Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(96)

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.