Page 52 of The Unweaver

She could lose herself in the blue pools of his eyes and find herself again in the tender promise of his lips.

“Cora,” he murmured and crushed his mouth to hers.

Malachy kissed her with the hunger of a starving man. Tongues feasted and hands explored in a primal dance, angling for a deeper taste, awakening dormant desires.

Bathed in his warmth, she melted against him. Her nails raked across his shoulders and down his back, fisting in his shirt and pressing him closer. An exquisite ache built between her thighs.

It was a baptism in the summer rain. A sanctuary in his embrace as his hands and lips worshiped her. A benediction in his low groan. A salvation in his kiss.

Their breaths were fast and shallow when his lips left hers. “You’ll be the death of me,” he whispered, holding her tight.

“You’ll love me to death,” she whispered back. He kissed her again, heartbreakingly gentle.

Cor-a, came a faint voice on the wind.Cor-a…

Malachy drew back and frowned. His eyes blackened, pupils swelling to engulf the blue irises. Darkness seeped into white until, black on black, his cold eyes leered down at her and—

Cora startled awake.

She was curled on the library couch with a blanket that hadn’t been there when she fell asleep and a weight on her chest. She glanced down and screamed. The Persian cat stared at her with unblinking eyes.

“Damnit, Kevin.” She knocked him onto the floor. “Bloody creep.”

With a peeved swish of his tail, the cat sauntered to the fireplace and settled upon a cushion before the dying embers,his gaze not leaving her. She rolled away from him, pulling the blanket tighter, and tried to slow her rapid heartbeat.

In her dreams, she often relived memories, her own and the dead’s. But this dream hadn’t been full of corpses. This dream had been new and vivid and didn’t fade upon waking.

She touched her lips where the imprint of his kiss lingered. Somehow, she sensed Bane’s presence in the quiet night. Somehow, she knew he was not only in the house, but awake.

Sleep was slow to reclaim her as the same thought milled about her mind:This has to be the Binding Agreement. Right?

Chapter 14. Irish Goodbyes

Apale wash of sunlight slanted across her eyelids. Cora sat up and looked, bleary-eyed, around the Victorian library. Memories trudged back. The snow-felted cemetery. The ambush. Teddy’s decaying body, preserved by a Sanguimancer and Hydromancer, and stuffed in an icebox.

Now she’d found his spirit and body, she was that much closer to getting him back. Maybe, just maybe, they’d celebrate their birthday together this year. Some of the heaviness eased from her chest.

Despite the roaring fire and the blanket, she shivered. No amount of whiskey or warmth had broken the icy film of Purgatory or the snowy graveyard.

She pulled her ermine coat tighter and felt something wet. Various people’s blood was in various states of evaporation on the fur. Further inspection confirmed all her clothes were likewise unsalvageable. Charred by a Pyromancer, caked in cemetery dirt, and matted with the blood of at least a dozen people.

The clatter of plates and delicious aroma of cooking wafted from a room beyond. Her stomach rumbled. Cora couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten.

Padding across thick rugs and scuffed wood floors, she tried several doors in search of a water closet. The casual excess of Bane’s Gothic house overwhelmed her. She trailed her adoring fingers across the gorgeous Steinway piano in the parlor that begged her to play it. Beside the gramophone sat a collection of hundreds of records, from Beethoven to Jelly Roll Morton.

One door opened into a cellar the size of the Starlite Club with twice as much booze. Bottles of fine Irish whiskey, Caribbean rum, and wine vintages dating back to Napoleon’s time lined the meticulously labeled shelves. The bootlegger’s private collection. She stuffed a bottle of brandy in her coat before ascending the narrow steps.

At last, she ducked into a water closet and caught her ghastly reflection in the mirror. Hair snarled, countenance pale, weary eyes smudged with days-old mascara. Blood and dirt crusted her.

By either the miracle of magic or indoor plumbing, hot water sprang from the faucet. Her flat’s limited hot water was used up by the time she crawled out of bed in the afternoon.

With a pang, she remembered the life she had shed like dead skin. Her flat. Mary. The family of misfits at the Starlite.Mother.

Had anyone noticed she was gone?

Ten minutes of washing and scrubbing led to little improvement. Her chestnut mane defied taming, her paleness resisted brightening. She stripped down to her chemise, still smelling faintly of goat milk, and washed her dress to no avail. She considered wadding it in the rubbish bin. Unless Bane also had an impressive collection of women’s clothing, it was her only option. She hung the dress on a towel rack to dry.

Clad in only her chemise and coat, she was wandering towards the smell of cooking when a sound made her steps falter. From somewhere in the house came a distant, rhythmicthumping. A subtle drumbeat ofneedcalling out to her, craving her nearness.

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