Warrior's Curse Read online

  “I’ve felt better,” he admitted, then his gaze darkened, mouth pressed closed. “I’ve also felt worse.” He turned back to the window as the high moors and fertile valleys of Devonshire slid toward the wide, sun-speckled rush of the Tamar.

  She let him brood for a few miles before the silence began to ring in her ears. “This isn’t the first time it’s happened, is it?”

  “What?” He glanced over at her with a lift of his brows. “Attacked, you mean?” He shrugged. “A few times—twice in London, once on my estate in Northumberland, and there was a woman in Bath the Ossine hired to lure me in with . . . well, they misjudged my tastes. I like slender brunettes with dark eyes.” His keen gaze traveled her face until she wanted to squirm in her seat and the heat rose in her face. Then he added, “Preferably ones who aren’t luring me to my doom,” which completely killed the moment.

  If it had been a moment. Hard to tell. Gray was not exactly the most emotive of people, even at the best of times. The duke had taken care of that over the years. Now to see a smile break that patrician façade was tantamount to a shifting of the earth beneath her feet.

  “Not to imply murderous intentions on your part,” Gray added smoothly.

  “But you do admit that you count me among those women you find attractive?” she goaded, a harpy’s smile curling the edges of her mouth.

  He cleared his throat. Adjusted the position of his bandaged arm. “If I say yes, I sound a scoundrel. If I say no, I sound a cad. I can’t win.”

  “Maybe I like scoundrels.” She wanted to bite her tongue off. What was she doing? Flirting with him? This journey was about reconciling Gray with his grandfather, reconciling Gray with Sir Dromon. It was about establishing herself as a proper and relevant N’thuil. It was not about coy glances and witty banter, and most definitely not about the swirl in her belly that dropped into her sex and ached with a sweet throbbing need.

  He cleared his throat again and fiddled once more with his diamond. “As last night’s heroics proved. Few proper gentlemen would have taught you those skills.”

  Meeryn sat back with a snap of her shoulders.

  And that . . . brazen hussy . . . was that. She’d been more than put in her place. Détente over. “You’re quick to accuse the Ossine of murder, but what of the Fey-bloods? I believe last night’s heroics proved they’re a far more serious threat,” she snapped.

  Gray rubbed a hand over his chin in sheepish thought. “Despite what you think, that was a first, though I suppose it was optimistic to hope the secret of the afailth luinan would remain just that.”

  Few among the clans had believed the ancient cookfire stories describing the miraculous healing properties of Imnada blood. Not until David St. Leger brought Callista Hawthorne back from death with a few drops from his own wrist. The news had spread like fire among the Imnada, but it was the Other’s potential reaction that set frazzled nerves on edge and intensified an already explosive situation.

  “Did you really think it would be otherwise?” Meeryn asked. “Once the outside world learned of our existence, it was inevitable the oldest legends would be revived and sifted through for fact. And what legend is more tempting than that shapechanger blood offers the drinker immortality?”

  He shrugged. “It would have availed him nothing. The power isn’t in the blood. It’s in the gift.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Professor Gray, remember? Head always stuck in a book.” He looked down at his hands again. They lay palm-up in his lap, the crisscross of white scars standing out against the darker tone of his skin. He closed them slowly, hiding the evidence of his accursedness. “What made you decide to act as envoy for Pryor? He might have sent anyone.”

  “When I heard what he planned, I asked to go. I thought you might listen to me. That you might trust me.” She paused. “My mistake.”

  “It’s not you I have cause to suspect, Meeryn.” The tenor of his voice changed. For a moment, he was the Gray she remembered; truehearted and steadfast. The blue of his gaze inviting rather than reflecting.

  “But you’re coming despite your misgivings?”

  He put his hands in his pockets. “What kind of leader would I be if I didn’t try? I can’t ask the men and women who follow me to risk their lives if I’m not willing to risk mine.”

  “I know Sir Dromon can be self-righteous and manipulative and even cruel at times, but he always has the best interests of the clans at heart. All he does originates in his desire to keep us strong and safe.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “If I didn’t . . .” She turned to the window, her words trailing off as she studied her own apprehensions for an answer. “I have to believe in him, Gray. He’s been the only thing holding the clans together since you were banished.”

  “Or the one thing tearing us apart . . . depending on your viewpoint.”

  The conversation faltered and died after that, each lost to their own thoughts. Lunch came and went. Horses were changed. And changed again. The rocky barren uplands gave way to creek-fed glades and deep combes on their way to the western cliffs. Dinner was taken at a snug posting inn outside Camelford. The sun slanted low toward the horizon, the moon high and winking between thin clouds.

  They had reached the final leg of their journey. Soon the concealing mists of the Palings would gather around them in an impenetrable wall of silver cloud. Without knowledge of the hidden tracks and byways through the barriers, one might wander lost for hours or days, herded and nudged as if by unseen hands through the heavy fogs and drizzle-spangled vapor. The lucky traveler would find his way beyond the Palings’ perimeter, none the wiser to the holding locked within. The unlucky traveler who breached the Imnada’s last defense and discovered their secret would never be found at all.

  At the Palings’ borders, standing like twin sentinels against a dangerous world, were the estates of Deepings, owned by the Duke of Morieux, and Drakelow, the family seat of the Pryors and home of Sir Dromon. For the first time, Meeryn saw those miles of adjoining landscape, not as a buffer to keep the world out, but as a wall to imprison those living within.

  “Looks like we have company,” Gray remarked a bit too casually.

  Meeryn followed the track of his frowning gaze. Two men stepped free of the trees as the coach passed. Another two appeared on the road ahead. All four wore red-tasseled scabbards at their sides and daggers at their hips, and carried pistols in holsters upon their saddles. All four bore the blood of the Imnada and the power of the Ossine.

  “Perhaps they’re here to escort us. An honor guard for the prodigal heir.”

  In no way did Gray betray that he might be the least bit worried. She wished she had the same confidence—or the same ability to hide her feelings. Her knees wobbled dangerously and fear slithered up her spine as one of the men ahead signaled the driver to pull up. They creaked to a stop, the driver’s shouted question cut off by the crack of a pistol. Meeryn jolted forward as the coach rocked dangerously. She gripped the edge of her seat, her pulse roaring in her ears.

  Craning her neck, she saw that the men had surrounded the coach. One gripped the reins of the leader who sidled and backed at the scent of blood. A second prodded the body of the coachman where it lay sprawled in the dirt of the lane.

  Gray’s eyes glittered with rage. “Shit all.”

  Of the young groom, there was no sign. Meeryn prayed for his escape. She dropped her hand to the leather sheath strapped against her thigh, the narrow access slit in her skirts artfully concealed by the drape of her gown. Whether she’d have the nerve to use her stiletto again was another matter. The last time had left her with a sour taste in her mouth and a sick snarling of her insides.

  One of the men yanked the door open with a grim smile. “Evening, my lord. Had word we might find you traveling this road tonight. Glad I listened to the little bugger squeal before I slit his throat.”

  Gray regarded Meeryn with a solemn questioning look. “Lady N’thuil? Isn’t t
his where you’re supposed to step in and save me?”

  The trees seemed to spin as her stomach lifted into her throat. She wanted to be sick. To weep. To bury her stiletto in the enforcer’s gut. She drew herself up and directed her most chilling stare at the murderous enforcer. “Lord Halvossa may be emnil but he remains His Grace’s heir and travels under my protection. Sir Dromon Pryor himself has requested his presence at Deepings.”

  “I don’t care if he’s got a solid gold ass and Sir Dromon wants to kiss it. He’s a traitor to the clans and deserves a traitor’s death. Just like that one there did.” He swung around, drew his pistol and fired again at the lifeless body of the coachman. The head exploded in a spray of brains and bone shards.

  Meeryn shrank back with a horrified breath. When had the Ossine begun inducting such men into their order? The shamans had always been the scholars and the teachers, the caretakers of the family bloodlines, the interpreters of the Mother’s many faces. Austere, perhaps even harsh on occasion, but never malicious or ruthless, and certainly not needlessly savage.

  Gray’s hands tightened to fists. His stare fell like a hammer blow. “My man had done nothing but seek a better life for his children. Is that a crime in the Ossine’s eyes?”

  The enforcer drew his self-importance about him like a cloak. “No, but cavorting with traitorous Fey-blood lovers is.” He directed his attention to her for the first time as he offered her a half nod, half bow. “Lady N’thuil, I’m sure you think you’re doing what’s right but the Ossines’ directive is clear. I’m to defend and protect my race from all threats. Let one of the boys take you home. I’ve a job to do, and it’s not a sight fit for a woman.”

  Her fear was forgotten in her outrage. Anything worth doing was worth doing well; be it knifeplay, learning to be a proper duchess, or speaking for the goddess. She’d not asked to be chosen by Jai Idrish, but now that she had been, she refused to be the doormat Sir Dromon and his cohorts all expected. She drew herself up as tall as her sixty-seven inches allowed and looked down her nose at him with all the authority she could muster. “You forget yourself, sir. The Voice and Vessel is not some country goodwife who’ll slink back to her mending.”

  “Kelan,” the enforcer barked to the rider standing whey-faced and gore-splattered beside the coachman’s headless corpse. “Assist the Voice to her blasted crystal. She can yammer at it all night long if she likes and leave me in peace.”

  Apparently, she needed to work on that superior take-no-prisoners tone Gray had down pat.

  The enforcer yanked Meeryn from the coach, almost sending her tumbling to her knees in the dust of the lane where the young man waited with shifting eyes and obvious discomfort. She used his uncertainty to her advantage and shook him off to stand angry and alert, unwilling to leave Gray alone to face what might come next.

  “Come, my lord. Do I need to drag you kicking and screaming?” the brute demanded.

  The look Gray offered in return had the enforcer back-stepping, his body bent at the waist in the beginnings of a bow before he realized what he did.

  How did Gray do that? She was going to have to ask him to teach her—if they survived.

  He stepped from the coach as if he were arriving at Windsor for a royal audience. A cool breeze ruffled his hair while the mellow evening light sparkled the ruby in his neckcloth and emphasized the champagne shine on his exquisite boots. Only the rigidity of his posture and the stormy flicker in his eyes revealed the anger rippling like an undercurrent just beneath his skin. His gaze passed over the scene, pausing briefly on the enforcer Kelan, before settling back on his superior with a contemptuous look of distaste. “Do you have a name?”

  “It’s Braelin Thorsh. Loyal Ossine enforcer. Defender of the clans. Executioner of traitors.”

  “I’ll stick to Mr. Thorsh,” Gray countered. “Easier to remember.”

  The man scowled. Or rather, his scowl deepened. He was already looking as if he’d eaten nails for breakfast. “Think you’re jolly, don’t you? But there’s none of your devilish associates to spring to your defense out here,” the man crowed. “None to come running when the precious heir to the five clans learns the meaning of pain.”

  “Ah, but there you’re too late, Thorsh. I was already taught the meaning of pain by your superior, a veritable master.” Gray’s chin jerked up, his face expressionless but for a frightening twist of his lips. “A man far more skilled than you could ever hope to be.” He straightened his coat, adjusted his cuffs, one at a time, slowly, methodically. “And I’ve always been a quick study.”

  The double-barreled flintlock appeared as if conjured. The enforcer standing at the horses’ heads went down like a rag doll. Freed of a restraining arm and frantic at the roar of the pistol and the iron bite of blood filling their nostrils, the horses plunged and reared in terror before taking off at a gallop.

  Thorsh jumped to the left of the runaway coach.

  Gray shoved Meeryn to the right into the ditch at the road’s verge. “Get down. Stay down. Do you hear?” he snarled.

  He lifted his pistol and shot again. This time aiming for Thorsh, who was bellowing orders like a drill sergeant. The shot took him high in the left shoulder. He staggered backward as a scarlet blossom erupted across his vest.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Gray muttered, tossing the gun aside. “Can’t believe I fucking missed.”

  Meeryn caught a flash of movement from the corner of her eye. “Look out!” she shouted, even as she unthinkingly whipped free her stiletto. The knife buried itself in the shooter’s thigh as a bullet sang past Gray’s head to splinter a tree behind them.

  “Enough!” Thorsh, pale but otherwise defiant, jerked his head at someone just beyond Meeryn’s vision. “Come out and face your sentence like a man, de Coursy.”

  The fourth enforcer. Of course, there had been four at the start. In the confusion, she’d not noticed one’s disappearance, but there he was with his arm tight against the neck of the missing groom, a silver blade poised to drive into the boy’s heart.

  “Do you want to see us stake the lad and send his soul to the grubs?” Thorsh threatened.

  Gray’s mouth was ringed in white, his face hard and closed. “Let him go. He’s committed no crime.”

  “Hasn’t he?” Thorsh strode to the boy, who shrank away with a terrified whimper. He took hold of the collar of the groom’s coat and yanked it from his shoulders. The boy cried out. Snot and tears mingled on his chin. Thorsh did the same with the boy’s shirt, leaving him bare-chested, ribs heaving as he wept. “No clan mark upon his back nor signum upon his mind. He’s an unmarked abomination. A rogue that should have been drowned at birth.”

  “He’s a child.”

  “Not for much longer. Soon he’ll be a corpse.”

  Gray seemed to consider his options as he stood. A hand opened and closed in agitation. His nostrils flared as he inhaled, lips pursed as he let his breath out in a slow deciding whoosh of air. His gaze fell on Meeryn. “Forgive me,” he murmured, at the same time pulling a second pistol from his coat and pointing it at her. “And get up.”

  Confused, she hesitated.

  He cocked his weapon and jerked his hand in an upward motion. “There’s little time left, Meeryn.”

  Her blood froze. Her breath seemed trapped in her lungs. But she did as she was bid.

  Gray yanked her back against him. Her arms were pinned useless to her sides, the pistol jammed under her breast. His breath was warm upon the side of her face, but even now he didn’t act out of panic or desperation. He remained as calm as if no one’s life hung upon a wrong move or an ill-timed gesture. “Let the boy go, or I blow a hole through your precious N’thuil.”

  Face twisted in a mix of pain and defiance, Thorsh pressed a bloody hand to his shoulder. At Gray’s threat, he laughed, his eyes squeezed to slits in an insolent face. “Do it.”

  “You think I bluff?” Gray called.

  “I think no matter which choice you make, I win,” Thorsh sneered, draw
ing a knife from a sheath at his waist. The handle was chased in bronze and carved with the double eagle’s head of the Cornish Seriyajj, the blade wrought of pure silver. Light rippled upon its killing edges with a sickening menace. He touched it to the groom’s neck, a drop of blood welling behind the point. The boy screamed, his eyes wild.

  “You doubt my nerve?” Gray asked.

  The pistol’s mouth was only an inch from Meeryn’s heart. A clean shot would tear her open but she’d be dead before she hit the ground. A fraction off and she’d be gut-shot to linger in agony. She held perfectly still, not even daring to breathe.

  Thorsh shrugged. “You doubt mine?”

  He pressed harder, dragging it down the boy’s throat toward the notch at the base of his neck, leaving a gruesome line of red. The groom thrashed and cried out, but the enforcer who held him cut off his breath until he subsided.

  “Enough!” Gray called out, shoving Meeryn away with a curse as if she burned him. “I yield, but let the boy go.”

  He stepped onto the lane, his palms held out to show he was unarmed.

  At a nod from Thorsh, the enforcer released the groom, who sagged at once to his knees with blubbering wails. Grinning his triumph, Thorsh met Gray at the road’s crown, his dagger’s tip wet with blood. “The lad must mean much for you to exchange your life for his. Do you use him for pillow sport? Perhaps he’d welcome death if the alternative is despoilment.”

  Gray remained silent, his body taut as a wire, his spine nearly cracking with the strain. Meeryn could feel his rage burning high and bright like a flame—no, an inferno. Thorsh’s silver blade whipped out once and twice more, slicing Gray’s fine tailored coat to ribbons. “Remove the rest. Show us all your disgrace.”

  Gray unbuttoned his waistcoat, pulled free his shirt. Both landed upon the road beside his coat. The bandage wound about his arm was stained red while the deep scores from the dog’s claws stood out raw and angry against his paler skin. But it was the sight of his bare back that made Meeryn gasp. Not because she hadn’t seen the damage before. But those glimpses had been swift and furtive. She had avoided gazing directly upon the physical proof of his exile from the clans. Now there was no escaping the thick, ridged wreckage of scarred flesh where the flames had charred away his clan mark on his grandfather’s orders.