Alexa Egan - Shadow's Curse

David swung around, the blood draining from his head into his ankles in one vicious rush. On the front steps of his house stood his worst nightmare in the flesh. Cold, empty eyes, a lipless slash of a mouth curled at the edges into a permanent snarl, and a whippet-thin body that nonetheless bore the strength of the strongest of beasts—Eudo Beskin. I know you’re out there, St. Leger. The traitor Kineally’s dead.

The enforcer’s sending threw David back in time to the moment two years ago when the Ossine had come for him. He had explained. Then he’d pleaded, and finally he’d fought. But there had been no escape. His stomach clenched as memories of pain churned his insides and sizzled like fire along his limbs.

He sent up a prayer for Caleb Kineally. There would be no funeral pyre. No rites or rituals to help his soul pass through the Gateway to the land of their ancestors. As punishment for his crimes, he would be buried in the ground, staked with silver through the heart to hold his spirit fast to the earth for all eternity.

Should have known you were involved with these rebels, Beskin continued. Should have killed you when I had the chance.

David took Callista’s arm. “We need to get out of here now!”

She took a few scrambling paces after him until she dragged to a halt. “Stop! Those men that just rounded the corner. I recognize the tall one. He’s Mr. Corey’s lieutenant. They must have followed us.”

Two men strolled up the flagway as if out for an evening walk. Nothing in their outward appearance spoke of murderous intent, but David knew dangerous men when he saw them—the way they carried themselves, the expressions in their eyes. Neither had come here tonight looking to dance.

“Come,” David said in a hushed voice. “I have an idea.” Outflanked, he made the only move he could in this deranged chess match. He dragged Callista Hawthorne through the jewel-encrusted perimeter of the Fowlers’ guests.

“Hey, now!”

“The nerve of some people.”

“He’s ripped my train with his big feet.”

“Oof! How dare you, sir!”

David and Callista elbowed their way to the top of the steps, where Lady Fowler welcomed her guests. Her eyes lit with delight when she saw David coming toward her, and she spread her arms as if she meant to crush him to her ample bosom. “Mr. St. Leger! What a lovely surprise.”

Damning the woman’s big mouth and parade-ground bellow, David cringed as all eyes swiveled in his direction. Revealing no hint of the growing anxiety tightening viselike in his gut, he bent over Lady Fowler’s outstretched hand, hoping his knees didn’t give out and send him straight into her lap. “You’re a vision as always, Lady Fowler. The belle of the ball.”

She gave a coquettish laugh and smacked him playfully with her fan. “You’re such a tease, sir. I’m merely the evil stepmother tonight.” She leaned close, her lips brushing his ear. “God, but I’m wet for you, my darling man.”

David snapped to attention, yanking Callista up the final step to stand beside him. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought my . . . second cousin with me. She’s from . . . uh . . . Dorset. Turned up out of the blue today. Couldn’t leave her at home all alone. You understand. Family duty and all that.”

A frown creased Mrs. Fowler’s penciled brows and pouted her full red lips while she eyed Callista as one might a stray puppy. “I certainly understand the odious pressure of family responsibility.” Her narrowed gaze moved from Miss Hawthorne’s thick woolen travel cloak and leather satchel to David’s odd, haphazard attire.

He grinned. “I apologize, my lady. I came straight from ‘dress like your favorite dustman’ night at my club. Silly, but then, you know what revels go on at these places. Bad as the old school days.”

“Yes, of course,” she answered smoothly, her wary expression growing more than appreciative as her gaze leveled off somewhere south of his waist. “If only our local dustman had your masculine attributes, sir,” she purred.

Out of the corner of his eye, David saw Corey’s men approach, though the press of Mayfair’s finest held them back from making a full frontal assault. Beskin, on the other hand, crossed the street like a hound on the scent, his sneer positively fiendish. David doubted a minor obstacle like a mob of mere humans would stymie him for long.

“Yes, well, I’d love to chat, but is your daughter within?” He edged Callista and himself around Lady Fowler and ever closer to the door. “Such a sweet girl. Full of . . . verve.”

“Really? I don’t remember your ever noticing Harriet. She’s just inside by the—”

“No worries. I’ll find her myself.” David made a final storming of the breach, dashing past the proud mother and into the entry hall.

“What are you doing?” Callista hissed.

“Saving our asses,” David answered. “No one will risk barging into the Fowlers’ drawing room after us.”

“We barged in.”

“But we—or at least I—was invited. That’s different.”

“Fine. So, we’re in. How do you propose we get out?”

“Just stay close, follow my lead, and try not to draw attention to yourself.”

Callista pinched her lips together. “A bit late for that advice, wouldn’t you say—Mr. St. Leger?”

He acknowledged the hit with a smile and took her hand. Together they shoved through a gaggle of girls in virginal white hovering by the stairs, a cluster of rowdy young men by the punch table, and a row of stern matrons overseeing the couples on the dance floor like high court judges. Most were too caught up in their own amusements to notice an oddly dressed couple scurrying through the crush. And the few who recognized David and raised a voice in friendly greeting were left behind with a tossed grin and a wink. Luckily, Callista didn’t seem to notice the appreciative nods or knowing nudges.

“We’re almost there,” David encouraged. “Freedom is through those terrace doors and across the garden to the mews beyond.”

“Then what?”

“Damned if I know.”

“Oh, Mr. St. Leger!” toodled Lady Fowler above the din. “We need to speak.”

That was one raised voice that would not be so easily fobbed off.

“Bugger all. Quick. In here.” David dragged Callista through the closest curtained archway into a tiny alcove full to the brim with wraps, coats, hats, umbrellas, and cloaks. Trapped. No other way out. They were pressed together on the six inches of floor space not taken up with cast-off outerwear, Callista’s body snug against his.

“Is this supposed to be better?” she asked, her breath whispering against his throat.

“Much,” he answered as her warmth, combined with the tingle of Fey-blood magic, shivered over his skin.

“Mr. St. Leger? I have some lovely etchings I want to show you,” Lady Fowler’s voice sounded from just outside their refuge, a slight predatory edge coloring her tone. “I think you’ll find them exquisite.”

“Etchings?” Miss Hawthorne scoffed. “Really?”

A ringed hand gripped the curtain to draw it aside.

Frantic, out of ideas, and because, damn it, this whole horrible mess could be laid squarely at Callista Hawthorne’s door, David kissed her—again.

No sooner had David’s lips touched hers than Callista’s spine stiffened with instinctual fear and her stomach clenched in knots. No, not David. His name was Mr. St. Leger. A very proper and formal address to stop the wild quivering up her spine.

Follow my lead.

The words flickered to life in her mind, but so, too, did the deep velvet of his voice, roguish amusement coloring even his mental touch.