Free Demon's Curse (Imnada Brotherhood) by Alexa Egan Page B

she’d assisted her father in gathering his Imnada lore, searching out rare texts and uncovering forgotten references. When he’d sought to launch expeditions toWales and Scotland in search of the elusive creatures, it had been Renata who organized sailing schedules and lodgings, provisions and guides. Any way to stay close to him. To carve a place within his life.
    None of it had mattered.
    A dead wife. A dead race. These were what he loved. He was blind to the living, breathing daughter in front of him.
    She grew to hate this loathsome breed with the same fury she reserved for that bitch of a wife. Both had stolen her father’s attention. And while one was naught but bones and beyond her retribution, the Imnada were not.
    She dipped her pen into the inkwell, completed the last invitation in the stack. The recipients would gather for the skills of her cook and the perfection of her wine cellar. They would leave carrying the seeds of the shifters’ destruction. The questions would grow. The word would spread. The Other would finally understand the threat they faced.
    Father had been right.
    The Imnada were out there. She had seen them.
    They would pay for all they’d done to tear her family apart. She would prove her love once and for all. She would finally make Father proud.

5

    The surgeon came and went, stitching the gash in the captain’s side with much reproachful tut-tutting. “Is the gentleman staying here with you tonight?” he’d asked, his meaning clear.
    “I certainly hope so or I’ll have to postpone our orgy,” Bianca snapped.
    He sniffed his disdain even as he accepted her coins, but she’d already dismissed him and his small-minded contempt. Leaving his departure to Molly, she ascended the stairs to the guest chamber and tapped once before entering.
    Molly had yet to clear away the remnants of the doctor’s visit. A shallow basin of bloody water still sat on the floor by the bed, rags in a heap beside it. On the table, a half-empty brandy decanter and a glass stood amid a clutter of medicines.
    She’d expected Captain Flannery to be asleep or, at least, in bed. Instead, he clutched the bedpost, wearing nothing but his bloodstained breeches and a sickly gray pallor. Spots of blood seeped through the layersof bandage wound tight across his ribs while sweat glistened on his powerful chest and shoulders and his eyes swam with pain.
    A few inches in any direction. A few seconds slower in reaction time.
    Bianca swallowed around the fear rising in her throat. “You claimed it was just a scratch. Look at you: barely able to stand.”
    “I can stand.” He straightened. Immediately the color drained from his face, his mouth taut in a grimace. He slumped, letting out his held breath, hand resting against his side. “It’s standing straight I have a problem with.”
    What was it about men and their stubborn need to appear invincible? They’d rather die than accept that they might be in pain or ill or, worse than worse, need a woman’s assistance.
    “How foolish can you be? That was no scratch to be fixed with sticking-plaster and basilicum powder. Ah, but I forgot: you’re a soldier, impervious to pain.”
    “I wouldn’t go so far as to say ‘impervious.’ ” The ghastly pallor of sickness left his face, and he laughed. Or at least, that was what it sounded like. It came harsh and creaky. As if it had been a long time since he’d indulged. “Perhaps ‘thick-skinned’ would be more precise.”
    “ ‘Thickheaded’ would be more precise.”
    “Just when I think I have you figured out, Bianca Parrino, you surprise me.” He reached out, his hand enfolding her own. His clean, wintry outdoor scent so different from the pomaded and perfumed men of her acquaintance. “I expect a tongue-lashing, and instead you’re worrying over me.”
    “This is a tongue-lashing, and I am not worrying.” She snatched her hand from his before he took her concern for more. “Merely stating the obvious,