Moonglow (Darkest London 2)

Beside them, Ian snapped to attention. “Where? When?”

Miranda straightened. “I don’t know. He’s alive but just barely. Archer is with him.” She turned back to Daisy, and her eyes glistened. For a moment, she looked like the little girl who used to follow Daisy and Poppy round the house, wanting to play. Their little sister, who was as annoying as she was dear. “Daisy, I’m so afraid for Poppy. If she loses Winston…”

Daisy’s insides clenched. Winston Lane meant everything to Poppy.

Chapter Thirty

Truth, it seemed, hurt. And Winston hurt. All over he hurt. A screaming, fiery pain that ate at the left side of his face and ripped into his arm and chest.

Winston tried to breathe and gurgled on his own blood instead, a salty, metallic sludge that made him gag.

“Easy, darling. Easy.” A cool hand touched his.

He fought a sob. Poppy. Her voice. Her touch. So familiar to him, it was like coming home. Home. Perhaps he was. The air was warm here, no longer cold and dank, the surface beneath him soft, not the uneven hardness of that dark lane where…

His hand lashed out, remembering the thing that attacked, the razor-sharp claws that tore into him.

A hand grabbed him, strong and steady. “Do not move. This is hard enough work as it is.”

Who was it? His mind raced for the answer. Dark voice. Deep. A liar. Something tugged at his face, pulling at his cheek. He stiffened.

“Win,” Poppy again. “Be still and let Archer sew you up.”

Archer. That bastard. Fire burned over his skin and down his throat. They were all lying bastards.

“Sher—Sheridan?” He had to know.

“Knocked out cold,” came Archer’s detached voice. “Beyond having a bump on his head, he’ll live.”

Winston shifted, wanting to get away from the voice that seemed to haunt him with some unwelcome memory.

“Christ, there he goes again. Poppy, if you would.”

Poppy’s hands came down on his shoulders. “Win. Easy. Please.”

He calmed because she asked him to and lay quiet as the pinch-pull at his face continued.

Water tinkled in a basin. And then came the cool feel of it along his neck and chest.

“Oh, Win.” Poppy’s voice, so soft. “Win, we’ll see you well. We will.”

He tried to focus. Slowly, the hazy outline of a head formed, a fiery nimbus of scarlet hair. Her severe brows were drawn tight. Poppy. His Hellenistic beauty, so strong and clean. His Boadicea, for he had thought of the goddess the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, fearing he’d never have a chance to win the fierce beauty who kept the world at bay with a glare.

Poppy. His wife, his one true partner. She’d never lied to him. Not her.

She leaned in close, her expression tender, though nothing could fully gentle the strength of her features. “Rest easy, Win,” she said. “It is almost over.”

Save it was just the beginning. The anchor of that knowledge fell upon his chest, dragging him down. His gaze came to rest on the glint of the gold chain she wore about her neck, the pendant well-hidden, as always, beneath her collar. But he knew its contours so well he could draw it in minute detail from memory.

That pendant, the tiny bit of gold fashioned into a goddess whose winged arms lifted up to form an arc like those of a phoenix rising. How many times had he seen it? Hell, he’d taken it between his teeth when Poppy rode him, her lithe body rising and falling above him, pert br**sts bouncing in maddening rhythm. God, it made him crazed with lust when they made love in that manner.

He stared at the chain now, his hand curling tighter over the object he’d kept clutching since he’d torn it off his savior’s cloak. Metal bit into his skin, a taunt. His eyes lifted to his wife’s, and he saw her confusion and hesitation. Slowly he let his grip relax, and the little charm clattered to the floor at his side.

Poppy’s eyes went to it and then flew to his. For it was the same charm. How well he remembered the first time she’d let him see it, during the first time they’d made love. How she quoted the poet Apuleius: I am nature, the universal Mother, mistress of all the elements, primordial child of time, sovereign of all things spiritual, queen of the dead, queen of the ocean, queen also of the immortals…

Winston had never questioned why Poppy wore the charm. He figured it a fancy born from her love of books and myth. Now, as he held her gaze and saw her tremble, he could only look away. He closed his eyes to her, for he’d seen in her what he inevitably saw in everyone: a liar.

Ian was not surprised when Archer joined him on the steps leading to the garden terrace where he’d gone to wait, not wanting to interfere with Daisy and her sisters’ shared grief. Ian wanted to leave Archer House altogether. Hell, he wanted to haul Daisy back in his coach and finish what they’d started.

If he weren’t a randy bastard, he’d have admitted to being worried about the inspector. In truth, he rather liked Lane. Or at the least, respected him.

Ian stood and snubbed out the cheroot he’d been idly smoking in an effort to distract himself.

“I’ve a theory that smoking bodes ill for one’s health,” Archer said.

Ian gave a short laugh. “Seeing as I’ll live forever, I will forgo that worry.”

The man beside him chuckled in turn. “An excellent point.”

“And anyway, you are the one who looks like hell.”

Worry flickered in Archer’s eyes, and Ian’s hackles rose, but the look disappeared. Archer’s mouth twisted in a parody of a smile. “It’s been a long night.”

“Tell me about Lane.” Ian might have assisted, but Archer had the matter well in hand by the time he and Daisy had arrived. Quite frankly, Ian doubted his wolf could cope with the overwhelming scent of blood and mad werewolf mixed together without turning Ian into a snarling beast.

Archer let out a tired sigh and rubbed the back of his neck. “Extensive damage to the left side of the face, left arm, and anterior torso. Four particularly nasty incisions across the face, one that nearly bisected the masseter.”

The masseter muscle being necessary if a man wanted to chew. “Christ.”

“I got it all sewn.” Tired lines bracketed Archer’s mouth. “Thank Christ he was out then, or it would have been a mess.” Archer took the cheroot Ian offered him with little more than a quirk of his lips.

When it was lit and blue smoke perfumed the night, he continued. “Must have put over a hundred stitches in the poor bastard. If he survives the shock and possible infection, he’ll be significantly scarred.”

They hung their heads for a moment, and Ian felt the tips of his claws threatening to break free. He wanted to tear into the beast that did this. Unbidden, he thought of Daisy and went cold.

“How did you find him?” Ian asked.

Archer finally turned his eyes to Ian. His expression grew tight and weary. “That’s the strangest bit of all. He found us. Gilroy answered a knock at the door, and there he was, unconscious and a bloody mess.”

Ian frowned, looking off into the garden. Who would have brought the inspector here? More importantly, how did he survive? Ian knew enough about his kind to understand that a full-on attack would only end when the victim’s throat was torn out.

Tense silence filled the space between them. Was it ever going to fade? Did he want it to? Ian had been so angry with his old friend for so long that there were times he couldn’t remember how or why it had started. And then all Archer had to do was come near him, and Ian wanted to rip him apart, rage and the feeling of betrayal threatening to consume him.

Standing beside the man now, Ian experienced an odd discomfort. Though it filled his mouth with bitterness, he knew the feeling to be remorse. Point of fact, he missed his friend. Disgusted in himself, he kicked at a loose pebble on the edge of the stairs.

Archer’s voice broke through the quiet. “As to Daisy”—he dropped his cheroot and stamped it out—“she may want to stay—”

“She stays with me.”

Archer’s gray eyes widened as he looked back at Ian. “You’re falling for her.”

Ian’s back teeth met. “You think it impossible?”

“Not impossible, nor surprising. Simply inadvisable.”

Ian’s temper flared, tightening his gut and making his wolf rise. “I believe I said the same to you a while back.” And damn if his meddling wasn’t coming back to bite him in the arse. “It did not appear to change your course of action.”

The man refused to be cowed. “She’s mortal.”

Two simple words. And more than enough to lash him. Ian cursed and turned away. His fist curled with the urge to strike. Ice filled his veins. Christ. Unwelcome memories filled his mind like sticky pitch. Each beat of his heart hurt as he closed his eyes, trying to block the flood of images, but they came regardless. Una’s once smooth face lined with winkles, her once bright eyes dull when she looked upon him. Do not touch me, Ian. I cannot look at you without thinking of what I once was. Please leave me. I cannot stand the sight of you.

His feelings, his hurt had no longer mattered. Ian dragged a breath through his clenched teeth. And another. The wolf inside him whined, circling and cowing. A plea. Aye, he knew better than anyone how stupid it was to want Daisy. Yet everything in him screamed in protest at the thought of giving her up.

Una’s words continued to taunt him, pricking at his conscience. It was a mistake, Ian.

Dizzy, he placed a hand on the balustrade and felt his claws sink in deep. A black hole of despair opened up before him, threatening to suck him down. He knew with crystal clarity what his life would be like without Daisy in it, because he had lived it for the past eighty years. He might as well fall into that hole now and end it if that was the way of things.

Archer’s voice cut through his nightmare. “While I was fool enough to act without fully understanding the consequences. You do understand. You’ve lived it, man. Don’t go back there. Don’t be a fool.”

Ian whirled around. “I’ll not have judgment from you!”

“Why? When you’ve judged me for years.” He took a step into Ian’s space and pointed a finger at him. Ian’s wolf growled, itching to release its claws and fangs, but Archer did not back down. “It was never about you, Ian. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“You knew how I felt about immortality. You knew the damage it had done to me and still you sought it.” Ian slashed at the granite balustrade beside him, his claws slicing through the stone with a satisfying scrape. He’d let Archer in, revealing the pain he hadn’t the courage to show another soul. “You threw my suffering in my face.”

Even in the dark, Ian could see the dull red wash over Archer’s cheekbones. “I never meant it to be like that. And you know it.”

“Did you not? And what of introducing my father to that mad fiend?”

Archer had brought Ian’s father into West Moon Club, a secret society of fellow noblemen obsessed with immortality. They soon got their wish when Victoria, a female demon claiming to be an angel of light, found them. She had promised them immortality if they drank an elixir, not realizing that in so doing, they would become like her, destined to crave the light of human souls. A mindless monster.

Ian’s claws punctured his own palms. The bite of pain spurred him on. “You knew my father was unhinged when it came to his quest for power and still you lured him with promises of untold strength.”

Not being satisfied with the immortality granted to all lycan, Ian’s father, Alasdair, had wanted more. More power, the impenetrable strength of a god. When he realized what Victoria truly was, he had wanted to leave. Victoria tried to burn Alasdair alive and succeeded in scarring him for life. And while Ian couldn’t truly blame Archer for Alasdair’s faults, he could blame the man for preying on them. “The worst of it is, that when I tried to warn you off, you told me to take a piss.”

“And what of you?” Archer snapped. “When I turned to you for help after I’d changed, who told me to take a piss then? Christ, you tried to steal my wife out from under me!”

Ian’s outrage deflated under that inescapable truth. He suddenly felt all of his one hundred and thirty years. His mouth quirked as he looked at his oldest friend. “Fine. We’re both jackasses. You want to have a go and beat the shite out of each other, or call pax?”

Archer’s hard expression eased. “You’re only saying that because you can finally beat me.”

“ ‘Finally.’ ” Ian snorted. “I could have beaten you before if you hadn’t ambushed me when I was piss drunk.”

Archer grinned. “That’s your excuse, is it?”

“Prat.”

They were silent for a moment before Archer glanced at him. “Does she make the risk worth it?”

Despite the years they’d been at odds, they still understood each other perfectly. Ian didn’t hesitate to answer.

“It isn’t a matter of choice, Benjamin.”

The other man sighed. “It never is.”

Chapter Thirty-one

He won’t look at me.” Poppy’s words held the strength of smoke. Her lips trembled, and she pressed them together so tightly they went white.

Daisy cast a glance at Miranda, whose eyes creased with the same concern that Daisy felt. They had never seen their sister weak. She was their mountain: solid, unmovable. Now she sat listless in a chair by the hearth in Miranda’s sitting room.

Winston slept in a room down the hall, watched over, for the moment, by Tuttle, who’d come from Northrup’s house to serve as nurse. The woman fussed about, checking for fever and administering various concoctions, along with a liberal application of her ointment in an attempt to stave off infection.