Lord of Darkness

For his Meggie he would walk the fires of Hell.

It took another half hour to reach Kershaw’s London town house. It stood in a modern square, white stone town houses on all sides, elegant and reserved. The moon was waning now, coyly hiding behind her cloudy veils. Godric approached Kershaw’s residence cautiously, sliding in and out of the shadows, searching for any sign of movement from the house.

He was surprised when the front door opened.

Godric stilled, half hidden in the shadows by the stairs leading to the front door of a house across the way. He watched as Kershaw appeared on his step. The earl stood there, looking around impatiently, and Godric felt his hands fist. A carriage rolled around the corner and Kershaw got in.

Godric frowned, considering his options. No matter what else happened, he had to kill Kershaw and fast, before the man had a chance to hurt Megs.

He decided to follow the carriage, trailing it as it moved east. The roads in London were narrow and sometimes crowded, even at night, so he hauled himself up the corner of a building, grunting at the twinge from his left wrist, and followed by rooftop. Still Godric lost the carriage twice and had to scramble over sliding tiles to keep up, cursing under his breath until he caught sight of the thing again. He considered the destination of his prey as he panted along. Was Kershaw going to a ball or the theater? If so, Godric would have to cool his heels waiting for the man. On the other hand, such events were often crowded with carriages jockeying to either deposit or pick up their occupants. Perhaps he could catch the man unawares in a crowd. This wouldn’t be a noble duel.

If need be, Godric would stab the earl in the back.

But it soon became apparent that the carriage was making for St. Giles, which meant this certainly wasn’t a social outing. Was the earl scouting new locations for his workshops? Godric shook his head. The man was engorged with hubris if he thought he could simply set up shop again in St. Giles.

Twenty minutes later, the carriage stopped outside a dingy building that was all but leaning against its neighbor. There was no sign to indicate a shop, but a single lantern lit the low doorway, almost as if Kershaw had been expected. Godric lowered himself carefully to the ground and paused in the jut of a low wall, watching as a woman emerged from the building. She was tall and bony, and when she turned, the lantern light fell upon her face and he recognized the slattern who’d been at the third workshop. She stood, arms akimbo, and said something to Kershaw, still in the carriage. There was a pause and she threw up her hands, turning as if angered. At that, the carriage door flew open and Kershaw emerged to hit her across the face, nearly knocking her down. She steadied herself, though, and went back into the shop.

There were two footmen on the back of the carriage and they descended as well, spreading out on either side of Kershaw. He’d brought guards. For himself or something—or someone—else?

The door to the crumbling building opened again and the slattern came back out, grasping a little girl in each hand. But they weren’t who the guards were there for. Behind her was a third tough, both hands gripping tightly a much smaller figure in front of him. She was slim and held herself defiantly, but her face was bruised and she’d lost her old hat.

Alf. They had Alf.

If he waited until they got her into the carriage, he might lose the carriage—and both her and the little girls. Alf had said that the lassie snatchers wanted her dead, and he was surprised that she was still alive. He would’ve thought they’d kill her on sight.

There was no other choice.

Godric charged the tableau.

The guard closest to him still had his back to Godric. A quick thrust with his short sword under the man’s ribs dispatched him, though it sent agonizing shards of pain up Godric’s wrist.

“You!” Godric looked up to see Kershaw, face inflamed with rage, shouting at him. “Kill him!”

The earl didn’t wait to see if his orders would be obeyed. He drew his sword as Godric rushed him and brought it up, repelling Godric’s initial thrust. Godric pivoted past him as their swords locked, making sure to keep his back away from Kershaw’s guards.

Faintly he could hear the sounds of horses approaching.

Then Godric concentrated on killing Kershaw. He felt the jar to his shoulder as he pushed against the other man, making him fall back. He jabbed at the earl’s middle, then his head, moving fast, not giving Kershaw time to gather himself to make his own attack. The earl’s eyes were wide, his mouth open and panting, his lips wet. Kershaw feinted to Godric’s left and then kicked viciously at his knee. Godric moved, taking the blow on his outer thigh instead. But the earl had expected him to go down. His thrust had gone past Godric, and for a second Kershaw was overextended, his long sword of no use. Godric brought up his short sword and pressed it into the soft skin just under the earl’s right arm.

Kershaw froze, eyes widening.

A shot rang out.

Godric glanced over his shoulder and met Captain Trevillion’s cold blue eyes. They were surrounded by dragoons on horseback, all of them aiming pistols at his head.

“Hold hard, Ghost.”

MEGS WOKE GASPING in the dark, heart beating hard, breath strangled in her throat, and knew at once that something was wrong. Shreds of her nightmare still lingered, a haunting vision of Godric caught in a black oily pit, slowly being sucked down while she did nothing.

Did nothing while her husband’s mouth and nostrils were covered in obsidian slime, his eyes staring back stoically at her even as he drowned.

Oh, God. She sat up in his big bed, glancing around wildly, even though she knew he wasn’t here. Where was he? She needed to find him, needed to place her hands on his chest and feel for herself that his heart still beat, that he was well.

She rose, hurriedly throwing on his banyan and lighting a candle from the embers still glowing on the hearth.

She looked first in her own room, a quick glance as she hurried past. The next place was the downstairs library. Perhaps he’d woken in the night and been unable to sleep? Perhaps he was even now dozing in a chair before the fireplace, that silly, stupid tasseled hat on his dear, dear head. She sobbed and realized that she’d broken into a near-panicked run.

He wasn’t in the library.

She sagged against the door, pressing the back of her hand to her weeping mouth.

He wasn’t here. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t here.

She tried his study last because hope died hard and she had to see for herself before she acknowledged what she already knew.

The study was quiet, the door to his hidden closet ajar. She could see that his Ghost costume was gone and she knew, knew what she had done. Megs pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a wail of horror.

She’d abandoned a living man for a dead one.

Chapter Twenty

When Faith opened her eyes the next morning, the first sight she saw was the Hellequin. He held the sack made of raven’s hides, and as she watched, he took out her beloved’s soul and unwound the spider’s silk from around it. At once her beloved’s soul drifted upward, free and sparkling. Faith watched until she could no longer see him. Then she looked at the Hellequin, her eyes shining.

“Will my beloved enter Heaven now?”

“Yes,” the Hellequin said.

“And what will happen to you?”

But the Hellequin merely shook his head and mounted the big black horse. …

—From The Legend of the Hellequin

Godric felt his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. His left arm ached, deep and compelling, and his hand shook just a little as he pressed the short sword to Kershaw’s vulnerable armpit. He stared at Trevillion and wanted to hiss. Wanted to spit and howl. He was fated to be taken tonight, it seemed, but he would drag Kershaw with him, clasping him to his bloody bosom as he went down. Something flickered in Trevillion’s eyes, perhaps a premonition, as Godric’s muscles tensed, preparing to shove the sword tip through skin and muscle, tendon and bone.

“Nooooo!” It was Alf’s voice, hoarse and loud. The girl wrenched herself away from her stunned guard, running to Godric. “You can’t take the Ghost, you soddin’ redcoats. This toff steals little girls. If’n you—”

But her words were cut off as Kershaw took advantage of the confusion. He grabbed Alf’s hair, bending back her head, exposing a throat much too thin and tender and placed the blade of his sword against it.

Godric lunged, sinking his short sword into Kershaw, pushing until the hilt hit his coat.

Kershaw wheezed.

Alf screamed, high and feminine.

Godric twisted the blade, staring fiercely into Kershaw’s muddy eyes as they dimmed and he dropped his sword. He yanked the bloody short sword from the body and Kershaw’s corpse fell gracelessly to the cobblestones.

“Hold your fire!” Trevillion screamed. “Hold your blasted fire!”

For a moment everyone froze, the only sound the nervous stomping of the horses and the whimpering of the two girls.

One of the guards took off at a run.

Trevillion nodded in his direction and a mounted man cantered after him.

“Arrest them all,” Trevillion growled, dismounting, “save for the Ghost. He’s mine.”

He unsheathed his sword.

Godric backed a step. He had no particular urge to kill the dragoon captain—the soldier was only doing his job, after all.

Captain Trevillion glared at the mounted dragoons behind Godric. “Did you not hear me, Stockard? I said the Ghost is mine.”

The soldiers trotted to the side, leaving Godric and Trevillion alone in an open space. Godric gripped his sword, feeling the hilt under his sweaty palm. The night was thick with the stink of blood and horses and the natural miasma of St. Giles.

Trevillion moved forward slowly, forcing Godric back. He lunged, but his attack was oddly clumsy. Perhaps the dragoon hadn’t much practice with his sword. Trevillion jabbed again and Godric easily knocked his sword aside, frowning now, trying to understand what the other man was doing. Was he herding him into a corner? But the space behind him was open.

Trevillion thrust again, this time engaging Godric a little more skillfully, still pushing him back because Godric really didn’t want this fight.

Their swords locked, each man straining into the other, sweat running down Godric’s back, and then Trevillion rolled his eyes and leaned close. “Run, you idiot.”

Godric realized that they’d moved several yards away from the other dragoons, close to the crossroads where a dark alley led.

Trevillion shoved hard against him.

Godric spun and fled, expecting any minute to feel a bullet hit his back or the thunder of hooves trampling him down.

They never came. Instead, he caught a flash out of the corner of his eye as Alf scaled a tenement wall as nimbly as a monkey while the dragoons shouted helplessly below.

He ran flat out, his boots ringing on the cobblestones. He ran until the blood roared in his veins, until the breath sobbed in his lungs. He ran until the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children came into sight, a familiar carriage at the end of the lane and a cloaked female figure just about to mount the steps.

He stopped, hands propped on knees, his chest heaving, and craned his neck to stare as the woman turned around.

The hood of her velvet cloak was pushed back, glossy, dark curls tumbling to her shoulders. Those shoulders were square, a pistol gripped firmly in her right hand, and determination shone in her pretty eyes.

Godric caught his breath in admiration as he straightened.

Megs’s chin kicked up. “No need to thank me.”

He blinked. “What?”

She gestured behind her. “I brought the carriage.” Her face was composed, but he could see the tremble of her lips as she said gently, “Believe it or not, Ghosts have been known to be accosted by dragoons in this very spot.”

His heart had slowed when he’d stopped running, but now it seemed to speed again as he recognized her words. She’d come to rescue him, his brave Meggie. No one had ever done such a thing for him before.