Ravensclaw

by Maggie MacKeever

  Miss Emily, sprawled on the cobblestones, withheld comment. Ravensclaw bent to lift her in his arms. “Heed me, Jamie. You saw no teeth. You were never here. Go home.”

  Jamie opened his mouth and closed it. A blank expression stole over his face. Without a word of protest, he left.

  Emily opened her other eye. “Yes, he did. Teeth. Saw them. So did I.” When Ravensclaw set her on her feet, she reached up and touched a curious finger to one fang. Winced as she sliced her finger on the sharp tooth. Said, “Oh, my.”

  Ravensclaw stepped back, turned away from her. Turned back, caught her hand, licked the blood oozing from her cut.

  The feeling was indescribable. Emily drew in a sharp breath. Drogo growled.

  Abruptly, Ravensclaw released her. Go now. While you can. Emily took a last look at his grim expression and obeyed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  He that would eat the fruit must first climb the tree.

  (Romanian proverb)

  Emily set down her book, an ancient grimoire which contained, among other fascinating information, a shape-shifting spell that involved sticking twelve knives in the ground at intervals and somersaulting over each one. She rested her head against the back of her chair. Her stomach was sore where the ruffian had hit her. Indeed, she felt like every muscle in her body ached.

  Machka jumped into her lap. “It seemed like such a good idea at the time,” Emily told the cat. Drogo, in his customary spot on the hearth, rolled one expressive eye.

  Why had those men attacked her? Had it been a random act, or was it connected to the d’Auvergne athame? She had been almost on Michael’s doorstep. Had he sent those men to frighten her off?

  They had seemed less intent on scaring her than snatching her. Emily didn’t care to dwell on what might have happened if the wolf — or rare Carpathian sleuth-hound — hadn’t fetched Ravensclaw.

  Yes, and how had Ravensclaw come to be so close at hand?

  Ravensclaw. Emily’s understanding of the ways of maids and men — or maids and the nonmortal — was increasing at an astonishing rate. First his touch, then the dreams, and now—

  She regarded her wounded finger with awe. If a finger-lick could be so sensual, what must it be like to feel a vampire’s teeth? To experience a full-fledged fanging, so to speak?

  The drawing room was pleasant in the daylight, a chamber designed not for entertaining guests but for everyday use. Here, too, books were piled everywhere. The only discordant note was Michael’s roses, great luxuriant crimson blooms that hadn’t yet begun to fade. Jamie and his clothing were being divested of their noxious stench by Zizi, Bela, and Lilian, a ‘skelpit dowp’ having turned out to be punishment delivered by Isidore to the boy’s backside. Lady Alberta was absent, having gone to Princes Street in search of a corset designed to give her figure the graceful curves of youth.

  Emily had ceased her stroking. Machka bit her hand.

  Val walked into the room. “Isidore said—” He turned pale, clutched his throat. “Take those bloody roses away!”

  Emily stood up so abruptly that Machka went sailing through the air to land atop Nostradamus’s Centuries. She snatched up the roses and ran into the stairwell. “Isidore! Isidore!”

  The old man was hobbling up the steps. She cried, “Ravensclaw is ill!”

  Isidore took the vase from her. “The master is allergic to roses, miss.”

  Emily regarded him over the rim of her spectacles. “Then why in the name of heaven did you bring the blasted blossoms into the drawing room?”

  “They were a gift. For you.” Isidore dripped disapproval. “From your young man.”

  “He is not—” Emily stopped herself and drew in a calming breath. “What can we do?”

  “There’s nothing to do. The master will be right as rain.” Isidore nodded to the roses. “As soon as I take these away.”

  “Then why don’t you do that?” Emily bared her teeth at him. “Now, Isidore!”

  “ ‘The butcher looked for the knife and it was in his mouth’.” Having managed to get in the last word, the old man descended the stair.

  Emily hurried back into the drawing room, flung open the windows, waved her hands to speed the scent of flowers from the room. “Roses? Not garlic or crucifixes or holy water, but roses?”

  “Surely in all your reading you’ve come upon the superstition that a branch of the wild rose placed upon a corpse keeps a vampir trapped inside its grave.” Val’s voice was strained.

  “I’ve also read that blood baths cure leprosy,” Emily retorted, “and that the crowing of a rooster will scare away the undead. I presume this means you don’t strew rose petals for your lady friends to lie upon?”

  He loosened his cravat. “You know a great deal about strewing rose pedals, do you?”

  “You can always substitute some other flower. Daisies. Lilies.” Forget-me-nots.

  Ravensclaw looked amused. Emily cleared her throat. “Thank you for rescuing us today. Jamie believes he accompanied me on an errand and had an unfortunate encounter with a rubbish cart. It was most impressive, the way you clouded his mind.” Drat it, stop babbling. “You frightened me. Those wretched roses. I thought I was going to see you crumble to dust before my eyes.”

  Ravensclaw picked up Machka. The cat settled on his shoulder. “Would that distress you, little one?”

  “How could it not distress me? I’ve grown, um, accustomed to you being around.”

  Val no longer looked amused. “Emily, we have to talk.”

  Emily had been talking. “About what?”

  Val stroked the cat. “About what you’re feeling. No, I haven’t eavesdropped on your thoughts. It’s what everyone feels after they’ve encountered one of us.”

  How serious he had become. How remote. In Emily’s experience, when gentlemen became serious and remote, they were about to be even more annoying than usual.

  She too could be annoying. “One of you? You refer to hemovores?”

  Val ignored this provocation. “You liked it when I took your blood. Everyone enjoys it when one of us takes his — or her — blood.” He paused reflectively. “Well, almost everyone.”

  Emily took off her spectacles and gave the lenses a brisk polish. “I daresay it isn’t especially enjoyable to have one’s throat torn out.”

  “Emily—”

  She plopped her glasses on her nose. “I know all this. If you didn’t make people think they were enjoying the experience, no one would ever let you feed. But I don’t think you were making me feel what I felt, because to make me feel it, you would have had to overwhelm my senses, and I would have known.” Emily paused, considering. “Not that the experience wasn’t overwhelming, because it was. But it was my own overwhelming, not yours. At any rate, it’s not as if you bit me. You only gave me a little lick.”

  Val still wore that closed expression. Emily folded her arms across her chest. “Are you acting so missish because blood-drinking is an adjunct of the amorous congress?”

  “ ‘Missish’?” Val ran a lazy finger over Machka’s purring head.

  Emily tilted her own head to one side. “Or perhaps vampires don’t—”

  “I can do everything a mortal man can.” A twinkle lit Val’s eye. “But better, of course. Are you asking if I am capable of amorous congress?”

  No, because she didn’t doubt it for a moment. Emily didn’t care to dwell on what things Ravensclaw might do better than a mortal man. At least not until she was safely in the privacy of her bed. “You did say you were umbivalent,” she allowed.

  “I have said any number of absurd things to you. Since you bring out the worst in me, no doubt I will say more.” Ravensclaw walked toward the doorway. “Isidore! I know you’re lurking somewhere. Bring tea.”

  Emily felt her shoulders sag. For a horrid moment, she had feared he meant to leave the room.

  She stiffened her spine. “You said you became what you are by choice, but how? Have you ever made someone? Brought them over? Whatever you call
it?”

  He turned back to her. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not easily done.” Ravensclaw plucked Machka from his shoulder and set her on the floor. Sulkily, the cat curled up in front of Drogo. The wolf began to bathe her head.

  Lilian arrived, puffing, with the tea tray. Lady Alberta, she announced, had eaten all the black buns.

  Emily waited impatiently until the maidservant left the room. Her hands shook slightly as she prepared Ravensclaw’s tea. “If you were to drink from me, I wouldn’t become like you are?”

  Ravensclaw took the cup from her. “You would not.”

  Emily could see it now. Her first addition to the Dinwiddie Chronicles. The Curious Episode of the Vampire Who Refused To Take Advantage. “From whom do you feed?”

  “I am a creature of sanguine nature. You must never forget that. As for my source of sustenance, that’s a personal question, don’t you think?” Ravensclaw set down his cup and rose from his chair.

  Personal? Emily scowled at his back. So is what you do in my dreams.

  He moved to a table, unlocked a drawer, extracted a small carved chest and brought it to her. “Permit me to offer you somewhat more potent protection than those charms of yours.”

  Emily ran her hands over the wood. The chest was very old. “Open it,” Val said.

  She did. Inside the chest, on a black velvet bed, lay a necklace wrought of intertwined gold. Emily touched a reverent finger to the pendant, a large blood-red ruby set against a double ouroborus. On the reverse was etched in tiny letters, ‘Their swords shall enter into their own hearts, and their bows shall be broken.’

  Psalm xxxvii, verse fifteen. “Marie d’Auvergne’s amulet. Protection against witchcraft and sorcery and those who mean the wearer harm. She created the athame to draw dark power to her, and the amulet to repel that same power — and in so doing, the woman drove herself quite mad. You think I’m in danger, then?”

  “You were in danger earlier today. That was no random encounter. Stand up.”

  Emily obeyed. “Those men were following me?”

  Val fastened the pendant around her neck. “They had been following you for some time. Have you annoyed someone?”

  Other than Michael Ross, who was determined she should bear his offspring?

  She could have been kidnapped today. Snatched up and taken some unknown place for some unknown purpose. Might never have stood talking to this man again.

  Vampire.

  Whatever he was, Emily would have regretted her lost opportunities. She raised up on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against his. “Dinwiddies thrive on danger,” she murmured. “Adventure. Exploring the unknown.” Val raised his hand, ran one finger lightly over her skin, down the line of her jaw, coming at last to rest on the pulse beating wildly at the base of her throat. Emily took a deep breath and deliberately let down her guard.

  Mind touched mind, a thousand times more erotic than skin brushing skin, for that contact was from outside, and this came from within. Emily felt Val’s power, his hunger. His desire for her. Her legs grew weak, her mouth went dry. He caught her arms and drew her close.

  Pleasure stole over her, and warmth. A sensual exhilaration. She was floating, flying, far above the ground. Soaring toward the heavens, on the wings of some hot unearthly bliss. Or, rather, very earthly. Fire flowed through her veins—

  Emily.

  Mm?

  The d’Auvergne athame, Emily. Is it in your possession now? Do you know where it is?

  The d’Auvergne athame? In this moment of intense intimacy, all he could do was ask about the d’Auvergne athame? Emily plummeted back down to earth. If I had that blasted athame, I’d be safely at home instead of wasting my time with bloody obstinate stupid manipulative vampires!

  She felt his regret. I’m sorry. I had to ask. We cannot be untruthful with one another when we are touching like this. Val withdrew from her mind and dropped a chaste kiss on her forehead.

  He could not lie to her? Emily grabbed his wrist and concentrated very hard.

  ...

  Wind howled outside the cottage. A fire burned in the hearth, gleamed on the fair skin of the woman stretched out on a rug before the fireplace. Ana’s lambskin jacket lay discarded on the floor beside her red woven skirt and gold-threaded belt. She wore only her embroidered blouse, and her striped stockings, and her long brown hair.

  As if sensing an intruder, she sat up and drew the rug around her. “Valentin?”

  ...

  Ravensclaw broke away. “What are you that you can do this to me?”

  Emily felt equally unsettled. “Who was Ana?” she asked.

  Val walked toward the window. “My wife.”

  Ravensclaw was hundreds of years old. Naturally he’d had a wife. Probably he’d had several wives. Only a goose would be jealous of the past.

  Emily was a goose. “What happened to her?”

  His voice was expressionless. “I presume she died.”

  She moved to join him at the window. “There’s no mention of an Ana in the Dinwiddie Chronicles.”

  He glanced down at her. “Ana was before. I know this goes against your nature, but for your own well-being you must allow yourself to be guided by me.”

  First he kissed her on the forehead — the forehead! — and now he acted as if she were an ignorant miss. “You think my powers of intellect less acute than yours? Because you are a male?”

  He winced. “That’s not what I meant. You are not acquainted with the Darkness, for which you may be grateful. You don’t want to become attuned to the Darkness, Emily.”

  “The Dark Ages, you mean?” Emily inquired icily. “We are no longer living in the Dark Ages, Ravensclaw. Females today do all sort of interesting and dangerous things.”

  His lips curved, just a little bit. “Such as?”

  Emily thought of all the interesting and dangerous things she’d like to do with Ravensclaw himself. She sighed.

  “Yet another sacrifice is required of you,” Val told her. “We’re engaged for the theater. Tonight.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  It is idle to swallow the cow and choke on the tail.

  (Romanian proverb)

  Edinburgh’s Theater Royal was located in Shakespeare Square, at the east end of Princes Street. Emily found little to criticize in the theater itself, which compared favorably with any outside London, due largely to the management of William Murray and his sister Harriet Siddons. Nor could she fault this evening’s entertainment, which included the popular Rob Roy MacGregor or, Auld Lang Syne, a Musical Drama in three acts, based on the popular novel Rob Roy; and additionally The Falls of Clyde, a mélange of tragedy and comedy, action and pathos, dialogue and music all jumbled together in one grand mishmash. All her discontent was centered on the occupants of an opposite box.

  Lady Alberta was in good spirits, currently discussing Sir Walter Scott, patron and outspoken friend of the drama, especially this drama, with a number of her friends: the poet was suffering a case of gallstones so severe that many people in Edinburgh feared he was on his deathbed. Her gown of purple-blue taffeta suited her, as did the turban she wore on her dyed hair. Emily felt rather fine herself in a gown of dark shot silk with a high waistline, short sleeves, and an ankle-length gored skirt. Rather, she had felt fine until she caught sight of Lisbet Boroi. Lisbet was seduction incarnate in sea-green crepe with a froth of flounces that reached to her knees. Her décolletage plunged almost that low, providing an admirable setting for her necklace, a series of large colored gemstones.

  Had Ravensclaw given Lisbet that necklace? Did he give necklaces to every female he met?

  Emily took herself to task. She was merely Val’s houseguest, for all their odd communication of minds. It was his prerogative, were he so inclined, to ignore her all the blessed night. Thus far he had done precisely that, no sooner arriving at the theater than he had left Emily and Lady Alberta to hold court in his box while he withdrew to another, directly opp
osite, where he sat murmuring low in the lovely Lisbet’s ear while Michael Ross attempted, thus far unsuccessfully, to strike up an intimate conversation of his own with Emily.

  A steady stream of visitors had thronged to Ravensclaw’s box immediately intermission began. It seemed every gentleman present tonight yearned to be made known to Count Revay-Czobar’s houseguest, which Emily found more than a little odd, and gratifying only in that it put Michael’s nose out of joint.

  Michael leaned closer, half-suffocating her with the distinctive scent of Macassar Oil. “What Society business brought you to Edinburgh? Is Ravensclaw helping you search for your missing knife? You really should refrain from involving outsiders in such matters. Your father would not approve of you consorting with Ravensclaw.”

  “I’m not consorting with Ravensclaw,” Emily retorted. Alas. “And, for your information, my father had a high opinion of the Count.” Or of the Count’s abilities. “In any event, my conduct, whether you approve of it or not, is nothing to do with you.”

  A muscle twitched in Michael’s jaw, above the deep white neckcloth arranged so artistically around his neck, the crisp high collar that brushed his earlobes and framed his chin. Emily had time to admire his dark trousers and jacket, his black velvet vest with its thin cream satin stripe, before he controlled his temper sufficiently to speak again.

  “It is my concern,” Michael told her. “For all you may choose to ignore it, you are my affianced bride. And that is not all you are ignoring. Matters abstruse and supersensible, remember? Beings of such power that they can destroy you in less than a heartbeat and you will thank them for it, who can inspire so strong an amorous attraction that you will be willing to do anything for the sake of a mere smile?”

  Rather more than a smile, thought Emily. She adjusted her spectacles, the better to regard her beau. “You are not equipped to deal with such matters,” he added. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover you’re bespelled.”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover that you’ve taken to eating opium! I can’t imagine where else you might have got your fantastical ideas.” Emily winced as Lady Alberta left off enthusing about Charles Mackay’s performance to give her ankle a sharp kick. “That is, I appreciate your concern, Michael, unfounded as it is. Ravensclaw has been a perfect gentleman.” Even when she’d prefer he wasn’t. Except in her dreams.