The Scarlet Deep

by Elizabeth Hunter

  “Greedy.”

  “Declan made one for you too.”

  Natalie leaned over. “That’s really a working tablet?”

  “It’s a prototype,” Murphy said. “But it’s looking very promising.”

  “My husband will be green with envy.” Natalie paused. “You won’t be able to tell, because he’ll be making this face.” She held her expression perfectly still, with a slight frown between her eyebrows. “But he will be.”

  Murphy smiled and decided that a vampire who could charm the witty Ms. Ellis was probably a vampire he would enjoy knowing.

  “Holly, can you close up the office and call Ozzie?” Anne asked her assistant. “We’ll be heading out.”

  They waited on the sidewalk in the misty Dublin air until Ozzie’s familiar profile came into view behind the wheel of the black sedan. He pulled to the curb, and Murphy helped both ladies into the car, taking special care with Natalie, who was more than a little off-balance with her pregnancy.

  “When are you due?” he asked. “With… the child?”

  “This little pipsqueak is six months along,” Natalie said, patting her belly. “So she’ll be born in early spring. Then this will be it. We’ve got fang-related plans after that.”

  Anne asked, “When the children are young?”

  Natalie sighed. “That’s the somewhat constant source of debate in our household, but I doubt you want to hear about that.”

  Anne promptly changed the subject. “We’ve heard good things from California. Lucien seems to have encouraging areas of research.”

  Natalie nodded. “The blood samples taken from those humans in Gibraltar got him really excited. Something about vaccines and antibodies?”

  Murphy and Anne exchanged a glance. A vaccine sounded promising.

  While various pharmaceutical companies around the world were quietly researching a cure for Elixir in vampires, Lucien Thrax was the only vampire to Murphy’s knowledge who was targeting a cure for humans. Baojia, whom Murphy would be meeting with later that night, was chief of security for his research facility. Thrax’s reasoning was that if the Elixir could be cured in humans, then the vampire infection problem would take care of itself. Cured humans meant a safer blood supply.

  Of course, that still left the problem of detecting infected blood.

  But if humans were vaccinated, initial infection might not even occur.

  They were heading out to Carwyn and Brigid’s home well after any traffic clogged the roads, so they arrived in quick order. Pulling up to Carwyn’s grand estate made Murphy wonder if Anne found their smaller home lacking.

  “Why are you frowning?” she asked, slipping her hand into his.

  “Do you want a larger home?”

  “No, why?”

  “I just wondered.”

  “I like your place now that you’ve made room for my things in the closet.”

  It still grated. Maybe he’d buy them a new place just so she could have her own closet. His had been so perfectly organized…

  Anne asked him, “Do you have any desire for children?”

  “I don’t. Not the mortal variety that requires nappies, anyway. You?”

  “I raised four brothers and sisters when my mother died. That was more than enough for me.”

  “I can’t blame you for that. Come,” he said, tugging her hand. “Let’s go meet the assassin with the toddler.”

  As it happened, they met both the assassin and the toddler once Carwyn’s butler had let them in. The vampire was pacing in the downstairs hallway, a tiny, dark-haired boy clinging to his chest. Baojia was of medium height and build, though Murphy could detect the quick energy of a lethal predator even as the immortal held the vulnerable child.

  Then the assassin spun toward them, and Murphy realized the vampire was even more dangerous than he’d expected. He had never seen eyes that cold. This was why whatever law governed their unnatural life had decided that his race could not breed. While Murphy was dangerous, he suspected nothing was deadlier than this creature protecting his young.

  The man’s eyes turned toward his mate and softened just enough to lower the tension in the hallway.

  “I tried,” Baojia said, voice low. “There were five stories, three songs, and two glasses of water. He refuses to go to sleep.”

  Natalie winced when the small child’s head popped up. The baby turned and held out his arms.

  “Mama!”

  “Wide awake.” Natalie sighed, taking the baby. “I blame the father and uncle who wake him up at all hours to play.”

  “You know the solution to this,” Baojia said, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “I don’t like it when you do that. It’s not natural.”

  “Neither is traveling in a giant plane across the ocean, my love. Please.” He walked to Natalie, cupping her cheek with his hand and kissing her mouth. “Please.”

  “Okay…” Natalie held out the little boy, whose cap of dark hair was mussed and who rubbed his eyes stubbornly. “Night, baby.” She kissed his cheek as the child started to fuss.

  “Come here, little man,” Baojia said, brushing a hand over the top of his son’s head and down his back, resting his palm under his pale green T-shirt. “You’re going to feel much better right about… now.”

  In seconds, the child was snoring.

  Anne laughed. “You used amnis!”

  Natalie shook her head. “That still feels like cheating.”

  A true smile spread across Baojia’s solemn face. “But it’s so quiet.”

  “Here,” Natalie said, “give him to me. I’ll put him to bed while you guys talk.”

  She took the small child, and Murphy looked away while the pair exchanged a tender kiss and a few quiet words.

  Assassin and human might have been an unlikely pairing, but Murphy could feel the connection between them. It was like a banked fire, its heat no less intense for its quiet.

  Anne took Murphy’s hand and led him into the drawing room off the entryway where a fire had already been lit. Winter was approaching, and the chill in the old house reminded Murphy why he preferred modern construction. He was just pouring drinks for Anne and himself when Baojia entered. The man paused, then extended a shallow bow.

  “I apologize for my informality earlier. I am Chen Baojia, lieutenant of Katya Grigorieva of San Francisco. I thank you for your invitation and welcome to both me and my family.”

  Murphy could appreciate this formal side of the soldier. He returned the bow and said, “You are welcome. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Terry speaks very highly of you.”

  Baojia said nothing, but he nodded toward Anne and took the seat across from her. “Thank you, also, for welcoming my wife. Though she has little trouble making friends, I am glad you were able to meet with her earlier.”

  “Natalie is a very interesting woman,” Anne said. “I enjoyed our visit.”

  “Not that I don’t enjoy conversation,” Murphy said, “but can I ask why you are here?”

  “Of course. And thank you. I am not overly fond of political small talk.” Baojia took a thin folder from his jacket, no larger than the size of a billfold. He placed the leather folder on the table between them and opened it, revealing what looked like a testing kit of some kind. There was small meter with a needle-sharp prong at the base, an empty tube, and three small bottles of different colored liquids with droppers in them.

  “Is that a testing kit?” Anne said.

  “Yes.”

  “For blood sugar?”

  “That’s where we got the idea,” Baojia said. “But it doesn’t test sugar. It tests for Elixir.”

  Murphy froze. “How?

  “Lucien has isolated the protein in human blood that he believes Elixir attacks and mutates. This testing kit targets that protein. The testing fluid with tainted blood will turn bright blue if any mutated protein is detected.”

  “And how accurate is this?”

  They knew that humans who’d taken Elix
ir smelled like pomegranate, but a smell-test was hardly the most accurate, even among vampires.

  “Preliminary results are promising.”

  Anne said, “I hear a ‘but…’”

  Baojia smiled. “But we’re hoping you can help with that.”

  “How’s that?”

  “As a country, Ireland has the highest number of Elixir cases we’ve seen among our allies. While our testing in California has been productive, we simply don’t have the necessary sample size to test it further.”

  Murphy took a moment, taking a sip of his whiskey while inside he was leaping with much the same excitement as he’d had over Declan’s new tablet.

  “What is Katya asking for?”

  “Numbers, mainly.” He spread his hands. “Access to the humans you have here, and safe passage for Lucian’s crew while they’re working. We know you have a dedicated medical facility for infected humans, which is the other reason Lucien wants to test here. The trial kits will be yours, and you’ll receive discounted pricing once the tests go to market if they prove to be successful. All we need is your permission.”

  Anne took his hand and squeezed it. Murphy nodded. There was nothing to lose, and only knowledge to gain.

  “You can tell Katya permission has been granted. You’re familiar with Brigid?”

  “I am.”

  “Coordinate with her and my first lieutenant, Tom Dargin, when the time comes. They’ll be able to work out the details with you.”

  “I’ll make sure to meet with them tomorrow evening if that works with their schedule. I have a call with Katya and Lucien before then.”

  Murphy nodded, still staring at the tiny kit.

  It could change everything.

  Anne leaned forward and touched the edge of the table.

  “He’s isolated the protein,” Anne said. “Does that mean… Is he close to a cure?”

  Baojia said nothing at first, but Murphy could see the barely contained excitement in the black eyes of their visitor.

  “Officially? We’re still researching all avenues of study in human and vampire Elixir infection.”

  Murphy said, “And unofficially?”

  “He’s close.”

  MURPHY lay in bed that night with Anne at his side and the water of the Liffey River close enough to lull him to sleep.

  “A chuisle mo chroí,” he heard his mate whisper. “You are the pulse of my heart, Patrick Murphy.”

  He rolled toward her, eyes half-closed. “Does that mean my restriction is lifted?”

  “Not… yet. But maybe soon.”

  Anne was still wary about Murphy taking her vein. In the six months since she’d been infected, she’d shied away every time he came close. It had frustrated him at first. Then it had angered him, and they’d had more than a few vicious fights.

  But then Murphy realized that Anne was petrified at the thought of any lingering Elixir in her system affecting him. She feared harm coming to him more than she feared his anger.

  So Murphy had taken a deep, unnecessary breath and decided to let it go.

  She would give him her vein when she was ready. He was no more or less her mate because her blood no longer lived in him. His blood lived in her, and even if it hadn’t, it wouldn’t change their devotion. They were tied on so many other planes than just the physical.

  Murphy cupped her cheek, brushing his thumb over the swell of it, glad of her. So very glad to be sharing his life with her again.

  “If I am your pulse, Anne O’Dea, then you are my heart. You move me. You center me. You make me a better man.”

  She curled into his side and held him as he drifted toward sleep.

  “Are you trying to make me fall in love with you again, Patrick?”

  “Every night, love. Every single night.”

  THE END

  Continue reading for an exclusive preview of

  A Very Proper Monster,

  the next novella in the Elemental World.

  A sneak peek at A Very Proper Monster, a novella set in the Elemental World

  Available Fall 2015 as part of

  Beneath a Waning Moon:

  A Duo of Fantasy Novellas

  By Elizabeth Hunter and Grace Draven

  Dublin, 1886

  My dearest Miss Tetley,

  Enclosed you will find the final draft of Viviana Dioli’s “The Countess’s Dark Lover,” a story within which you will no doubt find numerous additional faults. Signorina Dioli turns an indifferent profile to you, her harsh editor. I’m afraid she simply cannot find it in her cold heart to remove the balcony scene and subsequent mortal fall. Gothic romance so rarely comes to a happy end. And after all, what would your actions be when pursued by the grim monster Warwick was revealed to be?

  As for your other inquiries, rest assured I am no better or worse than last I wrote. If I am completely honest, Sarah, I seem to be in some terrible stasis. The physicians know I am not so foolish as to hope for a cure, nor am I morbid enough to welcome my inevitable end peacefully. So I trudge on, writing my stories, traveling to visit sea air when possible, and worrying about Father. No doubt, you’ve heard of his own failing health. I know he wrote to your dear parents only last week, and I do hope he was frank. He is not well.

  I have no worries about his businesses, for he has spent the last few years affixing the most competent men in positions of authority. But my own failing health, combined with his inevitable retirement, means that he does worry about the continuance of his legacy. Shaw Mills have employed hundreds, but the boat works are poised to be entirely more impressive than the mills. And you know, for your father has the same honorable bent, how much the well-being of those many men and women weighs on his mind.

  Would that I were a healthy son!

  But alas, then I would have been forced to turn my head to business instead of literature of questionable moral value, and the world would have been robbed of Miss Dioli’s and Mister Doyle’s brilliance. (You know, of course, that I speak in false pride, for my own wit does amuse me too much.)

  While I wish that my cousin were of a mind to manage the businesses in good temper, I fear he is not. Neville eyes my every discreet cough with a kind of manic glee. Or is it my own morbid fascination that finds his expression so? I confess, I am not impartial, having never liked the boy. I like even less the man he has become.

  I do believe that Father will seek to sell if his health shows no sign of improving. There are more than a few eager speculators, but he will sell only to someone who sees the boat works as he does. Not only industry, but the realization of a dream. If he could find an honorable man to carry on that legacy, I believe he would happily sell.

  For now, my dear Sarah, think of me and the dark depths of madness I must plumb to write this next horrible tale. I do say that living in Miss Dioli’s fanciful (if morbid) mind makes your friend a far pleasanter companion for poor Mrs. Porter. While Mister Doyle’s terrible imagination provides more pennies per word, he does take a terrible toll on the household staff. There will be no living with me, I am afraid, until this next monster has been exorcized on the page.

  Wish me happy ink stains, Miss Tetley. No doubt you will see the beginnings of horror, though not the ghastly results, within the next fortnight.

  Yours always,

  Josephine Shaw

  ✣✣✣

  TOM DARGIN WATCHED MURPHY reading the report Declan had drafted. Tom didn’t want to rely on the numbers alone, but the report, combined with his own discreet inquiries about how Shaw ran his businesses led him to believe his sire was making the right move pursuing Shaw’s boat works.

  “I like all of this,” Murphy said, raising his head. “The mills and the boat works are both profitable. Tom’s reported that the whole lot is well run and his workers even like the man. Foremen have naught to say against him. So why are there rumors he’s looking to sell?”

  “Health,” Tom said. “That’s what some are speculating. He’s gettin’ on and his health isn’t
what it was. That’s the rumor, anyway.”

  Murphy frowned. “And no children?”

  “A daughter,” Declan said. “Josephine Shaw. But she’s consumptive. Rarely seen out in society, not for the last five years. There’s a nephew, but they’re not close.”

  “And a sick daughter means that a son-in-law is hardly likely,” Murphy mused, rubbing his chin. “Has he said anything publicly?”

  “No,” Tom said. “Though it seems pretty common knowledge among his foremen. Beecham’s sniffing, as are a few human investors.”

  William Beecham, the vampire lord of Dublin, would be happy to pounce on the struggling company. They’d have to tread very carefully.

  “Has Shaw a manager?” Murphy asked.

  “He did, but the man was hired away.” Tom tried not to let the smile touch his lips. “I believe by one of Hamilton’s works in Belfast.”

  “That bloody woman,” Murphy said. “Why am I not surprised? At least it wasn’t Beecham. Buying the place with manager in place would be a hell of a lot easier.”

  “It would,” Tom said, “but I can see two or more of the men I inquired about rising to the position if given the proper incentive. Shaw hired lads for brains, not just strong backs.”

  “Smart,” Declan said. “What do you think, boss?”

  Murphy tapped his pen for a moment, fiddling with the new watch fob that his mate Anne had given him. Tom wished the woman was there that evening, but she was visiting a friend in Wicklow that week. Murphy always made up his mind quicker when Anne was around.

  “He won’t be going for money,” Murphy said. “Or at least not only money. He has no son. These businesses are his legacy.”

  “Agreed,” Tom said.

  His sire could have acquired Shaw’s assets through mental manipulation, like many of their kind did. It was a point of honor for Murphy that he didn’t, and one of the reasons Tom had been so keen to join his former student in immortality.