Page 103 of Immortal Rose

Despite being as drunk as a wheelbarrow, the second man threw the taller one to the floor, taking out the two sailors nearby. A frenzy of fists and chairs and cups flew behind us as the pub goers fell upon one another like rabid badgers.

He’d created an almighty snarling jumble of humanity to block the path behind us, but the way ahead was hardly clearer. I ducked as a fist swung my way, letting Foxcourt draw me in front of him as we finally reached the door and burst through it.

The cool fog of the briny air was a shock to the senses, stealing the last of the butterflies from my chest and sharpening the world around me once more.

“This way,” Foxcourt said in a low, urgent voice.

He dragged us left where my instinct would have been to head right, out to the street, not toward the darkness where the alleyway met the back of a warehouse in a dead end. With his free hand, he pulled his cowl out where he’d tucked it into the waist of his breeches, looping it around his neck.

The echo of our hurried steps bounced off the damp brick; my breathing was harsh in my ears, my blood pounding so fiercely, in such a dizzying rush, my next step felt as if it could launch me into flight. I didn’t know where we were going, only that I trusted Foxcourt to get us there.

A new set of footsteps sounded behind us, moving at a clip my legs couldn’t match.

Ahead, the alley widened, and the stench of gin and unwashed bodies abounded. A man lay stretched out beneath a loading ramp’s awning. Wrapped in a shoddy cloak, his head was pillowed on an empty bottle of blue ruin. There was a sweet, blissful smile on his filthy face as he slept.

The smell of sulfur sharpened as the Stone Slogger neared, catching the edge of our shadows. Foxcourt turned sharply left, whirling me around and crowding me into a small alcove made by a bricked-over door.

Foxcourt pressed my back against the rough surface, his arms raising to brace against either side of my head. Dressed in all black, he didn’t merely cover the sight of me—he absorbed me into the heat of his body. The posy was crushed between us, littering my cloak with its petals and perfuming us with its scent.

I turned my face, listening for the sound of the Slogger’s footsteps but hearing only the hammer of Foxcourt’s heart against my ear. My hands were trapped between our bodies, my fingers splayed against the hard contours of his chest.

His leg nudged against mine, insinuating itself between them in a way that turned my blood to fire. I was clothed in him—his warmth, his nearness, his focus. His body hardened as mine softened. That feeling that swooped low in my belly returned as his knee shifted against my thighs, dangerously close to the source of my body’s pounding heat.

My hands trailed down his front, and like magic, I felt the muscles there jump under my bidding touch.

Foxcourt’s breathing grew ragged, his knee shifting again. His shadowed face turned, lowering toward the juncture where my throat met my shoulder. My hips shifted forward of their own accord, seeking. Breath left me in a gust as his night beard rasped against my cheek, threatening to dislodge my hood.

His body hummed with tension, or perhaps it was mine—I was no longer sure where he ended and I began, only that in the darkness, we were shadows. We were not ourselves.

The ache that clawed at me grew sharper and hungrier the longer it was denied. His soft lips ghosted along the curve of my neck, and I felt dizzy with the sensation, that contrast of his stubble to the velvet softness of his lips.

Please, I thought, lifting my face from the soft folds of his shirt. Please . . .

My eyes met his in the darkness, my body ascending from the maze of my feelings before anything like sense could catch it. Relief shuddered through me when I saw his, how they had darkened with raw desire.

He lowered his face slowly, so slowly, and I lifted mine as if in prayer.

“Think he’s gone now, guv,” came a mild voice, slurred with sleep and drink.

Foxcourt pulled away so swiftly, my legs would have collapsed beneath me if I hadn’t been leaning back against the bricks. The moment crashed into me like a slap of icy water, and I froze, struggling to regain my breath and steady my trembling limbs.

Foxcourt cleared his throat as he scanned the alley. Whether he’d meant to give me a moment to collect myself, I took it, shaking out my cloak and skirts and tucking a loose hair back into the mobcap.

My body was still sparking with unspent feeling that had nowhere to go, and the center of that heat was . . . I closed my eyes, flushing a deeper red as I pressed a hot hand to my face. Oh, God—my soul had all but strained against the confines of my body, as if desperate to meet his.

Fear set in, cold and bitter with panic.

“Did you happen to see the man’s face, Murphy?” Foxcourt asked roughly.

I pulled my hand away. They knew each other?

“Mean thing, he was,” Murphy said helpfully. “One of them Sloggers. Got a mole like a speck o’ tar on his nose just ’ere. Know ’im, Anders?”

“No,” Foxcourt said, passing a few silver marks to the man. “But I intend to.”

By the time we found ourselves back on the street, my body had cooled and my thoughts settled enough to ask, “Anders?”

Foxcourt hurried us down the dark lane toward the broader thoroughfare ahead. “One of the names I use when collecting whispers. Anders is a locksmith, and not a particularly dedicated one, I’m afraid. He lives near Farfield and has a pleasant collection of foreign coins.”