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Did nothing while her husband’s mouth and nostrils were covered in obsidian slime, his eyes staring back stoically at her even as he drowned.
Oh, God. She sat up in his big bed, glancing around wildly, even though she knew he wasn’t here. Where was he? She needed to find him, needed to place her hands on his chest and feel for herself that his heart still beat, that he was well.
She rose, hurriedly throwing on his banyan and lighting a candle from the embers still glowing on the hearth.
She looked first in her own room, a quick glance as she hurried past. The next place was the downstairs library. Perhaps he’d woken in the night and been unable to sleep? Perhaps he was even now dozing in a chair before the fireplace, that silly, stupid tasseled hat on his dear, dear head. She sobbed and realized that she’d broken into a near-panicked run.
He wasn’t in the library.
She sagged against the door, pressing the back of her hand to her weeping mouth.
He wasn’t here. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t here.
She tried his study last because hope died hard and she had to see for herself before she acknowledged what she already knew.
The study was quiet, the door to his hidden closet ajar. She could see that his Ghost costume was gone and she knew, knew what she had done. Megs pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a wail of horror.
She’d abandoned a living man for a dead one.
Chapter Twenty
When Faith opened her eyes the next morning, the first sight she saw was the Hellequin. He held the sack made of raven’s hides, and as she watched, he took out her beloved’s soul and unwound the spider’s silk from around it. At once her beloved’s soul drifted upward, free and sparkling. Faith watched until she could no longer see him. Then she looked at the Hellequin, her eyes shining.
“Will my beloved enter Heaven now?”
“Yes,” the Hellequin said.
“And what will happen to you?”
But the Hellequin merely shook his head and mounted the big black horse. …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
Godric felt his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. His left arm ached, deep and compelling, and his hand shook just a little as he pressed the short sword to Kershaw’s vulnerable armpit. He stared at Trevillion and wanted to hiss. Wanted to spit and howl. He was fated to be taken tonight, it seemed, but he would drag Kershaw with him, clasping him to his bloody bosom as he went down. Something flickered in Trevillion’s eyes, perhaps a premonition, as Godric’s muscles tensed, preparing to shove the sword tip through skin and muscle, tendon and bone.
“Nooooo!” It was Alf’s voice, hoarse and loud. The girl wrenched herself away from her stunned guard, running to Godric. “You can’t take the Ghost, you soddin’ redcoats. This toff steals little girls. If’n you—”
But her words were cut off as Kershaw took advantage of the confusion. He grabbed Alf’s hair, bending back her head, exposing a throat much too thin and tender and placed the blade of his sword against it.
Godric lunged, sinking his short sword into Kershaw, pushing until the hilt hit his coat.
Kershaw wheezed.
Alf screamed, high and feminine.
Godric twisted the blade, staring fiercely into Kershaw’s muddy eyes as they dimmed and he dropped his sword. He yanked the bloody short sword from the body and Kershaw’s corpse fell gracelessly to the cobblestones.
“Hold your fire!” Trevillion screamed. “Hold your blasted fire!”
For a moment everyone froze, the only sound the nervous stomping of the horses and the whimpering of the two girls.
One of the guards took off at a run.
Trevillion nodded in his direction and a mounted man cantered after him.
“Arrest them all,” Trevillion growled, dismounting, “save for the Ghost. He’s mine.”
He unsheathed his sword.
