by Ranae Rose
Chapter 17
Something cold ran down Elsie’s spine, forcing the breath from her lungs in a gasp of surprise. She opened her eyes, but all was dark, her surroundings so black she couldn’t see anything. A terrible weight pressed down on her as she flailed, limbs reeling through cold nothingness. She tried to draw in a mouthful of air, but something prevented her. She couldn’t breathe.
She forced herself to stop struggling. She knew this dream. She was a seven year old girl working in a textile manufactory again, being dunked in the cistern for falling asleep on the job – or at least, that was what the dream wanted her to think. She could even hear the voice of the taskmaster echoing in the background, his curses muffled and distant to her submerged ears. She wouldn’t give in to it. She’d simply close her eyes and think of her bed, forcing herself to wake.
Gradually the soft feel of fine sheets replaced the dreamed-of watery embrace. Still, something was wrong. There was still something cold pressing against her back, and a strange voice uttering curses. She opened her eyes and saw only blackness – she might as well have been back in the cistern. But that wasn’t right. Not even night was black to her now, thanks to her vampire’s vision, which allowed even the tiniest bit of illumination – a crescent moon, or even starlight – to let her see for miles. She blinked several times, but the absolute darkness remained. A thousand frantic possibilities tumbled through her sleepy mind. Had she gone blind after all – was she still ill? Or perhaps she was still asleep, and the cistern nightmare had been a dream within a dream.
The feel of someone driving a knee into her back snapped her out of her guessing game.
Rolling onto her side, she nearly fell off the edge of the bed when her arms failed to function. She’d meant to throw them out in front of her body, to brace herself against the mattress, but they remained behind her back. She struggled to move them, but they’d been bound. The cold hardness that pressed against the small of her back and the clinking that ensued made it clear that her bonds were metallic. The chains were thick and heavy – too strong for her to break.
Something – a palm, it felt like – struck her cheek with a hard smack that was muffled by a layer of material. So that was why she couldn’t see. Her face had been covered – stuffed into a sack, it felt like. She tried to cry out, but something had been forced into her mouth. Finally, it occurred to her to use her feet.
Someone pulled a length of chain tight around her ankles, stopping her before she could aim a blind kick at her assailant. She grunted in frustration, trying her best to wriggle her way over the edge of the bed. Damon must still be out hunting, but if she could hit the floor with enough force, perhaps the sound would wake Lucinda.
Her captor was too fast for her. Before she managed to tumble over the edge, a pair of arms seized her, hefting her as if she weighed no more than a sack of flour. Her chains jingled as she was carried across the room, and then a subtle screeching sound broke the relative quiet – the window was being opened.
The sack over Elsie’s head prevented the cool night air from reaching her face, but not her body. Clad only in the shift she’d pulled on after she and Damon had finished making love, her skin pebbled as if she were naked.
Elsie’s kidnapper shifted her, securing a tighter hold on her bound body. Elsie braced herself as her captor lifted a leg, climbing, by the feel of it, onto the window sill. Cradled in the crouching stranger’s arms, Elsie barely had time to despair before they were airborne, rushing toward the ground, which lay two stories below.
****
A woman’s scream sounded from somewhere nearby, high and clear with terror. It was just what Damon had been waiting for. He turned on his heel and quickly retraced his steps through the narrow alleyway, careless of the filth that squished beneath his boots. When he emerged onto the street, which was only a little wider than the alley, he broke into a sprint, heading in the direction the scream had come from. As always, he was careful to keep to the shadows – not that there were many lights illuminating this shabby section of the city. If anyone caught a glimpse of him, he’d look like a fleeting shadow, and they’d probably decide that their eyes had tricked them.
A low moan came from the left, guttural and distinctly male. Damon’s stomach twisted in disgust. He recognized the groan – it was the sound of man taking pleasure in violating an innocent person. He would stop the sick bastard, would rescue the woman he could hear sobbing in the very next alley. But would the criminal he found be the killer – the one he’d given up a night in his wife’s arms to search for?
He could only hope.
“You can keep strugglin’ darlin’,” the man growled, “but ye won’t be gettin’ away, now will ye?”
A high-pitched shriek was the only reply the woman gave as he shoved her roughly against a wall, yanking a fistful of her hair. No doubt the grimy, balding man thought he was carrying out his crime in the relative secrecy of darkness, safe in a part of the city where no sensible person ventured outside their home at night, and those that dared to were likely to be criminals themselves. That was what made Damon’s job so easy – perverts and criminals like this man never expected him. They’d probably be less surprised by summertime snow than the fact that someone cared enough to stop their twisted deeds.
“Let me go!” The woman had finally found her voice, though it trembled as she cried out. Her petticoats churned around her ankles as she kicked at her captor’s shins, but her efforts were futile. He was far too drunk to care about the pain.
“Ha ha!” he barked a wheezing laugh, his face alight with malice and amusement.
The woman’s eyes widened as she realized how little affect her furious kicks had. Her face was a perfect picture of terror, every line and contour clear to Damon despite the thick shadows. Heavy rouge and garishly ruby lips marked her as a prostitute, but that didn’t matter. Choosing to sell her body didn’t give the man the right to take it against her will. Damon had stopped enough of these crimes to know that the disgusting excuse for a man was probably raping her for the thrill of it rather than out of cheapness.
“Let me go!” she shrieked, her voice even higher this time.
The man pawed the front of her dress in response, ripping the bodice in a brutal, drunken motion. The woman began to sob. Her assailant still had a thick handful of her hair wrapped around his fist and was pulling harder as his excitement mounted. He looked to be close to yanking her hair out in chunks.
Damon said nothing, making hardly a sound as he moved quickly forward, hidden in the deep shadows that permeated the narrow passage. Drunk and distracted as he was, the fiend probably wouldn’t have noticed Damon if he’d waltzed down the alley, but he preferred to remain as invisible as possible.
The would-be rapist never saw Damon. The smallest of sounds escaped his throat, along with a cloud of liquor-scented breath, as Damon stood behind him and settled his hands on either side of his face, twisting until his efforts were rewarded by the crunch of breaking bone and cartilage. It was a move that he’d perfected over the years; one that made it easy for him to kill instantly and with minimal effort.
“Get out of here,” Damon growled, keeping to the shadows as the woman gaped at him. She wouldn’t be able to see his face in the darkness. He never allowed the people he rescued see him if he could help it. “Go!”
She stared wordlessly for a moment longer before finally picking up her skirts and darting from the alleyway, still sobbing faintly as she fled.
Finally alone, Damon knelt over the rapist’s lifeless body. Taking out the small knife he carried in his pocket, he drew it across one of the man’s wrists, opening a deep gash in the warm-as-life flesh. It was what he always did when he didn’t have time to dispose of a bite-marked body. Lifting the man’s arm, he pressed his lips to the wound and let the blood rush in, soothing his dry throat. It tasted better than anything coming from such a disgusting body had a right to. He drank until his thirst was slaked and then dropped the limp wrist, glad to
leave the corpse behind. As he stepped back out into the street, he felt hollow inside despite the feeding. He would feel the bone-deep emptiness until he found the murderer and snuffed out his wretched life. Until then, the entire city was in danger.
“No! Damn it.” He sighed as he barely missed stepping on a gimlet-eyed rat. The shadows were beginning to fade, along with the purple nighttime light. The city was just starting to turn bright and washed out again as the sun rose. The darkness was fleeing, and he’d failed to find any sign of the killer. The night had passed in a blur of thieves, rapists and dead-ends. He ground his teeth, worrying his inner lip with the point of a fang. Soon the tooth would be blunt and useless again. He had little choice but to hurry home before anyone caught sight of him prowling the streets in blood-stained clothing, but he hated himself for every step he took. Somewhere out there, a victim might be lying dead with their heart cut out, waiting to be discovered by someone who would be too late to make a difference.
****
A dull ache had begun to spread between Damon’s eyes by the time he reached home, though whether it was due to the rising sun or the fact that he’d failed to find the killer, even he was unsure. He was usually able to push the pain to the back of his mind, where he barely thought of it, but not this time. Massaging his forehead, he pulled a key from his pocket and used it to enter the house through a servants’ entrance in the back. Unlike most mornings, the sense of accomplishment that usually settled over him as he returned from a night of cleaning up the city eluded him. Were it not for the fact that Elsie was upstairs waiting for him in his bed, he wouldn’t have been glad to be home at all.
But she was, and the thought quickened his step as he strode through a dim corridor, passing the kitchen. The cook had probably risen already and would be inside soon, starting a modest breakfast that would be wasted by the Remingtons, as it was every morning. He hurried, eager to get to his room and peel his incriminatingly bloody clothing off. God only knew what the servants would think if they caught sight of the red drops that stained his shirt, not to mention the grime he’d picked up in the foul alleyways that riddled the shabbier parts of London. He must look the demon he was rumored to be.
He relaxed a little when he reached the staircase landing and began to climb toward the second story. The servants’ quarters were in a designated wing on the first floor. Whenever he reached the top of the steps, he’d be safe from any prying eyes or chance encounters with early-rising maids.
Breathing a sigh of relief, he left the stairs behind and turned to the right, gaze fixed on the bedroom door near the end of the hall. Elsie would be inside, lying between blankets that were probably still rumpled from when they’d made love before he’d left to go on his fruitless search. The thought of her naked body against the linens caused his cock to start stiffening. But no – she’d pulled on a shift before he’d gone. No matter – the delicate garment had been thin and halfway translucent, allowing him to easily make out the curves of her hips and breasts beneath, not to mention the rosy circles of her nipples, which had been pricking against the fabric last time he’d seen her. Thank God there were no servants on the second floor, for by the time he reached the bedroom door, he was in no state to be seen by anyone besides his wife. If he didn’t get out of his dirt-stained pantaloons soon, the buttons might start popping off, freeing his now considerable erection. But if Elsie happened to be awake, she might be willing to help him before he got to that point… God, he loved her. And not just because his cock ached constantly to be inside her perfect body.
She was not lying awake as he’d fanaticized. In fact, she wasn’t anywhere to be seen. The sight of the empty bed sent his hopes crashing. A quick glance around the room confirmed that she was nowhere inside. Where on earth could she have gone so early in the morning? Hopefully she hadn’t set out to look for him. Guilt twisted his conscience. Had he stayed out too long? Perhaps she’d started to fear for him when the sun had begun to rise. She’d been afraid for him when he’d set out – she’d made that clear. He’d had little choice, with such a vicious killer on the loose, but why hadn’t he told her that he might be late, that she shouldn’t try to find him, even if the sun returned before he did?
He’d been an idiot. Caught up in the haze of the passion he’d worked himself into while bedding her and nearly feverish with the urge to start his search for the murderer, he’d forgotten that she was not like an ordinary woman, who would scarcely be able to conceive any idea other than waiting for his return. Curious as she was, she probably had wandered out of bed to search for him. He shot a guilty glance at the large four-poster, as if the piece of furniture would offer a suggestion as to where she might have gone.
It didn’t, of course, but something caught his eye – the sheets were badly twisted. With the way she’d been writhing beneath him last night – God, just the thought of it brought him perilously close to losing his buttons again – they’d put more than a few wrinkles in the blanket, but they’d made love on top of it, not between the linens. The bed looked as if someone had either had a very lively tumble or a very rough struggle in it. The latter thought nearly brought him to his knees, and his erection rapidly wilted.
A breeze stirred the room, bringing with it the pungent scents of the city. Damon turned his attention to the window for the first time. It was wide open, the curtains fluttering around the sill. His stomach twisting with dread as the ache pounding against his skull intensified, he ripped his soiled clothing off in a frenzy, stuffed the garments into the very back of the wardrobe and hastily donned a new outfit. He’d failed to find the killer, but nothing would stop him from finding his wife.
He checked Lucinda’s room first, just to be sure, but there was no sign of Elsie; only Lucinda, half-submerged in a sea of decorative pillows and dead to the world, as she always was at any early morning hour. Pulling the door shut, he sprinted down the hall and made a hopeful circuit of the library, finding nothing. After hurrying downstairs, no sooner had his feet met the landing than a blood-curdling shriek froze him in his tracks. His mind filled with frantic visions of Elsie in danger, he flung himself in the direction the scream had come from, running as quickly as he could, careless of who might witness his superhuman speed.
He came to a sliding halt in the corridor that joined the servants’ wing with the rest of the house, barely managing to stop himself before his feet slid into a pool of half-dried blood. It took several moments for his mind to register the fact that neither of the people present at the gristly scene were Elsie. Looking upon the carnage, he was glad.
“He’s dead,” a white-faced maid gasped, declaring the obvious. She stood shaking and terror-stricken over the crumpled body of the footman, who lay on the floor in a pool of his own blood, the left side of his skull bashed severely in. His formerly handsome face was waxen beneath steaks of crimson, his blue eyes open and staring at nothing. He still held an iron poker tightly in one hand – a makeshift weapon, it seemed, taken from a fireplace. Had he heard an intruder in the house at night and come to investigate? Damon was unable to restrain a groan of horror as his fears for Elsie’s safety were magnified a hundred fold.
“What on earth’s going on?” a female voice demanded. Its owner – another maid – appeared in the hallway, emerging from the maids’ quarters. Her face fell as she took in the bloody scene, her mouth constricting to form an exaggerated ‘o’ shape that might have been comical under different circumstances. Within a few brief moments, a dozen other maids filed out of the room and surrounded her. A chorus of spectacular shrieks preceded several moans and even sobs. It was no secret that the footman, with his handsome features and well-turned calves, had inadvertently captured the heart of many a housemaid. As the clamor surrounded Damon, a single thought burned in the forefront of his mind: he had to find Elsie. Now.
****
Elsie awoke to the first bodily pains she’d known since becoming a vampire, if she didn’t count her frequent headaches. At first her body sim
ply felt like a single mass of dull pain, but as time passed – minutes or hours, it was impossible to tell – she became aware of the individual injuries. Her wrists and ankles were the worst. They felt as if they were tightly bound with thick chains – which, she eventually remembered, they were. Other than that, her head ached, which might mean that it was daytime, though she couldn’t be sure as she was still blinded by the sack that covered her head. She flexed against her bonds. Disappointingly, they didn’t give so much as a fraction of an inch. Had she been human, she probably would have lost all feeling in her hands and arms by now. As it was, she was left to experience every last second of discomfort. She closed her eyes against the darkness inside the sack and explored her other senses, trying to gain a feel for her surroundings.
The surface beneath her was hard and smooth – floorboards, probably. She was propped against a wall – or so it seemed – with her legs straight out in front of her, bundled at the ankles, and her arms chained behind. A hardwood floor and a wall wasn’t much to go on. All it told her was that she was in a building, but she could have gleaned that from the quiet and the still, stuffy air. She could be anywhere, but how had she gotten here, wherever it was? She remembered awakening from the terror of the cistern nightmare to the real-life horror of being assaulted in her bed, pinned against the mattress while her limbs were bound. After a few curses that had been distorted by the sleepy haze that Elsie had still been half lost in, her captor had remained silent, giving her no clue to an identity. The fact that the stranger had leapt from a second floor window – while holding her, no less – and landed safely on the ground below told Elsie that she wasn’t dealing with a human.
The only reasonable conclusion was that she’d been kidnapped by a vampire. It was a mark of how strange the situation was that she should consider that reasonable, but a human certainly wouldn’t have been capable of the jump. And after that, her captor had sprinted through the streets at what had seemed an unnaturally fast pace, quickly bringing her to a carriage, which she’d been hastily stuffed inside of. What had happened between then and now was a mystery, but why? It certainly wasn’t as if she’d been left so relaxed by the kidnapping that the carriage ride had lulled her to sleep.