Though he related the story of his death as unemotionally as possible, tears coursed down her cheeks and her body drew tight in horror. When he had finished, silence hung between them, broken only by her low, hiccupping sobs. Finally, she used the heel of her hand to wipe away the moisture from her face; her voice distant with memory, she said, "When he came after us, Colin and I had just returned from London—we'd taken Robert to Eton, then met with the solicitors. The house seemed so dreary without Robert, we decided to take Colin's new phaeton out for a drive. It was a beautiful day, even for November."
Anthony smiled; how impractical, and how like Colin, to keep a fashionable high-perch phaeton not just in London, but in Derbyshire.
When she saw his expression, Emily returned his faint smile—but their shared amusement quickly faded as she continued, "We went too far; it was dark as we came up the drive to the manor, and that was when it attacked Colin." Her lids lowered briefly, as if she wanted to shut away the memory. "Took him right off the seat. By the time I got hold of the reins and stopped the horses, it was already feeding from him."
He clenched his hands to keep from pulling her to him. "What did you do?"
Her eyes flashed. "I got the whip—but before I could hit it even once, she was there."
"The red-skinned flying woman you mentioned before?"
Emily nodded. "She had a sword—she nearly severed its head from its neck while it was feeding from Colin, but it still managed to get up and fight her. Then they both disappeared. And I went to get help. The staff assumed that he'd been attacked by an animal—[let them think that. Until I saw the changes in him, I thought my wits had deserted me."
"They didn't," Anthony said. "Although witnessing such a thing might have driven anyone mad, you took care of your brother and stayed strong for him."
"I do not know if I could have been for much longer," she replied with simple gratitude. "I am glad you are here."
I am, too. The thought surprised him—he had originally made the decision not to return, but upon hearing of the nosferatu, he couldn't not return. It had not given him joy—it was an obligation he had to fulfill. Now, seeing her, talking to her, he was grateful he'd had this opportunity.
She was watching him expectantly; wondering how much she had read in his expression, his gaze fell. The bruises on her shoulder were becoming livid, and a quiet frustration ran through him. His Gift had manifested itself so easily before—why couldn't he heal her now? What had he done differently? He felt the ability in him, but how had he made it work?
The answer hovered, just at the edge of his mind, and he grasped for it.
"Anthony?"
"Just a moment," he said, distracted, and raked his fingers through his hair. He saw her look up at the mess he'd left behind and turn her face to hide a smile. The unmarked sweep of her neck pulled at him: how had he done it? He'd held his hand over the wound and willed her to heal—but when he'd done the same to her shoulder, thought Heal, nothing.
And then he knew.
He hadn't willed her to heal, he had willed the process of healing—had imagined and guided the reparation of her skin, the recovery of her flesh.
And when he looked at her shoulder, he knew the muscles that needed their fibers repaired, the broken vessels that needed mending. He knew how to erase the bruising, ease the tender joints and ligaments—even knew the names for each.
It wasn't a matter of wishing it; one had to know how to do it.
When he placed his hand on her shoulder and willed it, it flowed through him in an explosion of heat and pain. He gritted his teeth, forced himself to hang on until the last bruise faded from her skin. His arm w as numb when he pulled it away, but the look of astonished wonder on her face made up for it.
Triumph rushed through him, and he grinned. "Apparently, those endless hours of studying anatomy were actually worth something."
And—because the thrill of success roared through him, because she was laughing up at him with those beautiful eyes and mouth, because he could not help himself—he grabbed her waist, pulled her from the bed, and kissed her.
She held on tight to his neck as he swung her in a circle, giggling against his lips.
Emily slipped her arm painlessly through the sleeve of her robe and shook her head in amazement.
He'd healed her, then kissed her—and when the kiss had become something else, had become charged with heat and tension, she'd bolted. She'd run off to the dressing room—ostensibly to change, but primarily to regain her composure.
Anthony's arrival had certainly given her reason to be giddy, but she was not a love struck girl in her first season. She had been that girl once, her head filled with romantic notions. She'd been a silly girl—a girl who would have tortured herself with the past, would have been overwhelmed by melancholy because she thought such suffering romantic and noble.
And when those romantic ideals actually had been shattered, she'd allowed herself to be overwhelmed by bitterness instead and tried to hurt those she loved most.
She'd been a silly, stupid girl.
She sighed as she emerged from the dressing room. Her bedchamber was empty; she wandered slowly down the hall toward Colin's room. She couldn't fathom why she was thinking about love when her brother still lay dying. Did Anthony's presence give her that much hope, make that much of a difference?
Yes, her heart sighed when she found him. He'd pulled a chair next to Colin's bed, his hands spread over Colin's chest. His focused expression told her that despite his declaration that he couldn't heal her brother, he was trying.
"It should not cause him pain," a voice said quietly from behind her.
Although she hadn't heard Hugh approach, his words had been so calmly uttered she hadn't been startled. Or maybe she'd already experienced a lifetime of fear, and nothing would surprise her again.
The idea was oddly depressing.
She didn't glance away from Anthony and her brother as she replied, "I know—the healing isn't at all uncomfortable." It's even pleasurable, she thought, remembering the warmth that had stolen through her, easing the soreness and pain. But she couldn't say that to the young, monkish man standing next to her.
She felt the long, measuring look Hugh gave her. "I was not speaking of your brother," he said finally.
She frowned, walking into the room and pausing at Anthony's side. This close, she could see the strain that held his features taut, the slight shaking of his hands. She could feel the heat emanating from him.
"Anthony," she said softly, and laid her hand on his shoulder. "We'll find another way."
He stiffened, and she felt a final burst of heat come from him before he relaxed and turned to press his face against her belly. His urns came up to circle her hips.
"He's so thin," Anthony murmured, and Emily thought of how they'd been inseparable growing up, the improbable pair of youngest sons from impoverished gentry and wealthy nobility. She remembered how he'd always slipped into her thoughts, even when she'd been determined to only dream of dukes and princes.
Her lips parted on a sigh, and she threaded her fingers through Ins hair and held him against her.
And let those foolish dreams go.
Chapter Eight
During the First Battle, the three new orders of beings were determined: the angels, who fought for those Above; the demons, who sided with Morningstar; and the nosferatu, who abstained from the battle until the victor became clear. The demons were thrown down from Heaven, and they made their corrupt mirror in Hell. The nosferatu were not welcomed Above or Below; they are forever denied rest, hunted by angels and demons alike—and now, Guardians.
— The Doyen Scrolls
Anthony stood at the window as the fingers of dawn slowly began peeling back the night, piercing the overhanging clouds with gold and blue.
Colin had been restless in the waning hours but had finally fallen into the daysleep. As the three of them had watched over him, Anthony had told Emily the history of the Guardians. D
espite her earlier declaration, she had found his explanation a lot to absorb.
He glanced at Hugh, who had said nothing during the account, except to nod once or twice when Anthony had looked to him for clarification. His mentor was staring out the other window, ever alert. Though the nosferatu could not attack during the day, the demon Hugh had sensed could.
The chains jangled, and Anthony turned as Emily began unlocking Colin in expectation of the servants' return. She leaned over the bed for Colin's left wrist, and the hem of the nightgown lifted, revealing the delicate line of her ankles. His eyes skimmed up her form, allowing himself to linger for a moment where the robe pulled tight over the enticing curve of her bottom, and then he moved to her side to help her.
Wordlessly, she handed him the key and began unwinding the chains from around the bedposts. He looked over at her, and a smile tugged at his mouth. "My story has shocked you into silence."
"No," she said. "I am merely trying to comprehend it all and think of what should be done next." She dropped the chains to the floor with a sharp clatter, and Anthony pushed the pile under the bed with his foot. She slanted him a wry glance. "And perhaps I am overwhelmed."
"When one is inundated with information," Hugh said without moving from his post by the window, "that is usually the end result. My pupil has yet to learn that short summaries are easier to deliver, and easier for the listener to take in, than epic narration."
How typical of Hugh to want the details framed in the most boring, succinct manner possible. Anthony's lips quirked. Perhaps he had embellished too much, but Emily had been a captivating audience. Her eyes had been wide, her skin flushed with excitement, and he had enjoyed being the object of her rapt attention.
He was absurdly pleased that her expression betrayed no similar excitement when Hugh recited, "Quite simply: after the First Battle, a group of angels descended from Above to reside in Caelum, to protect humans from the manipulations of those Below. But the humans began to think of the angels as gods; the demons, out of jealousy, decided to wage another war, the Second Battle. They managed to create a dragon, which defeated the angels—but a human was able to stop it."
"Michael," Emily said with a trace of awe, and Anthony grinned. Michael's battle had been one part of the narrative he'd lingered over. "And the sword he used somehow came into my family's possession, and the dragon's blood imbued the metal with the power to defeat the original angelic orders."
"Correct. After Michael's victory, those Above decided to create the Guardians, a corps of men who would protect against demons and nosferatu in the angels' stead. The Guardians' humanity would allow them to move among the humans as the angels never could. Michael took up residence in Caelum and began selecting those who would be in the corps."
Emily was silent for a moment and then she looked at Anthony. Her dark eyes sparkled with repressed mirth, and he felt her glance spear through him and settle heavy in his loins.
"Thank you, Hugh," she said. "That was much less epic."
Hugh bowed his head in acknowledgment, and Emily's gaze became thoughtful. "Why hasn't the nosferatu tried to kill us since that first assault?"
"You spoke to me of a female demon who interfered that night," Anthony said, with a quick glance at Hugh. If it had been a demon, the nosferatu might be dead.
She raised her eyes to Anthony's face. "If it was a demon, why would she have saved us?"
"If it is Lilith, as I suspect, do not suppose a rational motive," Hugh replied. "She'll reveal herself soon—she can't tolerate anonymity, and last night's mischief suggests that she is tired of waiting in the background—and then we'll discover whether she has killed the nosferatu."
"And the sword?" Anthony asked. "If the nosferatu lives and was able to delve into Colin's memories as he did mine, he might have already discovered its location."
Emily was shaking her head. "Colin doesn't know where it is." A blush crept up her cheeks, and she looked away from Anthony. "I had it sent—"
"Don't say it!" Hugh broke in sharply. Anthony and Emily stared at him in surprise, and Hugh added in his normal, staid tone, "Their hearing is as good as ours. Perhaps better."
Anthony felt Emily's sudden tension, and her hand clenched tightly on his. He realized, "If they are listening, then they will know she has the information they want."
Hugh nodded, and Anthony wondered if his mentor had counted on something like this to flush out the nosferatu. To use Emily as bait.
Unease flitted across Emily's features. If the nosferatu came for her, it would tear her apart in its quest for the sword.
"It would be best if you did not leave her side," Hugh said.
His voice tight, Anthony promised, "I won't."
Emily slowly brushed her hair, studying the line of Anthony's back in the mirror as he paced the length of her room. He moved differently than he used to, with new confidence; before, he had walked as if he didn't care to be noticed, entering a room and sitting as quickly as possible in an unobtrusive location. Now, he seemed to frill her bedchamber with his presence, each long stride marking off. territory and claiming it as his.
Claiming Emily as his.
He turned and met her gaze in the mirror. Her cheeks reddened at being caught in a stare, but she refused to look away. A faint smile curved his mouth, and he resumed his pacing.
Emily set down the brush and pressed her cool palms to her burning face—but her hands could not soothe the heat that coiled low in her belly.
But his hands could.
The image of his fingers on her breasts, in the dark hollow between her thighs deepened her blush. Anthony caught her gaze again and, as if arrested by her heightened color, paused a few feet from her chair. His eyes darkened as they skimmed over her slim form.
Though her lips parted in expectation, he abruptly walked away.
Disappointment surged through her, but she could not find the courage to issue an invitation. She stared at her reflection, wondering when she had become a coward—and why she found it difficult to clearly state her desires now. In the past, it had seemed so simple to convince a man—including Anthony. A kiss or a coin and their objections fell away.
I don't want to have to kiss his objections away, she realized.
For the second time, he tested the lock at the door, and she sighed. "The servants won't come in; I've left instructions for them to let me sleep undisturbed."
He jiggled the handle again. "It would be unfortunate should one come in here and see me; I'm supposed to be dead, and most of your staff knows me well," he reminded her. "And I do not have Hugh's ability to go about undetected."
She rose from her chair, crossing the room and pulling back her bedding. "I wonder that I was allowed to see you," she said, and climbed into her bed. She sat, her arms curled around her knees.
"I'm not supposed to return while you, or anyone else I knew, still lives," he admitted. As if finally convinced that her room was as secure as it could be, he joined her at the bed and sat down on the edge. His hip was only inches from her feet, and she fought the urge to wriggle her toes beneath warm, firm muscle. "I have barely begun my training; I shouldn't have come back to Earth until another century had passed."
Her eyes widened. "Did you break the rules? Will you be tossed out like the demons, or a fallen angel?" The thought that he would be punished for helping her made her chest ache.
He grinned and dipped his head, and she could tell he was trying not to laugh. "No, Michael bade me to come. In any case, there is no punishment for a Guardian. Falling is simply making the choice to reverse the transformation. If a Guardian chooses to leave the corps before the first one hundred years, then he Ascends and waits for judgment. After the hundred years, he can either return to Earth and live out the remainder of his life or Ascend."
As a reward for service, it left much to be desired. "If you chose to come back, everyone you knew would be gone," she said sadly.
He gave a short nod. "From what I understand, most who c
hoose to Fall decide not to return." He glanced up at her face, sucked in a breath as if she'd hit him. "Don't look like that—it's not worth your tears. I'm fortunate to be alive at all, and becoming a Guardian is an opportunity I never could have dreamed of," he said gently.
She buried her face in the cradle of her knees and waited until the burning behind her eyelids stopped. Finally, she raised her head and propped her chin on her fist. "You might like to know that your sister Elizabeth was married six months ago to Lord Ashcom."
"Oh?" He lifted an eyebrow, his tone bland. "My mother must have been pleased with such an advantageous match. They did not even wait to come out of mourning for me."
Death had apparently not softened his feelings toward his family. "I believe she will have a first advantageous grandchild very soon," Emily said with an arch smile and was rewarded as he feigned a scandalized expression.
"Hardly appropriate behavior for a lady!" he replied, and his sarcasm was not lost on Emily. His family had always insisted on respectability, had disapproved of Anthony for his profession, and yet it had likely been his sister's impropriety that had netted her a viscount. His family would never see the hypocrisy; Elizabeth's actions had gained a peer and access to a modest fortune. It mattered little to them that a physician was a respectable position in society; Anthony would have been paid for his services. His attempts to secure himself a comfortable living had relegated him to trade in their lofty view, no better than a merchant.
But it hardly signified now.
She opened her mouth to tell him so and was surprised to find his countenance overspread with a deep blush.
As if embarrassment had congealed on his tongue, he said stiffly, "Allow me to apologize, Lady Emily. I do not mean to suggest that your behavior has ever been less than appropriate, nor lowered your status in my eyes."
She stared at him, puzzled, until she recalled what he had just said of his sister. Then she burst into laughter.
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