by LENOX, KIM
“Archer, no!” Selene fell to her knees beside the powerful Shadow Guard, who lay nearly paralyzed, gasping for breath.
As Archer turned the corner he heard Mark gasp, “Damn. I wish I knew how he did that.”
Archer rapidly distanced himself from the twin immortals. His mind played a recurring image—that of a drunken prostitute wearing a skirt patterned in Michaelmas daisies.
NTSTOPME
Told me to wait here for him—he had to go tend to some business, and he’d be back.
NTSTOPME
His shoes struck the cobblestones with a rapid pace, the reverse path of his earlier steps. Eventually he arrived at the spot where Kate had stood, but he found the alleyway deserted. Perhaps at the return of the rain, she had sought shelter for the night.
A constable appeared out of the darkness, his bull’s-eye lamp in hand. He walked briskly, scouring the shadows of what was likely his customary beat.
Archer followed a few paces behind in silence, his instincts leading him in the same direction. High walls lined the walkway on both sides of Church Passage.
A pale line dissected the right wall, midway up, as if someone had dragged a piece of chalk beside them while they walked.
A familiar stench rose up around him, already fading. . . .
Damn it. Damn it.
At the end of the passage lay a small, darkened square framed by condemned, empty houses and a warehouse marked in large white letters as belonging to KEARLEY & TONGE. Here there was no crowd, but only night shadows and the smell of fresh blood.
A moment later the beam of the constable’s lantern swept over Kate’s body, revealing to the officer what Archer had already seen. His frantic footsteps echoed throughout the square, and the warehouse door swung inward.
“For God’s sake, man,” the constable shouted to a startled night watchman, dozing just inside. “Come out and assist me. Another woman has been ripped open.”
The black town coach clattered through the darkened streets of Mayfair. Night still claimed the earth, but morning would arrive soon. Already the refuse wagons trundled from one great house to the next, removing the insufferable reality of filth before their privileged occupants awakened from their comfortable beds.
Archer sat rigid against the velvet cushions. Word had spread quickly through the slums. Two more mutilated victims. A maniac still at large. Even though he was able to find evidence of the Ripper’s trace crisscrossing through the streets and alleyways of the district, the intensity of fear and panic seizing the area clouded the air, making it impossible to latch on to any specific thread. He had roamed the East End until exhaustion twisted his thoughts and weakened his powers. Although no longer fully transformed, he was trapped at a torturous point in between, a sickness of sorts brought on by having come so close to his target, only to fail at its Reclamation.
What he needed now was solitude, and time to return to his natural state.
The carriage raced through Black House’s open gates. Two huge iron lamps, crafted centuries before by Tibetan artisans into twisting, garnet-eyed dragons, flickered on each side of the grand doorway while the remainder of the manse slept in darkness. The vehicle rolled to a stop.
With shaking hands, he pulled the dark spectacles from his coat pocket, and thrust them onto his face. The carriage door swung open, casting a beam of wavering light from the lanterns across his shoes. A creak of metal, and the stairs went down.
A long moment passed.
“My lord, do you require assistance?” the young footman inquired from without, not daring to encroach upon his lordship’s privacy.
“No,” Archer growled.
He tugged the brim of his top hat lower on his forehead and turned the collar of his greatcoat high. It took all his discipline to climb down and walk past the liveried footman and the two sleepy-eyed doormen without lashing out at them in an absurd, punishing rage.
Rage at Jack for escaping, but most of all, rage at his own failure. He had craved a challenge—not a bloody rout. He forced himself to cross the expanse of gleaming, night black marble, and took the stairs.
God, curse him, his mind still scoured everything, irrationally seeking some trace evidence of his prey—even here, in his sanctum. He paused midway up the staircase and pressed a fist to the center of his churning head.
Yet all he could sense was her.
Elena. His mind reached for her, twisting and seeking, a thousand ravenous black vines yearning to claim her and seize her close until she became part of him. He shoved his hands through his hair. His top hat fell to the stairs behind him.
A warning sounded in his mind, one that told him he still hunted, and that his mind no longer had the ability to distinguish one prey from the other. If only he could make it to his chambers and lock himself away until the effects passed . . .
On the third-floor landing, he gripped the banister, blinded by confusion. Where the hell were his chambers? Where the hell was Leeson when he needed him?
Everything around him, the carpet and the stairs were familiar, yet entirely unfamiliar, as if each detail had been rearranged by mischievous sprites. From above, the skylight glared down like a black Cyclopean eye, in damning accusation. He snatched the glasses from his face. The rims, normally cool and smooth against his skin, abraded him beyond bearing. The glass crunched as with shaking hands he thrust them into his pocket.
Visions of the young woman who had gazed at him with such quiet trust only hours before tortured him. His body demanded her and shouted—as it had that night two years ago on the rooftop—that she would make the confusion and pain go away.
When he hunted, he lost himself to sensation and impulse. . . . Time passed in shattering fragments of excitement and light. . . .
No one need tell him where her bed lay. Even from this distance, he could smell her. He could hear her heartbeat and feel the sensuous warmth of her breath against his skin. The scene before him altered.
Her room was filled with shadows.
She lay on the window seat, propped up on tufted pillows, looking like a medieval beauty bespelled into a thousand years of sleep. His ravenous gaze moved over her pale skin and luxuriant, unbound hair. Before, she’d been laced into layers of wool, silk and linen, and even then, while sane and in complete control—he’d barely been able to keep his hands off her. Now she wore only a peasant-style shift.
Whatever curiosities he’d had about the authenticity of the shape and curves of her body were answered by the sheer nature of the delicate garment. The cambric bodice gathered over her high, round breasts, with a pale green ribbon tied beneath. With interest, he noted a dark band around her wrist, a tattoo in the shape of a twining serpent. The mark would have been hidden tonight under the long sleeve of her glove, and only served to inflame him more deeply, for it added a forbidden, sensual dimension to her innocence.
His body tensed. Ached. He wanted her.
Goddamit, he craved her like a raving addict craved opium.
His teeth locked on a growl. His gaze shifted to her face. He prayed for her sake that her eyes would open, and that she would stare at him in such horror he’d go and never come back to harm her. But she slept on, unaware of the beast in her presence.
That night in Spitalfields, he had tried to save her, but once she’d spiraled out of his reach, he had let her fall. He’d forced himself to remain on the ledge, telling himself her death was out of his control—intended to be.
Reclaimers hunted. They did not intervene to spare the fleeting lives of mortals, no matter how unjust the circumstances. He was a killer, not a savior, and was expected by those he protected to be quite single-minded about his role within the Guard. He’d never encountered the slightest temptation to stray from his destined path before.
But after he’d descended from the roof, he had made the mistake of standing on the cobblestones beside her and looking down into her beautiful eyes. Still clenched in the arms of the beast who had murdered her, she had stared up a
t him and gasped for her dying breath. But it hadn’t come. She’d been suspended in the torturous, despairing place between life and death, and the ice around his cold immortal heart had shattered.
Just as he hadn’t been able to stop himself from touching her then, he could not stop himself now.
Gently, he lifted her from the seat. Her head lolled against his shoulder, and she sighed. He inhaled her breath, savoring her life essence. Her skin was cool where it had been exposed to the night air, but warm and velvety beneath the blanket draped over her legs. He’d taken only a step when a book thumped down to ride atop the blanket’s long tail. He tensed, certain she’d wake and scream at him, at his unnatural eyes and skin. And indeed, her eyes opened.
“But I can’t dance,” she murmured.
Did she see him? Did she see the glow of his eyes and the naked hunger on his face?
“Yes, you can,” he whispered, paralyzed by her heavy-lidded stare. God, he wanted nothing more than to hold her tighter, to press his mouth against hers. She sighed and closed her eyes again. He nearly groaned in relief. A few more steps and he lowered her to the bed.
Weakened by failure and exhaustion, he sank to his knees beside her. Some fragment of his surviving conscience shouted that he crossed a forbidden line, but his craving grew too out of hand. It had been so long since he’d been close to someone. Close enough to feel their heartbeat. Slowly, he lowered his cheek against the gentle slope of her breast. As he had somehow instinctively known, slowly, the pain and confusion subsided.
He lost all conscious thought. Selfishly, mindlessly wanting more, he spread over her, blanketing her with his shadow.
“Archer . . .”
Had she whispered his name? Drunk on her skin, her hair and her scent, he twisted around her, embracing her in his heat, more man now than shadow. Bit by blessed bit, his mind returned to center. She moved restlessly against him, twining her hand into his hair.
“Yes,” she whispered, shifting her legs, her thighs, inviting him closer.
“Elena.”
She nuzzled his jaw with her lips, searching. He pressed his mouth against hers, daring to explore inside with his tongue. His hand moved to her breast. She sighed again, moaning softly.
Suddenly she froze and, with a cry, shoved her arms and fists through his quickly shadowed form.
“Archer!” she gasped, pushing herself up from the bed.
He retreated to the far corner of the room, pulse thundering. Her hair fell wildly about her shoulders, and she seized the sheet to her breast. Her stunning eyes, wide-open and fully aware, stared so intently into the place where he’d gone. Did she see him?
Gingerly she touched her swollen lips.
After a long moment, she groaned softly and speared both hands through her hair. She lowered herself to her elbow, then collapsed into the pillows.
Even now he wanted to go to her. He battled primitive urges, so base and rampant he despised himself for feeling them. She was everything he wanted, everything beautiful and innocent and good—
And everything he could never have.
With a silent roar of fury, he twisted in upon himself and escaped through the narrow crack beneath her door.
Three hours later, Archer brooded out the window of his study, his mood as black as a dirge. Last night he had failed, and devastatingly so, on every level. This, after century upon century of perfection.
In the garden, little birds flitted from tree bough to tree bough. Rotund clouds lumbered across the sky. The crisp report of footsteps sounded in the hall as servants rushed to and fro to complete their morning duties. The earth continued to turn. Lives moved on.
Not his.
Who will catch me now? You didn’t, Reclaimer.
A taunt created by his own tortured conscience, but at this point it really didn’t matter. Every fragment of his being, down to his immortal marrow, demanded revenge. He grasped the draperies and pulled them together, sinking the room into darkness.
Unlike the night before, his mind was crystal clear; it had returned to perfect, cold sanity. He refused to allow logic to attribute the near-miraculous recovery to Elena and what had transpired in her room—or afterward as he’d pleasured himself to a stunning release in the shadowed privacy of his chamber, closing his eyes against the reality of his hand and surrendering himself to the fantasy of her.
Elena. Goddamit, he couldn’t believe he’d gone to her room. He rubbed his forehead, trying to banish the sensual memories. She had shown him nothing but admiration and trust, and he had betrayed her.
He glanced at the folded parchment on his desk and the triangular black seal he’d broken just an hour before. He could delay no longer in answering the summons.
A fire crackled at the center of the enormous hearth, which was bordered by ancient terra-cotta tiles painted with lotus flowers in red and black. He swung his desk chair around and drew it as close to the punishing heat as possible without igniting the upholstery. Taking his seat, he stared into the orange and red flames, and imagined himself burning there as penance for all he had done and not done throughout his existence. He closed his eyes and cleared all thought from his mind.
Soon the flames took on a purple hue, and a low hum spread through the room. A voice emerged—three distinct tones entwined into one. The heat grew as cold as frost, and the faintest image of a face took shape in the flames.
“Two more atrocities . . .” The voice did not taunt; it merely stated a fact.
Nonetheless, Archer’s hands curled around the thick wooden armrests, as if he were a boy called into the schoolmaster’s office for a reprimand.
“The soul evaded me. It will not happen again.”
The face blurred, fluctuating between the characteristics of the three Primordials who governed the Inner Realm and the Shadow Guards who protected the fragile boundaries of that immortal domain. “Does the marked soul approach Transcension?”
Only fully Transcended souls had the ability to cross from the mortal world into the Inner Realm and wreak destruction and murder against its immortal inhabitants. The Shadow Guard prevented such incursions. Until last night, Archer had found the rare soul working toward Transcension to be a challenge to his skills as a Reclaimer.
“His trace is distinctive, but not always clearly discernable due to the dense population and turmoil of the city. Having only just arrived yesterday, I would like more time to decide the true level of his deterioration.”
“Let there be no chance of his crossing over.”
Archer’s brow went up. “My honor would not allow it.”
Archer stared into the flames. He had never received any sort of reprimand, no matter how slight, from the Primordials, and the words stung.
“Ancient . . .” Already the voice grew faint. Soon the portal would close.
“Yes?”
“The girl.”
Those two words revealed everything. Despite his efforts to keep his indiscretion private, the Primordials knew about Elena. How? Mark?
The Primordials would not allow their most powerful warrior to be diverted from his eternal purpose. They did not act out in malice, but with the emotionless precision necessary as rulers of a threatened world. If they believed Elena to be of any hindrance to him, they might choose to end her existence.
“She is not a distraction.”
“Make sure that is so.”
Chapter Six
The purple flames climbed high and returned to orange. Heat once again scorched his skin. Archer shoved the chair back a space and rubbed a hand against his forehead.
First things first. He would not be able to concentrate his undivided attention on the crisis at hand until he dealt with Elena. Damn, but he was loath to hurt her.
He should have been a bastard from the start. The sooner this farce of a guardianship came to an end, the better for everyone involved. Crossing the carpet, he yanked open the door. He strode to the hall to set his unhappy mission into motion.
Just
then, the grand entry doors opened and Selene swept inside, releasing one of her devastating smiles upon the footman. The young man stared, stupefied by her boldness until he saw his scowling employer. With a quick bow of his head, he quickly accepted the mantle she handed over to him and disappeared into the darkness of the far hall.
“Why have you returned to Black House?”
“Why else?” she answered dryly, her eyes narrowing. “To spy on you. Besides, you know my brother prefers common lodgings. I want a hot bath. I smell like death. I’ve just spent the last two hours examining an arm.”
“An arm?”
“It seems my Thames murderer is in a dismembering mood again.”
With that pronouncement, she gripped the banister and, in a dark froth of skirts, ascended the stairs.
Just then Mr. Jarvis pushed out from a door under the staircase. In his hands he carried two small table lamps, which he had presumably refilled with oil.
“Mr. Jarvis.”
“Yes, your lordship.”
“Please tell Mrs. Hazelgreaves I wish to speak with her in my study as soon as she is available.”
“Right away.”
Returning to his desk, he snatched up Leeson’s leather case, and after a few moments of rummaging, settled at his desk with a fistful of the old man’s “novelettes.”
“Miss Whitney?”
“Oh—” Porcelain clanked against porcelain, Elena’s teacup falling against its saucer. She immediately lifted the cup again to see if she’d chipped either piece. In the process she sloshed black coffee, which she preferred to tea, onto the pristine white tablecloth.
She sat in the enormous breakfast room. Life-size statues of Greek gods and goddesses—Lord only knew which one was which—stood on Corinthian pedestals, artfully dividing the broad expanse of windows. Silver chafers steamed on a large mahogany buffet, and the fragrance of sausages and kippers wafted about. Normally she breakfasted with Mrs. Hazelgreaves, but the older woman hadn’t yet come down. Hopefully she wasn’t still overcome by the “scandalous” events of the night before. Mrs. Hazelgreaves was capable of holding a nasty grudge.
