She sobbed his name one more time, then collapsed on the bed.
"Milady." Bevins bent over her, frightened by the sudden lack of color in her face, the slackness of her skin. He shook her slightly, shook her again when there was no response. "Rhianna!"
He shivered as a cold chill swept through the room and knew, in his heart, that she was right. Rayven was seeking to end his existence.
And Rhianna was going to meet him there.
"Not here," Lysandra said. She ran her nails down the length of his neck. "Come."
He followed Lysandra to her lair, stretched out on the red velvet settee that was the room's only furnishing save for a sleek mahogany coffin.
Lysandra sat beside him, her fangs bared, her breath coming hard and fast in anticipation. She would drink his blood, drain him to the point of death, and in so doing, she would gain the strength he had accumulated in the last four centuries. And then, when he was too weak to resist, she would carry him outside and leave him there. The sun would do the rest, burning away all evidence that he had ever existed.
He stared into Lysandra's face. Her black eyes burned with the hunger. His fists curled in the folds of his cloak as he felt Lysandra's hand move in his hair, lightly stroking, and he imagined it was another hand, Rhianna's hand.
Rhianna… Rhianna…
He felt the whisper of Lysandra's breath against his cheek, felt her lips, cool as a winter wind, brush his. Cold, he thought, when Rhianna's had ever been warm.
He flinched as Lysandra's hands folded over his shoulders, holding him in place. He had forgotten how strong she was.
Rhianna… Rhianna…
"Do it," he said, and closed his eyes.
He swallowed against the fear rising within him as he felt the prick of Lysandra's fangs against his throat. There was a sharp pain, the sensation of blood being drawn from his body. He forced himself to relax. This was what he wanted, an end to his wretched existence, the sweet oblivion of eternity.
He felt himself sinking into a swirling red mist, felt himself growing weak, weaker. Pleasure wrapped itself around the darkness, and he knew a moment of gratitude that she had decided to be kind and not cruel.
It was fitting, he mused, that he should find oblivion in the arms of the one who had made him.
Tremors wracked his body. Cold devoured him. Rhianna… Rhianna … He would never see her face again, never feel her warmth, see her smile. He began to struggle as his body's instinct for self-preservation took over. He felt Lysandra's hands tighten on his shoulders as he tried to escape her hold, felt his cloak gather around him, enfolding him, loving him, and he knew the end was near.
Rayven! Rayyen! I will not live without you. Her voice, crying in his mind. Rayven, come back to me.
He tried to open his eyes, tried to fight his way through the smothering layers of darkness that dragged him toward eternity, but he lacked the strength. His heartbeat was slow and heavy in his chest. As from far away, he heard Lysandra's voice.
"I hope you find the peace you seek on the other side."
He wanted to speak to her, to tell her he had changed his mind, that Rhianna needed him, but he was empty, helpless. He had a sense of movement and knew Lysandra was carrying him outside. She carried him effortlessly, moving with preternatural speed through the dark streets.
He felt the wind upon his face, as cold and final as death itself, as she carried him away from her house, out of the city, into the middle of a graveyard that had been abandoned long ago. The sun would find him there, find him and destroy him, leaving no trace behind.
He was aware of Lysandra bending over him, felt the brush of her lips against his one last time. He could feel the vibration of her footsteps as she walked away, leaving him alone in the stillness of the night, alone to face the dawn.
Rhianna…
He was alone, weightless, helpless, floating in a sea of darkness that had no beginning and no end. The scent of damp earth and grass teased his nostrils, reminding him of the newness of life, of all that was forever lost to him.
Rayven! Come back to me. I will not live without you…
Rhianna's voice echoed in his mind, over and over again, filling him with soul-deep regret and the knowledge that, in seeking to end his own life, he had failed her.
Hours passed. He began to shiver uncontrollably. He curled into a tight ball, drawing his cloak around him. Rhianna's voice pounded in his head, begging him not to leave her.
Rayven, don't leave me… Please… Come back to me…
Her heartbeat echoed in his mind, growing ever weaker, until it beat in time with his, slow and heavy, and he knew that when death found him, it would find her, as well.
Rhianna… Rhianna… "Forgive me…"
Chapter Twenty-five
For a time, it seemed as though she would recover. Her appetite increased. She got out of bed for longer and longer periods of time; she asked Montroy to take her into the maze where she sat for over an hour, staring at the rosebushes, at the statues of the raven and the wolf.
She seemed at peace there, and for a time, Montroy hoped she had accepted the fact that Rayven was gone. Now, he thought, now she'll turn to me and we can begin our life together.
But it was not to be.
For no apparent reason, she went into a decline that came on rapidly, without warning. As the days passed, she grew ever weaker. Her mother and sisters came, bringing sweet treats to tempt her appetite, plying her with hot tea, smiling with forced gaiety as they told her of Aileen's pregnancy, hoping that the thought of a new life would bring her back from the depths of her despair.
But it was all in vain. She looked at them through eyes devoid of life even as she assured them she would be better soon.
Montroy summoned his family physician, but the man only shook his head, declaring there was nothing physically wrong with her.
Ada summoned the village priest, who laid his hands upon Rhianna's head, then turned away, promising he would light a candle and offer prayers for the welfare of her soul.
"She's willing herself to die." Ada stood beside her daughter's bed, staring down into Rhianna's pale face.
Montroy nodded. "I fear you are right, madam." He cursed softly, wondering if Rayven had foreseen such a thing happening when he took his leave.
"It's all that monster's fault," Ada said bitterly. "He's put a curse on her."
Montroy started to object. He didn't believe in magic, white or black. He thought of all the rumors he had heard about Rayven, the gossip, the speculation. Once, he had laughed it all aside. There were no such things as monsters who stalked the night, draining the life's blood out of others. But then he looked at Rhianna's pale face, at the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the hollows in her cheeks, and wondered if the rumors might not be true, after all.
He sat by her bed, holding her hand, while Ada McLeod urged her daughter to drink a little tea, felt his hatred grow until it became a living thing within him as he saw the empty look in Rhianna's once bright eyes. He heard her whisper Rayven's name, her voice barely audible, before she fell back on the pillows.
Stifling a sob, Ada turned away from the bed. Bevins materialized out of the shadows. For a moment, he watched her weep and then, needing to comfort her, he stepped forward and took Ada into his arms. For a moment, she stood stiff in his embrace, and then she collapsed against him. Feeling awkward, he stroked her hair and back, his gentle touch releasing the tears she had refused to shed.
Montroy felt his throat thicken as he listened to Ada McLeod weeping for her daughter.
He lifted Rhianna's hand to his lips and kissed her palm, afraid, deep in his heart, that she would never recover.
"Damn you, Rayven," he muttered. "I hope your soul is burning in Hell."
He woke with the setting sun. Staring into the crypt's darkness, he remembered how he had gone seeking death and how, when it had been within his grasp, he had discovered he wanted very much to live.
He had been hovering on the
brink of oblivion when his skin began to tighten. Near the edge of eternity, he had smelled the coming dawn, had heard Rhianna's voice, growing ever weaker, echoing in his mind, begging him not to leave her, and he had known that, if he died, she would die, too. It was a burden too heavy to bear. He had been ready to end his own life, but he could not take hers, not when she had hardly lived at all.
With a strength of will he hadn't known he possessed, he had dragged himself toward the crypt in which he now lay. The door had been partly open, and he had squeezed in through the narrow crack. The rusty hinges had creaked loudly, shrieking like a soul in torment, as he pulled the door closed behind him and then, breathing heavily, his nostrils filling with the musty odor of old death, he had crawled into a corner and fallen into a deep, deep sleep.
How many suns had set since he took refuge here, he wondered. Ten? Twenty? He had lost count.
His stomach churned with disgust as he looked at the small furry bodies of mice and rats that littered the floor of the tomb. And yet their blood, repulsive though it might be, had kept him alive— that and his ever-growing need to see Rhianna again.
She was dying. He could feel her vitality ebbing along with her will to survive, and he knew that he was to blame. They were linked together by the blood they shared. But, unlike him, she was subject to the weakness of the flesh.
Salvatore, help me…
He closed his eyes, and the old Vampyre's image rose up in his mind. Salvatore. Slightly built, his black hair combed back, his dark brown eyes filled with the wisdom of the ages.
Rayven smiled faintly. Salvatore looked nothing like the Vampyres of legend. A dapper man, with a thin moustache and refined features. A man who knew what he was and accepted it.
To be Vampyre is not for the weak, Salvatore had once told him. Eternity can be very tiring if one does not keep oneself amused. You must keep up with the world, or you will drown in the past. You can be a monster, preying off the life's blood of others, or not. The choice is up to you…
With an effort, he rose to his feet, ran a hand through his hair, settled his cloak around his shoulders.
Tonight, for the first time since he had sought death, he would hunt the streets of the city. And then he would go to her and beg her forgiveness.
If he was not too late.
Chapter Twenty-six
The spires of Castle Rayven loomed before him, shrouded, as always, in a thick, swirling gray mist. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, promising a storm before the night was through.
For a time, he rested in the changing shadows. Earlier, he had hunted the streets of the village, but in vain. For the first time in four hundred years, his powers had failed him. Desperate for sustenance, he had taken nourishment from a scrawny goat he had found tied behind one of the cottages.
Too weak to make use of his preternatural powers, he had made his way, step by slow step, up the long winding road to the top of Devil Tree Mountain, what little strength he had obtained from the goat expended by the time he reached the summit.
Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the damp stone wall of the castle. For a moment, he contemplated going out into the fields and killing one of the sheep, but the urge to see Rhianna, to see for himself that she still lived, was more compelling than his hunger.
Pushing away from the wall, he made his way up the steps to the castle door. It opened at his touch.
He stood in the dark hallway, his senses probing the rooms. Bevins was in the kitchen. Rhianna was upstairs. He drew in a deep breath, and her scent wrapped around him, as warm and familiar and comforting as the folds of his cloak.
And then he heard voices. Montroy's. Ada's. A man's voice he did not recognize.
On silent feet, he climbed the stairs, padded noiselessly down the dimly lit corridor to the chamber Rhianna had used before she had moved into his tower room.
He paused outside the door. He felt a knifelike stab of disappointment that she no longer slept in his bed in the tower room, and with it a surge of gratitude that she had not revealed his resting place to others.
"She's not getting any better." It was Montroy's voice, filled with quiet despair.
"Perhaps we should take her to the hospital in London." Ada's voice was thick with tears.
"They can do no more for her there than we are doing here," said the unknown man. "It could be dangerous to move her, especially with the storm coming. If she's not better by tomorrow night, I'll bleed her again."
Bleed her! Muttering an oath, Rayven put his hand on the latch and opened the door.
All conversation came to an abrupt halt as he entered the chamber. He took it all in at a glance: Ada McLeod standing on one side of the bed, her fingers worrying her rosary beads; Montroy and a man Rayven assumed was a physician standing near the foot of the bed.
Rayven crossed the floor, his attention focused on Rhianna. The stink of garlic, believed to aid in healing and to ward off evil spirits, stung his nostrils as he drew near the bed. It was believed to ward off vampyres, too, he mused, but nothing would keep him from her side.
She lay as still as death, her face as pale as the linen beneath her head. Her hair was spread across the pillow like a splash of sunlight. There were purple shadows under her eyes; her cheeks looked hollow. A strong scent of blood rose from a covered bowl on the table beside the bed. Rhianna's blood, still warm. His stomach clenched in pain as the hunger rose within him.
"It's him!" Ada exclaimed, her voice filled with revulsion. "He's the one who's done this to her."
The physician placed his hand on Ada's shoulder. "Madam McLeod…"
"Sorcerer!" She shook off the doctor's hand and made the sign to ward off evil. "Spawn of Satan! Be gone from here!"
Too late, Rayven realized that Montroy had moved behind him. He started to turn, felt a crushing blow to the back of his skull as the viscount struck him over the head with the fireplace poker. He grunted as he fell to his knees.
Dropping the poker, Montroy rushed forward and wrestled him to the floor, holding him immobile with the doctor's aid.
Knowing it was futile, Rayven struggled against the viscount's grip. Lips drawn back in a feral snarl, he cursed viciously as his vision began to blur, then grow dim, until there was nothing but darkness, an endless swirling darkness that carried him away into oblivion.
He woke to blackness as endless as the grave. For a moment, he didn't know where he was, and then he realized he was lying in his coffin. His feeling of relief was quickly followed by a strong sense of dread as he tried to lift the lid, and failed. He pushed against the lid again, a sudden panic lending him strength, but the lid remained tightly closed. He wrinkled his nose against the overpowering scent of garlic.
Bevins! Come to me!
Alas, my lord, I cannot.
Explain.
They know what you are. During her illness, Lady Rhianna suffered a high fever. While she was unconscious, she spoke of you, of what you are. I tried to tell them it was nonsense, the babbling of a fevered mind, but Mistress McLeod believed her. She intends to have you destroyed on the morrow. What of Montroy? Rayven cursed under his breath, remembering how well the viscount had wielded the fireplace poker.
He does not appear to be altogether convinced.
Rhianna? Tell me of Rhianna.
They've not informed her of your return, my lord.
Is Montroy there, with you?
Yes, my lord.
You must convince him to release me. Tell him Rhianna will die without my help.
I will try, my lord. Are you well?
Rayven grunted softly. I need nourishment rather badly, he replied, thinking that was surely the understatement of the ages.
He severed the bond between them, then closed his eyes. He took several deep breaths, trying to stifle the panic rising within him. He had never liked small dark places; it was one of the reasons he did not take his rest in his casket. The thought that he might be forever trapped inside filled him with terror, and then h
e grinned ruefully. If Ada McLeod had her way, his forever would end with the coming of dawn on the morrow.
His eyes snapped open as he heard the sound of footsteps coming down the cellar stairs. Montroy! There was a pause at the door, the scrape of wood against stone as the door swung open.
"Rayven, can you hear me?"
"I hear you."
"Is it true?"
"What do you think?"
"I think it would explain much," Dallon said curtly.
"You must release me."
"I think not."
"Come, Dallon, you cannot seriously believe I am a vampyre." Rayven clenched his fists in an effort to keep his voice calm. "Surely, if I were the monster you believe, nothing you could do would hold me."
"I've never seen you eat," Montroy said. "Never seen you in the light of day."
"Easily explained."
"And this… ?" Montroy shuddered as he stared at the casket's gleaming black surface, at the life-sized raven carved into the wood. Was it his imagination, or were the bird's eyes following him? "Is this coffin also easily explained?"
"You must release me, Montroy. Rhianna needs me."
"The doctor says she's dying." The viscount's voice broke on the last word. "That she has lost the will to live."
"I can help her," Rayven said, his voice tinged with desperation. "But you must let me out of here. Now."
"How?" Dallon demanded. "How can you help her when my physician says it's hopeless?"
Rayven cursed the weakness that negated his powers. Had he been strong, he could have easily bent Montroy's will to his. But then, had he been strong, the man would not have been able to overpower him in the first place.
"Dallon, you must release me before it's too late." Before the sun climbs over the horizon. Before Ada McLeod comes to take my head. "Listen to me," he said, keeping tight rein on his impatience. "You've known me for years. You've spoken to Rhianna. Has she ever complained? Has she accused me of mistreating her? Have I ever said or done anything to make you think I would harm her, or anyone else?"
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