The air around her seemed to crackle with static electricity, and then suddenly the temperature plunged about twenty degrees. Even as her teeth began to chatter, and she struggled to make sense of that oddity, a wave of dizziness hit her, knocking her down a step.
Panic clawed like a trapped beast inside her chest, and stunningly, she felt pain. Like she was on fire. Her flesh was burning, the epidermis peeling away, layer by layer, exposing the subcutaneous tissue, then the stringy cords of muscle beneath, until that, too, was stripped, leaving only bone.
Screaming—surely, she must be screaming, even though she couldn’t hear anything beyond the deafening roar in her ears—she fought against the squeezing darkness that was suddenly more solid, more substantial than she.
Oh, God . . .
She was caught in a sickening vertigo, around and around. Her skin melted like wax, then re-formed, reshaped, before dissolving again in a terrible spike of pain that was all-consuming. She no longer knew if the air was cold or hot, but she had the sensation that it was whipping across her face, slicing her like razor blades.
Then as abruptly as the phenomenon began, it was over. The agonizing pain vanished. Awareness came flooding back. She could feel the cold stone steps beneath her. The wetness of tears on her face. She was, she realized, curled into a fetal position.
Choking back a sob, she straightened and staggered to her feet. The darkness was no longer absolute. She could see her hands out in front of her, like white moths in the darkness, and knew an almost giddy relief. She hadn’t disappeared after all.
Still, she couldn’t shake the panic. What if the crazy darkness came back? What if the pain came back? What if, what if, what if . . . ?
She had to move. Up the stairs, to safety. Except . . .
Deep in her primordial brain she knew that whatever the hell she’d just encountered was waiting for her at the top of the stairs. It was crazy. Irrational. She knew that, too, but still, she couldn’t bring herself to go up. She’d have rather dealt with a thousand assassins than plunge back into that icy darkness.
Shuddering, she threw herself forward . . . and downward. With a ragged gasp, she launched herself at the closed door, banging her hands hysterically against the panel.
It was mere seconds, but it felt like hours before the door opened. Off balance, Kendra caught the surprised looks of the two men standing on the other side of the door. Then she was falling. Pain—natural this time—lanced upward from her knees as they hit the floor.
“Help . . . me . . .” she managed, her voice a croak. Then she collapsed completely, falling flat on her face.
7
1815
“Good God! Is she dead?”
Kendra felt hands on her shoulders, lifting, shifting. Pain rolled through her, followed by greasy nausea. Christ, her head hurt. She had a momentary, dizzying sensation of déjà vu as her eyes fluttered open. Above her, a man’s face scowled down at her. Forest green eyes, fierce between spiky black lashes, beneath slashing black brows. She got the impression of sculpted cheekbones, a straight nose, a sensual twist of mouth, and square jaw that had a shallow dent in the chin before he moved away.
“She’s alive,” she heard the man murmur wryly.
“Thank God.” That was said with a sigh of relief. Another face popped into her line of vision, far different from the other one. This man was older, late fifties, give or take, with a longish face, a rather bold nose, graying blond hair, and concerned pale blue eyes. “How is she, Alec?”
“I’m not an apothecary. Why don’t you ask her? She appears to be awake.”
The older man frowned. “Who is she? What was she doing in the passageway? What’s your name, miss?”
Kendra blinked, lifting a hand to her aching head. What the hell had happened?
“Kendra,” she whispered. “Kendra Donovan.”
“What did she say?” That was from the good-looking, younger man.
“She said her name is Kendra Donovan.” Kendra found her hand captured, gently stroked. “What happened, my dear? Alec, bring her something to drink.”
There was a pause. Then a sigh, more irritable than angry. “Bloody hell.”
Again, Kendra felt hands sliding awkwardly around her shoulders, lifting her into more of a sitting position. She stifled a groan as the movement sent more rockets exploding inside her head. Her body shuddered violently. Had she been shot again . . . ?
“Here, my dear. Drink this.”
It was an effort, but she reached for the glass. Her fingers actually brushed the heavy lead crystal before she focused on the ruby liquid. Memory rushed back and her whole body jerked in horror. Her hand hit the glass in a reflexive action that sent it teetering out of the older man’s hands. Its contents splashed, blood red against his white cravat and shirt, before tumbling with a spray of droplets to the floor.
“Son of a bitch!” Kendra jackknifed into a sitting position, staring at the stain in shock. Her heart leapt into her throat, pounding.
“Good God, what’s wrong with the girl?” the older man asked, bewildered.
“Mayhap a strong aversion to drink?”