Every nerve shrieked with pain as he rose from the bed. He peeled off his shirt, which reeked from weeks of wear. At least he could stand now, even though pain still speared his gut.
He dipped a small towel in a bowl of soapy water that stood on the bedside table. Three antique clocks hung on the walls, none of them functioning. Jack had only been able to tell the time by the faint light glowing through the windows’ aged glass.
Warm water trickled down his bare chest as he washed his upper body of caked dirt and sweat. Wincing, he gazed at the network of scars that spread over his abdomen. That contemptible Fury had nearly ruined him.
Just another thing to fix when he found the relic—assuming the succubus could tell him anything. George had been infuriatingly coy, coming by Jack’s room only to feed him chunks of human flesh. On the subject of the relic, he’d said nothing. Jack knew only that the hag’s name was Amauberge.
With trembling arms, he pulled on the silk shirt George had left out for him. This was the first time he’d managed to stand since arriving here. Dizzy, he swayed, and an image blazed in his mind of Elizabeth, walking naked through Salem’s dirt streets. He could imagine Fiona doing the same. How soft her flesh must be, and how delicious it would taste, the blood rich and salty in his mouth…
He shook his head. Disgusting. Sure, he needed to eat a real, living human. But not Fiona.
He would fix this, too, of course. When he rewrote the spell that had created the world, he would rid himself of this vile appetite and resurrect each person he’d killed. He could hardly remember them all, but he’d do what he could. He’d make a list. His first meal had been three young prostitutes in Boston’s Mount Whoredom, with full breasts and rosy cheeks.
“Jack!” George’s voice bellowed through the wooden halls.
“I’ll be right there.” He was still half dead. A little patience would be appreciated. His arms throbbed as he buttoned up his white shirt before an armoire’s mirror, gazing at his porcelain skin and blue eyes. At least he still looked good with his clothes on. He ran his hands over his shirt, the fabric smooth under his fingers.
“Jack!” George’s voice boomed. “My lovely bride is waiting! And your new companion!”
New companion. He didn’t care who she might be, but the succubus was another matter. He knew how succubi worked. They were creatures of lust, and the better he looked, the more likely she would be to spill her secrets. He tucked in his shirt, gazing down at his bare feet. To hell with the shoes. Bending over would be agony. This would have to do.
He padded through a dark, narrow hallway, glancing at the stalled brass clocks hanging on the sage-green walls.
Running his fingers through his black curls, he stepped into a candlelit room to find George sitting with two women—the succubus, and a ginger mortal whose terror was palpable. She looked vaguely familiar, though he avoided staring.
George, grinning, rose from a chair at the end of the long table. “Welcome. I’m so happy that you’re well enough to meet my wife, Amauberge.”
The succubus sat across from him, stunning in a crimson gown. Her posture was awkward, arms pinioned behind her back. “We’ve met, of course. Tobias sent me to drain you of your life force. He wanted you weak when he fought you. And I’m so glad he did. I’ll never forget the taste of your agony.”
“I told you not to speak of that,” George snapped.
Amauberge was a prisoner here. Gods below. I’m not a monster like George, am I? “Of course, I wasn’t conscious when we met.” Jack gave a quick bow, wincing at the pain in his gut. “But I’m so glad you enjoyed my sorrow.”
Her eyes roved over his body. “You were delectable. Such a pretty face, and centuries’ worth of self-hatred to feed from. Sent thrills right to my—”
“Amauberge!” George slammed his palms on the table, his eyes darkening. The candles wavered and waned, and a chill washed over Jack’s skin. He didn’t particularly want to see what would happen if the ancient alchemist flew into an uncontrollable rage. Damn—I’ll have to wait to ask about the relic.
“Please,” said George, nodding to the redhead at the other end of the table. “I know how compelling you are to women. I’ve found you a wife of your own, so you won’t be tempted by mine.”
Jack took a closer look at the other woman—flame-colored hair, pale skin, and a steely look in her gray eyes, despite her obvious fear. “Munroe Ranulf. I wasn’t expecting to see a Purgator princess in this snake-pit of sorcery.”
“Jack Hawthorne.” Her smile was brittle. “I’m no longer a Purgator.”