The Devil in Her Bed (Devil You Know #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,82

and he’d take a fair share back to hell with him.

But for the first time since Mont Claire, he retreated. He ran away. He fled.

His first instinct had been to go to ground. Not because he wanted to hide, but because he needed a place to come apart. The rage injected into his veins could only be released by destruction no less than biblical. He wanted to break something. Someone. No, he wanted to dismantle the entire city, burn the empire to the ground.

And it was from that instinct that he fled, just as much as anything else.

But … where to run to? He had more dwellings than most, one for each of his personas. In any one of them he could find a hammer. He could topple things, punch them, dismantle and break them. He could pit his strength against the world and exhaust this need with destructive violence.

He’d start with the mirrors.

Ultimately, he decided against that. Though a temper tantrum of epic proportions would certainly wear him out enough to make him feel somewhat better, it would weaken him. And he could not afford to be weak, not if he was going to save Francesca. To sacrifice himself for her.

It was what they both deserved.

Chandler closed his eyes and summoned her to mind. For all she’d been through, all she’d survived, to reach her age with such vivacious ambition … it was no small feat. When so many allowed their tragedies to defeat them, she’d become stronger.

Stronger than him in many ways. Certainly, he was physically more powerful, but even that didn’t seem to faze her. She used her grace and skill, her beauty and her brilliance to fell him. And beyond that, she’d managed to do what he never could.

Not just to survive, but to truly live.

To live safe in the knowledge that none of this was her fault.

She might have lost her family, but she surrounded herself with friends just as close. People of rare substance and quality. She’d a title of her own, a fortune, an education, and the enviable status of being both the quarry and the heroine.

She’d done it through sheer strength of character.

And what had he accomplished compared with that? He couldn’t even claim an identity let alone a life.

Yes, he technically had in his possession many properties, but he’d never had a home.

He could claim a few things, however. Like the blood of innumerable innocents on his hands, an accursed soul, and …

A responsibility.

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 he gave 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