Her gaze locked with his. He forced himself to meet her stare, though fear curdled his insides at what he might see within the midnight reaches of her eyes. Yet no pit opened beneath him to send him spiraling down where his darkest memories lay like serpents and the future gaped like a wound before him. Instead, he sensed the heat of her flesh even through the layers of fabric and the telltale tremble in her fingers as they cupped his hand.

Her voice slid soft as silk over his skin. “Why take the risk, David? You’re free now. You could simply turn your back on our agreement. Pretend it never happened. Put me on a northbound coach and assume that made us even. Why do you help me?”

Which is exactly what he’d planned to do; get rid of her and pretend it never happened. Pretend his life was just as he preferred it. But who the hell was he kidding?

He shrugged. “When one can’t help oneself . . .” he murmured, “what else is there?”

6

“I knew it. Damn it, I knew that shifter would be worth a fortune and now he’s gone!” Hawthorne paced the study feverishly, jowls quivering, his face a dangerous ruddy shade.

“Sit down,” Corey ordered. “You’re giving me a headache.”

Hawthorne collapsed into an ornate velvet chair, pudgy fingers drumming on the carved arm. “There’s no telling what the fiend has done with Callista—or to her. These Imnada aren’t like normal men, Corey. They have appetites . . . hungers.”

“According to my men, Callista looked a willing partner rather than a kidnap victim, and the knife cuts to those ropes bear this out. I’d heard St. Leger had the women of London eating from his hands, but thought your prunes-and-prisms sister was made of sterner stuff.”

Hawthorne sat up, eyes wide. “You know the shifter’s name?

Corey smiled. “Why do you think I let them slip away so easily? I wanted to know where the man went . . . who he was . . . what made him tick. Now I know that and far more. David St. Leger is a former decorated army captain. Sold his commission after Waterloo. He’s currently the pet of every discontented wife and the nightmare of every overprotective father. He’s a rogue, a gambler, a pink of the ton.”

“He’s a damned shifter is what he is.”

“Just so. But one so distinguished will find it hard to remain hidden forever. He’ll turn up, and when he does—”

“When he does, we hold him,” Hawthorne interrupted. “Wrap him in silver and cage him behind steel bars if need be. He’s our route to the top. Having him under our control will be like having the Bank of England printing us money.”

“So you claim, but is your source trustworthy?” Corey’s gaze fell once more on the withered, pock-faced man huddled in the corner of the room. He crouched fearfully, his rheumy eyes darting here and there over the elegant furnishings of Corey’s private study as if he’d never seen any room so grand. Doubtless he never had. The man was as flea-filled as a bag of cats, his clothes gray and stiff with dirt, and the smell coming off him was pungent enough to make one’s eyes water. Where Hawthorne had dug him up, Corey couldn’t imagine.

“Are you certain you’re not being taken for a fool?” he asked.

Hawthorne shook his head. “Pearne here looks a sight, but he belonged to the Amhas-draoi before he was kicked out for rape and murder. If any living know about the Imnada shifters, it’s the brotherhood.”

Corey eyed the man like a disease. “This bag of chattering bones was one of the famed guardians of the divide?”

The Amhas-draoi devoted their lives to protecting the realms of man and Fey, mostly from each other. Nothing passed over the walls separating earth from the summer kingdom of Ynys Avalenn that they did not allow. Great warriors and powerful sorcerers, the brotherhood founded by the Fey battle-queen Scathach stood for honor, justice, and integrity. For those in need, they were a bright sword against the dark. For those who undermined their supremacy, they were a cold blade in the back.

“Look, he bears the mage marks of the Amhas-draoi.” Hawthorne shoved up the man’s sleeve, where swirling inked tattoos of purple encircled his arm from wrist to elbow. “He’s got no reason to lie.”

“Step forward, old man,” Corey instructed.

Pearne downed his glass of wine before he crossed the floor, fear rising like a stench from his unwashed skin.

“Is it true? Did you once belong to Scathach’s mage-born army?”

“Aye, m’lord, though it’s been years since I trod the ramparts of Dunsgathaic as one of the battle-queen’s best. Kicked me out, they did. Tossed me aside as if I was nothing. The girl was willing enough, sir, I swear it on my honor. Her father had no right to accuse me of aught else and so my dagger told him.”

“I don’t give a damn about some peasant slag you raped. What of the Imnada? Is their blood as potent as it’s rumored?”

Pearne held out his empty glass. Corey pressed his lips together but stepped forward with the bottle.

The man swallowed, wine trickling down over his greasy beard and onto his shirtfront. He smacked his lips, wiped his mouth with his sleeve. His gaze seemed sharper, his mouth curled into a clever leer. “Aye, so the ancient scrolls say. A drop is said to restore a man’s life after even the gravest hurts. Ten such can turn back time. Immortality contained within their very arteries.”

“But have you seen it for yourself? Can you prove it?”

“The shapechangers are dead, sir. Killed off for their treachery after the murder of Arthur. The devils were sent to hell with spear and blade and arrow until none remain. It’s naught but writing on an old tattered scroll now.”

“Not so dead as the Amhas-draoi thought.” Corey turned to Hawthorne. “So, we capture St. Leger and . . . what? Siphon him off a teaspoon at a time? Is that your plan?”

“Who wouldn’t pay for the most powerful medicine? A cure for the plagues of aging? We could ask any price we wanted. It dazzles the mind with possibilities.”

Corey ran a hand over his chin as he mulled this over. “Why come to me with this proposition, Hawthorne? What do you get out of it?” He stiffened. “Your sister is mine. I don’t care if she’s rutted with a bloody barnyard bull. She’ll marry me. That was our deal.”

“Of course. And generous it is of you, to take her still. No, I came to you because I need your network to help me find the shifter. You need me to help you find Callista. It’s a business arrangement. Fifty-fifty.”

“Eighty-twenty if it’s my carriers doing the hunting.”

“Of course, Mr. Corey. That sounds fair. Are you in?”

Corey shrugged. “Why not? We’ll be shedding his blood anyway. Might as well see if the beggar’s claim is valid.”

Hawthorne stuck out his hand and Corey shook it. “Where is she, then?”

“Callista has an aunt on the Isle of Skye; a priestess at the bandraoi convent there. I’d wager all I have that my sister heads for Scotland.”

“You wagered once and lost. Are you certain you wish to roll that die again?”

“I’m sure of it. There’s nowhere else for her to go. She has no other family. And when we find them, St. Leger will pay for taking Callista away. And if he . . . if the two of them . . . if he’s soiled her . . .”

“I’ll send men out tonight. Immediately.”

“Make sure they know to take St. Leger alive. He’s no use to us dead.”

“Nor is your sister.”

“Oh, her . . . well, of course . . . goes without saying . . .”

Did it? Corey thought not. Hawthorne cared nothing for his sister now that he had the potential for untold riches in the shifter’s blood. Eighty-twenty. A decent split if the old beggar spoke true, but Corey liked a sure thing over a long shot. Better yet, he liked to rig the odds so that no matter how he chose, his success was ensured.

He slid open a desk drawer, pulled free the pistol he kept there. “On second thought, why share the wealth when I can have it all for myself?”

The bullet took Hawthorne in the face, blood and brains exploding out the back of his skull, his body still twitching as it dropped to the carpet. Pearne, despite his age and infirmity, was quick. He dashed for the door, his fingers scrabbling for the latch. Corey’s knife took him in the back. It didn’t kill him outright, but it slowed him enough for Corey to rise, cross the room, yank the blade free, and slide it across the man’s throat from ear to ear. The man jerked and gurgled, and was still. So much for Amhas-draoi prowess.

Wiping the blade clean on a handkerchief, he rang for a footman to clean up the mess, his mind already pondering how to turn this new development to his best advantage.