Her arms still draped over his shoulders, and her breath was sweet, but Eden’s name on her lips made Tobias’s spine go rigid. He gripped her arms, yanking them from his neck and stepping back. He inhaled deeply, calming his nerves. He tried to focus on her eyes.
Stepping back from him, her expression shifted into mock horror. She made a show of covering herself up with her hands. Her silky flesh shined in the moonlight. Of course, she wasn’t really covering anything. “It’s so frightening being out here in the woods with a big strong man like you. I’m at your mercy.” She thrust out a hip, hands glancing over the curves of her breasts. Tobias wanted nothing more than to throw himself at her.
Look at her eyes, Tobias. His skin warmed. What were we talking about? A deal. “Do you want the deal, or not? You’re not the only demon I can conjure, you know.”
She dropped her hands, and he looked away. “We have a deal. But what will you do with him when I’ve drained him?”
“I’m going to kill him.”
She grimaced. “So predictable. I was hoping for a bit more creativity.” She turned, skulking away, her feet snapping over twigs as she walked. Her pale body disappeared into the dark trees. He had a sudden urge to plunge into the James to cool off.
The chorus of frogs droned louder. Tobias sheathed the athame, shoving it back in his pocket. He rubbed his arms, suddenly cold. A breeze from the river rushed through the trees, prickling his skin into goose flesh.
What things don’t I remember? He picked his way through the magnolia grove, trying to rub the tension from the back of his neck. It doesn’t matter what happened in the past. In the future, I kill Jack.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Thomas
Warm sunlight bathed Thomas’s skin as he stood outside the Tower of London. He was home again, his strange American nightmare over. With coffee in hand, he’d taken his usual walk past the streets with his favorite names—French Ordinary Court, Savage Gardens, Crutched Friars.
Leaning against a fence, he listened to the gentle murmuring of tourists who milled around the Traitor’s Gate. They talked of Anne Boleyn and Lady Jane Grey. The places of misery always drew the biggest crowds.
Twenty-one towers in all stood along the Thames, a fortress guarding the city for a thousand years. How many people had met early deaths here? There were beheadings before crowds, and torture in the basement of the White Tower. And in the Bowyer Tower, Richard III’s brother was drowned in a vat of Malmsey wine for his treasonous acts.
Thomas stared at the empty moat below, unable to rid his mind of the image of his own body in a rickety wooden boat, floating through the Traitor’s Gate. Why am I thinking about that? Something black swooped at him, and the sound of beating wings filled his ears. One of the tower’s ravens must have gotten loose, and it circled his head, pecking at his hair and forehead. He swatted at the bird, his hands flying up to defend himself. It soared away. But when he looked back at the moat, he saw a deep red liquid pouring from the Traitor’s Gate, like Malmsey wine filling the empty moat—or like blood.
Was this another hallucination? His heart skipped a beat, and he glanced around. The crowds were gone now, and the sky had darkened to an iron gray. Cold, dank air filled his lungs.
He gasped, opening his eyes. He lay on the stone floor of a dark cell, and something sharp poked through his shirt. A thick, scratchy bedding of dried rushes and rags covered almost the entire prison floor, and the room reeked of every kind of bodily fluid.
It was a large room, nearly empty apart from the messy floor. An iron-bound wooden door blocked the exit. Am I in the Tower? He rubbed his eyes, sitting up straight against a damp wall. With a sinking feeling, he made out Oswald’s form in the darkness. Maremount is no illusion. It’s as real as the damp stone behind my back.
His head still ached from where he’d been hit, and his throat was rough with thirst. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been imprisoned, but his rumbling stomach let him know he was overdue for a meal or two. He rose to peer out the window, and his legs nearly gave way as he took in his altitude. He and Oswald were in one of the central fortress towers that seemed to pierce the clouds. This must be the Iron Tower. In the darkness, he couldn’t see the ground below, just a ring of white stone towers through the fog. As he stared, the sky began to lighten to a dusty purple.
He turned, slumping against the wall again. From a window, morning light seeped into the cell, illuminating carvings that scarred the smooth stone. They were mostly names of prisoners who’d been locked here before: RAVELLIOR, MALCHIUS, URSULA.
One name stood out—MORELLA. It was carved above an empty fireplace in a large, ornate script with a herald above it—a sparrow surrounded by vines.
Pale, bluish light bathed the room, and Oswald shifted in the rushes. The boy had a straight nose, and a dimple in his chin. Thomas could imagine how pretty his sister Eden must have been before she’d been imprisoned. Oswald slung an arm over his eyes to shield them before forcing himself up, blinking. He scowled. “They caught us.”