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Daigh tried moving his head. Couldn’t even breathe without whimpering. Mage energy infected his blood. Coursed its black power along his veins. He was trapped in a web of pain until it subsided.
St. John vanished from his side. Power throbbed the air. Shot in ribbons of light from street to street. A shout. A curse. And silence as the antagonists receded.
The dark alley. The quiet steps. Douglas had followed. Douglas had watched. And he’d interceded to save Daigh. But not before he’d heard the whole. Knew Sabrina’s danger. St. John’s evil. And Daigh’s ultimatum.
He lay alone on the pavement. Stared up into the coal-thick night. Felt the torture of healing as his body—now free of the Amhas-draoi’s interference—knit itself together. Tendons. Muscles. Arteries. Bone.
St. John’s threat the only wound that would never heal.
Máelodor heaved himself into the carriage. Allowed the hovering manservant to settle him comfortably under half a dozen traveling rugs. Place heated bricks on the floor. Still the icy air cramped his joints and settled in his bones until he had to grit his teeth against the ache.
Bloom’s failure had spurred this trip. Bloom’s body scattered to the dogs.
He’d not fail Máelodor again.
“You should be at the coast by nightfall, sir.” The unctuous groom piled on an extra rug. “And in Dublin within a day or two if the weather holds.”
Máelodor waved off the annoying little toad. “And word’s been sent to St. John of my arrival?”
“Aye, sir. We’ve ordered him to meet you.”
“And Lazarus?”
“Nothing yet, sir.”
He closed his fist around the head of his cane.
Máelodor’s wards kept the creature whole. His magics kept him
subservient. So where was he? Why hadn’t he sent word?
He’d already shown the Domnuathi in graphic and violent detail what happened to those in his service who showed a disappointing lack of obedience. He smiled. How much more exciting and gratifying when the pain could be strung out forever. No inconvenient death to mar the perfection of the suffering. It would be a fool who tempted a repeat of the process. And whatever Lazarus’s flaws, fool was not among them.
Máelodor’s raising of a soldier of Domnu had started as an experiment. But it had paid out with so much unexpected new knowledge. The second summoning would be all the greater a success for what he’d learned.
Arthur would be tied to Máelodor just as Lazarus was. Inviolate against death. Enthralled to his creator. A perfect tool to create a perfect world.
Daigh opened his eyes, not on the woman who haunted his fevered dreams, leaving him drenched with sweat and heart racing. But on the hard-bitten beauty of Miss Roseingrave, who regarded him with a mixture of revulsion and ridicule.
“How did you get in here?” he growled.
“Your landlady let me in.” Her critical gaze wandered the barren, dusty garret. “You left the Halliwells’ suspiciously early last evening. I assume you’ve something to show for it besides Lady Sabrina Douglas’s deflowering.”
“Jealous?” he sneered, tired of Roseingrave’s hostility. Swinging out of bed, he drew his shirt over his head. Combed an agitated hand through his hair.
She flushed, lips pursed, eyes flashing violence. “Hardly.”
“Then aim your vitriol at me. Not her. She’s done nothing to warrant your claws.”
“Hasn’t she? The Douglases lie at the center of a violent whirlwind. Their father began it with his demented ideas of Other supremacy. And the heirs of Kilronan follow in his steps like lemmings. Brendan Douglas threatens our world with exposure and destruction. And if it weren’t for Lord Kilronan’s stubborn stupidity, the Amhas-draoi would have his father’s diary, and his cousin would still be alive.” She sucked in a ragged breath. Her eyes burning with tears, her face twisted into paroxysms of rage and grief.
He put a hand out in an awkward attempt at comfort, but she whirled away from him.
“Don’t ever touch me,” she warned in a cold, ringing voice. “I’m not some untried virgin dazzled by your Hercules looks. And no doubt, if Lady Sabrina knew the truth, she’d be as horrified by you as I am.” She drew herself up, tall and athletic and radiating violence.
“She does know the truth.”
“Does she?”
