Demon of Mine

by Ranae Rose

  “Wait here,” Lucinda said, casting a commanding look over her shoulder at Jenny as she stepped out into the street.

  “No.” Damon turned to the panting maid. “I am familiar enough with the city to know that this is not an appropriate place for a young woman to linger alone after dark. She’ll be safer coming with us.”

  Jenny trotted after them without complaint, looking relieved. Whether that was because she feared the nighttime streets more than the vampire that lurked inside the house or because she thought she could be of assistance during Elsie’s rescue, Damon didn’t know. She was either frightened, brave or simply stupid. “Just stay behind us,” Damon said, keeping his voice low as they approached the house. A single light burned in one window, its luminescence muted by a considerable layer of grime and an even thicker curtain. “Don’t do anything rash, and don’t get in my way.”

  She made a small sound of agreement, but otherwise remained silent. Perhaps she wouldn’t be quite the hindrance he’d feared after all.

  A few lights flickered here and there down the row of shoddy houses, but most were dark. The neighborhood was among the most desolate Damon had ever seen. It was beginning to seem more and more a viable hiding place. While Lucinda and Jenny lingered in the shadows to the side of the building, Damon approached the front door and tried it as quietly as possible. It was locked, as Jenny had said it had been earlier that day. No matter. The night had truly fallen, sending energy rushing through Damon’s veins, along with the burning desire to destroy. He motioned to the two women, his voice hushed but firm. “Stay back. After the door is down, stay behind me.” Thinking of the ransom letter and its promises, he slammed his shoulder against the door, shattering it to splinters and larger chunks of wood.

  He rushed inside a tiny foyer, gaze darting left and right as he searched for any sign of life, vampire or human. Splinters were crushed beneath his boots as Lucinda hurried to stand behind him, presumably shielding Jenny. A staircase stretched directly in front of them, leading to the second floor. An almighty crash came from above, followed by thumping and a French curse. Damon’s rage ebbed for a fraction of a second as relief flooded through him. Despite Jenny’s story, it had occurred to him more than once that he might burst into the house and find it empty or inhabited by innocent strangers. The resounding “Merde!” served as a comforting reassurance.

  More stumbling sounded from above, and a figure appeared at the top of the staircase – an extremely fair woman whose red hair was in a serious state of disarray. Likewise, her dress was wrinkled and twisted, as if she’d just forced herself into it. “Merde!” she exclaimed again, revealing a set of tapered fangs. A man hurried through the dim hallway behind her, darting quickly out of sight before Damon could get a decent look at his face.

  Damon’s anger returned full-force as his confidence was restored by the sight of Véronique. It had been a long time since he’d seen her, but there was no doubting her identity.

  She gaped for a moment before throwing herself down the stairs, shouting incoherently in French. Clearly, their arrival hadn’t been expected. Her stricken expression was almost child-like. For all her twisted threats and evil deeds, she was a spoiled girl who couldn’t fathom not getting what she wanted. Something silver glinted in her hand as she threw herself at Damon. “Idiot!” She slammed into him, her wild tresses tangling around his shoulders as they both fell against a wall. “You should ‘ave married me!” She shoved the knife she held into his shoulder, sinking it to the hilt. “I was supposed to be your wife!” She wrenched the dagger, twisting the blade in his flesh.

  Lucinda seized a handful of Véronique’s dress and jerked her backward. Véronique’s fingernails tore the sleeves of Damon’s jacket as she tried uselessly to cling to him, exclaiming in a half-French, half-English rage. “Go!” Lucinda commanded as she wrestled Véronique, who was now peppering the air with a slew of curses that were more likely to be used by a French sailor than a lady. “That man is upstairs with Elsie.”

  Damon stepped deftly over Véronique’s writhing body, careless of the sharp kick she landed against one of his shins. He pulled the knife from his shoulder as he hurried up the stairs, hardly noticing the pain as he tossed it aside. It was nighttime, which meant that his wound would heal quickly. He’d brought a better blade of his own. Pulling it from a pocket inside his jacket, he gripped the handle tightly, ready to slice through anyone who stood between him and his wife. When he reached the top of the staircase he turned toward the right where a short, narrow hallway led to just one room. The man he’d seen had to have gone inside.

  Surely enough, sounds of a struggle were coming from beyond the door. Thinking of Elsie, he turned the knob instead of kicking his way in. What he saw nearly brought him to his knees.

  Elsie was there, bound hand and foot with chains heavy enough to hold a ship’s anchor. She wore nothing but the shift he’d last seen her in – a poor excuse for a garment. Standing pressed against the back wall, she was in imminent danger of falling through the room’s only window. The glass panes had already been shattered and lay scattered across the floorboards in jagged shards. A man wrestled with her, trying to force a porcelain cup to her lips. Liquid flew from it, falling to the floor where it mixed with blood. Damon’s stomach lurched before his mind caught up with his sense of sight and told him that the blood couldn’t have come from Elsie. Upon a closer look, it appeared to have come from the man, whose human skin had been cut in multiple places by pieces of the broken window. Red stains blossomed on his jacket, and crimson trails streamed down his boots as he manhandled Elsie.

  “Damon!” Elsie cried out when she saw him, her green eyes lighting up. She actually smiled at him, even as her captor forced the cup against her mouth, crushing her lips.

  The man turned quickly, alarm written across every feature of his shockingly familiar face. “Griffith!” Damon growled, lunging forward before his brain could begin to try to make sense of why and how this man had worked with Véronique to kidnap his wife.

  Even with his supernatural speed, Damon was too slow. Thrown off balance by shock, Griffith fell against Elsie, who couldn’t have possibly been expected to her keep her balance. They toppled through the window together, knocking the last few pieces of the ruined windowpanes out of place. Damon reached out, grasping, but his fingertips only brushed the heel of one of Griffith’s bloody boots. A sickening thump came from below as they both hit the ground.

  Still gripping his knife, Damon quickly climbed onto the windowsill and leapt.

  ****

  Véronique wrenched herself from Lucinda’s grasp, rolling across the floorboards.

  Lucinda leapt at her, tackling her onto the floor before she’d managed to rise even halfway. She groaned as they wrestled, and Véronique did her best to claw every feature from Lucinda’s face. While destroying a human would have been simple for a vampire, fighting another immortal was always dirty business. There was only one way to kill one, and the amount of bodily damage that usually had to be done to subdue a vampire long enough to remove the heart was staggering. Under the cover of darkness, most wounds healed within moments.

  “Get off of me!” Véronique shrieked, raking her nails madly across Lucinda’s cheek.

  Lucinda winced as the wound stung for half a moment before healing. Drawing back a tightly-clenched fist, she let it fly into Véronique’s jaw.

  Véronique gasped, as if stunned that Lucinda would dare to strike her. She was an idiot, so used to getting her way that she’d probably actually imagined Lucinda would be content with scratching and pulling the hair of the woman who’d abducted her sister and stabbed her brother. “I will not!” she snapped.

  Lucinda only had half a moment to savor Véronique’s stunned expression before she recovered, glaring wickedly as she balled her own fist and threw it at Lucinda’s mouth. “I shall kill you then!” She sneered, throwing a wild punch that landed in the hollow of Lucinda’s throat.

  “Then I shall die th
anking God that I wasn’t cursed with you as a sister!” Lucinda returned the blow. She’d never been taught how to hit effectively, but liked to think that she was doing a better job than Véronique, who was swinging her arms with crazed abandon, looking like a windmill as they tumbled across the floor together. “In fact, I think I’d rather die than call a Renard family. You’re nothing but a spoiled little brat who’s been indulged one too many times by your bacon-brained mother and rake of a father.”

  Lucinda’s words had the effect she’d hoped for – Véronique’s eyes went wide with rage, and she howled obscenities as she pounded Lucinda with a dozen wild, ineffectual blows. Lucinda took advantage of the moment, finally untangling herself from the other vampiress and standing. “Killing me isn’t nearly as easy as slaughtering helpless humans, is it?” she sneered.

  Véronique leapt to her feet, seething. “Damn you!” she shouted, her eyes flashing and her accent thicker than ever. “I will kill you, and zen your sister, and your fool of a brother too! You will all die!” She leapt like an incensed cat, her fingers extended like claws, reaching for Lucinda.

  Lucinda raised a leg, putting as much force as she could muster into a kick that caught Véronique squarely in the stomach.

  Véronique flew through the air, her eyes wide as she collided with a wall and slid to the bottom in a heap of expensive silk and wild red hair. Lucinda rushed toward her with long strides, reaching below her gown’s neckline to where she’d tucked a knife beneath her stays. It was relatively small, but large enough for the gruesome task that lay before her.

  Véronique’s mouth formed a scarlet ‘o’ as she watched Lucinda descending on her with the blade, bristling with determination. She’d never imagined that she’d ever cut anyone’s heart out, killing them in the same brutal fashion she’d read about in the headlines, but what choice did she have? Fury burnt hot in her veins as she remembered the ransom letter Damon had received and the way Véronique had driven her dagger into him, burying it to the hilt in his shoulder in a murderous brat’s rage.

  A white blur streaked across the floorboards – Véronique’s hand. She reached for something, though Lucinda didn’t realize what until a silver blade glinted from between Véronique’s pale, slender fingers. She grasped the knife Damon had discarded – it had tumbled down the stairs and slid across the floor after he’d pulled it from his flesh. Lucinda wasn’t afraid for herself – she was so angry and so desperate to banish the threat to her sister and brother that it was inconceivable that she should succumb to Véronique, with or without the dagger. She was too angry to die.

  Her sureness turned to fear in an instant as Véronique rose, darting to her right instead of toward Lucinda. Within one terrifying moment, she’d seized a spellbound Jenny by the ankle and pulled her viciously to the floor. The poor girl barely had time to shriek before Véronique was on top of her, raising the knife high in a dramatic gesture.

  “Stop!” Lucinda cried, moving as quickly as she could but feeling as if she were underwater, rendered slow and clumsy by crushing pressure.

  Véronique looked directly at her and smirked as she seized a handful of Jenny’s hair, yanked her head backward and drew her blade across her exposed throat.

  Time finally started moving again, and Lucinda collided with Véronique. Blood arced through air, horrifying despite its sweet scent, as Véronique lost her grip on the blade and it spun through the air. Lucinda looked away from the red spray, turning her attention instead to her only moment of opportunity. Véronique’s arms were outstretched, one hand buried in Jenny’s hair and the other still grasping at nothing, leaving her torso completely unprotected. Summoning all the courage and strength she could, Lucinda drove her knife into Véronique’s side, plunging it almost to the hilt and jerking it upward in a violent half-moon shape.

  ****

  Griffith lay sprawled at an odd angle, blood bubbling out of the corner of his mouth. Damon ignored him. “Elsie!” She lay beside her captor, motionless. Damon dropped his blade and brushed a thick section of her loose chestnut hair from her eyes, expecting to find them open.

  They were not. “Elsie!” He ran a hand over her cheek, marveling at how smooth it was, even as he panicked. She lay still and silent, as if she were sleeping. Or dead.

  “What have you done to her?” Damon seized Griffith by the front of his shirt and jerked him halfway upright. The man was injured, but he was conscious. His eyes bulged as Damon shook him. “Tell me!” Inspired by the fear in Griffith’s eyes, Damon picked his knife up from the dirt and pressed the blade into the notch between Griffith’s earlobe and jaw. “If you refuse to speak, I’ll slice your ear off. And that will only be the beginning. I’ll cut you to pieces if I must.”

  “Vervian,” Griffith gasped, spitting up a little blood. A dull thirst caused the back of Damon’s throat to burn, but he ignored it. “We’ve been dosing her with it.”

  Damon cursed, letting the knife slip so that it sliced halfway through Griffith’s earlobe before he stopped it. The man shrieked like a frightened cat. “You said—” The rest of his accusation was lost as he coughed up blood, splattering the front of Damon’s shirt with the scarlet liquid.

  “Save your breath for answering my questions,” Damon snapped, pressing the knife against Griffith’s cheek. “What the hell possessed you and Véronique Renard to kidnap my wife?”

  “The Renards want very badly to set up in London,” Griffith hastened to confess. “You were to be their ticket to the high life here, but then you went and married someone else.” He paused to cough, spraying Damon with more blood. “Véronique was furious and decided she would not go back to Paris without an English husband who could give her what she wanted.”

  “And I suppose that’s where you came in?”

  Griffith began to nod, wincing as he apparently thought better of the motion. “Yes, but I am not wealthy enough to suit her tastes.” A brief flash of animosity caused his eyes to glitter. “She wanted the money that comes from your family’s factories, so she developed this scheme to ransom you for the capital we would need to construct our own.” He broke into a shuddering cough that might have been a laugh. “We were to build an industrial empire to rival yours.”

  “She is a stupid woman, and you’re a fool to have humored her scheme.”

  Griffith said nothing. Damon shot a worried glance at Elsie, but didn’t dare to let his gaze linger. He forced himself to look away. Griffith was dying and he knew it. Soon his time for asking questions would be over. “You’re the perfect pair,” Damon said, looking Griffith in the eye. “You’re both stupid, wicked people, and you’re both going to die for it.” He stated the accusation dispassionately, untouched by pity. The sight of a dying man could not make him forget the terrible things Griffith had promised to do to Elsie. His fall through the window was a fitting end. Justice – nothing more and nothing less.

  Griffith breathed a little harder, sending a trail of blood leaking from one nostril. He was still afraid. Damon pressed his advantage, letting his knife flash in the moonlight. “What have the two of you done to my wife?” He pressed the tip of the blade between Griffith’s eyes. “Don’t lie to me. I’ll know if you try.”

  “Nothing, nothing. Only the vervian.”

  “Only the vervian? Look at her hands. Look at her feet. You’ve chained her like a bloody warship.”

  “Nothing else,” Griffith wheezed. “We let her rest in an empty room while we awaited the ransom. That is all. I swear to God that is all. I swear it.” He went cross-eyed as he tried to stare at the blade that had just barely breached the feeble protection of his skin.

  “How much vervian did you give her?” Damon did his best not to betray the way his heart clutched and wrenched as he waited for the answer. Vervian, a tiny purple flower, was a vampire’s bane. It weakened the body, plunging it into a sleep as deep as death if enough was given. It was clear from the way Elsie lay, unconscious on the alley floor, that they’d given her quite a lot. An undrugge
d vampire could fall from the top of the Tower of London at night and arise unharmed.

  “Two spoonfuls steeped in hot water every four hours, more or less.”

  “That much?” Damon eyed Elsie again, letting his gaze linger for a few moments this time. “Cowards. It wasn’t as if she could have escaped those chains, even without any vervian at all.” The urge to bash Griffith’s head against the hard-packed dirt alley floor caused Damon’s hands to cramp as he continued to grip Griffith by the collar. “I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything more from someone who murdered his own brother for the sake of replacing him as the family heir.” On the way to the townhouse, Jenny had relayed the entire conversation she’d overheard between Véronique and her then unknown accomplice. It all made sense, now that Damon was staring hard into Griffith’s pale eyes, blue windows to his miserable soul. “And tried to frame an innocent man to take his punishment for him.”

  Griffith didn’t deny it. “I wish I’d succeeded. If I’d won the court case, I’d have had plenty of your money without having to resort to this scheme.” His tone of resignation made it clear he knew he was going to die, that there was no point in keeping his secrets any longer.

  “You are disgusting,” Damon spat, hands trembling with the desire to spill the man’s brains.

  “That’s easy for a man who’s been handed the best of everything throughout his entire life to say,” Griffith retorted, a flash of anger joining the fear in his eyes for the first time.

  Damon slammed Griffith down against the earth, knocking the breath from him. “You resent me for what has been forced upon me while you take whatever you want by murdering and stealing? You are—”

  Griffith erupted into a bout of violent coughing. His lips turned crimson as he sputtered, spraying blood everywhere. Time was running out.