Had he ever bothered to remain so tender, he might have had Emma’s loyalty, instead of a young queen who would eventually insult her past bearing.
She sought to speak. Nothing came out–of course, she was gagged and silenced. A trickle of saliva slid from the corner of her cruelly bound mouth, pooling under her cheek. She could feel splintered wood underneath her, a hard surface holding her up from the floor. From the wet sound he made when he moved, she supposed she should be grateful.
“And she recognises me,” he croaked. No wonder he had gone about muffled up to solicit the Coachman’s initial victims. “You should see your expression, darling one.”
Her brain began to race, furiously. The beginning of the Plague affair; she had felt another Prime in Victrix’s receiving room. She had assumed–oh, how Clare would chide her for that!–it was one of Victrix’s creatures, as she herself had been. The sense afterwards she had of being watched, the unseen hand that had aided her in unravelling the whole affair… of course, he would have wanted her safe and whole for his own plans. How he must have laughed. Perhaps he knew she did not possess the other Stone at this moment. Did he guess? What could he know?
The most likely solution was that he had bargained somewhat with Thin Meg. Or found some means to exert some pressure upon that unlovely creature.
What could such a Prime, who had been torn apart by his own sorcery after his erstwhile lover had literally stabbed him from behind, not accomplish, if he possessed the will to rebuild his shattered body?
The pain must have been incredible. She had found only bleached bones scattered about the tower in Wales where he had sought to bring one of the Timeless to the surface. Had some of them been his, twitching towards each other as he gathered strength?
What must he have felt?
“I have followed your career with much interest.” His teeth had regrown, straight and pearly. His lips were scarred, but the scars would no doubt recede, given enough time. As his body regrew he would no doubt shed the Alterations. Had he performed them himself? The Transubstantive exercises would surely yield to his patience, if not his skill or Discipline. “You broke my heart, you know.”
Oh, I doubt that. You were dallying with that French tart and later with Rudyard, while you amused yourself with me. Had you been honest, we might have made an agreement. And had you not accused me of a hand in said tart’s death, I may have forgiven you. She calmed her pulse, drew in what air she could slowly and deeply. Thankfully the sorcerous restraints kept her nose clear; he did not wish her to suffocate.
Yet, she reminded herself.
“Do you wonder why I have not simply killed you outright?” His chin bobbed as he nodded, fat snakes of his matted hair brushing his shoulders with avid little whispers. “You have been well guarded for a very long time. That thing you keep as a Shield, oh, my dear. Quite resourceful, and quite dangerous.” He smiled fully, a tear in his cheek widening before sealing itself with a wet sound. “But that is not the reason. I have plans for you, my love. Wonderful plans. I am going to give you a gift.” The smile widened. “And then,” Llewellyn Gwynnfud continued, “you will give me the world.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Once The Temptation Is Large Enough
The tiny little court growing from Dorsitt Street was crammed with bluecoated bobbies and others, jostling and elbowing. It was better than the crush outside, where it seemed every criminal, unfortunate, or poor tradesman in Londinium had come to gawk. Aberline’s authority carried them to a hacked-apart door guarded by a very pale young man in bluecloth. There was a large wet stain to one side of the door, and a broken window.
Clare’s heart sank. He shook off sentiment, steeled himself, and peered into the darkness.
Beside him, Pico made a strangled noise. The lad turned, fumbled past the bobby, and heaved just where a similar viewer of the scene had, right onto the wet reeking splash that should have been covered by Scab.
The lad’s eyes had been better than his. He took two uncertain steps, lifting the lanthorn one of the Yard men outside had surrendered to Aberline.
There was a low punky glow from the fireplace. The kettle on the hob had melted, warped by unimaginable heat.
Beside him, Aberline cursed softly. There was a rancid burp rising in Clare’s throat, he denied it.
Behind them, Mikal’s step was soundless, but his presence pushed against Clare’s back, along with prickles of gooseflesh.
The glimmers described…
Long dark curling hair, knocked free of its womanly confinement. Nakedness, indecent enough, but the gaping hole and shredded flesh… flayed thighs, the white gleaming of bone, the marks where a dexterous knife had dug in and the thing had feasted… feasted upon…
Control yourself, Clare. He realised, quite calmly, that he had handed the lanthorn to Aberline. Crazy shadows danced over the rotting walls. There was a hole in one corner of the room, the floorboard wrenched up.
He found his busy fingers working his left glove off.
There was very little that could shock or disgust a mentath. He realised, foggily, that he had perhaps found one way to do so. His faculties shivered under the assault, and he was very, very close to becoming a useless, porridge-brained idiot.
He brought his left hand to his mouth and bit in, savagely.
The pain of teeth in flesh was a bright arrow, striking the centre of his brain. It shocked him into some manner of rationality, and he found himself with a mouthful of bloody saliva, staring at the battered body on the bed.
Aberline had said something. Mikal’s reply was a short, grating curse. The Shield had approached the bed, his shoulders rigid, and bent closer. How he could stand to have his face so near the…
Clare bit down again. It worked, but only just. He blinked, furiously, shutterclicks of dim, roseate light striking him as fists. The face had been stabbed, cheeks laid open, the teeth…
Wait.
Mikal’s gaze met his. The Shield had turned from the bed, and the colourless sizzle around him was rage.
The teeth. They were not pearly little perfect white soldiers standing on their curved, rosebud-pink hills. They were discoloured, one or two under the opened flaps of cheekflesh decayed. The shape of the ear he could see was wrong as well, and it bore no hurtful little mark of piercing for bright earrings to dangle from.
The relief threatened to do what the sight of the body had not, and drive him to his knees. He swayed, the lanthorn swinging crazily again as Aberline caught his arm.
The hand that lay curiously unmarked to one side was small and delicate, but it was not soft, nor did it bear the indentation of rings. Chapped and reddened, it was a hand that had seen much weather and some measure of hard work.
His faculties, shocked, began functioning again. “Ah.” He cleared his throat, again, and the smell struck him. The bowels had been opened… had the creature eaten them, too, and whatever offal they contained?
How very interesting.
Mikal read his expression, and the Shield actually staggered as well. When he regained his equilibrium, he strode across the room. He brushed past Clare like a burning wind, sparing Aberline only the briefest of glances, and halted in the doorway.
“Mentath?”
Clare found his voice. “It is… it is not. Her. It is not her.”