cluttered cabinet and table surface. Little bits of carved stone. Small figurines in jade and quartz and one in ebony. A compass in a walnut case. A jeweled dagger beside a bowl of egg-shaped stones. A casket with a clasp wrought in diamonds.
Sarah had always made sport of her husband’s fascination for the fantastic, his enormous collection of strange books and ancient artifacts. She called it his gentleman’s hobby. But this room spoke of far more than a hobby. More like an obsession.
Bianca’s mouth went dry and her prickling sense of unease returned and spread until it raised the hairs at the back of her neck.
He ascended a ladder next to the bookcase and pulled a book from the topmost shelf. Climbing down, he took a seat at his desk, clearing his throat with an awkward look of sorrow. “I was very sorry to hear of Lieutenant Kinloch’s death. Sarah says my birthday gift was chosen on his advice.”
“Adam found the volume at a queer little bookshop in Smock Alley. Said it would be perfect for you.”
“Really?” Sebastian fiddled with his signet ring. “Interesting,” he muttered again with an infuriating air of mystery as he handed her the book, open to a specific page. “That must be Theophilus Steen’s shop.I purchased this volume from old Steen last year. He’s quite a character.”
Bianca’s eye fell immediately on the illustration. Not quite the same. The crescent was fatter and there was a small star design she didn’t remember. But there was no mistaking it for anything but the symbol she’d doodled. The symbol scratched onto the bottom of the note to Adam.
She read the text beside it before meeting Sebastian’s grave expression. “Who or what are the Imnada?”
* * *
Line Farm stood at the end of a quiet lane, set apart from the village by a belt of thorny, untended coppice and a crumbling ditch wide enough to corral a flock of grazing sheep. A churchyard ringed with yew stretched away to the west until it met a meadow thick with sweet clover. Jory Wallace had obviously wanted to keep nosy neighbors at bay.
Unlatching the gate, Mac entered the cobbled yard, trying on varying conversational gambits as he went. Discarding them just as quickly. His nerves jumped under his skin and his pulse thundered in his ears. His last sight of Wallace had been as he was dragged from the Gather’s circle, face white as bone, with blazing eyes and a jaw set like granite. This meeting today could follow one of two paths: Jory might give Mac the moments necessary to explain his presence before he attacked.
Or he might not.
Nervous energy had Mac’s mind leaping from David and his promise to watch over Bianca to theletter he’d posted to Gray before leaving London for Surrey. If the worst happened, at least his friends would know his fate.
Unfortunately, it would be too late to help. Mac would be six feet under.
The silence held a hushed expectancy. Prickles raced over his skin and up his spine, to settle cold at the back of his neck as he dismounted, and it took all his willpower not to reach for the weapon he carried in his saddlebag. Instead, he scanned the outbuildings for the unseen watchers he sensed, his gaze cutting through the long morning shadows.
“Bang! You’re dead!”
Mac’s heart shot straight into his throat at the sudden shout while his horse shied, throwing its head.
“Bang! Bang!” Another shout, this time from a barn to the right. “You’ve got to fall down now. I shot you fair and square!”
“Easy,” Mac murmured to the big bay gelding, chagrined at his own skittish response. A year posted to a desk had wrought more changes than permanently ink-stained fingers and a brain packed with useless military trivia.
“Your gun misfired. And I dove under the bullet. You’re the one who’s dead.”
So Mac was not the intended target. Merely caught between battle lines.
“That’s not fair. I’m telling. Da!” The shout became a wail. “Daaaa! Henry says
Sarah had always made sport of her husband’s fascination for the fantastic, his enormous collection of strange books and ancient artifacts. She called it his gentleman’s hobby. But this room spoke of far more than a hobby. More like an obsession.
Bianca’s mouth went dry and her prickling sense of unease returned and spread until it raised the hairs at the back of her neck.
He ascended a ladder next to the bookcase and pulled a book from the topmost shelf. Climbing down, he took a seat at his desk, clearing his throat with an awkward look of sorrow. “I was very sorry to hear of Lieutenant Kinloch’s death. Sarah says my birthday gift was chosen on his advice.”
“Adam found the volume at a queer little bookshop in Smock Alley. Said it would be perfect for you.”
“Really?” Sebastian fiddled with his signet ring. “Interesting,” he muttered again with an infuriating air of mystery as he handed her the book, open to a specific page. “That must be Theophilus Steen’s shop.I purchased this volume from old Steen last year. He’s quite a character.”
Bianca’s eye fell immediately on the illustration. Not quite the same. The crescent was fatter and there was a small star design she didn’t remember. But there was no mistaking it for anything but the symbol she’d doodled. The symbol scratched onto the bottom of the note to Adam.
She read the text beside it before meeting Sebastian’s grave expression. “Who or what are the Imnada?”
* * *
Line Farm stood at the end of a quiet lane, set apart from the village by a belt of thorny, untended coppice and a crumbling ditch wide enough to corral a flock of grazing sheep. A churchyard ringed with yew stretched away to the west until it met a meadow thick with sweet clover. Jory Wallace had obviously wanted to keep nosy neighbors at bay.
Unlatching the gate, Mac entered the cobbled yard, trying on varying conversational gambits as he went. Discarding them just as quickly. His nerves jumped under his skin and his pulse thundered in his ears. His last sight of Wallace had been as he was dragged from the Gather’s circle, face white as bone, with blazing eyes and a jaw set like granite. This meeting today could follow one of two paths: Jory might give Mac the moments necessary to explain his presence before he attacked.
Or he might not.
Nervous energy had Mac’s mind leaping from David and his promise to watch over Bianca to theletter he’d posted to Gray before leaving London for Surrey. If the worst happened, at least his friends would know his fate.
Unfortunately, it would be too late to help. Mac would be six feet under.
The silence held a hushed expectancy. Prickles raced over his skin and up his spine, to settle cold at the back of his neck as he dismounted, and it took all his willpower not to reach for the weapon he carried in his saddlebag. Instead, he scanned the outbuildings for the unseen watchers he sensed, his gaze cutting through the long morning shadows.
“Bang! You’re dead!”
Mac’s heart shot straight into his throat at the sudden shout while his horse shied, throwing its head.
“Bang! Bang!” Another shout, this time from a barn to the right. “You’ve got to fall down now. I shot you fair and square!”
“Easy,” Mac murmured to the big bay gelding, chagrined at his own skittish response. A year posted to a desk had wrought more changes than permanently ink-stained fingers and a brain packed with useless military trivia.
“Your gun misfired. And I dove under the bullet. You’re the one who’s dead.”
So Mac was not the intended target. Merely caught between battle lines.
“That’s not fair. I’m telling. Da!” The shout became a wail. “Daaaa! Henry says
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