As a necromancer, a daughter born of Arawn’s seed, she stood within both worlds. Was it any wonder David would see shades of that truth in her gaze? Or that she might imagine a harbinger of the Lord of Annwn would offer answers to her impossible questions? There was nothing sinister about it and she jumped at shadows for nothing. Yet she was suddenly frantic to find David. She abandoned her study of the far distant hills and her own churning thoughts to continue across the ridge of the hill.

The track wound down into a hollow, the warmth of the open fields giving way to a cool dampness within the shade of the thick stand of oak. By now a stitch cramped her side, and her breathing came raspy from a throat gone tight and dry. Where could he be? Had Corey found him? Had he finally had enough of Oakham and decided to abandon her? Questions swirled as she hurried down the path. Perhaps she should retrace her steps in a different direction. Just one more corner, and she would call out, praying he answered.

Her strides lengthened until she was running, the undergrowth reaching for her as the path narrowed. It swung past an old tumbled sycamore, crossed a dried streambed, and then . . .

Thank the gods.

She dragged to a stop, knees quivering. He was here. He was safe. She was being completely ridiculous.

She opened her mouth to speak. Thought better of it.

David sat upon a boulder, his back to her, head bowed. His left elbow was propped on his left knee. His left hand was spread as he drew a silver-bladed knife blade across his palm, the flesh parting in a thin crimson line, blood welling to slide over his open fingers. His shoulders jerked in a flinch of pain and she heard him catch back a gasp before muttering a muffled “Fuck.”

Beside him on the log rested a cup, a handkerchief, and a leather wallet unrolled to reveal a few small vials and a flask. As she watched in horrified silence, he tilted his hand over the cup, the blood sliding into it one sickly drop at a time.

“As always, your timing is perfect,” he said without turning around. He reached for the handkerchief, closed his hand around it.

Skin crawling, she took a step forward as blue and silver light rippled like shadows over David’s body. “I thought silver weakened you and made you ill.”

He slid the blade into a heavy leather sheath, rolled it into the wallet. “It does, but it’s part of the spell. The draught doesn’t work otherwise. Not that it works very well anyway.”

“I can feel the magic,” she said. “It’s dark and reeks of evil.” A twinge creaked her sternum. “Not death but the Unseelie void, the pit where the blackest demons lurk.”

“Funny. If you ask the Fey-bloods, they’ll tell you that’s where I come from.” He turned toward her, and she saw his drawn face and hunched shoulders. “It’s vile, filthy muck but it’s the only thing keeping me alive—to a point.”

“I don’t understand. You said this magic was bound up with your exile and part of the reason that man tried to kill you in London.”

“Beskin’s his name.”

She made an impatient gesture, angry at herself for worrying over him. Angry at him for keeping secrets. No good reason for feeling either emotion, but still her words came shrill as fear slithered up from her stomach into her chest. “I don’t care a fig for his name, David. I want to know why he’s hunting you and why you’re ill and what’s going on.”

“Is it any of your business?”

“We’re friends. Of course it’s my business.”

He gave a humorless, almost angry laugh. “Friends? Is that what you’re calling it?”

“What would you call it?”

He stood, the bandage round his palm drawing her eye. Then he moved, and the strange blue and silver light fell across his face and shimmered against his skin, turning his gray eyes to silver. Her heart twisted uncomfortably, her body taut with a different emotion than worry, though one just as useless. As she had already concluded, David was not hers to claim or lose.

“I’ve never had a female friend before.”

“We’re just like males but we don’t slap one another on the back, consider bodily functions humorous, or discuss sporting events ad nauseam.”

“You do have a dim view of the male species, don’t you?”

“David,” she repeated, hating the crack in her voice. “Please.”

He hesitated for only an instant, but when he spoke, it seemed to her there was as much relief as there was sorrow. “Very well. You want the whole rotten stinking horrible truth? I’ll tell you. I’m cursed, Callista Hawthorne. Cursed by a Fey-blood’s spell. And death is the only thing to save me from its grip.”

* * *

The wheel was fixed amid much grumbling, and the wagons moved ponderously back onto the roadway. David held the reins loosely in one hand, though he could have thrown them completely away and still the mules would have placidly followed the wagon ahead. The plodding, unwavering gait and the warmth of the afternoon eased the pounding in his chest that seemed to vibrate out along his ribs until his whole body felt squeezed by a giant’s grip. He’d taken the draught, so it wasn’t the curse that clawed at his innards and throbbed at his temples. It was the woman seated beside him, hands folded, body swaying with every bump and shimmy of the wagon.

Friends, she’d called them. That was rich. Friends implied trust, reliability, constancy, honor. By that definition, he was the epitome of enemy. Would she still consider him a friend when he bundled her into a coach bound for Edinburgh and told her to have a nice life? Probably not. But then, that whole plan held less and less appeal as the miles rolled on. Would she be all right on her own? Would her aunt take her in or would she refuse to acknowledge the relationship, leaving Callista without a place to stay or family to protect her from Corey and that odious brother of hers?

Did it matter? She wasn’t his problem. She wasn’t his responsibility. And she sure as hell wasn’t his friend. He had friends, and he’d never felt about Mac or Gray the way he felt about Callista.

“You’ve stalled long enough, David. Are you going to explain what’s going on?” She gave him a long look that allowed no vacillation. She would have the truth, and—Mother of All, friend or no friend—he wanted to tell her. The words seem to claw their way up his throat, hot and furious. He could no longer choke them back. Instead they spilled from his lips in between gulping breaths as if he were running, his hands tight on the reins.

“There were four of us,” he said. “We fought together during the war. We were comrades . . . brothers.”

“Was Captain Flannery among them?” she asked.

“Yes.” David recalled the house outside Charleroi, the long golden fields alight in the afternoon sun, the bloody bodies scattered among the yard, the Chevalier d’Espe in his study, face aflame with vengeance made real.

“There was a Fey-blood. He recognized us as shapechangers. I don’t know how nor what black arts he used to force the shift upon us, but he did. We retaliated as we’d been taught from the cradle. Fey-bloods are the enemy. And a Fey-blood who learns of our existence must die.”

Her flinch was noticeable, but she continued watching him with those great dark eyes, shadows lurking within the murky depths.

“With his last breath, he cast a spell upon us. It corrupted our powers. Tainted our lives. We were no longer acceptable to the clans.” He shrugged away from the memory, his back and mind on fire with a phantom pain. “We became emnil. Rogue. Less than the dirt upon the road or the smallest ant. We became nothing.”

If the silence had been tense before, now it thickened like a blanket of ice. She no longer looked at him, but down at her hands in her lap. He sighed, ran a finger along a stain on his breeks, and wished for a bottle of his best burgundy.

“Is there nothing that can be done? No Other that can undo this spell?”

He snapped the reins, the mules breaking into a trot for a few lazy steps, a grim smile curling his lip. “I can’t very well go about asking, can I?”

He didn’t fear dying. He’d begged to be killed once until his voice had become a mere croak from parched lips. And since he’d begun taking the draught, he’d always thought he knew how his death would come.

Until Callista.

Within her gaze, he had witnessed a new and infinitely more horrible demise. One he could never have imagined in a million years. One he prayed was wrong—for both their sakes.

“Perhaps my aunt or one of the sisters at Dunsgathaic can help.”

“Or perhaps they’ll lop off my head and tar it for their ramparts. I suppose, either way, my problems will be solved.” He heard the bitterness in his voice, and pressed his mouth shut. None of this was Callista’s fault. And really, if he had to be running for his life, he was oddly pleased that she was the one he was running with. Perhaps that was the definition of a friend.

* * *

The wagon might have looked ungainly and enormous from the outside, but the interior was far smaller than Callista could ever have imagined. She stepped inside, the door banging her rear as it shut, cutting off the dancing light from the cookfire. Down the left wall ran a long, cluttered counter, shelves beneath. To the right trunks and boxes held props and costumes, and one larger than the others seemed to double as a table. A newspaper lay spread beneath a dirty plate and a stool was drawn up beside. Above, a soot-blackened lamp hung from a chain.

Big Knox was not exactly a superior housekeeper.

At the back of the wagon was a bunk on a raised platform, a curtain on rings that could be drawn for privacy. Callista’s eyes settled on the thick mattress, scattering of pillows, and rumpled sheets before her eyes slid away, her stomach flipping as wildly as any of Big Knox’s juggling plates.