Part 19 (1/2)

”When?” Nick rose, making her fall back a step. When she didn't answer right away, he grew cold inside, as if he were slowly leaking life while she hesitated. ”What's going on, Evie?”

Her eyes darted away from his. ”When he wants to use me to track down people like us. Magic users.”

”He what?”

She read his face, her own going pale with concern. ”Don't doubt me, Nick. I won't be his bloodhound. I'll go through the motions, but I won't take the scent.”

”And if you're out, can you get away?”

She put her hands on his chest and looked up into his face, her breath soft against his skin. ”I haven't figured that part out yet, but with the bracelets turned off, I have a lot more power. Maybe more than I want.”

Nick frowned, sensing a new obstacle in his path. ”What do you mean?”

”There were things Magnus showed me. Doors I opened that I can't quite shut.” Her face tightened. ”You said yourself that I was tempted by dark power. Maybe keeping me on a leash is the wisest course.”

”You're not Keating's dog.”

She looked up, her eyes wide with distress. ”I frightened myself. Nick, you don't know what it's like.”

He'd been an acrobat and a pirate. He had a pretty good idea. ”What happened?”

”It's a long story. I had to fight ...” She trailed off, visibly recoiling from the memory. ”It was something very strong. Something evil. There was a roomful of people and I had to act.”

”By the Dark Mother, Evie!” He smoothed his hands down her arms in a gesture of comfort. He was going to get the whole story out of her, but for now she had to tell it in her own way.

She raised a hand, as if to fend off something he couldn't see. ”The power rose like some beast, and it was hungry-stronger and more ferocious than I remembered it. And it was ...” She looked away. ”It was satisfying. That's what scared me. It was even worse than when I was in Whitechapel.”

Nick swallowed, the chill in his blood deepening to ice. He knew she had accessed a dark power he barely understood. The line between his kind of magic and a sorcerer's like Magnus was like a thin but very deep creva.s.se, and she'd stepped over it more than once. But fear-his or hers-wasn't going to help her now.

He returned to the practical problem of her escape. ”Keating isn't going to keep you safe from anything, least of all yourself.”

Her brows drew together. ”And you will?”

And then he understood just how scared she was. Evie was strong, but she had been lost among enemies too often. Now-since this fight she spoke of-she saw her own powers as one of them. He had to remind her that she wasn't alone. ”Do you actually feel the need to ask if I'll watch your back? After all we've been through?”

Her eyes were guarded, but he took her hands in his and kissed them each in turn. That made her lips curve into a sweet, wicked bow. ”Just my back?”

He grasped her slender waist, pulling her close. ”I could be convinced to patrol the other boundaries ...”

She slid her arms around his neck. She was still tense, the lines of her body saying how deep her anxiety ran, and how much she was counting on him to set her free of it. ”Show me exactly what you mean, Captain Niccolo.”

This was what he had been waiting for. ”My lady.” He swept her up in his arms, the wealth of her skirts spilling over his arm like a graceful waterfall. And then he kissed her, drinking in the warm, sweet essence of her lips.

He found the bedchamber more by instinct than by any conscious intent, and set her down as gently as if she were made of spun gla.s.s. And that was the limit of his patience. He'd shed his jacket and shoes before Evelina had caught her breath. He stood over the narrow bed, regarding her with antic.i.p.ation both reverent and filled with shameless greed.

”At the moment, you rather look like a pirate,” she said, her voice suddenly shy.

”And yet if I say something about pillaging, I'll sail into turbulence for certain.” He slid onto the bed, remembering how much he wanted to undo all those b.u.t.tons. How long had it been since he'd touched anything so fine?

”I think you almost have a carte blanche at the moment,” she whispered as his fingers remembered the art of a lady's garments.

She reached up, her warm, soft hand cupping his face as she kissed him. Then her hands were in his hair, holding him as she took her fill. ”The best thing about plundering you is getting plundered in return,” he murmured.

He brushed the silk of her throat and almost heard the threads of his self-control snap. He pressed his mouth to the curve where her collarbone flared, and the scent of her skin set him on fire. And yet Nick took his time, making a ritual of removing every article of her dress, appreciating each revelation as it came. If he rushed, he might miss the curl of hair that lay just below her ear, or the way her shoulder sloped when she leaned against the pillow as he tasted her breast.

But as he progressed, her urgency grew. And all at once, her hands were busy, too, helping him unwrap her layer by layer, the satin and lace and steel that was as much a metaphor for Evelina's character as it was the fabric of her clothes.

And then his own s.h.i.+rt disappeared and she was caressing him, hot and needy. He felt the sc.r.a.pe of her nails and teeth, and they thrilled him like the brush of a strong wind. She was all contrasts, soft flesh and sleek bone, sweet perfume and the earthy musk of her desire.

And where they touched, there was the silver fire, binding them closer than any vow. Lights began to wink to life in the corners of the room, blue, and green, and red, as if all the colored gaslights in London had shrunk to bright pinpoints and swirled about the room.

”Devas!” Evelina gasped, but Nick had gone to a place beyond language. The spirits always came when they raised the silver fire, and if they didn't get their fill they would tear the room to pieces. The phenomenon had kept him apart from Evie for years, until they'd figured out what they wanted-which was basically a whole lot more than just two scions of the Blood holding hands. But now he aimed to keep the wild magic flowing until the little beggars exploded.

He had tonight to make sure she remembered they belonged to each other, as no magic on earth was going to tell them what tomorrow would bring.

London, September 30, 1889.

DUQUESNE'S RESTAURANT.

1:45 p.m. Monday.

LORD BANCROFT EYEBALLED THE SCHOOLMASTER WITH UNEASE. Duquesne's was a fas.h.i.+onable venue, and the young man clearly didn't fit with the restaurant's usual clientele. In fact, he looked like someone's disreputable nephew about to beg for a loan. ”Are you sure it is wise for you to be here?” Bancroft asked.

It wasn't an unreasonable question. The man was, after all, one of those planning to upset the Empire's entire political applecart.

The Schoolmaster slid into the chair on the other side of the small, round table. ”Probably not. The maitre d'hotel looks like he'd prefer to toss me out.”

Already caught off guard, Bancroft relaxed beneath the disarming charm. ”You could use a barber.”

”Spoken like an experienced father.”

Bancroft grimaced. ”My son is very different from you. For one thing, you're early. He's always late.”

”Is he?”

Bancroft knew that the smile was a mask. The Schoolmaster was the linchpin of the Baskervilles-charismatic, ruthless, and with a brilliant mind for strategy. And his coat, though well brushed, had gone s.h.i.+ny at the cuffs. He obviously didn't waste any of the rebels' money on himself. He was utterly dedicated to overthrowing the Steam Council.

Tobias, on the other hand, had confined his youthful rebellion to the usual vices. Now he was the perfect employee, shaking in his boots lest Keating strike down one of the family-all the more galling because he'd done it to cover Bancroft's mistakes. A good man, but where does that get anyone besides an early grave? Annoyed, Bancroft fidgeted in his chair and then stiffened when he saw Sherlock Holmes drift across the room.

”Are you joining us?” he asked Holmes when it became clear that was exactly what was about to happen.

”I invited him.” The Schoolmaster flashed an apologetic grin. ”He promised to advise me on the menu.”

”I advised him against it altogether,” Holmes said dryly, ”but he insisted on sampling la creme brulee a la vanille for himself. Youth these days are fascinated by direct experience. None of this business of truth strained through the careful sieves of their advisors. Terribly gauche, don't you think?”

”I think it's unnecessary exposure,” Bancroft snapped.