Dangerous As Sin

by Alix Rickloff

  Whatever that meant.

  Cam didn’t even bother to ask. A definite sign he was growing a little too comfortable with Morgan’s magical way of life.

  She waded through the mess to reach Lord Delvish, throwing her arms around his thin shoulders, kissing his parchment-dry cheek. “Uncle Owen, you’re all right.”

  He patted her back. “Spent the evening with friends. Came home to this.”

  Morgan held him at arm’s length, checking him over. “What happened? Who did this?”

  His smile dimmed, sorrow clear in his watery eyes, the shaking of his hands. “I’d no warning of an attack. Not even the merest snippet of a vision. If I had, Mrs. Fisher might still be alive, poor thing.”

  Morgan helped Delvish to a chair. Looked around for another and came up empty. Instead she perched on the edge of his desk. “Now one step at a time. Who attacked you?”

  His gaze sharpened, and Cam caught a glimpse of the man Delvish might have been in his youth. Shrewd. Far-seeing. Formidable. “The Amhas-draoi. Not alone, mind you. There were others. It was one of them murdered my housekeeper. But the Amhas-draoi knew what he searched for.”

  “What did he search for, Uncle Owen? What is Doran Buchanan trying to do?”

  But already the man had slipped back into vagueness. He plucked a book from the desk next to Morgan. Began leafing through it in a distracted way. “Magic of that sort is best locked away from those who might be tempted. It’s why I kept it hidden. Not out amongst the lesser writings. Look at this. A collection of poems by Flann Manistrech. Destroyed.”

  “Magic of what sort?” Morgan urged. “What did Doran take?”

  Delvish straightened. “Where are my manners, Morgana girl? Would you like some tea? Let me ring for Mrs. Fisher. She’ll bring us a tray.”

  “Uncle Owen, Mrs. Fisher is—”

  Cam caught Morgan’s eye. Drew a line across his throat. “Icksnay on isher-fay,” he muttered. To Lord Delvish he said, “No doubt she’s busy elsewhere, sir. And tea isn’t necessary. We’ve only come to find information on Neuvarvaan, the sword of Undying.”

  Delvish shuddered. “An ill weapon. I wonder Andraste doesn’t destroy it once and for all rather than allow such Morkoth evil to linger on.” He stood, adjusting his jacket. Removing his spectacles to wipe them on his handkerchief. Replace them on his whipsaw nose. “I foresaw this happening, you know. Years ago. Tried to warn them, I did. But the true Fey are ever arrogant in their dealings with Other. Always believe they know everything. Ha, for all their wisdom, they didn’t see this one coming, did they?”

  Cam came farther into the room, careful to step around the disaster underfoot. Who knew a page under his boot might not be the key to solving this puzzle? “What can you tell us of the goddess blade?”

  Delvish moved to a bookcase, half the books gone or lying willy-nilly. “To create an Undying takes mage energy. And lots of it. But not any old magic will do. Oh no.” Running his fingers over the titles, he plucked one from the pile. Handed it to Cam. “It must be power derived from a living source. Not the stale energy of standing stone or barrow mound.” Moved to a shelved cupboard. Pulled first one, then another of the shelves out, removing a parchment. Tossed it to Morgan, who juggled the unexpected missile.

  The pile grew as the old man moved through the wreck of his library, searching out tidbits of information. Scraps of knowledge from a past Cam hadn’t even known existed except in fable. Some were written in the same illegible handwriting of the earlier page. Others in ornate monkish Latin. Still more in an archaic cross of Gaelic and what read to him like a slightly odd version of ancient Greek.

  Morgan had no trouble reading through the densely packed writings, but for Cam, only a few moments of study sent the room spinning, sent his stomach into his throat as if he’d had too much to drink. Before he humiliated himself by heaving onto the floor, he got up, stretched the worst of the nausea away. Moved to a window for a breath of air.

  Morgan held at it, her head perched in her hand, her eyes scanning the pages, her lower lip caught between her teeth in concentration.

  “She’s quite a woman.”

  Lord Delvish had followed Cam to the window, his indulgent gaze fixed on Morgan. “She reminds me of her mother. A fiery beauty with the heart of a lion. She led young Davydh Bligh a mighty chase before she allowed him to catch her.”

  “Was she Amhas-draoi?”

  “Morva Bligh? No, though she could have been. She’d the soul of a crusader. More than likely where Morgana girl gets her spunk, though the Blighs are all fighters. They’ve had to be over the years. Times are never easy for Other. ’Tis a challenge walking that line between worlds.”

  Delvish turned his gaze on him, creating a sensation in Cam of millions of fingers probing his brain. Millions of eyes piercing his thoughts. He gripped the sill as his vision narrowed, pinwheels spinning across his line of sight.

  “You tread a similar line, Colonel, between the twin sides of yourself. The man you’ve been and the man you will be. A nudge in either direction could tip the scale.”

  Some prophecy. Tell him something he didn’t know.

  But curious, he motioned toward Morgan. “So if you’re so good at reading the future, what do you see for us?”

  “You and my Morgana girl?” Delvish’s face tightened, his eyes going distant as stars. “I see grief. And struggle.”

  His body strained to see images invisible to Cam, his pallor growing chalky white. Would he pass out? Pitch over dead? All because Cam wanted to know if he’d end in Morgan’s bed or not? He put a hand on the man’s shoulder. Tried jarring him out of his trance. “Forget it.”

  But Delvish remained fixed upon some distant vision.

  Cam tried again. A little more force behind his hand. “Stop. I don’t want to know. It doesn’t matter.” His movement caused a book to fall with a loud clap to the floor. Snapped Delvish awake. “I said forget it.”

  His Lordship shook his head, dazed. Shaky. “I saw Neuvarvaan. And you. The great sword descending in an arcing slash of power.” His eyes widened into circles of alarm as he fought to swallow. “The creation of an Undying.”

  Chapter 21

  Morgan raised her head, eyes weary after so many hours shuffling through pages, but a new fear pricking her heart. “I don’t believe it. No one can use the Other like this.”

  Caught dozing, Uncle Owen opened his eyes. “What’s that, Morgana girl?” Cleared his throat. “It’s old magic. Difficult magic. But anyone who can steal away one of the Fey’s chief treasures from under their noses is certainly up to this task.”

  “But if he succeeds in puzzling out the Guenguerthlon text and taps into the mage energy lying within the city, he’ll have more than enough magic to call forth the spell of Undying.”

  Resettling his spectacles, Uncle Owen sighed. “You’ve stated the case quite succinctly. And from what you’ve told me of this Buchanan fellow, he’s neither hindered by the strictures placed upon him by the Order of Amhas-draoi, nor does he seem worried about the penalties meted out by the Fey on those who betray them.”

  “He sees Neuvarvaan as his route to rivaling the Fey. Becoming immortal. All-powerful. And with an army of unkillable warriors who’s to say he won’t do it.”

  “Isn’t that why you’ve come? You and Colonel Sinclair? You’re the two who will see that Doran Buchanan is stopped.”

  She stretched the kinks out of back and neck, her gaze sweeping the library. Speaking of Cam, where had he run off to? He’d been quiet for hours, seemingly lost in thought, but she’d never heard him leave.

  Uncle Owen paused in the midst of rooting through the ruin of his desk. “Your colonel’s gone to rustle us up some supper. Ah, there it is,” he said, finding what he searched for.

  “Not my colonel. We’re only working together. Though I can’t fight what I can’t track. And the fog of Other mage energy makes it impossible to pick up any one strand.”

  Flipping open an enamel snuff
box, he took a pinch. Sneezed once. Twice. “What’s that? Not your colonel?” As if he hadn’t heard anything she’d said after. “Well, you know best, Morgana girl. You know best.” He blew his nose with a great honking snort. “Probably just as well considering.”

  That caught her attention.

  “Considering what? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Hmm? What’s what supposed to mean?”

  Morgan just shook her head. Pinning Uncle Owen down was akin to nailing jelly to the wall. Best to let him follow his own train of thought to whatever end.

  Stuffing his handkerchief back into his waistcoat pocket, he stood. Gave a thoughtful rub of his chin. “Here, I have something that might help. If I can find it.”

  They’d made some headway in cleaning away the worst of the mess, but it would take an army of servants to restore the Delvish library to its former glory.

  Instead of moving to the shelves, Uncle Owen crossed the room to a locked chest. Removed a ring of keys from a peg beside it. Fitted the largest into the rusty lock. Lifted the lid with a groan of hinges.

  “I’m surprised Doran and his thieves didn’t bother that old trunk.”

  He rummaged inside the trunk, his voice echoing. “Didn’t need to. They’d found what they were looking for.” Straightening, success lighting his features, he waved a leather-bound book over his head. “Aha! Knew it was here.”

  “What is it?”

  “A copy, my girl. A more recent version. Not as extensive in footnotes and sources, but still invaluable.” He set the book on the table in front of her. “Found it in an estate sale in Dublin last year.”

  Morgan ran her hand over the warped cover. Leafed through the furred edges and water-stained pages. Some stuck together. Others hopelessly illegible. “Unless it tells me how to track Doran or how to combat Neuvarvaan, it’s not going to be much use.” Disappointed, she closed the book. Pushed it back across the table toward Uncle Owen.

  He pushed it back. “Keep it. A gift to my favorite goddaughter.”

  “But—”

  He laid a fatherly hand upon her shoulder. “A piece of advice, Morgan, from an old, broken-down fortune-teller. Not even the wisest of the prophets know for certain what the future holds. We see possibilities. Probabilities. Of both past and future. From this we can deduce the most logical path, but nothing is writ in stone. Nothing is immutable. You may be wrong about the young man.”

  Leave it to Uncle Owen to cut to the crux of things with the delicacy of a pickax. He meant well, but it was a conversation she didn’t want to have. Not when her emotions were as jumbled as the room around her. She sought to end it. Quick. “Cam and I live in different worlds, Uncle Owen. Our paths—logical or not—aren’t meant to cross.” She hoped her tone said, Leave it alone. But in a tactful, respect-your-elders way.

  Uncle Owen ignored it. He took her chin in hand. Tilted her face to his just as if she were four and not four and twenty. His eyes, a lightning flicker mix of brown and green, trapped hers. Carried her into his vision. A mirror within a mirror within a mirror. And every one an image of Cam. Of her. A million futures. One past. His words sounded like a drum in her skull. “To be a great seer, you must never discount the messiness that is the human heart.”

  A door opened. “Things are still muddled in the kitchens, but I’ve found cold ham and bread. Some soup.”

  Startled, Uncle Owen swung around to Cam.

  The connection severed, Morgan dropped her gaze. Focused on the wood grain of the table. A frayed corner of the book. Anything to keep her thoughts from what she’d seen. How she felt.

  Cam looked from one to the other, his face questioning. “Did I miss something?”

  She tried to play it off. Tossed him a smile. “Not much.”

  And knew Cam knew she was lying.

  Morgan woke to the shink of curtain rings being pulled open and silver light falling across her bed, her face. Instinct had her reaching for her knife even before she’d come fully into consciousness. But then the dark form outlined against the window moved, and she relaxed back against the pillows.

  “Did I frighten the spell-wielding Amazon Morgan Bligh? I hadn’t thought it possible.”

  His words fell as harsh as his expression, revealed as he stepped out of the shadows and the same moon-glow that had roused her fell upon him. More telling still was the sour whiskey scent clinging to his clothes as if he’d spilled on himself and hadn’t bothered to change.

  “You’re drunk,” she answered swiftly. “Again.”

  “I wish I were.” With one hand, Cam clung to her bedpost. With the other, he plowed a hand through his hair. “In fact, I’m feeling extremely clearheaded. For the first time in months. In years, even.”

  She pushed herself up against the headboard, her stomach knotting at the cruel slice of his words. She didn’t like where this was going. Understood it less. What had happened to make Cam drop into the self-destructive behavior of their early days together? “Then you can explain yourself.”

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ll explain you,” he said, pointing an accusing finger in her direction.

  A cold knot of fear settled deep in her stomach, her limbs leaden and unresponsive. She showed Cam none of those things. Instead, she lifted her chin, offered a look that said, Give it your best.

  “You, Miss Bligh, are a tease and a voracious man-eater.”

  His best turned out to be pretty damn good. Morgan winced under the insult.

  “But as it turns out, I’m all right with that. After all, the sex is amazing.” Hard to make someone as impossibly gorgeous as him ugly, but he managed it with the smarmiest of greasy smiles. “And it’s not like we were ever going to marry for real, now, was it? I mean, look at you. Not exactly the kind you take home to meet the family.”

  She glanced down at her simple white shift, the only thing virginal about her. Not that she’d ever cared for such social niceties before. But now seeing herself as Cam must see her, she withered, a hot, angry flush stealing over her face. “Why are you saying these things?” she whispered through lips gone dry, but he didn’t hear. He just kept on with a litany of her failings as if now that he’d started, he couldn’t wait to lay it on as thick as possible.

  “You’re easy on the eyes, for certain, and if I’m ever in need of a she-male to watch my back, I’ll call on you, but I need someone who’ll be an asset to my position, not simply…an…ass.”

  He trailed off, apparently out of nasty things to say for the moment. And Morgan chose that moment to attack.

  “Get out.” She slammed to her feet. Grabbed him, easy to do in his inebriated state, and quick-marched him to the door. “Get the hell out of my room, you damned bastard. Quick enough to enjoy the tease, weren’t you? No questions about my assets then.”

  She pushed him into the corridor. Stood, rigid with fury as he weaved in front of her, glazed eyes raking her breasts as if he hadn’t just insulted her.

  Before good sense took over, she balled her fist, her heart racing. Reared back and gave him the hardest, jaw-breaking crack across the face she could…

  …and came awake still feeling the tingle all the way to her elbow.

  She lay back, her heart still racing, her palm damp with memory. She rubbed it down her shift, willing her breathing to come slower. Focusing on the rain pattering against the window, plinking through the gutter. Listening to the wind as it shook the casement, causing the curtains to billow with every damp draft.

  Burrowing deeper under the quilts, she tried to clear her mind of the disturbing images and twisted dream dredged up by too much claret and a less-than-savory meal. No doubt one too many pieces of cake at dinner tonight.

  The wind picked up outside, slamming twigs and leaves against the glass. Bringing with it the tang of metal, a scent of death and evil. At the same instant the familiar red and purple double rope of mage energy burst into her brain like a red-hot dagger thrust straight to the base of her skull.

  S
he screamed, or thought she had. But the voice wasn’t hers. Despite the excruciating press of power, she’d managed to bite off her shout. The scream came again. From down the hall.

  Oh gods! Cam.

  Kicking out of her covers, ignoring the fact she wore next to nothing, Morgan raced for the door. Pounded down the dark corridor toward Cam’s closed bedchamber. After the initial explosive screams, all had gone quiet. More frightening than any sounds of struggle would have been. At least that would have told her Cam still fought. Still lived.

  Sliding to a stop in front of his door, she breathed deeply. Prepared herself for the fight ahead. The eerie silence on the other side preyed on her already frayed nerves. She clenched her jaw. Donned the focus of the warrior. And turned the knob.

  Nothing.

  The door wouldn’t open. Something or someone heavy lay in front of it. As she shoved hard with one shoulder, the heap moved. Allowed her to thread her way through the narrow gap. The room felt as charged as if lightning had struck, the air alive, the mage energy almost visible, raising the hairs on the back of her neck.

  The heap turned out to be only the carpet, askew and blocking the door. She stood, scanning the room. The bed lay unoccupied, the window stood open, rain pouring in to drench the floor.

  “Cam.” Her voice sounded overloud in the seemingly empty room. But she knew he was there. As was Doran. Her wards had failed. The battle upon her.

  “Your persistence is unexpected. Even admirable. But you knew it had to end this way.” Doran stepped from the doorway leading to Cam’s dressing room, his dead eyes glowing with a darkling Fey light, though in no other way did he seem changed from the arrogant Amhas-draoi she remembered. Still as conceited as ever.

  Any effect of the Morkoth blade lay beneath the surface. In the otherworldly strength that staggered her. The buzz in her ears, the sticky dryness of her mouth, the sweat slithering down her back just from being in the same room with him.