She’d got him ten feet away when Isley surged upward on a roar. A meaty fist hit Poppy square upon the cheek. Black pain exploded in her skull. Ducking another hit, she fled to Win as she threw out another punch of power. A wall of thick ice barely formed around her and Win before the blast of the demon’s fire struck. The burning heat of the attack melted the wall. Wrenching her hand around, she grabbed a chakram blade from her pocket and threw it. The demon deflected the round, spinning blade with a swipe of his claws, so she sent another wave at him, encasing his upper body in thick, blue ice.
His roar blew back her hair, but she did not flinch. More and more ice surrounded him. She was lowering the Thames in an effort to keep him contained, and he was melting it just as fast. He was almost free. She reached for another blade when Win’s voice croaked. “The scarab. His name.” Blood trickled from Win’s split lip. “He is Apep.”
Apep? Understanding lit through her. Apep’s name was on the scarab. It could destroy him. She scrambled, slipping on slush, banging her knees as she rose and stumbled toward the small, stone beetle that lay a few feet from the lamppost.
Apep screamed, the sound of crackling ice filling the air. Poppy’s hand closed around the scarab. She ran toward Apep and his snarling rage. She snarled too, running at full speed with her breath burning in her throat.
Apep’s arm broke free of its icy bonds. He swung his claws as she neared, knowing that one hit would take her head.
“Poppy!” Win’s voice, strong with desperation. “Drop!”
So she did, not knowing why, but only that she trusted him. She fell back, hearing the high-pitched whine of a blade flying over the space she had just occupied. Poppy glanced up to see the gold blur of her chakram as it sliced through the trapped demon’s arm like a greedy spoon through warm pudding. The severed arm fell to the ground with a thud. Apep screeched as he thrashed, trying to free his remaining arm. Cracks grew, and the ice crumbled from the force.
Heart in her mouth, Poppy called on her remaining strength and leapt up. Apep’s arm was nearly free. On a cry borne of desperation, Poppy slammed the scarab against Apep’s red chest.
With a flash of light, the scarab came to life, burrowing into his flesh as the demon writhed and shouted. Light filled Apep’s eyes and shot from his nostrils and mouth with golden fire. He stared at Poppy, anguish etched in his face. “You were mine too. You could have been like me.”
A strange sensation of loss filled her, and then the demon exploded in a burst of smoke and fire.
The explosion sent thick chunks of ice through the air and knocked her and Win down along with it. Apep’s final roar rippled through the night. And then he was gone, so abruptly that it almost felt as though Poppy had dreamed the whole thing. Exhaustion hit her in the same instant, and she sank back with a sigh. Her heart beat a steady but hard rhythm in her chest, the strain of using her power weakening her as always.
For a moment, she simply breathed, then Win’s boots came into view. Her eyes traveled up the long length of his lean form until she met his gaze. A greenish tint colored his skin, and beads of perspiration dotted his brow. His hands shook, though she could see his effort to keep them still.
“How did you know who he was?” Her voice was even, despite the shiver of fear that ran through her. Win could have been killed. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about that before. The knowledge ran in cold spirals down her back now.
He turned his head, giving her his scarred profile as he examined the small mountain of melting ice before them. A soft breeze lifted the ends of his hair and tossed them around his strong profile. “A little research never hurts one’s case.”
A flicker of amusement lurked in his eyes when he turned back to her. But she could see how very pale he was and the way he swayed on his feet. “Have you an entire arsenal tucked beneath your shirt, then?”
“Not an entire one,” she said, matching his light tone. “I’ve a few things in my pockets as well.”
His lips curled, but the smile was tremulous and hard won. “You’re late.”
Laughter burst from her, choked and abrupt. “I ought to be. You drugged me, you bastard.”
The very notion of his high-handedness had her seeing red. Only the greater part of her could not help but think bravo, and well done. For she would have done the same to him, had she thought of it. Win was a shrewd bastard when he wanted to be. That he’d thought to put the drug inside the cream buns had been particularly devious.
She’d been livid when she’d awakened. But, true to his promise not to keep anything from her again, he’d left her a note explaining where he was and how he had to trick Isley. Like a consummate gambler, Win had left so much to chance, but he’d done it with such finesse that her heart swelled with pride.
His breath gurgled. “I thought you might… appreciate… that.” Then he fell to his knees.
“Win?” She pushed up, scrambling toward him. Her arms caught him before he hit the ground. She’d forgotten about his wounds. A crimson stain spread out across his ravaged white shirt. “Win!” She ripped the shirt farther open. Holes punctured his flesh and a thick chunk of melting ice was embedded in his right shoulder. “Oh hell.”
His lashes fluttered. “It appears that I might need a bit of assistance.”
Shaking, she leaned close, resting her hand on the wound and chilling it down. “If you die on me, Winston Lane, I shall kill you.”
His lips tilted. “Don’t worry, sweeting. I live to thwart you.” Then his eyes slid closed.
Chapter Forty-two
One would think after months of convalescing from a werewolf attack, one would at least be accustomed to something so trivial as being impaled by a shard of ice. Well, “one” was not. Win lay on his side and tried not to breathe as he dozed. Despite his haze, a sound at the door brought him to instant attention, every sore and battered muscle screaming in protest.
Someone entered the room. He hoped it was Poppy, but the step was too heavy, and the atmosphere in the room felt off, foreign. Beneath his pillow, his hand curled around the gun he kept there. Heart pounding and his body throbbing with pain, Win remained still. He was too weak to whip about and attack so he had to rely on the element of surprise. The slow footsteps came closer. A buzzing sound filled his ears. His clammy hand held the gun firm.
From beneath lowered lids he watched as a pair of long, trouser-clad legs came into view. It might have been Archer or Ranulf, but they would have announced themselves. Win waited for the man to come a step closer. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he opened his eyes, thrust his gun out, and aimed.
His brother froze, his dark eyes wide and staring.
Win relaxed a fraction. The shock of seeing his brother before him made his chest burn. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of a word to say. So he waited, unable to lower his gun before he knew what the man wanted.
“I know you.” Oz swallowed, his raised hands shaking as badly as Win’s. “You’re my… Good God, Win. It is you, isn’t it?”
Slowly, Win let his arm fall. He did not want to answer, did not want to see his old life collide with this one. But that had already occurred, and Oz was not his father. Win’s throat closed tight against the emotion welling up from within. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of his brother, the man he’d left behind.
“Oz.” His voice came out in a croak.
Oz’s jaw worked as he lowered his hands and peered into Win’s face. “I thought you were dead. I remember…” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I remember you dying. Your name is on the family crypt.” It was an accusation full of pain and bewilderment. “And then…” He ran a hand along the back of his neck. “I woke up this morning and knew. Knew you were not dead. Knew where to find you as well.” Coal black eyes bored into Win. “How? How is that, Win?”
It took several tries for Winston to find his voice. “I don’t know.”
Oz drew himself up, his tone becoming stronger, more ducal. “You were here, in London, all this time. Working as a detective. How could you not—” He pressed his lips together. “How could you not come to me? You let me believe you were dead. Why?”
Win took a deep breath and regretted it. “Father disowned me when I married Poppy.”
“The merchant’s daughter.”
Win did not know nor care what Oz thought about Poppy. She was his, and he’d be damned if another Duke of Marchland stood in his way. “I thought you knew. And that you disowned me as well.” It was as close to the truth as Win could devise.
Oz sneered, his head snapping back as though Win had spit in his face. “You think so little of me?”
God forgive him. “It was what Father led me to believe.” Poppy had been correct; lying to one’s family was not nearly as easy as it would seem.
Oz gave a terse nod, then lowered his eyes before raising them once again, cold accusation still there. “We met. At Amy’s party. You acted as though you did not know me.”
Bloody hell. “I was ashamed.” Hell and damnation. “And you did not appear to know me, either.”
“Damn it all, Win. You are my brother. But you do not look as you once did. Had I recognized you, I would have…” His mouth snapped shut. “What happened to you?” he said after a moment.
Win sighed. He hadn’t the energy to make up a lie for his scars. “My life is different now, Oz.”
Silence answered him, and then his brother took another step closer to the bed. “It will be better now. I don’t care what Father did or said. You have an estate, funds that I will readily—”
“No.”
Oz blinked. “What do you mean? I give these things to you freely. With joy.”
Win held his brother’s gaze. “I don’t want any of it. I never did. When I said that my life was different, I meant that it was apart from your world. This is the life I want to live.” He laughed abruptly, the action sending spears of hot pain through him. “Aside from my current predicament, that is.”