Home > Evernight (Darkest London #5)

Evernight (Darkest London #5)
Author: Kristen Callihan

Kristen Callihan - Darkest London #5 - Evernight

Evernight (Darkest London #5)
Kristen Callihan




I never saw so sweet a face

As that I stood before.

My heart has left its dwelling-place

And can return no more.

—John Clare

The dream was always the same. Only it was not a dream but a memory, and his body knew it, reacting to the terror imprinted upon his very bones with the same infirm jerks as if responding to that long-ago torture. Trapped within his mind, he could not escape, but lay helpless as it came for him yet again.

Always the same. Strapped by gold chains to a trolley, he could not free himself as the vacant-eyed thug rolled him along. Overhead, coal-blackened stone arches drifted by, the bed beneath him bumping and rattling on ancient cobbles. His heart pounded, fear churning within his gut. But rage overshadowed everything. It made his fangs drop over the gag that cut into his lips. He held himself still, kept his wits about him. Ignore the fear. Focus.

He had a good idea who had him and why. He’d been careless, and loyal to someone who worked for the wrong side. Jack Talent. His best mate. And now he’d pay for helping him. And it would hurt.

The scent of blood and metal hit him before the doors opened. Then he was in a cavernous room, the stench of suffering rising to a cloying thickness. On the far side, a variety of saws and knives hung against the wall. His insides rolled. He struggled against his bonds, testing them for weaknesses. There were none, and his heart threatened to pound out of his chest.

He could almost tell himself it would be all right. Until the being walked up to him, dark power and insanity humming in the silence. Inky wings rose up from behind muscled shoulders. Fallen angel.

Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.

The fallen smiled down at him, a strange, almost paternal expression. Mad bastard. Cold fingers trailed along his cheek, sending shards of terror through him as they went.

“Mr. Thorne here has been telling tales to those who should not hear them.”

Thorne. That was his name. He hadn’t realized he’d forgotten it until the fallen had spoken. He’d been drugged. By someone who knew what to use on sanguis demons. He was William Thorne. And he was mired in a world of deep shit.

Will bucked, the gold bands cutting into his torso. Hot blood ran over his ice-cold flesh. He snarled against his gag, the sound ineffectual and small.

The fallen ignored him and walked over to a worktable set off to the side of the room. He picked up a long, ivory-handled bone saw.

And Will’s entire world stopped, his ears buzzing and his skin prickling. He could not look away from the saw—the dull, rusty saw. Bile rushed up his throat, burning and pooling in his mouth.

Slowly, and with great relish, the winged mad-fuck let the steel blade catch the light as he turned back towards Will.

A prayer old as Cain, and just as desperate, flew through his mind. His breathing grew rapid and raw. Desperation had him looking away. And then he spotted her.

An angel. Huddled on the floor. Eyes of twilight, raven black hair falling in a wild riot about her pale face, she was the most terribly beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Help me. Please. I beg of you. Surely an angel could destroy a fallen.

But she did not move. She merely stared at him without a trace of emotion. Will ought not be surprised. He was a being of Hell, not of Heaven. How could he expect an angel to come to his rescue? Still, he tried. Please. Please. I am not so very vile. He was, but surely she would have pity.

“Shall we try our newest creation?” the fallen asked her with soft menace.

Betrayal slammed through Will so hard he cried out.

The angel came to her feet, and he heard clattering.

“Stop.” Her voice was cold, mechanical. “We haven’t chloroform.”

Not an angel, but one of the fallen’s pets. Will gagged, his vision going blurry, and he fought once more for his freedom.

“Not to worry,” came the voice of the fallen, “it will not affect the procedure.”

When the fallen bent over him, the bone saw in his hand, Will lost all control, bucking so hard that the trolley rocked. He strained until his muscles tore with white-hot agony. He did not stop.

“Come now, Mr. Thorne. I am giving you a gift. Blood such as you’ve never tasted, a bit of my power, the gift of shadow. Should you survive, you will possess a body stronger than you could imagine.”

Fuck you.

“Ingrate,” snarled the fallen as if he’d read Will’s thoughts. Good.

Hard hands came down upon him. A metal tube smashed between his teeth. Blood, thick and delicious, poured over his tongue and down his throat. Will almost laughed. Ironic that he should have such a glorious last meal. Instantly his pain dulled, the muscles along his arms and torso itching as they knitted. Dark magic. Jack’s blood.

It did not stop his panic.

The ragged blade tore through his flesh. White colored his vision, and he screamed. And screamed. Agony clawed through him as the saw hacked at his sternum. He became pain.

The fallen’s voice sliced through it all. “Come, Miss Evernight, and see your creation be born.”

Evernight, Will thought wildly, his mind needing something to latch onto. And then he saw her, standing at his side, a motionless statue, her dark blue eyes watching his pain with detachment.

When they ripped out his heart, and he finally succumbed to blissful oblivion, he held onto one thing: his hate for his tormentor and the one with the angel’s face and the devil’s mind. Evernight.

Chapter One

London, October, 1886

She was being hunted. Of that Holly was sure. Heart beating a hard rhythm against her ribs, she lay still and silent upon her bed and waited. All was quiet, save the wind, which rustled the leaves on the tree near the house. The silver disk of the moon, shining bright against the ink-black sky, peeked past the corner of her window. And somewhere out there, something stalked her. She could feel it coming for her, the certainty of it like a heavy hand pressing upon her heart.

Odd thing to be hunted when one could barely work up the courage to leave one’s house. Rather like a rabbit hunkered down in her warren, waiting for the fox. Then again, she wasn’t quite so helpless. Her home was built like a fortress. And, up until now, her safeguards had worked.

Last week, the electrified inner fence had fried a demon to a crisp. The foul stench of burnt flesh had hung over Mayfair like a pall, drifting into the house to permeate the drapes despite the tightly closed windows and thick, reinforced stone walls. Holly wondered absently what her neighbors made of the smell. But, before the body had even a chance to cool, Felix had deftly taken care of it, leaving no one the wiser.

The week before, Nan had found an elemental male—rather rare—decapitated on the south lawn near the kitchen doors, the victim of a tripwire that triggered a swinging blade designed to catch the unwary across the neck. As for Nan? The pragmatic cook-housekeeper-et-al had merely searched for his head and found it by a mound of ice. So he’d had the power to freeze. Hadn’t helped him keep his head, however.

Anxiety tightened Holly’s gut and robbed her of sleep. Someone wanted her dead. And she did not know who. Or why.

She could contact the SOS. It was the duty of The Society for the Suppression of Supernaturals, or SOS, to hunt down supernaturals who preyed on others. But then regulators would be swarming her grounds in an effort to protect her. And while she admired and missed her colleagues, she did not want them invading her privacy. Worse, she would be forced to explain to Director Lane why she wasn’t capable of returning to her work quite yet. Poppy Lane would see through her hedging and misdirection in an instant. And that really was too humiliating to contemplate.

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