by BETH KERY
He sensed her presence—he smelled her blood—a full twenty seconds before he saw her. Isabel started when she saw him standing there, but then approached. For the second time that evening, he took note of her slightly hollowed out, flushed cheeks. She’d lost weight in the eight days she’d spent at Sanctuary, even if her color was good—excellent, in fact. Her cheeks and full lips were flushed dark pink with blood and her velvety eyes shone like dark beacons. Her chestnut hair was unusually glossy and full. Her small breasts were even more pronounced than usual, rising above the taut lines of her torso. She wore a bra, but there was little padding. He could see the areolas of her nipples pressing against the fabric and couldn’t help but wonder if they were as pink and flushed as her lips. If she’d lost weight, it’d done nothing to diminish her beauty. It only enhanced it. He’d speak to Margaret about her eating habits, though. It wouldn’t do for her to become ill.
“Aubrey. I-I hadn’t expected to see you here.”
He smiled, allowing his gaze to drop over the vision of her. The wrist-length white gloves she wore looked out of place with the jeans and form-fitting scarlet T-shirt. He knew that Michael Lord, who maintained a network of contacts with the police on the surface world, had managed to clandestinely procure her purse and suitcase. Aubrey had been touched by her happiness upon receiving her familiar belongings and hadn’t seen fit to correct her in her belief that it had been his idea to get the things. In fact, her belongings had been retrieved under Blaise’s direction. The man was uncommonly concerned about her, even if he did carefully avoid her.
Aubrey preferred to see her in the sophisticated silks provided to her by Blaise, or even in her elaborate theatrical costumes. Nevertheless, he acknowledged her beauty at the moment, shower-fresh and clean-scrubbed as it was. Some day, he would drape her in richer robes than even the costume she’d removed just minutes ago.
One day, she would be the queen of his underground kingdom. He would make that bitch-demon Shirian, whom he regularly summoned and with whom he communed, serve her. He hid a smile at the fantasy.
Fortunately, he made a habit of making his fantasies reality.
“I’m sure you hadn’t meant to see me here,” he replied pleasantly. She caught the hint of sarcasm in his tone. Her gaze sharpened on him.
“How did you know I was planning to try and see Lord Delraven?” she asked.
Aubrey shrugged. “I saw the glint in your eyes when you were talking to Titurino about the perfect person to play Marc Antony.” He arched his brows when she gave him an innocent look. “Are you going to try and deny it? You’re carrying a script in your hand, Isabel.”
She glanced down and blushed. He laughed.
“You are a fool to attempt to persuade him to join your play. Even if you were to gain an audience with Blaise, it would be a lost cause. Blaise loves to watch a play, but he’d feel himself a fool strutting about on a stage.” He stepped closer, holding her stare. “I, on the other hand, would make an ideal conqueror and even better lover.” She gave him a glacial glance. “For Cleopatra,” he added.
Her scowl faded and she laughed. He chuckled along with her. He’d carefully cultivated her friendship in the past week.
“You’re impossible, do you know that?” she remonstrated as she glanced down the crested corridor distractedly. “Unfortunately, you’re probably also right. You might have to be my Marc Antony. I can’t seem to get close to Delraven.”
“May I ask, why this fever to see Blaise?”
She looked troubled.
“What is it, Isabel?” he asked, suddenly sober upon sensing her unrest. She gave him a flickering glance.
“I-I don’t know.” She hesitated and looked around, as if looking for eavesdroppers. “Can I trust you, Aubrey?”
“No one more.”
She bit at her lower lip with small, white teeth, the gesture mesmerizing him. He became hyperaware of her small breasts pressed tightly against the cotton fabric of the T-shirt, the swelling of her lungs with air, the seductive throb of the pulse at her white throat.
He blinked and looked away from the glory of her. The spell of her overcame him a lot—too much, in fact. It had been torture for him to court her this past week, to talk with her and spend time with her and gain her trust.
“It’s…it’s very odd about Lord Delraven,” she began haltingly. “Even though I’ve seen him only briefly, and he seems to be avoiding me, I feel as if…”
“Yes?” he prompted when she faded off.
“I feel as if I know him somehow. I-I have dreamed of him…or something,” she whispered.
He followed the trail of extra color that stained her cheeks with focused attention. Jealousy flared in his breast. He’d experienced the feeling only once before to any great degree—centuries ago when Elysse de Gennere got a similar look of longing in her eye when she spoke of Blaise, and when Blaise’s did the same.
And the feeling of jealousy burned much greater at the present moment.
Aubrey sensed Isabel wasn’t being completely honest, so he pressed with his ascendancy, urging her to open up and tell him her secret.
For there was a secret here.
“Lord Delraven is a singular creature, Isabel,” he murmured, using the power of his voice to hypnotize. “Not even he fully understands the origins of his power. It’s not surprising he has an effect on you, even from a distance. Many of the mortal women who have come to Sanctuary over the years have experienced his pull. He has had interactions with humans over the centuries—humans on the surface, that is,” he clarified, pointing upward, “and his magnetic aura has never failed to have an effect on men and women alike.”
“Are you trying to tell me I am experiencing what any mortal would in his presence?”
“I am saying that your obsession to see Delraven isn’t that unusual. You are behaving as most would—man or woman. It is why Delraven is so careful about not taking a lover on a long-term basis. Women become obsessed with him. You’re no different.”
Her chin went up after a few seconds and she met his stare levelly.
“You’re wrong,” she said quietly. “Do you know how I know that?”
“How?”
“Because for one, he puts you here as his guard against me. He’s afraid of me. I know he is.”
“Perhaps he’s afraid for you.”
“No,” she said, her voice like steel draped in velvet. “Something is happening that I don’t understand. I think he doesn’t understand either, just as you don’t, Aubrey. Not even with all your wisdom. I must talk to him. Will you help me, or not?”
She was magnificent in that moment. The real Cleopatra had nothing on Isabel Lanscourt.
“Do you want to plea for your freedom?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.” Their eyes met. “No…” she admitted.
Disappointment mixed with his jealousy as he tried to read her chaotic thoughts. She didn’t know the secret either, although she sensed its outlines in her mind and spirit. That secret was torturing her, he realized with a sense of amazement.
“I don’t know what I want. I just know I need to speak with Lord Delraven. Will you let me pass? As you did that first night, Aubrey?”
He stepped nearer, so only a scant few inches separated the tips of her breasts from his ribs. “You recall what I required as payment for passage on that night?”
Her eyes darted to meet his. “But…it harmed you.”
He arched his eyebrows. “Has no one told you I’m a magician, Isabel?” he asked in a low, seductive tone. “I can make miracles happen, given enough time. Let me touch you.”
She avoided his stare. “You will let me pass then?”
“Of course,” he murmured.
His cock throbbed with excitement as he raised his hand. His fingertips ghosted a breast. For a split second, he knew only the pleasure of firm, succulent flesh. Pain struck him at the same moment that she jerked away from him. She regarded him with sparking dark eyes, and he knew she was
angry at his boldness.
Nevertheless, he held up his hand and smiled. His spells had been working. His fingers were reddened, but no blisters rose to the surface.
In time, he would touch her whenever he chose. He would make it happen.
He laughed softly as he watched her rush past him into the crested corridor.
Delraven sat behind a large mahogany table, a long swath of silk heaped before him. She could tell by the way his eyes were trained directly on her when she opened the door to his quarters that he’d sensed her approach, but perhaps hadn’t had sufficient time to try and escape her.
“I tricked your guard to get in here,” she said when she noticed his nostrils flare with what she assumed was anger. He didn’t speak, but remained motionless, the silk poised in his hands.
The silence was so thick that the sound of the door closing behind her went off like a firecracker in her brain. She entered and studied the room, trying to act as if it was the most natural thing in the world for her to walk in unexpectedly on Blaise Sevliss, Lord Delraven. She suddenly wished that her newest and closest companion, Royal, was there with her to help calm her nerves. Once Margaret had learned that she took comfort in the black wolf’s company, Royal could frequently be found sitting next to the fireplace when she exited the bathroom following her evening shower, her silent, peaceful, watchful companion. He was often there while she ate her solitary dinners in her suite, and afterward, while she read a book, curled up before the roaring fire.
But he wasn’t now. The only other occupant of the room was the male behind the table who watched her with an enigmatic, brooding stare that sent her skin to tingling.
She found herself in a large den, luxurious, but obviously a room for work, not show, Isabel observed as her gaze ran over stacks of books with dozens of pieces of paper sticking out of them as place markers and the maps lining the wall. Her focus tightened on the pile of opalescent cream silk he held, the flames from the fire causing the liquid jewel of fabric to shimmer and beckon, it’s luster every bit as rich as that of a precious pearl.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured as she approached. The metal lamp with an extendable arm that was clamped to the edge of the table looked starkly utilitarian next to the luxurious pile of silk. It cast its light directly on the patch of fabric he held. She touched the folds with gloved fingertips and experienced a longing to feel the sensual fabric with naked hands. “Is it from your factory?”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing to it?”
“I’m examining it,” he said after a pause. “Searching for flaws.”
A strange feeling came over her—was it shyness? As a twenty-nine-year-old actress, it wasn’t a sensation she’d experienced often. She kept her head lowered, pretending to study the fabric she fingered, even if every cell in her body did seem hyperaware of the male sitting across the table from her.
“And do you do this for all the swaths of silk you sell?” she asked. Her breath caught when his hands began to move again, stroking the fabric slowly. She kept her face lowered, her long hair draped over her cheek, watching as his long fingers moved in the rich folds.
“No. This is for a royal occasion. When an order comes from Buckingham, I go over every millimeter of multiple swaths myself, searching for flaws. It takes me weeks on end,” he said, his low voice richer and more compelling than the gleaming silk.
“Surely flaws are inherent to the process, part of the beauty of the finished product?” She glanced up when he didn’t respond. Her eyes widened when they met his. She jerked her gaze off him, blushing furiously. Her heart began to thump in her ears.
Dear God, what was wrong with her? She hadn’t been prepared to look directly into his bold-featured face or intense eyes.
“You are right, in part,” he said, his fingers still moving in the silk. “But too many flaws ruin the light-play on the fabric, taking away the luminosity. I have tried to train various members of the Literati for the task. They have more acute vision than humans.”
“And?” she asked, a smile tickling at her mouth. “You are not satisfied with their work compared to your own?”
Her fingers stilled when he didn’t immediately speak.
“I can be a bit of a perfectionist,” he said.
“It’s very heavy for a dress, isn’t it?”
“For a dress, yes,” he murmured. “But this isn’t for a dress. It’s for a royal marriage.” Her hands tingled in the gloves, as though his stroking fingers gave off a charge and it came to her through the conduit of the lush fabric.
“Silk is a good generator of electricity,” he said.
She glanced up, cautious this time, but unable to resist looking into his face. Had he read her thoughts? His small smile seemed to indicate he had. She glanced away uneasily.
“If the fabric isn’t for a dress, what is it for?”
“It is for the royal bed. This will be made into sheets, Isabel.”
The fabric fell through her fingers heedlessly at the sound of him saying her name in his hoarse, accented voice. It had struck a chord of memory in her. She searched wildly to retrieve the memory, but the ephemeral threads had disappeared. For a moment, her lungs seemed collapsed, unable to fill with air.
She abruptly turned away from him, overwhelmed by longing.
“What are you carrying?” he asked from behind her as she walked toward the hearth.
She glanced around, her brow furrowed in confusion. She blinked in shock when she saw he stood just feet away. He’d come to her with paranormal quickness. What was he talking about? She noticed he looked at her hand. She clutched at the rolled-up script. Remembering why she’d sought him out gave her a renewed sense of purpose, flimsy though her excuse for seeing him was.
“I’ve come to ask you to be in the play.”
“I am no actor.”
“None of the Literati are, except for Titurino, who tells me he used to tread the boards in Rome long ago, to make money for his paints,” she said with a smile. She sobered when she noticed his fire-lit eyes. He was dressed as casually as she, in jeans and a simple gray T-shirt, but he looked elegant somehow…a noble savage.
“Thank you, for sponsoring the play for my benefit. I haven’t had a chance to tell you.”
“I thought it would please you, and help to occupy your time. When you are ready, say the word and I will bring you an audience, as well. You may choose whoever you’d like to attend.”
“Lester Dee?” she asked smoothly, referring to the professor who had brought her to England.
He kept his face impassive. “If that is your wish. We can come to terms on the matter.”
She smiled. “The Queen?”
“That one I can answer for more confidently. Consider it done.”
She shook her head slowly. “The funny thing is, I believe you. I would believe anything of you, at this point.”
“I’m sorry to have to keep you here,” he said.
She swallowed and examined the smooth mahogany mantel of the fireplace. “I’m not as angry about that as I once was. Why is that, do you suppose?”
“I don’t know.”
She jerked her head up and pinned him with her stare. “You do know,” she whispered feelingly.
He regarded her, a silent enigma, every bit as eerily still as Royal became at times as he watched her.
Her cheek felt hot when she turned it back to the flames. What had caused that outburst of emotion? She couldn’t understand what was happening to her. At times, she was filled with energy and purpose, almost manic-like…desperate. At others, a strange malaise overcame her, and all she wanted to do was sleep.
The one thing that had remained a constant since coming to Sanctuary was her odd desire to seek out Lord Delraven.
She inhaled unevenly, trying to gather herself.
“Will you be my Marc Antony?” she asked throatily. Dread filtered into her awareness as she waited for his refusal. Of course he wouldn’t do it, a man such
as him. Still…she’d felt compelled to ask him.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked instead of answering her. “Water? Wine?”
She shook her head, raising her eyes to the painting above the carved mantel.
“Who is she?” she asked after a moment, referring to the beautiful woman in the portrait wearing topaz silk and ermine, and what appeared to be diamonds sewn into the fabric of her dress. A small, delicate diadem sparkled in her light brown hair. Her blue eyes were so clear, her gaze so intelligent, it was as if she actually looked directly at them over the span of centuries.
“Her name is Elysse de Gennere. She was a princess once…long ago.”
“Was she the one you saved from agents of the Spanish crown? The one who ended up marrying the English prince and—”
She stopped herself abruptly when she recalled the sad ending to the story. She continued to stare at Elysse de Gennere, although all her attention was on Blaise behind her. Emotion once again swelled thick in her throat and chest.
“Yes. She is the one.”
“Did you make that dress for her?”
“Yes.”
“Did you love her?” she asked softly.
“The soulless cannot love.”
She turned slowly. The vision of him filled her.
“The soulless do not feel torment, either. You do.” When he said nothing, she stepped toward him. “Who told you that you have no soul?”
“Usan. The Magian who watches over me.”
“Magian?”
He inhaled and walked over to his desk where he picked up a small obsidian sculpture of a horse in full gallop. He studied it intently, as if he’d never seen it in his life.
“We know very little about the Magian, my brothers and I. They form a council of sorts and monitor our lives. For the most part, they are invisible to us. They tell us little about our purpose. They watch us, though…study us. They are similar to us in genetic make-up, but they possess souls. They were our creators.”
“You know the man who created you?” she asked, stunned by this strange news.