Evernight (Darkest London 5)

One either fought against nature, or accepted it. For too long, Will had fought against being a crawler, never truly utilizing the power it gave him. Until Evernight’s life had been in danger. It had been too close, and he’d waited too long to let his shadow go. Never again would he fail her. Will decided to embrace what he was. With acceptance, came control. For the first time, his shadow had a mind capable of cold and cunning thought. He called forth skills he’d left unused for long enough. And he hunted. The Nex thought themselves safe from his wrath. That they could control him, harm what was his. They thought wrong. He slid into their den, the safe haven of the elders. They didn’t see him coming, didn’t have a chanc.

Will spread his shadow wide, covering the ceiling of their underground lair. And then he descended. Blood, screams, terror. Aldous Nex died first. And then the others. They struggled as he engulfed them in a tornado of fangs and claws. Without a purely physical body, he could not be struck down. And he moved with a speed that insured they didn’t have the chance to try. He left them all dead. Shredded beyond recognition. Those who remained in the Nex would see the devastation he’d wrought her.

And they’d know: one did not touch Will Thorne’s woman and liv.

When he was done, he returned to her, flowing into her room and under her covers. And though she slept, she turned to him, her body warm and pliant. He held her until his pain ebbed and the sky turned to pale grey. Only then did he leave her, fearful that she would wake and reject him once more.

Chapter Sixteen

Tuesday evening found Holly standing in the hall outside of Thorne’s door. Dithering. There was no other word for it. It pained her to think of the callous words she’d tossed at Thorne, fear and the sharp need to put a distance between them making her needlessly cruel. She’d mucked things up between them, and now everything felt off kilter and wrong. With all of her being, she wished she could take back what she’d said to him, or simply take back the moment of weakness when she’d kissed him. Deep in the secret corners of her heart, she wanted William Thorn.

Wanted to again feel his heat, taste his flavor, lose herself in him. But she knew an experiment doomed to failure when she saw on.

Holly could not give Thorne her body without eventually giving him her heart as well. He lived for frivolity and pleasur.

She lived to work and… Well, she didn’t precisely like that vein of thought. It made his life appear more enjoyabl.

While hers was what? Cold. Lonely. But work was all she had. Without the SOS, her work would di.

There was no place for a lady scientist in the misogynistic world of normal, human society. So she had done what was necessary, and drew a line in the sand between them, assuring that he would neither expect nor want any further intimacies with her again. Holly’s fingers curled into a fist, and she rested it upon the glossy, black wood door. Her reasoning didn’t matter. Logic and emotion were two different beasts. Emotions had been engaged between her and Thorn.

And she had bruised his. She needed to apologiz.

She was better than this. But on the next breath, the door swung open, making her stumble forward. Thorne looked down at her as though she were slightly daft, then glanced about the hall as if checking for possible spies. He was dressed for an outing and far too attractive for her equilibrium. His gaze cut back to her. “Good,” he said briskly. “I want to talk to you.” Before she could utter a word, he caught hold of her elbow and tugged her into his room. Once inside, he let her go, and Holly, beset with nerves, drifted over to the settee where the morning post lay upon the seat. A pot of chocolate sat on the table, the sight so homey that she almost smiled. Thorne glanced at her, and his lips compressed in a defiant gestur.

“I killed them.” Holly’s head snapped up. “Pardon?” He gestured with his chin towards the newspaper. There, in bold black, proclaimed Grisly Slaughter in Wapping! Nine Dead—Possibly More! With numb hands, Holly lifted the paper and read about the discovery of several body parts—all that was left—within a wine cellar located at the docks. The bodies had only been found because their blood had seeped under the cellar door to run in a crimson river along the gutters. Thorne’s voice cut through the silenc.

“I found that my response to the Nex’s offer was not forceful enough.” The paper drifted from her hands, scattering upon the floor in ink-smudged sheets. “They were Nex?” “Elders,” he said crisply. Good God, how had he done it? She realized she didn’t want to know. His expression shifted between wariness and reassuranc.

“At any rate, the Nex, what is left of them, will no longer come after you.” His lashes lowered, hiding his eyes. “I told you I’d see to your safety.” He’d done this mass murder for her. It was staggering, humbling. And it frightened her more than a littl.

Holly’s breath hitched. “Thorne, I don’t know what to—” “Do not say anything,” he cut in with a wave of his hand. As if destroying the entire head of an organization that had plagued the SOS for a century was nothing but a slight diversion of his tim.

“We’ve far more important things to discuss.” She stared at him for a moment, her limbs refusing to move, and her heart a lead weight within her chest. At her silence, he lifted his head. The look in his onyx eyes pleaded with her to let it go. Being a coward, she took the easy way out. “Very well,” she said, as though her insides weren’t shaking. “Tell me your plan for this evening.” Thorne outlined his plan for their trip to Kettil’s Cauldron in vague sketches and weighty warnings. Holly needed to do exactly as he said, for they were going into “his world” now, and there was no margin for error. Master of the obvious, was Thorn.

And she was to wear a costume of his choosing. Holly complied without kicking up a fuss because, in part, she was sensible and knew he was correct. But mostly because that niggle of guilt for rejecting him had wormed through her, burrowing under her skin and making her twitchy. So she held her tongue and complied with Thorne’s directives. That did not mean she had to enjoy the experienc.

Or that she did not want to knock the supercilious expression off his face while he informed her of his plan. But she kept her dignity and went to her rooms to dress. The gown Thorne had sent up was, in short, atrocious. One could see that right off. It was hard not to, since the bloody thing was made of a garish red silk that all but shouted “look at me” from its plain brown box. Holly might have borne a rich crimson or a deep scarlet. But no, this was a bright, vivid red, the color of new blood. It fit her well enough—too well in truth. Which was the second part of the problem. Starting with thin strips that clung precariously to her shoulders, the bodice dipped down low, curving like the top of an insipid Valentine’s heart over her bosom. Her br**sts had no place to hide, but sat like an offering, two little mounds that jiggled with every step she took. Her face flamed as she looked down at herself. How very horrid. One deep breath and she would likely pop free and disgrace herself. The skirt was of the same flashy red silk with an intricately folded train and bustle, trimmed in black lac.

Holly never truly understood the fad for bustles, but she had once overheard that men viewed them as an enticement, the large swaying fabric drawing their eye and making them think all sorts of lurid thoughts about that part of a woman’s anatomy. Men, she thought, could go hang. One man in particular. Stomping out with as little grace as she could manage, Holly found Thorne waiting for her in the front hall. With each step she took, his smile grew, until it was wide and boyish with unfettered glee, his dour mood apparently forgotten like last season’s gun model. “There she is,” he announced in an almost sing-song manner, “my little devil lass, looking like a vision from Hell.” Coming from a demon, she supposed that was a compliment. It did not quell the urge to hit him square on his elegant nos.

Unlike her, he was perfectly kitted out as a gentleman ought to be, with a silver-satin waistcoat and expertly cut black frock coat and trousers. When she stopped before him, his gaze turned obsidian, and he let it travel over her in perusal. “You are transformed, Evernight.” His voice was deeper now, rough and tumbl.

“A visual feast.” Well then, far better than a literal feast. Holly fought the urge to step back and cross her arms over her br**sts. “You are enjoying this, aren’t you?” The smug grin stayed put. “Immensely.” When she scowled, he laughed. “Oh, come now. Surely the gown isn’t so horrible?” “ ‘Horrible’ doesn’t even begin to describe it.” She tugged on her gloves—fingerless, black lace ones that women in mourning favored, but when paired with her red gown they felt like a sin. “I look like a doxy. And not even a well-turned-out courtesan, but a cheap, Covent Garden light skirt.” His glee merely intensified. “You’d rather be mistaken for a courtesan?” “At least they have some air of mystery and aplomb.” Holly waved a hand over her figur.

“This all but screams, ‘three penny upright for hire!’ ” His laugh was booming. “Ah, now, Miss Evernight,” he slung an arm over her shoulders as though they were old mates, “I’d say you are vastly underrating your appeal.” When she moved to pull away, he merely held her more securely against his sid.

“Nor are you considering that ‘cheap doxy’ is precisely how we want you to be perceived.” She succeeded in shrugging him off. “You, Mr. Thorn.

How you want me to be perceived. Do not pull me down to your level.” Unfazed, he led her not to the door but in the direction of the small formal parlor to the right of them. “I rather think spending time down on my level would do you a world of good. Come,” he said, “before we go, I need to speak to you in private.” He glanced yet again at her bodice and ran the tip of his tongue over one fang. Holly gave him a repressive glar.

“The sight has not changed in the last few moments, Mr. Thorne.” “Which is why I keep looking,” he said lightly. “The fit is perfect.” As if he were merely being helpful by pointing that out. Holly refrained from rolling her eyes. Given the carnage he was capable of wreaking, she ought to be afraid of him. Yet she was not. She felt utterly safe with him. “Yes. As to the fit, how did you manage to ascertain my measurements?” Fangs flashed in the dim light. “My darling, I’ve held you in my arms. How could I not—” He broke off with a laugh as she strode away from him. “I was teasing, lov.

I simply took one of your gowns with me to the dressmaker’s.” Obviously, his tone implied. “Very clever of you,” Holly finally admitted. “There,” he said, looking pleased. “Was it so very hard to give me a compliment?” When she was stuck in this costume? Yes. She stopped in the middle of the parlor. This room had been decorated by her grandmother, who favored delicate furniture gilded and covered in pale pink satin. Cream damask papered the walls, and china shepherdesses stood guard on the pink marble mantl.

Her grandfather often said this room gave him gas, for which he’d earn a light cuff on his arm by her annoyed but smiling grandma. It was a known fact that Eamon and Lucinda Evernight were like oil and water when it came to tastes, yet somehow they still managed to get along famously. Holly stood in her grandmother’s domain, suddenly missing her grandparents tremendously, and crossed her arms over her swelling bodic.

“Well,” she said to Thorne, who looked as out of place in this room as her grandfather did. “What is it you need to say?” He did not answer, for he was busy gaping around, his tall, black frame a sharp blade amongst the soft colors. “I picked this room because it was the closest,” he muttered, “but hells bells, it’s like walking into a pink nightmare.” He shuddered and turned to her. “I have the sudden fear that I might be attacked by dozens of French poodles.” Holly’s lips twitched. “Focus, Mr. Thorne.” “I’m trying. It’s simply unnerving.” He glared over his shoulder. “Are those putti carved upon the lintels?” His lip curled at the cherubic winged babies smiling back. She bit the inside of her mouth. “Yes.” “What man in his right mind would allow a room such as this in his domain?” He’d said it to himself more than anything, but Holly bristled all the sam.

“A man who understood that this home isn’t solely his domain. A man who loved his wife and knew it would please her.” When Thorne made a face, a huff of amusement left her. “You scowl at love as though it were a dirty word, Mr. Thorne.” He laughed at that, the sound dark and weary. “A foreign word, more lik.

I have never been loved. And the only being I have ever felt that tender emotion for was my mother, who treated me as though I were an asp waiting to strik.

So no,” he said a little sadly, “I do not understand the finer nuances of lov.

But I know it exists, that it is something to covet and protect. Even if it eludes me.” Something she could not name punched through her belly. It felt quite a bit like guilt, but worse, like loneliness and empathy. The fine curve of his lips lifted at the corners as he looked her over. “Now who is frowning? You thought I didn’t believe in love or wanted anything to do with it, didn’t you?” Holly balked, feeling her cheeks burn. He was absolutely correct; she had thought that. Slowly Thorne shook his head, as if amused at her reaction, then he caught sight of the room once more, and the thin blade of his nose wrinkled. With a mutter about losing one’s appetite, he strode forward, stopping just before her. He looked her over, and an emotion that appeared to be apprehension clouded his expression. Her heart started to beat faster. She’d never known Thorne to be hesitant. Thorne licked his lips—a quick, nervous action. “This place we are going, Kettil’s Cauldron, the dodgy bit is that only supernaturals may enter.” “I am a supernatural.” His lips quirked. “In my world, love, elementals are far too human to be considered true supernaturals. They do not possess the potential for true immortality. Thus, they do not signify.” Lovely. She placed her hands upon her hips. “Well then, what do you suggest?” For she knew Thorne would have a plan. He licked his lips again, his features drawing taut. “You may, however, enter as my esculent.” “Your what?” Outrage had her voice rising. The curved line of his mouth flattened. “It is merely a term. It means—” “I know what it means, Mr. Thorne.” That she was edibl.