Beneath a Waning Moon: A Duo of Gothic Romances

by Elizabeth Hunter

  “She’s my mate,” he said, not caring if Josie questioned him. She was already falling back into delirium. “Anne, get him away before I kill him myself. He don’t belong here. Leave me be.”

  “You cannot mean to meet the sun,” Murphy said, stubbornly standing at the foot of her bed. “Tom, your life is more valuable—”

  “My life is not my own,” he growled. “And hasn’t been since I agreed to join you in this one. I cannot save her without driving both of us mad, and you’ve made your choice. But I tell you, I can join her when she goes. That is my choice. And you don’t have any say in that.”

  “I’ll lock you up.”

  “You plan on doing that forever?”

  That shut him up, and Tom was able to concentrate on Josie again. His poor girl. She sounded like half of what she was breathing was water, but it was the fever that scared him.

  “You’re determined to die with her?”

  Tom stroked her damp hair off her forehead. “I’ll be dead already when she’s gone.”

  He paid no attention to whatever silent arguments his sire was having with Anne. He watched Josie, watched the rise and fall of her labored breathing. Watched the fine skin of her neck where her pulse beat faintly. She’d be admitted to heaven without a doubt. He wondered if he was clever enough to talk himself in.

  “Love you,” he whispered. “I didn’t tell you when you could hear me because I’m a fool. Thanks for loving me so well, sweet girl. You were the best part of this life.”

  “And who will take responsibility if she’s uncontrollable?” Murphy said behind him. “Tom? He’d never be able to do it. So I’d have to, and we’d kill each other.”

  “It may not be necessary. She’s never been a cruel person.”

  “She’s dying and feverish. You know why there are rules against—”

  “I’ll do it,” Anne whispered. “I love her too, Patrick. Do this, and if she is mad—if she cannot be trusted—I will take responsibility for her. You know I can.”

  Silence fell. Then Tom felt the touch of Anne’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Tom?”

  “Go away.”

  “Tom, step away from her. Let Murphy do what he needs to. You don’t need to be here for this.”

  He lifted his head. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re sure she would want this?” Murphy asked him, tearing off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. “She never knew the truth of who you were. You’re sure, Tom?”

  He blinked, in a daze, unsure of what he was seeing. “Positive. What are you doing?”

  “What do you bloody think I’m doing?”

  Anne pulled him away from Josie’s bedside, and Murphy sat on the edge, brushing the hair from Josie’s neck.

  “Anne, find something to tie her hair back.”

  Tom stood gaping. “But Beecham—”

  “I’m not losing my own bloody child because Beecham wants the Shaw family dead. Hang Beecham. We’ll do this, and soon I’ll be the lord of Dublin, but only if you’re at my side. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “She’s dead to the world. Do you understand? She’s not in society, mortal or immortal. She died this night. And she’ll stay dead until everyone who remembers her in this life is gone. Can you live with that? Can she?”

  Mad hope had finally pierced the shadow around his heart. “We’ll make do. I’ll take care of her. Always. I promise.”

  “Of course you bloody do. You’re the most stubborn, loyal bastard I’ve ever met. Don’t know why I fooled myself that you’d let her go.” He tilted Josie’s neck to the side. “Now tell the cook to start bleeding all the servants who haven’t given in the past month and pray to God this works.”

  IT took Anne and Declan both to wrestle Tom out of the room, even though the big man knew it was necessary. The process of turning was not far from the process of death. Even now Anne and Declan would be spelling the few servants who didn’t know of their true natures and sending them away, while the others gave blood before retreating to the safety of Murphy and Anne’s house. Away from the danger. Away from the newborn who would wake.

  Murphy had removed half the woman’s blood when he heard Anne return. Josie’s heartbeat was failing, so he drank faster. It tasted… wrong. He spit most of it into the basin beside the bed, not wanting to chance any kind of strange reaction. He’d never fed from anyone as sick as Josephine, and though he knew vampires were immune to human disease, some instinct told him too much of her blood would make him ill.

  “Stop for a moment,” Anne said.

  He drew back and she wiped his mouth, bending down to take his mouth with hers. Then she brushed a hand over his cheek and gave him her wrist. “Take some of mine. You’ll need extra since you’re not taking much of hers.”

  “This is already so risky. I don’t want to chance it.”

  “I agree.”

  He bent to Josephine’s neck again. It was not such an easy thing to drain a human—especially when not in the throes of true bloodlust—but her blood had to be removed to the point of death before he gave her his own.

  Minutes stretched as he held the poor thin woman in his arms, killing her to save her. Finally—when her heart began to falter—he put her mouth to his wrist.

  “No,” Anne said, pulling his collar down. “As much as I hate the idea, she needs to take your neck. Your wrist won’t be fast enough.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Anne was his mate, and as much as he loved Tom, his first loyalty was to her.

  “And I can’t do without her! She’s my mate.”

  It was the pain of those words that finally convinced him, because Murphy knew Tom spoke the truth. Nothing he could do would save his dearest child if Josephine Shaw was allowed to die. No political maneuvering, no intricate plan, and no cultivated reputation would excuse Murphy in his son’s eyes.

  So Josephine must live.

  Anne slashed his throat with her own fangs and held the girl to his neck, forcing the blood into her body. His mate held them both until Murphy felt the first stirrings of amnis in the girl, felt her own fangs lengthen and grow, latching on to his neck with vicious hunger. Amnis, the energy that would bind her to him as his immortal child, flowed over him and into her, resurrecting her, tying them for all time. She was his, but he was hers too. For as long as she lived, Murphy would be responsible for her. Care for her. With every child he sired, he gave up a small part of his soul.

  He hushed her when the small groans of pain crept through. He smoothed her hair back and held her as her body began the process of turning. Anne stood on her other side, ready to help her friend’s transition into immortal life.

  Josephine Shaw would live. But she would never be the same.

  Chapter Eight

  SHE BOLTED UP IN BED, almost throwing herself into the fire with the unexpected strength of her limbs.

  “Josie!”

  She screamed when she hit the floor. And she kept screaming.

  The hunger.

  The pain.

  She was in the throes of a most horrific dream.

  Her throat burned. Her mouth ached. The room burned. There was a roaring in her ears and a tumult of voices surrounding her.

  “Put out the fire, it’s too hot!”

  “Is the bath ready?”

  “Josie? Josie, try to drink.”

  A goblet was forced to her mouth, thick with the scent of copper and meat. Blood. It was blood. She choked on it until the taste hit her tongue, and then she opened her throat, howling inside from the pleasure.

  “Another. Give me another, damn you.”

  “Bath is ready, boss.”

  Her body hit the water, and it was hot and cold all at once. She tried to scramble away until she felt him at her back.

  “Shhh.” His voice captured her and she turned to it. She blinked her eyes open before she closed them again, wincing.

  “Turn the lamps down. They’re too
bright. Josie? Josie, love, can you hear me?”

  “She needs to drink more.”

  The water crawled up her body, and it was her friend. It petted her as if she were a cat curled by the fire. It was a cool blanket on a warm day. Her nurse’s soft touch.

  “Josie?” Another goblet shoved under her nose, and she grabbed it with both hands, feeling the metal bend under her fingers.

  “What?” she croaked. “What—”

  “It’s all right now. Just drink.”

  “Tom?”

  “Drink, Josie.”

  She drank. And then she drank some more.

  Liquid heat. Satisfaction.

  I’m dreaming. This is a dream.

  “You’re not dreaming, Josie.”

  I’ve died. I was so afraid to die. I left him. My lovely Tom. I left him.

  “I’m here, sweet girl. You didn’t leave me. You’re right here.”

  She closed her eyes to block the light, weeping with the pain of losing him.

  And when the tears touched her mouth, they tasted of blood.

  HENRY Flynn put his arm around Mrs. Porter as he showed the old woman into the room where Mrs. Murphy’s body lay. He’d be grateful when all the new servants were gone and only the ones that knew the truth were left. He’d grown weary of the lies and constantly guarded words. His father had told him he’d be expected to do things like this, but he’d had no idea how complicated it would all be.

  Lucky the missus was a vampire now. At least he’d no longer have to carry on one-sided conversations for hours while the master slept. But Mr. Tom Murphy was about as grand an employer as he’d ever have, so he wasn’t about to complain. He was very grateful the man wouldn’t have to say good-bye to his wife, who was now lying in the darkened room, the fire low and the covers drawn up to protect her as much as possible while they fabricated the story of her death.

  According to his mam, she’d wake at nightfall with a driving hunger that wouldn’t know friend from foe, so it was important that all the human visitors be ready to leave well before dusk.

  “The poor girl.” Mrs. Porter sniffed. “The poor family. Mr. Shaw gone and Miss Shaw too. All within a day. And poor Mr. Murphy.”

  “He’s in his room now,” Henry said. “He weren’t in a good state last night.”

  “Well of course he wasn’t,” Mrs. Porter said. She put her arm around Mrs. Murphy’s day maid. “They loved each other so. What a tragedy.”

  “It is,” Henry said. “Though I know my master wouldn’t have traded knowing her for anything.”

  “Oh, poor Mr. Murphy!” the maid said. “And poor Miss Shaw. It’s so sad, and yet so terribly romantic, don’t you think? Miss Shaw would have liked that.”

  “Here now,” Henry said, trying not to shake his head at the maid’s melodrama. “Why don’t we go downstairs? There’s nothing of her here. The downstairs maids will clean the room, and I know others will want to pay their respects. Let’s go see if Cook has anything to eat, shall we?”

  He ushered both the grieving women downstairs and into the care of Cook while he saw to the other men on the floor who were guarding the master and the missus. Hours passed as Henry began the business of faking a funeral. It shouldn’t be too much trouble. His father had faked one for Mr. Declan. It’d be easier if he had a few more men, but currently, most of Mr. Murphy’s staff were busy securing the day-chambers until the vampire staff rose at dusk.

  Henry was hoping when they were both sorted he’d be able to consolidate security for the two of them. Guarding one day-chamber would be so much easier than—

  “Unhand me!” A domineering voice rang from the ground floor.

  “But Mr. Burke! Surely you can wait for tonight. Mr. Murphy is retired and he won’t want to be dist—”

  “I want to see my cousin! Take me to her now.”

  “I say, who do you think you are?” Adams, the old butler, had never been one to mince words. “Sir, Mr. Murphy is not receiving callers at this hour. You must leave.”

  Henry stood at the top of the steps while Mr. Neville Burke made a great show of trying to look like a worried man. Henry wasn’t fooled. Burke had the gleam of greed in his eyes.

  “Mr. Burke, sir,” Henry interrupted his rant. “I’ll ask that you don’t step any further into the house.”

  He was in a precarious position. Henry was only a servant. As such, if Mr. Burke wanted to barge in, he’d be able to with neither of the Murphy brothers to stop him. The only people awake in the house were servants, and the last thing anyone needed was for a constable to be fetched if Mr. Neville Burke thought the servants were trying to keep him from his cousin.

  “And who are you?” Burke asked.

  “I’m Mr. Murphy’s valet, sir.”

  “And where is your master, boy?”

  “Grieving, sir. Mrs. Murphy died night before last.”

  “Oh no.” Neville Burke did not look surprised. He climbed the stairs toward Henry. “My poor cousin. Take me to her. Let me pay my respects while I still can.”

  “Mr. Burke—”

  Neville Burke grabbed him by the collar. “Take me to her.”

  Henry could see a stain of pink in the sky. Perhaps if he showed Mr. Burke the body, he would leave quickly. The longer it took to get him out of the house, the more dangerous things became.

  “Of course, Mr. Burke.”

  He shook his head at the panicked face of the guards on the second floor as he escorted Neville Burke to the mistress’s bedchamber. All the curtains had been drawn, and only the ghost of a fire had been lit. According to the master, she would wake after him, her younger vampire body needing more rest. Still, it wasn’t as if Henry was at ease around her. He’d been told since he was a boy how dangerous it was to be in a room with a newborn vampire. He kept the door to the hallway open, ready to run.

  “Oh, my sweet cousin.”

  Mr. Burke leaned over the bed, a bit too interested, by Henry’s reckoning. He was holding a hand over Mrs. Murphy’s face as if checking her breathing. She wouldn’t be. Vampires didn’t need to breathe unless they wanted to smell the air or speak.

  “Now that you’ve paid your respects—”

  “I’ll sit, boy.” He drew a chair to Mrs. Murphy’s bedside. “I’ve heard some interesting rumors about my dear cousin’s husband, and I’m keen to allay any suspicion he might be under.”

  Henry’s heart began to race. “Mr. Burke, that isn’t a wise idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mr. Murphy… he wanted his solitude for sure. When he wakes—”

  “Ah yes,” Mr. Burke said. “It will be interesting to see what happens when Mr. Murphy wakes.”

  “I’m not sure interesting is the right word,” Henry muttered.

  “What was that?”

  Henry took a deep breath and hoped Mr. Tom would be waking soon. It was usually as soon as the sun fell below the horizon.

  “I’ll just… watch the door, Mr. Burke.”

  “Good lad,” Mr. Burke said. Then he sat back and waited.

  Henry heard a thump down the hall and prayed it was Mr. Tom. If he would just get here…

  “By God, she moved.”

  It was only a whisper.

  Henry’s heart pounded out of his chest. “A trick of the light, Mr. Burke. Come with me, please.”

  “No, it was no trick. My God, Beecham was right. There’s some kind of black magic—”

  “Mr. Burke!” Henry’s voice was panicked. He’d seen the twitch. The mistress was waking early. “Come with me. Come with me now if you want to live.”

  “What is this sorcery?”

  Henry could wait no longer. He ran to the bedside to grab Neville Burke, but by the time he reached him, Miss Josephine’s eyes were open and staring at her cousin.

  She glanced at Henry for only a second, and she whispered, “Run.”

  Henry ran.

  JOSIE’S eyes took in everything. The dim light of the room was nothing to her. She saw e
very shadow flickering by the firelight and the unholy gleam in her cousin’s eyes. She smelled him too. Onions and roast beef. The musk of his sweat and the pungent scent of oil and gunpowder. He smelled disgusting. And appetizing.

  “Hello, Neville.”

  “What’s wrong with your voice? What are you?”

  The burning was still there, but not like she’d dreamed. She was Carmilla, stealthy and secret.

  “I’m dreaming,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “And I shall not wake again.”

  “Jo?”

  She could hear it thrumming, his heart, like the beat of a hummingbird’s wings. It called her. Her neck arched back when she felt the fangs she’d dreamed grow long in her mouth.

  “Josephine? What the bloody—”

  She was silent when she leapt on him, knocking him off the chair and backward toward the fire. She reared away. No fire. Fire was bad.

  “Josephine!”

  He was starting to scream, and that wasn’t good. She put a hand over his mouth as she dragged him away from the fire.

  “Shhhh,” she whispered. What a repulsive creature he was. He’d broken her dolls’ faces when he was a child. Cut chunks out of her long hair. And look how weak he was! Josie was dragging Neville about the room as if he were her new doll.

  He fumbled for something in his jacket, but Josie stopped and dropped him, transfixed by the dust motes dancing in the air. Everything moved as if underwater. Neville’s voice was murky as he pulled something out of his pocket.

  It was a gun. Pointed at her.

  She laughed because she heard the thundering steps coming down the hall.

  Silly Neville. What was he thinking to bring a gun into Tom’s house?

  “I’m warning you, demon. Release my cousin. You have no power over—”

  The chamber door crashed in and the gun began to swing toward it.

  “Demons!” he screamed. “Unholy monsters! He was right! William was right. I’ll kill you all!”

  “No,” she whispered. What if her stupid cousin shot Tom? He wasn’t allowed to do that.

  Before she finished thinking it, she had knocked Neville to the ground and batted the gun away.