No rest for the wicked, p.1
No Rest for the Wicked, page 1
No Rest for the Wicked
By M L Sparrow
Copyright © 2015 M L Sparrow
Cover Design by Ermisenda Alvarez
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the author’s imagination.
To my friend, Heather. This isn’t the first book I’ve published, but it was the first I ever wrote and it never would have been completed if not for you. You blackmailed, bullied me and threatened me with water balloons, but most of all you believed in me from the start.
Thank you.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Epilogue
‘Don’t be afraid of the space between your dreams and reality. If you can dream
it, you can make it so.’ – Belva Davis
Prologue
A blanket of snow fell over the city of Lindel, more snow than the people had seen in many years. It gathered on the rooftops, filled the gutters and piled at the sides of the roads. In the early morning light, when the dim street lights were still lit, it looked as if a whole new world had descended overnight to calm the bustling city.
Soon the children would be out, bundled up in their winter clothes, to play in the fresh snow, laughing and squealing with delight. But for now few people were out to ruin the quiet dawn, only a few early risers hurrying to work, chafing their gloved hands to ward off the cold, their breaths escaping in puffs of frozen air. A black cat crept across a roof top, each step a deliberate, delicate decision as it picked its way through the cold, wet stuff that clung to its fur and clogged the pads of its paws. As the sun rose slowly over the tops of the sleepy houses, it caught for a brief moment on the glimmering snow, making it appear as if it were made of crushed diamonds.
At the heart of the city, where the rich and successful gathered in luxurious townhouses, with their gleaming iron gates and heavy brass knockers, far removed from the struggle and poverty of the rest of the city, a young man quietly closed the door to his grand house and the building seemed to groan mournfully at his departure, shifting in its frame. The man was tall and striking, in an aristocratic ensemble of black cloak and top hat and yet he was not blind to the hardships of life as he walked the empty streets, leaving the safe domain of the upper classes, the snow crunching underfoot.
Meanwhile, in a nearby park, a figure lay in the snow, an angel fallen from grace, one delicate hand outstretched to greet the gentle sunlight that crept hesitantly across the field of white to touch her cold fingertips, with nails cut brutally short. Her eyes were closed, the thin skin covering them crossed with veins of royal blue, as she lay on the chilled mattress, which soaked through the thick material of her skirt and the frayed blanket wrapped around her frail shoulders instead of a cloak.
A thin dusting of snow had settled over her and one tiny flake settled in the dip of one nostril, another clung to the thick lashes, which cast long shadows down over sharp cheekbones the stark colour of death. In contrast her hair was as black as a raven’s wing where it escaped from its bindings to flutter delicately over her pale face in the breeze.
Everything was still. Even the robin perched on one skeleton branch above her head, fluffing its feathers and crying out its despair at the cold weather, fell silent as the man approached. In her silence she looked far younger than her actual years. Fragile and innocent. Hauntingly beautiful.
Striding down the parks central path, the man paused before the girl where all else had carried on by with a disdainful sniff at the threadbare clothing. He looked up at the red breasted little bird, tilting its head enquiringly at him from the bare tree branch clotted with snow. Kneeling down, he brushed wisps of ebony hair and flakes of snow from her face, leaving damp trails across the deathly mask. Pulling off one glove, his fingers probed at the slim column of her throat, only to be greeted by a weak, sluggish beat. Tenderly cupping her cheek in his warm palm, a rosy hue blossoms beneath his hand, like a flower opening to the sun, before spreading through her body.
Carefully, he eased her into his arms, holding her close against the powerful beat of his own heart. As he stands the air around them shimmers, like a mirage in a desert of snow. Peering curiously down at the display, the robin suddenly gave a short, panicked shriek, a piercing sound in the silence, before taking flight. Seconds later, the landscape was clear of all humanity, footprints in the snow the only proof there had ever been anyone out on this frigid winter morning.
Much to the surprise of the young boy walking through the foyer, the pair appeared inside the man’s townhouse. Blinking, the boy rushed forward, “What’s going on? Who’s she?”
“I don’t know,” the man replied softly, his gaze rapt on the face of the girl lying limp in his arms as he strode through the hall and up the stairs, calling over his shoulder, “Run and tell your mother I need her immediately.”
Once upstairs he paused beside a door but then continued on to the next one, opening it to reveal the large main bedroom where he spent most of his nights. It was plain, with very few personal effects to distinguish it as his, save a few books and trinkets he’d picked up on his travels displayed on the mantle above the fireplace. Laying the girl on the bed, he rubbed his thumb lightly over her blue tinged lips, watching in fascination as her eyelids flickered.
“Anthony Marcus Luther!” A sharp, matronly voice interrupted, “What are you doing with a woman in your room? I don’t care what you do outside of this house, but I will not have you corrupting my son, do you understand me?”
“Ah, Moira, you’re here.” The young man turned with a charming smile, going to greet the scowling woman, “I assure you there is nothing improper taking place, which is why I called you to attend to her.”
Looking at the girl, the woman’s gaze softens, “Poor little lamb, she’s on deaths door.” Rolling her sleeves up to her elbows, she discarded her stained work apron, before turning to him with a frown, “Well, leave then… And tell Hen to get me a hot brick.”
Once more the young man’s gaze fixed upon the face of the sleeping beauty unconscious on his bed, before the woman shooed him out, slamming the door with loud finality.
Chapter One
On a bed of crisp white linen, the girl slumbered fitfully, her eyes darting frantically beneath the delicate veil of her eyelids. Thawing slowly, with every beat of her heart the sickly pallor of her skin was chased away by a beautiful, exotic olive hue. Fanned out over the soft pillow, her unbound hair framed her face, the midnight black so dark that it looked almost blue where the light from the fire danced over it, contrasting starkly with the pure white of the sheets surrounding her, as did the fever bright glow in her cheeks and the colour that streaked high across her forehead. In her dreams, she tossed, one arm reaching up to lay beside her head, long fingers tangling in ribbons of jet hair. Slowly, as if struggling to lift the weight of her lashes, her eyelids opened and two brilliant emeralds stared unblinkingly up at the ceiling, before her head turned and her eyes widened. Beneath the sheets, her body jerked in surprise.
Elira awoke in a desperate panic to find herself in a room she didn’t recognise. The room was warm; a fire blazing in the ornate fireplace across the room, crackling as it hungrily devoured the wood stacked behind the grate. Upon the mantle sat a sky blue vase, standing tall and elegant amid other paraphernalia, it was trimmed with white and finished with a glossy sheen. Hung around the room were paintings of places unknown to her. The huge bed she lay in was unfamiliar and a cold chill seized her in its talons, despite the warmth radiating from the foot of the bed. Stretching out her legs, she touched her toes to the hard object radiating warmth. Reluctantly pulling her feet away from the hot brick after a long moment, she sat up slowly, the pristine white sheets pooled in her lap and her hand reached up tentatively to rub at the vague ache above her right eye, before dropping to the open collar of the soft cotton nightdress she was clothed in.
Looking around, with her heart beating in over time, pounding against her ribs with bruising force, she spotted her clothes lain out over the back of a stuffed chair by the door. Swallowing tightly, she glanced quickly around the room before shifting toward the edge of the bed in nervous, jerky movements, clutching the sheets to her. One more glance around the room brought to her notice the big, floor to ceiling windows closed against the cold air, but with the curtains drawn back to let in the watery winter sunshine. Biting her lip, she contemplated the few short steps to the chair and her clothes, past the window. Another nervous look around the room revealed the lack of any female embellishments; there was no dressing table, no lace, not even any pretty watercolours that would indicate she was in a ladies abode, or even a spare room. Old, battered books were piled in a precarious tower on the bedside table and a black cloak thrown carelessly over one bedpost implied this was a room which was lived in. Above the fire place hung a framed portrait of a glossy chestnut stallion, head held high and muscles rippling; it was a very masculine picture. This was a man’s room, she was sure and it made her gut clench painfully.
Thinking back, she remembered fleeing from her previous job, out into the snow with nothing but the clothes on her back, running from the musky scent of sweat, whisky and tobacco. She’d run and run, tears blurring her vision, until the cold had reached so far down into her bones, into her very soul, that she thought she’d never be warm again and yet here she was, her skin touched by the warmth of the fire. But still, she was in a stranger’s room and that, along with the terror of not knowing how she got there, decided her next move immediately. Licking her dry, chapped lips, she lowered her feet to floor and curled them, in momentary bliss, into the thick rug that greeted her. The hardwood beyond wasn’t nearly as welcoming, but she rushed across it, her bare feet dancing on the cold wood as she struggled into her clothes.
Once dressed Elira cracked open the door; it gave out a warning cry that made her flinch, jumping back with her heart in her throat. Swallowing tightly, she forced down her panic and eased it open enough to slip through, finding herself standing on a balcony with another opposite and a gap in the middle which supposedly looked down upon the foyer. Beneath her feet, the thick red carpet muffled her steps, but her heartbeat was loud in her ears and every breath sounded like she was screaming to be found sneaking out of a stranger’s bedroom with no knowledge of how she got there. Joining the two balconies, a grand staircase led down into a large foyer.
Eyes fixed on the polished oak door that would be her escape, Elira crept down the stairs, the banister smooth beneath her fingertips, but every step she took seemed to take her further away from her freedom, the hall elongating, the door sliding away from her, getting smaller and smaller. She reached the bottom of the staircase and stepped down onto the marble floor, causing it to ripple back toward her. Echoing around the foyer, the sound of her footsteps made her heart beat impossibly faster and a howl, like that of an enraged wolf, suddenly erupted from behind one of the doors along the hall, causing her to jump and then bolt like a startled rabbit, a reaction born from years of experience. Grappling with the uncooperative front door, she finally managed to heave it open; the cold air hit her like a physical blow and she almost retreated, but a voice from inside, a glimpse of someone closing in on her, forced her legs to move.
“Wait,” that same voice called as she threw open the front gate and bolted into the street. It was male and vaguely familiar, which sent a jolt of panic through her. Had she run blindly from one man, only to get caught by another?
Bile rose in her throat, but she forced it down, concentrating on wading through the snow that clung to the bottom of her dress and chilled her feet through the thin, worn leather of her boots; second-hand to begin with, they pinched her toes and a hole in the heel let in the snow, but they were all she had. The boots and dress were all she had to her name now, unless she went back to her previous employer and begged him to return her belongings, but she knew her pride would never let her beg, not to him, not to a lecherous old lord who took advantage of those supposedly under his protection.
It was only when her lungs were burning and pain was shooting through her chest, that she stopped. Clutching the stitch in her side, whilst panting for breath, Elira looked around her and realized with dismay that she didn’t recognise anything. Having grown up in the country, at The Lady of the Faith Home for Unfortunate Children, all the streets looked practically the same to her. In the few weeks she’d been working in the city she’d been too busy trying to keep up with the demands of being a domestic servant to explore. A sob tore up her throat and her hand flew up to catch it, muffling the pitiful sound, as the hopelessness of her situation crashed over her.
“Are you okay?” someone asked at her elbow; an educated voice, but lacking the sharp, clipped tone she normally associated with the upper-class. A hand reached forward to touch her lightly on the shoulder and she straightened, wiping discreetly at the tears crystallising on her lashes.
“Yes,” Elira answered, turning to face the gentleman behind her, “Yes, I’m fine, thank you, but I appear to have lost my way, I wonder if you cou...” Her voice died in her throat as her eyes travelled upwards; she wasn’t short, but he towered head and shoulders above her and the broad set of his shoulders blocked out the glare of the sun backlighting his top hat and the strands of hair brushing the top of his collar. There was something oddly familiar about him, though she felt sure she’d remember this man if they’d ever met, if for nothing more than the impossible crystal blue of his eyes, the colour of the ocean surrounding her homeland.
“Look,” that smooth, soft voice sent a tremor racing through her, “come back to the house and we’ll sort something out. You shouldn’t be out in the cold.” It took a second for his words to register, but when they did she recoiled instantly, moving away from the tall male body she hadn’t realized until now was standing far too close to be respectable.
“I...I don’t know you,” she stammered, “I’m very sorry, but I don’t know how I ended up in your house last night.” In your bedroom. Blood rushed into her cheeks, heating her entire face.
“I’ll explain everything to you in a nice warm parlour, over tea and biscuits.” His tone was reasonable, his words tempting and yet logic told her not to trust him and she found her feet sliding backward. Frowning at the movement, he reached out to clasp her elbow, stepping closer, “I understand that you’re scared, but you have my word that I mean you no harm and if you come with me I promise to explain everything to your satisfaction. Let’s just get out of here and then we can talk.” The wariness that crept into that last sentence had her half turning, glancing around the decrepit buildings surrounding them, the window shutters pulled shut against the cold, lethal daggers of ice handing from the sagging gutters.
From several doorways, gaunt, dirty faces assessed them with blatant curiosity. A cold shiver of fear slid down her spine, like ice, raising the tiny hairs at the back of her neck to wary attention, as she caught the gaze of one man, crouched by an overflowing dustbin; his thin lips curled up to reveal blackened teeth as his hungry eyes roved over her. Unintentionally, she found herself shifting closer to the man at her side, whose hand moved down her arm to rest lightly at her waist, gently urged her away. Stepping out onto the street a grubby little boy barrelled into them.
“Sorry, Mister,” the lad slurred the two words together as he attempted to push between them, but the man at her side grabbed his arm and pulled him back, dropping his hand from her waist. Glancing up, she saw the man’s eyebrow quirked expectantly.
“I want my pocket watch back,” he held his hand out, palm up, “it was my great grandfathers.” Looking up at him in amazement, the boys eyes widened and she saw him quiver in the silence that followed. A second later, tight lipped and with a blush rising in his dirty cheeks, he dropped a shining silver pocket watch into the waiting palm, along with a leather wallet. Frowning disapprovingly, the man slipped the watch back into his jacket pocket, but handed the wallet back. The boy looked every inch as surprised as she felt, as he snatched the offering and darted away, throwing a confused glance over his shoulder once he reached the end of the street and veered around the corner.
Shaking his head, the man muttered, “They’d steal from a priest.” He didn’t sound angry, or condemning, just sad and she looked up at him once more, already beginning to realize that he was nothing like the pompous members of the upper-class she was familiar with.
As they walked his hand burnt away the material of her dress, until his palm was a searing brand on her skin. Taking a deep breath of cold air, in a futile attempt to calm herself, Elira chanced a quick peek up at the man walking beside her. She didn’t even know his name and yet something inside her heated at the sight of him, sizzling through her veins and pooling in the pit of her stomach. With his top hat and tailored jacket, he was the epitome of the upper-class, but she didn’t feel threatened by his station, in fact, the friendly glint in his eyes drew her in.
