The Scarlet Deep

by Elizabeth Hunter

  “I’m glad you like it. I bought it on my last trip here. Do you have plans to shop while we’re in town?”

  “Yes. I need formal clothing. Things are more casual in Galway, aren’t they?”

  “You always look beautiful. Do you need funds? This is a professional expense, after all. And you’re part of my entourage for this trip.”

  She smiled up at him. “I am the official representative of the Ulster territories and the personal representative of Mary Hamilton. My sister can pay for my clothes, Mr. Murphy.”

  He put a finger under her chin and tilted her head up. “I only wanted to offer.”

  “You’re very presumptuous. You do know that, don’t you?”

  “It may have been mentioned once or twice.”

  She didn’t pull away, so he brushed his lips over hers, nibbling on the full lower lip he adored. In seconds, it was his hunger that was spiking.

  “Sadly, our rooms are not ready yet,” he said. “Otherwise, I’d steal you away for a private conference before our meeting tonight.”

  “A private conference? Is that necessary?”

  “Very necessary, Dr. O’Dea.” He spoke against her lips, teasing her mouth with fleeting touches and heated breaths. “It’s imperative that Ireland be of a single mind during this summit.” Murphy slid a hand around her waist, ignoring the rush of servants and security that bustled through the hallway. He pulled her closer, pressing his body into hers.

  “A single mind?” Her eyes were clouded and her fangs had fallen.

  “Indeed. Coordination is key. We’ll need to work very, very closely throughout any negotiations. Proper discourse is vital.”

  “Discourse? I’m not sure the discourse you’re interested in is proper at all.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted. “Nonsense. I am a consummate professional in all things.”

  “You consummate professionally? That’s fascinating. And possibly illegal. You’ll have to check the local regulations.”

  He’d managed to back her into the wall, but Anne wasn’t trying to escape. Bloody hell, he’d missed playing with her like this. He almost growled when the fluttery human cleared her throat behind him.

  “Ahem. Mr. Murphy?”

  Anne was biting her lip to hold in a laugh while he cursed under his breath.

  “Yes, Judith?”

  “Mr. Ramsay has requested that you join him for a drink in the billiards room of the main house when you’re able.”

  He frowned. “I have to travel for a meeting later tonight,” he told Anne. “I should meet with Terry before it gets too late.”

  She nodded. “Fill me in later? I believe Gemma has a shop or two she said would open for us. I don’t want to delay choosing a wardrobe. I’m sure everything will need to be tailored.”

  Murphy ran a hand just under her ribs and down her waist, spreading his fingers over the full curve of her hip. “Buy some suits like the one you first wore to Dublin. You looked stunning in it.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “In red.”

  “Bossy.”

  “And appropriate dresses. Or inappropriate ones. Either will do. I want to take you out while we’re here.”

  The hunger touched her eyes again, so he stole a kiss before he turned to Judith.

  “Judith, this is Dr. O’Dea. Please see to her needs while I am meeting with Mr. Ramsay.”

  The human almost curtsied. “As you wish, Mr. Murphy.”

  “Presumptuous,” Anne called. “Very presumptuous, Patrick.”

  TERRY handed him a full glass of blood-wine when he entered the room. “What’s your game?”

  Murphy looked around the room. It was a proper billiards room with three tables and a long wall of racks, balls, and the various accoutrement needed to play any billiard game one could think of. Noting the almost imperceptible layer of dust on the large snooker table, he made his choice.

  “Snooker.”

  Terry raised an eyebrow but told the servant standing in the corner, “Set it up, then leave.”

  Murphy sipped the wine and waited for his host to speak.

  “How are your rooms?”

  “Sufficient. Thank you.”

  “Let Gemma’s people know if there’s anything you need. They’re far more efficient than my crew.”

  “I will.” He took another sip of the wine, noting with satisfaction that the copper bite of the blood hadn’t oxidized as it usually did in attempts to preserve it. “This is very good.”

  “Is it?” Terry drank from his own glass. “Christ, I miss beer.”

  Murphy let out a sharp laugh. “You don’t need to drink it on my account.”

  “Gem’d have my head if I didn’t. I’m a winemaker now, she says. Need to be selling the product.”

  “I’m no snitch, Ramsay.”

  “Thank Christ.” He walked over and set his glass on the bar in the corner, pulling a dark bottle from the fridge below. “It’s not bad stuff.”

  “It’s not. In fact, it’s quite good.”

  “And it gets better every year. I’m just bloody sick of the stuff, no pun intended.”

  “You’ve solved the preservation problems?”

  He shrugged and walked to the wall of sticks. “So my winemaker tells me. Bloody Frenchman. Opinionated as hell, but worth his weight. A bottle of what you’re drinking will sell for five hundred pounds.”

  Patrick almost spit it out and grabbed a bottle of beer. “So much?”

  Terry turned and smiled wickedly. “And we’ll make more than that, my friend.”

  Murphy walked over and chose his cue stick. “Vampires will pay.”

  “They will.” Terry motioned toward the carefully set table. “Guests first.”

  Murphy walked around the table, scoping out the angles and noting the minute imperfections of the baize, the age of the cushions, and the weight of the stick in his hand. He chalked the tip of his cue and leaned over to break the pyramid of red balls.

  “So, Ramsay. I can assume this isn’t just a friendly game.”

  “Friendly game. Serious conversation.” Terry set his beer down and lined up the cue at an angle Murphy knew would fail while setting him up for his first pot. Excellent. “I’ve always liked you, Murphy, even though you picked my worst game.”

  He suppressed the smile. “Is that so?”

  “Don’t act like you didn’t know. You spotted that before you walked through the door. That’s part of the reason I like you.”

  Terry missed the shot, leaving Murphy to pot a red and a colored ball before he gave his host another chance to strike.

  Murphy finished his wine and went to grab a bottle of porter. “So you like me because I can beat you at snooker?”

  “No, I like you because you’re like me, Murphy.” Terry straightened and grinned a crooked smile. “You and I are a couple of old criminals. You just wear a suit better than me, mate.”

  He clinked the neck of his beer against Murphy’s and leaned against the wood-paneled wall.

  “So…” Murphy leaned over and lined up another shot. Then another. “What did you want to discuss outside the presence of the respectable vampires, Ramsay?”

  “Straight talk. Who do you think is shipping it?”

  Murphy shook his head. “I can’t see it yet. Someone in the Mediterranean. Whoever is behind this is smart. They’re using a mix. Human and immortal lines. Smugglers and legitimate shippers. Black Sea. Mediterranean. There have even been ships that’ve stopped in North Africa.”

  Terry asked, “Could it be Rome after all? Deciding to pick up where Livia left off?”

  “I don’t think so. Emil Conti is too conservative.”

  “The Libyans?”

  Murphy shook his head. “Also too conservative. And their human governments have been unstable of late. They’re keeping their ambitions at home.”

  “The Turks?”

  “It’s not the Turks.” Murphy lined up another red. “Istanbul is the only shippi
ng location we’ve seen any mention of, and that’s controlled by Athens.”

  Murphy blinked and missed the shot.

  Fuck him. That was it. Click.

  “It’s the Greeks,” he said, stepping away from the table. “Athens is shipping it.”

  Terry gave him a withering look. “Athens? Why?”

  “I’m not sure of that part yet.”

  “But you’re sure it’s them?”

  He was. And… he wasn’t. What was their motivation? They had to have a reason to poison their own blood supply. There were too many variables. Too many angles he couldn’t yet see.

  Terry said, “The Greeks don’t have the money to finance this. They make a fortune in the Bosphorus, but they spend it faster than they make it from what I hear.”

  “They don’t have the cash.” He stepped up to take another shot. “But they could have an investor. They have the infrastructure and the connections to organize it.”

  “I don’t agree.”

  “Fine. But you are wrong.” A red. A color. The balls around the table were potted in quick succession. “This game, Ramsay, it’s all about thinking ahead. Don’t think of the shot you’re taking, think of the next angle. The next pot. The ball after that.”

  “Vampires aren’t as predictable as cue balls.”

  “They are and they aren’t.” He sank another red. “Why are you charging five hundred pounds for a bottle of blood-wine when I can hunt for free? Let’s be honest, blood always tastes better fresh from the neck. So why five hundred a bottle?”

  “Because the market supports it. The blood supply is uncertain right now because of Elixir. And most vampires have more money than scruples.”

  “You’re absolutely right.” Murphy finished the game without Terry ever stepping up to the table again. “So from one old criminal to another, let’s follow the money, shall we?”

  Terry asked, “Who benefits from an uncertain blood supply?”

  Murphy set down his cue stick and swallowed the last of his beer. “You do.”

  Terry let a slow smile spread over his face. “I suppose I do. But I’m not the only one.”

  No, Terry wasn’t the only one who might benefit from Elixir continuing to spread.

  But he was the easiest one to spy on.

  THE Cockleshell Pub in Gravesend was one swift storm away from drifting down the river in pieces. But the strange old floating pub was still the best place to get in touch with the one water vampire too elusive for anyone to find unless he wanted to be found. It was also closed to humans at this time of night. From the outside, the place looked abandoned.

  But Murphy knew there was a strange brotherhood of water vampires who chose the pub as their unofficial office, and Anne’s sire was the oldest among them.

  Murphy ignored the curious look from the vampire who opened the door. He slipped inside, enjoying the smell of the river even if he didn’t appreciate the stink of old piss and stale beer inside the pub. He took a booth in the corner and waited for someone to approach him.

  After a few moments, the barman approached. “Don’t get many from your end of town. What’ll ya have?”

  “What are you serving?”

  The one-eyed publican gave him a grim smile. “A fancy Irishman. How about that?”

  Murphy didn’t respond.

  “We’ve got fresh if you like,” the old man said. “Girls in back for those wanting a tup along with a meal. They’re clean. Preserved human. Cow and pig. That’s all, mate.”

  “Not serving blood-wine yet?”

  The old one swore. “Not likely.”

  “I’ll have the pig’s blood.”

  “Heated or cold?”

  “Cold.”

  “As ya like.”

  The barman slipped away, as silent as any of their kind, but Murphy waited. He knew the old man would find him. Hell, he’d probably been tracking Murphy’s every move since his boat landed at the docks.

  He heard a door slam in back and a few murmuring voices. A clear glass of thick red blood was set before him, not that Murphy had any intention of drinking it. But it would have been rude not to order. There was a quick female cry from the back. Pleasure or pain, he couldn’t tell, but it was none of his business, so he ignored it and waited.

  The old man appeared from one moment to the next, sitting across from him in the booth. Murphy had never understood how the wiry old man could move so silently.

  “Good evening, Tywyll.”

  The canny old waterman sniffed but said nothing. He looked at the barman, who immediately brought over a brown earthenware mug of what smelled like preserved cow’s blood. He drank slowly, wiping away the smear of red that colored his top lip with the back of his sleeve.

  “Someone told me you wanted to kill me,” Murphy said.

  “That was some time ago.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Don’t know as I’ve changed my mind on it though.”

  Murphy said nothing. It was best to school your reactions around the old man.

  “Ye’ve brought my lass to visit me,” Tywyll said. “So maybe I’ll thank ye instead of kill ye. Fer now.”

  “Fair enough,” Murphy said. “So you know, I’m trying to make things right with her.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s a soft heart and a hard head, my Annie. She won’t trust ye.”

  “I’m working on that,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Tywyll gave him a raspy chuckle. “Such a pair of bastards we are. I did like ye, Murphy, until ye made my girl sad. I don’t like seeing my girls sad.”

  Murphy had always wondered why Tywyll had turned Anne. It was unheard of for him to leave England in the past century, but he must have roamed at one point. Mary was his oldest known child, but she was English. What had drawn him to Anne?

  “I’m doing everything I can to make her happy, but it will take time for her to trust me again. At least she’s speaking to me though. If there’s one thing your daughter has taught me, it’s patience.”

  “And is she well?”

  It was an odd question about a vampire, but it niggled at something Murphy had noticed in the hallway earlier.

  “Why wouldn’t she be?”

  “My Mary might have mentioned concerns.”

  He paused. It was always best to measure your words with a vampire as ancient as Tywyll. “If there’s something wrong with Anne, I need to know.”

  Tywyll sipped his blood, staring at him. He tried not to react.

  “Mary didn’t say exactly,” the old man finally said. “My Annie, she’s different.”

  From the light in his eyes and his near-silent voice, Murphy knew the old man was talking about Anne’s ability to push her will onto other immortals.

  “I know,” Murphy said.

  “I know you know.”

  Another long silence descended between them.

  “I would never—”

  “Don’t say never when ye already have,” Tywyll said.

  “And I learned a hard lesson. I’d never expose her. Never try to take advantage. Never again.”

  Tywyll waited for a silent vampire to pass across the room. When Murphy looked over his shoulder, he realized that all but two of the others had left the pub. Afraid of the old man? Eager to remain anonymous? If Tywyll didn’t care about their presence, neither did Murphy.

  “She was always so hungry,” the old man said. “Never wanted for food as a mortal—it was the one thing her bastard of a stepfather did for her—but once she turned…” He shook his head. “That first year, Mary thought she’d have to leave her to the day once or twice. Her hunger burned.”

  “In all the time we were together, she never had a problem with bloodlust.”

  “She grew up. Managed to control it. But she’s always had a rougher time of it. She needs to drink more. I think whatever curious thing her amnis does, it uses more energy. So she needs to feed it.” Tywyll nudged a bowl of peanuts
left on the scarred table. “Not food. She has little appetite for her body. But blood? She’s always needed more.”

  And human supplies were at risk. Murphy wondered just how many humans Anne trusted to drink from in Galway. Only Ruth? Murphy’s control had been riding a razor-thin edge, and he had an entire household of servants to feed him. If Anne had been trying to exist on little to no human blood or only on animal…

  “Bollocks.”

  Tywyll nodded. “Ye need to watch her.”

  “Is she dangerous?”

  “Possibly. Though it goes against her nature.”

  “I’ll watch her.” And try to feed her. If Anne would take his blood, it would help. Tom had been right in Dublin. Mated vampires needed less blood, particularly if they were mated to another element. He and Anne were both born to water, but any exchange would help.

  “Now, we’ve got family business out of the way, young Murphy. Tell me about this meeting that Ramsay is hosting about this drug nastiness. Who will be on my river?”

  “Besides his and mine? Six foreigners. All water vampires except the Americans.”

  Tywyll took a drink. “But they’re watermen, nonetheless. The Americans, I mean.”

  “You’re familiar with the O’Briens?”

  He chuckled. “There’s no one on the river I don’t know, lad. I know the O’Briens. Don’t particularly like them. No manners, that lot. I suppose that’s to be expected with the sire they had.”

  “Jean Desmarais from France is already here, I believe. Jetta from Scandinavia—”

  “Ah, now that’s a woman. I do like that Jetta.”

  Murphy tried not to cringe at the blatant appreciation in Tywyll’s eyes. Apparently the tiny waterman preferred the statuesque, frightening type.

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, well… She’ll be arriving tomorrow night. Along with Leonor from Spain—”

  “Watch that one.”

  “And Rens Anker from the Netherlands.”

  Tywyll’s eyes took on a calculating gleam. “One of the Anker boys, eh?”

  “Know them?”

  “Know they’re trying to put me out of business in the information trade, not that they will. At least not around these parts.”

  “I was wondering about that.”

  Tywyll looked up sharply. “That’s not all yer wondering about, is it?”