Alexa Egan - Shadow's Curse

She stifled an almost-hysterical bubble of laughter. Now, not only had she called him the man , but she’d likened him to a dog. A more than apt simile as it turned out.

She continued to sneak glances at him in between adjusting her cloak or shifting on her seat. Strange, how human he looked. In fact, as humans went, he was a breathtaking, heart-stopping specimen of one. Or would be once he recovered. No doubt women fawned for a single glance from those steel-gray eyes and simpered for the mere touch of his lips upon the backs of their lily-white hands. If they only knew that their knight in armor was a wolf in disguise.

Which went against every nursery tale known. The wolf in those stories was the villain. Not the hero.

Which would David turn out to be?

“Have I a boil on my neck or a carrot sprouting from my ear?”

Her fingers tightened on her bag, but she refused to be intimidated. “You don’t look well.”

“I once had three bullets pulled from my body with a rusty fork.” He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth as the hackney swung round a corner, throwing him against the side of the carriage. “That, Miss Hawthorne, was a walk among the daisies compared to this. Are you afraid I’ll die and not keep our agreement?” The corner of his mouth curled in a mocking smile.

She wasn’t used to humor from men, either. It unnerved her almost as much as his unearthly good looks, and that shocking kiss, and . . . well, everything about him unnerved her.

“It had crossed my mind,” she answered sharply.

He chuckled—actually chuckled. But while Mr. Corey’s chuckle sent ice water rushing through her veins, David’s low, quiet laughter buzzed her insides and made her pulse race.

Score a point for the truthful woman .

By the gods! Those words had not come from his mouth. She’d been staring at those full, perfectly formed lips curled in a sly smile like an addle-pated debutante, and they had definitely not moved. No, those words—by gads, even his amused and cynical tone of voice—had appeared in her mind.

“You’re a telepath?” The realization chilled her to her core, making her jerk halfway from her seat, the bag tipping from her lap.

Between one breath and the next, David reached out, grabbing the handle before the bag struck the floor, the discordant clang of a bell rattling her already rattled nerves.

“What the hell is in here?” he asked. “The family silver?”

She grabbed the satchel, resettling it on her legs, wrapping it even more tightly to her chest. “I asked my question first.”

He shrugged, the effort drawing a fleeting grimace. “Fair enough. I’m a path. Not a reader, Fey-blood. Your thoughts are yours to keep. Couldn’t read you even if I wanted to. It’s your turn. What’s in the bag?”

She felt her chin rise in automatic defiance. “I didn’t take anything that wasn’t mine, and my reasons for leaving my brother’s house are too numerous to mention.”

“I’m a good listener.”

She shot another nervous glance out the window. So far, there had been no sign of Corey’s henchmen in hot pursuit, but she’d be a fool to think he’d give up without a fight. He’d not risk such a loss of face as to have his intended bride slip her leash. She tried not to recall the feel of his hand closing around her neck as he issued his vicious threats. To do so would shatter her fragile nerves. She needed to remain calm and in control if she wanted to win her way to freedom. She forced herself to take a slow relaxing breath. “The man you saw with my brother—they call him the king of the stews.”

“I know Victor Corey. Aside from his criminal empire, the villain holds markers from half the ton . He’s got ministers, MPs, and more than a few peers in his pocket. Your brother plays with dangerous friends.”

“He’s not a friend. Branston borrowed heavily when we first came to London. Far more than we could ever pay back, even should we have made a success of the business.”

“So Corey decided to accept your maidenhead as compensation. Crude but not surprising, given the man’s past. That still doesn’t answer the question. What’s in the bag? And what business are you in?”

She fiddled with the leather strap, shifted upon her seat. “These are my bells. I use them in my work.”

“Which is . . .?” He motioned with his hand.

“People come to me after a death.”

“You’re a gravedigger?”

“They come for solace, not for spades.”

He lifted a brow. “Now I am intrigued.”

She pinched her lips together in a frown. What was it about their every conversation that left her flushed and flustered? Annoyed with herself, she blurted, “Pull your mind from the gutter. I’m a traveler into death. A summoner of souls. A necromancer.”

There was no time to pursue what had suddenly become a very interesting conversation. The slam of a pathed sending ripped across David’s mind—a scream of terror, a plea for help.

Shit. When it rained, it bloody well poured.

He rapped on the roof, signaling the driver to pull over. “Stay here, Miss Hawthorne. Sit tight. Say nothing.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

But he’d already swung from the hackney, only a slight hitch in his stride as he hurried toward Cumberland Place, senses on alert for any possible trouble.

Carriages jammed the street and men and women crowded the flagways; laughter and conversation floated on a damp spring breeze. Lamps blazed from the windows and above the door of No. 3, while liveried footmen stood at attention on either side of the marbled steps leading to the fan-lit entryway. Of course. The Fowlers’ ball was tonight. He’d been sent an invitation. In fact, Lady Fowler had brought it to him herself, stayed far longer than was necessary, and returned home much happier than when she’d arrived.

A smug smile curled his lip. The woman was wasted on that dottering old baronet she’d married.

“What’s going on?”

David whipped around to find Callista standing behind him. “I told you to stay with the carriage,” he growled.

“You didn’t think I’d let you sneak off that easily, did you?”

“I’m not sneaking.”

“You certainly look as though you’re sneaking.”

He closed his eyes on a deep calming breath before he answered. “I’m reconnoitering. You really don’t trust me, do you?”

“No,” came her curt response, but there it was again. A tiny curve of her lips, a brightness to her eyes. She needed to do it more often. It smoothed years from her face. Unfortunately, the current situation didn’t exactly seem well suited to smiles and laughter.

He shook off the distracting thought and bent all his attention back to the problem at hand. The sending had stopped abruptly, the mental shout of surprise and then alarm had fallen silent. “Something’s not right.”

She peered over his shoulder at the aristocratic throng clogging the pathways and making their way up the wide steps. Tilted her head, a look of intense concentration on her face, eyes locked on an invisible distance.

“My house is just there.” He motioned to the far end of the crescent. “It seems quiet, but—”

Callista’s body jerked as if she’d been struck, her eyes wide and midnight black in a face drained of color. “The door into death is open,” she said in a shaky voice.

“What the hell does that mean?”

She flashed him a determined glance. “It means someone’s died. Violently, by the feel of it. ” She grabbed his hand and tugged him back toward the hackney.

Questions fired like gunshots through his frazzled brain and his body ached with every second he couldn’t lie down and collapse in a heap. He dug in his heels. “Wait. If we’re going to make it farther than Islington, I need money and clothes.”