He ran his thumb along my jawline. “You were wearing the pendant, remember? It’s always protected you.”
I glanced about. “Where is my pendant?”
“You’ll have it back, in time.” He turned my face toward his. “Charmian. You can’t keep wearing it. Your parents meant well, but nightstone is very dangerous and unpredictable. The manner in which they’ve mechanized it blinds you to the netherside. If the mechanism were to fail at the wrong moment—”
I wasn’t convinced I wanted to see the real world anymore, much less the netherside of specters and mages and only sweet Mary knew what else. “Perhaps it’s better that I not know such things.”
“You can’t hide forever from what you are, love.” He sounded weary now. “No more than I could.”
I tucked my head against his neck, my eyes drooping. “Lucien.” I yawned. “Why am I falling asleep on your lap?”
“You’ve had a long day.” He sounded peevish now, as if talking were too much effort.
The air seemed to be turning pink, and very hot, and with all my strength I pushed myself off him. My limbs turned to noodles and I landed heavily on the floor.
“Charm.” He tried to reach out to me, but his hand fell against the cushions. “Fire.”
I gritted my teeth and began crawling toward it, the pink smoke coming from the logs making my eyes burn, but halfway to the hearth I couldn’t feel my legs anymore. Nor could I turn over to see who had come into the room and was walking toward us.
A hard boot kicked me over onto my back, and I looked up to see Montrose Walsh standing over me, a noz over his mouth.
“Poor Cousin Kit,” he said through the mask. “You and your lover might be impervious to magic, but you’re still obliged to breathe, now, aren’t you?”
Chapter Seven
The next hour came to me in blurry flashes as I drifted in and out of consciousness. I glimpsed Dredmore’s body being dragged past me and dropped onto the dirty boards of a cart, and snow falling into my eyes. The cold roused me even as it chilled my limbs; the flashes grew closer together until they merged into a veil of snowy lace above my head. By the time my wits were restored they had moved us to another place and put me on a bed. Beside me Dredmore lay unmoving, but I shifted my arm to press against his side, and felt his ribs expanding and contracting.
Lucien still breathed. They hadn’t killed him.
Men’s voices spoke in low, ugly tones all about us; I could hear Lord Walsh, his diseased son, and someone with a faint Talian accent. They were arguing over something. Montrose spoke insistently, his father responded harshly, and the Talian seemed to be trying to placate both of them.
The voices came closer, and I played dead. Through my lashes I could see Lord Walsh taking polished stones from a pouch, which he rolled in his hand like coins he was reluctant to part with, until he held them out and a black-gloved hand chose one. More words were spoken, none of which I understood, and the glove lowered a white stone to Dredmore’s face.
I felt a movement of air over me, terrible and cold, which rushed at Dredmore. When I saw a wide, red streak of light shoot past my face, and felt Dredmore’s body jerk, I almost screamed. Although I held my tongue I must have moved, for someone grabbed my hair and lifted my head, giving it a shake.
“She’s come to,” Montrose said, and my head dropped onto the pillow again. “Can I have her, Dad?”
“No.” That was the Talian. “He took great trouble to protect her. She must know something of value to us.”
“I’ll get it out of her,” Montrose offered. “Come on, Dad. I did everything you asked. I haven’t had a fighter in ages.”
“Shut up, Monty.” Walsh came to stand over me, his cologne filling my nostrils, and then he slapped me, hard. Through the ringing in my ears I heard him say, “Enough stage play, Miss Kittredge.”
I surged up and drove my elbow into his diaphragm. As Walsh doubled over, I shoved him aside and ran. A short man with oily dark hair and a very sharp-looking dagger pointed at my belly brought me to a stop.
“Dredmore,” I said, never taking my eyes off the blade, “Now would be a very good time to demonstrate your deathmage magic.”
“I would be delighted, Charmian,” Dredmore’s voice rasped, “if you would first remove this boulder from my brow.”
“Can’t get to you just now.” I regarded the oily-headed one. “I don’t suppose you’d oblige him.”
“No, miss,” he told me in a Talian-accented voice, and glanced down. “Master?”
“Kill the stupid bitch, Celestino,” Walsh groaned from the floor.
“We will let her choose.” The Talian gestured, and Montrose appeared with a length of rope. “I can do as his lordship wishes, miss, and cut your throat. Or you can sit down and hold out your wrists. How will it be?”
I backed up against the bed. “Screaming and running away not an option? How disappointing.” As the villains converged on me, I jumped up on the bed, tumbling backward across Dredmore’s form and in the process knocking away the small white stone they had placed in the center of his forehead. Montrose uttered some vile words, while the Talian dove at the bed. Dredmore came out of his paralyzed state, grabbed me, and dragged me from the bed, thrusting me behind him as he assessed the two men.
“I thought magic didn’t work near me,” I whispered as I glanced over his shoulder.
“They’re not using it on you,” he muttered back. “And I have no power against Aramanthan-charmed icestone.”
“You couldn’t have mentioned this earlier?” We were cornered, and the Talian and Montrose were coming round the bed after us. I thought of what the diseased little sod wanted to do to me and shuddered. “I’d like to be killed first, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“No one has to die,” Celestino said to Dredmore. “Zarath will see to it that you live for a very long time, my lord.”
Dredmore’s hand nearly crushed mine before he spoke to the Talian. “I will give you what you want, as soon as you release Miss Kittredge.”
Montrose giggled. “That’ll be a snow day in Hades.”
“She’s nothing but a stupid, nameless skirt,” Dredmore continued, making me want to kick him in a few sensitive places. “You don’t need her.”
“True, but you seem to care for her, my lord.” Celestino flipped his dagger over his hand in a flashy, useless show of dexterity. “Cooperate with us, and I will spare her life.” He smirked. “Perhaps Zarath will choose to make her your body servant.”
Dredmore turned his back on them and grabbed me by the arms, kissing me hard on the mouth before hauling me through an adjoining door, slamming it shut in the Talian’s face.
I glanced round us but saw no other door or window to provide an avenue of escape. “Lucien, we cannot stay in here forever.” Indeed, the men on the other side of the door were hammering on it.
“I know. I am about to be possessed by one of the Aramanthan, Charmian,” he said as he braced his shoulders against the door panel. “A Reaper warlord, who means to eat my spirit in order to own my body and use my power for his own purposes. I am too weakened by the drugs to fight him off, and he can control mortals the way I control the spiritborn. With my power added to his, no one will be able to resist him, not even you.”
I saw the door shudder in its frame as someone on the other side bashed against it. “Lucien—”
“Shut up. When they are finished, it will be on you to put an end to it.” His grip turned bruising. “This thing will occupy my flesh, but my spirit will go where it can never touch me. I understand now. I will be where Harry has been, all this time. Now swear to me that you will kill it. Kill my body.” As I remained silent, he shouted it again. “Swear to me.”
“Lucien.” I saw the terror in his eyes, and it shocked me into agreement. “I will. I swear it.” And then, because I simply couldn’t help myself, I said, “I love you.”
The door gave way, thrusting Dredmore against me. I held him as long as I could, my throat too tight now to speak.
“So touching.” Montrose looped the rope round Dredmore’s neck, dragging him back out of the way, and forced him to his knees. I started after them, but the Talian got hold of me again and marched me toward the door.
The knife at my throat kept me from struggling. “I’d like to stay, if you don’t mind.”
“We cannot have you in the room,” he told me. “Nothing can interfere when the warlord takes possession.”
“What warlord?”
“Zarath, like we said.” He grinned exactly as a child let loose in an unsupervised sweets shop would. “Do not worry. Soon you will come to know him very well.”
He guided me into the next room, the furnishings of which were oddly arranged in a half circle facing the wall. I saw an unframed oval of glass, through which I saw into the room where Dredmore was being held by the Walshes. I vaguely recalled seeing a mirror of the same shape on the other side.
“You trust them so much you have to watch them in secret?” I asked as the Talian shoved me down in one of the chairs.
“Be quiet.” He moved to stand behind me and placed the knife under my chin.
I heard Lord Walsh’s voice, and glanced down to see where it came from: a small grate at the base of the wall.
“—my intent from the beginning,” Walsh was saying. “Your assaults on Lady Walsh have been entertaining, but I cannot fathom why you settled on her as a method of getting to me.”
“I never touched your wife, you daft prick.” Dredmore gritted his teeth as Montrose tightened the rope round his neck. “The Tillers will know what you’ve done. The moment he begins casting, they’ll come for you. My only regret is that I will not be here to watch your carcass being dragged from the river.”