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Not put off by the broken door, the intruder entered. “Ellery? Is anyone here?”
Upon seeing Asher, the man stopped short. His eyes traveled over the room, but his mind showed him only a tall polished gentleman standing amid a tumble of discarded clothing and torn furniture.
“Who are you?” the man blustered, casting wary glances at the mess. “What have you done with Miss Reskeen?” He drew his scrawny body up in a pose of haughty belligerence, running a hand down his front, drawing attention to a large pearl pin.
Asher’s lips curled in a sneer as he stepped over a broken table. “Do you mean the owner of the house? I’d hoped you could tell me. A broken door. Evidence of a scuffle. And now you, sir, skulking about outside in the dark. What have you to say for yourself?”
The man’s skinny neck worked as he swallowed. “I’m the—” he squeaked before clearing his throat. “I’m the owner. Mr. Porter. Miss Reskeen rented this cottage from me.”
“But no longer?”
“I evicted her for lack of payment.” He warmed to his sense of ill-usage. “A deceitful baggage. By the looks of things she came to a bad end, and I’m not surprised. Her brother, he says. I know a criminal when I see one.”
Asher could hardly contain his delight. It was almost too easy. “You say this woman left with a man?”
Mr. Porter nodded. “A scoundrel. He threatened me. Me, sir. A man of means in this community. Not an ounce of respect for his betters.”
“Where did they go? Did they tell you?”
“I can’t imagine where Miss Reskeen would go. She’s no family that I know of. A dead soldier’s bastard.”
Asher’s body went still, his mind turning Mr. Porter’s information over and over. A soldier. The reliquary had been breached by one such. A man in a scarlet uniform armed with sword and musket, though they had availed him little against Bligh’s attack. Could there be a connection? Was this why Bligh was here? Not because she was an Other, but because she held the reliquary?
Wait. The reliquary. A dead soldier’s bastard. The pieces fell together, sending Asher reeling back in horror. The soldier who opened the reliquary at San Salas was dead. But this girl carried his blood. She could be used to repair the seals.
She could destroy everything.
His concentration faltered, dissolving the glamorie. The Keun Marow dead and living reappeared. And the elegant façade Asher had chosen for this world vanished, revealing his true form. He stretched, the black expanse of one wing tip coming within inches of the man’s face.
Mr. Porter shrieked, backing toward the door. But Asher’s fey hunter was there before him.
Asher licked his lips, enjoying the man’s terror. “Do you always come calling on an empty house at such a late hour?”
The man fell to his knees, blubbering, his eyes round with panic as they flashed back and forth between Asher and the gray, reptilian creature behind him. “Dear God in heaven. What are they? What are you?”
“Where is Bligh? Where is this girl? Answer me, or it feeds on your flesh.”
Mr. Porter wagged his head back and forth, moaning and clutching his hands. “I don’t know. I came for my treasure. My jewels. They’re mine. Hidden away. I came to get them.”
“Describe these jewels.”
The Keun Marow placed a clawed hand upon Mr. Porter’s shoulder. He screamed, his words spilling out of him like vomit. “A pearl like this one. A ruby. Molly gave them to me. She said there were others. It was Molly.”
Asher stiffened. The reliquary had been here. He took a long look at the stone on the man’s chest. Mr. Porter cringed as Asher tore the pin off his shirt and held it to the light. “It’s no pearl.” He threw it to the floor where it shattered into dust. “It’s paste.”
Mr. Porter sobbed. “No. It’s not true. It’s real, I tell you.” Asher tried to reach out, feel the presence of the reliquary. But there was no answering call.
The casket and his brothers were gone. Bligh and his sacrifice were gone. So too was his chance at prying into this girl’s magic, gaining pleasure in her screams, arousal in her pain.
But he would find them before Bligh could act. And he would have his revenge. On Bligh. On the fey.
He walked past the cowering Mr. Porter, calling back over his shoulder. “Burn the bodies.”
Once again the elegant English gentleman, he closed the door behind him.
Conor scanned the rain-laden clouds with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Or was that the nausea again? For the last few hours just putting one foot in front of the other was a victory of sorts. Sweat stung his eyes, yet he shivered with cold.
He glanced across at Ellery. In his jacket, with his greatcoat dragging out behind her like a train, she looked like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s thi
