Silken Rapture: Princes of the Underground, Book 2

by BETH KERY

  The fact that she’d also been drawn to that nightmare creature like a helpless planet to a black void in space horrified her even more.

  This man’s aura, on the other hand, was…extraordinary—dark, yes, but also more meticulously detailed than the most breathtaking tapestry in the gallery surrounding them. What effect would sunlight have on his multi-faceted, complex soul? She had the ability to tune out ephemeral energies and focus on the physical world, and she used that skill now, but with great effort.

  “The other one,” she muttered. “His head was shaved. He was dressed like a prince. He was—”

  Cruel.

  Beyond cruel, really, she added dazedly in her thoughts. He possessed no soul. The man in her memory was unlike anything she’d ever encountered before, a creature who took pleasure in fear and death, who found his greatest joy in robbing human beings of their life force.

  “Morshiel,” the dark, satirical angel said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Morshiel. He kidnapped you. I found you afterward and took you from him.”

  Isabel reached for the banister, steadying herself when a wave of vertigo swept through her. It was as if her consciousness couldn’t abide such a large doses of strangeness. She hadn’t particularly cared for the callous way in which he’d referred to her as though she were an object, but encroaching dizziness was making it difficult to find the energy to be offended.

  “You’re his twin.”

  “No. I’m his clone. My only purpose to exist is to control him. Someday, perhaps, I will defeat him. Until then, I will have no peace.”

  She just stared at him, bewildered. Here was something else that was different from his twin. His tone was frank, his accent rough. Was it Scottish? The grand hall began to blur, the rich tapestries and brilliant hues from the paintings creating a throbbing, Expressionist palette in her vision.

  “And-and this is your home?” she asked, clutching the banister with a white-knuckled grip. She lost control. Pain jolted through her as she fell to the hard marble step on one knee, but she held on with a desperate grip. The blackness that had lurked at the corners of her vision for the past several seconds started to cloud it entirely. She clung on to the banister, to her very sanity.

  A voice resounded in her head before she lost consciousness, quite different from the dark angel’s hard tone, but strangely with the same rough, Scottish accent.

  “It’s your home now. Welcome to Sanctuary. Let go now. Let go, Lovely.”

  She followed his command without thought. Blackness engulfed her.

  Chapter Three

  She was in the process of picking the lock on her bedroom door when it suddenly opened, banging her in the knee and making her yelp in pain.

  Isabel scuttled back on the deep pile carpet. For a few seconds, she felt a rush of mortification at the amazed stare the pleasant-faced, gray-haired woman gave her as Isabel knelt there on the floor, barefooted and attired in a rumpled satin evening gown and black velvet gloves. Then she recalled there was hardly a reason to apologize to one of her captors and stood up in a rush, brandishing the sharp metal hors d’oeuvres pick she’d found in a wet-bar drawer.

  “Tell me how to get out of here,” she demanded.

  “Do you plan to skewer me like a shrimp, then? It’ll take something larger than that little toothpick to do the job,” the woman said with a friendly type of wry humor. She bustled into the room. For the first time, Isabel noticed she carried an armful of clothes and a large tapestried reticule. She sighed in relief when she deposited her heavy load at the base of the four-poster bed.

  “I took a guess at your size, but when Lord Delraven saw what I’d chosen, he said I was wrong. He said he’d held you, so he’d know better than anyone. I still can’t get used to the fact that a man like Delraven knows textiles and clothing so well—he’s such a rough sort, you know—but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised as to his expertise on a woman’s proportions.”

  Isabel started to edge toward the open door as the woman prattled and began to sort through the clothing she’d brought.

  “There’s no point in running, Miss,” the woman said without turning around. “Sanctuary is a hundred times more secure than a fortress. If you plan an escape, best to find out the lay of the land first, don’t you think?” she asked, looking over her shoulder and smiling. Isabel froze mid-escape, a scowl on her face. “You’ll not only need knowledge, but shoes and food, at the very least. I’m Margaret Turrow, by the way.”

  Isabel kept the sharp pick extended when the woman approached her, her hand extended in greeting. When Margaret saw she wasn’t going to accept her handshake, she shrugged.

  “Who is Lord Delraven?” Isabel demanded.

  “Blaise Sevliss. He is the master of Sanctuary.”

  “The black-haired man? The one who keeps me prisoner here?” Isabel asked. Intuitively, the idea of the man on the stairs being the master of this bizarre place made complete sense to her.

  Margaret sighed and went back to the foot of the bed. “It doesn’t sound very nice when you put it that way.”

  Isabel lowered the pick and hurried toward Margaret. “Delraven himself told me I was being kept prisoner here.”

  “You saw him? When?” Margaret asked sharply.

  Isabel glanced at the enormous rumpled bed. How long had she slept after she’d passed out on the staircase? Had he laid her in that bed?

  “Are you all right, Miss?” Margaret asked. Isabel realized she must have noticed her shiver.

  “Of course I’m not all right,” she grated out. “I woke up in a strange house with weird people—no, creatures, in it—I haven’t got a clue what happened to me and I’m being told I’m a prisoner. How would you feel?”

  Margaret grimaced and resumed her task. “I see your point.”

  Isabel watched the stout woman pick up garment after garment, rustling out invisible wrinkles. In the far corners of her awareness, Isabel realized each new piece of clothing was more exquisite than the last.

  “You’re not like them,” Isabel declared.

  Margaret’s eyebrows went up before she walked toward the closet. Isabel followed her as she briskly started to hang up the clothing.

  “I’m mortal, if that’s what you mean. The only mortal on Lord Delraven’s permanent staff.”

  “You must be so proud,” Isabel replied acidly as she followed the energetic woman back to the foot of the bed. Part of her found the woman’s statement ludicrous, of course. Another part, however—the part that recalled the terrifying absence of a life force of the man who had forced her to touch that crystal, the film negative-type auras of Aubrey Cane and Lorenzo Titurino and the strange, magnificent force surrounding Lord Delraven—accepted what Margaret said without question.

  “There was another mortal here,” Isabel challenged. “A woman. A man was painting her.”

  Margaret glanced back, an elegant wool skirt extended in her hand. “Well, mortals frequently come to Sanctuary. They’d have to, wouldn’t they? You really did get out of bed earlier, didn’t you? And you saw Delraven?” A shadow crossed her features. “Oh dear. No wonder he was so tetchy this morning.”

  “If he doesn’t want me here, why doesn’t he just let me go?”

  Margaret’s expression softened. She picked up an emerald silk blouse. “He would, if he could. You must understand. You wouldn’t be safe outside of Sanctuary. Morshiel would find you again. No matter where you go.”

  “Morshiel,” she hissed, once again trailing after Margaret toward the closet. “That…that thing, that monster that kidnapped me?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid Morshiel is every human’s nightmare,” Margaret admitted sadly.

  “If he’s every human’s nightmare, why is Delraven singling me out? I doubt he’s keeping every citizen of London secure in this house. Why force me to come here? Why should he care if I live or die?”

  Margaret glanced at her apologetically before marching out of the closet. “
Well you’re special, aren’t you, Miss? That’s why Morshiel wants you. Lord Delraven has also brought that strange crystal to Sanctuary. He told me how Morshiel had forced you to touch it. With you as a conduit for the crystal—an amplifier of the earth’s energy—Morshiel would become unthinkably powerful. Delraven says it was a stroke of luck Saint Sevliss had given him a tip about an anomalous surge of electromagnetic energy in the tunnels. There’s no telling what would have happened if Morshiel had been strengthened any more by you and that crystal. Delraven said he was nearly murdered by Morshiel on that platform, his clone had grown so uncommonly strong.”

  “That would have been a pity,” Isabel said darkly.

  “Delraven may be a bit rough around the edges, but there’s no one more brilliant, powerful, selfless, kind—yes, kind,” Margaret said, speaking sharply when she heard Isabel snort in disbelief. “Thousands of mortals owe him their lives, though most are ignorant of that fact. Forgive me for my bluntness, Miss, but you don’t know much of anything. Not about his world, you don’t. He has suffered more than we humans could wrap our minds around. He could easily have become as cruel as his clone, but he has endured. His suffering has been so great, the friction and fires of it have made him more human than any mortal I know. You’re a child when it comes to these matters, trust me. I was once in your shoes.” She glanced down in humorous apology at Isabel’s bare feet. “I was just as naïve,” she added gently.

  “I am not naïve.”

  “Up there, perhaps not,” Margaret said with a shrewd look as she pointed to the ceiling. “Down here, you’re as witless as a baby.”

  “Down here. What? Are we in the basement?” She glanced curiously toward the heavily draped windows. She’d noticed there was a strange, opaque piece of glass in the panes when she’d tried to escape earlier, but she hadn’t considered she might be underground.

  “You might say that,” Margaret said breezily as she picked up the last item of clothing and headed toward the closet. Isabel dogged her footsteps. “But then, every room in this building is in the basement, in a manner of speaking. You’re currently about a thousand feet below the earth’s surface, my dear. Sanctuary is an underground highrise—or lowrise, as the case may be. Sixty stories, straight down into the ground. It’s like an inverted pyramid. Sanctuary not only houses Lord Delraven’s home, but his textile factory as well, although Silk takes up the floors just below the surface. The workers there find the access straight off the Tube to be a major employment benefit. We’re a good deal farther underground here in the residence, though.”

  Margaret ignored Isabel’s stunned expression as she walked out of the closet. She called out a warm greeting when a pale, anxious-looking young man entered the room carrying a tray. “Ah, perfect. Come in, Jessie, come in. Lay out the things over at the table there. Stop gawking. It’s rude. She’s just a woman,” Margaret admonished under her breath when she noticed Jessie gaping at Isabel, his mouth slack. Isabel smoothed her wrinkled dress self-consciously. She must look a mess.

  Not that she cared how she appeared to these people.

  Margaret beckoned her toward the table. “You may not have the morning sun to welcome the new day in Sanctuary, but you’ll have the finest breakfast in all of England.”

  Isabel hesitated. She certainly didn’t want to give the impression she in any way planned to comply with her imprisonment.

  Jessie removed the metal domed cover and the scent of fried potatoes and eggs reached her nose. Her traitorous stomach growled. Her gaze narrowed on Margaret’s eager face as the woman pulled back a chair, ready to seat her at the table. The older woman was right about one thing—Isabel had no idea how to maneuver around this strange place or what to expect from the man who kept her prisoner, Lord Delraven. She needed information and Margaret could provide it.

  Are you an actress, or what? a voice in her head asked scathingly.

  She bit her lower lip in a show of hesitation and glanced entreatingly at Margaret.

  “You must understand…waking up to find myself in such a strange place—and…and I think I saw…”

  “What, dear?” Margaret asked, her forehead wrinkled in concern.

  “Vampires,” Isabel whispered. Jessie shifted on his feet uneasily.

  “Don’t be frightened. I know it seems strange—I recall how shocked I was when I first discovered Lord Delraven’s and the Literatis’ unusual natures. They’re not vampires like in tales. Or like Morshiel and his revenants are,” she added under her breath. “Delraven and his followers never kill to sustain themselves. Never. It’s anathema to them. They take only enough vitessence for nourishment.”

  “By sucking blood?”

  “Among other fluids, yes,” Margaret said. She became distracted while she arranged a meticulously folded napkin.

  “How can you tell me not to be frightened? This is terrifying.” Isabel wasn’t lying, exactly. It was the delivery that made it acting.

  Margaret’s face collapsed in compassion. “Of course it is, you poor thing.” She came toward Isabel, arms outstretched. “Sanctuary is a lovely place, once you get used to its…er…idiosyncrasies. You’ll see. You’ll feel better once you’ve had your breakfast, and after that I’ll draw a bath for you and you can try on some of your new, lovely clothes. Then perhaps Jessie can give you a tour of Sanctuary. Would that be all right, Jessie?” Margaret asked with a wide smile. Jessie dropped the china sugar bowl he was arranging on the table.

  “Of course, ma’am. I mean…no.” The young man blushed all the way to the roots of his dark brown hair when he glanced at Isabel. “That is, I would show her around, of course. It would be my pleasure. But Lord Delraven says she’s to remain confined to her quarters,” he added apologetically under his breath.

  Margaret straightened indignantly. “He did, did he? Never you mind about that. You plan to come and collect her in exactly two hours time. I’ll speak to Delraven. Go on with you.” She waved toward the door, suddenly as imperious as a matron monarch. Jessie didn’t dawdle, but did exactly as he was ordered.

  “Be seated, dear.”

  “Only if you join me,” Isabel said in her best meek manner.

  “I’d be honored. Come now, tuck in. There. Now…what am I to call you?”

  “Isabel. Isabel Lanscourt,” she said, picking up a heavy silver fork.

  The next thing she knew, she was eating the most delicious eggs Benedict she’d ever tasted while Margaret Turrow served her tea from a service that wouldn’t have looked at all out of place in Buckingham Palace. Strange sort of prison, Isabel thought as she accepted her steaming cup.

  But a prison, nonetheless.

  She opened her mouth, determined to get as much information as possible about the mysterious master of Sanctuary, Blaise Delraven.

  Her jailer.

  Blaise Sevliss, Lord Delraven, hung upside down, his feet buckled into metal boots. Aubrey watched contentedly as his friend completed four hundred inverted sit-ups—one hundred more than usual. Blaise stared at some fixed point, his eyes as cold as stone, his expression stoic. Only his lean, bulging muscles and sweat-glistened, olive-toned skin hinted at the turmoil that must be frothing inside him at the moment.

  Long, ropey muscles contracted and bulged. He released himself from the boots, grabbing the suspended bar and swinging to the floor. As usual, Aubrey found his lack of self-consciousness in regard to his sleek, magnificent male beauty incredible. Blaise’s disregard of aesthetics rankled him, at times, but Aubrey also thought his friend’s insouciance sublime, somehow.

  Blaise began pacing the moment his feet hit the ground, only pausing to occasionally glance at and touch a series of maps hanging on the wall.

  A caged animal, Aubrey thought as he watched Blaise from where he sat sprawled on a couch. Aubrey had never ceased to enjoy the sight of Blaise. He relished it now like a connoisseur might sip the rarest of wine.

  The object of his delicate aesthetic taste currently was wearing nothing but a pair of for
m-fitting black pants. Blaise must be planning on channeling his agitation over recent events in the work-out facility, for Aubrey knew he wore the simple garment for sparring. His gaze lingered appreciatively on the sight of Blaise’s long, well-muscled but exceptionally lean torso as Blaise ran his finger along a line on a map.

  He’d grown used to the fact that he could not make love to Blaise, but that didn’t prevent Aubrey from desiring him. Blaise epitomized brilliance, loyalty, sex and strength, and those were the things Aubrey held dear to his heart.

  Although really, they all boiled down to power. That was the quality Aubrey admired most.

  A Londoner might have immediately recognized the familiar outlines of the Underground on the map where Blaise focused his attention, but then become confused by the addition of a number of anomalous tunnels and unfamiliar labeled landmarks. There was a world beneath the city streets that would amaze a typical Londoner. Sanctuary was the hub of that secret, subterranean world.

  “Morshiel won’t bother to return to the British Museum tunnel. He knows I wouldn’t leave the crystal there. We’ll increase our guard along the Bakerloo line. My gut tells me that’s where Morshiel and the revenants will strike next,” Blaise said, giving the map a brisk tap with his forefinger.

  “That quake we experienced weeks ago must have somehow loosened it from the deepest veins of the earth. You and I both know how much vitessence that crystal gives off. Morshiel would do anything to possess it. Surely he’ll send a scouting party to the British Museum at the very least,” Aubrey replied from where he sat on the couch, long limbs akimbo.

  “No. He won’t.”

  “How can you know that with a certainty?” Aubrey asked amusedly.

  Blaise shrugged and turned to stoke the fire. Aubrey’s structure for evacuating smoke underground was the least of the wonders of his friend’s ingenious design of Sanctuary.