He hadn’t moved, and the swarm of afternoon strollers and street vendors with their baskets and sacks had to joggle round him in consternation, yet, oddly, none confronted the man. Instead, they seemed to avoid him, heads down as they scurried past. As Corey continued to watch, the gentleman looked up at the window, his face shadowed by a broad-brimmed hat, but Corey had the sensation of the man’s stare drilling down into his brain.

A crow settled on the ledge just outside the window, its great black wings spread, its beak wide as it croaked and squawked. A wash of cold splashed over Corey’s shoulders and down his spine. He shooed the bird away, but the feeling of menace remained.

“You’re trying to cheat me, you is,” the thief-taker complained. “It’s him just like in them drawings. I seen him with my own eyes not thirty miles from here.”

Corey rubbed a hand over the knob of his cane, his patience fraying. “Then where’s the woman? He’s traveling with a woman.” He rounded on his informer, cane raised. “Did your pox-ridden slatterns mention her? I want them both, you grimy, flea-ridden sewer rat.”

The man’s back rounded as if he’d been struck, but he held his ground, coughing wetly into a large soiled handkerchief. “Next time, I’ll take my news to the other fella. He’ll pay what’s owed me,” he grumbled.

Corey visibly relaxed his face into a smile, though inside every alarm was ringing. “Other fellow?”

“You’re not the only one out there asking about that St. Leger bloke. And he pays twice as much. I only come to you ’cause we had a deal. Not no more. Not when I see how you pay honest chaps for honest work.”

“Honest, my ass,” Corey replied. “You probably stole your mother’s liver as you were being squeezed out between her legs. Give me a name. Who is he? Who is this champion of the rights of honest thieves everywhere?”

The man’s expression grew petulant, arms folded over his chest. “We’re to go to the Swan and Crown and tell ’em we’ve got news for Beskin. That’s all I know.”

It didn’t matter. Let this Beskin son of a bitch play seek-and-find up and down the Great North Road; Corey knew where the two of them were headed. He would be there in a few days more. Then all he had to do was wait for St. Leger and Callista to come to him.

Corey smiled and flipped the cellar rat another penny. “And there’s a half crown more if you tell this jack at the Swan and Crown that St. Leger’s halfway to Cardiff with his doxy in tow.”

As the man stretched to catch the coin, Corey’s hand shot out, grabbing him around the throat, his fingers digging deep into his flesh. He leaned in, his voice low and almost pleasant. “Don’t ever tell me I don’t pay what’s owing.”

The penny hit the floor to roll away under a table.

The man hit the floor and lay unmoving.

* * *

David eased a shirt on over his head, stifling a groan as pain slashed up his chest and into his skull. The room wavered but did not spin. His body ached but did not collapse. And he’d be damned if he’d lay in that bed another minute. Still, he sat and breathed deeply for a moment before he dared attempt to pull on his breeches, glancing only briefly at the door.

“Come in and scold me in person,” he called out. “Much easier than glaring at me through the keyhole.”

The latch turned, and Gray de Coursy stood on the threshold, bearing a whisky bottle and two glasses. At least he assumed it was Gray. This gentleman bore the familiar rangy build and stark aristocratic features, but gone was the champagne shine and the cool, prideful gaze that had England’s elite climbing over themselves to curry favor . . . and gain a husband for their daughters. Instead, he looked battle-toughened and forbidding in a way he never had before, even during the long years campaigning. Perhaps because this war was far more personal, the stakes much closer to home.

“How did you know I was there?” Gray asked, placing the glasses upon a cabinet. Filling them with whisky.

“You always were horrible at stealth. You have the tread of an elephant. I heard you halfway down the corridor.” David sucked in a breath and resumed the laborious process of dressing. One leg . . . easy does it. “Stick to aerial surveillance and leave scouting enemy terrain to those familiar with the ground.”

Now for his boots. When had his legs grown so damned long? His feet seemed bloody miles away. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing for his valet. Wishing for any valet. Wishing for a room that didn’t waver in and out of focus.

“Do you consider Addershiels in the hands of the enemy?” Gray turned around, a glass in each hand. David noted the bandage wrapped around his palm and his waxy complexion and silently cursed the draught’s sinister destruction.

“The Duncallans, a Fey, and a dead traitor roam the halls. It’s either enemy territory or a circus freak show, and I learned more than I care to about circuses in the past few weeks.” David accepted the glass, though he did not taste. Somehow, the idea of alcohol at—he checked the clock—two in the afternoon didn’t seem quite as appealing as it once had.

“An awful lot of people track your scent, St. Leger,” Gray commented, sipping his drink.

If it had been David, he’d have downed the whole in one throat-burning swallow. Hell, he’d have tipped the bottle to his mouth and washed the world away. Or at one time he would have. Gray had always been a cold fish, passionless and prim as any maiden aunt and more severe than a Puritan. Gray was methodical, practical, and calculating. It drove David mad, but it had probably kept him alive through five years, three countries, and countless battles.

Not that he’d ever admit that to Gray. The man was as puffed up as a bloody rooster as it was.

“You can use the title, but that doesn’t make me a soldier. Not anymore.”

“The Ossine believe otherwise,” Gray said.

“I wonder why. Maybe it has something to do with a stolen book and a dead Imnada courier, and a plot to suck me in that Machiavelli would have endorsed.”

“The book came from the Deepings library and my grandfather’s collection. It was Sir Dromon Pryor and the Ossine who stole it first. I merely reclaimed it.”

“I doubt the semantics will make any difference to Kineally’s family when they discover their kin has been buried with a stake through his heart, but I’ll be sure to use it as my defense when the Ossine come to claim my head.”

One boot on. He gritted his teeth. One to go.

“I wouldn’t have risked Kineally or you if it weren’t important.”

“I don’t want to hear about your insurrection or your new friends, Gray. This madness has cost too many lives already. You claim your efforts are to bring about peace and freedom. All I see is a trail of bodies.”

“I’m offering the clans hope. We’re dying, David. Not just you and me and Mac, but all of us. Every shapechanger in every holding. How long will our kind last? Our clans are fading, our powers dying out, and the Palings barely hold the world away from our lands anymore. We can’t survive without allies, nor can we last more than a few generations without new blood added to the lines.”

“I’ve seen plenty of blood. Unfortunately, most of it has been mine. Will it be yours next? Or Mac’s? Perhaps Lord and Lady Duncallan’s? Or will they be the ones wielding the blades alongside that feathered Fey and her trained shifter?”

“James and Katherine are good friends and loyal to the work of peace, David. James is a scholar of Imnada history and Katherine freed Lucan from a Fey prison. Surely that counts for something in your suspicious mind.”

“Of course, though I’m not sure whether counting Lucan Kingkiller, the shapechangers’ greatest traitor, among your associates is an advantage. This was the man whose lust and crimes instigated a mass slaughter.”

“And he was also the commander who brokered a truce during the Viyachne Rebellion that spared thousands of lives. Lucan is as much an outcast as any emnil. And in as much danger. After all, he’s a murderer to the Fey-bloods and a traitor to the Imnada.”

“Sounds familiar. Is that why you’re so chummy?”

Success. David straightened from pulling on his second boot, winded, nauseated, and dizzy, but fully dressed.

“I will use any edge I can to topple Pryor and his faction. Lucan is a weapon that can’t be overlooked. He bears a power unheard-of among the Imnada these days. And his strength and his leadership are still talked of today.”

“As are his lechery and his treason.”

“Morgana used him. Her witchery ensorcelled him.”

“Is that what he told you? I think it’s his witchery that has ensorcelled you. Either that or his crow sidekick has cast a spell on you.”

“They saved you, David. They protected Miss Hawthorne from Victor Corey’s hired gun and they kept you alive when that bullet shaved a groove down your rib and ended against a lung. You owe them your life.”

“Then the joke’s on them. My life isn’t worth tuppence.”

“And Callista? How would she have felt had you died?”

“Don’t talk to me about Callista. She’s not your concern and you know nothing about it.”

“I know she cares for you. And I know she fears for your future.”

“She should fear me.” He sat bent in his chair, elbows upon his knees, hands clasped together as if in prayer.

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just send her to Skye, Gray. If you do nothing else for me ever, send her to Skye and safety. I’ll be your man. I’ll do whatever you ask.”

“Whatever I ask?” Gray’s gaze burned like ice.

“Anything.”

“Very well. I’ll send her to her aunt. But you’re mine now, David St. Leger. Welcome to my war.”