Evernight

by Kristen Callihan

  “Yet you could not kill me,” he said in that deep Northern voice.

  “Not yet.”

  He stopped before her, and she caught the scent of wool and something sharp like wine. “Has it not occurred to you that in learning your advantage over me, it has become easier for me to get at you?”

  He radiated heat like a small oven now. Demon heat. She wanted to recoil, but did not. The corners of his mouth curled, showing a hint of fang. “Tell me, can you fight against a shadow? Keep one out of your little fortress here?”

  Coolly, she faced him head on. “What are you waiting for, then, Mr. Thorne?”

  His humorless smile grew, but she noted that he was now shaking slightly, and the corners of his eyes were tight. Platinum crept up his throat, edging up to his jaw, and it snaked down his abdomen, dipping into the tiny well of his navel. He twitched when it reached there.

  “Here is what I propose,” he said, as though he were not in increasing pain. “I shall keep you safe, help you find out who wants you dead, and stop them. In return, you agree to cure me and keep me pain free for the duration.”

  As she watched him, he swayed on his feet, a small movement, but clear nonetheless. His lids fluttered, the platinum threads in his irises getting thicker. “Well?” he rasped.

  She ought to let him wait, the cheeky, annoying bastard, but it was her heart that chugged away in his chest. And so she pulled what little reserves of strength she had and let her palm rest once more on his smooth chest where the metal had made it so very cold. He shuddered, a breath of sound leaving his lips, as she pulled at his pain.

  “All right,” she said, looking at her hand upon him. So strange to see it there. “But this shall take some thinking.” For if she was correct, she’d have to touch him almost constantly.

  Chapter Three

  Relief, Will realized, could work like a drug. It flooded his system, making him weak of knee and frighteningly close to whimpering. However, he fought back the urge to draw her close, to drop his forehead to hers and weep with gratitude. She might not have been the hand swinging the sword that slashed through his life, but as sword maker, she was responsible in her own way.

  He shook himself out of his muddled analogies and followed as she turned and headed out of the room. In the hall, a man waited. He was fairly young, likely in his late twenties, and polished in the slick manner of a London toff. Will eyed him with distaste. Had Evernight a man? She hadn’t said, but the unfeeling woman would be just the sort to keep her paramour waiting.

  “Felix,” she said without breaking stride, “have the blue room made up, please.”

  Servant. Good.

  Felix looked Will over with dark eyes full of distrust. “Very well, Miss.”

  “Is the blue room next to your room?” Will asked her.

  She faltered a pace. “Why?”

  He crowded her and then, giving in to the urge to touch her, caught up her hand. When she tried to pull away, he held fast. Touching eased his pain, and she had promised. “I don’t want to roam far should I have need of you,” he said, with a certain dark glee.

  The halls were too shadowed to tell, but he swore a blush stole over the high crests of her cheeks. Her butler, or whatever he was, wasn’t able to contain a soft gurgle of shock.

  “Ignore Mr. Thorne, Felix,” she said. “He is merely trying to get a rise out of you.”

  Clever girl.

  “Yes,” Will admitted, “but it is also the truth. I fully intend to comply to the terms of our agreement.”

  Gas lamps flickered on the newel post at the top landing, coloring her skin peach as they climbed the wide center stair. “The blue room,” she said coolly, “has a door that joins to mine.”

  Will’s toe caught on a riser. Scowling, he jumped lightly up the next one as if to appear that his bumble was intentional. Not that he fooled the smug Miss Evernight.

  “I assumed you’d need to be near for the same reasons,” she went on in her smooth way.

  “I don’t like you,” he told her again, and to remind himself.

  “Of course not.” She and the butler stopped before a door midway down the third floor hallway. “Nor do you need to.”

  In the odd way of English houses, the blue room was not done in blue, but in shades of grey. Flamed walnut paneled the walls. The only nod to blue was a vivid, deep blue lapis lazuli fireplace mantle. A staggering display of wealth for a simple bedroom.

  Evernight managed to detach herself from him, and the heavy weight of pain immediately returned.

  “Bathing room.” She pointed to one of the paneled doors at the far side of the room. “My room,” she said of the other door.

  Two maids entered, one holding a coal scuttle, the other bedding.

  Evernight ignored them and headed towards the connecting door to her room. “Come.”

  Will followed, feeling a bit like a dog, and wanting to growl just the same.

  He wasn’t certain what he expected of Evernight’s room, but not this… clutter. Four large tables were pushed up against the available wall space. Heaps of mechanical parts in various stages of development lay upon them. At the end of each table rested a toolbox. Before the fireplace stood a massive desk, upon which tottered two towers of leather notebooks.

  Her bed was made of cast iron with a canopy. It seemed more a cage, though masses of plump, linen-clad pillows and a down-filled comforter made up for the austerity. Her only other concession of comfort came in the form of a wide, red velvet chaise lounge drawn up before a wall of windows, hung with ivory damask drapery.

  Evernight stopped next to her desk and turned up the lamp there. As she gathered up a stack of what looked like small metal disks from the desk, Will walked over to the window. Below them, a wide stone terrace ran the length of the house, stepping down to an unadorned lawn that met the river Thames. Two sets of iron gates surrounded the property. Efficient if one wanted to dissuade human thieves.

  “You know you are being hunted,” he said, watching rivulets of rain run down the windowpanes, “yet you sit here like a rabbit in her warren.”

  “The house is well fortified.” She placed a disk on the floor in one corner of the room and moved to the door that connected his room to hers. There she set another little disk. “My safety precautions have dispatched three supernaturals.”

  “Hmm.” He roamed over to a table and picked up an apparatus that appeared to be some sort of half-formed pocket watch, only it had a tiny lens on its face.

  “Do not,” she bustled over and took the thing from him, “touch my work.”

  “I won’t damage it.” But he had to smile at her proprietary tone.

  “Maybe not, but it might damage you.” Carefully, she set the watch down and turned to face him. “How shall we proceed?”

  “You can start by telling me everything you can about your activities leading up to—” He stopped short when she uttered a strangled cry and tugged his arm to get him away from the table. “Oh, for God’s sake,” he groused, “I was only leaning a hip against it.”

  “I told you to stay clear of my—”

  Will bent down and scooped her up.

  “Mr. Thorne! Release me at once.”

  “In a moment.” Will held her close and headed for his room. “I cannot think in here, not with you admonishing me like a high-strung governess.”

  “Then simply tell me that and let me walk on my own volition.” Up close, her lashes were thick and long, her eyes indigo. A tiny freckle graced the outer corner of her left eye.

  He might have done what she requested, but he found he enjoyed annoying her, and he had his hands on her, which eased him. Regardless, he let her down with an ungracious drop the moment they were back in his room. She wobbled on her feet and uttered a ribald curse beneath her breath. “I was not yet done in there.”

  “What? Placing those little disks?” Will asked. “What are they anyway?”

  “Another safety measure.” She appeared far too smug about i
t.

  “I see.” He didn’t ask what, fearing the explanation of the mechanics would bore him to tears.

  The maids had gone. His bed, an ornate affair of ebony wood, was made and turned down for the night, and a cheery fire crackled behind the grate. Will sat upon a small sofa before the hearth—for his room had a normal sitting area—and patted the space next to him.

  Evernight, who was shaking out her skirt, gave him a quelling look.

  Hell, he would enjoy this as much as demonly possible. “Come, Evernight. Hold my hand and ease me.”

  Her look of disgust grew. “You do realize that I could put you into a world of agony with just one touch?”

  “But you won’t.” He leaned back and stretched his legs out. Lucidity and comfort were wonderful things. He almost felt like his old self. Almost. The constant weight and annoying whine of his heart was still there. As was the thick push of metal clawing along his chest. But at least he was cognizant. “Now tell me what you have been doing all this time?”

  She sat next to him, but before he could grab hold of her, she turned and touched his pinky. Just that. It was effective, however. “I have been here, working on my devices.”

  “Here,” he repeated. “For nearly a year?”

  She gazed into the fire, and golden light played over her pale face, highlighting its curves and the deep wells of exhaustion beneath her eyes. “Yes. As I said.” Before he could ask her why, she turned and pinned him with a stare. “I ought to tell you now. I cannot provide you with blood.”

  Will’s gaze flickered to the pulse beating at the tender hollow of her neck before meeting her eyes once more. Weariness and caution there. Disgust, too. He bristled. “I do not recall asking for your blood.”

  “I was not referring to myself, of course,” she went on plainly. “I meant that I cannot have blood brought in for you. I realize that makes me a bad hostess, but there it is. I cannot condone it.”

  A hostess? Is that what she fancied herself to be in this scenario? “And I suppose you do not eat all manner of beasts here? Rare roast beef with your pudding?”

  “None that are bipedal, Mr. Thorne.”

  Touché.

  “You should know,” he said, “that blood is not the only thing I take for nourishment.”

  He almost laughed at the way her expression grew closed off, that small nose of hers lifting in a haughty manner. Oh, he knew precisely what she was thinking now.

  Not that she let it show in her neutral tone. “I thought that sanguis only imbue blood and—”

  “Fuck anything we can get our hands on,” he supplied helpfully.

  She blinked. Then stared.

  Will rolled his eyes skyward. “Aside from all that, I can drink most beverages. Except for lemonade.”

  “Why not lemonade?”

  “Because I hate it.” He laughed when her eyes narrowed. “Hot chocolate,” he told her, “is my favorite.”

  He stood. Time to get her out of his room. Talk of tupping and quenching his thirst had him growing hard, and he didn’t want a show for it. Had he any hint that Evernight might allow him to crawl into her bed, he’d work his more base pains out that way. A good long tup could do much to restore him. But he rather thought she’d put a knife to his bollocks, not that he wanted to get them anywhere near her. She’d be the type to lie there and think of England.

  “Hot chocolate,” she repeated, her nose wrinkling as if puzzled. “Truly?”

  Will turned to regard her. “Energy, Miss Evernight. You understand the concept, do you not? Life force lives within blood.” And other bodily fluids he wouldn’t mention now. “It exudes out of a body while tupping. Sanguis thrive off that. As for chocolate?” He shrugged. “It gives me a rush of pleasure to drink it. And that appears to be enough. Other sanguis have their own personal drink of choice that does the same.”

  “A strange breed,” she muttered, drifting off towards the door.

  “When you humans can explain why eating the endless list of things you decide to cram into your mouths makes more sense,” he responded dryly, “I will agree to that claim.”

  She stopped. Slowly, she turned to face him. Just as slowly, a smile spread over her lips, and Will forgot to breathe. Hells bells, she was lovely. A glowing light in the darkest night. What a man might do to receive smiles such as that over and over again. No. He would not think of her in that way.

  “Point to you, Mr. Thorne. Good night.”

  Holly stared, as she often did, at the familiar outlines of her room. Next door lay a demon, one who had wanted her dead. One who now needed her too much to kill her. She ought to be wary of him. Instead she nearly hummed with anticipation. A good puzzle, a proper challenge, were her favorite things in the world. He was that in spades. But when she thought of his pain and confusion, guilt loomed up and dampened all other emotions.

  It continued to rain, leaving the room dank and shadowed as morning came. Janelle crept in on cat feet and stoked the fire, adding coals. She did not tidy—no one but Holly was allowed that task in here—but held the door open for Sara Anne, her newest maid, who brought in Holly’s breakfast tray.

  The scent of fresh coffee and warm sweet buns filled the air. Holly pushed to sitting as Sara Anne set the tray on a table by her bed.

  “Mr. Thorne shall require a large pot of chocolate,” she told the girl. “Have cook make it as thick and rich as she can.”

  “Yes, mum.”

  Holly sank her teeth into soft, warm bread, and then she heard the crash. A moment later, the connecting wall between hers and Thorne’s room shuddered. Instantly sparks crackled and blue bolts of electricity snaked over the wall, followed by a bellow of rage from the other side. The two maids flinched, fear and horror holding them in place.

  “Stay here.” Holly whipped out of her bed and, turning off the electric field she’d placed between their rooms, hurried to seek out Thorne. Only to find chairs upended and a set of curtains torn from their hangings.

  A flicker of movement had her turning even as strong arms came around her and she was hurtled bodily to the floor. Knowing her attacker was Thorne, she instantly wrapped her limbs around him and held on. They skidded across the floor, rumpling the heavy carpet and pulling her nightgown tight on her throat. They came to an inelegant halt halfway beneath the coffee table before the hearth.

  Ears buzzing and head throbbing, she clung to the hard body on top of her. Something sharp scraped her neck, and she lost her breath. Fangs. Bloody hell.

  Holly sent a bolt of power through Thorne, freezing him. Which only made him heavier. His cold cheek pressed against hers, the long strands of his hair covering her face and threatening to fall into her mouth. She resisted the urge to pummel his back.

  “Are you calm?” she snapped.

  When he said nothing, she realized that he was under her thrall and not capable of speech. Cursing, she pulled back on her power until he went limp against her. His chest lifted on a breath, and then he rolled away.

  The table upended with a crash, and he swore. In an effortless glide, he rose, hauling her up with him. Head spinning, she leaned against the smooth, hot wall of his chest. But when his arm came around her waist, Holly stepped quickly away.

  “What in the bloody blazes has come over you?” She barely refrained from shouting the question.

  Thorne huffed through his nose and raked his long hair back from his face. Standing in the weak morning light and wearing nothing more than a pair of loose, black linen trousers that hung low on his narrow hips, he fairly gleamed. Over half of his torso, both arms, and the left side of his face were entirely platinum. He shook. Whether it was to keep still or from pain, she did not know. Likely both reasons.

  A feather floated past her nose, distracting her. He’d shredded his bed. Seeing the direction of her gaze, he winced.

  “I did not know where I was.” His voice was rusty and dark.

  A maid chose that moment to step in, carrying his breakfast tray. Her pale eyes we
nt wide upon seeing the destruction. Holly strode over to her and took the tray from her unresisting hands. “Cleanup can wait, Sara Anne. Please bring my breakfast in here. Thank you.”

  Carrying the tray back into the room, she eyed Thorne. He’d wrapped an arm about his abdomen, as if holding his suffering in, but when he saw her, he let his arm fall and stood straight and glowering. Sinewy and lean of form, he was more a blade than a battle-axe. She would not look at the tight stretch of his abdominal obliques as they veered down in a sharp V between his solid hipbones. Nor would she note the dusting of dark gold hair that started below his navel and began to thicken at the line of his trousers.

  “Pick up the table, will you?” she asked him in perfect blandness.

  He reacted swiftly, the muscles along his side flexing as he bent and righted the table. There was something almost indecent about the way he moved his body, all sinful promise and decadent indulgence.

  Holly set the tray down with enough force to rattle the china and then poured him a cup of chocolate. Thorne watched her, his nostrils flaring as the dark liquid filled up the white china cup.

  “Here.” She offered it to him. “Drink up.”

  But he hesitated, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, then thankfully hiked his trousers a bit higher on his waist. “What the devil did you do to your room? I could not get into it.”

  He sounded so put out that Holly’s lips twitched, but she rather thought it a bad idea to smile. “Employed an electric field, which is quite good at repelling all things metal.”

  Thorne scowled deeply and ran a hand along the back of his neck. “Smarts like hell. I don’t like it.”

  “When I trust you not to harm me in my sleep, I’ll leave it off.”

  A sound of annoyance left him. “I wasn’t trying to harm you. I was trying to see you.” He looked off as if not wanting to continue. His gaze ran over the ruined furniture. “I apologize. For the room.”