Page 20 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

Chapter Nine

AMIR

T he cobblestones glistened under the fading light as dusk settled over London, a city veiled in shadows and secrets. I prowled the streets, a silent predator searching for Elizabeth, my every step guided by an instinct I could not ignore.

The night deepened, thick and impenetrable, as if it conspired to swallow her whole, to shroud her from my vigilant gaze.

The rain came in hesitant droplets at first, a tentative caress against the city’s skin.

Then it grew bolder, more insistent, falling in sheets that darkened my coat and traced rivulets down my temples.

The cold seeped into me, but I welcomed it—let it carve clarity through the haze and fuel the hunger that burned beneath my ribs.

And then—her.

A willowy figure slipped through the labyrinthine alleys ahead, her stride urgent, unwavering. The downpour did not slow her. She did not seek shelter or turn toward the safety of her heart and home. Instead, she pressed forward, deeper into the city’s bones.

Toward the dead.

The iron-wrought gate loomed before her, its rusted hinges groaning a protest as she pushed through. Beyond it stretched an expanse of silence and stone—a graveyard where time seemed to mourn.

I followed, a phantom draped in the vestiges of night, swallowed by the storm.

She moved through the rows of the departed, rain-soaked and fragile yet utterly indomitable. Then, she stopped.

Before a cluster of graves.

I stepped closer, unseen, my gaze drawn to the names etched upon the weathered stones.

A woman. Two young men.

A single name bound them all.

Alexander.

The night held its breath.

And so did I.

The dates on the gravestones were fresh, their deaths recent enough that grief still clung to the air like an unshaken specter. The woman—her mother. The young men—her brothers. Lives claimed by that masked imposter’s indiscriminate hand, taken on foreign soil.

Elizabeth’s voice broke the hush, a fragile whisper carried by the wind.

“I’m so sorry.”

Again and again, the words spilled from her lips, a litany of apologies, as soft as prayers, spoken for the dead who could no longer hear her.

A storm raged inside me.

I yearned to step from the shadows, gather her in my arms, and shield her from this world’s cruelty. To press my lips to her hair and promise that she was not alone.

But I was bound elsewhere.

Another cause. Another master.

Lazarus held my loyalty in his grasp, and through that bond, the fates of many teetered on a knife’s edge.

Elizabeth deserved more than a man whose hands were stained with the ghosts of his past. More than a creature chased by shadows, relentless pursuits, and whispered betrayals.

And so, I remained silent.

A guardian was unseen. A specter who could only exist in the hush of falling rain and the watchful gaze that never left her.

She lingered a moment longer, head bowed, fingers tracing the cold edges of the stone before she turned.

Her silhouette receded, fading into the cemetery’s somber embrace, growing smaller as she neared the looming facade of the Alexander estate.

I lingered.

Hidden in the darkness, unseen—until?—

A voice shattered the night.

It was harsh and reprimanding, each word laced with judgment, thick with disappointment.

“How dare you abandon the hallowed halls of Lord Winston’s estate without a proper goodbye?”

The venom in his tone cut through the rain, his voice a force of pure indignation.

“You’ve disgraced our lineage with your betrayal. And look at yourself! Cloaked in grime and neglect—standing before me like some wayward beggar.”

Lord Alexander was rigid, his fury lashing out like a whip meant to break or humiliate.

Elizabeth halted.

Her back to me, her shoulders tightening as though bracing for a blow that had not yet come.

Something inside me snapped.

Before I could stop myself and consider the wisdom of my next action, I stepped forth from my concealment, boots striking the cobblestones with purpose.

“Lord Alexander.”

My voice cut through the space between us, carrying across the courtyard with clear intent.

Elizabeth whirled around.

Her eyes—wide, startled—locked onto mine, an unspoken question flickering in their depths.

I held her gaze for half a second before focusing on her father.

“Forgive my unannounced arrival at your home,” I continued smoothly, my voice unwavering.

A calculated pause.

“Her carriage broke down, and then the rain started,” I said, the words falling effortlessly, a half-truth meant to shield her.

“I happened to be running errands nearby. I had her and her maid stay at my estate until the weather cleared. Elizabeth informed me that Lord Winston had other matters to attend to, so I offered my home as shelter.”

Lord Alexander’s posture shifted—rigid, unreadable.

Surprise flickered across his face for a moment before cooling into something far more dangerous—reluctant gratitude shadowed by distrust.

“Lord Hassan.”

The formality in his tone was clipped and assessing.

“I had no idea.”

He turned to Elizabeth, his gaze piercing.

“Elizabeth, is this true?”

The air between us thickened, every second stretching unbearably taut.

Her answer would mean everything.

A faint nod was her only concession, subtle yet weighted with all the unspoken words between us.

“Yes, Father. Thank you so much, Lord Hassan. I appreciate your hospitality and kindness.”

Her voice was steady, but I heard the tremor beneath it, the strain of maintaining the ruse.

I inclined my head, a brief, silent acknowledgment—our unspoken pact.

As I turned to depart, her voice—subdued, yet resolute—halted me.

“I’ll be retiring to my room, Father.”

“Nonsense.” Lord Alexander’s command cracked through the night, his tone brooking no argument. “Tell me how your day was with Lord Winston. And why did you choose to leave in such haste? You’d better have a convincing argument to justify your disgraceful actions.”

A soft sigh escaped her lips.

Resignation.

Defeat.

She followed him inside, each step a solemn echo, a prisoner walking to the gallows.

And I—I was left alone with the night once more.

But not for long.

As silent as the mist curling through the garden, I circled the house, a ghost among the ivy-clad walls. Then, there?—

Her window.

Soft light spilled from within, a golden glow against the veil of darkness, promising solitude and sanctuary.

I let the shadows consume me.

And then I was inside.

Her room was warm, laced with the scent of lavender and old parchment. A few pieces of paper lay upon her desk, their ribbed texture a testament to craftsmanship long lost to time.

I grabbed the quill, the feathered end brushing against my fingers before the ink-kissed paper.

A single note.

A whisper of all I could not say aloud.

Forgive me, love. I wish things were different.

—Yours, A.

The note lay bare upon the desk, a token from me, a confession rendered in ink.

With one last look at the room that held traces of her essence—the scent of lavender, the warmth of candlelight, the ghost of her lingering touch—I vanished as silently as I had come, leaving nothing but a whisper of what could never be.

* * *

Dawn had barely touched the sky with its pale fingers when I set out, cloaked in the guise of the Black Wraith.

The clouds hung low and oppressive, a heavy curtain of gloom stretching over the city as if the heavens themselves mourned something unseen. The air was thick, damp, waiting.

But the unease in my gut had nothing to do with the storm brewing overhead.

It was the cottage.

“Remember,” I instructed the few men who knew of my dual existence, my voice low. “If I am not back by late afternoon, come find me.”

Their nods were tight, their lips pressed into grim lines. No questions. No doubts.

They understood the dangers that lurked in the shadows of our world.

The forest was a labyrinth, its paths winding and deceitful, the air thick with the deceptive murmurs of unseen things. The undergrowth clawed at my boots; the silence was fractured only by the occasional rustle of creatures.

Minutes turned to hours.

Frustration gnawed at me.

Had I been led astray? Was this another ghost, another elusive strand in the tangled web of deceit surrounding Elizabeth?

But then?—

I saw it.

Nestled deep within the trees, half-swallowed by nature itself.

A solitary shamble, its form hunched beneath the weight of time.

The windows were thick with dust, clouded with the haze of neglect.

Yet—

Something about it felt wrong.

Not merely forgotten.

Not merely abandoned.

Something lived beneath its quietude.

Something waited.

With one firm push, I forced the locked door open. The hinges groaned in protest, a jagged screech that echoed through the stillness.

My senses flared—scanning for the scent of poison, the telltale residue of traps, the invisible dangers that lurked in places meant to deceive.

The interior was deviously quaint.

Bunches of dried herbs dangled from the rafters, their fragrance mingling with the acrid bite of sulfur.

A wooden table dominated the center of the room, its surface arranged with meticulous care—vials, flasks, and instruments of alchemy laid out in a method that spoke of obsession rather than neglect.

Whoever called this place home wanted the world to believe it was untouched, forgotten.

But I was not so easily misled.

My gaze drifted to a tall shelf.

Rows of glass vials and flasks stood like silent sentinels, sealed with wax or cork. Some were clouded, stained with the remnants of past experiments, while others held liquids that gleamed with an unnatural luster—like they contained something more than mere compounds.

Beside them, a tarnished copper alembic rested, its curved neck poised to distill not just elements but essence itself.