“You’re not screaming,” he murmured.

“No,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

He reached out to touch her temple, a curl of hair behind her ear, a finger tracing the line of her cheekbone. His eyes pulled her in, pushed her under, drowned her. She tried to breathe, but he seemed to suck the very air from her lungs.

He didn’t pull her close. He never moved beyond that tentative study of her face with one finger, but every part of her burned, and she knew he felt the same blood-sizzling need. It was there in his eyes and the way he stood and the very aroused bits of him she was doing her best not to see. This not touching slid like wildfire against her nerves and made her gasp with every shivering trace of his finger. He skimmed the bones of her cheeks, the fullness of her lips, along the line of her jaw, down the taut length of her throat and the edge of her collarbone to the valley between her breasts. One wayward finger, but it was more than enough to send coiling spirals of raw lust straight to her center. She was damp with wanting him, her knees barely holding her upright against the wickedly erotic assault.

“But you aren’t smiling, either,” he said, his voice silken and deep—and solemn.

She gave the smallest shake of her head, all she could manage while caught in this web of volcanic desire.

His expression hardened and his hand dropped back to his side. “What’s happening to me, Fey-blood? Why do I feel this way when I’m with you?”

“What way is that?”

“Confused. Out of my depth. As if I need to run as far and as fast as I can away from you lest you destroy me.”

She chewed her lip, her body aching in ways she’d never felt, a shivering need floating across her damp skin like a chill. “How could I destroy you? My powers aren’t dangerous. They’re barely useful, except as a way to comfort bereft widows or grieving parents. I’m a trickster. A showman.”

His face held a weariness and a sorrow, the same look she’d last seen the night at the Flannerys’ when the sickness gripped him. “And yet I see my death when I look into your eyes.”

She gave a small sound in the back of her throat, barely more than a breath or a sigh, tears taking the place of river water on her cheeks, and her lashes fluttered down as she looked away. “I can pass through into death. I cannot foretell it. It must be Arawn’s shadow you see—the mark borne by all his descendants. That’s all.”

His lips curved into a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “Perhaps. A relief if you’re right. It was not a peaceful death.”

Footsteps and the crunch of bracken and twigs snapped David’s head up. He stepped back while Callista broke away, embarrassed.

Nancy Oakham emerged from the trees, a bitter smile curving the corners of her mouth as she took in David’s near nudity. “I’ve convinced my brother it’s in our best interest to have you join us. So, if you still need a lift, best hurry up or be left behind.”

David dragged his shirt over his head and sat down to pull on his boots. “How can we refuse such a gracious invitation?”

Nancy’s gaze flicked over Callista before raking David with a long, appraising look. “Remember what I said, St. Leger. We’re letting you stay on for Cally’s sake. But watch your step or watch your back.” With a dark scowl, she departed, the shuffle of her boots through the fallen leaves seeming loud in the silence that opened like a chasm between them.

David rose to his feet, a rakish smile tilting one corner of his mouth. “I don’t know about you, but I have the distinct feeling we’ve gone from frying pan to fire.” He held out a hand. “Come, my lady, our chariots await.”

She gave a jerk of her head, motioned him on. “Go on. I just need . . . need a moment to wash up.”

His gaze dimmed briefly, then with a last flash of his scoundrel’s grin, he followed Nancy up the path toward the waiting caravans.

Callista knelt to splash water on her heated cheeks before staring into the river, seeing the reflection of trees and sky and a bird sitting high in a nearby pine. A breeze ruffled her damp skirts, but it was not the icy cold of death. She felt no tug upon her chest as the door cracked open.

What had David seen when he looked into her eyes?

“I wish you were here, Mother. I have so many questions. So many things I don’t understand,” she said to the breeze and the sky and the rustle of leaves.

A crow flew down to settle a few feet away, its beady eyes fixed upon Callista.

“The bird of death. An appropriate companion for a daughter of Lord Arawn’s line,” she said, rising to her feet with a deep, restorative breath.

The bird ruffled its shiny black feathers and squawked before shuffling a few steps closer.

“Can you tell me what I want to know?” she asked.

With a last squawk, the bird flew off.

Death. Death. Death, rang in Callista’s head.

But, as a necromancer, had she expected anything else?

* * *

David stood just beyond the flickering glow of the fire studying his new traveling companions.

Edward Perkins and his wife, Lettice, performed a magic show together, though David felt no trace of Fey-blood powers from either one of them. Clearly, there was little of magic and much of show about their act. Then there was Big Knox, a juggler and acrobat who spouted Shakespeare while he capered and leapt and spun plates on sticks. Pretty, blond Sally Sweet worked as a dancer, though David would wager she made more money on her back than she ever did on her feet. Finally there was Sam Oakham and his sister Nancy. Despite her brother’s loud, bullying leadership, Nancy appeared to be the real glue that held this motley troupe together. Beneath her hard-bitten façade, she seemed to have a way of handling people, including her brother, that relied less on bluster and more on charm. Too bad she was a female. She’d have made a brilliant general.

Big Knox leaned over and tossed another log onto the blaze. The flames shot high into the air, sparks flying, resin snapping. David stared into the heart of the pyre, watching the twist and curl of the flames as they danced within the circle of stones, feeling the heat against his face even here, where he stood among the trees.

His grandmother had always warned him that he’d end as the main act in a mummer’s show if he wasn’t careful. If he didn’t follow clan law. If he didn’t hide what he was from a dangerous world. What would she say if she knew he was traveling to the Isle of Skye in company with a Fey-blood as a member of Oakham’s Follies? He chuckled, knowing exactly. She’d call him a hen-witted fool and a brainless bag of hammers. Would she be far wrong?

He followed the track of the floating sparks up and up into the sky to be lost among the distant stars on their way through the Gateway.

Gran had passed beyond. He’d been ten when she’d died and his family had returned with her body to the ancestral clan holding in Wales, where her spirit was released with fire and wind. Father and Mother had seemed completely out of place among the Imnada clansmen gathered to assist in the rites and offer their prayers. It was the first time David had realized the difference between his family and the shapechangers who stayed hidden behind the Palings shield wall. The children had called him avaklos, meaning “one who lives beyond the wall,” and mocked his London clothes and his city ways. They had split his lip and shoved him down on the rocks and he’d cried to his mother, who wiped his tears and soothed his fears.

Better a brave avaklos than a craven andala who cowers within his holding and prays that the Fey-bloods pass him over. The Palings serve a purpose, but we cannot cower behind them for all time. Look at the Duke of Morieux. He understands this. He does not wrap himself in mists and shadow and pretend there is no world beyond. He strides out boldly and unafraid. He knows that sometimes the best hiding place is right under your enemies’ nose. You are the wolf and your bloodline lies deep here in Wales, but the wolf does not burrow into the ground like the badger. And when the battle’s joined, he does not run and he does not hide. Remember that always, David.

He and his father had returned to the holding in Wales only two years later, and this time there was no mother to soothe his hurts when the taunts began, but he’d grown larger and prouder, and this time he did not need assistance. He stopped them on his own and called himself avaklos.

Funny, he’d not thought of those visits to Wales in years. Nor spent more than a passing thought now and again for his gran or his mother. But the spirits seemed to hover closer these days and memories he’d fought to lock away pushed to the surface of his mind. Was it Callista and the power she possessed who caused this dwelling on people long dead and events best forgotten? No, as he’d told her once before, she was the excuse, but not the cause.

He’d been feeling this way since Adam’s murder last year. The first of the brotherhood to fall, though not the last. Each of them faced a painful death, and all knew there would be no funeral pyre lit in their honor, no gathering of clan and kin to speak the words and send them back to the stars. They would be bound to the earth to rot, their souls trapped and unable to rejoin their families beyond the Gateway. Exiles even in death.

But how long until there were no Imnada left? A generation? Five? Already, the magic of the Palings waned, the holdings became vulnerable, and elders of the five clans far outnumbered the younglings born of the blood. Under siege from Fey-blood and human alike, what chance did the clans have? None. Not with the Ossine’s clamp on power holding them captive to the outdated ways of andala isolation and men like Beskin hunting down the few who spoke out against it.

He rubbed his face. Shook off the oppression with a shrug of his shoulders and a crack of his neck. What he needed was a damn drink. A nice big whisky or a pint or two . . . or ten. Surely one of these men possessed enough alcohol to wash away a lifetime of sorrows, though he doubted any would offer him as much as a sip and risk Oakham’s anger.

It would be water or cider, if he was lucky.

“Are you waiting for your valet to bring you dinner, St. Leger? Better eat. Breakfast will be bread and cheese. We won’t have time to stir up the fire so that you can dine on sausages and tea.”

Nancy Oakham had joined him under the trees, her chin thrust in a challenge, her expression a mixture of bravado and suspicion. She held out a plate of stew, the smell enticing. He accepted it with a nod, but she didn’t withdraw. Instead, she followed the track of his gaze, her lips pressed tight.

“I still can’t believe Cally’s here. She’s the last person I ever thought to see again. And in company with a fancy man like yourself.” She gave a bark of laughter.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“She must be extremely desperate to turn up asking Sam for help after the way things were left between them.”

“You’ve met Branston Hawthorne. What do you think?”

“The man was a slug and a bully.” She cast him a dubious glance. “But can you tell me you’re any better?”

“No, but I can say I’m definitely no worse.”

“Hawthorne should have accepted Sam’s suit. He’d have made a good husband for Cally,” she said pointedly.

“Perhaps he wanted more for his sister than a traveling player, no matter how good a man he was.”

She gave a lift of her brows and a quick sniff in response. “Then why are you running?”

“Anyone ever tell you it’s not polite to pry into other people’s business?”

“As long as you’re traveling with us, you and Cally are my business.”

“Let’s just say that if Branston Hawthorne wants his sister back, he’ll have to go through me.” A corner of his mouth twisted in a humorless smile, almost wishing Hawthorne would appear to give him an outlet for the frustration boiling just under his skin.

“Tough words for a London gent”—Nancy folded her arms over her chest—“if that’s what you really are.”

Every muscle wound to spring, fire chewing up through his belly. “What else would I be?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” she answered coolly.

He forced himself to relax, even give a nonchalant shrug and a quick practiced grin. “No mystery. I’m just a pretty boy fancy man, Miss Oakham.”

“You’re more than that. Nobody bests Sam who isn’t a notch above.” As if hearing his name, her brother eyed them grimly from his seat by the fire.