Heir of Danger

by Alix Rickloff

  “Thought the young gentleman was one of them come after me at last,” Daz commented, starting Brendan back to the matter and the man at hand with a heavy sigh.

  He’d sent Jack to bring him old Archie’s ring. Not the whole bloody man. He wasn’t up to a frolic through old memories.

  “Aidan says they won’t come now. Aidan says I’m safe from the Amhas-draoi, but I told him they remember.” He stuffed a hand into his pocket, a worried expression upon his features. “They won’t let it go. Not until we’re all gone. Until we’ve paid with our lives for what we did.”

  “You’ve spoken with Aidan?”

  Daz paused in his pocket-rummaging. “Aye, he came last spring with the diary and the girl.” Withdrew a cherry stone, a duck’s pinfeather, a small bent stick. Laid them out on the table. “Sweet thing, she was, though I don’t know if I believe the story of how they met. Apparently he caught her burgling his town house. Prettiest arch doxy I ever saw.”

  Brendan gave a rough bark of laughter. “Aidan always did have a way with women.”

  “He wanted to know about those days. Wanted to know about”—Daz lowered his voice—“him.” He stole a worried look over his shoulder. “I told him, Brendan. Told him all of it, even the worst bits. The parts we didn’t want to think about. The things we’d done. You and me and the others. Took it hard, he did. Don’t think he knew how far things had gone.”

  “No, he hadn’t known any of it. Father and I agreed it was for the best.”

  Though Brendan had wanted so many times to confide in his brother. He’d started so many letters to him in London before tossing them on the fire. At first afraid and then unable to involve his brother in what was growing to become an explosive situation. Best to keep him in London and safe out of the way.

  Brendan’s hand tightened on the pint, the beer sloshing over his hand, but his voice remained calm. “His discovery of the truth was inevitable once Father’s diary came to his attention.”

  “His Lordship’s more like the old earl than I imagined. Got his temper, for certes. He called me names. Cursed me for what I’d done. Threatened to kill me himself. I don’t blame him. I deserved that and more.”

  Brendan swallowed around a sharp lump in his throat, a tremble in his fingers. His older brother’s fury wasn’t unreasonable. He had nearly died for Brendan’s crimes. Still, it only emphasized Brendan’s isolation.

  “It’s why I came with Mr. O’Gara. He didn’t want me to come. Said I’d slow him up, but I wouldn’t let him leave without me. Locked him in a cupboard until he promised to bring me to you. Can you ever forgive me, Brendan?”

  “For telling Aidan the truth?”

  “Not about young Kilronan, no. For telling”—another furtive glance around the room—“them. For betraying your trust. My fault. All my fault.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Daz shoved himself back from the table. Slammed to his feet. Throwing the lapels of his coat open to reveal a grimy shirtfront. Squeezing his eyes shut. “Kill me! I deserve it!”

  More than one startled fellow drinker looked up.

  “Shhh, Daz. Sit down.”

  “It’s no use, Brendan. I betrayed you to them. I deserve to die for what I did. Drive a dagger through my heart. Hilt-deep!”

  Brendan laughed it off, casting a smile at the curious spectators. “It’s all right, everyone. An actor, you see. New stage production. Rehearsing his part. Jolly good, don’t you think?” Before turning his attention back to Daz, whispering, “Dash it all, man. Shut up and sit down before I gag you.”

  “You’re right to be angry, Brendan. I sold you out. Offered up your life for mine. I was weak. But no longer. I’m here to pay my debt to you. A pistol. A knife. Choose your weapon.”

  “Sit your bloody arse in the chair, man, and get ahold of yourself.” Brendan shoved him back in his seat. “Here. Drink this.” He pushed the tankard in front of him.

  The old man gulped it down, rivulets seeping over his sagging cheeks. He wiped his mouth the back of his hand. “Ta, son. I needed that. Good of you. A last drink before the end.”

  “Daz, I am not going to kill you. Why—”

  Daz reached across the table, grasping Brendan’s hand in both of his. Pumping it up and down. “You’re a great lad. Always knew it. Better than all of them. Didn’t have the madness in you. Not like the rest of them.”

  “Debatable, but now’s not the time to—”

  “A weight off my old chest. I’ve carried the guilt so long. Thought I’d sent you to your grave. Thought the Amhas-draoi had tracked you and killed you like the rest of them. My conscience wouldn’t rest. Then Aidan turned up telling me you were alive. Made up my mind then and there to face you and take my punishment.”

  Brendan had the odd impression of wandering into the middle of a conversation or the end of someone else’s story. Though as Daz rambled a picture emerged. The answer to a question he’d carried for seven years: Why?

  Why—after he’d sent word with Daz of his willingness to surrender the Sh’vad Tual into their hands—had they attacked him? Why had the Amhas-draoi hunted him with such persistence over the ensuing years?

  He’d assumed the answer lay in the depth of his crimes. That Scathach and the brotherhood had proclaimed his death and would see anything less as failure to destroy all vestiges of the Nine.

  “Slow down, Daz. What happened after I sent you to the Amhas-draoi?”

  Ahern’s face crumpled, great leaking tears rolling down his blubbery jowls as he arranged and rearranged the feather, the stick, the cherry stone. Moving them this way and that. His gaze locked upon the strange patterns. “Went like we agreed. Did just as you said. None suspected me. None stopped me.”

  “Did you speak to Scathach?”

  “Aye, the warrior queen is as fierce as they say, Brendan. She just had to look at me and I felt as if she were picking my brain apart particle by particle. Seeing every guilty secret.” He whipped free his handkerchief, giving another horrid honk. “That’s when I failed. So many questions, all talking one over the other. Scathach never taking her eyes off me. I grew confused. Muddled in my thinking. Never meant to hurt you. Never meant to betray you. My fault, though. I claimed your information as mine. They never knew you’d sent me. . . .” Daz’s voice trailed off into a horrified, strangled whisper. “Never knew about you at all.”

  Brendan rubbed his injured hand up and down his thigh, working the kinked muscles loose. Pictured Daz’s confrontation with the Amhas-draoi. The circle of stern, angry faces. The drawn swords. The threats. It made perfect sense. Hell, he’d probably have done the same if standing at such an epicenter of warrior-mage fury.

  Laughter started low in his gut. Worked its steady way up through his chest, loosening the taut muscles across his shoulders, the bands clamping his back, the stiff neck and the pain in his temples.

  He roared with the irony of it all.

  Did he blame Daz? No. The time for that was long gone, if it had ever been. The blame lay squarely at his own feet. If he’d gone himself to the Amhas-draoi instead of sending Daz as emissary . . . But he’d hoped still to salvage the disaster to come. Still had visions of reasoning with Father. Of making him see where the Nine had lost their way. Of the grim conclusions he’d come to over hours and days and weeks of planning.

  Such a conversation had never happened.

  He’d never been able to work up the strength or the courage needed. Father had always seen him as his golden son. The pride of his house. Against Aidan’s athleticism and charm, it had been a source of delight to be seen as superior in any way to a perfect brother who floated through life on a cloud.

  To confess his fears or reveal his treachery would have resulted in the loss of that prized status. So, in the end, Brendan had said and done nothing.

  Father had died beneath an Amhas-draoi blade.

  Brendan had run for his life.

  He laughed until he cried. Chest aching, ribs throbbing and br
uised, breath coming in unsteady gulps. A feeling he’d not experienced in years too long and dark and painful to dwell on.

  Hope.

  twenty-two

  “What do you think?”

  Elisabeth held the gown in front of her, turning this way and that while Killer watched from his permanent spot on her bed.

  “I know. I’m so glad I followed the dressmaker’s advice. It looks much better than I thought it would from the illustration in La Belle Assemblée.”

  The mirror reflected a printed muslin in the first stare of fashion, ribboned in apple green at hem and collar with cap sleeves. The style drew attention to her height while minimizing her less-than-waifish shape. And the color brought out hints of green and gold in her brown eyes.

  In a desperate attempt to keep herself from reliving the scrying’s indelible images, she snatched up a second gown, a beautiful silk in apricot that gleamed in the late afternoon light streaming through her window. Swirled it around her, posing again in front of the cheval mirror. Loving the feel of it against her skin. The way it threw gold and bronze and copper highlights into her hair. She’d never take nice clothes for granted again.

  She smiled, recalling Brendan’s eager gaze as he’d revealed his gift. The almost shy way he’d offered her the bolts of fabric. As if she’d reject his present. As if what she thought mattered to him. It had been a heady realization. Brendan had never cared what she thought. Or felt. Or did.

  Elisabeth clenched her jaw, refusing to let the bitter tears swimming at the backs of her eyes gather force. She would not weep. She would remain positive. Madame Arana had said the scrying glass showed possibilities. No way to know how the tiniest twist in events might affect the future. Brendan would not die. He would return to her. They would travel to Dun Eyre as a couple. If she believed it strongly enough, she could make it happen.

  She tossed the gown across the bed. Threw a worried glance out the window. Please, whoever might be listening. Keep him safe. Watch over him. Don’t let him vanish out of my life again.

  Today had passed in murmured conversations and worried looks. Madame Arana had departed. Then Helena. Both had been gone for hours. Both had assured Elisabeth before they left that Rogan would remain in case there was trouble. She was safe.

  As if on cue, a strumming chord shivered up the stairs to her bedchamber. It grew into a lively bouncing tune, one where feet had no choice but to tap. It brightened her somber mood and she caught herself humming along before branching off into a harmony that seemed to augment the sweet laughing melody. Even Killer wagged his stump of a tail, his beady black eyes alert, his nose twitching.

  The music changed. The harp’s song growing quiet and sad and full of pensive longing. Her own song altered to match the new tone. A bride’s fears. A woman’s desire. A life unknown.

  So engrossed in her own confused jumble of thoughts, she at first didn’t notice the harp breaking off in a sudden disparate jangled chord. Didn’t note the ominous listening silence. The creak of a house that wasn’t as empty as she’d imagined.

  It was only Killer’s low-in-the-throat growl that started her from her musings. He scrabbled to his feet, a ridge of raised fur down his back.

  Men’s voices belowstairs. Raised. Angry. Arguing.

  Amhas-draoi? Máelodor? A quiver of fear raced up her spine, cold washing through her. Heart slamming against her ribs.

  She would not panic. She would not swoon. She would not curl into a ball and pretend to be invisible. Gazing around the room, her eyes lit on the heavy iron poker leaning by the chimney. Perfect.

  Plucking it up, she clutched it like a cricket bat. Crept toward the door to await any intruder stupid enough to try and enter her room.

  Killer’s nose lifted to the air, hackles raised, growl ominous, teeth bared. He followed her to the door, glancing up at her as she pressed her ear against the panel.

  She strained to catch any more sounds, but there was only a muffled shuffling from belowstairs. A quiet murmur.

  Where was Rogan?

  She squeezed her eyes shut against the vision of the harper spread-eagled dead upon the parlor floor. Surely he’d have gone to his grave with more struggle. Perhaps silence was a good thing.

  She’d no time to relax before the stealthy scrape of a boot sounded upon the stairs, accompanied by hoarse breathing. A creak outside in the passage.

  Killer whined, scratching at the door, every muscle in his little body quivering. Every muscle in her body was quivering too. She caught her breath, lifting the poker in as threatening a manner as she could.

  The knob turned. The door cracked. A dark head appeared in the gap. She squinched her eyes shut, took a breath, and swung. The connection of iron poker against skull trembled up her arm. A man fell across her threshold like a sack of wet sand.

  Killer nosed the body, licking the all-too-familiar face.

  She no longer had to imagine Rogan lying lifeless upon the floor. Here he was in stomach-lurching authenticity.

  Blast. She’d clobbered the wrong man.

  Where the hell was Jack?

  After waiting . . . and waiting . . . and waiting . . . at Macklins for over an hour, Brendan gave up. Helena had either fed his cousin to the fishes or the two of them were catching up on the last year in orgiastic excess. Brendan didn’t care which. He just wanted to know what he was supposed to do with Daz. And finally get hold of Archibald’s ring.

  Jack must still have it.

  Jack damn sight better still have it.

  But where was the lump-headed clodpole?

  When Brendan asked Daz about the ring, the man fished around in his pocket before pulling out a piece of looped and knotted twine. Handing it over with a beaming grin. “Not much to look at, but she’ll do you in a pinch.”

  Brendan knew he’d been away a long time, but the last he’d seen of the Fey-wrought treasure, it had been silver and pearl, not—he eyed the limp bit of cord with raised brows—hemp and dirt.

  He accepted the twine, placing it in his breeches pocket with a gritted smile of thanks.

  If Jack weren’t dead, Brendan might just kill him himself.

  Shepherding Daz into a passing hackney—difficult to do with the old man addressing the horse as his cousin Bridie and tut-tutting about her poor dead husband—they drove as far as Stephen Street, where the pair disembarked—after an exceedingly generous tip to the bemused driver—and walked the last remaining streets to Roseingrave’s house. Easier on foot to assess the risk. To approach with vigilance. If need be, to fade away quietly.

  He glanced over at Daz, whose round-eyed, childlike gaze and odd attire were sparking curious looks from passersby.

  So perhaps fading away was being a bit optimistic.

  From a corner across the street, Brendan searched for indications the town house was being watched. No sign of surveillance. No tracing brush of mage energy against his mind. He decided to take that as a sign the brotherhood remained ignorant of Helena’s rogue activities.

  His mouth curled in a smirk as he stepped off the pavement. Perhaps Jack and she were more alike than Brendan had first thought.

  Climbing the steps, he paused just before lifting the knocker.

  Was it the subtle hint of the front door hanging slightly ajar?

  Or the follow-up smack over the head of a dog snarling and barking ending in the crash of shattering glassware?

  Either way, Brendan drew his knife free of its sheath before he tipped the door wider. Motioned Daz to remain behind.

  The entry hall was empty. A glance to the right into the parlor and a left into the dining room showed him nothing out of place. The noise came from the floors above. Killer’s frantic yaps, a pained yelp, and then nothing more. Not a promising sign.

  Where the hell was Rogan? And more importantly, where was Lissa? Damn it, if anything happened to her . . .

  He restrained the impulse to take the stairs three at a time, death in his heart. Instead, he crept step by interminable step
, praying to any god that might hear him to keep her safe until he could get to her.

  A shadow fell across the upper corridor. “Get the girl. She’ll tell us what she knows or we’ll have the tongue from her head.”

  Máelodor’s men. But how had they tracked him to Duke Street? He and Helena had been meticulous as they laid their trail that none could track him back here.

  A sharp stab of laughter followed. “Aye, Croker. She’s a luscious little peach. Any chance of—”

  “Keep your prick buttoned up, lad. Time enough for that if we have to get rough.”

  Rage burned along Brendan’s veins like acid as he tightened his grip on the blade’s handle. Felt for the comforting bulge of the pistol in his pocket.

  A man appeared around the door.

  Brendan never hesitated. He sent his dagger on a whistling arc, knocking the would-be rapist back against the wall, a blade buried hilt-deep in his chest.

  The man called Croker shoved his way into the passage with a curse. “What the hell?”

  No time for finesse, Brendan drew his pistol, cocked the hammer, and fired.

  This time his aim was not quite so true. The bullet exploded into the plaster to the right of the man’s head, spraying him with chalky dust.

  He swung around, his gaze narrowing in concentration, words already whispering the curse that sent Brendan to the floor in a twitch of fried nerves.

  Mage energy sizzled through him like lightning. Shredding muscle. Knifing tendons. He howled against the agony even as he focused long enough to parry the curse with his own spell.

  The man froze for a moment, an odd confusion marring his features as the pain eased in Brendan’s chest. He could breathe again. He could stand.

  But it was a short-lived victory.

  A second figure stepped from the parlor, adding his strength to the fight. Two against one. The pair of them working in tandem to overwhelm his defenses. Even as he staggered to his feet, an insidious curdling cold infected him. A teeth-chattering arctic burn pulled along veins toward his heart.

  He clenched his jaw, limbs as unresponsive as if he’d been plunged into a frozen sea. There was nothing to break the icy grip upon him. His mind seemed to divorce itself from his body. He couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t think.