. “It’s either that or have you run amok messing up my house.”

  The narrow back stairs wound up four stories, the air growing more dense and heated as she ascended. At the top, a black door stood closed against her. Slowly, she turned the knob and pushed into a world of green and the warmth of summer.

  Above her, the black hand of night was stayed by sheets of glass held together by a grid of white-painted iron. The greenhouse itself ran the length of the house, a cavernous jungle of languid ferns, fragrant orange and lemon trees, and clusters of velvety roses. Roses everywhere, a kaleidoscope of color.

  Gaslights hissed in the quiet, reflected off the panes of glass. Humid air enveloped her in a rose-scented kiss as she moved forward, past an iron chaise and into the thick quiet. A scuff of a shoe brought her round a corner.

  He stood before a marble-topped work counter, his capable hands busy filling a large pot with soil. Just under the graceful sweep of his jaw, his pulse beat visibly. That sign of life, the column of his neck working as he swallowed, sent a shiver along her skin.

  The way he breathed, the singular angle of his head when he bent it—they were as familiar to her now as her own reflection. More so because she could not grow tired of watching him. Was this an immortal man who stood before her? It could not be. It was the stuff of legend. A cold shudder took her. And if by some mad reasoning it were true, he would leave her behind. Because she was most assuredly mortal.

  She took a step toward him but stopped short at the sight of the potted rose on the counter. “Oh my.” Her breath caught. It was utterly lovely, so white that it was luminescent in the dim light. Silver veining laced its petals, caressing its edges. The enormous bloom stood erect and alone in its little pot. “It’s gorgeous,” she said.

  Archer inclined his head slightly. “You’d think differently were you a rose. Should I pot it with the others, it would take all of their nutrients. Within hours, they would wither on the vine. Wasted to give the silver rose its strength.”

  Miranda moved to touch it but a sudden wariness stayed her hand. “If it is so deadly to the others, why do you keep it?”

  Braver than she, Archer reached out and gently touched the glinting silver edge of a petal. “Sentimentality, I suppose.” Something in his voice made her heart squeeze.

  “Only one bloom?” Deep-green leaves sheltered the single flower like a mantle.

  “It cannot produce more than one bloom at a time. New buds compete for the light and only the strongest remains.”

  He said no more, but ripped open a sack of rich black soil. “What did he want?” The quietness of his query did not fool her. The trowel in his hand shook under his tight grip as he filled the bottom of a larger pot with soil. A soft snort came from his lips. “Never mind. I know.”

  The trowel hit the counter with a clang, and she flinched, the stays at her waist cinching tight as she waited for the imminent explosion.

  It did not come. He simply stared down at the scattered soil as though trying to make sense of the mess. And a queer feeling tilted her insides, watching him retreat instead of turning to fight. Shame washed over her. Mckinnon and his blasted horror stories. She was no better than a calf-eyed fool for listening to him. Perhaps the club sought immortality. Perhaps not. But Archer was her husband. The man who protected her with his life. He did not deserve wild speculations.

  “He told me about—”

  “West Moon Club?” Archer’s mouth curled in a bitter smile when she started in surprise. “You have my coin. You are a busybody of the first order. It doesn’t take a mystic to know that you’d have discovered all you could about West Moon Club.” He stabbed at a pile of soil with his trowel. “You might have asked me, instead of him.”

  She drew herself up. “And you are cagey and evasive at best. Am I now to believe you would have answered?”

  A small, humorless laugh escaped him. “Ask me now and see.”

  Heart in her throat, she forced herself to speak. “Mckinnon believes you were looking for the secret to immortality.” It sounded ridiculous to her ears, yet he did not start in surprise. Instead, he merely glanced down at the soil, unseeing.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow, detached. “Immortality was not the goal, though I suppose by prolonging life, one is evading death.” Car
efully, he lifted the exposed ball of soil that held the rose and settled it into its new pot. “This rose you see here is our most successful endeavor.”

  Miranda blinked at the silver rose trembling delicately as Archer filled soil around its roots. “You expect me to believe these murders are about a rose?”

  “No.” A wry smile touched his mouth. “However, knowing you will march headlong into danger, do you expect me to tell you whom I think responsible?”

  A breath of frustration left her. “Thus you force me to seek answers elsewhere.”

  Archer tensed but would not face her. “You already have, though, haven’t you?” A clump of soil flew into the pot with a thud. “I hope your time with Mckinnon was worth the knowledge gained. The question is, what did you exchange for his stories?” The trowel scraped over the counter, hacking through the pile of soil. “I know that dog well enough to understand he would not give away anything for free.”

  “It appears you know both of us quite well,” she said without thinking.

  The trowel clattered to the slate floor. Archer took a bracing breath, then clenched the sides of the counter. “I’ve work to do, Miranda. Please go.”

  Slowly she went to him, conscious of her feet on the floor and the hammering of her heart. He did not move nor turn as she came up behind him, close enough to feel the tense energy that surrounded him. “You’ve no reason to be jealous.”

  His head remained bent over the pot. “Is that what I am?”

  Her breath hitched, but she could not move away. She knew the feel of his body now. The hardness and the power it held when he’d pressed up against her in the alleyway. And she craved it. Her head fell forward, coming just short of touching the space between his shoulder blades. She stared at the black suitcoat before her and the gentle rise and fall of his back.

  “His endeavor failed.” Her pulse tattooed against her throat in a painful staccato.

  He stirred, a tiny shift of movement away from her. “Not for lack of trying.”