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Where was Rogan?
She squeezed her eyes shut against the vision of the harper spread-eagled dead upon the parlor floor. Surely he’d have gone to his grave with more struggle. Perhaps silence was a good thing.
She’d no time to relax before the stealthy scrape of a boot sounded upon the stairs, accompanied by hoarse breathing. A creak outside in the passage.
Killer whined, scratching at the door, every muscle in his little body quivering. Every muscle in her body was quivering too. She caught her breath, lifting the poker in as threatening a manner as she could.
The knob turned. The door cracked. A dark head appeared in the gap. She squinched her eyes shut, took a breath, and swung. The connection of iron poker against skull trembled up her arm. A man fell across her threshold like a sack of wet sand.
Killer nosed the body, licking the all-too-familiar face.
She no longer had to imagine Rogan lying lifeless upon the floor. Here he was in stomach-lurching authenticity.
Blast. She’d clobbered the wrong man.
Where the hell was Jack?
After waiting . . . and waiting . . . and waiting . . . at Macklins for over an hour, Brendan gave up. Helena had either fed his cousin to the fishes or the two of them were catching up on the last year in orgiastic excess. Brendan didn’t care which. He just wanted to know what he was supposed to do with Daz. And finally get hold of Archibald’s ring.
Jack must still have it.
Jack damn sight better still have it.
But where was the lump-headed clodpole?
When Brendan asked Daz about the ring, the man fished around in his pocket before pulling out a piece of looped and knotted twine. Handing it over with a beaming grin. “Not much to look at, but she’ll do you in a pinch.”
Brendan knew he’d been away a long time, but the last he’d seen of the Fey-wrought treasure, it had been silver and pearl, not—he eyed the limp bit of cord with raised brows—hemp and dirt.
He accepted the twine, placing it in his breeches pocket with a gritted smile of thanks.
If Jack weren’t dead, Brendan might just kill him himself.
Shepherding Daz into a passing hackney—difficult to do with the old man addressing the horse as his cousin Bridie and tut-tutting about her poor dead husband—they drove as far as Stephen Street, where the pair disembarked—after an exceedingly generous tip to the bemused driver—and walked the last remaining streets to Roseingrave’s house. Easier on foot to assess the risk. To approach with vigilance. If need be, to fade away quietly.
He glanced over at Daz, whose round-eyed, childlike gaze and odd attire were sparking curious looks from passersby.
So perhaps fading away was being a bit optimistic.
From a corner across the street, Brendan searched for indications the town house was being watched. No sign of surveillance. No tracing brush of mage energy against his mind. He decided to take that as a sign the brotherhood remained ignorant of Helena’s rogue activities.
His mouth curled in a smirk as he stepped off the pavement. Perhaps Jack and she were more alike than Brendan had first thought.
Climbing the steps, he paused just before lifting the knocker.
Was it the subtle hint of the front door hanging slightly ajar?
Or the follow-up smack over the head of a dog snarling and barking ending in the crash of shattering glassware?
Either way, Brendan drew his knife free of its sheath before he tipped the door wider. Motioned Daz to remain behind.
The entry hall was empty. A glance to the right into the parlor and a left into the dining room showed him nothing out of place. The noise came from the floors above. Killer’s frantic yaps, a pained yelp, and then nothing more. Not a promising sign.
Where the hell was Rogan? And more importantly, where was Lissa? Damn it, if anything happened to her . . .
He restrained the impulse to take the stairs three at a time, death in his heart. Instead, he crept step by interminable step
, praying to any god that might hear him to keep her safe until he could get to her.
