The Vampire Dimitri rd-2

by Колин Глисон

  “Oh, Cezar would see me. You know that for certain.

  He’d be delighted to welcome me back into his lair.”

  Dark fear seized her. He was right. Chas would have no problem getting in to see her brother. It was the getting out that would be impossible. “Chas, please.” She hated that she begged; she’d given that up long ago.

  “Don’t insult me by implying your brother is more than a match for me,” he said, his voice a little flat. “You know what I’m capable of. And if we knew what his Asthenia was, I’d have brought it to him long ago.”

  Narcise tried to believe Chas. She wanted to believe him; and much of what he said rang true. After all, it had been her fault Cezar captured Chas before they made their escape.

  But as was the case for anyone who had been at the mercy of or tortured by another, it was hard to dismiss the sense of omnipotence that the captor inflicted upon the victim. And Cezar had done a good job of it over the course of decades.

  “You’ll be safe here, Narcise,” Chas said, gesturing to the stone walls. “He won’t find you, and then when I get back we’ll go to Wales.”

  They were in the cellar beneath the ruins of a former monastery in London, accessible through an old wall in a cemetery. All of the religious articles except around the building’s perimeter had been taken away, and those that remained were partly covered by moss and lichen. That made it uncomfortable and more than a little painful for her to come into the space, and Chas had to nearly carry her in, but that was only until she crossed the threshold and closed the lead-filled door behind her. Then the pain was gone and she could be comfortable.

  In fact, the chamber was rather luxurious, with a large bed, trunks, a table and chairs, and even a row of small venting windows to allow fresh air and filtered light into the space. Boxwood grew up and around the windows, which were at ground level, keeping the dangerous sun from streaming through directly. A thick rug covered the concrete floor, and a tapestry hung on one wall.

  Chas had discovered the place as a haven for a group of made vampires when he was hunting some years ago, and chased them all away. Those who escaped the point of his stake didn’t dare return, for he was fast and fierce. Aside of the physical attributes, he somehow had the innate ability to sense the presence of a Dracule. Even those of the Draculia couldn’t recognize the mere presence of another, and they certainly couldn’t identify the arrival of a vampire hunter like Chas. In combination with his speed and strength, which was nearly a match for any vampire, this ability made Chas Woodmore both feared and respected among the Dracule.

  “Very well,” she said, knowing she sounded a bit petulant. It was just that she’d hoped and planned and attempted to escape from her brother for more than a hundred years, and now that she’d finally done so, with Chas’s assistance, she was terrified that her freedom would be taken away from her.

  That Cezar would somehow find them. Or her. Or Chas.

  Damned or no, she would never allow herself back with Cezar. She’d wrap herself in those painful brown sparrow feathers and jump from a tower into the sunshine before allowing him to touch her again.

  Or his friends.

  Freedom was glorious.

  Chas looked at her from across the chamber, hesitated, as if trying to make up his mind, and then strode over to her. The next thing Narcise knew, she was flattened up against the cool stone wall, his hands on her face, his mouth crashing onto hers.

  She closed her eyes and kissed him back, their mouths molding and smashing together, tongues fighting and sliding. Her hands curled around his skull, fingers digging up into his thick, black hair as he pressed her into the wall as if to leave the imprint of his body on hers.

  “Be safe,” she managed to say as he pulled away to catch a breath. “Come back to me.”

  “I’m in love with you, Narcise,” he said, looking down at her with glittering green-brown eyes. He bent to brush a softer, farewell kiss against her throbbing mouth. “Make no mistake…I’ll return. But,” he said, stepping away, his face settling into something firm and serious. “While I’m gone, you have other things to attend to.”

  Narcise blinked, trying to pull herself out of the gentle, warm haze he’d caused to rise in her, to focus on him.

  “Do what you must do,” he said steadily, “to get beyond the past. Otherwise…” He shook his head, his mouth hard. “I love you, but I won’t wait for you to come to love me.”

  But I do love you. The words didn’t come, though she wanted them to. She knew they would be a lie. Dracule didn’t—couldn’t—love anyone but themselves. She’d made that mistake once before. “I can’t lose you, Chas.”

  But he’d turned and swept from the room.

  “Mr. Alexander Bradington has sent a message for you.”

  Maia froze, her hand holding the teacup halfway to her mouth. Her insides dropped, her face warmed, and she felt a rush of nausea replace the confusion that had been churning through her since returning early this morning. In the carriage with Corvindale.

  She looked over to see the earl’s butler in the entrance to the breakfast room, holding a small tray with a card on it.

  Maia forced herself to wait until he brought it over to her, calmly replacing the teacup in its saucer. Then, as no one else was present at the table or in the room, she broke the seal and unfolded the card.

  Darling Maia (if I may), it read, I returned last night from my travels. I should like to call on you at two o’clock this afternoon. Please advise if you will receive me then. Alexander.

  Relief exploded in her belly. Surely he wouldn’t call her "darling" if he were going to break the engagement or had otherwise changed his mind. Would he?

  Maia read the note again, concentrating on the words written therein and trying to glean any other sense or emotion from them. The phrasing was correct and polite, which was nothing more or different than she’d expect from him.

  Alexander was the consummate gentleman. It was the proper thing to do—to ensure that she was dressed and at home and prepared to see him. Even after his eighteen-month absence, he was so very considerate. Instead of rushing to see her at the earliest opportunity and interrupting her breakfast, he gave her notice of his intention. A proper gentleman.

  Her hands felt clammy and her stomach unsettled.

  She would not think about what she had been doing last night when Alexander was arriving home. She would not ever think about that again, now that her fiancé had returned.

  “Will there be a reply, Miss Woodmore?”

  “Oh,” she said. “Of course. I’ll return in one moment.” She rose from her chair and hurried out of the breakfast room and up to her chamber, where she kept her personal writing implements and stationery.

  Except that she wasn’t able to find a good ink pen in her drawer, and so she had to resort to rummaging through Angelica’s desk drawer for one. While she was doing so, she pulled out a sealed letter that had been tucked away beneath a box of note cards. Obviously something Angelica had meant to keep, but for some reason, hadn’t opened.

  Was there bad news in it? Something she didn’t want to know?

  Maia considered for a moment, looking at the strong masculine writing on the outside. It said merely Angelica. Sensitivity prickled over her arm. All at once, she knew: this was important.

  She had to read it, she reasoned. Angelica was gone. There was the chance she might not return…only for a time; for Maia wouldn’t allow herself to consider the worst, and Corvindale’s relative ease with the situation had given her confidence that Angelica would soon be safe.

  She smoothed her fingers over the envelope, wishing she had more than her intuition to direct her.

  Without further thought, she took the letter to a candle used for melting the wax for the seals and lit it. Holding the message just-so above the flame, she waited for it to soften just enough to be pried away, but without damaging or distorting the seal. Moments later, her steady hand rewarded her by lifting the black blob
of wax so that she could read the note.

  Angelica,

  I am very grateful for the information you provided me, and because of that, I plan to fulfill my end of the bargain and leave London. I bid you farewell, then, and offer you a warning: do not wear the rubies in the presence of Corvindale, or even at all while you are under his care. I intended the earbobs to be a jest that only he would comprehend, but in retrospect, I’ve reconsidered. Wearing them could only cause you hurt and, whether or not you believe it, that is the last thing I should ever wish upon you.

  Your servant, Voss.

  Dewhurst. She’d known it. Maia stared down at the message. A variety of emotions rushed through her, ranging from anger to shock to confusion.

  Where did one begin to make sense of this?

  Not to mention all of the other things she had to make sense of.

  What to do with the letter?

  Corvindale.

  The very thought of facing him after last night made her knees weak and her belly flutter. No. She absolutely could not. Her cheeks flamed.

  But he should see the letter. At the very least, he should read the reference to the earbobs—which had to be the rubies that had suddenly appeared in Angelica’s chamber.

  She’d told Maia a ridiculous story that they’d been part of Granny Grapes’s collection, but Maia was no fool.

  She hadn’t believed that story any more than she believed Angelica when she denied wearing Maia’s crocheted pink gloves on a picnic. They’d been stained with blueberry juice and had never come clean.

  According to the letter, Dewhurst—Voss—had intended to leave London. Apparently he’d changed his mind; perhaps because he learned that the vampire Belial meant to attack Angelica.

  Maia shook her head, bit her lower lip and drew in a deep breath. It had to be done.

  Blast it.

  Slowly Maia replaced the writing implements in her sister’s drawer and then her gaze fell on the note from Alexander. She’d forgotten about it, and that someone was waiting below for her response.

  Dashing off a quick reply that she would of course be pleased to see him anytime he wished to call, she started out of Angelica’s room. But then she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror and paused.

  Her eyes went immediately to the simple lace edging of her bodice…and the thin red scratch peeking up from behind it. Such a tiny wound; no worse than if she’d scraped herself with the edge of her fingernail. The bleeding had stopped last night and it was hardly noticeable, except when one was looking for it.

  Maia bit her lip again and tried to pull up the neckline to further hide it. It wasn’t so much that it was ugly, but what it represented.

  Ignoring the fluttering in her stomach, she looked away and took in the rest of her image.

  Her brown hair was smooth, pulled back in a simple twist for morning. Neat, if unexceptional. The hollows under her hazel eyes were darker than usual. Her cheeks were still pink from the mortifying thoughts of moments ago. And her mouth, with its fuller upper lip. She tried to press it flatter, so that both lips seemed to match…but she couldn’t keep the top one from appearing swollen and off balance. Messy.

  With a snort of disgust—for usually it was Angelica who spent time fawning in front of the mirror—Maia stalked out of the chamber. She was neat and well-groomed this morning, if a little plain in her simple coiffure and muslin day-dress. She didn’t look any different than she did any other day—which was to say, well. Rather pretty, in fact.

  But it didn’t matter one whit how she looked. She simply didn’t want to appear that she was overset by what had happened last night…or, alternatively, that she was trying to—what was the word?—appeal to him.

  Of course not.

  Corvindale was no more than an arrogant, rude, stormy earl who thought he controlled everyone. Glowering at her from across the seat in the carriage, he’d looked at her as if it were her fault that they were in there together. But then…he’d moved.

  Maia’s throat went dry as she remembered him, looming over her, gathering her up and crushing her to him. His hands, his mouth, the strength of his body against hers. Her knees felt weak, and she actually had to grip the railing of the staircase.

  It was his enthralling of me. His hypnotism.

  He made me want to touch him.

  Maia couldn’t banish the stark image of his head bent over her bared bodice, the dark splay of his fingers against the pale color of her gown and lighter skin. And with it, even now, came the jolts of hot pleasure, panging in her belly and lower. Definitely lower.

  Biting her lip, Maia shook her head in an attempt to clear her mind and to dislodge the memories. She felt no guilt.

  Why should she?

  She remembered when he looked at her so intently, catching her eyes and holding her gaze. He’d lured her in, just like Galtier the vampir had done to countless women in Granny Grapes’s stories. Although…Maia frowned. In the stories, the women never realized what had happened to them. They didn’t remember.

  Then another thought struck her. Had he done it previously, at the masquerade ball? Was that why she’d been so bold?

  The last vestige of guilt that might have lingered fled, leaving her much relieved. Certainly one little kiss after a few champagne drinks when her fiancé had been gone for eighteen months wasn’t the worst sin in the world, but Maia had had no little pang of remorse for it.

  Especially since she hadn’t been able to completely forget it. But now it had all become clear to her. She wasn’t complicit in anything. It hadn’t really been her fault.

  Lifting her head high, she squared her shoulders and continued down the stairs to the foyer. The butler, Crewston, was still waiting patiently and she handed him the note for Alexander.

  “Where is the earl?” she asked.

  “In his study, of course, miss,” he replied.

  Relief flooded her. At least he wasn’t in his bedchamber. Her face heated again at the thought…which was now accompanied by a tactile memory from when her hands had settled against his linen-covered chest last night…and she shoved the accompanying images away.

  Thus, her knock on the door to his study was bold and loud. If she had a squiggle of nervousness, Maia quickly squashed it and drew in a deep breath.

  When he bade her enter, in the same annoyed voice as he always had, she opened the door with confidence and strode inside. Immediately she smelled the age and must of old paper and worn leather, and a hint of pine mingling with woodsmoke and cedar. Masculine smells that reminded her of her father’s library…and yet, not precisely.

  As always, the curtains were drawn nearly completely together over each of the three windows that studded the exterior wall. And as before, she felt compelled to walk to the other end of the long chamber to open them. But this time she resisted the urge, understanding now why he blocked the sun. Nevertheless, the room was well-lit with lamps and candles so that it was as bright as day. And there was the barest crack of sunlight triangling through one set of drapes at the far end.

  Books lined the walls, many of the shelves appearing to be two and three rows deep. Piles of other tomes, messy and awkward, littered the floor, his desk, the table, even the cupboard where he kept whiskey and brandy. Papers joined them, scrolls, sheafs of parchment bound together, along with pens and ink. Maia had noticed on previous occasions that the majority of the works he studied weren’t written in English, but in a variety of languages—from Greek to Latin to Aramaic to others she didn’t recognize.

  He was writing when she came in, and even from her stance, she could see the splotches of ink on the paper. His penmanship was dark and bold, and rushed. He wrote with his left hand, and when he lifted it to dip the pen to refill its ink, she caught a glimpse of the smudge along the side of his palm. One of the perils of being left-handed, which was why she used blotting paper.

  She doubted he would take kindly to the suggestion.

  “What—” He looked up from beneath feroc
ious black brows. “Miss Woodmore.” He sounded exceedingly displeased.

  She tried not to look at him, but it was difficult not to notice the strong, bare forearms resting on the desk. The color of well-tanned leather, they were covered with dark hair and surprisingly muscular. His wrists were solid and his square hands capable and ink-stained, dusted with more hair on the backs of them. His coat was nowhere to be seen; nor was a waistcoat or neckcloth. Although, perhaps that rumpled pile in the corner chair was the coat. The white shirt he wore fit over broad shoulders and the string that tied it at the neck was loose, and it sagged, showing the hollow of his throat. And—Maia’s knees went weak again—a little bit of dark hair springing up from beneath.

  “I have something I believe you should see,” she said, ignoring the squirming in her gut and the flush rising once again in her cheeks. Stepping closer, she offered him the letter from Dewhurst.

  Corvindale hesitated, then, muttering something under his breath, fairly snatched the missive from her hand. He barely glanced at her, and Maia found that no small relief. He seemed even more ill-tempered than usual.

  Unable to stand still while he read the note, she walked to the far window and pulled the curtains open. Wide. With a good, hard, sweep of the heavy fabric.

  Corvindale flinched, but she wasn’t certain if it was from the letter or from her bold disregard for his preferences.

  It occurred to her, then, that she should be furious with the man for luring her into such improper situations. Why wasn’t she?

  Why, instead of being angry, or feeling violated—which she should feel—was she merely overwhelmed by the sensations…the eroticism…of the interludes? Recalling them with the same sort of wonder as she did those hot, red dreams?

  Why—

  “Where did you get this?” he said, breaking the silence.

  Maia turned. “It doesn’t matter. It’s obviously to Angelica from Lord Dewhurst. She hadn’t read it.”

  He glanced down at the letter, his lips twisting, then back up at her. “So you count lifting seals as another of your talents, Miss Woodmore?”