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A dubious compliment, considering what he’d been the best at. Eliminating problems. Terminating embarrassing entanglements.
During war, alliances formed and dissolved. And those favored one day could become liabilities the next. The Serpent Brigade made it their mission to clean up the army’s messes in deadly fashion. A responsibility Cam never questioned. A duty he excelled at until the injury that almost killed him. Only then had his sense of mission begun to unravel. The ghosts rising up in the haunted hours before dawn.
“A year and an attempted murder ago, I may have been the best. But not now. Things change.”
He’d changed. He wouldn’t let that part of him take hold again. He’d not give in to the natural-born killer living inside him. Sin was dead and buried. And Cam meant to keep it that way. He’d lost too much to that side of himself to allow it full rein again.
He shifted, biting back an oath at the painful twinge from neck to knees. “So, do we have a deal?”
Rastus gave a curt nod. “I’ll be in touch.”
Cam folded his paper. Shoved it back in his pocket. Stretching his sore leg, he rose carefully from the bench. “We’ll use my club as our drop point for messages. Arthur’s in St. James Street. Do you know it?”
Rastus gave a low whistle of admiration. “Aye, I’ve heard of it.”
“Leave any messages for me with the porter there. He’ll see to it I get them. Send word as soon as you’ve run Buchanan to ground.”
“Nice address, Colonel. Always figured you for a gentleman. Never realized you was a regular out-and-outer. Should I be calling you Lord Sin?”
“No, Corporal,” Cam snarled. “You should be calling me sir.”
Cam glanced around the room one last time. Not that he could have missed anything. He had exactly the clothes on his back, a borrowed shirt from Traverse—tight but workable—and a few items he’d picked up to last him until he could purchase better. Knife, sword, pistols. All gone. He’d have to completely rekit in London. An added complication.
He hefted his bag to his shoulder, bracing himself for the long jarring ride ahead.
Morgan sat at the table with Traverse, a game of chess between them.
The ensign’s time-ravaged looks no longer shocked, and his mood had grown less strained since their unannounced arrival. Almost as if offering them safe harbor had jarred him out of his self-pitying desperation. He gripped a walking stick in one gnarled hand, his fingers drumming against the wood, his piercing green eyes fixed on the board. Moving his piece into position, he sat back. Gave a ghost of a smile.
“Any i
deas why Doran would flee to London?” Cam asked.
“He’s from there,” Morgan answered, moving her pawn to the middle of the board to counter Traverse’s bishop. “Wapping. East of the Tower.”
“So he knows the area.”
“He also knows it will be impossible to track him. In a city that size, with that many Other, I’d never be able to pick up his trail. Even if he uses his powers, so much mage energy in one place will drown him out. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
After another prolonged drumming of fingers against the stick, Traverse’s queen joined the battle.
“He can’t just disappear.”
Morgan took her turn. Then watched as Traverse’s queen slid down to checkmate her king.
Picking up the piece, she rolled it between her fingers, before laying it flat on the board, her gaze somber. “You forget. He’s Amhas-draoi. If anyone can just disappear, he can.”
Chapter 13
Fog thickened the air to soup, making breathing difficult and seeing impossible. She’d no idea where they were in this maze of buildings. One London street looked like every other street. Houses rose up and disappeared behind them into the swirling, gray-green miasma. An occasional corner held a lamp flickering like foxfire from out of the gloom.
Cam had no trouble. Ahead of her, he sat stiff and silent, his muscled back swaying with his horse’s steps, his head erect and untiring. She’d long ago given up trying to navigate on her own. Instead, she’d thrown her reins away. Let her horse follow Cam’s on a straight path to somewhere. She only hoped she got there soon.
Grit and sleep stung Morgan’s eyes. Her body ached from the long, unending hours in the saddle. No breaks. Little rest. Cam drove them with a firm whip hand, his own endurance making complaints impossible. He had to be as sore as she was—if not worse, his leg slower to heal than expected. But he’d never once whined. And the hours had passed. Through scant meals eaten on horseback. Through changes in mounts with five minutes to stretch her legs and empty her bladder.
His expression through the whole hellish journey made it plain he expected her to rebel. Call off their deal. Which, of course, only made her more determined. She squared her jaw and refused to give in. She’d agreed to this devil’s bargain. If Cam thought a few uncomfortable days were going to break her, he was dead wrong.
She closed her eyes, secure in the knowledge her horse was as exhausted as she. Just a few moments wouldn’t hurt. And in the dark, Cam would never know this one small weakness.
