“Hackneys don’t come down this way.” Her hips swayed suggestively as she approached him, manifestly delighted now that she could better see his fine features. The handsome facade was as much a part of his aegis as the manners he employed. “Let ole Daisy take care of you,” she said. ”Follow me, my gent.”
He appeared to consider her offer and then, with a bow—which delighted her all the more—he gestured for her to lead the way. He trailed her along a succession of narrow alleys, each one darker and filthier than the one before. The filth, however, was an ineffectual deterrent to a macabre sommelier, for her cloying scent and strong heartbeat filled his senses.
Without preamble, she halted and pressed her back against the brick wall to hike up her skirts.
He stayed her hand. “Is there no honest work for a pretty bird like you?”
“Honesty ain’t as good a paymaster as a man’s cock.”
He laughed, appreciating her gutter wit. “Indeed, there is honesty in that at least.” The red in her hair caught his keen night vision and he fingered the strands lovingly, thinking of another who possessed just such a lovely shade. Struck by some strange sentiment, he drew out a flask from his coat and handed it to the sickly bird, knowing full well the fine sherry within would be wasted on her rude little palate. He watched, pleased, as her red lips parted in surprise.
With a grateful smile in her eyes, almost innocent, she wrapped those red lips around the neck and tipped it back. Her throat was smudged with harsh bruises and dirt, but it was a lovely neck worthy of an aristocrat. He bent down to kiss the marks left by violent touches, his lips gentle.
Startled, she froze. But when he did nothing more than lavish her flesh with kisses, she relaxed and took another sip from his flask. “No need for wooing, mister—my skirts is up, ain’t they?”
“Ah, but I’m a gentleman…”
“Suit yourself,” she said. Her lids closed as she savored another drink.
He dropped his hand to her chest, his fingers stilling over her heart. The romantic courtesies confused her, the wary twist of her brow said that much; and she was right to be wary. “You should not be out on a night like this.” He reached into his coat again, this time to retrieve a fat purse that jangled musically as he placed it into her hand.
Her hand trembled beneath the weight of coins. “Are you mad?”
“Undoubtably,” he said with a sigh, touching her hair again. She reminded him so much of… No, he would not think of her! He could not afford to think of her. “Your beauty has bewitched me, little bird.”
“You look so sad,” she said. “I know how to put a smile on your face…”
He looked up, surprised, for his gaze had drifted faraway. The face and the hair might resemble his love a little, but this voice certainly didn’t. “You should go.”
“A kiss goodbye then?” She looked almost disappointed by his dismissal.
“Very well, a farewell kiss you shall have.”
The nightingale leaned in, somewhat shy despite her jaded feathers, and cautiously pressed her lips against his cheek. “Thank you,” she said.
He sighed. “No, thank you, little bird.” With that, he plunged his fingers deep into her chest and ripped her cage open. He knew his eyes were no longer mortal. Her mouth gaped open, a frozen scream on her lips as she met his gaze. Death and horror glazed her eyes as he tore her heart from her. Then he kissed her on her wide, red lips before releasing her.
She fell in a heap at his feet, the coins spilling loudly from the purse.
“It isn’t for me, you understand,” he said, kneeling beside the dead bird to stroke its drab, little feathers. The still beating organ was secured in his coat where the discarded flask had been. “This heart will serve to slay a dragon.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Billet-doux
Dearest Emma,—Milli has been confiding tales too fantastic to relate. I fear she suffers from a malady no physician on earth is equal to treat. Write at once and set my mind at rest, for I shan’t be at peace until I know you are safe and well, Cousin. God keep you always,
Mary.
A slumberous shaft of grey was breaking through the crimson drapes when Emma finally awoke. The space beside her was conspicuously empty and offered no more warmth than the frail light. There was only the silence of an empty bedchamber to meet her searching gaze. Only the silent white queen keeping vigil atop the pillow beside her.
Emma smiled at the figurine and reached across to curl her fingers over its cool length, remembering with pleasure the nocturnal devotions shared in the night. She was not yet inclined to acknowledge the dark inklings of guilt that were endeavoring to rouse themselves and steal her happiness. The daylight was yet too impotent to loose those dreaded feelings.
As soon as she sat up, her peripheral flooded with nauseating shadows. Fortunately the darkness subsided as quickly as it had collected behind her eyes, and it was with bloodless enervation that she finally left the bed to retrieve her tattered chemise. Unsalvageable, she thought, fingering the delicate fabric as heat stole rapidly into her cheeks. The ruined chemise was once more delivered to the rug, after which she betook herself to the windowsill to cast her eyes over the foggy landscape. It was a cheerless prospect made more so by the mist clinging to the ground like a phantom’s breath.
Ruminating over the stillness, she lifted a wary hand to her neck where Markus had placed his vampiric kiss. The raised flesh beneath her fingertips propelled her to the mirror where she inspected her neck for the puncture wounds she could feel. His mark upon her throat looked nothing like the one left upon Milli’s. The flesh was only a little bruised and swollen around the bite mark, but otherwise Emma was in fine fettle. In fact, apart from a little lightheadedness that had beset her earlier, there was a healthful, rosy hue suffusing her cheeks.
There was not a single aspect about their voracious midnight coupling that hadn’t been incendiary. Though he had been gentle, he’d left behind exquisite bruises. Even now the trace of his touch still lingered. For one transcendental moment, their souls had moved as one prismatic flare of ecstasy.
But where was he now? And how was she to slip back to her room unnoticed by his servants. In such cases as these, audacity might have to prevail over missish modesty—Emma might well have to mantle her body in bloodied sheets, march back to her room, and hope to remain invisible.
This difficulty was, however, rendered moot when Mrs. Skinner suddenly entered the room after only a cursory knock to declare herself.
There was nothing for it but to bear the woman’s cold scrutiny as she floated into the room—not for the world would Emma have balked and scurried behind the curtains like a timid cat or insult the woman’s intelligence with woeful excuses as to why she was standing there, shameless as a Jezebel, in the master’s bedchamber.
Yet the housekeeper was oddly unconcerned by Emma’s nakedness and unsurprised by her presence in this of all chambers. In fact, to Emma’s intense relief and mortification, she’d brought with her a fresh chemise and a morning gown.
“Good morning, miss.” She placed Emma’s habiliments upon the chest of drawers and lit the beeswax taper. “Will you break your fast in the dining room or shall I have your meal delivered to these apartments?”
Emma studied the cadaverous face for any sign of opprobrium. But if she was capable of any such strong emotion, the old housekeeper hid it well behind the familiar apathy of a dutiful servant.
“Thank you, Mrs. Skinner, I’ll take some chocolate in the library.”
“As you please. Shall I stay to help you dress, miss?”
It was one thing to bear the unnerving presence of a revenant, but quite another to do so in the altogether whilst cloistered in a darkened room. “That shan’t be necessary.”
“Very good.”
“Is Lord Winterly in his Library?” Emma threw apart the heavy brocade to admit whatever feeble light there was at the window, but when she turned around to receive her answer, it was
to find that the vampyre had already made quick work of escaping the light. “Slippery creature,” she muttered.
Once appropriately attired, Emma took one last look at the looming bed and the votive blood she’d so willingly sacrificed thereon. With a hard smile and a candle in hand, she withdrew into the hallway where the daylight dared not trespass.
As she navigated the lonely hallways and galleries, Emma contemplated the perpetual darkness that pervaded the castle. Even when the sun was not obscured by leaden skies, the warmth of daylight never found its way into the secret walls of Winterthurse. The conservatory was the only light place in the castle, but the inmates seldom ventured there.
Markus was not in the library, and she’d known that before she ever entered there, for her blood was quiet. Her heart was always more animated when he was nearby, as though the animal in her sensed the predator in him. A stab of fleeting disappointment settled in her belly as she moved towards the fireside. The prospect of being so much attached to the beast already was disconcerting.
The only sign that he had been there at all—knowing she would come—was the pulsing glow of embers in the fireplace, and the single rose that lay waiting for her atop the mantlepiece. Beneath it’s delicate thorns he’d placed what looked to her like a billet-doux that bore her name in straggling black ink. She cupped the head of the rose so that the stem dangled between two fingers, lest its fearsome claws steal what blood Markus had left to her. Emma brushed the black petals against her lips and drank of its tenebrous perfume. The candle was surrendered to the mantleshelf and the bloom placed beside it before she took up her letter and broke the wax seal.
Emma,—It is with keen impatience that I look forward to our next lively chess match. An affair of two hearts unfolding upon a stage of black and white, dark and light; the color of my heart’s ink ingrained upon the ivory pages of your life.
I claimed to see you best in the dark, wherein all earthly hearts are most corruptible, but I confess I found myself humbled in the shifting grey veil between shadow and light. In a fleeting moment, my guard was down and a luminous mortal gaze penetrated the deepest of the shadows o’er my unbeating heart. See you at dusk, my beauty. Yours eternally,
M.
There was no visible eye to observe her dawning blushes, only the peeking embers. Carrying the rose and the letter like two costly treasures, she moved towards the veiled window. As she had done in his chamber earlier, she parted the drapes to admit the solemn light so that it spilled over her upturned face; there was a certain austerity in its touch. She was not so naïve as to think that her delicious languor was anything but ephemeral. Sunlight bought with it a caveat and an urging for temperance and restraint. It was only at dusk that she felt unfettered. Well, she would just have to shut the light out as long as possible. And to that end, Emma quickly drew the drapes back together, unwilling to suffer the imposition of the sun’s censure.
It was then that Mrs. Skinner’s sudden eerie scratching obtruded against the door, and soon she was at the table beside the divan to deliver a breakfast tray. “A letter arrived for you this morning, miss.” She gestured a spindly white finger to the epistle resting beside Emma’s chocolate.
Emma gave a distracted nod of her head, far more interested in her lover’s whereabouts than her unexpected mail. “Where has your master gone?”
The wight eyed the window distrustfully, as though impatient to be away. “My master offered no explanations, miss, and I know better than to presume.” She moved swiftly to the door. “Will there be anything else?”
“I thank you, no,” said Emma, just as eager to be alone as the vampyre was to escape the glowing drapes.
The door closed swiftly behind the housekeeper, and the library became Emma’s private asylum once more. Sighing, she closed her gaze upon the room, and the moment her lashes brushed against her cheeks Winterly’s dark eyes opened themselves within her mind. All that had transpired last night replayed again.
“What do I taste like?” she’d asked him in the small hours, stroking his lips with indolent fingers.
“Ambrosial nectar,” he’d replied.
“And what, I wonder, do you taste of?” She’d mused aloud on the brink of sleep and couldn’t recall what, if anything, he’d answered back. Just the thought of that dreamless slumber was enough to tempt her back to somnolence. Soon she was asleep in the library.
The waning afternoon warmth disappeared rapidly from the mantled windows, and the chill of the unattended fire roused her with a start. Her chocolate was by now ice cold and the epistle Skinner had delivered earlier still lay unopened. It was from Ana.
My dear friend,—It is with dire urgency that I speak with you. Meet me in the Whitby Inn today as soon as may be. I shall wait till nightfall. Make haste and come alone.
Ana.
“Mrs. Skinner!” Emma rang the bell and flew to the door. The vampyre appeared with her usual celerity. “Have the coach brought around. I have just recalled a vital errand and must hasten to town directly.” It was not a lie, she had a letter for Mary that she’d meant to post off yesterday.
“At once, miss.” Skinner lowered her small eyes to the opened letter and, after only a fleeting pause, disappeared from the door.
It was late in the afternoon by the time Emma signaled the coachman to a sudden halt. She had chosen a narrow street at hazard and, before the carriage wheels had even stopped completely, she alighted. The coachman was hidden beneath his broad-brimmed hat, upturned collar, and sturdy leather gloves. Yet he appeared miserable despite that the sky remained closed in with gloomy and impenetrable stratus. Still and all, her vampiric coachman seemed disinclined to leave her unattended. “The master won’t be pleased,” he said.
Unconcerned by his wary prognostications, she insisted he do as she bade him and instructed that he come back for her no sooner than the passage of one hour. That, she reasoned, would have her home before sunset with time to spare. Sullen faced, the coachman nodded and snapped the reins to urge the horses on their way.
Once the coach had turned a corner and disappeared from view, Emma hurried along the roads and alleys towards the inn. After a number of furtive looks at the front door of the coaching inn, she entered and proceeded to the dining hall. The tables were crowded and every chair and bench was filled with cheerful patrons partaking of warm comestibles and tankards of ale. The oil lamps were lit and the sounds and shadows bounced heartily along the wooden beams overhead. Tucked in the corner, removed from the gaiety, sat a lone woman in an emerald pelisse, her raven locks gleaming in the firelight.
“My dear!” Ana exclaimed, taking Emma’s hands in hers. “I feared my letter might have gone awry, but here you are at last!” Her beautiful face seemed especially pale tonight. “Your hands are so cold, dear girl, come sit by the fire and warm your blood.” She leaned around Emma to glance anxiously at the windows and the doorway. “You’re alone?”
“Yes.”
Ana appeared dubious. “He allowed you out of his sight, did he?”
“You mean Winterly?”
“Ay, him and his hateful kin.” Some shadow must have fallen over Emma’s features, for Ana took a breath and becalmed herself. “Forgive me, you do not know the particulars and must think me abominable. But I have a right to hate that family.”
As to the hateful kin… “Well, you needn’t worry about Victoria, she’s left Whitby.”
Ana’s eyes narrowed. “Where to?”
“Back to London, I imagine.”
Ana gave a curt nod and then glanced at the window.
Emma followed her gaze and perceive two other hooded women seated beside the window nearest the door—Mina and Tanith. Emma gave a small wave and they, in turn, each offered Emma polite nods. “Do your sisters not wish to join us?”
“It is best they keep vigilant.”
Emma folded her arms. “You mentioned some dire urgency?”
“Yes,” said Ana, “and your last letter intimated you were ready to h
ear the truth about the Winterlys.” But instead of coming to the point, she asked after Milli’s health.
“My sister…my sister is away visiting my cousin.” Could she trust Ana with the truth? Ana who had intimated the very existence of vampyres from the beginning. Before she could make up her mind, however, Ana’s hand shot to Emma’s throat and pulled the shawl away from the wound she’d been endeavoring to hide.
“What in God’s name have you done, Emma?”
Emma pulled away and hurriedly pushed her shawl back into place. “That is not your business, Ana.”
“I am your friend!”
“I hardly know you.”
Ana’s face hardened. “You must leave that hellish place at once. You do not have to know me well to know you are in danger.” She aimed a long finger at Emma’s neck. “That which covets your blood covets your life as well.”
“I cannot leave yet, I have struck a bargain.” More importantly, her heart was now anchored here.
“What bargain?”
“Milli’s safety in exchange for…”
“Your life.” Ana sat back, briefly sharing a meaningful look with her sisters. “A covenant written in blood, I see.”
“Ay, if that is what it takes.”
Ana’s eyes narrowed. “And have you lain with him?”
“Again, that is not—”
“Mercy, Emma!” Ana’s face became paler still. “Are you in your senses?”
Emma’s fists balled at being thus spoken to. She was a woman full grown. They were forced to keep silent as a servant arrived with two pewter mugs of ale which he deposited atop their table. Ana thanked him, relinquished some coins, and briskly dismissed him, saying there were to be no interruptions henceforth.
“At least,” said Ana, “give me the comfort of knowing you have not drank from his cursed veins. Tell me there is not that between you.”
“I have not and nor will I.”
Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1) Page 32