by Alexa Egan
She waited for a smile that never appeared, but at least amusement glimmered in his eyes and his lips twitched encouragingly. She swallowed, recalling for the hundredth time since departing London, and in excruciating detail, the way those lips felt upon hers. The startled, then ardent, exploration of his mouth, the strength in his arms as he’d drawn her close, the point where cautious became commanding.
What on earth had she been thinking to fling herself at Gray? It was as if another person had taken over her body. A humiliating fool of a person who leapt into men’s arms and planted great sloppy kisses on them. She might know a man’s touch, but she’d never been a whore.
Thanks be to the Mother, she’d come to her senses in time, playing it as if it had been no more than the act of a heedless, giddy girl. He’d never know how close she came to surrendering to that sweep of unexpected heat pooling in her belly and between her legs. How much his touch still meant after all the lost years between them.
“I apologize for the lack of torrid romances, but this one might pique your curiosity.” Gray reached into a satchel at his feet and pulled out an enormous book hinged and clasped in tarnished brass. “It’s a collection of stories from King Arthur’s reign, written in the sixteenth century by a bandraoi priestess of High Danu.”
Pulled back to the present, Meeryn accepted the book with a wrinkle of her nose. This volume possessed the aroma of curdled milk and old cheese. Lovely. “Let me guess—the Imnada are depicted as demons who ate babies and deflowered virgins until the valiant Fey-bloods rid the world of their filth in a blaze of righteous glory.”
His humor vanished, eyes flat and impenetrable, giving nothing away. “She does a lovely job of describing weather.”
“I’ll bypass the pleasure if you don’t mind.” She knew she was being whiny and difficult. She couldn’t seem to help herself. She’d not realized how unsettling it would be to see Gray again, or how easily his presence would unlock old childhood dreams from the buried places in her memory.
She turned back to the window and her dreary rain-washed view. A sodden cornfield, a farmer bundled to the eyebrows in mackintosh wading along the verge, a flock of ducks skimming low to land in a farmer’s pond. But all the while she remained oh-so-uncomfortably aware of him across from her; the scratch of his pen, the scent of his soap, the stern line of his profile.
Gray had gone away to war starry-eyed and scrawny. He’d come home with an athlete’s muscled body and an uncomfortably perceptive gaze. He’d never be handsome in the classical sense; his features taken one at a time were only ordinary—cheekbones high and sharp, a wide mouth and full sensuous lips, intelligent blue eyes beneath swooping dark brows. But all together, they became startling in their intensity, fascinating every eye, drawing all attention. He was a man one ignored with difficulty and dismissed at one’s own peril.
And then there was that kiss . . . that dratted kiss . . . It hung between them like a poised sword. Did he think her shameless? Wanton? Barely adequate?
The walls of the carriage seemed to close around her; the air grew thick in her lungs, the damp clung to her skin. Every jut of the coach irritated her. Every scratch of Gray’s pen made her grit her teeth. She needed to escape. From Gray. From her reckless thoughts. Lose herself in her aspect where instinct took over and painful regrets and unwanted feelings could be outrun. She straightened with sudden inspiration. “We’ve been stuck inside for days. What if we instructed the coach to go on without us while we took a quicker mode of travel?”
He followed the track of her gaze. “You want to shift? I doubt mouse would be much faster.”
She waved off his sarcasm. “Mouse worked to get me into your house unseen, but I was thinking more of, say”—she tilted a winning smile his direction—“eagle?”
“Ahh, still lording your ability to flux over me, are you? How little has changed in the past ten years.”
“Can I help it if I’m unbound by clan aspect and able to assume any form?”
“No, but you don’t have to rub it in.”
She gave a nod toward the coach door. “So, what say you? Stretch our legs and spread our wings for a few miles?”
Gray’s brows lowered, his gaze locked on the scene beyond the glass; though Meeryn had the impression he saw none of it, his thoughts turned far inward. His thumb ran idly up and down the spine of the book he held, his jaw hard with some unknown emotion. “We’ll keep to the road and leave the skies to the ducks.”
“Gray . . .” she began, but he interrupted with a curt, “It’s safer.”
“Pryor has guaranteed your safety. No Ossine enforcer will go against his orders.”
“Perhaps not.” He rolled his cane back and forth between loose fingers. “But I learned through five years of war not to look for trouble. It would find me easily enough without the bother. The same premise holds now. Pryor might seek out a reconciliation, but I don’t fool myself into believing he wouldn’t be relieved if I conveniently disappeared.”
“Then why did you agree to come with me? If you’re right, I’d say that’s searching out heaps of trouble.”
A touch of some expression passed across his face and was gone before she could identify it. Excitement? Desperation? “To make my peace with the duke,” he replied. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
She studied him, wishing she might read the truth behind his words, but the ability to see another’s thoughts was rare among the Imnada. Not even the immense power of Jai Idrish offered her that gift. “I just can’t help wondering . . .”
“What’s that?”
“What your real purpose is?”
This time he did smile, a cool humorless twist of his mouth that made her shiver. “Read the book. The answer’s clear as day.”
* * *
“It’s as the lady N’thuil spoke, sir. His Grace lies ill and close to death in his chambers at Deepings. They don’t expect him to live to the end of the month.” Zeb Doule’s gaze darted around the crowded smoky tavern as if he expected Ossine enforcers to leap through the windows, swords brandished to skewer him where he stood polishing glasses at the bar.
Gray had hesitated over his decision to meet with the clansman, but he needed information, and Doule, whose brother worked as a groom in the Deepings stables, was a perfect conduit. The more Gray knew about the goings-on at Deepings and the holding, the better he might prepare himself.
He’d waited until almost midnight, when Meeryn would surely be asleep, to sneak out of his room at the posting inn, walk the short distance to this seedy, out-of-the-way tavern, and ask for Doule. The barman had skulked out of the back, his face draining of color when he caught sight of his visitor. It had taken two ales and a cider before he recovered enough to answer Gray’s questions without stammering or ducking at every loud noise. Unfortunately, the impulse to tug at his forelock at odd intervals continued to be disconcerting.
“What of Pryor?” Gray sipped at his ale, a rancid brew that reminded him all too much of the sickly viscosity of the Fey draught.
“He’s closeted with the duke mostly. But they say he’s starting to fret. Looking less dapper than his usual self as if he’s worried over happenings. Rumors are flying, and it seems like a power struggle is inevitable. Some say The Skaarsgard plans to ride south from his islands as soon as the duke breathes his last. Others are saying Glynjohns is hungry for the Duke of Morieux’s power and he’s got ties to the dukedom through his wife.” Doule’s throat worked nervously, and he hunched closer, his voice dropping an octave until Gray could barely hear him over the din of the tavern’s rowdier customers. “Last week, the Ossine trapped three of us in a house in Ashburton. Me and another man got away, but they murdered the families, babes and all, before they strung up the third fellow with a stake through his chest.” He used the cloth in his hand to wipe the sweat beading across his brow. “I’d not go to Deepings if I were you. It’s too dangerous. The enforcers would snatch you up faster than a fly on a cake. They’ll stake you. S
take you and leave you to die in the dirt. I’ve told my brother to get out but he won’t. Says he’s got to stay, but it’s a risk.”
Gray fought back the spasm of fear that rippled up his spine. Ran a finger around the rim of his glass with the same nonchalance he might bring to a night at Almack’s or an evening at White’s among friends. None would ever see him cringe or flinch or look less than completely confident. None would see him beg—ever again. A vow he’d made in the early days of his exile, when the flesh on his back blistered and broke and blistered again and breathing was an agony to be endured.
“I appreciate the warning, Doule.” He tossed his coins on the counter and rose from his stool. “If you hear anything more, send word through the usual channels.”
“Aye. As you say.”
He’d taken only a few steps before inspiration turned him around. “What have you heard of the new N’thuil?”
The tavernkeeper frowned, as if he was trying to recall any gossip he might have gleaned from his brother’s visits. He slowly shook his head. “Only that she’s a woman. A lady N’thuil, who’d have thought such a thing would come to pass? Maybe it’s true what some say.”
“What do some say?”
“That Pryor thinks to control Jai Idrish through the girl.” Another long pause as Doule’s frown deepened, the shake of his head slower and more deliberate this time, his words seeming to be pulled from him syllable by syllable. “Others say it doesn’t matter and the crystal’s power is just a faery story. Which do you think it is?”
Gray pulled on his gloves and settled a hat upon his head. “I don’t know—yet.”
Outside, it drizzled, the waning moon of Berenth lost behind a low layer of thick clouds. He pulled up the collar of his coat, scanning the darkness with a knowing eye. A warm breeze brought with it the stink of the stables and set the trees to dancing. Two drunkards assisted each other home to a rousing chorus of “John Barleycorn.” A man took a piss against a tree. A woman’s giggles grew breathless when her companion’s hand slid into her bodice.
Reassured that he’d not been recognized, Gray set off toward the posting inn, though he still kept to the darkest lanes and loneliest paths, every sense alert for trouble, every mile closer to Deepings tightening already taut muscles. So wrapped up in searching out two-legged trouble, he never saw the dog chained in the timber merchant’s lot until he tripped over it.
The brute leapt to its feet, barking and snarling loud enough to raise the dead. Gray eased away, one slow step at a time, never taking his eyes from the dog, sending every calming thought he could muster toward the heavy-jawed, beady-eyed cur. He’d made it as far as a rickety loading porch, stacks of milled boards piled beneath an overhang and out of the weather as they waited to be shipped, when the dog lunged, teeth clamping on Gray’s arm.
Pain shot down into his fingers as the dog’s jaws tightened. Blood seeped onto his cuffs. He grappled against the muscled weight of the beast, fending off its attempts to tear out his throat. Claws raked bloody gouges across his chest as he fought back. A smash of his fist against the side of the dog’s head, another to its snout, and the dog released him with a yelp. Immediately, Gray reached over his head for the edge of the overhang, lifting and rolling himself up onto the roof. It groaned under his weight and he held still, peering down at the dog which stood on hind legs in a frenzy of frustrated barking.
Gray tossed the animal a salute before inching carefully up and onto the main roof of the building. His chest felt like it was on fire and the fingers of his wounded arm had started to tingle, but he wriggled toward the ridge line. Hopefully, the other side of the roof sloped low enough to the street to allow him an easy descent. He made it to the top, pulling himself up the final few feet with his left arm as his right dangled by his side. Not broken, but damned sore. Pausing to catch his breath, his ears pricked and a shiver raced over his skin.
Imnada.
“. . . cut out your forked tongue . . . body to the grubs . . .”
“. . . carry nothing . . . here to see sister . . . know what you’re talking about . . .”
The conversation didn’t emanate from the street below but from a narrow alleyway to his left between the timber merchant’s offices and storage sheds.
“. . . then what is this, avaklos scum?”
Gray’s gaze narrowed, his hand tightening on the edge of the roof. Avaklos, an Imnada term for any clansman who chose to live within the human world rather than hide behind the Paling walls. Though always considered odd, in recent years they’d fallen under suspicion for colluding with Gray and his conspirators. Many had, but many more had simply been caught within a net that did not discriminate between guilt and innocence.
“. . . who sent you . . . who’s the traitor in Deepings . . . answer and I might let you live . . .”
“. . . don’t know . . . gave me a letter to deliver . . . all I know . . .”
“. . . you lie . . .”
Gray crouched at the ridgeline. His arm screamed in protest, muscles taut as wires. The blood roared in his veins, dripping off his fingers. If he sensed their presence, surely they’d sense his, they’d feel the brush of Imnada power in the air. His only hope lay in the fact that both attacker and victim seemed to be shapechangers. They might assume they sensed each other and give it no more thought. He might still hold the element of surprise as an advantage. In a quiver sparse of arrows, that had to count for something.
“. . . please . . . know nothing . . . please . . .”
Gray heard the dull thud of fists on flesh, the scramble of bodies in a struggle as the Ossine enforcer dragged his victim farther down the alleyway, where none might come upon them.
“You say you’re in town to visit your sister. Be a shame if something happened to her, wouldn’t it? And so soon after having that little baby of hers, too.”
“She’s nothing to do with this.”
“Then tell us what we want to know and we’ll leave her be. Simple.”
Gray could hear the smug contempt and brazen cruelty in the enforcer’s voice. Apparently, not all of the Ossine supported Pryor’s attempts at reconciliation. He’d trained them too well, indoctrinated the shamans with the seeds of his hatred for any change in the ancient customs and set them loose upon their own like rabid wolves.
“I . . . I can’t . . . it’s . . .”
The man was weakening, his voice tired, defeated, his breath wheezy and rasping from the beating he’d already taken. Gray had no time left to weigh options. Besides, every choice left was a bad one. The roof was too steep, and there was nowhere to let himself down. He couldn’t go back and challenge the dog again. What did that leave? He knew, even if he didn’t like it.
Shimmying free of his coat and his boots, he dragged his breeches off awkwardly with one arm and shucked out of his coat. Calling on the moon’s power, he wrapped himself in the magic of his race, bones twisting, muscle transforming. Heat beaded on his brow and slicked his injured chest as his nerves sizzled and his blood pounded in every vein. He spread his wings as the freedom and ecstasy of the shift took over. His face sharpened to a long-bladed beak, lethal as a dagger.
And with a cry carried on the wind, the eagle lifted from his perch, talons extended like razors, and dove for the kill.
* * *
Meeryn closed the book with a dusty thump, but she couldn’t shake off the tragic tale of Lucan Kingkiller so easily. The Imnada warlord had loved unwisely, allowing the seductress Morgana to convince him to betray his friend and king. To slay Arthur and place her half-blood son Mordred upon the throne. The plan had failed. Mordred was slain at the Battle of Camlann, Morgana escaped, and Lucan had been captured and brutally executed by the Fey-bloods. But it had been the Imnada clans who’d paid the greatest price as the armies of the Other fell upon the shapechanger holdings with savage ferocity, seeking vengeance for their murdered king—slaughtering any who bore the blood of the shifter, scattering those who managed to flee.
Known
as the Fealla Mhòr, this war decimated the Imnada. Only Aneavala, the most famous N’thuil after Idrin himself, was able to save the clans from extinction by erecting the Paling mists. But that had been when Jai Idrish still burned with the light of the goddess and the N’thuil was more than a ceremonial functionary.
She was no Aneavala, and she couldn’t count on Jai Idrish to save the clans from destruction a second time.
She closed her eyes, hoping to catch a few hours’ sleep before sunrise, but the stuffy humid air of her chamber and the unsettling whirl of her somber thoughts kept her from drifting off. She kicked free of the covers, huffing her frustration into the silence. Her nightgown clung to her legs and back and the sheets smelled stale in the heat.
Surrendering, she rose from bed to splash her face and arms with the tepid water from her nightstand ewer. Then crossed to fling open her shutters and open the casement wider to catch any passing breeze that might blow her way. A gentle rain fell, and she leaned into the night, lifting her face to it, sending out the rote verses of a childhood prayer to the Mother whose waning face was hidden from view by the clouds.
That’s when she caught movement at the edge of her vision and the buzz of Imnada power burst hot and tingling across her mind. A shape was barely discernible except as a flicker of black upon the dark clouds. As it approached, it revealed itself to be an enormous eagle possessing the elegant sweep of strong wings and a sleek hunter’s body with the killing force of a loosed arrow.
Gray? Her pathing slid out across the distance like a mental whisper. A focused thread of thought.
No answer.
She frowned. That couldn’t be right. This bird veered and lurched as it fought the air currents. It struggled to maintain a steady descent, but with each stroke of its wings it seemed to weaken, one wing beating frantically as the stable roof yawned into view. She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to watch the ugly collision. Opened them again in time to see the eagle skim the shingles by inches before fluttering in a rush of wind and feathers to the ground. Its left wing lay outstretched and limp. Gray!
