Page 86 of The Devil in Her Bed

To rid the world of an evil so insidious, the people milling about the streets of his city were not even aware that it had infiltrated their government, their economy, and their very lives.

And he would. Tonight.

He’d finally be able to, because he would at least be sure that Francesca would be far away from the Crimson Council. If he was lucky, she’d be home, awaiting a summons that would never come.

He reached into his pocket, retrieving the map that had been left for her in the wee hours of the morning. Intercepting it had almost been too easy. He’d left her to her ablutions and had snooped through a silver tray of cards and invitations, hoping it would be there.

The fates, it would seem, were on his side for once.

Because of him, she’d have no idea where the second ritual would be. And because of its unusual location, she’d have little to no chance of stumbling upon it, even if she searched the entire night.

He’d do what he had to, and it would be over.

But first, he had to rid himself of this reckless rage.

Winding back toward the west boroughs, he found himself at Crosshaven Downs, a posh and pretty spot where the idle rich came to play at all things equestrian. He let Porthos have his head, hunching low over his neck as the gelding galloped like a stallion.

He was not a man prone to running away, and so he let the creature do it for him.

He ran from every ghost haunting the ashes of Mont Claire.

Especially the Hargraves.

Hattie, the simple, endlessly pleasant and untroubled woman who always seemed to have extra food set aside for him.

Charles, who would pat his shoulder every time hegave him a job to do. Who’d never truly smiled with his stern mouth, but always conveyed amusement with the rest of his face.

The man would have offered to be his father.

With a raw command, Chandler spurred the horse faster, letting the wind whip at him as he ate up the ground.

He ran from the soft, clinging arms of Pippa Hargrave. From her trusting, round face and toothless smile. From her peppermints and her punches and her little-girl love. From the hole in his heart that belonged only to her.

She was his greatest failure. His most profound regret.

Most of all, he ran from his nature, his choices, and his very name.

He ran until the distressed snorts and breaths of the athletic horse beneath him permeated the fog of rage and pain and loss.

Reining in the steed, he walked the horse around the downs for several laps, cooling them both.

The race hadn’t exactly the desired effect, but then, he’d not expected it to. If life had taught him anything, it was folly to try to outrun the past.

And impossible to outrun the truth.

The Mont Claire Massacre had been his fault.

Francesca had built part of her pain tolerance from the years and years spent suffering beneath Serana’s tending of her hair.

Though her locks had darkened from the silver blond of her youth to a darker gold, she never caught a glimpse of the undergrowth before the Romani womanhustled her into a chair and ground the terrible-looking and foul-smelling paste that stained her hair such a vibrant red into her scalp.

Tonight was to be important, and since Francesca was perhaps the most impatient woman on the planet, she decided that she could busy herself with the necessary evil of personal grooming while she waited for the directions to the next Crimson Council gathering.

Devotion had been a heavy thing to witness. But tonight was desire…

At least she wouldn’t have to put on an act.

After just one taste of Declan Chandler, her desire had turned from a curious hunger to an insatiable craving. She’d picked the right stag, of course… a stag that was still missing, even as the afternoon hour turned late.