Silken Rapture: Princes of the Underground, Book 2

by BETH KERY

  “Nevertheless, some change has occurred. How else could Isi travel outside the Magian-sanctioned territory where he’s always been confined? I can’t be sure, but I believe Saint wants to communicate something to Blaise, but has been forbidden to do so by his Magian overlord, Kavya. Perhaps Saint is sending Isi to Blaise as an envoy. I believe Isi carries knowledge—secrets that are relevant to Teslar’s destruction and the appearance of the crystal.”

  Morshiel regarded him hungrily. “If this Isi possesses that knowledge, then he’ll know how to prevent what happened to Teslar from happening to me. You’re right. We must obtain him so that we can learn Saint’s secrets. We must do it before Blaise does.”

  “I will hand Isi to you this very night. If you agree to my terms, that is.”

  “It is I who will set the terms of this agreement,” Morshiel said in a hard tone before he took a drink. He grimaced suddenly and glanced own at his cup in annoyance. “If I agree to accept you as an ally, why shouldn’t our first move be for you to get me inside of Sanctuary?”

  “I have thought of that,” Aubrey said honestly. “But as you know, Usan wards it against you with his magic.”

  “You claim to be a great magician, though,” Morshiel said with a narrowed gaze.

  “It is not a claim. It is the truth. And you are right to ask me about the wards and Sanctuary. I do believe—given time—I can weaken the boundaries sufficiently to get you inside. However, this matter with Isi is something we can—and should—move on immediately.”

  Morshiel scowled, deep in thought, and lifted his goblet.

  “This blood is stale. All the vitessence has faded. Bring me blood in living flesh.”

  Aubrey started at the abrupt bellow. Apparently Morshiel’s revenants were not far from the tapestry-draped walls of the underground residence. A foul-looking male creature with sallow, greasy-looking skin, filmy eyes and bared fangs shoved a mortal woman in front of him. She fell to the floor at his rough treatment, whimpering as she raised her upper body with her hands. She glanced around the room, her wild eyes partially covered by mussed, auburn hair. The woman was beyond frightened, she had entered the stage of shock where all she could do was shake and stare at the horrors around her in an uncomprehending fog.

  “You brought me this mortal as a sacrifice. You said she was an offering to show me that you came in peace when you entered my private tunnels. You—my enemy’s greatest ally,” Morshiel drawled.

  “I’m offering to become your greatest ally,” Aubrey said, slouching back in his chair. “She is prime flesh—a prostitute for which I paid the equivalent of an average Londoner’s annual salary for one night. Her name is Margarite. I hope you enjoy her.”

  “You will be the one to enjoy her…here, in front of me and my revenants.” Aubrey watched, unmoving, as five more revenants tramped into the room. He recognized four of them by name and had fought innumerable battles against all of them, over the centuries. Several of them bore scars from his ravening claws and teeth.

  He’d once been the lover of one of the monsters.

  Rosetta Vanderpool leered at him. Though she was one of the walking dead, her skin was as white and her breasts as plump as the day he’d feasted on them with mortal lips. Only her fangs and the film over her once brilliant sapphire eyes betrayed her status as a revenant. He knew from experience that she shifted into one of the most vicious forms a revenant could take—a prowler.

  “I wish to see your skills at pleasure,” Morshiel instructed in a bored tone. “Then I want you to drain the whore. But leave the last drop for me, won’t you?”

  Terror broke through Margarite’s shock. She shrieked and scurried on hands and knees toward the exit. Rosetta Vanderpool walked in front of her and gave a negligent but brutal kick with a pointed-toe boot. Margarite fell to the carpet again, clutching her cheek and whimpering in pain.

  Aubrey’s bored posture as he watched the cruel treatment belied the ice-cold tingles of panic spiking through his flesh. Morshiel and the six other revenants in the room would tear off all his limbs and leave him in a helpless state for days, weeks—who knew how long?—before they finally took off his head and ended his misery. Despite his betrayal here today, Aubrey had always admired Blaise’s fortitude in refusing to take life, and had followed his dictates without fail.

  “A test, is it?” Aubrey asked.

  “Yes,” Morshiel said warmly, as though pleased by Aubrey’s perceptiveness. “I know that my clone forbids murder among the Literati, a practice I’ve always considered heathen…a blatant betrayal of our kind. Show me firsthand where your loyalties lie. Show me.”

  Candlelight gleamed in the depths of his agate-like eyes.

  Aubrey shrugged, stood and approached the woman cowering on the carpeted floor. Compassion swept through him when he saw the absolute terror reflected in her eyes. He must calm her, first and foremost. Only Blaise’s ability for ascendancy—the power to influence and control a mortal—was stronger than Aubrey’s among the Literati.

  “Shhhh, do not be afraid,” he crooned. He pressed with his ascendancy, reached into the woman’s mind, taking her back just hours before to the moment when he met her in the Angelus Salon and whispered hotly in her ear, causing her to swoon in his arms. He knelt and put his hands on her forearms. “Do not let nightmares overcome you, Margarite.” He gently helped the woman to her feet, glad to feel the trembling in her flesh cease. “You are safe here with me, within Sanctuary. Look around you. Is not all well?”

  Margarite tore her now worshipful gaze off his face. Her stare ran over Morshiel, who looked like an amused spectator at the theater, and swept across the half-dozen nightmare creatures who watched her with manic-like, ravenous stares. Aubrey made it so that all she saw was the luxurious, fire-lit interior of the Angelus Salon—and him, of course. She smiled and went up on her toes. She kissed him, not like a seasoned prostitute, but like a child who thanks a protective parent for awakening them from a bad dream.

  Aubrey put his hands on her waist and deepened the kiss until she was fully his slave. She plastered her body against his and writhed. Behind him, Aubrey heard Morshiel chuckle appreciatively.

  “Impressive,” Morshiel said.

  “Enough,” Rosetta Vanderpool said loudly. “Make him show us blood. Make him eviscerate the whore.”

  “Now, now, Rosetta, where are your manners? You’re as bad as a drudge in need of a fix,” Morshiel remonstrated. “You are witnessing prodigious skill. Watch and learn.”

  Aubrey had to use all of his focus to maintain his ascendancy when he himself was frightened. One thing he knew for certain—it was either him or the woman. The least he could do was make her death as pleasant as possible.

  He whispered to her as he slid the robe off her body, baring naked flesh. He praised her beauty, her vibrancy, her warm, vitessence-rich flesh.

  He meant every word.

  She went to the worn velvet couch obediently enough when he requested it. He came down over her, worshipping her with his mouth, losing himself in fragrant, blood-rich skin, trying to force himself to ignore Morshiel, the walking corpses and the vaporous demon who surrounded the couch in a circle and watched his display with hungry gazes.

  He tried to ignore them, but it was difficult.

  He parted the woman’s firm thighs and tasted her nectar on his tongue. His eyes closed of their own accord as her taste permeated his senses. This…yes, this always made him forget. Aubrey adored the taste of pussy, loved to play in it with his sensitive tongue, relished drowning his consciousness in the rich, musky cream of womanhood. He tickled the woman’s delicate folds with the tip of his tongue and agitated her with firm lips and a gentle suck until she squirmed and moaned and he had to restrain her with his hands at her hips. She shuddered and the energy of her climax poured into him.

  He once again recalled his situation as he raised his head, but sluggishly, as if through the haze of a dream. Before he sank his teeth into one of Margarite’s firm breasts, h
e glanced up at Rosetta Vanderpool and snarled a taunt. Rosetta was nothing more than a breathing, eating corpse, while he—Aubrey—would continue to feast on ripe, succulent flesh and feel the vibrancy of life for an eternity.

  He blessed Blaise for the incomparable gift he’d given him. The pain of betraying his first and only love was like a squirming, living sliver beneath his skin.

  He could withstand the pain of it, however.

  Margarite mewled with pleasure as she experienced yet another climax, her body writhing beneath him. He heard a sound behind him—a growl of arousal deep in Morshiel’s throat. Despite Aubrey’s fear, his cock throbbed in desire.

  Before he sank his fangs into Margarite’s carotid artery, he saw a flash of fear in her eyes. He hesitated, but then he felt Morshiel’s hand on his shoulder, stroking him in a reassuring gesture, the caress of a lover. He clamped his jaw and pierced warm, juicy flesh. For the first time in his immortal life, Aubrey drank his fill. For the first time in his life—either mortal or immortal—he understood what he was.

  The woman beneath him ceased to struggle. She lay still, her eyes staring at the top of the tunnel, unseeing. His head spun, drunk as he was with vitessence and power. He felt hands on his shoulders, urging him to stand. He stumbled like a drunkard, and then stood eye to eye with Morshiel. Morshiel kissed him on the mouth, wetting his lips with the blood of his prey.

  “Now you are my brother,” Morshiel whispered.

  He licked his lips before he kissed Aubrey again.

  Chapter Ten

  Blaise headed toward his quarters after visiting the crystal room and absorbing its vitessence, calming himself. Aubrey had volunteered last night to pick up Isi at the airport, and Blaise wanted to be ready to greet the Iniskium warrior when he arrived. He was eager to learn whatever it was Saint wanted him to hear.

  He paused in the torch-lit corridor before he reached the doors to his quarters, sensing there was only a single occupant in his study—and that occupant was agitated.

  “Where’ve you been?” Aubrey asked, springing up from the sofa when Blaise barged into the room.

  “Why? What’s wrong?” he demanded, taking in Aubrey’s disheveled clothing and anxious expression.

  “Morshiel and six of his revenants ambushed Isi and me as we were leaving the airport terminal. They took Isi.”

  “Do you mean they took him on purpose? How could they know about him arriving in London?”

  “I don’t know,” Aubrey said, looking bewildered. “We both fought—Isi is a fine warrior—but there were too many of them, and Morshiel besides.” A look of profound frustration entered Aubrey’s face and he struck his fist on the mahogany table. “Unless it had nothing to do with Isi, and they were just attacking me…us. Perhaps they merely took Isi to try and blackmail us.”

  “No,” Blaise said, his thoughts racing. “Morshiel has never behaved this way before. He rarely ventures above ground. Both his and the revenants’ powers are decreased considerably the farther they are from the underground regions and the earth’s soul. This wasn’t a random attack. They went specifically to kidnap Isi before he reached Sanctuary’s protected boundaries. But how could Morshiel have known Saint sent Isi to me? Never mind,” Blaise said distractedly when he noticed Aubrey’s bemused expression. “We’ll put together a patrol and go into the tunnels. Perhaps we’ll get lucky and pick up Morshiel’s scent.”

  He strode toward the door, Aubrey following behind him. He dreaded having to contact Saint about this, but he did so, nonetheless, reaching out telepathically to his Sevliss brother in order to break the alarming news.

  Isabel lay on the couch and watched Blaise as he studied the maps lining the wall. He’d been restless when she entered his study that afternoon. He would try to converse with her, but then his gaze would wander back to the maps on the wall. Isabel had finally given up trying to speak to him and curled up on the couch before the fire.

  “I’m sorry,” he told her gruffly, glancing back at her after several minutes of silence.

  “It’s all right. I know you’re thinking about that man Morshiel kidnapped—Isi. Nothing has been discovered since the attack three days ago? Nothing at all?”

  Blaise shook his head, his back to her as he faced the maps again. She sensed the level of tension in his body. Ever since she’d asked him if he did not feel the urge to take her blood, he’d seemed more uncomfortable around her. Or maybe it was just his worry about Isi’s disappearance that had him so tense? They’d reached a comfort level, spending time together here in his study during these cozy afternoons. She regretted losing that closeness in their friendship.

  She wished it to be more than friendship. Wished it with all her being. Everything about him fascinated her—his gruff exterior that contrasted so poignantly with his quiet patience with her, her sure knowledge of his grief, and her admiration of his courage for persevering despite his suffering.

  She regretted that he would not act on the strong sexual charge that connected them like a live wire. She had the most overwhelming urge to touch him, to make love to him. The fact that he wasn’t entirely human didn’t seem to be dampening her desire in the least. She experienced none of the awkwardness she might with any other man from her past before the ice had been broken following sex. She felt closer to Blaise at times than any of her previous lovers, even though they’d never been intimate. Of course, it was ridiculous to consider Blaise in the same manner she would mortal men.

  Still…he wanted her. She could see the desire in his eyes as clearly as she saw the nose on his face.

  She stood from the couch and approached him from behind. He turned with preternatural speed when she reached out to touch him on the shoulder. He faded back, avoiding her hand.

  “Do you think I have the plague or something?” she asked, insulted.

  “Of course not.”

  “I know you are worried about Isi,” she said feelingly. “But are you also withdrawing from me because of what I said the other day? About whether or not you ever wanted to take my blood?”

  “I am not withdrawing from you. You are here with me, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Do you have any idea how guilty I feel about Isi? Saint is like a brother to me. Isi became my responsibility once he entered the territory of the United Kingdom. I have failed both of them,” he muttered under his breath, staring at the complex depiction of underground tunnels.

  Isabel had already understood from their discussions that the maps contained not only the generally known tunnels, but secret ones as well. She glanced at Blaise’s rigid profile, sensing his frustration, feeling the weight of his worry. If only there was something she could do to help him…

  “Lester Dee mentioned something to me once about a psychic who could locate objects just by using a map,” she said.

  Blaise turned to her slowly, his gaze turning sharp as a razor. “Are you saying you could possibly locate Isi on these maps by using your power?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I’ve never tried it before,” she admitted, hoping she wasn’t building up his expectations too far.

  “Will you have to touch the maps?”

  “Yes.”

  “Won’t it hurt you?”

  “It won’t be anything I can’t handle. I have to touch things for Lester’s research, after all.”

  “I would deeply appreciate it if you would try,” he said after a moment. “If it pains you too much, I will know it. I’ll stop it.”

  She smiled. “I have never told you that it can cause distress to touch objects. Why are you so worried?”

  He glanced away. “I have heard from Michael Lord, who researched your history and your power, that it can be painful for you. Besides…you wear the gloves, so it must be unpleasant.”

  “It’ll be all right,” she murmured, touched by his concern.

  He stepped back, looking hesitant. She worked her glove off her right hand. She paused with her fingertips a few inches ab
ove one of the well-worn maps.

  “Is there anything you can tell me that might guide me?” she asked Blaise.

  “Maybe. Morshiel tends to form hideouts in tunnels he and the revenants have managed to burrow over the centuries that are above or below the Tube. Sometimes they encounter natural caverns where they hide out for years without our knowledge. Other times they camp out in manmade structures, like the old brick-lined sewers or openings around the ancient structures left by the Romans. Morshiel forces his revenants to relocate his headquarters and belongings frequently. They live like outlaw gypsies, with the bizarre additional fact that Morshiel is bloody rich. His power is limited in the surface world, but it’s still significant. He can influence humans to lavish him with money and expensive items. He spends outrageously on luxurious furniture and priceless treasure. In his delusional mind, he makes the sewers a kingdom. He believes himself to be a sort of unfairly banished monarch. You’ve never seen anything like it. Infiltrating one of his abandoned hidey-holes is like discovering the Rat Prince’s palace,” he said dryly.

  He waved at the maps. “We have discovered many of his old hideouts, and added them to the maps, but there are many more we know nothing about. The only thing I can say for certain is that he doesn’t ever stay for any extended period of time in the Tube tunnels. He hunts there for human prey, but he doesn’t stay there for long.”

  “Above or below the Tube,” Isabel clarified under her breath. “I will have to concentrate on Morshiel. I have an image of him in my mind. I have never seen Isi, and I need a point of focus.”

  Blaise didn’t seem pleased about that, but he nodded.

  She touched the map.

  It happened quicker than she’d expected—quicker than when she touched most objects for Lester’s research. Perhaps it was because the maps had become a distilled form of knowledge, given Blaise’s long history and regular focus on them.

  A train roared through her mind followed immediately by a swarm of human consciousness, tramping feet, people rushing to make their train, worrying about being late—a veritable sea of surging thoughts and feelings.