Firelight

Book 1: Darkest London

by Kristen Callihan

Genres: Paranormal Romance; Paranormal; Fantasy Romance

Synopsis

London, 1881

Once the flames are ignited...

Miranda Ellis is a woman tormented. Plagued since birth by a strange and powerful gift, she has spent her entire life struggling to control her exceptional abilities. Yet one innocent but irreversible mistake has left her family's fortune decimated and forced her to wed London's most nefarious nobleman.

They will burn for eternity...

Lord Benjamin Archer is no ordinary man. Doomed to hide his disfigured face behind masks, Archer knows it's selfish to take Miranda as his bride. Yet he can't help being drawn to the flame-haired beauty whose touch sparks a passion he hasn't felt in a lifetime. When Archer is accused of a series of gruesome murders, he gives in to the beastly nature he has fought so hard to hide from the world. But the curse that haunts him cannot be denied. Now, to save his soul, Miranda will enter a world of dark magic and darker intrigue. For only she can see the man hiding behind the mask.

A Hachette Audio production.

Release date: February 1, 2012

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

“A sizzling paranormal with dark history and explosive magic! Callihan is an impressive new talent.”

—Larissa Ione, New York Times bestselling author of Immortal Rider

“A dark, delicious tale of secrets, murder, and love, beautifully shrouded in the shadows of Victorian London.”

—Hannah Howell, New York Times bestselling author of If He’s Dangerous

“Inventive and adventurous with complex, witty characters, and snappy writing. Callihan will make you believe in the power of destiny and true love.”

—Shana Abé, New York Times bestselling author of The Time Weaver

“A sexy, resplendent debut with a deliciously tortured hero, an inventive supernatural mystery, and slow-building heat that simmers on each page. I can’t wait to see what Kristen Callihan comes up with next!”

—Meljean Brook, New York Times bestselling author of The Iron Duke

“A dazzling debut, sexy and thrilling. Callihan now has a place on my to-buy list.”

—Anya Bast, New York Times bestselling author of Dark Enchantment

“Utterly phenomenal! Sword fights, magic, a heroine with secret strengths, a hero with hidden vulnerability, and best of all, a true love that’s hot enough to burn the pages.”

—Courtney Milan, New York Times bestselling author of Unraveled

“A compelling and emotional page-turner that will have readers burning the midnight oil.”

—Anna Campbell, award-winning author of Midnight’s Wild Passion

“A fantastic debut that has everything I’m looking for in a story: compelling conflict, beautiful writing, gripping sexual tension, and strong, intelligent characters.”

—Sherry Thomas, RITA Award–winning author of His at Night

“Lush and imaginative, FIRELIGHT will sweep you away.”

—Zoë Archer, award-winning author of Devil’s Kiss

“Combines romance, wit, and suspense in a fabulous retelling of Beauty and the Beast… with a supernatural twist.”

—Colleen Gleason, international bestselling author of The Gardella Vampire Chronicles

“Passionate and romantic, beautifully written and dark.”

—Elizabeth Amber, author of Bastian: The Lords of Satyr

If you are lucky, you’ll find yourself supported by the best, the sort whose talent only makes you look better. I consider myself very lucky.

First and foremost, to the two people who helped make my dream a reality: my agent, Kristin Nelson, for being part cheerleader, part wolverine, and all heart; and my editor, Alex Logan, whose elegant editing skills and generosity made my first foray into publishing a pleasure. Every day, I thank my lucky stars that I have you both in my corner.

Thanks to editorial assistant Lauren Plude for your support and infectious enthusiasm. To cover designer Christine Foltzer for a kick-ass cover. To copy editor Lynne Cannon Menges. And to Amy Pierpont and all the talented people who make up the Forever/Grand Central Publishing team.

My eternal gratitude to the best friends and writing partners a girl could hope for: Claire Greer, Jennifer Hendren, Susan J. Montgomery, and Rachel Walsh, who held my hand, encouraged and cajoled me day after day, from concept to completed work. You’ve all helped me more than I can say. My love always.

Many thanks to beta readers Deniz Bevan, Rhianonn Morgan, Kait Nolan, Precie Schroyer, and Carol Spradling.

Huge thanks to Diana Gabaldon, who inspired me to write and is more of a mentor than she’ll ever know. To Jo Bourne for answering many newbie questions, and for being one of the best conveyers of craft I’ve ever met. To the wonderful writers who hang at the CompuServe Books and Writers Forum; you will not find a more welcoming and supportive writing community.

To the home team: my sisters Karina and Liz for listening to endless writer-related babble and all-around sister support. My friends Christine Child, Eileen Cruz Coleman, Kerry Sheridan, and Amy Smith for much of the same. To Jim and Christine Mollenauer for watching my babies countless times so I could write. And to the three who make up my heart: Juan, Maya, and Alex, for understanding when I was holed up in the office, for being my inspiration, for making it all worth it.

Lastly, thank you, Hilde and Herb, my mother and father, who taught me to love books, gave me the gift of storytelling, gave me life.



It was the mask engaged your mind,

And after set your heart to beat.

—W.B. Yeats

London, November 1878

The knowledge that Archer would soon end the life of another cut at his soul with every step he took. The miscreant in question was a liar and a thief at best. That the whole of the man’s meager fortune now rested at the bottom of the Atlantic did little to rouse Archer’s sympathy. On the contrary, it only ignited his fury. A red haze clouded Archer’s vision when he thought about what had been lost. Salvation had almost been his. Now it was gone because Hector Ellis’s pirates had raided Archer’s ship, stealing that which might cure him and hiding it away in their bloody doomed clipper ship.

Mud-thick fog hung low on the ground, refusing to drift off despite the crisp night breeze. It never truly went away, ever present in London, like death, taxes, and monarchy. The ends of Archer’s cloak snapped about his legs, whipping up eddies of the foul yellow vapor as his mouth filled with the acrid taste of coal, filth, and decay that was the flavor of London.

Archer rounded a corner, moving away from the street lamps and into shadow. The sharp staccato of his footfall echoed over the deserted cobbled streets. Far off on the Thames, a mournful foghorn wailed its warning. But here all was quiet. The constant clatter of coaches and the occasional shout of the night watch calling the hours had faded away. Darkness swallowed his form, as it always did, both a comfort and a reminder of what he’d become.

The neighborhood around him was old but fine. Like all places that housed those whom fortune touched, the streets were empty and desolate, everyone having long ago tucked into their well-tufted beds.

Ellis’s house was near. Archer had walked the streets of London long enough to move without hesitation through its perverse network of twisted alleys and endless avenues. Anticipation, cold and metallic, slid over his tongue. To end a life, see the incandescent light of a soul slip from its house—he wanted that moment, craved it. The horror of such craving shook his core and his step faltered. Never do harm. It was every doctor’s creed, his creed. That was before he’d forfeited his own life. Archer took a cleansing breath and focused on the rage.

A garden lay ahead, large and walled in, its pleasures solely for the benefit of those who had the key. The seven-foot wall loomed up before him. It might as well be only four feet. He vaulted himself lightly up and over, landing on the soft grass below with nary a sound.

He rose, intent on his mission, when the sound of steel slicing against steel stopped him. Odd. Sword fighting had long fallen out of fashion. London fops now settled matters with law and courts. He rather missed the days of his youth when grievances had started with the slap of a glove and ended in first blood. He gazed over the dark garden and found the swordsmen as they moved under the weak haloed light of the gas lamps cornering the central court.

“Come on!” taunted the fair-haired one. “Is that your best effort?”

They were boys. Archer slipped into the deep shadows by the wall and watched, his unnatural eyes seeing as well as if he’d been ringside. The blond could not be more than eighteen. Not quite a man, his limbs held the lankiness of youth, but he was tall enough and the timbre of his voice had dropped. He was clearly the leader as he paced the other boy round the slate-lined court in the garden’s center.

“Keep your arm up,” he coached, coming at the younger boy again.

The younger boy was nearly as tall as his compatriot, but altogether delicate in form. His legs, peeking out from an ill-fitted frock coat, were mere sticks. A ridiculous bowery hat was crammed down upon his head, so low that Archer saw only a flash of white jaw as the pair sparred about ala mazza.

Archer leaned against the wall. He hadn’t seen such eloquent sparring in a lifetime. The elder boy was good. Very good. He had been trained by a master. But the little one, he would be better. He was at the disadvantage being lighter and shorter, but when the blond attempted a Botta-in-tempo while the youth was tied up in a bind, the little one sprang back with such quickness that Archer craned forward in anticipation, enjoying himself more than he had in decades. They broke measure and came back again.

“You’ll have to do better than that, Martin.” The youth laughed, his steel flashing like moonbeams in the purple night.

Martin’s eyes shown with both pride and determination. “Don’t get cocksure on me, Pan.”

Martin thrust once then cut. The youth, Pan, crossed to the right. To Archer’s delight, the boy leapt upon the thin wrought-iron railing that surrounded the court and, in a little display of daring, slid along the rail a distance before landing just behind Martin. He gave a swift poke to the elder boy’s backside before dancing away.

“I am the god Pan,” he sang out, his youthful voice high as a girl’s. “And if you don’t watch yourself, I’ll stick my flute right up your blooming arse, ah—”

The silly boy toppled backward over the boxwood hedge he’d overlooked in his gloating. Archer grinned wide.

Martin’s laugh bounded over the garden. The boy doubled up with it, dropping his small-sword to hold his middle. Young Pan struggled to rise, holding his absurd hat in place while grousing about English hedges under his breath.

Martin took pity and helped the boy to his feet. “Call it quits, then?” He offered his hand once more in peace.

The youth grumbled a bit then took the proffered hand. “I suppose I must. Take the sword, will you? Father almost found it the other day.”

“And we mustn’t have that, hum?” Martin tweaked the boy’s nose.

The two parted ways, each going toward opposite garden doors.

“ ’Night, Martin.”

“ ’Night, Pan!”

Smiling, the blond boy watched his little friend leave the garden and then left.

Archer moved through the shadows, heading toward the door where Pan had gone through. Prickles of unease danced over his skin. Fighter or no, the boy was too fragile to walk alone and unarmed in the dead of night. A rare bit of entertainment certainly earned the boy a safe passage home.

He stalked him easily, staying to the shadows, keeping well behind. The boy moved through the night without fear, a jaunty near swagger in his step as he turned from the sidewalk into an alleyway.

Thus his squeak of alarm was all the louder when two grimy older boys slipped out of the shadows and blocked his path.

“An’ who’s this?” The fellow was a big brute, short and wide. The type, Archer thought grimly, for he was in no mood to throttle children, who always wanted a fight.

“Hello,” said Pan, stepping back one pace. “Don’t mind me. Just out for a stroll.”

The taller one of the two laughed, showing a large gap between his teeth. “ ‘Out for a stroll,’ ” he parroted. “Who you think you are? Prince Bertie?”

Pan was quick to rally. “Eh? Can’ a man use the Queen’s English now an’ then?” he chided, slipping into street tongue as smooth as plum pudding. “Especially when it helps wit me fannin’?”

Young Pan eased around them, slyly moving toward the back of a large town house. There lied safety, Archer realized. It was the boy’s home. It was Ellis’s home, he realized with a little shock. Who was this boy?

“Them marks always appreciate a kind word,” the boy went on.

Archer had to appreciate the boy’s flair with the common tongue; he hardly understood a word. But the lad was putting it on too thickly. The young roughs knew it, too.

“You think we’re flat?” one of them snapped.

The youth backed up as the older boys closed round. “Here now, no need to kick up a shine…”

“Need a slate, do ya?” The taller of the two roughs cuffed the boy lightly on the head. The boy’s hat flew off, and Archer’s heart stopped short. A silken mass of fire tumbled free, falling like molten gold down to the boy’s waist. Archer fought for breath. Not a boy, a girl. And not thirteen, but closer to eighteen. A young woman.

He stared at the mass of red-gold hair. He’d never seen hair so fine and glorious before. Titian hair, some would call it. That ineffable color between gold and red that captivated artists and poets alike.

“Keep back!”

The high pip of a voice pulled Archer out of his reverie. His urchin moved into a defensive stance as her attackers loomed in with interest. Surprise had overcome the two roughs as well but they recovered quickly and now sought a new opportunity.

“Aw, come on, luv. No need for tantrums. We didn’t know you was a dollymop, now did we?”

They moved in, and the hairs lifted on the back of Archer’s neck. A growl grew in his throat. Archer took a step, then another. They wouldn’t hear him yet; he was too quiet, his form steeped in darkness.

“Show us your bubs, eh?” said the shorter one, and clearly the first who would feel the business end of Archer’s fist.

Surprisingly, the girl didn’t appear as afraid as she ought to be. She stood defiantly, keeping her fists raised and her eyes trained on the boys. The idea was laughable.

“Leave off,” she said with iron in her small voice.

The street roughs laughed, an ugly sneering sound. “Oh right, leave off, she says.”

The taller one snorted. “Listen ’ere, toffer, behave an’ we’ll leave you intact.”

Green eyes blazed beneath her auburn brows that arched like angel’s wings.

They were green, weren’t they? Archer squinted, his abnormal eyes using what little light there was to see. Yes, crystalline green ringed with emerald, like the cross section of a Chardonnay grape. Yet he swore he saw a glint of orange fire flash in them.

“Leave now,” she demanded, unmoved, “or I’ll turn you both to cheese on toast.”

Archer could not help it, mirth bubbled up within, and he found himself laughing. The sound echoed off the cold stone houses and brick-lined alley. The young men whirled round. The fear in their faces was clear. They weren’t up for an exchange with a grown man, most especially any man who’d be out on the streets at this hour. Archer knew their cut, cowards who preyed on the weak and fled at the first sign of true danger. He came close enough for them to see his shape and the toes of his Hessians, preferring to stay in shadow until necessary.

“Hook it! This ’ere’s our business,” said the tall one with forced confidence.

“Stay a moment longer in this alleyway,” Archer said, “and your time in this world will come to a swift end.” His voice was not his own. A pale rasp after his last battle, it had been torn by injuries that should have robbed him of his ability to speak. But he would heal. Soon.

They sensed the unnaturalness in him—the street wretches always did—and stood gaping at him like dead fish.

He cracked his knuckles. “Or perhaps not so swiftly. I do enjoy playing with my prey.”

The pair gathered their wits and ran, the rapid patter of their footfall clamoring on the cobblestones of the street beyond.

They’d gone but the girl had not. She stood, frozen it seemed, in her ridiculous stance of defense.

The bones beneath her alabaster skin were exquisite, with high curved cheeks, graceful jaw, and straight, delicate nose. Michelangelo might have sculpted her. And a blow from one man’s fist would smash that beauty in an instant.

“Go home,” he said to her.

She flinched slightly but stayed set, swaying a bit as though dazed.

He sighed. “Go, before I decide to teach you a lesson.”

That snapped her out of it. She eyed the wall behind her, where the safety of her home lay, and then the alleyway to her side. She didn’t want him to know she was home, but had no desire to run off down that alley. Was she a servant? No, she hadn’t the hands of one. Nor could Ellis afford a servant. But he had daughters. Three that Archer knew of, and only one that remained in the home. Miranda. His mind rolled over the name, savoring it like wine.

“Leave,” she squeaked. “And I’ll go home.”

He bit back a smile. Had defiance ever been so intriguing? Youth so beguiling? She was old enough to marry. He blinked, clearing his mind of that insane thought. She was an innocent. He would not think of her as seductive. But she would be—someday. Would that mouth grow lusher still? The slight baby softness at her cheeks melt into greater delicacy?

He watched her, momentarily entranced by the golden strands of hair that swirled about her angular face like flames.

“Who are you?” she snapped.

The sharp query brought him to attention. He made a courtly bow.

“A concerned subject of the Crown.”

She harrumphed but did not drop her fists. Shockingly, she came closer. He backed away into the dark and collided with the alley wall. The deep-hooded cloak hid the mask he wore. Even so, he didn’t want to scare her. A ridiculous notion, considering she tracked him like a falcon, drawing near, sensing his reticence and acting on that weakness. Admiration filled him.

“Lower your hood. Let me see your face.”

He should walk away. Leave her be. “No.”

Heated energy flared around her, almost palpable in the cold air. Anger made her lovely, powerful.

“I could make you.”

In the shadows, he grinned. He could not account for the utter confidence in her, yet it made him… exhilarated. “An intriguing idea. Perhaps you ought to try.”

Had he been a normal man, her movement would have been a blur. Even so, it shocked him how quickly she was upon him, a knife in her hand shoved firmly against his ribs. He ought to teach her a lesson in taking on strange, large men in the night, but the sweet, grassy scent of her distracted him, and he was curious as to what she would do.

“Turn around.” Her voice was forged iron. “Your hands to the wall.”

When he simply stood there amused, she flushed. “I don’t care who you are as long as you go. But I will check you for weapons before I send you on your way.”

Foolish girl. He really ought to set her straight. “Of course,” he said.

The damp on the bricks seeped through his gloves as she reached around to skim her hand over his chest. The moment she touched him his senses snapped to attention. A light shiver passed over him. He tapped it down, thought of the Queen, pickled eels, or… the fact that no woman had been this close to him in years. For a moment, he was dizzy.

“Quality clothing. Carrying the scent of the sea. The sea and…” She trailed off with a noise that made him wonder what she detected. Did the unnaturalness in him carry a scent?

“You’re here to harass my father.”

His head snapped up, and she made a sound of annoyance.

“You are not the first to ooze from this alleyway in the dark of night, nor will you be the last.” Her hand slid over his belly. His gut grew twitchy, aching. “I assume he owes you money. Well, it is gone. There is nothing left. You cannot get blood from a stone, and I won’t let you take his blood in payment.”

He winced at the hurt in her voice, at what she had to face for the deeds of her father. It changed nothing; save he wanted to keep her away from her father’s inevitable demise. Tenderness warred with the deep, tight-chested anger that was his constant companion.

“How am I to respond?” he asked. “Deny it, and you accuse me of lying. Admit it, and you cut my throat.”

The tip of the knife dug in a little farther as her soft voice rumbled at his ear. “I may do both yet.”

He could only chuckle. “I am honored. You had this pig sticker in your boot, and you saved it for me.”

“I hadn’t the opportunity to use it on those fools. Not with you blundering in my way. But make no mistake, I would have done so.”

Brusque pats flanked his side. The touch was impersonal, and driving him mad all the same. His flesh tensed before each hit, waiting for the contact with taut anticipation.

“They might have taken your point to heart had you pulled out the knife from the first.”

He could feel her head shake. “Not those two.” A smile hid beneath the professional tone of her voice. “They would have leapt at the opening. They wanted the fight.”

Archer had to agree.

“Besides,” she said crisply as she ran a hand down his outstretched arm, before kneeling to check his boot. “I do not particularly like violence.”

Ha! “I’d say you excel at it.”

Her breath puffed warm against his thigh, making his quadriceps twitch. “Sweet talk won’t save you.”

He affected a sigh. “My own folly for protecting a child.”

“Child,” she scoffed. “I am nineteen years old. Older than most Mayfair debutantes offered up for sale. Hardly a child.”

Ah, yes, and didn’t he know it.

Cautiously, she felt along his right leg, before moving on to his left. Oddly, she didn’t pick his pockets. She left his money purse alone.

“Pardon, madam.” He glanced down to watch the top of her head bobbing about like a copper globe by his upper thigh. Illicit thoughts flared hot at the sight. He struggled to keep his tone light. “Save when one has lived as long as I, nineteen years is little more than a flicker in time.”

Amusement danced in her voice. “You’re an old lecher, are you?”

He was thinking of becoming so. Should she, say, move her hand a few inches to the left… He cleared his throat. “Old enough.”

She made a noise under her breath. “Liar.” She was at his left hip now. “Your form doesn’t feel elderly in the least.” If she only knew. “You’re musculature is quite—”

He felt the precise moment when everything changed—the subtle increase in tension in her hand, a stutter in the efficient way she moved, the shift in her breathing from strong and determined to light and agitated. The answer in him was instant, painful arousal. For a moment, he couldn’t think. He hadn’t been noticed as a man in so long that his mind barely held the echo of such memories. But his flesh… his flesh remembered the pleasure of touch all too well.

Slowly, her slim hand smoothed over the swell of his buttock, lingering there. A shocked laugh choked his throat, the sound muddled by a stifled groan that her intrigued touch elicited. The saucy little sneak thief was copping a feel. He felt inclined to turn around and let her get a handful. Christ, this was madness.

Her breath came in hard rasps, audible and so like those of a woman being tupped that Archer’s head grew light, all available blood surging down to the throbbing pain in his cock. His forehead fell against the brick wall with a thud. Bits of mortar drifted like dust over his wrists as he clung to the wall like a buoy.

Inquisitive fingers combed his inner thigh, testing its hardness, and surely feeling the trembling there. His cock swelled, drawing so tight and hot it quivered. Sweet Christ. This time he could not bite back the low groan that filled him. It broke whatever spell she was under. Her breath caught sharply, and she snatched her hand away as if scorched.

He forced himself to turn, grateful for the protective cover of his cloak. She stood gaping at him as if she couldn’t quite understand what had happened. A lovely rose tinted her cheeks, her fiery hair swirling in the cold wind. Already she was fading away, stepping back into the moonlight. The heat in him cooled, leaving him with a familiar hollowness just under his breastbone. His throat closed in on him.

“No weapons,” she whispered.

“No.” He clenched his fist to keep from reaching out.

“Well, thank you, then.” She backed up another step. “For speaking out. Unnecessary, but kind.”

“Wait.”

She halted.

He stared blankly for a moment, not knowing what to do. When she looked as though she might move, he fumbled with his pockets. Give her something. Make her stay.

“Here.” The coin in his hand flashed in the weak light as he held it out. “Take it.”

She did not hesitate. One second it was between his fingers, the other it was gone. He watched as she inspected it, the red wings of her brows knitting together. “West Moon Club?”

“It isn’t proper currency,” he said as the frown grew. “Just a silly trinket made by men who have nothing better to do with their time. I’ve no use for it any longer.” No, because they had cast him out. The emptiness in him became pain. He hated the coin and everything associated with it. Of all the things he could have reached for in his haste, why had it been that?

One red brow rose as she glanced up at him, considering.

“It is pure gold.” He was babbling like a maiden. Irritation flushed within him. He bit it back. “Melt it down and sell it when you have need.” The idea gave him a certain joy.

Her fingers closed around the coin. “You think I’m too proud to take it?”

His lips twitched. “On the contrary. I think you pragmatic enough to make good use of it.” He didn’t offer her the wad of bank notes he had in his pocket. A gift was one thing. Charity was another.

Green eyes slanted up at him. “Silver-tongued devil. But you’re wrong. I don’t take gifts from strangers.”

He opened his mouth to protest when she flicked her wrist. The knife in her hand hissed through the air, embedding itself with a thud into the wall next to him.

“A trade, however.”

Oh, he liked this girl. Keeping his eyes on her, he pulled out the knife with ease. The slim, black-enameled hilt was warm from her touch. That she trusted him with the knife left him oddly expectant, as if for once the next sunrise might be a welcome sight. “A trade it is,” he rasped.

“Go on, then,” she said. “I’ll not leave until you’re well out of here.”

Deliciously peremptory. His gut tightened and went hot.

Come with me. He’d take her to a tavern, buy her ale and bread, tease her simply to hear her talk, to watch her all night and revel in the way she commanded those in orbit around her. Only then she’d see him. And run. The heaviness in his chest was a crushing thing.

“As my lady wishes.”

She gave a start. She hadn’t truly thought he’d obey, and it made him chuckle. God, he hadn’t smiled this much in years. The muscles along his chest ached from his recent laughter. When had he last laughed? He could not remember.

Desperate yearning returned, for in her unflinching stare, the way she did not hesitate to speak to him, he saw the reflection of his own salvation. A man no longer cast out to the shadows, but seen. If there was a greater gift in this world he knew not of it. Archer was not fool enough to turn away from a gift.

Hector Ellis’s daughter. So the man would have to live. Archer turned a new plan over in his mind. One Archer knew Ellis would agree to, for a man such as him would agree to anything to save his own skin. A little time was all that Archer required.

Taking a deep breath, he made himself say the words he must. “Good night to you, fair Pan.”



Three years later. London, September 1881

No, no, farther down… yes, that’s the one… there!” Satisfaction pulled at her lips. “Ah, how lovely.”

The man at the counter flushed in pleasure. His gaze strayed to her smiling lips and held for a moment past propriety. “The loveliest I’ve seen, Miss.”

His small boldness sent another wash of red over his fair skin. Miranda leaned farther into him. The glass countertop beneath her elbows gave a small groan, and the clerk swallowed hard, his gaze flittering between her mouth and the swells of her breasts that plumped over her bodice. His grip tightened on the ruby bracelet he held in his hands.

So easy, really, to seduce a man with the simple act of arching one’s back. A woman ought to feel satisfaction in the sight. Miranda only felt as she always felt: d. . .