Ember: A prequel to Firelight Page 9

  erratic impatience. She refused to squint. Endless years of being rapped upon the knuckles for making unladylike faces, and dire warnings of premature wrinkles, had cured her of that compulsion—mostly. Daisy looked out into the boiling gray fog that shrouded the streets of London. Seconds needn’t be counted anymore, regardless. She was free. Moreover, three hundred sixty-six days, ten hours, fifteen minutes, and however many seconds was quite sufficient a time to stay in mourning over a man one hated. Even if that man had been one’s husband. Especially if, she corrected, smoothing out a wrinkle in her azure silk skirt. Azure. Lovely word. It rolled over the tongue, promised adventure and foreign climes.

  She loved azure. Loved color. Though, for a time, she had loved black, too. Black had been her banner of freedom. A marker announcing the shift from the bondage of marriage to the emancipation of widowhood.

  Daisy was tired of black, too. One ought to curse the queen for her dogged devotion to mourning, thus causing countless widows to guiltily follow suit. Only it was quite romantic, and Daisy could not fault a romantic heart. As for herself, she’d done her year of mourning. Enough to satisfy.

  Now it was her time.

  Barnaby, her driver, called out to the horses. The carriage made a sharp turn down a narrow lane whose crooked path would take her to her future. Amusement, laughter, life. A place where one did not wear black, unless one wished to be thought of as mysterious. No one had ever thought of her as mysterious. Infamous, perhaps. Suddenly, her insides clenched with such force, she trembled. Loneliness and fear threatened to crumple her into a ball, bid her to shout at Barnaby to turn round. Her bed was warm, safe. What if she was all talk? What if the infamously fun-loving Daisy Margaret Ellis—she refused call herself Craigmore—was nothing more than a coward?

  “Why don’t we get a bit of fresh air?” The man nuzzling Daisy’s neck let out a small laugh at his jest. “Fresh” air being a myth in London. Daisy refrained from rolling her eyes. After all, his lips felt wonderful as they made a soft, slow circuit over her skin. It had been more than ten years since she’d been touched in passion. He nipped the tender juncture at the base of her neck and she shivered, her nipples tightening in anticipation. Wine coursed in her veins, heating her blood, painting her world in soft, nebulous colors.

  Around them, couples had paired off, finding their own dark corners in the overcrowded town home to do what they might. Men with the single-minded purpose to win congregated around gaming tables, barely noticing the women who adorned their shoulders like overlarge jewels. A few danced to the endless tunes strummed out by the orchestra Alexandra had hired for the night. As for Alex, Daisy hadn’t spotted her.

  Alex, being newly widowed herself, had chosen to live among the demimonde. The ton, Alex declared, was too tiresome. Daisy agreed. The ton had all but turned their backs on Daisy when Craigmore died leaving her nothing, surely assuming she’d end up in the streets as a destitute wretch. She almost laughed thinking on it. Little had he known about her own resources.

  Daisy eyed the man before her, a well -formed youth with a slightly coltish look about him. “Fresh air would be lovely.”

  A languid heaviness stole over her as she angled into him. He smelled of cheroots, fine wool, and young male. His hard body against hers was a wonder. What did it matter that she’d forgotten his name?

  Another low roll of amusement rumbled against her as he led her through a maze of corridors. Gaslight flickered low. Blue smoke and hot flesh turned the air hazy.

  Daisy stumbled and his grip tightened. “Careful. Don’t want you on your back. Yet.”

  A true wit, this one. She cleared the thought away. She didn’t need to think, only to feel. With a laugh, they burst through the back door. She

  caught a breath of dank, coal-tinged air, saw the flash of wet pavers glistening in the moonlight, then her companion shoved her against the wall. His eyes closed as he leaned in and took, his mouth brutal. Daisy opened up to it, ignoring the pain, looking for the pleasure. So elusive, pleasure. So easy to remember one’s self and lose the feeling. His tongue thrust past her lips, cool, thick. Ought a tongue feel cold?

  Daisy strained against his questing hand as it groped her breast. This is what she’d been waiting for. Six years of living as dead, living in hell, she’d been waiting to be wanted, to be looked upon as a desirable woman and not a thing of disgust.

  “Temptress of man, harbinger of lust. You are a worthless vessel whose only use is to receive man’s sin.”

  Anger coiled with revulsion. Forget it. Forget the man, he is dead. His words cannot touch you. Follow the pleasure. But it skittered away as the wind shifted, brushing ice cold against her bare arms. Clouds scuttled overhead, and the bright disk of the moon shone down, setting the dismal little alleyway to glow like blue daylight. Daisy blinked up at the moon as her lover’s hands drifted lower, catching up her skirts, his breath hot and damp above her breast. Ah, but this alley smelled. Queer, like sticky sweet rot, copper mixed with dirt. The stench sent a finger of ice over her spine. She murmured a protest, wanting suddenly to go in.

  They were too exposed here.

  “Easy, pet.” Hard fingers raked her thighs. “Relax.”

  “Inside,” she said, easing away.

  “I’m trying,” he said with a laugh.

  She turned her head to get away from him. And caught the sight just to the left of his shoulder. A spill of gold satin skirts, the ruffled edges kicking up in the wind, a pale length of arm extended outward as if begging for help, the sparkle of diamonds of a white throat, large, glassy eyes staring.

  And blood, so much blood. Black and shining in the moonlight. Daisy’s mind pulled the shapes, rearranged them to form a story. Alex. Alex’s torso torn open. And something bent over Alex, its face buried in the gore. A scream locked in Daisy’s throat, so hard and cold that she could not get it out. Terror uncoiled, giving her the strength to push her lover away.

  “What the devil?”

  A whimper broke from her lips as she tripped over her skirts and her companion turned. As if called, the thing lifted its head. A drop of crimson blood dripped from its jaw, and Daisy screamed. It snarled, rising on its hind legs, and her would-be lover scrambled back, bellowing in fear as the monster charged.

  Daisy’s head smashed against brick, something hot and wet splashed over her cheek, neck. A body fell upon her, jerking and thrashing, grinding her into the hard ground, then the screams, screams upon screams, pure unadulterated terror. It washed over her, taking her wits, sucking her down in to the cool embrace of darkness.

  Not far away…

  Six whores and six failures were enough to make even the most optimistic of men throw in the sponge, as the Americans would say. There was fortitude and there was humiliation. Ian knew he had crossed that line around whore number three. So then, no more tupping. Fornicating, as his father would have called it.

  “Bloody, buggering, fucking hell !” His curse was lost to the night, dissipating like heated steam in the cool, clean air of Hampstead Heath.

  Sweating and swearing, he ran faster, his feet pounding into the soft earth. Defeat never sat well with Ian. Worse, there was nothing left to him other than this. Running, pushing his body to the limits of endurance, letting his wild side go free again. Biting back another foul oath, he ran harder, his blood pumping through his veins like molten glass, as his legs screamed for mercy. Only here did he feel alive.

  The great black dome of the night sky soared overhead. Beyond lay London, a jagged landscape of church spires and haphazard buildings bathed in the silver light of the full moon. He let a shiver of feeling run over him. The moon. That glorious seductress. Her power pulsed through him like so much wine. He let her fuel him, and in return felt the beast stir.

  For decades, he had ignored this part of himself. He’d kept his beast so tightly leashed it had become nothing more than a faint echo in his mind. And he had suffered for it. Grown weak and apathetic. Now, its howl rattled about in his
skull, growing louder and stronger.

  Part of him reveled in the beast. Why not? He’d lost all other sources of pleasure. Why not let the beast at last have its fun? Why not let it out to play? Even as the thought rolled over him, an innate sense of self-preservation protested. He had not struggled through one hundred and ten years of life to let a little thing like self-pity suck him into total annihilation.

  Swearing again, he turned toward London, away from the wild things that tempted the beast, the small scurrying rabbits, the fearful does that even now, Ian could scent. A bitter laugh escaped as his feet ate up the ground, leading him into London with uncanny speed. Perhaps one day soon he’d be back to take down a deer with freed claws. Would he find himself muzzle deep in hot, wet blood, eating warm flesh with mindless pleasure?

  Earth gave way to stone, clean air turning thick and fetid as he pushed into the city. Around him, the buildings, and the odd pedestrian, were little more than an indistinct blur and the stir of air as Ian ran past. He was that fast. Faster than he would be all month with this full and glorious moon feeding him.

  A dray loomed before him, plodding along with its load of coal. He leapt, arcing over it, to land on quick feet and run onward. It was more populated here, throngs of idle humans mixing with street traffic. He wove around them without care, his feet splashing through some unholy muck, and kicking up the scent of rot.

  His shoulder brushed past a coffeemonger pushing his cart along. What would they see? A man in leather moccasins brought back from the American West? The loose gray trousers and cotton shirt of a laborer? Items Ian Ranulf, newly titled Marquis of Northrup, would not be caught dead wearing. Surely not that trussed-up dandy. Northrup would never be confused with the wild man running amok.

  All at once, the strength left him and he slowed to a jog. His breath puffed even and steady. The beat of his heart was strong as ever in his chest. Unstoppable. Unending.

  The thought nearly brought him to his knees. Around him, the laughter of men and women enjoying the clear night scraped against his nerves.

  Slowing to a stroll, he wandered down a twisted street where the press of bodies thinned out to lighter foot traffic.

  To his left, light poured in yellow blocks from the windows of an older town home, still beautiful but shabby in this unfashionable neighborhood. The strains of a reel and feminine laughter punctuated the din of London nightlife.

  He moved away from it, into the shadowy mouth of an alley, when through the thick mash of human sweat, rotting water, and sewage came the distinctive tang of blood.

  Human blood. Just below that, a finer note, that of wolf.

  It was that scent, the wild, rangy stamp of wolf that had his hackles rising, and a growl rumbling deep within his throat. Sixty years of doggedly keeping away from the Others was nearly lost as he instinctively turned toward the scent, ready to tear into whoever dared to encroach upon his territory. He came to an abrupt halt. It wasn’t his territory.

  Not anymore.

  Fight or flight, it warred within him until his chest felt ready to rip in two. A trickle of sweat rolled along his neck.

  He had nearly moved away when a sharp feminine scream rent the air, followed by a snarl of rage. A man bellowed in pure terror. The snarls grew and then the distinctive sound of tearing flesh, a man gurgling as through drowning in blood.

  Blood: The perfume of it washed over Ian, making his knees buckle.

  “Bugger!” He ran toward that scent without another thought.

  Men were already spilling into the alley as Ian charged headlong into the fray. Someone shouted in shock. A woman fainted. A ripple of terror went through the throng of onlookers, heightening the sharp smell of fear. Men both retreated in horror and shoved forward in fascination.

  Women were quickly ushered away.

  Ian shouldered a rotund man aside. The scent of wolf overpowered his senses. Wolf and blood. Jesus.

  When yet another gentleman stepped in his way, he found his voice and said words he hadn’t uttered in years.

  “Move aside! I’m a doctor.” Though from the overwhelming amount of blood he smelled, he rather thought his rusty services would not be needed.

  The crowd parted, and Ian took in the scene. Bile surged up his throat. Blood was everywhere, coating the walls of the town house, pooling upon the ground, and running along the cracks between the cobbles. A man--what was left of him-- lay in a tangled heap pushed up against the wall, his face an unrecognizable hash of claw marks, his torso eviscerated.

  Just beyond, a woman had suffered the same fate, though her face was unmarred. She’d died first. He’d bet his best walking stick on it. Already the stench of decay crept over her. The body was stiff and white in the moon’s glow.

  Ian crouched low and inhaled. Scents assaulted him. He let them come and sorted through the miasma. Beneath the rot, terror, and blood was the rangy scent of wolf, a city wolf-- for it missed the essential freshness of country air--yet a wolf tinged with something off, bittersweet. Sickness. What sort, he couldn’t tell.

  “He’s past help,” said the man beside him. Ian held up a staying hand and inhaled more deeply.

  Beyond the filth came a fainter scent--rose, jasmine, rosemary, and sunshine. Those notes held him for one tense moment, pulling the muscles in his solar plexus tight and filling them with odd warmth. It was a fresh, ephemeral scent that made the beast inside him stir, sit up, and take note.

  A small groan broke the spell. Someone shouted in alarm. The dead man moved, rolling a bit, and the crowd jumped back as if one. Ian’s pulse kicked before he noticed the soft drape of blue silk between the man’s twisted legs.

  “Bloody hell.” He wrenched the body aside. It pitched over with a thud to reveal the crumpled form of a woman covered in blood.

  “Step back,” he said sharply as one wayward man tromped forward.

  “Lud! Is she alive?”

  Ian’s hands were gentle as he touched the woman’s wrist to check her pulse. Slow, steady, and strong. It was from her that the scent of flowers arose. Her fine brow pinched, her features lost under a macabre mask of crimson blood. Ian cursed beneath his breath and ran his hands over her form in search of injuries. Despite the blood, she was untouched. The man’s blood, not hers. She’d seen it all, however. Of that, he was certain. She’d been the one to scream. Then the man.

  He glanced about the alley. This couple had seen the first victim. They shouted, and then they were attacked. Ian brought his attention back to the woman.

  She was a handful, lush curves, neat waist. He gathered her up in his arms, ignoring the protests of those around. Her head lolled against his shoulder, releasing another faint puff of sweet scent. A curling lock of hair, red with blood, fell over his chest as he hefted her higher and stood.

  “She needs medical attention.” He moved to go when a gentleman stepped in his way.

  “Here now.” The gentleman’s waxed mustache twitched. “You don’t look like any doctor I’ve ever seen.”

  The crowd of men stirred, apparently taking in Ian’s odd attire for the first time.

  Ian tightened his grip on the female, and she gave a little moan of distress. The sound went straight to his core.

  Women were to be protected and cherished. Always. He stared down the gathering crowd. “Nor a marquis, I gather. However, I am both.” He took a step, shouldering aside the man with ease. “I am Northrup. And you would do well to get out of my way.”

  Another murmur rippled among the men. But they eased away; not many wanted to risk tangling with Lord Ian Ranulf, Marquis of Northrup. Those who weren’t as convinced, he pushed past. He’d fight them all if he had to. This woman wasn’t getting out of his sight. Not until he’d questioned her.

  And he certainly wasn’t letting her tell the whole of London that she’d just survived an attack by a werewolf.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to my wonderfully astute editor, Alex Logan, and to Lauren Plude, editorial assistant and h
opeful romantic–the ending is better because of you.

  To the team at Grand Central, including cover designer Christine Foltzer and publicist Jennifer Reese, for all the hard work you do.

  Thanks to my super-champion agent, Kristin Nelson, for your continuing support.

  Thank you to beta readers and first critics Karina Escobar and Rachel Walsh, both of whom turned around comments lightning-fast. And, as always, my love to the

  home team: Juan, Maya, and Alex.

  Also by Kristen Callihan

  Firelight

  Praise for Firelight

  “Compulsively readable… a compelling Victorian paranormal with heart and soul.”

  — Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Top Pick! 4 ½ stars! Like moths to a flame, readers will be drawn to the flickering Firelight and get entangled in the first

  of the Dark London series. Combining Stephen King’s Carrie and Beauty and the Beast, Callihan crafts a taut tale filled with sexual tension. This is one of the finest debuts of the season.”

  — RT Book Reviews

  “Evocative and deeply romantic… a beautiful debut.”

  —Nalini Singh, New York Times bestselling author

  “A sizzling paranormal with dark history and explosive magic! Callihan is an impressive new talent.”

  —Larissa Ione, New York Times bestselling author of Immortal Rider

  “A dark, delicious tale of secrets, murder, and love, beautifully shrouded in the shadows of Victorian London.”

  —Hannah Howel, New York Times bestselling author of If He’s Dangerous

  “Inventive and adventurous with complex, witty characters and snappy writing. Callihan will make you believe in the power of destiny and true love.”

  —Shana Abé, New York Times bestselling author of The Time Weaver

  “A sexy, resplendent debut with a deliciously tortured hero, an inventive supernatural mystery, and slow-building heat that simmers on each page. I can’t wait to see what Kristen Callihan comes up with next!”