Ahead of Renfrey, Carita moved with the agitated rustling of skirts that came from haste. Sometimes she glanced back, or else broke into a run for a few steps as if she knew she was being pursued. She was paying little attention to where she put her feet, none to what lay ahead of her.
Until she stopped with a sudden, bell-like sway of skirts. Renfrey saw the two men at the same time, and broke into a run.
Carita was not frightened so much as startled. She was usually more aware of her surroundings; it was a sign of the dazed condition of her mind that she had not noticed the thugs bearing down on her.
They were out of place, those two, bullies who had wandered away from the wharves along the river, or else from around Gallatin Street or the Irish Channel. She could smell the liquor on their breaths, see the glaze of drunkenness and lust in their eyes. There was also the avid gloating of the hunter in their faces; they thought she was defenseless, at their mercy.
“Well, now, look what we got here,” the bigger of the two growled as he swaggered closer. “Nice a bit of tail as I ever seen. Think you can hold her, Jack, whiles I tears me off a piece?”
“Hol' her,” Jack said with an owlish leer, “ 'en have her, too.”
Carita had been walking alongside a wrought iron fence with palings formed like ornamental arrows. She glanced at them with speculation. The barking dog heard minutes ago also sprang to mind; if summoned, it might be a deterrent.
Then she heard the soft thud of running feet. There was a flash of movement and Renfrey appeared at her side. Hard fingers fastened on her arm, dragging her behind him.
“No!” she said sharply. She fought his grasp for an instant, but it was strong and would take too long to break. Subsiding, she stood in strained readiness.
“Here now,” the leader of the two thugs said with a crude oath. “We'uns seen her first!”
“She's mine,” Renfrey said with quiet precision. “Move on while you can.”
Carita gave Renfrey a swift glance. At the same time, she saw the leader of the thugs grope at his waist. Light flashed silver along a blade.
The burly man gave a coarse laugh. “Your'n is she? We'll just be seeing about that.”
“Yeah,” the other man echoed. Half drunk, it took a moment before he fumbled another long knife into view.
They were crude but vicious weapons, honed to a razor's edge and measuring more than fifteen inches from welded hilt to tapered tip. The two men held them with ease shaded by eagerness, as if they had used them before against flesh and bone and enjoyed the feel of it.
“What you think of this, my fine buck?” the first man growled, lifting his lips in a hard grin marked by missing teeth. He swept his weapon from side to side, feinting with quick, hard jabs.
“Not a great deal, actually.” Renfrey's reply was without heat. Hard on it came the slicing hiss of a drawn sword. It was followed by the hollow clatter as he discarded the useless portion of what had been his sword cane.
Moonlight tested the limber blade in his hand for sharpness with a silver glimmer, winking at the tip. Eying it, the leader let out an oath. “You got yourself a fine frog-sticker there, friend, but we still be two to one.”
“My favorite odds.” Renfrey released Carita, gave her a small thrust farther behind him. The swordsman position he assumed was easy, classic.
“We'll see about that. Now, Jack!” Hard on the yell, the first thug plunged into an attack.
Carita gave the men only a small portion of her attention. Staring at the iron fence, she issued a mental order.
Arrows of iron strained, snapped with the dry showering of paint and rust. They broke free, hurling themselves with hard purpose on a direct and driving course toward the pair of thugs.
The thin and narrow blade in Renfrey's hand flashed with the moon's cool silver light. It struck twice, faster than the eye could follow, a meteor's explosion of fire in its trailing tail. The thugs howled as the knives flew from their hands to clank away into the darkness.
Before the two could draw breath, the fence palings with their blunt arrow heads took them in belly and chest, thigh and groin. The two were flung back while the heavy bars of iron clanked and clattered around them. Hoarse screams tore from their throats as they wallowed on the ground, clutching their bruises.
Renfrey advanced a step. Carita moved at his side.
The thugs heaved away from them, clawing, scrambling to their feet. Staring wild-eyed back over their shoulders, they plunged away across the street and down an alley.
Renfrey lowered his sword point until it touched the broken stone of the walk. His voice musing, he said, “Just think of the tales those two will tell.”
“Sotted ramblings,” Carita answered shortly as she knelt in a settling island of skirts to retrieve his cane cover before rising and handing it to him. “Who will listen?”
He put out his hand to take the cover. Clasping it, he paused. His gaze sharpened, and he transferred his grip to her fingers. “You're trembling.”
“My usual reaction to brutality, pay no mind,” she said in brittle tones. Dragging her hand away, she pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders.
“You were afraid for me,” he corrected her with amazement in his voice.
“I was enraged that you would risk so much.” She stopped while appalled consideration rose in her eyes. “But that's the same thing, isn't it? Never mind. I am not yours. And now it's over.”
She backed away from him for several steps before she spun around and began to walk again. Her skirts and her hair reflected moonlight with pearl-like sheens that danced away, ghost-like, into the dimness. They had not quite vanished when Renfrey sheathed his sword with a sharp click.
“Oh, no,” he said in grim resolution as he began to follow her once more. “It's just begun.”
~ CHAPTER 3 ~
It was not far from the cemetery to her aunt's house. Carita walked the remaining distance with swift steps. Renfrey was behind her; she knew it with certainty. She was as attuned to his presence now as to her own conscience.
She opened the gate before the plain, narrow, two-storied house, then paused. She had meant to go inside without looking back. Somehow, she could not bring herself to do it.
She would just say good-bye. It was such a small thing; surely there could be no harm in it. It was perhaps natural to feel the urge for a final gesture, an end to all the things that might have been.
Or perhaps it was merely an excuse; she couldn’t say. She didn't understand herself tonight. Her powers inherited from her father had never failed her before. The fault must lie within herself; she had been unable to maintain her concentration back in the cemetery because she had been unclear in her mind as to what she wanted to accomplish. She had not, in fact, wanted to send Renfrey away. Still didn't.
She closed her eyes, resting her head against the tall, arched top of the gate. Why did it have to be so hard? Why?
He was coming. She could hear his quiet tread, the silken swish of his cape. She lifted her head and waited for him to emerge from the street shadows.
The gray cat came first, stepping as light and proud as the most pampered of house pets, though he was an old tom and skittishly wild. It was odd that he had abandoned his cemetery haunt to escort Renfrey; he was usually wary of both familiar visitors and strangers alike. He might have felt the call to prowl, of course, and recognized in Renfrey a source of protection.
There was little doubt that Renfrey could provide it. He had been alert back there, also valiant and strong—all the things expected in a man, yet so seldom found. She could admit that much, if only to herself.
Behind her, there came a low growl. Her aunt's boxer dog must be out of the house. Aunt Berthe had probably released him into the fenced yard thinking Carita would let him back inside when she returned. No doubt he had seen the cat; she could hear his toenails clicking on the walk as he trotted toward the open gate.
The gate! Carita stepped back and gave it a hard swing, t
rying to slam it closed.
It was too late. The burly dog barreled through the opening. Tearing past her skirts with the ruff on his neck standing high and a threat rumbling in his throat, he charged the cat.
The old stray feline leaped high and came down on all fours with a savage hiss of warning. The boxer skidded to a stop.
“Down, boy!” Carita shouted. “Stay!”
The boxer gave no sign of hearing. Feet planted, lips drawn back in a snarl, he watched his adversary. His chest rumbled and saliva dripped from his muzzle.
Bow-backed, the cat faced the dog with its fur in wild spikes, its fangs bared and fierce challenge in its yellow eyes. Abruptly there was only a blurred tangle of legs and claws. Frenzied yowls and dust rose from it.
The fight was furious, but the boxer was heavier and more powerful. With a hoarse growl, he lunged. The cat twisted away, spitting, but was caught by the scruff of the neck. The boxer shook the soft, limber body and prepared to toss it high, ready to seize a killing hold.
Carita gave a cry of pity. It had happened so fast; she could not think what to do. There were only seconds left in which to make the dog drop the cat.
Then Renfrey was there, striking the boxer a smart blow across the back with his cane. The dog's jaws opened as he yelped. The cat sprang free. Renfrey bent swiftly to scoop the feline up.
The boxer, recovering, snarled and sprang to snap. Glistening white teeth closed on Renfrey's wrist. The cat squirmed out of his grasp, clawing its way up to a shoulder where it perched with a baleful stare.
Grim-faced, Carita plunged forward to touch the dog with the tips of her fingers. The boxer shuddered at the familiar yet electrifyingly painful contact. Releasing his grip, he whined and dropped to his belly. With lowered ears and dragging tail, he rolled his eyes upward to her face. Finding no forgiveness there, he whimpered and lay still.
Carita straightened, swung immediately toward Renfrey and reached for his wrist. “Let me see.”
She thought for an instant that he would refuse. Then he thrust out his hand with the palm uppermost and his wrist exposed below the bloodied cuff of his shirt. She reached to push the cloth higher while she cradled his hand in hers.
The dog's teeth had torn the skin, but the lacerations were not deep and no veins had been severed. She could feel a faint quivering in his fingers. The cause might be from pain or even shock, but she didn't think so.
She looked up, and her gaze was snared by the darkness of his eyes. Their surfaces were so still, held such patience, so much understanding, that she felt something shift, achingly, inside of her.
An impulse fluttered over her, gathered strength. It was so small a thing, yet a part of all that had passed unspoken between them. Before it could be banished by propriety or sanity, she acted.
Bending her head, she pressed her lips to his injured wrist. She closed her eyes while purpose guided her. An instant later, she smoothed her fingertips in benediction over his healed, unblemished skin, then let go of his hand.
“Thank you,” he said, the words a husky whisper.
“You believe me now?” It was asked with care, with exactitude and finality.
“What does it matter?” he said. “You will still be gone.”
“I prefer that you know it's not you I am denying.”
“You cherish my immortal spirit, but not my mortal flesh. Is that what you're saying?”
“Something of that sort.” Her face was colorless.
“Then if we were mere disembodied vapor, we could make merry and passionate love until the cows wind their way homeward and trumpets play?”
“I suppose. Yes.”
His smile was wry. “You will forgive me, but it sounds as if something would be lacking.”
“Very likely.”
“But you have no means of being sure, never having sampled the alternative?” The tilt of his head was alert.
A flush rose to mantle her cheekbones. “You mean— No, I've never made love to a man. Never.”
“Then how in infernal blazes,” he said with compressed heat, “do you know it's lethal for your partner?”
She made a gesture between anger and despair. “If it's evidence you want, go back and look at my mother's grave.”
“What does her death, as tragic as it may have been, have to do with me?” He braced his hands on his hips, a gesture that almost dislodged the cat on his shoulder. “Do I look frail? Do I seem at all likely to die of loving or being loved?”
Her lips tightened. “You don't, no, but can you really want to put it to the test?”
“There are many things I desire,” he said without hesitation, “but none more than this: that you would come to me willingly and seek pleasure in my arms.”
Rising moisture glimmered in the darkness of her eyes. “I can't.”
“Why?” he said with strain cracking his voice. “I cannot imagine even your mother died of a single night of passion.”
Her eyes widened as her thoughts tumbled through her mind. Why had she never considered it? Because she thought of love in terms of forever, that was why. Yet, he was right. If forever was forbidden, what was wrong with one night, one chance, one brief plunge of the heart?
“Listen to me, Carita, ma chère,” he went on, his voice dropping to a new, richer register. “Love doesn't come with safeguards, nor does living. There is always risk, always the chance that this moment, this night will be the last. It's a part of the mystery, something you accept and forget. You do it, because otherwise you shut yourself into a cramped and miserable prison of your own making. And that, you may discover one day, is only another death, the death of everything that makes you unique and valuable.”
“I'm not afraid for myself,” she answered steadily. “If it were only my own safety, I would take the risk and never look back.”
“Commendable,” he said, “but also unbearably righteous. You cannot decide the fate of another person; you have no right. We each have to find our own joy, our own manner and time of loving. And dying.”
“Yes, but what of the consequences?” she began.
It was then that the shaft of light, dirty-yellow, sharp-edged, fell across the bars of the gate and onto the sidewalk. A querulous voice called out, “Carita? Is that you?”
It was her aunt. Carita drew breath to answer. Before she could make a sound, Renfrey reached to place a finger across her lips. Taking her arm, he drew her deeper into the shadows. She went with him, unresisting, though her muscles were stiff and she could remember no decision to move.
“Carita? Did you hear me? Come in, girl, and lock the gate behind you.”
Close to her ear, Renfrey whispered, “She is afraid of you. Did you know it?”
He was right; Carita could hear the wariness and the doubt that verged on distrust. How had she missed it before now?
She could also hear, however, the age and the anger of unwanted dependence. It was sad beyond imagining.
Now her aunt had discovered the dog. Her voice sharpened with anxiety even as it dropped to a croon. “What are you doing lying there like that, boy? What happened to my Bruno? Let me look at you.”
The fear and concern in that familiar voice was more than Carita could bear. She pulled away from Renfrey, stepped forward into the light. “Nothing is wrong with him, Aunt Berthe. He just had a scare, that's all.”
Her aunt straightened. “You did it, I know. How could you, when you're his favorite.”
It was a sore point between them, one of many. It wasn't surprising the dog preferred her, Carita knew, since she was the one who fed and walked him, but her aunt could never see that. She moved closer. Holding out the vase she carried, she said, “He was after a cemetery cat that followed us home.”
“Why didn't you just let him have it? Poor Bruno.” Her voice was crooning as she accepted the worthless porcelain and bent to pat the dog that crowded against her skirts. Then she stiffened, came upright. “Us, you said? Someone is with you?”
“Th
is gentleman and myself.” Carita gestured toward where Renfrey stood watching.
The older woman's voice sharpened as she peered into the shadows. “Who is he?”
A flush rose to Carita's face at the suspicious undertone of her aunt's question. She barely glanced at Renfrey as he stepped to her side, into the light. “Only an acquaintance of my father's whom I happened to—”
Renfrey's voice cut across her explanation. “Someone who took it upon himself to escort your niece home. It seemed she was in need of protection.”
“Indeed?” Aunt Berthe's head came up. She folded her arms across her thick waist, standing as tall as her squat figure allowed. Her small, pale eyes were cold. “And what else did you take?”
“Aunt Berthe!”
“I know his kind,” her aunt said in bitter condemnation. “Handsome womanizers ready to snatch an advantage; it's no great wonder to me he is acquainted with your father. You will have no more to do with him, do you hear me?”
“It was never my intention—”
“Young women do a lot of things they never intend. Go into the house. I will send this gentleman about his business.”
“No, really, Aunt Berthe,” Carita said. “He has been most kind and not at all—encroaching.” Her voice trailed away as she recalled, belatedly, his kiss.
“Just as I thought,” her aunt said with grim acceptance. “You will wind up like your mother—or worse, cause destruction that will haunt you all your days. I said go into the—”
“You prefer,” Renfrey said to the older woman, “that her days be haunted by regret? Are you quite sure you are protecting her? Or are you punishing her?”
“I'm trying to save her!” Aunt Berthe said.
“From what? Love? Life? Knowledge of the wide world beyond your narrow little household? Or perhaps the joy your sister found?”
The Warlock's Daughter Page 3
