Master of Shadows

  Will knew it was impossible for her to have entered the dreamlands. No mortal could. “Who are you?”

  “Everyone. No one. I had nothing else to give.” She tried to smile, and for a moment she was Clary. “’Twill be forever now. You never came back for me.”

  She might be a ghost of his imagination—a confused one at that—but she was trying to tell him something. Just as Robin had.

  He took a step toward her and felt something under his bare foot. He bent down and found the little wooden cross Claris had given to him. He picked it up out of the dirt and brought it to her.

  Will pressed it into her hands. “This was your faith in me.”

  “I found it later.” She tugged a chain out from under her ragged overtunic, and the cross vanished from her hands and appeared on the end of the chain. “I kept it for you.”

  He couldn’t tell if her face was Reese’s or Clary’s; her features kept blurring. “I was the one who made you sick,” he told her. “I came back, but not soon enough. They had already buried you in the graves with all the others.”

  “No, Liam.” She smiled and tucked her cross under her collar. “They waited too long to put me in the ground. I woke when they tried to bury me.”

  Will breathed in and smelled her scent, as sweet and ripe as a field of berries. “You went through the change.” Horror sank into him. “You went through the change alone.”

  “Do you know what they do when a body crawls out of an open grave?” She brushed at her hair, and soil fell from it. “They try to kill it. Do you know what they do when she won’t die?”

  He backed away from her, shaking his head. “You are not Claris.”

  “They put her in a cage, like an animal. They toy with her. They try to feed her offal and shit. Days and weeks and months of it.” Her clothes disappeared, and her body shrank, becoming little more than skin over bones. Filth bloomed over her, mottling her fairness. “They bleed her and stab her and laugh, oh, Will, they laugh so much, for it is all so amusing, this thing that crawled from the grave, this girl who would not die.” Her hair grew long and matted, falling down the front of her body in snarls. “And then, one night, when she has not moved for a week, and they think she is done, they open the cage to drag her out, to burn what’s left of her. They do not know that she has gone mad. That in her madness, she is strong again.”

  Will watched as her body blurred and grew into that of a big, strapping lad in peasant’s clothes.

  “I was the first.” The young man touched the gaping wound in his throat. “But not the last. There were more. The butcher.” He body changed into a short, bulky form with heavily muscled arms and a ragged hole in his chest. “The baker.” Her body became thin and lanky, her hands white with flour, her face red with blood. “The candlestick maker.” Her belly grew, sagging over spindly legs, her neck ending in a stump.

  Will had to stop this nightmarish procession of bodies. “Claris, is this you? Have you come to me?”

  Her body blurred again, becoming the image of Reese as she had looked when she had come to the bar. “Claris of Aubury died in that cage,” she told him. “This is all that’s left.”

  “I cannot understand you,” Will said. “What does this mean? What are you telling me?”

  “I thought it was Father who saved me.” She touched the lump the cross had made under her blouse. “It was always you. I lived for you. I waited for you.” Her eyes grew empty. “But you never came for me.”

  He grabbed her arms and shook her. “Reese, where is Claris? How is she doing this? Tell her I must see her.”

  “I will tell her whatever you like,” Lucan said, “but do stop shouting and shaking me.”

  Will looked around him. He was standing in the center of camp, with his hands clamped around the arms of the deadliest assassin among the Kyn. He dropped his arms and stepped back. “Forgive me, my lord. I was in the dreamlands, and I…” Ashamed of his loss of control, he went down on his knees.

  “Obviously.” Lucan brushed at his sleeves. “Someone summoned you from afar. From the hold you were under, I would wager it was blood Kyn. Perhaps this Claris whose name you were yelling in my face.” He glanced down. “Oh, get up, man. I am not going to kill you for wrinkling my jacket. I do not even like it that much. Now, my leather long coat, that I would find harder to forgive. My sygkenis gave that one to me, and I am extremely fond of it.”

  Will slowly rose. “You are very kind, my lord.”

  “I am nothing of the sort, but we will argue that point another time.” He nodded toward the east road. “A female mortal has just driven one of those cottages on wheels into camp, and she is asking for you.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Reese waited by the camper as the camp guards sent for Will. When he came, he stared at her in open disbelief.

  “Sweetheart.” He hurried over to her. “I thought you were inside the stronghold. Captured with the others.” He looked her over. “Did they harm you? Are you hurt? How did you get away?”

  “No one hurt me. Rebecca looked after me. She’s inside the camper.” When he went to the door, she put herself between him and the vehicle. “You can’t go in there.”

  “Rebecca is one of my oldest friends,” he said. “Of course I’m going in there.”

  “You don’t understand, Will. She’s sick.”

  “What? We do not get sick.”

  “It started as soon as we escaped Rosethorn.” She led him away from the camper. “She told me it’s because of the bond she has with Sylas. It’s stronger with them than with other Kyn. Being apart from him hurts her. It makes her talent harder to control.”

  “Sylas has always refused to be separated from her for more than a day. Now I see why.” Will glanced back at the big vehicle. “How far gone is she?”

  “I don’t know,” Reese admitted. “She pulled the partition shut just before we arrived here. She said I shouldn’t let anyone in there but her husband.”

  “I cannot say whether Sylas is dead or alive.” Will thrust a hand through his hair. “We are preparing to move on the Italians tonight.”

  The door to the camper abruptly opened, startling both of them. Rebecca had changed out of her gown into men’s clothing, and she carried a golf club. She didn’t look at Will or Reese, but stared directly at Rosethorn.

  “They have hurt him,” she said, her expression contorted, “but my husband lives.”

  She looked down at the hand Will put over the fist she had wrapped around the club, and then turned her gaze on him. “The last man who put his hand on me I left lying in a ditch and bleeding from the ears.”

  “I will not stop you,” he said, carefully removing his hand. “You may go in there and get yourself and Sylas killed. If that is your wish.”

  Rebecca drew in a deep breath and looked at him again, this time making a visible effort to focus on his features. “I beg your pardon, Will. I am not…myself.”

  “There is naught to forgive.” He put his arm around her. “Becca, I know what this is doing to you, and if there were any way I could put an end to it, I would. But Sylas and all our friends are in there, and they are in desperate need of your help.”

  “My help.” Her laugh sounded bitter. “If I use my talent, no one will be safe.”

  “I know that your bond allows you to see through Sylas’s eyes,” Will said. “I must know what is happening inside the stronghold.”

  She dragged herself away from him, her attention once more on Rosethorn.

  “Rebecca.” Reese started after her.

  “Leave her,” Will said, tugging her back. “Let her try.”

  Rebecca’s back tensed and her limbs locked as the scent of burning honey grew thick. “He is in the shadows,” she said, her words a thin thread of sound. “Near the arsenal below the north terrace. He has hidden a mortal on the fighting platform above. The Moor they brought with them. There are others. He freed the garrison.”

  Will came around to watch her face. “What is Syl
as doing, Rebecca?”

  “Walking among them.” She smiled a little. “They do not know. They cannot see.”

  “Can you make yourself known to him? Can you tell him we’re here?”

  “He knows.” Her voice grew dreamy. “He is waiting for the guard to change. When they do, he will give the order.” Her eyes, closed until now, flew open. “Reese?”

  Reese came to stand beside the chatelaine and put an arm around her. “I’m here, Rebecca.”

  Rebecca began shaking her head. “You’re wrong. It cannot be. No priest would…” She stared down at Reese in horror. “Reese?”

  “It’s me,” she said, and staggered as Rebecca fell against her. “Will, help me with her.”

  Will lifted Rebecca into his arms and peered at her face. “She’s unconscious.”

  “The strain must have been too much.” When he moved as if to carry her to the tents, Reese added, “You should put her back in the camper. Do you have any chains?”

  “I am not putting my friend’s wife in manacles,” he snapped, turning away.

  “Do you know what her talent is?” she countered.

  Surprised, he stopped. “No. She never uses it or speaks of it to anyone.”

  “She makes the living bleed.” Reese lifted her hair and showed him the thin trail of dried blood on her neck. “Anyone who comes near her. Mortal or Darkyn. Animals. Anything alive. She doesn’t have to touch them, either.”

  Will swore softly. “That is why she never hunts. But how she can live if she does not feed?”

  “Sylas has been feeding her from his own veins. She said that her talent doesn’t affect him. Sometimes she uses bagged blood.” She opened the door to the camper. “I’ll stay with her while you go get the chains and some guards.”

  “I cannot leave you alone with her,” Will said after he put Rebecca back in the camper. “She might harm you.”

  “I think she’ll be out for a while, but if she wakes up I’ll make a run for the tents.” She put her hand to his cheek. “Hurry back.”

  Reese watched Will go before she climbed into the camper. Quickly she discarded the empty pressure dart she had tucked in her sleeve before she went to the unconscious woman.

  “I’m sorry I had to do that,” she told her, smoothing some of the disheveled hair back from the chatelaine’s face. “But I can’t fail now, not when I’m this close.”

  She covered Rebecca with the quilt at the end of the tiny bed before she left the camper. She would have to walk out of camp and find a lone guard on patrol. After she used him for what she needed, she’d simply walk back and retrieve the book from Will’s tent.

  Reese glanced back at the camper before she started down the hill. The pines here had thin, almost fragile-looking trunks, but they had been planted so close together they formed a natural barrier to anything except a person on foot. She was glad she’d taken the time to walk several times through the woods along the outside of the property; otherwise she might have lost her way. She didn’t remember smelling jasmine before, though.

  Just as she started after a guard who had walked passed her, a glaring beam of white light found her face, blinding her for a moment.

  “Now, why,” a lazy voice asked, “would Will Scarlet’s little mortal lover be skulking about the woods in the midst of a siege?”

  She shaded her eyes with her hand. “I had to relieve myself, my lord.”

  The light beam moved away from her face. “I daresay there are far more adequate facilities for that sort of thing in the back of that monstrosity you just drove into camp.” Suzerain Lucan’s gray eyes took on a metallic gleam. “Do try again.”

  She had no choice but to lie. “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I,” he told her as he took hold of her wrist in a velvet-gloved vise of a hand. “But I expect we’ll sort it out.” He caught her other arm before she could punch him in the face. “Darling, please don’t wave your delicious-smelling flesh under my nose. I’m in a very bad mood, and I’ve had nothing to eat all day.”

  He brought her wrists behind her back, pinned them there with one hand, and clamped his other hand on her shoulder before he marched her out of the woods.

  Reese saw Will by the camper and panicked.

  Always try to talk your way out, Father’s voice said, ringing in her ears. Do what you must only as a last resort. Remember your vow.

  “I have something that belongs to you,” the Kyn male holding her said to Will. “Or, at least, I thought she did.”

  “Reese?”

  “I didn’t want to wake Rebecca by using the bathroom in the camper,” she said, keeping her tone slightly exasperated. “The suzerain seems to think I was up to no good.”

  “Please release her, my lord.”

  “As you wish,” Lucan said, releasing her wrists. “Do you always require an audience when you pee?” He looked at Will. “I caught her sneaking up on one of the patrols.”

  “If you haven’t noticed, it’s pretty dark out here, and my night vision is lousy.” She forced out a small laugh. “I can’t believe you’re making such a big deal out of this. I just needed to—” She broke off and brought up her hand to grab Lucan’s wrist as he attacked her.

  He held the dagger an inch from her left eye. “Your night vision may be poor, darling, but your reflexes are magnificent.” He tugged his hand free and tossed the dagger to Will. “Whoever sent her trained her well.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “Tresori begin training as soon as they can walk.”

  “True.” Lucan strolled around her. “But a real tresora would also know that her scent changes when she lies. Can you smell it now, Will?”

  “Aye,” Will said, his expression stony. “I did before, but I thought her afraid of Rebecca.”

  “She is afraid.” Lucan loomed over her, his gaze searching her face. “Terribly afraid. But not of Sylas’s lady. Or of us.”

  Reese whirled and tried to run, but a heavy body slammed into hers, knocking her to the ground. Will flipped her over and put a hand to her throat as a hot sweetness flooded her head.

  Before Reese could draw another breath, she fell into darkness.

  Sylas followed the mortal from the basement level to the first floor of the house, where the dark man waited and listened before making a hand signal to move forward. They crept down one passage until they heard footsteps, and then Sylas stepped into the shadows.

  “Remember,” he murmured to the mortal. “Addled.”

  The dark man hunched over and began to walk in a haphazard fashion, his arms swinging wildly. When two cavalieri came into view, they rushed forward, hands on their sword hilts.

  “Hold,” one of them shouted.

  “Somebody hit me over the head,” Hutchins complained, slurring the words. “Is this my mama’s house?”

  Sylas passed from one shadow to another, gathering them with his talent until they writhed in a silent, snarling mass. He sent the emptiness out, casting it over one of the guards, whose cry was swallowed along with his flesh. As his clothes and weapon dropped to the floor, the other guard drew his blade.

  “Come out, demon,” he demanded, his voice shaking.

  “Oh, shut up.” Hutchins shot him with a dart.

  Sylas emerged from the shadows and recovered their weapons. “You did well.”

  “You did better.” Hutchins looked around. “Where’s the other one, and how did you get him out of his clothes?”

  “The shadows took him.” Sylas handed him an ammunition belt loaded with the drug cartridges. “They will take you as well if you step out of the light.”

  “Excuse me.” The mortal laughed. “You got the bogeyman working for you?”

  Sylas never shared his talent with mortals; it frightened them too much. His men knew—they had fought too many battles with him not to know—but talent was not something Kyn discussed. “I said I would explain later. Come.”

  “That thing brushed against me.” Hutchins pulled his
sleeve back to reveal a bloody patch on his dark skin. “It burned like fire, but it was so cold. Now I don’t feel anything.” He touched the wound. “That’s why you’ve been telling me to stay in the light.”

  “Here.” Sylas ran a dagger across his palm, then placed his hand over Hutchins’s wound, using his blood to heal it.

  The man jerked, wincing, and then frowned. “You’d better not have AIDS, my man.”

  “I have no diseases.” Sylas lifted his hand. “’Tis healed.”

  “Damn straight, ’tis healed.” The mortal touched the dark flesh of his arm. “How the hell did you…I know: You’ll explain it later.”

  “My men will reach the bathhouse soon,” Sylas said. “We must go quickly now.”

  They reached the cache of weapons on the second floor without any further confrontations, thanks to a sudden change of the guard.

  “Sweet baby Jesus.” Hutchins turned around, staring at the hundreds of swords hanging from the racks. “How are we are going to carry these out of here?”

  “We’ll use this.” Sylas went to the wall and pressed a button on a panel beside a tall steel door, which slid open to reveal a large dumbwaiter. “Help me load them in.”

  With the mortal’s help Sylas loaded as many blades, daggers, and maces as he could fit into the lift, then used the panel to send it to the first floor. “This goes directly to the bathhouse. The men will unload it and send it back up for more.”

  Hutchins asked, “You normally wash your swords in the bath?”

  “We never use that room for bathing. We only make it appear that we do.” Sylas saw the mortal’s drowsy eyes, and realized he was shedding too much scent in the small room. “Step outside for a moment, Hutch. Until your head clears.”

  “Sure.” The mortal opened the door and went out, only to come back in almost immediately. “There’s a whole gang of them at the other end of the hall. I think they saw me.” He shook his head. “I think the drugs are kicking back in, too.”

  Sylas barred the door and guided the mortal over to the dumbwaiter, which had returned. “Get in.”