Evernight

Book 5: Darkest London

by Kristen Callihan

Genres: Victorian Romance; Paranormal Romance; Steampunk

Synopsis

Once the night comes . . .
Will Thorne is living a nightmare, his sanity slowly being drained away by a force he can't control. His talents have made him the perfect assassin for hire. But as he loses his grip on reality, there is no calming him-until he finds his next target: the mysterious Holly Evernight.

Love must cast aside the shadows
Holly cannot fathom who would put a contract on her life, yet the moment she touches Will, the connection between them is elemental, undeniable-and she's the only one who can tame his bouts of madness. But other assassins are coming for Holly. Will must transform from killer to protector and find the man who wants Holly dead . . . or his only chance for redemption will be lost.

Release date: August 26, 2014

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 432

Sample

London, October, 1886

She was being hunted. Of that Holly was sure. Heart beating a hard rhythm against her ribs, she lay still and silent upon her bed and waited. All was quiet, save the wind, which rustled the leaves on the tree near the house. The silver disk of the moon, shining bright against the ink-black sky, peeked past the corner of her window. And somewhere out there, something stalked her. She could feel it coming for her, the certainty of it like a heavy hand pressing upon her heart.

Odd thing to be hunted when one could barely work up the courage to leave one’s house. Rather like a rabbit hunkered down in her warren, waiting for the fox. Then again, she wasn’t quite so helpless. Her home was built like a fortress. And, up until now, her safeguards had worked.

Last week, the electrified inner fence had fried a demon to a crisp. The foul stench of burnt flesh had hung over Mayfair like a pall, drifting into the house to permeate the drapes despite the tightly closed windows and thick, reinforced stone walls. Holly wondered absently what her neighbors made of the smell. But, before the body had even a chance to cool, Felix had deftly taken care of it, leaving no one the wiser.

The week before, Nan had found an elemental male—rather rare—decapitated on the south lawn near the kitchen doors, the victim of a tripwire that triggered a swinging blade designed to catch the unwary across the neck. As for Nan? The pragmatic cook-housekeeper-et-al had merely searched for his head and found it by a mound of ice. So he’d had the power to freeze. Hadn’t helped him keep his head, however.

Anxiety tightened Holly’s gut and robbed her of sleep. Someone wanted her dead. And she did not know who. Or why.

She could contact the SOS. It was the duty of The Society for the Suppression of Supernaturals, or SOS, to hunt down supernaturals who preyed on others. But then regulators would be swarming her grounds in an effort to protect her. And while she admired and missed her colleagues, she did not want them invading her privacy. Worse, she would be forced to explain to Director Lane why she wasn’t capable of returning to her work quite yet. Poppy Lane would see through her hedging and misdirection in an instant. And that really was too humiliating to contemplate.

On the floor below, the clock struck midnight—a soft, usually comforting chime that now had her jumping within her skin. And quite suddenly, Holly had had enough. Cursing, she flung her covers aside and scrambled out of bed. Her feet met with the icy floor, and she marched along, headed for her dressing room. Fumbling in the dark, she threw on a serviceable wool house gown and heavy boots before grabbing her utility belt, complete with knives, spare bullets, and other weapons. She secured it low on her hips, then reached for the handheld submachine revolver she was testing. Heavy and unwieldy, due to a rather large cylinder attached to the base that held 50 rounds of ammunition, the gun needed to be secured to an arm brace for Holly to handle it. Her fingers were steady as she clipped the brace on and left her room.

In the hall, she paused, told herself to move, do what she must. Oh, but she felt the fear. The familiar tight pang of it that occurred whenever she stepped more than a foot outside her front door.

“You won’t be going more than a foot,” she muttered to herself. “Get on with it, old girl.”

Outside was bitter cold and so clear, the moon so very bright, that each blade of grass appeared limned in silver-white light. Poised at the threshold of her door, feet braced apart and hand upon the trigger of her gun, Holly surveyed her land, from the stone stairs to where her front lawn stretched to meet the iron spikes of her gate. Nothing stirred. Even the breeze had died, as though holding its breath.

She was not fooled. She could feel him out there. Watching. Waiting.

“Show yourself, you coward.” Her voice sounded small and thin in the empty expanse of the front garden. Thud, thud, thud went her heart. Her breath rasped in and out of her lungs. Ice traveled along her spine, making her fingers tense upon the handle of the gun. Easy. Easy.

Though there was not a cloud in the sky, shadows began to coalesce over the garden. Dense, black, and complete, it swarmed along the grass and crept up the sides of the house. Instinct had Holly spinning left and raising her gun as the dark shadow hurled towards her.

The gun went off in rapid succession, each shot punctuated by a loud clang as the bullets ricocheted off of some kind of metal that sparked on impact. It was all she registered before the thing was upon her, and cruel, icy fingers gripped her throat even as the hard body slammed into her. They crashed into the door, her bones rattling, her breath choked from her lungs. A flash of silver, two long white fangs gleaming, and eyes—terrifying, mindless—locked on her with complete hatred.

She would die now. Even so, she reached out, her hand connecting with something smooth and hard.

Power surged through her in a rush so fast and strong that her head spun. The body pressing into her froze on a gurgled gasp. Everything went painfully still—the night, her heart, her breath. She couldn’t move, her fingers stuck against a cold curve. The shadows around her cleared, and she stared into a face of aching beauty and bone-deep terror. Whatever sort of being she held captive by her touch—for he’d yet to move either—was made not of flesh but of metal, shining bright and gleaming in the moonlight.

The sharp angles of his features, the high, sculpted cheeks and knife-blade thin nose, seemed familiar to her. But the thought fled in favor of the strengthening hum coursing through her. Oh, but she knew this power. It was as much a part of her as her bones. Metal. It was hers to command. Her friend.

Holly didn’t have to think. The metal responded as if being called home. And on the next draw of power, the male on top of her fell to the side with a clang, lying helpless and unmoving, save for the rapid cadence of breath that hissed between his clenched teeth. Keeping her hand upon his cheek, she scrambled to her knees and peered over him. His eyes, wide and wild, stared back.

“It is unfortunate for you,” she said, “that you are made of metal.”

A low, animalistic growl rumbled in his throat, and fear danced along her spine. Holly didn’t let it show. She studied the creature, trying to think of what to do with him. She wasn’t sure how to kill him, nor if she ought to. He held answers. How to get them was another matter.

He was in pain. She could see that now. It vibrated through him, pulling at the clean, sharp lines of his face. That face. She knew him. Spots danced before her eyes as panic and guilt speared her soul. She had created him.

Beholding the transformed face of Will Thorne, the terror Holly had felt during her captivity surged to the fore on a wave of shocking cold. Guilt was a bitter stew in her stomach. She hadn’t let herself think of him. Hadn’t wanted to. From the day Jack Talent and Mary Chase had freed her and Thorne, she had tried to put him and the whole incident out of her mind. And while she’d been able to successfully relinquish all thoughts of Thorne, her life was lived in an effort to not think about the hellish moments that had played out in the dark cellar they’d shared.

Now here he was, glaring up at her in accusation. And she could only return that gaze by going numb. Feel nothing. Retreat to that safe, quiet place of logic and facts.

Holly reached up and hit the small brass button by her front door. A series of hisses and buzzes sounded in the dark night, and then Felix’s faint voice crackled through. “Yes?”

“It’s me. I need assistance. Presently,” she added, before letting the button go.

Thorne was beginning to shake and pant like a horse that had been run to ground. His gaze had yet to leave her. The last time she’d looked into his eyes, rays of black and silver had radiated from his cornea. Now his irises were entirely silver. Platinum, actually. The hard metal that made up his clockwork heart had invaded every inch of his flesh. Even his hair, once a brilliant snow white, fanned out in silken skeins of shining platinum. Quite beautiful, this metal man.

Deadly too, if the promise of retribution in his eyes ever came to fruition. She would see that it did not.

“I shall not hurt you,” she said to him. If he understood was another matter. He appeared completely maddened. More animal than logical being.

Another growl gurgled in his throat, and she could feel the hatred vibrating from him.

Felix yanked open the door. Now fully dressed, save for his cravat, he assessed the situation in a glance and pocketed the gun in his hand.

“I need this removed.” She held up her arm, encumbered by the brace and useless gun.

Felix knelt next to her, and his nimble fingers quickly unbuckled the leather straps. It was a relief when the heavy weight came off.

“Prepare the West laboratory,” she told him.

“As madam wishes.”

He was gone in the next breath. Only to be replaced by Nan. The older woman was wearing her orange, India-print housecoat and a frilly nightcap. “Another devil.” She nodded, and her pinned grey curls threatened to bounce free. “ ’Least you caught this one.”

The “devil” frozen beneath her fingertips tried to stir. Fighting his imprisonment. Holly was not certain how long she could hold him, nor did she desire to test it. “I’m taking him to the West laboratory. Hold his feet steady when I lift him up.”

Nan’s mouth fell open, but Holly did not give her time to question. Taking a deep, bracing breath of cold air, she rose to her feet, keeping her fingers curled about his cheek, and Mr. William Thorne’s body moved with her as though he were lighter than a feather. Nan balked, but she quickly ran around the hovering body and took hold of his ankles.

The whites of Thorne’s eyes flashed, and Holly knew he was desperate to look about, confused as to how she’d been able to levitate him.

“You, Mr. Thorne,” she said to him, “appear to be formed entirely of metal. As I can control metal with a thought, so do I have control over you.” She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring look. “Try to relax, why don’t you? And then you can tell me why you are here to kill me.”



Try to relax? Not bloody likely. Will’s mind had cleared enough to take stock of his situation. He had no memory of how he’d arrived at where he presently was, or what had occurred. He’d known only his objective: hunt down Holly Evernight, and destroy her.

Now she was here. At last. Right next to him, walking with determined strides, her profile a pale and perfect silhouette stamped against the darkened halls.

Hell on earth, how did she do it? How did she keep him floating in the air, unable to move or to speak? Her cool hand lay on his cheek, an almost tender hold. Yet he knew it was only there to keep him trapped. Hate and rage bubbled hotly through his limbs. All for naught. He could not bloody move.

But he hurt. Intensely. Constantly. Pain was a keening wail in his mind. It blinded him. It also gave him something to hold on to. Her scent surrounded him. Iron and fire, the unctuous scent of motor oil, and beneath it all… lilacs. Likely her bath soap, for it was not a strong perfume. The strange combination felt familiar to him, and he reasoned that he must have remembered it from their last meeting. Must have tracked her by it.

No, that wasn’t right. Someone had told him where to find the reclusive Miss Evernight. Only he could not remember who.

Gods, his head felt brittle, as though it might shatter. His clockwork heart clicked a steady rhythm. Did she hear it? Did she remember the apparatus she’d foisted on him? He needed to get free and rip out the fleshy heart of the beastly woman who’d ripped out his. He tried to move again. A failure.

“You are wasting your energy.” Her voice was all cool tones and dark shadows. She did not even look at him. “Calm, and we can have a chat when you are settled.”

Have a chat. Perhaps over tea? He’d cut her tongue out first.

They turned down another corridor. Far above him, the ceiling turned from dark, coffered wood to high, graceful arches of white. Arched ceiling. Lying helpless on his back as they rolled him along. Panic blackened the edges of his sight. And with it went his hold on the pain. It crested over him, a violent wave that crashed down and made him shudder. Too much. Too much.

Inside himself, he thrashed, trying to get away from it. A whimper broke from his unmoving lips.

Midnight blue eyes glanced down at him, and the faintest of furrows wrinkled between the dark wings of her brows. Lovely and heartless. A cold diamond of a woman.

She brought him into a small, wood-paneled room, strangely warm and cozy, when he’d expected an icy cellar like the one she’d inhabited before. A fire crackled in the hearth, and he craved its heat. The world spun as she turned him, and he caught sight of the matronly lady who he’d all but forgotten about at his feet, her plump face drawn in a scowl. Then his captor set him down on some sort of high table. But she did not remove her hand.

He hated her touch. Hated that she could control him in this, when she’d already destroyed his life.

Like a giant insect, she bent over him, inspecting his face in her detached manner.

“You are in pain.” She leaned closer, and her loose, inky hair swung down, the strands cool silk against his neck. “Where does it hurt?”

Everywhere. Another strangled sound escaped him. He fought to keep silent.

But as if she’d heard his internal thought, she nodded brusquely. “I am going to attempt an experiment.”

Like hell! He strained, tried to thrash, and got nowhere.

“I will stop if I notice any damage.”

Hateful woman. I’ll kill you.

A flicker of sympathy went through her eyes. Hate that as well.

“Leave us,” she said to the old woman. The woman drifted off like a ghost, out of his line of sight. Out of the room.

Then Evernight took a deep breath, her pert breasts rising beneath her frumpy grey housecoat. He didn’t want to notice her blasted bosom. Any other thoughts he might have had about the matter fled on a tide of liquid warmth that rushed over him. Relief. A soothing balm.

He shuddered as it sank deeper. The horrendous pressure that constantly weighed down his flesh eased, and he breathed deep. God. His vision blurred. God.

“It’s all right.”

Evernight’s voice.

He turned his head towards the sound and realized that he could move. Absolute lethargy weighed him down. Warm all over for the first time in his memory, he could do no more than blink up at this strange woman who still had a hold of his cheek. Touching him. He could not remember the last woman who’d done so. He knew he’d had many women, but the particulars were lost in the dark mire of his thoughts.

“What did you do?” His voice was rust and cobwebs. It’d been so long since he’d used it. With a shaking hand, he touched his jaw. Flesh there. Not cold, hard metal.

Evernight’s wide eyes did not blink. “Drew the metal back.”

He took another breath, his chest hitching. “I’m going to rise now.”

Her lips thinned. “I expect civil behavior, Mr. Thorne.”

A rasping laugh made him wheeze. “Do you now? A word of advice. Become accustomed to disappointment when dealing with me.”

She pressed her fingertips into his cheek with just enough force to make her point. “Shall I reverse the process?”

Cold, calculating insect. “You have intrigued me sufficiently that I will withhold execution for the moment.”

Her perfectly sculpted face stared down at him without any inflection of feeling. “Generous of you, Mr. Thorne. I shall do likewise. For I too am intrigued.”

Slowly, she removed her hand. He felt the loss immediately, a spot of cold on his cheek and a slight increase in pressure on his chest. It worried him. More so when fingers of pain started to spread from the cavern surrounding his clacking heart.

She frowned down at her hand, rubbing the tips of her fingers together as if they bothered her.

“What did you do to me?”

“Why do you want to kill me?”

They spoke over each other.

When she simply stood there, her delicate features unmarred by an expression of feeling, he huffed. “Well?”

“This is my home, Mr. Thorne. You answer my questions first, and then I shall answer yours.”

Had she not relieved his pain, her neck would be twisted and her blood oozing down his throat this instant. But in truth, he might have wept for joy for the mere fact that he could once again speak in coherent sentences. He needed an answer, and he’d played enough card games to know when an opponent would not fold.

“You do not strike me as obtuse, Miss Evernight,” he said. “However, if that is how you want to play this, then fine.” He grabbed the front of his woolen tunic and ripped it open, exposing his chest. “Here is your answer.”

There was no satisfaction in seeing her flinch as her gaze landed upon the tangle of platinum threads that ran from the top of his sternum to the bottom of his ribs. It only fueled his rage. “Here, where your pretty work began and my happy life ended.”

Her slender throat worked on a swallow. “What do you remember?”

Will’s clockwork heart whirred audibly within his chest. “Every damn moment. Right up until you and that thing ripped the beating heart out of my chest.” Things had gone hazy after that, for which Will was grateful.

The pink bow of her mouth tightened. “His name was Amaros. He was a fallen. Diseased and mad. He thought he would prolong his life with a clockwork heart. Only he was too much of a coward to try one out before the operation was perfected.”

After he’d been freed, Will had experienced a few moments of lucidity before the dark, confused state he currently lived in had descended. His friend Jack had explained what happened, and that Will had been given a clockwork heart as if he were a fucking machine. Will knew that much, but no more.

Oh, but he never forgot her. Evernight. His true creator. “You were his pet.”

“Pet.” Her mouth took on a bitter slant. “I suppose you could say that. Bound hand and foot, and his to command.” Her dark eyes flashed with pain and anger. “Yes, I was his pet.”

“Forced? I saw you standing there. You did not help me! You did not fight. Sell me another story, for this one wears thin.”

She held his gaze as she lifted her arms, holding her delicate wrists out before her. “Chained. And soul sick to watch what he did.”

Will glanced down. Thick, pale scars marred her skin. He forced himself to meet her gaze again. “Did you or did you not create this heart that beats in me?”

“I did.”

“And did you or did you not know what it would do to a demon should that bastard play mad scientist with it?” To put a machine into a demon was an aberration of nature. Everyone knew this.

“It was my intention to create a heart that worked well enough for Amaros to put one within his own body,” she said. “That was his ultimate plan. Once he did, it would have made him weaker. Then I could kill him.” The little line between her brows returned. “Yes, sacrifices had to be made. But, had I not tried, the death toll would have gone higher. It was an unavoidable consequence of an unfortunate situation.”

“You are a cold little thing, aren’t you?” He leaned closer, wanting to see her flinch and disappointed when she didn’t. “Unfeeling and detached from any trace of humanity.”

“What would you like me to say, Mr. Thorne?”

“Show some bloody remorse!”

Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “You came here to kill me, and you speak of remorse?”

On a curse, he stood, needing to get away. But it was as if she’d attached steel hooks into his ribs, and with every step he took to distance himself, the hooks dug in deeper, his pain intensifying. He stopped short and rounded on her. “For the last time, what did you bloody do to me? Why do I feel this way?”

Her head tilted. “I don’t understand.”

“Here.” Will slapped his chest. “It hurts here when I draw away from you. I crave your touch, and not in a pleasant way, but as if I will soon be crippled with pain if I do not feel it.” It burned to admit this, but the truth could not be contained. “Why? Why is this so?”

Evernight frowned down at her hand before her expression went completely blank. She stood stone still, oblivious to him, studying her palm.

“Answer me,” he snapped, coming up close to her. Hell. Even that was sweet relief. The heaviness around his heart eased a touch. He had to fight the impulse to grab her hand and press it against his chest.

“Hush,” she said, not moving. “I’m thinking.”

“Oh, well, jolly good. I’ll just sit here in silence, shall I?”

She ignored his sarcasm. “Please do.”

Will’s fangs erupted, the sharp points puncturing his bottom lip. He tasted blood, and his nostrils flared. One long suck at her neck, and she’d be unconscious. Another few deep pulls and she’d be dead. His cock stirred at the thought of breaking her skin, cracking through it like the delicate shell of a Trinity cream. Delicious.

Hands low on his hips, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, fighting his baser urges. Not that she even noted the danger. She merely stared at her hand with blank dispassion. Then, as if breaking from a trance, she drew in a breath and lifted her head. Before he could say a word, she moved closer and pressed her smooth palm to his scar.

He nearly swooned. Clutching the chair at his side, Will swayed into her space, lured by the luscious heat and pleasure that she gave him with that simple touch. A moan escaped him.

“Interesting,” she murmured.

He would kill her. Just for that. “I do believe I hate you, Miss Evernight.”

Firelight caressed her skin as she gave him the smallest of smiles. “Your sense of humor is odd.”

He hadn’t been joking.

“It appears, Mr. Thorne, that your clockwork heart is a constant poison to you.”

“Oh, well, brilliant.” And not at all a shock. He slapped the back of a nearby chair, sending it teetering.

“Your demon makeup sees it as an unwanted host—”

“Stating the obvious, darling.”

“But instead of trying to fight it, your body is attempting to reorganize itself, transmuting on an intracellular level.”

“Plain English would be preferable.”

“In short—”

“Too late for that, I’m afraid.”

“To survive, your body tries to accept your platinum heart by letting the metal take over your flesh. Which only succeeds in driving you to madness and giving you great pain.”

“Another obvious statement.”

Evernight let out a small huff. “Do you always interrupt people?”

“I cannot remember. If they were as pedantic as you, I’m certain I did.”

Her black winged brows snapped together. “Fine. I shall use small words and simple phrases.”

“At this point, I shall be thankful if you can manage as few of them as possible.”

A small click sounded in the silence, as if she’d snapped her teeth together. He couldn’t be sure, for her calm tone did not change when she spoke. “I can control metal. When I touch you, Mr. Thorne, I can tell the metal to retreat. I can ease your pain. When I do not interfere…”

“I am buggered,” he finished, feeling ill.

“In a word, yes. Yes you are.”

As expected, Thorne reacted as if Holly had struck him. He reared back, his white hair swinging over his shoulders, and snarled, showing the tips of needle-sharp fangs. “Fucking hell.” It sounded more like fook-hen ’ell to Holly’s ears.

It was strange hearing him speak now. In all their time together in the nightmarish imprisonment, he’d never uttered a word. But she knew the sound of his screams quite well. Suppressing a shiver, she pushed that thought aside. His voice was pleasant, smooth as cream, but with the sharpness of a proper, upper-crust London accent. Well-raised, then. But beneath it, there was a thread of something deeper that came out more when he was agitated, such as now. It wasn’t Scots, more like what one would hear in Northern England, with the dropped “h”s and breathy endings of words as if he were swallowing them. Exotic and dark. Holly had heard the like before in other demons. Notably the Sanguis who were believed to come from the north.

Sanguis. The blood drinkers. Fiends who thrived on blood and sexual relations. Logically, Holly knew that it was wrong to fault someone for something they have no control over. Sanguis were as their creator made them. And yet, even though she tried to see it that way, a shiver of disgust over their choice in libation came over her just the same. Nor did she particularly trust demons. Far too many of her colleagues had been hurt or deceived by them.

She wondered idly if he spoke demonish. But then swatted that thought away as he stalked about the room, his muscled arms gesticulating wildly. “Am I to be this mad thing? Incapable of a rational thought unless you,” his lips curled on a bitter face, “are near me?”

Thorne halted and strode back to her, the torn ends of his tunic flapping, displaying a well-defined torso and that scar.

That scar had haunted her deepest dreams. Nearly a foot long and comprised of gnarled platinum threads, like a tight network of tree roots. From that scar spread a small lake of platinum, washing over the expanse of his upper chest. It radiated ever outward as he moved.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice still dark and strange, his eyes flashing black and silver, “why shouldn’t I kill us both now and take you to hell with me?”

“Can you destroy yourself, Mr. Thorne?”

The taut wall of his abdomen clenched as he glared down at her. “No,” he shouted. “No, I can’t. Satan knows I’ve tried. But I simply dissipate. To shadows! Fuck.” He pushed off again, a mass of restless energy. She envied that. She was so weary at this moment. Using her power on Thorne to that extent had utterly drained her. Holly braced her hip against the edge of her desk and hoped he would not notice.

“You say you turn to shadows. Have you the ability to leave your body in spirit as the GIM do?”

GIM, or Ghosts in The Machine, were spirits that refused to move on once dead. As lore went, an extremely old and powerful Primus demon named Adam could be called upon to restore the spirit’s body and give them immortality. There was a price, however. Adam gave the body a clockwork heart, and the soul was contractually indebted to him for a time of service. Should the soul fail to comply, Adam simply stopped the heart, and the body would die.

With his clockwork heart, Thorne was modeled after the GIM. Only he was a demon, whereas GIM were once human.

“No. I am either lamentably solid or mere ether.” He made it sound like a fault, but Holly saw a greater advantage in his ability. For at least his body was never left empty and vulnerable.

“There is something I do not understand,” she said, watching him prowl.

He snorted rudely.

“You say you are here to kill me as revenge against what was done to you. Did you send the others?”

Thorne pivoted on his heel. “You mean to say there are others who yearn to wrap their hands about your pretty neck?” His smile was not nice. “Why am I not surprised?”

Really, the man was most amusing. “Mr. Thorne, did you come here of your own accord or did someone send you?”

He paused and peered at her. “I… Hell, I don’t know.” On a sigh, Thorne tossed himself into a chair and grasped his hair with both hands as he hunkered forward. His voice came out muffled and pained. “I don’t even know how I got here. Or what I’ve been doing since I was freed. How long has it been since that night?” He lifted his head and looked up at her.

Really, his eyes were most beautiful, almost feminine with their long, dark lashes and the slight tilt at the corners. With his smooth, unlined face, he appeared nothing more than a young man, lost and frightened. “You’ve scars upon your wrists,” he said. “Time to heal at least.”

She found it an effort to speak. “It is nearing on a year. It is the first of October, in the year eighteen-eighty-six.”

“A year.” He winced before letting out a chuff of air. “Why did it take me so long to come for you?” He did not speak to her, but scowled down at his large, clenched fist. “You are the only thing I have thought about.”

She was sure many women would love to hear such a sentiment, if it weren’t for the “so I could kill you” that was left unsaid.

A soft blanket of silence fell over the room. Enough that she noticed the gentle patter of rain coming from outside the windows.

Thorne ran a tired hand over his face then straightened. “Just how many have tried to kill you, Evernight?”

“Including you, four attempts thus far.”

“And you truly have no . . .