Firelight

by Kristen Callihan

  Archer thrust his head forward, ready to smash the vile thing’s nose in, doing whatever it took to kill it. He met with air, lurched up into nothingness. Laughter echoed in the void, and then he was alone, sitting like a child on the dark road.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Darkness. Quiet. Miranda reveled in it for a moment, breathing hard, holding the earth as though an anchor. Dirt crumbled beneath her fingers, and dead winter grass prickled her nose. She sneezed and the back of her head slammed into something hard. The carriage was on top of her, she realized with a start of terror. She flopped about, desperate to be free of her prison. It would not budge. Her chest squeezed painfully, her throat closing. Breathe! She took a slow breath, and another.

  Tentatively, she wriggled her toes, fingers… all working. Everything ached, but there were no sharp pains that she could detect. Other than the horrible pounding in her head and a slight throbbing on her elbows and knees, she felt perfectly fine.

  She had room, not much of it, but enough. No sound of horses. Which was all fine save there was no one around for miles, and she was assuredly out of sight of the main road. The image of bugs and vermin crawling in to taste her flesh loomed high in her mind, and she started violently. Then the ominous sound of strained timber creaked overhead. She froze, the pounding of her heart filling her ears, when another sound broke through the muffled silence of her tomb—a man shouting. She pressed an ear toward the carriage body. Another desperate roar of terror, the sound of which went straight to her core.

  “Miranda!”

  “Archer,” she whispered, tears blurring her eyes. A whimpering sob broke from her lips. He’d come. He was alive.

  “Miranda!” His shout was clearer now. He was by the carriage, obviously looking around for her and failing.

  “I’m here.” Her voice sounded pathetically small and weak in the dark space. He wouldn’t hear.

  “Archer!” she called louder, filling the space with her voice.

  Pounding footsteps reverberated through the dirt, then came a jostling of the carriage above. The wooden body of the carriage sunk down an inch and pressed into her bottom.

  “Stop!” she screeched. “You’ll bloody crush me.”

  Odd, she thought as the pressure instantly ceased, one could always tell when another was cursing violently, even when the words were unclear. The thought of Archer in a temper rallied her more than anything. He’d find help and get her free.

  She could only gape in a stupor when a loud groan ran through the wooden carriage frame and the pressure upon her back began to ease. Surely he did not mean to lift the bloody thing himself?

  Surely he did. The carriage slowly rose, pale moonlight seeping in as it ascended. The toes of muddy boots came into view. Another groan shot through the night, this one altogether human and strained. A cacophony of splintering wood, squeaking springs, and Archer’s shout rang in her ears as the carriage toppled back onto its broken wheels to land in a rattling heap next to her. Cool fresh air filled her lungs.

  “Thank God. Miri… ah, stop!”

  Archer jumped to her side the instant she began to wobble to her knees.

  “Don’t bloody try to rise! Damn fool, woman… Your spine may have been injured,” he lectured as he knelt before her. “Not to mention…” His words faded from her hearing as she drank up the sight of him—alive and whole.

  His usually gentle upper lip was set firm, a sure sign of irritation. The squared-off line of his cheek and jaw was pale blue in the moonlight but unmarred.

  “Your ankles appear unharmed…”

  Dimly, she felt the gentle touch of fingers running up her calf. He’d retained his silk mask, but a large rent ran along the shoulder seam of his fine suit coat, and a lapel was gone. On the whole, however, he did not look like a man who’d gone head first off a speeding coach.

  “Can you turn your head? I say, can you turn your head!”

  “Pardon?” She blinked and found his eyes narrowed on her.

  “Can you turn your head?” he asked with forced patience. “Slowly.”

  She turned her head from side to side.

  “Good.” He went on with his examination. “Lift your arms?”

  She did as asked, only half listening. The skeletal form of the carriage’s wreckage had caught her eye when she turned right. Black scars of turned-up earth and grass marked the carriage’s trip down the slope. It had landed on a streambed. Only luck and dry weather had made it possible for her to fall within the deepest crevice of the dried-up bed, with the carriage landing on its side above her. A shiver of gratitude rent through her.

  Such a blessing brought her back to her senses and, with it, the realization that Archer’s big hands roamed over her hips, scarcely covered by her thin drawers.

  “Hold on!” She slapped at his hands.

  His lips curled grimly, but he did not look up from his work and brushed her hands aside. “Be still. Of all the stubborn…” He broke off into mumbled Italian, which she could not follow, her Italian being limited to fencing terms.

  His large hands moved up to her ribs, his touch light yet assured. The same could not be said for her breathing, which rapidly became unsteady as he put a hand on either side of her rib cage and gently felt along each bone with his fingers.

  One thumb brushed the soft underside of her breast, and she froze. And so did he. Archer lifted his eyes to hers, focusing on them with such frowning intensity that she could only stare back wordlessly. His eyes narrowed further, the hands at her sides unmoving. Then his stern mouth broke into a lopsided smile.

  “You’re unharmed,” he said thickly.

  “Well, of course I am,” she said rather sharply, fearful that the slightest movement would cause his hand to slide upward. “I could have told you as much if you’d have let me.”

  “You’re unharmed,” he said again and then closed his eyes with a sigh of relief.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Maurus Robert Lea, Seventh Earl of Leland, rarely slept anymore. If he were lucky, four or perhaps five hours of sweet oblivion would claim him. Lately, however, the god Hypnos rarely granted him a visit. He began to wonder if such sleeplessness was the work of his mind striving to keep itself useful until the day that final sleep would claim him. Surely it would arrive sooner than later.

  Thus he was very much awake, sitting before his coal fire hearth, listening to the storm that was brewing up and taking stock of his overlong life, when the clock struck three in the morning and blows began to rain down upon his front door.

  “Leland!”

  Startled, he tripped over his dressing robe as he scrambled to his feet. Wilkinson met him in the hall looking alarmed yet impeccably groomed, his snow-white hair neatly combed, his collar points high as Dover cliffs. Leland doubted he looked as well.

  “My lord?” the butler inquired with a hasty glance at the door. The blasted pounding had not abated.

  “Open up, Leland!”

  “All is well, Wilkinson. Go to bed, will you. I’m far too old to be mollycoddled.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Leland knew the man would stay in his butler’s closet until his master went to bed. He pushed the thought out of his mind and wrenched open the door to face the wily bastard whose voice he knew so well.

  Archer did not appear wily just then. Only lost. Rain bounced on his shoulders as he stood drenched in the doorway. He wore only the half mask tonight. It stuck to him like sealskin, outlining the weariness and utter defeat carved on his face.

  His massive chest lifted as he pulled in a deep breath. The plea came out a rasp, as though he wished to pull it back in with every word. “I need your help, Lilly.”

  For one angry moment, Archer thought Leland might slam the door in his face. The man stood frozen before him, his ridiculous peacock-printed dressing robe hanging askew over his nightgown, his thin legs like birch sticks trembling above worn velvet house slippers. He might have been Ebenezer Scrooge standing there with such
a sour scowl upon his face. But then he moved, stepping aside to bid Archer entrance.

  “Come,” he said, keeping his eyes on Archer.

  Archer brushed past him, feeling very much the specimen pinned to a dissector’s board. But the time for humility had come. He’d made sure Miri was in bed and then slipped out. Even though it struck terror in him to do so, plans had to be made.

  He followed the old man into a library nearly identical to his own. A coal fire glowed in the hearth—warmer than wood but foul smelling.

  “Drink?” Leland was already pouring himself one.

  “Have you bourbon?”

  A thin smile lifted the man’s mustache. “No. Can’t say I’ve developed a taste for that Yank swill.”

  “Snob. Scotch, then.”

  Leland handed Archer a glass, and he took a grateful swallow, then moved closer to the hearth. Little hisses and black smoke puffed out of the grate as water dripped from Archer’s back and shoulders.

  “You’ll put my fire out,” Leland admonished.

  “I didn’t know where else to stand.” Or to go.

  “Why on earth didn’t you put on a cloak, or hat, for that matter?”

  “I was distracted.”

  The man was beginning to sound like his mother. Then again, Leland always chastised. Leland, the pinnacle of common sense and order—until West Moon Club.

  “Let me get you a dressing gown.”

  Archer snorted. “Thank you, no.” Yet he could hardly stand freezing his stones off and conduct a proper conversation. He clenched his jaw, absolutely refusing to let his teeth chatter.

  Leland took a long drink of his Scotch. “I insist. I’ll never hear the end of Wilkinson’s grousing should you soak the carpet or, God forbid, mar the upholstery.”

  “And the ruling class runs in fear of their chiding servants.” Archer smiled and took another sip.

  “Quite.” Leland reached for the bellpull.

  The stiff-faced butler soon returned with an equally ridiculous dressing gown imprinted with saffron-yellow butterflies. Archer scowled down at it. “Your wife’s?”

  “A present from, I’m afraid.” Leland’s expression wilted a bit. “All of them are. Can’t bear to replace them.”

  The skin along Archer’s neck tightened. “When did she pass?” Had Leland loved her? He certainly had not when he married her; Leland had confessed as much to Archer long ago. Archer’s fingers curled into the worn silk.

  “Sixty-nine. Hurry up, you’re still dripping.” Leland snorted. “Or are you going to act like a virgin and change in another room?”

  Archer’s hand hesitated at his collar. “You’re sure you want to see?”

  Leland’s mustache drooped. “Sorry. I’d forgotten, if you can believe it. If it bothers you, I shall step out.”

  Archer pulled off his cravat. “It does not bother me.” Part of him wanted Leland to see. See what he’d shunned. To understand what Archer was facing. He pulled at his sodden mask first. The swollen ties snapped, and the mask slid off.

  “Christ’s blood,” Leland gasped. He sat heavily in his chair and tried to take a drink. His shaking hand proved useless in the endeavor.

  “I did warn you.” Archer spoke lightly yet his chest had tightened. Despite himself, he felt exposed, as though turned soul-side out.

  “Yes. You did.” Leland managed a drink as Archer divested himself of his shirt and slipped into the dressing gown. But not before he’d seen Leland’s eyes go to his bare chest and quickly away. A fine shudder passed over the old man’s frame.

  They had all seen the beginning of his change, but that had been confined to his right hand. And now, solid, dependable Leland was shaken to the core. How then would Miri have reacted? He swallowed hard, wanting to put the mask back on, but pride stayed his hand.

  “Don’t despair,” he said, taking the empty seat by the fire. “It isn’t on you.”

  “Might as well have been.” Leland’s gnarled hand passed stiffly over his eyes. “Had I not been such a coward.” Leland lifted weary eyes to him. Again, a wince convulsed his face but he held firm. “Both of us were chosen. Only you had the courage to try.”

  Archer’s throat burned. “And look where it has left me.”

  “I am.” Leland took a deep breath and set his drink down. “With what do you need my help?”

  This was easier. Archer pulled his gloves off, grateful to be rid of the fleshy wet leather. He could tell Leland recognized the ring he wore. He worked it from his finger and took Daoud’s notes from their hiding spot. “I need you to read these. Here is the cipher.”

  Leland fumbled in his breast pocket for his spectacles. “If you would turn up the lamps. I’m afraid my eyes are not what they once were.”

  The man’s mouth moved as he read, his head tilted toward the light, thick half-moon spectacles at the end of his long nose. Unable to keep still, Archer left his chair and paced.

  Leland studied Daoud’s notes, and a deep frown worked across his brow. “You cannot mean to do this. You are no more responsible for this madness than any of us! You needn’t be a sacrificial lamb. Especially now…” He trailed off with a swallow.

  “Now that I have married?” Archer supplied softly. He forced a shrug. “I might try… Hell, I have tried.” He touched the altered side of his face. “The situation has changed. That thing wants Miranda.” His hand curled into a fist. “I cannot leave her unprotected.”

  Leland’s frown remained. “I understand the sentiment. But surely if anyone can stop this, it is you, Archer.” Leland bit his lip, an action Archer hadn’t seen since Eton. “I thought you wished to save your soul.”

  Archer rubbed his hand hard across his face as if it could ease the restlessness inside. “I’ve had my hands about that wretch’s neck twice. Twice and I cannot… I cannot destroy it.”

  The color drained from Leland’s flat cheeks. “By God.”

  “Not by God,” Archer said wryly. “Most assuredly from hell. And hell is where it will return. But I cannot send it there as I am.” He lifted his left hand. Strong though it was, it was still made of flesh and blood. “I am no match now, a fact used against me to great advantage.”

  He broke from Leland’s gaze, and the pity residing in it. “I must change. For all our sakes.” He touched his glass then let his hand fall. “Even changed, we are evenly matched at best.”

  He heard Leland’s sharp intake of breath and looked up to find him gaping.

  “This is why you need my help.” Leland lifted the paper in his hand. “Because of this new revelation?”

  “Yes. There can be no doubt as to my success. To fail would bring disaster. On all of you.” Archer gripped the mantel hard. “Do you think it can be done?”

  “I’m not quite certain.” Leland studied the note. “Ah, the Druids.” He glanced at him above his spectacles. “I take it that is why you came to me.”

  Archer gritted his teeth, and Leland snorted. “You always were transparent…” He blanched. “I say, Arch…Had I come across this sort of thing before… That is to say, it never occurred to me the curse might have come from the Druids.”

  “It never occurred to me that you might have withheld information. If that’s what you’re on about.”

  “I ought to have looked.” Leland’s long fingers clutched the soft cloth in his shaking hands. “Druid priests knew of magic that we are only beginning to understand. Such blundering is inexcusable of me.”

  A remorseful Leland was near intolerable. “You are looking now,” Archer said brusquely.

  Leland nodded, and resumed studying the note. “It shall take some time. A few days to consult some old texts.”

  “Understood. Just find what you can. Will it work…?”

  Helplessness brought a rage upon Archer. To find Miri slaughtered… Archer would rather be dead himself.

  Leland’s eyes bore into him but Archer refused to turn around. “I am not afraid to die,” he said, staring at the red coals in the grate.


  “Then why—”

  “Haven’t I ended my life long ago? When I knew myself cursed?” He turned. Leland had put down the notes. His long hands lay limp in his lap, bone white against the peacock-blue silk.

  “The ironic thing is, I rather like life,” Archer said. “As odd as mine is. Losing my soul is another issue entirely. I should not like it…” His voice trailed off, awkward in the heavy silence.

  “Certainly not,” Leland agreed softly. He sighed and moved to his bookshelf, and after a bit of searching, he pulled down a large tome covered in thick, embossed leather. “I shall start now. I never sleep these days, anyway. A good riddle will be a boon.” His worn slippers shuffled over the oriental carpet. “Have another drink. Or shall I set you up with a room?”

  Archer shook his head slowly. It felt heavy as a ballast stone. “I am going to retrieve that sword.” He pointed to Daoud’s letter for emphasis. “Now.”

  The book in Leland’s hand closed with a decisive thump. “If you think you are going to leave me behind, think again.”

  Archer’s lips twitched “Can you keep up?” he countered softly.

  “Such effrontery,” Leland answered with a snort of irritation.

  Archer reached for his damp clothes. “Then we had better get moving.”

  They rode horses. And despite Leland’s protestations, Archer worried over him. His frail frame wobbled a bit as they cantered up a small incline. The man held on. The storm had ended and the fog returned, icy and thick. Darkness was nearly complete, and they might have gotten thoroughly lost were it not for Archer’s extraordinary vision. He led the way to the outskirts of town and those desolate caves that had seen the origin of his destruction.

  His breath came out as white mist, eaten up by the muddy dark. Silently, they wove through a copse of trees and came to a stop by a growth of thickets.