Evernight

by Kristen Callihan

  Idly, he traced a pattern through the condensation upon the window. “I heard she died a few years back,” he said, as if remarking upon the weather. Flicking his gaze to her, he leaned forward as the cab came to a stop. “Had enough of chitchat, Miss Evernight?”

  “Quite.” It was all she could manage to say past the lump in her throat.

  Thorne opened the door and hopped down before turning to offer her a hand. “Let us to it, then.”

  “You won’t find a GIM able to bring you to Adam, boyo. That’s plain fact. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  Sin frowned over his glass of scotch.

  Sitting opposite, his companion watched him. “You doubt I speak the truth?”

  “I shall ask my sister Daisy.” Sin didn’t want to involve her; she’d ask too many questions. The woman had the curiosity of ten cats. But he would. She was a GIM and one of Adam’s favorites.

  His companion laughed. Several rather stuffy gentlemen frowned at them from over the edges of their daily papers.

  Sin’s brother-in-law Archer had sponsored him for this private club, all in an effort to civilize him. Not that it did much good. And though Sin would rather be in a tavern than this tomb, Mr. Magnus, as his companion wanted to be called today, would only meet in humans’ most exclusive haunts.

  “Sin, me lad, Daisy Ranulf couldn’t help you even if she was willing.” Magnus leaned in, and his golden cap of curls gleamed under the gas lamps. “Adam is a being of extraordinary power and foresight. Do you think he doesn’t have safeguards in place? No GIM can call him unless it is to his benefit.”

  “How does he know it is to his benefit without first hearing the request?”

  Magnus rolled his eyes. They were so deeply blue that they appeared purple. A little too close to purple. Arrogant arse. Of course, Magnus had picked a handsome form too. It wouldn’t do to traipse about in any form that was less than perfect. Sin wondered how many humans had fallen for the glossy façade and never lived to tell the tale.

  “Magic.” This news was delivered as if the answer were bloody obvious. “A simple spell is all it takes for one such as him.”

  In short, Sin was bolloxed. Damn, but he hated dealing with ancients. Vain, selfish, and slippery bastards, each and every one of them.

  “The answer lies with Holly Evernight.” Magnus took a lazy sip of scotch. “Our clever girl has the solution to our problem, to be sure.”

  Magnus wanted Holly involved. Which made Sin that much more wary to do so. If he’d learned anything, it was to never trust Magnus.

  “She has problems enough.” His poor cousin was a self-imposed prisoner in her own home. “I’ll find another way.”

  Magnus’s mouth turned down at the corners, making him appear like an angel in a pout. “She is an Evernight. She will comply.”

  For a fleeting moment, a flicker of flame danced within Magnus’s purple gaze, a promise of pain and hellfire should he be disobeyed.

  “Even if she wanted to help,” Sin argued, a little less steady now, “she cannot break the chain that binds Eliza to Adam.”

  “Right you are,” Magnus agreed. “Only one of Adam’s kind can do that. For it isn’t really a chain made of metal, but of his power.”

  “Well, there you go,” Sin said. “We are at an impasse.”

  Magnus gave Sin a beatific smile. “You are overlooking the sanguis crawler.”

  The blood-sucking crawler who was currently camped inside Holly’s house. Sin inwardly snarled. Nanny had told him not to worry—that the crawler, Will Thorne, was bound to protect Holly. And wasn’t it a cold shock to realize that his cousin had a contract out on her life? He ought to be protecting her, not some metallic beast.

  Disgust marred the smooth perfection of Magnus’s brow. “Unnatural thing, this crawler. Its very existence is an affront to Adam and his creations.” He grinned wide and pleased. “He is the next step in their evolution, able to shift his body into spirit form. And stronger for it, if he’d only learn.”

  Sin hadn’t a clue how that would help his cause, nor did he want to ask, not without earning Magnus’s painful wrath. He wanted out of this club, and away from Magnus. But it wasn’t going to happen until the bastard was good and ready to let Sin go.

  Magnus smoothed a hand over the green silk of his waistcoat. “Trust me, laddie, the crawler can be played. I shall insure that.”

  Sin’s gaze drifted over the room and settled upon a group of young men playing whist in the far corner. Laughter and easy insults fell from their lips. They were only a few years older than he was, and yet he felt ancient in comparison. To be like that. Human and carefree. Not bound to serve. Not being taught to deceive and manipulate. The air around him rose several degrees as rage bubbled within his gut.

  One of the blokes glanced about in confusion as the drop-crystal chandelier above his head rattled.

  Sin drew himself under control with a deep breath. And none of it was lost on Magnus.

  “Ah, now, don’t fret, my wee pet.” Magnus withdrew an ornate silver box set with agate stones from his jacket pocket and selected two fine cheroots. He handed one to Sin and then proceeded to light both of them. To an outsider, it appeared as though he’d used matches. Only Sin saw the flame leap from the tip of his thumb.

  When they’d both exhaled and thick, luscious clouds of blue smoke wreathed their heads, Magnus leaned back, settling a languid, pale hand on his flat stomach. “When the time is right, you’ll bring the crawler and Holly to heed.”

  The mask dropped, and Sin stared into a feminine face of such terrifying beauty that his heart froze within his chest and his cods shriveled within his trousers. Rosy red lips curved in a smile that showed just a hint of fang. “I have every faith in your abilities.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Located on Regent Street, Verrey’s was an old and proper French restaurant that had long served royalty and ambassadors.

  “Are we truly going to—”

  “Have a lovely French meal,” Thorne finished for Holly, while taking her hand once again. “Yes.”

  “But you don’t eat,” she murmured, as a doorman opened the door for them and the rich scents of roasting meats and butter sauces wafted over her.

  “Details.” Thorne nodded to the maitre d’ as he glided over to them.

  “Monsieur Thorne, it is always a pleasure to see you. Welcome.”

  “A pleasure to be here, Henri.” Thorne was smooth and pleasant, as if the upset he’d displayed in the coach was entirely forgotten. She was almost envious of the façade he was able to project to the world. Very useful, that.

  “Shall your usual table suffice?” Henri asked, as attendants took their hats and coats.

  “If it is available.”

  Henri’s large nose lifted a touch. “For you? Always, Monsieur Thorne.”

  Thorne a regular? What the bleeding… Thorne put his hand on the small of her back and guided her forward. “Close your mouth, love,” he said at her ear. “You resemble a witless fish just now.”

  Her mouth snapped shut, and she trod upon his foot with enough force to make him grunt as she followed Henri across the restaurant, with Thorne hobbling at her side.

  The room was a light-filled space with a wall of windows fronting Regent Street and a lofty ceiling held up by Doric boxed columns. All quite French in design, with its mirrored panels, marble-topped tables, and bentwood cafe chairs.

  Henri sat them at a table in the far corner, with a mirror at their back and the view of the entire restaurant at their front. For all of that, they were secluded, set far enough away that their closest neighbor would have to visibly strain to hear them converse. An excellent spot that put her somewhat at ease. It was a spot an SOS regulator would pick.

  “Do you remember what sort of work you did for the Nex?” A stirring of guilt awakened in Holly’s gut. Nex equaled enemy. Did that make her a traitor?

  Keeping his eye on the room, Thorne nodded. “Seeing Aldous Nex brought memories of
the Nex flooding in, of how it is structured, who I was friendly with and who I wasn’t. But…” The corners of Thorne’s eyes tightened, and he touched his temple. It was a fleeting press of his fingertips but enough to expose the sudden tremor in his hand. “Hell, when I try to pull up details of what I did, or of my blasted tattoo, a great black wall looms up in my mind.” He scowled down at his gloved hand.

  Knowing how quickly the platinum would spread when he grew overwrought, Holly caught his free hand under the table. She’d removed her gloves, thus she could press the tips of her fingers against his wrist and concentrate on stabilizing him. “It will come to you. Just give it time.”

  He turned to her, his eyes dark and surrounded by the thick fringe of his long lashes. “Ta, love,” he whispered, his accent going deep and Northern with emotion.

  Flustered, Holly sat straighter. “It is nothing.”

  “You know that it is everything.”

  The words punched into her, making her breath hitch. No one had ever talked to her in this manner—as if she, not her inventions, were needed, were as necessary as air or water. She had to remind herself just why he needed her.

  Not noticing her discomfort, Thorne’s gaze moved over the room, taking everything in at a glance, and so Holly did the same.

  They had garnered a fair bit of attention when they’d arrived. Rather, Thorne had. How could one not look at him? His attractiveness was that of a gilded lily. And he played the part up to the nines. Normally, Holly did not make much note of fashion, but where Thorne was concerned, it was almost theatre.

  His black, superfine suit was exquisitely tailored, the coat cut in a rather old-fashioned frock style that, paired with his long, outrageous hair, created a picture of continental elegance that Londoners vocally disdained but secretly coveted. Diamonds winked at her from the fold of his cravat and from the edges of his French cuffs when he moved to take a sip of water.

  By his careful expression, Holly could guess that he did not find the taste of water appealing.

  When the waiter had ambled off with a promise to bring them the specialties of the house, Holly tilted her head towards Thorne. “How shall this go?”

  Thorne turned and gave her a small, wicked smile. “You shall eat a delicious meal, and I shall pretend that you are the most fascinating, irresistible companion I’ve ever had the pleasure of dining with.” Without warning, he leaned in, draping one arm along the back of her chair, and nuzzled her temple.

  She jerked, wanting to get away, but his sudden hand upon her nape held her fast. “We are here to be seen, love.”

  Holly kept her attention on the room and off of Thorne. “Why?”

  Long fingers found the back of her neck and began to play with loose strands of her hair. “One,” he said, as she broke out in goose bumps, “we are waving a red flag in front of a bull. If you are being watched by an assassin, seeing you finally out and about will prove irresistible.”

  “So you have put me on display as bait?” Holly could see the logic in it. Even if the thought sent a cold wash of fear and dread through her middle.

  “Just so.” He turned and pretended to nibble her ear. Close enough that she had to quell the impulse to smack him away.

  “Two,” he went on, “we are waiting.”

  He paused as waiters marched up, one proudly carrying a silver tureen with long, curving legs that resembled a spider, the other bringing forth dinnerware. Bowls were placed with flourish before them, and a brown broth soup, flecked with colorful bits of vegetables and small cuts of beef, was ladled with care.

  “Petite marmite,” the waiter explained in an accent that Holly suspected was forced. She waited until they were gone. Staring at her food, a horrid thought occurred to her.

  “What if someone poisons me?”

  Thorne glanced down at the soup, which suddenly looked to Holly like a vat of devil’s brew. He gave her what she assumed was a reassuring smile. “I might not have the sense of smell equal to a lycan, but I can suss out poison in food.” He frowned then, his expression drawing inward. “I was trained to notice. However, if you don’t believe me…” He took a heaping spoonful into his mouth and waited, his expression twisted in exaggerated concentration that made her want to pinch him.

  A long moment passed. Then, with a shake of his head, he brightened and nudged her elbow. “It’s safe, love. Go ahead and eat.”

  She’d have to trust him. That both irked and comforted. With a hand that wasn’t quite steady, she picked up her spoon. The soup was rather wonderful. Warm and comforting. Strangely, she was famished. As she hadn’t been in some time.

  “Waiting for whom?” she asked.

  He watched her eat, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I’m not certain. But someone will come. That I know.”

  “I do not like surprises.”

  “Now that,” he said with a chuckle, “does not surprise me in the least.”

  Bothersome man. One that kept her entertained, however, with little observations about the restaurant’s patrons as the waiters cleared their bowls—his untouched save for a spoon or two of broth—before setting down a silver-topped tray.

  “Oeufs à la Russe!” With that grand proclamation, the waiter lifted the lid to reveal deviled eggs, dotted with amber pearls of Osetra caviar.

  Holly’s lips twitched. “It sounds so much more impressive when they say it in French, does it not?”

  “I suspect the hauteur in their delivery has a bit to do with it as well.” Thorne’s voice lowered. “I’m going to feed you one now. Appear as if you enjoy the activity.”

  She had objections. Vehement and persuasive ones. Ones that she would gladly voice. Only, when she turned to do just that, he was there, holding a halved-egg up like an offering. To refuse him would undo the charade he’d concocted.

  A playful glint lit Thorne’s dark eyes. “Open, love, and let me in.”

  Heat flushed over her skin, under her too-tight bodice. As if he knew precisely how she was affected, his lids lowered, and his attention fixated on her mouth. Awareness consumed her, of her actions, of the way her lips parted, of the cool slide of the egg against her tongue.

  He’d taken off his gloves, and when he slid the tip of the egg into her mouth, his fingers brushed her bottom lip. “Take a bite,” he whispered.

  She couldn’t look away from him. She ought not to be stirred in the slightest. It was merely an egg. Pedestrian fare, to say the least. Yet when her teeth sank into it, she nearly moaned, her lids fluttering with the need to close, to experience the sensation in a dark and quiet world.

  A low sound, as if he’d swallowed down a grunt, filled her ears as she chewed. She had to look.

  His gaze was rapt and hot. It was indecent, feeding her like this in public. And he knew it. His nostrils flared as he fed her the last bite.

  A bit of smoothly whipped yolk, rich and luscious, clung to the corner of her mouth. Holly’s tongue swiped out to lick it away, just as Thorne ran his thumb across her lip. She tasted his skin, felt the heat of the rounded tip, and he made a strangled sound. Holly stared. For the life of her, she wanted nothing more than to draw his thumb into her mouth and suck.

  “Hell.” His chest lifted on an unsteady breath.

  His hand, so very warm and strong, cupped her cheek, bringing her closer. Her corset creaked, the cinch of it stealing her air.

  Slowly, with languorous intent, he dipped his head. The flick of his tongue at the corner of her mouth sent a tight jolt down her center. His strong, hot fingers caged her cheeks, holding her there as his lips barely brushed hers. “Tell me,” he whispered thickly. “Tell me you feel this pull between us.”

  He was sanguis, ex-Nex, her opposite in every regard. It wasn’t real, what she felt, what he felt. It couldn’t be. It made no sense. The push-pull of him had her body frozen in place, vibrating like a struck tuning fork.

  The tip of his forefinger stoked the crest of her cheek, and she felt it down deep within her as if he’d touched
her center. “Holly.”

  Slowly she drew back, raising her gaze to his pained and pleading one. William.

  “William Thorne, as I live and breathe.”

  Flinching apart at the sound of the woman’s voice, they turned as one. It took a moment for Holly to arrange the muddled shapes and colors that had become the rest of the world into an understandable picture. A woman stood before them. Tall, thin, with glossy brown hair and a ready smile. Smartly dressed in a wool day gown of cream and emerald green stripes, she made quite the picture. But there was a hardness in her brown eyes and a certain tension along her frame that belied her outward appearance.

  Thorne, having recovered as well, rose from his seat and inclined his head in greeting. But he’d yet to answer. Instead, his gaze slid lazily over the woman. Holly was of half a mind to be annoyed, had she not suspected that he was trying to place a name to the face.

  As for the woman, her eyes narrowed just a touch. “Have you no kind words for me, Will?”

  Will, was it? Holly kept her expression neutral when what she wanted to do was roll her eyes.

  Thorne, however, smiled then, a dark and sensual tilt of his lips. “Merely taking in your loveliness, dear Matilda.” He swept an open palm towards the unoccupied seat. “Please, join us.”

  Matilda did so, happily. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?” She glanced at Holly, disassembling her in one blink.

  “Mrs. Matilda Markham.” Thorne sat then inclined his head towards Holly. “Miss Holly Evernight.”

  Rather blunt as introductions went.

  A pretty smile lit up the older woman’s face, but Holly had doubts as to its veracity.

  “I would be careful with how many of those eggs you ingest, Miss Evernight. Such treats run straight to a woman’s waistline.” The look in her eye said that eventuality was a very real danger for Holly.