Alexa Egan - Shadow's Curse

“Just because you use your powers to swindle and scam doesn’t mean I should do the same.”

She winced as he turned the same intensity of expression on her that he’d used to kindle the candles. “Those powers were all that kept me from starving when my pa chucked me out. Six years old I was, and lucky he didn’t have me tied in a sack and drowned in the river for being a monster. But I didn’t starve, did I? I succeeded. Got rich. And made sure the old man knew it, right before I gutted him like a market hog.”

She tried to edge away from him, but the table dug into her back, the chair cutting off her escape. “I didn’t know.”

His scarred face twisted in a cold look of fury. “Of course you didn’t. You think I go about advertising what I am or where I come from? You think you’re something special, but you’re not. You’re a dealer in dreams just like I’m a dealer in goods. We each use what we have the only way we can to get ahead and to hell with the stupid prats who don’t have our advantages. They deserve to be swindled.”

She dropped her gaze to her hands, the truth of his words more painful than the grip he had on her chin. “That can’t be all there is. Or the only reason for our gifts. I won’t believe it.”

“So grand and selfless, but the world doesn’t bow to the meek and the righteous. It’s power and money that make men respect you.” He smiled, licking his lips, undressing her with his eyes. “Another few weeks and you’ll belong to me. Together we’ll show the world what monsters can do. We’ll show them real power.”

“What do you mean?” Callista asked, though she knew already she’d not like the answer.

“Hasn’t Branston broken the news? Your brother has accepted my very generous offer. You and I are to be married by special license in a few short days.”

She wanted to be sick. “I’ll never marry you. You may dress like a dandy and ape the manners of a gentleman, but you’re nothing more than a common street thug.”

Corey grabbed her, his fingers digging into her upper arms until tears burned in her eyes. “I’ll have you if I have to drag you bound to the altar and afterward I’ll show you just how common I can be.”

Before she could respond, he clamped his mouth on hers, shoving his tongue between her teeth while his free hand fondled her breasts. She struggled, but it only made him press his body closer to hers, his excitement shoved between her thighs. She couldn’t breathe. His hand pinched at her nipple until tears stung her eyes. The case fell with a clang of spilled bells to the floor, their ring sizzling along her bones, the paths into death opening like a tumbled knot in her skull, her spirit lifting away from her.

He bit her lip, blood mingling with his spit, and she was yanked back into her body in time to slam her knee into his groin.

“Bitch!” he shouted, releasing her with a shove that sent her hurtling backward to trip and sprawl on the rug near the fallen bells.

She wiped her mouth on her sleeve, eyeing Corey with disgust and loathing.

He loomed over her, fury making him seem even larger, his scar white against the scarlet of his flushed complexion. “I’ll show you what kind of proper gentleman I am and not take you on this floor here and now. You can play the simpering innocent, but not for long, my darling Miss Hawthorne. Not for long.”

“You’re a pig.”

He smiled as he bent, placing a hand around her throat, his fingers gently squeezing. She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. She couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe. Madness flickered in his gaze. “I’m going to enjoy our wedding night. Pain can be such an aphrodisiac, did you know?” She clutched at his hand, trying to loosen his hold before she passed out. “So, if you want to keep all that lovely pink flesh intact, you should be very careful how you speak to me from now on.”

He released her, straightening to adjust his cuff, pluck a hair from his sleeve.

Callista scrambled to her feet, her chest heaving as she sucked in great lungfuls of air. If he had hoped for screams or sobs, he was disappointed. She glared at him, fury hazing her vision. “Why me? You could buy any woman in London for your bride.”

His eyes slid casually over the bells scattered on the floor before returning to her face with a blaze of triumph. “Because I’m a businessman, Miss Hawthorne. And I know a bargain when I see one.”

Before she could respond, voices sounded in the corridor: “. . . must have dropped it in the room . . . go and have a look . . .”

Mrs. Hopewell.

Callista didn’t think twice. Leaving her bells behind, she ducked between the curtains where a hidden door led to the dining room. Fumbling with shaking hands for the handle, she yanked it open, tumbled inside, and threw the latch behind her. Fleeing up the stairs, she slammed her bedchamber door shut. Not that it would keep anyone out. Corey had been right on one point. She and David did have much in common.

They were both prisoners whose time was fast running out.

By the gods, he was dead.

Pocketing the key filched from Branston’s office, Callista rushed to David’s side. He remained as she’d left him twenty-four hours earlier, knees drawn up, eyes closed. But now all the color had drained from his skin and long purple streaks inched their way up from his bound ankles. Matching ugly patches of red stretched from the ropes at his wrists almost to his shoulders. Unthinking and in a panic, she knelt, placing her cheek upon his bare chest, praying for a heartbeat.

“You smell like cabbage.”

The deep voice rumbled against her ear, throwing her back onto her haunches. “You’re alive.”

A corner of his mouth curled up in a tired smile. “Really? What gave me away?”

“I didn’t sense death like I usually do right here”—she tapped her breastbone, then added with a frown as she realized he was joking, not actually asking for an explanation, “Do I really smell like cabbage?”

“Good, comfortable smell. Reminds me of the army.”

She gave herself a surreptitious sniff. “I’ve been in the kitchen assisting Mrs. Thursby. She needed someone to keep her gin glass filled.”

“Knew a soldier in the Forty-third. Killed a man over a plate of boiled cabbage. Shot him right between the eyes.”

“That’s horrible.”

He chuckled, his smile widening to a boyish grin. “You didn’t taste the cabbage.”

Feeling herself blushing, Callista hid her discomfiture in a quick scan of the room. A nearby trunk looked her best bet. Dragging it over, she rummaged through old magazines, a moth-eaten fox muff, and a set of mildewed cravats. “I suppose I should be relieved. If you’re well enough to tease, you’re probably not in imminent danger of expiring.”

He gave a gruff bark of laughter. “You’re not like most women, are you?”

She paused, every sense on alert. “What makes you say that?”

“Most women, upon being told they smell like boiled cabbage, would fly into the boughs over the insult.” Even now, a spark of impish mischief lurked in his bleary, bloodshot eyes. Did he never take life seriously? She thought of her own predicament. Did he never despair?

She shrugged and continued to search through the trunk. “You’ll have to do better if you’re going for outrage. I’ve grown a thick skin over the years.”

“Actually, I was going for compliment. Illness has affected my aim.”

“But obviously not your tongue.”

“Minx,” he muttered.

She withdrew an old velvet frock coat and draped it over his midsection. He didn’t seem to be cold, but he was definitely, awkwardly, very . . . very . . . male.