The Scarlet Deep

by Elizabeth Hunter

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Those two… they should really fuck and be done with it. They’ve been at each other’s throats for fifty years.”

  Murphy rose to leave. “I think I’ll head back to Mayfair. Can my driver take you anywhere?”

  “No thank you.” An enigmatic smile touched his lips. “Make sure to ask about Oleg. I believe your woman would have an… interesting perspective on the Russian.”

  “I will.” Murphy walked to the hostess and gave her his driver’s number. Ozzie would need a few minutes to pull the car around.

  “And Murphy?”

  “Hmm?” He walked back to the booth.

  “We also must be honest about who will profit from this epidemic.”

  “You’re talking about blood-wine,” Murphy said. “Do you think Terry, Jean, or Leonor could be behind this?”

  “The Elixir? No. But who is producing this and who is smuggling it are not necessarily the same. Terry, Jean, and Leonor are all competent smugglers. It’s how they made their money.”

  Murphy mouth lifted in the corner. “We all have a bit of pirate blood, Rens.”

  “Yes, but not many of us have the climate for grapes or the expertise to make blood-wine. The process is a closely guarded secret. There are tests running right now in both France and England. It is believed that blood preserved by this method cannot carry the Elixir’s taint. If that is true, blood-wine may be the most profitable venture in our history.”

  “So Terry, Jean, and Leonor don’t have much incentive to find who’s really behind this.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. No matter what happens, we both know this drug will not go away.”

  “Then why do we bother with this, Rens?”

  He was genuinely curious what the vampire would say, because Murphy had asked himself the same question too many times to count.

  “Because this—what is happening right now—it isn’t about a drug. It’s about power. About one of our own kind seeking to control us all. Seeking to destroy our world and profit from the deaths of our children.” For the first time, Rens showed a hint of passion. “I have no patience for this spider’s web.”

  MURPHY’S mind was exhausted by the time he returned to Terry and Gemma’s house, but he couldn’t delay resolving things with Anne. He’d been an arse when confronted by the fact that there were things in her life that he couldn’t be a part of. It was one more reminder that they had many steps to take before their relationship could maintain a steady course.

  He sought her out in the pool, but she wasn’t there. The servants said she had been to the family wing but had left hours before. He walked into his suite, ready to leave his jacket and return to searching for her, only to see Anne sitting at the desk, calmly transcribing notes by lamplight.

  “Anne—”

  “Can I borrow your notes from the rest of the meeting? I’d like to review them before I start the rest of the translation.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She turned, a smile teasing the corner of her mouth. “Is your handwriting that messy?”

  He dropped his jacket on the armchair near the entryway. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  She took a deep breath. “I know.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “For what?”

  Murphy frowned. “For earlier. I know I spoke in anger.”

  “Why do you think I left, Patrick?”

  “Oh no.” He unknotted his tie and paced the room. “You’re not going to use your analyst voice on me. That won’t be happening.”

  “Fine.” She rose and walked to him. “I understand you’re sorry, but I want you to understand what you said that pissed me right the feck off. Is that nonanalyst enough for you?”

  The moment she got in his face, his blood began to move. “Yes.”

  “Do you like it when I’m angry?”

  “Not exactly. I like it when you’re not calm.”

  She stepped back. “Why?”

  He grabbed her wrist to keep her from moving away. “Because that’s when I know you’re feeling things. I was angry that you had knowledge about something to do with Russia—don’t think I forgot about it—and you weren’t sharing with me.”

  “I can’t share it with you. You have to understand that.”

  “I do.” He closed his eyes. “I thought I did. You weren’t a psychologist when we were together. I didn’t expect to feel resentment. I’ll learn to deal with it. I know you’ll always have your secrets, Anne.”

  “They’re not my secrets, Patrick. That’s the point. And that’s not why I walked out.”

  He frowned. “Then why?”

  “You diminished what I do. You treated my practice—my whole life—as something less than yours. Just because I’m not running a city doesn’t mean what I do isn’t important.”

  “I know that.”

  “But that’s not what you said. You called it a ‘little life.’ Said that I listened to sob stories. The work I do is important. And if you think that I’m going to give it up because we’re trying to—”

  “But don’t you see, Anne?” The dread pierced his chest when he realized the full ramifications of their reunion for her. He didn’t want to say the words. He wanted to forget them. Wanted to enthrall her so completely that she would never even think of leaving him again.

  But he couldn’t do that. Not if he wanted her to stay.

  “You’ll have to give it up,” he said, still holding her wrist in his hand. “Because if you return to me—if you’re known as my consort, my mate—no one will confide in you. You will have entered the political arena. You will be a player, whether you like it or not.”

  The pain jabbed deep as she pulled her arm away. Her face was bleak.

  “No.”

  “It might already be too late.”

  And he might not have thought about it in his enthusiasm to reconcile, but her sister would have. Mary would have known this would happen.

  Fecking Mary.

  “Why are you saying this?” Anne asked. “Do you want me to leave?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then why would you—”

  “I wish we could have stayed in last night for a bit longer.” The smile was bitter on his face. “That we could have enjoyed… Do you think I like this? Like admitting you’ll probably choose your life over a life with me?” He could hear the brittleness of his own voice. Hear the automatic coolness that tainted the edges of it. “I want you. But I don’t want to have you under any false pretenses, Anne. I will not be giving up my position in Dublin. I have too many depending on me. I will not abandon them.”

  “But you want me to abandon my patients?”

  “I don’t want it. I’m simply predicting what will happen. If you are with me, you won’t be seen as politically neutral.”

  She kept walking away from him until she reached the edge of the bed. Her knees hit the back of it and she sat slowly.

  “I help people, Patrick.”

  “I know you do.”

  “There aren’t many… Some of my clients only confide in me. There’s no one else they trust.”

  “Like Oleg?”

  Her eyes burned. “I will not talk about Oleg.”

  “But you admit he’s a patient.”

  “He’s a friend. That’s all you need to know.”

  Murphy stepped closer. “Not a patient? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “Will you stop?” She groaned. “Why do you like fighting so much?”

  “I’m not fighting about it. Any and all relationship you had with him is over, as far as I’m concerned.”

  She jumped to her feet. “You asshole!”

  “I’m just curious. We’ve both had our romantic entanglements. What’s admitting to one more?”

  “Oh, thank you so much for bringing that up again.”

  “Are you jealous?”

  Her lip curled. “No.”

  “Liar.”r />
  He’d kept files on all her lovers. There hadn’t been many. Just enough to drive him mad with jealousy. He knew it was hypocritical, and he didn’t care. He hadn’t known about Oleg.

  “And you’re not jealous?” She rose to face him. “Of something that never even existed?”

  “Why are you lying about it?”

  “Damn you!” she yelled. “Why do you have the right to accuse me of anything? Countless women lay in your bed, and I said nothing. Because you weren’t mine anymore.”

  “I was always yours,” he said, grabbing her around the waist. “Always. Do you understand me? None of them shared my bed. No one but you has ever done that. And I know I was a bastard. But you made me so angry. You could leave me right now, and I could do nothing to stop you. And I hate that.”

  He was barely holding on to control. The urge to take her, bite her, claim her, was thick in his blood. His fangs had dropped. Hers had too. He wanted her bite again. Wanted to sink his own teeth into her flesh.

  “You’re pushing me away and holding on to me, all at the same time,” she said.

  “I know,” he said. “I’m a bastard who has no claim over you, and it doesn’t matter because I want you. I want to keep you. I want to bite you. I want to make love to you every night. I want to have you to confide in. I want to make you laugh. Mostly I want to be your world again. Because the last time I felt alive was when I was inside you.”

  Anne whispered, “You realize that’s highly dysfunctional, don’t you?”

  “Yes, and I don’t care.”

  He could feel the tug of dawn coming. Anne was still alert, but he was fading. Damn it. It was later that he’d realized. He wanted to make up with her and spend the moments before dawn in her arms, but that clearly wasn’t going to happen. He tugged off his jacket and headed toward the adjoining room. He secured the lock, then went to check the entrance to the master suite, leaving the door between them open.

  “I’m sorry,” Murphy said. “I’ll stay next door tonight. Just don’t… please don’t leave the suite. Stay here. I don’t have enough security in the other parts of the house.”

  “Patrick…”

  “What?”

  “Stay,” she said with a sigh. “You can stay.”

  He turned. “You’ll share my bed?”

  She nodded even though her eyes were troubled. “Yes.”

  It felt like the memory of the sun on his skin. A blessing. A reprieve. Grace.

  Murphy walked to her, peeling off his shirt and unhooking his belt. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pressed his face into her neck, and felt her arms come around his shoulders.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll stay. I know we haven’t settled everything, but until we do, I promise I’ll stay. I won’t walk away again.”

  He urged her down to the bed and spent the last moments before day took him kissing Anne. It was a languid joining of mouths and hands. She threaded their fingers together as he tasted her. He hooked his thigh over her legs.

  “We’re still dressed,” she murmured against his mouth.

  “I’m fine.”

  “No, you always wake up uncomfortable if you sleep in your clothes.” She sat up, his practical mate, and helped him divest himself of the rest of his suit, then he watched her drape his clothes over the chair by the bed.

  “Your turn,” he said, watching her with heavy-lidded eyes.

  She slowly stripped out of her dress and walked toward him. He could tell she enjoyed his eyes on her. She slid under the silk duvet and lay her head on the pillows.

  “It feels so domestic to sleep with you,” she said. “I’ve missed that.”

  “I have too.”

  He pulled her to his chest and wrapped an arm around her waist, hoping but not trusting she’d stay there until dusk.

  “Áine,” he murmured.

  “Yes.”

  “I know I’m an arse. But I do love you.”

  “PATRICK.”

  His head swam. He always became aware a few moments before he actually woke. It was as if his brain switched on, even if his body hadn’t yet followed.

  He heard the voices from underwater.

  Good fighter. Decided to keep him.

  Scrappy.

  More trouble than he’s worth.

  Will they come back?

  They think he’s dead.

  …can make him loyal?

  He’ll have to be…

  The voices became clearer.

  “Patrick!”

  Did he want it?

  Doesn’t matter.

  Doesn’t matter.

  Doesn’t matter.

  It mattered.

  “Patrick, wake up.”

  He opened his eyes and surfaced, gasping for breath. Every night like the last. Alive. He was alive despite the pain. Despite the burning in his lungs. A miracle? A curse?

  A hand patted his face. Not hard like Tom. It was someone…

  “Patrick.”

  Anne?

  “A chuisle mo chroí.”

  He was the pulse of her heart. She told him so…

  No.

  She’d left him and he died again. Every night he died when he woke.

  “It’s early for him, Carwyn. I’m trying, but—”

  “I’m awake,” he said, his voice like gravel against a ship’s hull. “What’s wrong?”

  He blinked and sat up.

  “Carwyn is at the door. We need to wake up and get dressed. Something terrible has happened.”

  He wiped a hand across his face and finally looked at Anne. She was truly there. Awake and with him. Again. Murphy knew it wasn’t a dream, because she was dressed.

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s Rens Anker. Someone burned his house to the ground yesterday. And there was an attack on the O’Briens, as well.”

  “What?”

  “There’s no sign of Rens or any of his people. The house was completely destroyed. They think he’s dead.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  RENS WAS DEFINITELY DEAD. No vampire could survive a fire while resting. Anne and Murphy stood across the street from the inconspicuous house in Chelsea where firefighters sorted through rubble.

  Murphy said, “This must have been the reason the Dutchman was so cagey about where his people were staying.”

  “You think he knew he was in danger?”

  “He’s an information merchant. His kind are always in danger.”

  “Has Terry called his brother yet?”

  “Carwyn can wake long enough to be lucid during daylight. He was informed the minute the fire was reported, and he sent a call to Amsterdam. I imagine a representative will be here tonight.”

  “This is not good.”

  “No.” Murphy shook his head. “This makes Terry look very, very bad.”

  “Even though Rens refused his protection? Not even Brigid knew where he was staying.”

  Suddenly Murphy leaned forward, craning his neck to look at the streetlights above them, and Anne saw him frown.

  “What? What are you thinking?”

  “Does Terry have a computer technician on staff? Or a contact in law enforcement?”

  “I’m not sure. Probably.”

  “Street cameras. London has a ridiculous number of traffic cams, and it looks like some may be pointing to the house. If Terry can access those and find out who started the fire, it might help him when Amsterdam gets here.”

  “Good idea.”

  Murphy tapped on the divider, and Ozzie pulled the car back into traffic. One of the benefits, Anne thought, of being nocturnal was distinctly lighter traffic. In a city like London, that benefit was priceless.

  “What’s the news about the O’Briens?” she asked.

  “Cormac is properly mental. Someone tried to kill Novia, but her human guard stopped him, though he was badly wounded in the attack. It was a human. Middle of the day. Cormac was roused during the commotion, and the attacker cut off part of his
arm before Cormac managed to kill him.”

  “Damn,” Anne said.

  “What?”

  “Cormac killed him. There’s no way to question him if he’s dead.”

  Murphy smiled. “It would have been better if he’d been taken alive, but the man had a sword in the middle of the day, and half of Cormac’s left arm is gone. I think he was keener to eliminate the threat than think about who was behind it.”

  “Do you think someone took offense at not being invited?”

  Murphy raised an eyebrow. “Is it time for us to talk rationally about Oleg?”

  “I can’t talk about Oleg.”

  He took a deep breath. “I can admit that my conversation with Rens last night—”

  “You had a conversation with Rens?”

  “Yes, and he implied that there was something more between you and Oleg than I realized.”

  “I can’t tell you, Patrick.”

  His jaw clenched again, and Anne knew he was biting his tongue.

  “If it puts your mind at ease on a personal level, know that the only relationship I am invested in—the only serious one for many years—is ours. I don’t want to know details of your time during our separation, and I certainly don’t expect to share mine with you. Can you leave it at that?”

  She could tell Murphy wanted to ask more, but he simply nodded and took her hand.

  It wasn’t as if she didn’t know he’d been keeping an eye on her. They lived in a small country. But the situation with Oleg was another matter entirely. She’d made it clear to Tom years ago that while Murphy might dig into her personal life, she expected him to stay out of her professional one. Being too visible put her at risk.

  Anne didn’t fear Oleg… exactly. But she had a healthy respect for any fire vampire, and most certainly one who had managed to hold on to the vast Russian territories for over two hundred years. She’d sent out a letter last night with one of Terry’s couriers, but she’d decided that until she heard from Oleg it was too large a risk to reveal anything about his family situation. Not only would she be violating her own principles, but she ran the risk of alienating a powerful vampire she tentatively considered a friend.

  “We should get back,” Murphy said. “Talk to Terry and look into the camera angle. If we manage to salvage anything from this summit at this point, it will be a miracle.”