Neither of them spoke. Leonore did not know how long this comfort would last and was reluctant to disturb it. She gazed at Nicholas; he glanced at her, then sighed. But he put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to him, while his other hand took her hand and held it tightly.
By the time they arrived home, the snow had collected thickly upon the street. Nicholas put his hand under her elbow, steadying her as she stepped down. Carefully watching her feet so that she would not slip, she made her way to the door. But then Nicholas’s sharp gasp made her look up and her hand flew to her mouth to suppress a scream.
The snow had covered most of the body that leaned against the door, but it did not cover the blood seeping from Edmonds’s neck, or conceal the odd angle of his head and the open, sightless eyes.
Nicholas’s arms came around her and pulled her close to him. Leonore burrowed her head into his chest, trying to block out the image still before her eyes. She heard odd, whimpering sounds and realized they were coming from herself. Her breath came fast, and she swallowed the rising nausea in her throat. Nicholas spoke, whispering something harsh, then his voice rose.
“Grimes, take her ladyship around to the back of the house and make sure she is safely inside.”
“Y-yes, yer lordship.” Leonore could hear the groom clear his throat. “Cor, is ’e dead, then, yer lordship?”
“Yes. Now snap to it, man! Take her ladyship inside.” Nicholas pushed Leonore away from him slightly and stared at her. Dread showed clear in his eyes. “Get inside, Leonore. I will attend to this.” She did not move. “Go, now.” He gave her a push toward the carriage.
Leonore climbed shakily into it. She felt numb, not conscious of cold, and not remembering how she got to her sitting room once she entered the house. She felt a warm cup pressed into her hand and looked up into her maid’s frightened eyes.
She took a sip of tea, then made herself sit up straight. Leonore dared not rise, for her shaking legs could not possibly hold her up. She put a firm, confident expression on her face, and pressed Betty’s hand.
“You have heard …”
“Yes, my lady. Mr. Edmonds, he … He …” The maid’s voice shook. “Oh, Gawd, my lady, I’m that scared. Are we going to be killed in our beds?”
“No, of course not. I will not tell you to stop being frightened, Betty, for it is a dreadful thing.” Leonore squeezed the maid’s hand again reassuringly. “But I am certain it was some robber from whom … Edmonds … successfully defended us with his life. You may be sure his lordship will take care of it. Perhaps we will pay the watch to pass by our house more often, just in case.” She had trouble saying the dead man’s name, but she forced herself to say it.
Betty looked a little relieved. “Shall I tell the other servants, my lady?”
“Yes, do. I would not want them disturbed any more than they are already. You may tell them they can have every confidence that Lord St. Vire will make sure it does not happen again.”
The maid let out a long sigh. “Yes, my lady.” She curtsied and hurried out of the room.
Leonore put down her cup, her hand shaking so that the cup rattled on the saucer. She closed her eyes, leaning against the cushioned back of her chair. The heat from the fireplace seeped into her clothing, and her feet and hands ached with returning warmth. She wanted Nicholas here badly now, though she knew he was probably sending for the authorities. Part of her wanted the comfort of his arms around her so that she could press her face into his chest and block out the image of— No. She would scream if she thought of it.
But more than that, she wanted Nicholas to explain what she had heard whispered from his lips. She had thought he had called upon God for mercy upon Edmonds’s soul, but he had repeated the word clearly, and she knew he had not spoken of God at all. It was a name, and one she hated.
“Mercia,” he had said. “Mercia.”
Chapter Sixteen
God. Oh, God. St. Vire pushed open his chamber door and sank down upon the first chair he saw. He pushed his fingers through his hair, then drew his hands down again to press the palms against his eyes. What have I done? What in God’s name have I done?
It was all his fault, he knew. Oh, he was certain Mercia had killed his valet. The body had her signature upon it—almost emptied of blood and a broken neck. She sometimes liked to do that last thing: It gave her a sense of power. It was her warning, her threat made real. He should have remembered it; he should have done something to have stopped her.
Too late. He’d set the events in motion with his desire to feel, see, and taste clearly again. He’d been arrogant, starting on the spell without thought of the possible consequences. His new friends were no doubt in danger, and his servants. If he hadn’t started this course, Edmonds would not be dead now, and the threat of death would not hang over Leonore’s head.
But how was he to know? He had little idea that emotions would rise in him to give birth to a damnably awkward conscience. It had confused him, and he had not been able to act in his customary logical, expedient way. Perhaps Mercia had been playing with him all along, slowly showing him her power and bending him to her will. She would kill Leonore. Not now; Mercia was impatient, but she savored the anticipation of the kill. It was her pattern, the way she always behaved. He’d forgotten it in the long space of time since he’d seen her in Paris. He had hesitated—now look at him! Nicholas pulled at his hair and groaned with self-disgust. He was wallowing in his newfound emotions, self-indulgent like a pig in swill.
Leonore. She was no doubt sitting by herself, frightened, and he had left her alone with her fear. At the very least he could go to her and give her what comfort he could. He’d already spoken with the local magistrate, Sir Justin Blake, with whom he had played many a friendly game of whist. Nicholas was certain the man would do everything possible to settle the matter of Edmonds’s death. Then he and Leonore would leave this place, leave London for Avebury.
She was not in her bedroom, so he descended the stairs to her sitting room. At first he did not see her, for the chair in which she sat faced away from the door. A slight movement told him she was there, and he went to her. Her hat was on the floor, and her hair tumbled down around her shoulders. She stared blankly at him, her arms crossed across her chest. She breathed in small gasps, shaking as if with a fever, and her lips trembled.
“Nicholas …” she whispered. “Nicholas …”
He reached for her and she flinched. A sharp pain raked through his heart at her reaction, but he pulled her up out of the chair and into his arms. Her body was stiff and trembling against him.
“Hush, Leonore, sweet. Hush, my love.” Nicholas stroked her hair and her back, and gradually she relaxed. Her breath slowed and became even. He led her to the sofa and cradled her in his lap. He kissed her on her forehead, her cheek, and gently on her mouth. “I’ve taken care of it. You need not worry; I have talked with Sir Justin—he believes it was some footpad who had overtaken Edmonds as he was coming back from his night out.”
A large sigh caused Leonore’s shoulders to lift and fall. For one moment she leaned into him.
Her body stiffened. She pushed against him and stumbled from his lap. She stared at him, and pain struck him anew, for her eyes were still frightened.
“Is it, Nicholas? Is it truly taken care of?”
He could not look at her. “Of course. Have I not said it?”
“Yes, but you said something else, earlier, when we found— You said her name.”
“Her?”
“Mercia. Lady Lazlo. What does she have to do with this?”
“You must be mistaken.” Perhaps he had said it—he did not remember. He remembered thinking Mercia’s name when he first gazed at Edmonds’s body. He made himself shrug.
“Don’t lie to me, Nicholas. Don’t lie!” Leonore’s voice was low and shaking. He looked into her eyes, and they were filled with fear and anger. “I will not have it, not any longer. No facades, no lies. I cannot turn aside my face fro
m what is happening in our marriage. I have tried, and I cannot.”
She turned from him, staring into the fire, her hands clenched. “I do not understand you, Nicholas, though I thought I once did. You lavish gifts upon me and my family; you take me in your arms as if I … meant something to you. You kiss Lady Lazlo—I saw it!—and pay attention to her so that the gossip about you grows every day. Now Edmonds is dead, and you say her name when you saw his … his body. I don’t think it was a footpad, Nicholas. What is the truth? What does Lady Lazlo have to do with your valet?” Leonore turned again, her eyes willing him to speak.
He leaned back upon the sofa, tipping his head and staring at the ceiling. What could he say? That he was a vampire? He loved her, but would she believe him? He wanted to tell her what he was; he had hinted and come close to telling her so many times, had almost blurted it out to her. He felt tired, tired to his very soul, and wished she would leave him alone.
“Go away, Leonore. Did I not tell you long ago that I was a bad man? So I am. This is all my damned fault. You would do better not to live with me. You deserve better.”
“I cannot believe you killed your valet. That is nonsense. You were at Lady Comstock’s ball tonight. I saw you and so did the other guests. Heaven only knows no one could have ignored that costume of yours.” Her voice had calmed and grew steady.
He let out a short, angry laugh. “No, of course I did not murder my own valet. That would have been stupid, for I do not know how I will find another who polishes boots to perfection as he did.” He lifted his head and gazed at her, watching her reaction to his sneering words. Her lips pressed together in a thin line before she spoke again.
“Stop it, Nicholas! You are not as vain as you make yourself out to be, either. That is yet another facade you wear, is it not? You act and pose, and none of it is really you.”
“So you wish to know what the real Nicholas St. Vire is, eh, Leonore?” He sank back on the sofa and gazed at the ceiling again. God, he was tired of it all. A resentful anger burned in him. It did not matter if she knew what he was. Either way she would hate him, and if she made her repugnance clear to everyone, it might give her some safety. He shrugged and felt infinitely old, infinitely weary.
“I will tell you, my dear. I am a vampire. So is Mercia Lazlo. She killed my valet.”
Silence, and then: “Nonsense!”
He raised his head and looked at her. “Really? And what do you know about such things?”
“I have read—”
“Nonsense!” Nicholas said, mimicking the same dismissing, angry voice she had used. He stood up and strode toward her.
Leonore took a step backward. He laughed nastily. “Frightened, are you? And so you should be. Do you think me mad? Perhaps I am. But I tell you, there are things you have not seen or experienced that exist in the world. Angels, demons, sprites, and, yes, vampires.”
“No.” Leonore stared at him, her breath coming short, and shook her head slowly. “No.” Not mad, please not mad, she prayed.
“Oh, yes. Shall I show you?” He muttered some words, and a strange lizardlike creature blazed in the palm of his hand. “Can you—or anyone else—do this?” He threw the fiery creature into the fireplace, and the fire blazed high for a moment. “Or this?” He seized a poker and bent it in half, easily. He tossed it away from him, and it clanged upon the floor. She flinched at the sound and closed her eyes. A shudder went through her, and she stared wildly at him again.
“Not real,” she whispered. “It is not real.” It could not be—she was in a nightmare, she was sure. She swallowed. It was some kind of trick. Or perhaps she, herself, had gone mad. “If you are a vampire as you say, then your teeth—?” she said reasonably. A hysterical giggle almost bubbled from her lips. How ridiculous it sounded. But she looked at the fire and at the bent iron poker still before her, and dread seeped into her.
A frustrated expression crossed Nicholas’s face. “So you cannot see them? But I can. Every time I look in the mirror, I can see what I am.”
The mirror. Leonore remembered their wedding night when he had “accidentally” broken the mirror, the shards of glass—another mirror, she knew now—in his attic library. And the books in the library, the books of magic. She swallowed the fear that rose in her. No, no, he was teasing her, surely.
She looked into his eyes and saw no teasing there, only anger and despair. Her breath came out in a moan. All the things she had known since she had wed Nicholas—his condition, the way the sunlight hurt him, how he could not go out except at night … And he was pale, more than was fashionable, though with his elegant appearance, all London assumed it was fashion. But surely, surely not …
Nicholas laughed again, a short and despairing noise. “Still you do not believe me!” He stepped closer to her, his eyes still angry and now abruptly intent. “You have read gothic novels, Leonore. Shall I show you how vampires use their teeth?”
Sharp fear and trembling shook her, but Leonore breathed deeply and stilled herself. “You will not, Nicholas. You will not, I know it.” She did not know what made her say it, but her words were an acceptance of everything: the death of Edmonds, what Nicholas told her, here, now. Reality sank into her, sharp as a knife. She saw everything clearly, then tears obscured her vision. Grief pierced through her—she was dying, surely.
His fingers came up to caress her cheek and feathered down her neck. She shivered with both desire and fear and nearly wept with confusion and growing despair. His hand curved around her throat.
“But I have done it, my dear wife. Most certainly I have. Right here—” He tenderly stroked the hollow above her collarbone. “So soft … sweet.”
“You will not,” she repeated. “Not now.” She spoke slowly, feeling her way through her emotions toward something deep within that she could not quite name. Her fear had somehow dissipated, leaving her numb, yet oddly clear-minded.
“How do you know that?” His voice turned sneering. “Did you not accuse me of betraying you?” His hand tightened.
She closed her eyes, then stared at him, at his angry eyes, full of self-loathing. “You care for me. You have said it, you have acted upon it, even when it was not necessary and even after your so-called betrayal.” His hand fell from her throat.
“Oh, God. Oh, God, Leonore,” he sighed, his breath ragged, and his mouth descended swiftly—to her lips. His lips moved across hers, and he kissed her deeply, sweetly. He parted from her, caressing her hip, bringing her close to him. “I am mad, I have lost all my reason, surely you know that.”
She should run from him instead of standing here, letting him hold her. She closed her eyes. Surely she was mad, also. But madman or vampire, she did not care. She let him caress her, let him kiss her mouth, her cheek, her neck. He paused there, and she drew a deep, convulsive breath.
“Do it, Nicholas,” she whispered. “If you are a vampire, do it.”
A harsh sigh, almost a sob, broke from him, and he brought his lips down swiftly to her throat. She could feel his tongue touch her skin. She trembled, half in fear, half in desire, for the sensations were no different from when he had made love to her. His teeth slowly, sharply, scraped across the flesh of her neck.
A deep groan came from him, and he pushed her, hard, away from him. She stumbled and fell upon her knees.
“Go away. Go away, Leonore, before I hurt you.” He raked his fingers through his hair, turning from her. Leonore pulled herself up and stood.
“You are not a vampire.”
Nicholas gave a short, breathless laugh. “Oh, yes, I am. You don’t know how close I came to drinking your blood this time. You truly don’t. I can’t wake before sunrise, for the sunlight will kill me, and if I enter a church I will experience an agony so intense that I will wish I were dead. Do you remember? I fainted like a vaporish bride at the wedding.”
“Why did you marry me?”
“I did not want to be a vampire anymore.”
There, he had said it. Relief flowed over
Nicholas, making him feel dizzy. He had told her everything, what he was and why he had married her. She had not run from him, not yet. The leaden feeling that had lodged in his chest almost disappeared, and he felt light. He paced restlessly before the fireplace.
“Do you know what it is like, to have all your senses dulled? It is like seeing through a veil, touching through a glove. I hear, but melodies escape me; I taste, but no flavors stay on my tongue.” He glanced at Leonore, who stood beside a chair, clutching it. “That is what it’s like, being a vampire … except when the bloodthirst comes. Everything becomes sharp for the hunt, and only then. It is a madness. Soon the desire for sensation overcomes you, and you begin to live for the bloodlust, and slowly a vampire becomes mad.”
“Of course, you would not want to become deranged,” Leonore said, her voice a whisper.
“No, no, I did not,” Nicholas said eagerly. Perhaps she understood; perhaps it would not matter to her. “I found a spell, one that would make me human again.”
“And I was to be part of it, is that it?”
“Yes, it was necessary, necessary that you come to me willingly …” He stopped, for Leonore was staring at him, her face still and white.
“How I hate you,” she said.
Nicholas held out his hand to her, almost touching her, but she flinched from him. “Please, Leonore, I—”
“Don’t touch me.” She stepped back from him.
His breath left him. Of course. Of course, he could not expect it of her, that she would accept him, the monster that he was.
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