His gaze grew icy, a wicked smile dancing over his mouth. “The next time you leave, I’ve told Mr. Corey he can return you in any condition he chooses. I’m sure he’d be more than willing, and, knowing him, any struggle on your part will only increase his ardor. You suppose that high-flown aunt of yours you’re always running on about will take you in once you’re ruined and stuffed with a bastard child?”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Cold fear splashed across Callista’s back, nearly buckling her knees. Aunt Deirdre, her mother’s elder sister, resided in Scotland as a priestess of High Danu. Callista had never met her, but for seven years, she’d dreamed of traveling to the convent at Dunsgathaic. Of finding a home with her long-lost relative. Of finally escaping Branston.

“Wouldn’t I?” Branston grabbed her, his fingers digging into her upper arms until tears burned in her eyes. “You’ll do as I say. No more arguments. No more running. Do I make myself clear?”

“Completely,” she answered, forcing a calm she did not feel.

He released her to pat her cheek, an unpleasant smile stretching his wide mouth. “You make it so much harder than it needs to be. I’m only looking out for your best interests. Haven’t I always been there to take care of you, unlike those high and mighty relatives of your mother’s?”

She crossed her arms over her chest, eyeing him like the disease he was. “Your persuasive abilities continue to amaze me. It’s no wonder none of your schemes pay off.”

Annoyance flickered in his gaze. “Get some rest. We’ve two appointments tomorrow, and I want you at your best. I’m going out. Mrs. Thursby will be here if you need anything.”

Hardly a comfort. The old bawd acting as Branston’s housekeeper was another of Mr. Corey’s associates. Since they set up shop in London six months ago, their household had slowly been taken over by the ruthless gang lord and his underlings. But why? What really lay behind his continued and growing interest in them?

“Where are you going?” she asked.

Branston chucked her chin as if she were ten years old. “Worried for me? Don’t be, dear sister. I’ll always be here to look after you. Always.”

She crossed to the hearth, though no warmth touched her frozen, shivering skin. Always was what she most feared.

* * *

No matter how many times he did it, David St. Leger always hated this part.

With held breath and steady hand, he eased the silver-bladed knife across his opposite palm, wincing as blood welled behind the thin cut. Holding his hand above the glass he’d prepared earlier, he waited as three large drops fell into the viscous slime-green liquid, then snatched up a napkin to wrap around his wound. The initial sting became a steady throb as the silver’s poison moved up his arm into his head until spots bounced in front of his eyes and his stomach squirmed ominously.

Swirling the liquid around as if he were appreciating a fine brandy, he raised the glass to his lips, closed his eyes, and downed the vile, greasy brew in one shuddering swallow. It had been almost two years since the dying Fey-blood had spat his evil curse over him. A few months since the discovery of the draught that prevented his unnatural shift from man to beast with each setting of the sun.

David wasn’t sure which was worse—the cure or the curse.

Leaving the glass on a nearby table, he sank into an armchair, leaning his head back against the cushions, until the dizziness passed and the potion took hold. The clock struck the hour. A log in the grate fell apart in a shower of sparks. Rain pattered against the window.

And then there were the sounds that didn’t belong. A far-off click of a latch. The brush of a boot against carpet. A rattle of a knob. Not a servant. He’d sent the last one to bed on his arrival home an hour ago.

Taking up his knife once more, David waited—and listened. He’d take no chances. Not with the Imnada’s brutal Ossine enforcers searching for any shapechanger suspected of going against tradition to seek an alliance with the Fey-bloods. The rebels claimed it was their only chance to save the race from extinction. The Ossine called it treason.

David might be innocent of insurrection, but he was still emnil, exiled from his clan and labeled a dangerous rogue. That was an engraved invitation to any enforcer who sought to cleanse the clan once and for all of his corrupted bloodline. None would question his death . . . after all, within a wolf pack, the crippled and the sickly were the first to be eliminated. Within the five clans of Imnada, those same laws applied.

But David would not be taken down without a fight. The Ossine enforcers would not lay their hands on him again.

Ever.

The sounds came closer. David hung back, the knife ready, every muscle tensed for the attack. The door opened and a shadow fell across the floor. Unhesitating, he lunged, his arm sweeping out to catch the intruder. A shout erupted. Glass shattered. A knife flashed. The intruder’s neck ended trapped in the crook of David’s elbow, his back arched against the silver blade pressed to his kidneys.

“Are you barking mad, St. Leger?” the man growled from between clenched teeth.

David closed his eyes on a string of profanity. Dropped his arm and his blade.

Captain Mac Flannery.

“Is this how you greet all your guests?” Mac snarled, his cat-slanted green eyes narrowed in fury.

“Only those who sneak in like thieves,” David quipped with a smile, despite the renewed rush of dizziness spinning his head. He tossed the knife with a clatter onto a nearby table.

“I knocked, but I expect your housekeeper’s retired for the night.”

David cast a glance at the mantel clock. “It’s two in the morning. Of course she’s retired.” He poured himself a drink. On an afterthought, poured one for Mac, who was straightening his waistcoat. “What the hell are you doing here at this godforsaken time of night anyway? Shouldn’t you be home making mad passionate love to your new bride?”

“I wish. I came to let you know there’s an enforcer skulking around London.”

“Let him skulk. I’m not up to my neck in traitorous revolution like some I could name.” David settled into a chair. It felt good after the busy night he’d had. He tossed back the whisky, feeling the burn all the way to his toes. “Much as I appreciate the warning, couldn’t it have waited until morning?”

“I didn’t want an audience for my arrival . . . just in case.”

“Does Gray know about this meddlesome Ossine?”

“Gray’s gone north to Addershiels. I haven’t heard from him in weeks. I’m starting to worry.”

“And well you should. If the enforcers discover his involvement with the rebel Imnada and their Fey-blood conspirators, he’ll end in pieces and us right alongside him.”

Mac rubbed his temples as if staunching a headache. “I know, but Gray doesn’t listen. I think this whole uprising is his way of getting back at his grandfather.”

Among British society, the Duke of Morieux was known as a shrewd and cunning aristocrat with the wealth to buy a nation and the influence to rule it, though he chose to spend most of his time and attention on his vast Cornish estate.

Among the Imnada, the heavyset bear of a man with his shock of white hair and the ice-blue eyes of a hawk was known simply as the Morieux, hereditary leader of the five clans, whose word was law.

David simply called him a fucking mealymouthed cocksucker.

“Do you blame Gray?” David asked. “His grandfather could have saved him. He could have saved all of us. But if Gray wants revenge, a nice blade between dear Grandpapa’s ribs would be a hell of a lot easier than a revolution.”

A tense silence sprang up though neither strove to break it. The three friends had reached a tacit agreement. They never spoke of the last chaotic days of war and a dying Fey-blood’s vicious spell that had trapped them all within the prison of the curse. Nor did they talk of the cure that fast became a deadly addiction. They could not stop; they could not continue. Either choice brought sickness and finally death. In their struggle to free themselves of the spell, they’d ended trapped and tainted by the magic of the Fey—again.

Mac found solace from his pain in love; Gray in revenge.

David found it at the bottom of a whisky bottle.

“Your message has been delivered, Captain. Care for a drink—or three?” He started to rise.

“There’s another . . . small matter.”

David sighed, dropping back into his chair. “There always is.”

A shuffling step sounded from just outside the door, followed by the click of a heel on the parquet. David snatched up his blade and was halfway to the door before Mac grabbed him. “Wait.”

David swung around, eyes wild. “What the hell—”

“Caleb!” Mac called. “Show yourself. It’s all right.”

A thin man with a long, pockmarked face and dingy brown hair stepped into the study. His eyes darted around the room as if gauging safety.

“St. Leger won’t harm you. Will you, David?”

“That depends on who the devil he is.” He turned once more to the sideboard. Mother of All, but he needed another drink.

“This is Caleb Kineally,” Mac began. “He’s—”

“Imnada.” David finished Mac’s sentence at the first mental brush of shapechanger magic against his mind. “I take it he’s one of Gray’s rebels.”

Mac ran a hand over his haggard face, and for the first time David noticed the waxen pallor of his friend’s features, the smudges hollowing his eyes. “Aye. He needs to lay low while the enforcers are close. I want you to look after him.”

“Me?”