Kisses to Steal

by Tilly Wallace

  They decided to leave her for another day or two, until Hoth had been dealt with, lest he somehow get his hands on the fragile young woman to finish what he had started. They walked her back to her dingy room, and exchanged guilty glances at leaving her there. The only small blessing was that she seemed unaware of her surroundings, and they would soon have her out.

  Aster and Alick returned Ianthe to Knightsbridge, and the day wore on. Before she knew it, Sarah was helping her change gowns for the evening. Ianthe's hands shook as she prepared for the forthcoming events. She poured an overlarge amount from the brown bottle into a tumbler and downed the lot. The tonic hit her stomach and flared out along her limbs, but the fear fought hard for control.

  Sarah laid a hand over hers, stopping her from imbibing any more. "Everything will be all right. I trust the lad. You should too."

  Ianthe glanced up at her abigail. "I do trust him, but I do not trust Septimus. I have no idea of what he will do until Quinn arrives, and it is the not knowing that I cannot bear."

  Alice had endured on her own for over two years. Yet Ianthe trembled at the thought of mere minutes alone with Hoth, even knowing others stood at the ready, just outside the door. She drew a deep breath and sat up taller. Her time would be as nothing compared to Alice's long winter with Hoth, and she had the comfort of knowing Quinn was even now riding to her rescue. Ianthe would never be truly alone with Septimus, or at his mercy.

  Strange how after ten years of selling her body, the mere thought of Viscount Hoth touching her sent terror rioting through her senses. Because of Quinn. He had changed everything, and once she gave her heart to him, she didn't want another man touching any part of her. Quinn encouraged her dreams and now that she saw a way out, she wanted to be done with this old life and start anew.

  Except that every time she closed her eyes, she saw Alice huddled in a corner of a squalid room in Bedlam, a dirty shift covering her too-thin body as she whimpered. She would change that image. Alice would flourish in the remote Highlands and would have a chance to stitch back her missing pieces. Perhaps, one day, her stunning smile would return. The look of joy that had once brought nobles to her feet would grace her lips again.

  Dressed and fortified by tonic, Ianthe sat in the parlour trying to read a book, but the words swam before her vision. They formed patterns and at times huddled to one side of the page, as though pressing themselves into the spine. She must have stared at the same page for nearly half an hour when Perkins knocked on the door.

  She looked up as the faithful retainer entered, the viscount hard behind him. Perkins didn't utter a word, he just grimaced behind the man's back, rolled his eyes, and left.

  "Septimus," she called out, her tone light and cheerful, even as her limbs seemed leaden and she struggled to cross the few feet of carpet to stand before him. The grandfather clock chimed nine, the exact time they had agreed upon.

  "How punctual of you," she murmured, reaching up to kiss his cold cheek.

  "One could not leave a creature such as you waiting, my dear," he said with a chill gleam in his black eyes. He peeled off his gloves, stuffed them into his hat and then tossed it on the sideboard. He hadn't even waited for Perkins to take the items from him, just charged straight into her sanctuary.

  "Would you like a drink?" She waved a hand at the sideboard and hoped he said yes, and requested a rather large one.

  Viscount Hoth traced the back of a cold nail down her cheek. "No. I would like to begin. I have waited three years for this evening. I am a starving man waiting to feast."

  She kept a calm smile on her face, while she stopped the shudder that wanted to work down her spine. He would either starve or choke, she would see to it. But he ruined their plan, which hinged on Septimus taking his time downstairs. Ianthe had intended to ply him with liquor and perhaps a light meal. Then they had their business to conduct in the parlour and, she had prayed, they would never reach the foot of the stairs. Quinn was supposed to burst in while Septimus was seated in an armchair and before he touched her. Perhaps they should have written down stage directions for Septimus, so the monster knew what was expected of him.

  The viscount rubbed his hands together, his unblinking gaze on her form. Did he even see her as a woman, or merely as a slab of flesh to satisfy his unnatural urges? She was no more than a cadaver dug up by a resurrectionist and laid out in some darkened flat. Would it hurt when he reached out to sup on her soul? Alice said the pain as he carved pieces from her was excruciating, and the prone horse from the vision flashed into Ianthe's mind.

  "Of course," she murmured. "I merely thought you might want to draw out the anticipation of the moment, to heighten the enjoyment."

  Septimus barked, the sound harsh and unnerving in the quiet. "I spent three years watching Dunne parade you before me, while I had nothing to satisfy me."

  She bit her tongue. You had Alice. Or did she starve you when she outwitted you and left you without a soul to consume? This time the shiver broke loose and ran down her spine. In her mental ledger for Alice she added another wrong to atone for in the debit column.

  "Lead on, my dear. We have a long night before us." He opened the door and waved her through.

  At the bottom of the stairs stood one of his men in his plain black livery, with a bland look on his face.

  Ianthe frowned. "You do not need to bring your people into my house."

  There was something about the silent retainer that chilled her to the marrow, and she wondered if eliciting the house deeds from Septimus was worth whatever he planned. Why would he need a man at the bottom of her stairs?

  "I simply don't want your staff being inconvenienced. My man understands my needs, should I require anything." He exposed his canines as he grinned.

  As they passed, the footman handed Hoth a small black valise, and he followed her up. That one action speared dread through her torso. It probably only contained a change of clothing. Yet somehow that little valise carried its own sinister air. What if it held the tools of a soul eater? A silver knife and fork, or perhaps a straw that he intended to plunge into her heart? She should have asked Aster exactly how a soul eater nibbled on a soul.

  She opened the door to the spare bedroom that she called the workroom. If she closed her eyes and inhaled, she could still smell Quinn in here. Fresh and youthful, the scent wrapped around her and soothed a little of the fear. The young man's presence filled the room and she prayed his physical one was not far behind. She planned to fly to him as soon as he arrived.

  Septimus pushed the door shut and dropped the valise at the foot of the large four-poster bed. He loosened his cravat and waved a free hand at her. "You won't be needing the gown, as becoming as it is on you."

  Her smile stayed in place, even as she cringed inside. With Phillip, removing her dress had been part of the tease. He enjoyed watching the fall of silk from her body. With Septimus, undressing felt like a patient disrobing to be examined by a gruff doctor—mechanical.

  She laced her hands in front of her torso, an insubstantial barrier to hide her body behind. "We have a small business matter to conclude first."

  His lips pulled back in the facsimile of a smile. "Of course. You always were a canny businesswoman. It's part of what I admire about you."

  Septimus reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a long, narrow envelope. He held it out to her. It would appear impolite to snatch it from his grasp, even if that was her first instinct. Instead she took it lightly, a smile of thanks on her lips.

  She opened out the sheet, scanned the contents, and then sighed with relief. The deed to her house was signed and executed in Phillip's steady hand, and now it rested in hers. The floor under her feet and the roof over her head now belonged to her, and dreams could take flight. Just as soon as Quinn crashed through the door and saved her, like a knight on a white charger, or on Galahad.

  "Satisfied?" he asked.

  "Yes, as I hope you will be." She folded up the papers and tucked them behind the brass nude
standing on the high mantle. Then she turned, her ears straining for any noise of a quick tread on the stairs.

  Nothing. Blast. She would have to continue the charade, while she thought of some way to show Hoth the door. Somehow, she doubted pleading a headache would work.

  "The dress, my dear. Take it off." His tone washed ice over her skin. Gone was any illusion of civility. His voice had a cold, hard edge. There would be no pleasure here, not for her, just more business.

  As she disrobed, Hoth dropped any pretence of the mild-mannered banker. He removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, readying for work of a different kind. Then he dipped into the forbidding valise and drew out what appeared to be a dog collar and a chain. The metal glinted in the soft candlelight.

  Given Quinn was late, Ianthe decided the time had come to rescue herself. She held the gown in her hands, using the silk as a thin shield between her and the viscount. Hoth would not be dining on her soul tonight, or any night. She had the papers; he could retrieve his black bag of doom and hasten out of her home and life.

  She waved at the collar and lead with her free hand. "I don't know what you have in mind, Septimus, but that is not my speciality. You must take your patronage elsewhere."

  She never saw the blow coming. One moment Hoth appeared immobile, as though considering her words. The next, he struck her hard on the side of the head, with the chain still wrapped in his hand. It sent her reeling sideways. Pain exploded along her jawbone and her head rang as though an enormous bell was sounding inside her skull. Her vision narrowed to blackened pinpoints as she doubled over and gasped. The gown fluttered to the floor, but she couldn't focus her vision on it.

  "You will refer to me as Master. I have not waited three long years to go elsewhere. You will be the culmination of my work." He struck her again. "When I kissed you, I tasted the taint of mage in your blood. The last whore was the same and stole away what I needed. But I am prepared for you and you will not have the same opportunity to escape."

  The blow sent her to her knees, her hands outstretched on the rug for balance as the world spun down into a void. She screwed her eyes shut as noise and pain threatened to overwhelm her, and her body wanted to vomit in response. Ianthe struggled to rein in the nausea and to make the room stop its wild tilting and turning. A cold trickle ran down her face and a metallic taste crept into her mouth—blood.

  She gasped and opened her eyes, just as Hoth latched the collar around her neck and jerked it backward. The pressure on her throat made her body tip back in a desperate attempt to escape the stranglehold. Now she knelt at his feet, while her fingers scrabbled at the leather pulled tight around her neck. Her mind screamed that it was too much. A sob managed to break free. She just wanted the pain to go away.

  "Master," he hissed in her ear. "Say it, or this will hurt far more than it needs to. Master."

  She jerked in his grasp. Her fingers scrabbled at the leather around her neck. She would die before she called any man master.

  The he licked her neck, a long stroke that left moisture on her skin, as he tasted her again. "The mage-blooded do have a unique spice, but you are difficult bitches to handle. Once you are subdued, I can savour my meal. You should last many months, perhaps years, before I consume every part of you down to the very marrow in your bones."

  Alice flashed before her, cowering in her corner, and Ianthe remembered her promise to make sure Hoth never harmed another woman. She needed to be strong and fight back. Her face burned as though he held her over flames, but she drew a short breath.

  "You will never taste me. Like Alice, I will foil your plans." She clawed at the collar, trying to find the buckle. Like hell she would call him master. No man had dominion over her, not even Quinn, and she loved him. She summoned all her breath and energy, turned her head, and spat at Hoth instead.

  The viscount lurched back as spittle ran down his cheek, but he kept one hand looped around the chain at her nape. He narrowed his eyes at her and then twisted the chain, which tightened the leather collar and restricted her airflow. Panic flooded her body as she fought for breath. Her fingers wrestled for purchase on the leather as the black spots in her vision enlarged and swallowed bites from the room.

  Hoth wiped his face on his sleeve, then dipped a hand into his waistcoat pocket, and pulled out a small vial. Using his teeth, he pulled the cork from the top. Then, with one hand under her chin, he forced the lip of a bottle into her mouth while he pulled the chain tighter and back.

  "What I had of Alice was delicious, but you, my dear, shall be sublime once you are calmed."

  Ianthe continued to battle, but couldn't find a way to loosen the collar around her neck when he held it so tight. Her body weakened as he controlled her oxygen, and her head still rang from the blow to her ear. She clenched her jaw, keeping her teeth together, but he closed her lips around the vial and pinched her nostrils together. Her access to air was cut off.

  "This will settle you down and stop you drawing on your mage-blood to hide your delectable soul from me." His face distorted, the flesh peeling away until he revealed his true nature to her, the shadow demon of her vision.

  Her body rebelled; it had to draw breath, whether through nose or mouth. She gasped and then spluttered, recognising the taste as the liquid seeped into her mouth, even as it mingled with her blood. Laudanum. She had already drunk her tonic to make it through the evening, and her body couldn't take more on top of the previous dose.

  "The first night is always the hardest. This will make you more accepting. Soon will you beg for me to fasten on you and take a bite from your soul. The pain is exquisite and soon you will crave the feeling of slivers of you leaving your body and entering mine." Hoth forced her neck back as she fought against him, letting the noxious liquid dribble down her throat.

  She coughed, willing her body to purge the tonic, but she was weakened from the physical blows and the internal assault of the sedative. Her mind couldn't cope. Against her wishes, her body surrendered and stopped fighting. Her limbs began to relax and her mind would soon let go of this reality for blessed escape.

  But there was one more thing she could do. One thing that would remind him she was no gently-bred noble girl. Ianthe took one last breath as her vision faded. The room disappeared around her and she seemed suspended in a midnight sky of pain that lanced sharp barbs through her body. She gathered air in her lungs, as much as his grip would allow, and rallied her strength. Unnatural or not, all men shared the same weak spot.

  Ianthe closed her eyes and concentrated all of her might in one blow, and struck backward with her elbow, connecting triumphantly with his groin.

  27

  Quinn

  * * *

  On the one evening in Quinn's entire life when he desperately needed to be punctual, events conspired against him. On the way to Knightsbridge a damned horse died in its harness, went down, and blocked the road. He sat in the hackney, his fingers drumming on his thigh as he became more agitated with the time it took to clear the dead animal. His inner wolf went mad, tortured by images of Ianthe in Hoth's grip. The creature raged and tore Quinn from the inside.

  Splotches appeared before his eyes. Black dots that grew larger as the blood thrummed in his veins and became a pounding noise in his ears like horse hooves on hard ground. He tried to draw deep breaths to calm himself but it didn't work. Anger, fear, and love rolled together to make a tight knot of desperation that pounded in his chest. He couldn't breathe. Ianthe would be lost and he couldn't save his mate.

  The inside of the carriage blurred and faded. The seat seemed to drop away from under him and Quinn had a sense that he was dangling over a cliff. His fingernails bit into rock and dirt as he tried to save himself from a fatal tumble into the void below. His muscles ached and screamed from the burn of hanging on. Then as the black splotches grew larger and turned everything dark, he knew what he had to do.

  Quinn let go.

  He spun and tumbled through an abyss but didn't fall. The wol
f surged forward and caught him, wrapping him in its embrace and tucking him close to its body. As Quinn the man was kept safe in a furry cocoon, the wolf leapt for the light.

  Pain rippled over Quinn. Tiny fissures turned into larger fractures as his skin tore and worked loose. His body struggled to change form for the first time. Agony exploded over him as bones twisted and realigned themselves for running on all fours. His scream of pain, as his skull elongated to make a snout, turned into a howl as the wolf shook itself free. Tattered remnants of his clothes scattered the floor of the cab.

  Quinn blinked and adjusted to his new, enhanced vision. He met the wide-eyed gaze of the driver. A sharp tang of fear-laden sweat hit his nostrils. Then the man gave a startled yelp, jumped to the pavement and ran away to shelter in the overhang of a building.

  Noise from the busy streets threatened to overwhelm him. He shook his head, and large ears flopped from side to side and pulled slightly against his head. Fur brushed into his sight and he blinked it away. His lip pulled back in a snarl to reveal sharp canines. Only one thought ran through the wolf's mind.

  Ianthe.

  He threw his body out of the cab and took off at a run. He snapped at anyone in his path, a warning noise designed to move them on, like a dog yapping at meandering sheep. Women and children screamed and leapt out of his way. Men shouted and raised walking sticks but he paid them no heed.

  Onward he ran, dodging between people and carriages. Using his bulk, he shouldered through obstructions. The pavement and cobbles felt strange under his pads. Short nails tapped with each stride. His body stretched out as he channelled his fury into moving his limbs and running faster and faster until he was a pony-sized blur.