Soul of Fire (12 page)

Lalita exhaled. She had long ago discovered that reproaching her clansmen for not being serious enough was a waste of time. “What were you thinking?” she said instead, her voice harsh. “What could you be thinking to change shapes like that, in that room, with the tiger there? What did you think you could earn by it? Did you not know that he was the king of tigers? Did you think you had the slightest chance to get the cursed jewel?”

“Well, as to that . . .” Hanuman said, and smiled—a wicked, twinkling smile. He brought up his right hand, which he’d kept clenched through the shape-shift, and opened it, displaying a red, glowing jewel. “You see . . .”

Soul of Fire pulsed with magic like a beating heart. And Lalita was, for once, speechless.

CLOTHES; TRAVEL; MADNESS

Sofie couldn’t pretend to understand why the dragon
must bother packing. Of all things the novels and stories she’d read about weres had told her, they had neglected to mention that dragons were unusually concerned with their own appearance.

Or, for that matter, that they would dither—audibly—over what to do with their lady companion while they changed. But St. Maur—who looked so self-possessed while completely naked and having just shifted from a dragon state, who as a dragon was powerful and magnificent like a force of nature—had started muttering to himself as he approached the house. “Can’t leave you in a grotto in the garden. Really, it won’t do. Someone might come upon you and . . . It doesn’t bear thinking. Besides, someone is bound to be looking for you. I don’t know if or how they’d find you, but people saw us come here. In my own shape, I mean. We passed so many people. If your parents send out servants to ask . . .”

He didn’t seem to expect a response from her, and she gave him none. If she’d been forced to speak, she’d have wondered why he thought it would be safer to be found with her in the house than to have her found in the garden and have it thought he’d kidnapped her. Then again, she supposed the worst that could happen if they found her alone in a bedroom with him would be they’d assume she’d somehow been in collusion with him, that they were eloping—they’d have to think of a story to explain the dragon, but she’d found herself in such odd and unaccountable situations in London, and been able to account for them perfectly—and then they’d force her to marry him.

Lady St. Maur, she thought. Money or not, dragon or not, if she had to choose between this man, clearly a gentleman when not a dragon, and the horrible creature on her parents’ veranda . . . Well, there was no contest.

She shook her head at the whole thing and followed him quietly—or as quietly as she could—through the front door and up a spiral staircase. She wondered if he knew that three or four servants would be up and unobtrusively watching from various places. Part of this, she knew, was that servants tried to be on hand if you needed them. The other part was that they would be curious. She knew—from being closer to Lalita than was expected, having found herself more at home with her servant than with English misses—that the main topic of conversation for servants was their masters. And in India it wasn’t any different. Perhaps it was even more so. The sahibs were strange, wonderful creatures, to be marveled at, censured, criticized or mocked.

But she assumed that Farewell didn’t know that, and she would not be the one to destroy his illusions. Besides, in her experience, when a young woman tried to inform a gentleman about some area in which he was woefully ignorant, she was likely to find herself ignored or—worse—put in her place. She didn’t want to start an argument here, in the middle of the night, in some strange people’s home. Farewell had been dismissive about his hosts.

“The Holferns,” he’d said as they’d entered the immense, carefully tended garden that put her parents’ to shame. “Really quite good people. Friends of my father’s from way back. Possible they were, initially, my late mother’s friends. Not sure about it all. But at any rate, they welcomed me with open arms, and in six months haven’t so far as hinted that I leave. Really, quite hospitable. You see why I can’t disappear without leaving them a note?”

Which had brought up yet another fact none of the books on how arcane dragons were had disclosed: They were punctilious about etiquette. And now they were on the second floor of the house of these quite hospitable people, where St. Maur commanded a room as large as Sofie’s own at home, but far better furnished. It was stocked full of good, solid English furniture: a broad, curtained oak bed; a delicate, painted oak desk by the window; a huge mahogany wardrobe, which St. Maur was consideringly turning out as he packed various suits and hats and walking sticks. Really, Sofie was starting to think that, dragon or not, the Earl of St. Maur was a dull man. The sort that one’s parents (though perhaps not
her
parents) said would make a splendid husband. He’d put his ivory-handled brush and comb into a silver-plated toiletry case, containing any number of specifics and powders.

He finished packing the suitcase and looked at his closet, which remained half-full. He sighed with an expression of resignation, and muttered under his breath, “Only so much to carry.”

Then walked past her, quite abstracted, to the small writing desk. From a drawer he pulled stationery. He opened the ink bottle. Dipping the handy quill, he wrote quickly. Placed as Sofie was, she could read—in fact, would have trouble avoiding reading—what he wrote with his broad angular hand:
Dear Molsy
—or it might be Moldy, but Sofie very much hoped it wasn’t. Squinting, she decided it was probably Maisy, and then she wondered if it was a woman’s name and why he’d been addressing his hostess and not his host.
I’m sorry to leave so quickly, but as you know, I got word via mail this morning that Father had departed this vale of tears.
The wording struck Sofie as funny. She’d never have expected even this seemingly conventional English gentleman to use such terms.
Please forgive me, and rest assured I will attempt to return as soon as possible, to claim my clothing and to take a proper leave of you and dear Funny
—or possibly Furry, though more probably Fanny, she supposed.
It is simply that I must consult with Father’s local man of business before I make any decisions about my future.
He’d signed it
PF
and then, after an hesitation,
St. Maur.
And then he turned, and caught her looking at the paper.

She expected him to be upset, or perhaps shocked that she was reading over his shoulder, but instead he flashed her a quick smile and spoke in a low voice. “Damned thing to get used to a new name at my time of life.” Then he frowned. “And not much chance Marty will believe that I have any men of business in India, or that Father had one. He knew Father well enough to know all Farewell money has long ago done what the name indicates.” He shrugged. “Then again . . . Mother had properties, and perhaps he’ll think it has something to do with her dowry. Who knows?”

She didn’t, and therefore forbore to speak until he asked directly, “Ready, Miss Warington?”

She nodded, once. “Yes.”

“Very well,” he said. “We’ll go, then. It would be best leave the way we came, through the garden, and for me not to change shapes until we’re a while away from the house, so that—” He stopped, as a series of loud roars split the night. “The devil,” he said. “Tigers within the city?”

In Sofie’s mind, the image of the creature on the veranda appeared. “Lalita said . . .” St. Maur turned to look at her, his eye gazing with a vague expression, as though he didn’t really expect her to say anything important or as if he wondered why she was talking at all.

“Lalita said that the raj my parents wanted me to marry . . . She said he came from a place that was called the realm of the tigers, and that anyone who went there . . . wouldn’t . . . that Englishmen did not come out of it.”

For just a moment the vagueness in Farewell’s eye remained, and he looked at her deliberately, from head to toe. It wasn’t an interested look. More a considering look, as if he was trying to decide how trustworthy she was. Sofie wanted to scream at him, and possibly throw things. Her quick anger surprised her, so she held herself still by an effort of will.

But then he blinked and nodded. “Kingdom of the Tigers. I’ve heard. . . . Mind you, I’ve seen no evidence of it in all my time here; but then, I’m very much an outsider. I’ve heard that India is shot through with shape-shifters, and with realms and clans of shape-shifters, all holding nothing but their own kind in loyalty.”

The roars sounded closer now.

“It’s like they’re calling to one another,” Sofie said. “Showing one another the way.” She reached down, almost involuntarily, to pick up her bag. “Like they’re telling one another where we are.”

“It’s possible.” Farewell said. “I was never around weres myself. They’re not that common in England. Well, other than myself, I mean. I’ve been around myself, but it’s not the sort of thing—” Having muddled his words, he ground to a halt, his brow furrowed above the patch that hid his eye. “The legends say,” he said at last, “that witch-sniffers can smell out a were. It is said the Royal Were-Hunters have trained sniffers for that purpose, though I don’t believe it, as I’ve often been quite near companies of them. . . .”

She blinked at him, in turn, confused as to what he could possibly mean by that. “I haven’t noticed any particular odor,” she said tartly.

His mouth quirked, just briefly. “No,” he said. “I bathe.” Then seriously, “But you see, if there is an odor to the magic of transformation, then witch-sniffers who are used to having more of our kind around and . . . who are organized might very well have developed a method of smelling us out. And perhaps even recognizing what kind of were.”

“How could they smell your path?” she asked. “We flew.”

He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know, but listen to the roars multiplying out there. If the creature is in town and has a number of his subjects with him, wouldn’t he have . . . I mean, how hard could it be to send them to crossroads and . . . and to places a dragon might shift without being seen, and then send them out. To sniff the way the beast went.”

“We shouldn’t have landed,” Sofie said, as a black panic welled within her, threatening to submerge her reason, “We should never have landed. We should have stayed aloft. And we should never have come here.”

St. Maur shook his head sternly. “We had to, don’t you see? If we hadn’t come here, then as far as Marty and Fanny are concerned, I’d simply have disappeared. And if I disappeared at the same time that rumors of dragons flourished, at the same time that a disturbance indicated a dragon had fled town in some hurry . . . My dear child, I might as well have sent an invitation to the Royal Were-Hunters and invited them to hunt me down. And though I’ve been all over the world and often very much the pauper, my name is something I’ve never had to abandon. In fact, my name and family connections are often the only things that have allowed me to
survive.
I have to leave a note to account for my absence.”

“But now we’re going to be killed for it,” Sofie said, her heart beating at her throat, her voice a strangled bleat. “Oh, I can’t let him catch me. I can’t!” She stooped to grab her carpetbags, and started toward the door.

But St. Maur grabbed her arm. “No. Not that. They’re in the garden, can’t you hear? Quite soon they will be on the staircase, inside the house.”

“I will not be caught,” she said. “I will run. How can you stand there and—”

Only, Peter wasn’t standing there. Instead, he was, with efficient, cool calm, undressing himself. Was he insane? Did he think the tigers would be balked by finding her in a room with a naked man? Did he think that would be enough to cause him to drop any idea of marrying her? But then, he’d never seen the man, and couldn’t imagine the animal ruthlessness in those yellow eyes.