Lord of Darkness

  She broke free to attack the falls of his Ghost costume. “You lied to me.”

  “I came back alive,” he said in a soothing voice. At least he never pretended that he didn’t know the reason for her anger.

  “I said alive and whole,” she snapped, finally wrenching two buttons off. “That is not whole.”

  “Megs,” he started, no doubt to make some stupid male excuse, and she shoved him none too gently into the one straight-backed chair.

  She wasn’t strong enough to manhandle him—she knew that somewhere in the back of her maddened brain. He must be conceding to her anger, letting her push him about.

  Perversely it only made her madder.

  She dropped to her knees, roughly spreading his legs and shuffling forward between them.

  His eyes widened, which, at any other time she might’ve taken pride in. The man had been the Ghost of St. Giles for years—there mustn’t be many things that could surprise him.

  “What—”

  She reached forward and yanked open his fall and the smallclothes beneath, watching in satisfaction as his cock bobbed out, ruddy and half hard.

  She took his length gently between her hands, her arms resting on his thighs, and looked up into his face. “I’m very, very angry with you.”

  And she opened her mouth over him. She’d never done this—although she’d wanted to before. She’d always been too shy, too worried that he’d think her sluttish or not like what she did.

  But here, now, she simply didn’t care anymore.

  She trailed a line of kisses down his length, marveling at the pulsing warmth within him, then licked up the strong tendon on the underside.

  He muttered something and his hips jerked under her arms, half lifting her.

  She wanted to tell him to never go back to St. Giles. That she’d find Roger’s killer herself. That she couldn’t bear anymore to see him hurt. But she’d already told him that before and it hadn’t changed his mind. She couldn’t change his mind. He wouldn’t allow her that far in.

  But he would allow this.

  She mouthed around the thick head of his cock, tasting the tang of his skin. She pulled back to stare at him as he’d stared at her once. The tiny slit at the top of his penis was leaking, and she drew her thumb through the clear liquid, smearing it about the soft skin.

  The strong length in her hands jumped.

  She smiled when she felt that and leaned down to kiss the very tip, the warm wetness smearing across her lips. She looked up and saw that the color was high across his cheekbones and his eyelids half shielded his glittering gray eyes. Still watching, she took the head of his cock into her mouth and suckled.

  His nostrils flared and he bit his lip, but he did no more, staring back at her as she opened her mouth and licked slowly around the head. Later she would be embarrassed by her boldness.

  Right now she reveled in the freedom he gave her.

  But when she lightly scraped her teeth around the rim, he moved.

  “Megs,” he growled, and reached for her.

  She didn’t like that—she wasn’t done playing. She half rose and scrambled backward, trying to dodge his hands, her anger rising again.

  “Damn it, Megs!”

  He lunged and she reacted instinctively, a thrill of alarm shooting through her. She got to her feet and made two abortive strides.

  It wasn’t fair of her—he was wounded. She should’ve been able to get away.

  He slammed her against the bed, using his greater weight and height to hold her there.

  She was wedged between him and the bed, panting, though their struggle had only been a matter of seconds. He was behind her, his body pressed against her back, his erection imprinted on her buttocks, his arms braced on either side of her.

  She could feel his breath puffing against her ear. She waited, expecting him to turn her around to face him.

  Instead he began gathering her wrapper and chemise.

  She caught her breath.

  He whispered a kiss behind her ear. “Hold still.”

  Her bottom was bare now, her skin cooling in the air, and she felt the hot slide of his cock across her hip.

  He placed his hand between her shoulder blades and pushed her gently but firmly down, until her upper half lay across the bed and her lower half was canted up, waiting for his pleasure.

  She felt him nudge her legs apart, and then his palm was on her hip and she felt it: the nudge of his cock against her entrance. He seemed somehow larger in this position and she heard him grunt as he began squeezing his way in. She was wet, but she felt each ridge of his penis as he pushed himself slowly into her.

  Her hands clutched at the bedclothes.

  He seemed to take forever, widening her, burrowing into her swollen tissues. Then he made a final shove and she felt the fabric of his leggings brush firmly against her bottom.

  He held himself there and she could hear the sound of his rough breathing in the quiet of the room. She bit her lip, mirroring his earlier grimace. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath—and he hadn’t even started to move.

  And then he did, a slick, hard slide that rubbed against something wonderful inside of her. She couldn’t help the squeaking cry she gave, and as if her hips moved of their own accord, she began bumping back against him.

  He huffed a rough laugh. “So impatient.”

  She turned her head to scowl at him—or at least she meant to, but he chose that moment to reverse his glide, thrusting back into her.

  Her eyelids fluttered closed. “Oh.”

  “You like that?” he whispered.

  She nodded, unable to speak. He was embedding himself into her over and over, his cock rubbing against her deliciously, and she couldn’t help but tilt her bottom up in submissive invitation. She burrowed one hand underneath and found her nub as he filled her again and again, his hardness sliding against her wet fingers.

  His breath caught and he swiveled his hips, grinding against her, leaning close over her, whispering low in her ear. “You’re touching yourself, aren’t you?”

  She swallowed, closing her eyes in bliss. “Y-yes.”

  “God,” he muttered, and she wondered if he’d finally lost the power of speech.

  Perhaps he had, for he suddenly planted one hand over her shoulder and shoved hard into her, pressing her into the mattress. He was pushing her body up the bed with quick, forceful jabs that spread her apart, made her see a starburst behind her closed lids.

  A spike of near-painful pleasure bloomed between her legs, flowing and expanding through her, a river of sweet completion. She moaned, loud and low.

  He stiffened behind her, his hips still working, even as his hot seed filled her, as if he didn’t want to stop. And then he fell against her, his heat surrounding and cradling her. She felt his chest pressing into her back as he fought to catch his breath.

  She should feel squashed beneath him, but instead she felt protected and oddly cherished.

  She watched out of the corner of her eye as he moved his right arm—the one with the white bandage—and twined his fingers with hers, squeezing gently.

  Were it up to her, they would stay this way forever.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Do you see these things trapped in the sand of the Plain of Madness?” Loss hissed at Faith. He’d seen the fate of his imp comrades, so he was cautious of Faith, but he couldn’t pass up the chance to wallow in her horror.

  “What are they?” Faith whispered, filled with dread. “They are the souls of those who died insane,” Loss said with glee. “They meander aimlessly now, flowing with the shifting dust, and will remain so until men no longer walk the earth.” …

  —From The Legend of the Hellequin

  If Hell existed on earth, Artemis Greaves was walking into it. Her shoes crunched on fine gravel in a huge, nearly empty courtyard. Behind her were the tall iron gates. Before her, the baroque façade of a magnificent, beautiful building. White Corinthian columns marched in paired ro
ws along the front, crowned by a central dome with a clock, the Roman numerals picked out in gold. The gilding was repeated on the top of the dome, a spinet with the figure of a veiled woman.

  Artemis shivered and glanced at the front doors.

  Hell might have a gorgeous shell, but it still roasted the damned within.

  She passed the porter and paid him her precious penny, though she wasn’t here to sightsee. Under the dome was an echoing hall with two long galleries leading off to her left and her right. It was early yet and the visitors were few, but that didn’t mean the inhabitants of Hell weren’t awake. They moaned or babbled, if they could make utterance, except for the few who simply howled.

  Artemis ignored the galleries, walking straight on. Beyond the dome, two staircases curved away into space. She mounted the one to the left, holding her covered basket carefully. It wouldn’t do to spill her few, meager offerings.

  At the top of the stairs, a man sat on a wooden stool, looking bored. He was tall and thin and Artemis had amused herself—rather morbidly—on previous visits by noting his resemblance to Charon.

  She paid Charon his due—a tuppence—and watched as he took out his key and unlocked the depths of Hell.

  The stink hit her first, a thing so solid it was like wading into filth. Artemis held the handkerchief on which she’d sprinkled lavender water up to her nose as she made her way. The inhabitants here were always chained, and many could not or did not make it to their chamber pots. To either side were small, open rooms, almost like stable stalls, though most stables smelled better and were cleaner than this place. Each room held a denizen of Hell, and she tried to avoid looking in as she passed.

  She’d had nightmares in the past from what she’d seen.

  It was actually quieter up here than the vast galleries below, whether because the inhabitants were fewer or because they’d long since given up hope. Still there was a low droning of something that once might’ve been song and a high giggling that stopped and started fitfully. She knew to skip swiftly past a cell on her right, dodging the foul missile that flew out, hitting the wall opposite.

  The last chamber on the left was where she found him. He squatted on filthy straw like Samson restrained: manacles on both ankles and a new one—she saw to her horror—about his neck. The heavy iron ring encircling his neck chained him to the wall with not enough slack to let him lie down fully. He was forced to crouch, leaning against the wall if he wanted to rest, and she wondered what would happen if he slept and fell forward. Would he strangle himself in the night without anyone knowing?

  He looked up as she hesitated in the entrance to the chamber, and a broad smile lit his face. “Artemis.”

  She went immediately to him. “What have they done to you, my heart?”

  She knelt before him and took his face in her hands. There was a lump over one hairy eyebrow, a scabbed graze high on his right cheekbone, and a cut on his too-broad nose. It looked broken.

  But then it always had.

  He shrugged massive shoulders covered only in a filthy shirt and coarse waistcoat. “It’s a new beauty regime. All the court ladies are following it, I hear.”

  She swallowed a lump in her throat but tried to smile for him. “Silly. You mustn’t taunt them just for fun. You’re rather handicapped by these chains.”

  He cocked his head, his thick lips curling. “Only makes the playing field even, doesn’t it?”

  She shook her head and dug into her basket. “I … I haven’t much, I’m afraid, but Penelope’s cook kindly gave me some meat pies.” She offered one on a napkin.

  He took it and bit into the pie, chewing slowly as if to make the repast last. She examined him covertly as she unpacked the rest of the basket. His face was leaner and if she wasn’t mistaken, he’d lost weight. Again. He was naturally something of a giant, with the shoulders and chest to fit, and he required large amounts of food. They weren’t feeding him and she hadn’t been able to sell the necklace for money to bribe the guards so they’d look after him.

  Her brows knit worriedly as she came to the last thing in her basket.

  “What’s that?” he asked, leaning as far as he could to look.

  She grinned at him, her mood lightening. “This is my prize, and I hope you’re properly appreciative of the efforts I’ve made to procure it.”

  She drew out a fabulously quilted gentleman’s banyan in dark red.

  He blinked at it a moment and then threw back his head, roaring with laughter. “I’ll look like a veritable Indian prince in that thing.”

  She pursed her lips, trying to look stern. “It’s a castoff from Uncle and it’ll keep you warm at night. Here, try it on.”

  Artemis helped him into the banyan and was pleased to see that while it was a tight fit across the shoulders, he was able to nearly pull it closed in front. He leaned back against the grimy stone of the chamber walls, and he did indeed look like an Indian prince.

  If Indian princes had bruised faces and sat on straw.

  After that, he insisted on sharing some of the food she’d brought, so they had something of a picnic. And if the sounds of shouted swearing filled the air at one point, counterbalanced by loud weeping, well, they both made a show of ignoring it.

  All too soon, she knew she must leave. Penelope wanted to go shopping today, and Artemis would be needed to carry parcels and keep track of where they went and what her cousin bought.

  She was quiet as she fussed with her basket, hating to leave him alone in this place.

  “Come,” he said softly as her lip began to tremble. “Don’t carry on so. You know how I hate to see you sad.”

  So she smiled for him and gave him a hug that lasted just a bit too long and then she left that horrible chamber without another word. Both she and he knew that she’d come again when she could—most probably not until another sennight had passed.

  When she made the outer hallway, she paused by Charon and gave him all the money she had within her purse—an embarrassingly paltry amount, but it would have to do. Hopefully it would be enough for the guards to remember to feed him, to empty his slops, and to not beat him to death when his wit became too much for them to bear.

  She glanced over Charon’s head at the sign that hung above the locked door at his back: Incurable.

  Every time she saw it, her heart beat with equal parts rage and fear. Incurable. It might as well be a death sentence for her beloved twin brother, Apollo: the incurably insane never left Bethlem Royal Hospital.

  Otherwise known as Bedlam.

  WHEN THE DOCTOR arrived two hours after their lovemaking, Megs insisted on staying in the room while he examined Godric. The men seemed to find this an odd behavior. Godric exchanged a wary look with Moulder, while the doctor tutted under his breath, muttering in French. Megs wanted to roll her eyes. None of the ladies of the house thought her strange to stay with her injured husband to see if he’d ever use his left arm again. She nearly choked on another wave of fear, grief, and anger, and had to turn away from the sight of the doctor probing at Godric’s arm. He’d already taken apart the original bandage on Godric’s right arm, prodded the long, shallow cut, pronounced it trifling, and rebandaged the arm.

  Megs glared when Godric shot her a triumphant glance.

  She went to the window now and stared blindly out at the late-morning sun. Stupid men. Stupid, brave, foolhardy men who thought nothing of risking their lives by going into the worst part of St. Giles and seeking out danger. She raised her fisted hand to her mouth and bit down hard on her knuckle.

  Sometimes losing their lives.

  She couldn’t bear another man lost to her. She’d go mad.

  The doctor gave a loud grunt behind her. “Very ill-advised, sir, to take the splint from your arm so soon. I cannot tell you how lucky you are not to have broken the wrist again.”

  Megs turned to find the doctor standing over a stoic-faced Godric, carefully rebinding his arm.

  “It’s not rebroken?” she asked.

&nb
sp; “No,” the doctor muttered. “But there will be swelling from where Mr. St. John … er … fell on it.” That had been the tale they’d told the man—despite the ridiculousness of that long cut coming from anything but a sword.

  She blew a breath out in relief. “And will it heal properly?”

  He gave a Gallic shrug. “Perhaps. Certainly not if Mr. St. John abuses it further.”

  “I shall make certain he does not, then,” Megs said determinedly, ignoring the wry look Godric sent her.

  The doctor fussed for another five minutes, by which time Godric was leaning back in his bed, obviously quite tired. Megs saw the doctor to the bedroom door and then returned to the bed where she was exasperated to find Godric struggling upright.

  “What are you doing?”

  He glanced up, his brows drawn together. “Rising.”

  “No,” she said, placing a hand on his chest and pushing down, “you are not. The doctor specified rest if that wrist is to heal.”

  He blinked up at her, a faint trace of amusement flashing in his eyes. She hadn’t exactly let him rest when he’d first returned home. Heat rose in her cheeks.

  But he replied gently, “Yes, my lady.”

  She eyed him suspiciously, but he had lain back down, his body relaxed. He really did look quite exhausted.

  Her heart contracted painfully.

  “Go to sleep,” she whispered, softly touching the bandages on his right arm. When had he come to mean so much to her?

  He closed his eyes, turned his head, and kissed her finger.

  She swallowed down the lump in her throat. The only chair in the room was the one by the desk, so she took it and moved it closer to the bed, ignoring Moulder’s look. Then she sat and watched Godric sleep.

  It may’ve been minutes or hours later when a gentle tap came at the bedroom door. It had been left cracked so that Her Grace could come and go as she pleased. Megs looked up to see Mrs. Crumb beckoning her.

  She glanced back at the bed, but Godric lay in deep slumber, so she rose and followed the housekeeper out of the room.