A Most Peculiar Season Series Boxed Set: Five Full-length Connected Novels by Award-winning and Bestselling Authors

by Michelle Willingham

  A member of the King’s personal guard, she assumed. A darkly handsome bleak-eyed man who seemed of an age with the King.He stood so still in the shadows, so unmoving, he could have been a statue, if it wasn’t for the flash of a diamond when he breathed. While his form seemed solid enough, tall and broad shouldered, the shadows around him shimmered strangely whenever her gaze drifted off him. A horribly familiar sort of shimmer. Surely he was not one of them? An Other.

  While he was as darkly handsome as the King, his cheeks were lean to the point of gauntness, his nose an arrogant jut from a face so severe, with his straight black brows and dark eyes, as to make her wonder what troubles he had seen. Watchful eyes. From time to time they rested on her face as if he was aware of her scrutiny and she had the sense being fixed in the deadly gaze of a predator. She shivered.

  She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. Surely the dazzle in the room played tricks with her vision.

  She forced herself to look away. When she glanced back a few minutes later, the Prince Regent was rising from his seat, King Vlad, the Bourbons and other royalty following in his wake. The man she had noticed followed in a blur of movement that confirmed her fear. Her skin flushed hot then cold. What if she had asked about him too? Orrick would have thought she was losing her mind, just like they thought her mother had.

  As her worst nightmare disappeared from view, she felt an odd sense of loss. As if their brief clash of eyes meant something important. Or as if she was some green girl falling for a man across a crowded room. Her heart gave a little thump. Oh, no, surely not.

  “Come, Sybil,” Orrick said loudly.

  She was surprised to see him already on his feet, his daughter’s hand tucked beneath his arm. They were both looking at her with puzzlement. As if they had been speaking to her and she’d failed to answer. Heat spread up from her neck to her face.

  If she wasn’t very careful they would guess something was wrong with her. She saw people others could not.

  Two nights after the farce of a fete given by the Regent, death, in the form of Anton Grazki, stalked Vauxhall’s Dark Walk. Destined to end another life. More cold to swell the space behind his ribs. A little more weight added to his shoulders. A little more of his soul destroyed.

  The unpleasant duty was a fitting punishment for Anton’s crime, some would say. Others thought he had been let off too lightly.

  He gazed deep into the shadows, scenting the air, listening for any out of place sound. If he had to do this, Vauxhall was as good a place as any other. Better than the filthy alleyways of St. Giles teaming with humans. Although another dead body there would hardly cause a remark.

  There. A rustle in the bushes a few yards off. A gasp of shock. The scent of warm human blood.

  He veered off the main walk and down a path twisting through the undergrowth. No pretty lanterns here to beat back the dark. Unnecessary for him. In starlight, he saw as clearly as if a thousand candles lit the way.

  He found his quarry behind a clump of lilac, two bodies writhing on the ground engrossed in their lust. One stride and he jerked the young male to his feet. The black eyes slowly focussed, the dreamy expression on the immature face slowly registering fear.

  “No,” he choked out. “I took but only a little blood. I did her no harm.”

  Anton glanced down at the unconscious girl and back to the male’s face. A respectable lad, though not of noble blood, since Anton did not know him.

  “Idiot,” he hissed. “She’s unconscious. Five more seconds and she would have died.” Vampires never killed humans and lived. It was within his rights, nay it was his duty, to call this male rogue and end his existence. Mercy was not his to give. He followed only the letter of the law. He was the King’s Blade.

  Yet how would it help for this boy to die? Anton believed him when he said he intended no harm. Another son dead would not help Vlad’s cause with his people.

  “Gods forgive me,” the young man said. He fell to his knees his face full of terror.

  This was not one of those wreaking havoc among their people. Simply a foolish youth struggling with his baser urges. Anton knew well the kind of mistakes such a boy could make.

  Distant sounds invaded his highly tuned senses. The scurry of footsteps almost drowned by the sounds of laughter far away. Humans. They also had little control of their appetites. He willed a shadow to blanket them from view and gripped the young male’s throat. “What is your name?”

  “Micael Kessler,” the young man gasped. “Please, lord, grant me mercy for my mother’s sake.”

  Anton glared at him, let the red in his eyes blaze. “It is for the King to have mercy.”

  The lad shuddered, his shoulders slumping. “Tell my mother, I am sorry.”

  Damn it all. “Get you gone.” He pushed him aside.

  The lad staggered backwards, breathing hard, his eyes darting in terror. He wiped a hand across his lips, smearing a drop of blood. “I... Thank you.”

  “Say one word to anyone and I will change my mind. And don’t let me catch you at such tricks again.”

  Micael fled.

  Gods, he was losing his edge. Any more such gestures and he’d find himself facing the slow painful death ordered by the King several centuries ago. He glanced down at the woman on the ground. One of the prostitutes who haunted this place, from her dress. She lay as if boneless, the small wounds at her neck leaking blood onto the bodice of her gown. The rhythm of her beating heart thumped in his ears. Slowly her eyes fluttered opened and fixed on his face.

  He crouched down by her side.

  She opened her mouth to scream.

  He bared his fangs and cupped her face in his hands.

  Panicked, Sybil hurried along first one path then another, until she was no longer sure which way led back to the pavilion. But where oh where was Caroline? One moment she’d been dancing with an unexceptional young man, the next she’d disappeared. Sometimes she really was too much. Sybil’s heart faltered as she hurried along lesser used pathways. Shadows closed in. She glanced around, praying she would see nothing, yet she felt a strange prickling over her skin.

  They were out there, those creatures. The Others.

  She shuddered and forced her mind to focus on her task.

  Caroline. She had to find the girl before she did something stupid. Like get herself ruined. It was too bad of Orrick to have agreed to this outing and then cry off in favour of meeting a friend at his club. Sometimes he was the only person able to make Caro see sense.

  A voice. Off to her right, A man’s voice, deep and threatening. Silence.

  Could Caro be in trouble. Sybil ran around a bend in the path. A man. Kneeling over something on the ground beside a shrub.

  The man glanced over his shoulder at her approach.

  She recognized him instantly. The man behind King Vlad at Carleton House. “You!”

  His eyes widened. He shot to his feet looking decidedly startled and shocked. He bowed. “Madam,” he said. His voice was deeply resonant with the faint trace of a French accent.

  At his feet she saw the lower limbs of a woman, her feet and calves, the hem of her red skirt. Not Caroline. Relief washed through her, then anger. “What are you doing?”

  He stepped back, the air around him shifting and blurring his form for a brief moment. “She fainted, I think. I found her here. I thought she needed help.” His dark eyes narrowed as his gaze swept her person.

  Sybil swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. How could she have been so stupid as to acknowledge his presence. But the girl— “Is she all right?”

  “If you would care for her, while I fetch assistance...” His question tailed off, waiting for her assent.

  He sounded so calm. So self assured. So dark and lean and....hungry. Instinct warned she should run.

  The woman on the ground groaned.

  An unmistakable cry for help. Sybil ran to her side and knelt. The girl put a hand to her head and gazed around her. “Lawks, miss, I dunno what came ove
r me. Got dizzy all of a sudden.” She made as if to get up.

  Sybil pressed her palm to the girl’s forehead. She felt a trifle warm. She caught the girl’s lax hand in hers and felt the pulse at the wrist. Steady enough.

  Muffled sounds of a large party of revellers on the main walk grew louder. She glanced up at the man. “She needs a doctor. Do you think, sir, you could indeed find someone to give her aid?” Would he, given what he was?

  He inclined his head, his black eyes fixed on her face. “A votre service, madame.” Instead of leaving, he stepped closer, staring into her eyes, she felt a faint waive of nausea.

  The girl whimpered. “I think I’m going to cast up me accounts.”

  “Sybil,” a voice called. A familiar voice. Thank the heavens. She stood up. “Caroline. I’m over here.”

  The man was staring at her with a strange expression, his black brows drawn down in a frown. Not anger. Puzzlement. Her stomach gave a strange little flutter at the intensity of his gaze. “If you please, sir. This woman needs help.”

  He bowed and strode away his black evening cloak swirling around him.

  “Quickly,” Sybil called after him as the girl rolled over and began retching miserably.

  “Here you are,” Caroline said, sounding cross. A group of her young friends stood behind her staring at Sybil. Looking at her as if she had lost her mind. “I have been searching all over for you,” Caroline said. “Don’t you know better than to wander about alone—” She frowned. “Who is that?”

  “I don’t know. I found her instead of you.” She looked down at the girl and smiled encouragingly. “What is your name?”

  The woman sat up and touched a hand to her temple with a frown. “Millie,” she gasped, as if the name had been hard to recall. “Me name’s Millie.”

  “Do you think you can sit up, now, Millie?” When the girl nodded, she helped her to sit up straight.

  “I say, Miss Lofstrom,” said Lord Bertram, one of the young men who had accompanied Caroline. “She is not the sort of female—”

  Sybil’s temper flared. “She’s a person, isn’t she?”

  The young man nodded vigorously. “Yes. A person. Yes.”

  “Wot’s all this then?” A burly man in Vauxhall Gardens livery strolled into their midst. “Ladies, Gentlemen, Bert Puddle. Of the Watch.” He turned a gimlet eye on the girl on the ground and blew out a breath making his moustache puff away from his lips. “Ah, I see wot it is. Now then, Millie. Wot are you up to, disturbing these nice ladies and gentlemen. You’ll be in trouble, you will, if you’ve been a robbin’...”

  “Millie was taken ill,” Sybil said.

  The guard’s eyes narrowed. “Too much blue ruin is it, my lass?”

  “Not ‘ad a drop all night, guv,” Millie grumbled.

  “A likely story.” The guard took her by the arm and helped her to her feet. “Aye, right. I can smell it on you.”

  And so could Sybil. Strange that she hadn’t noticed the smell before. Too busy admiring the stranger who’d been holding this woman in his arms. An Other who must have engaged in—. Oh she so did not want to think about such a thing. She brushed the dirt and twigs from her skirts. “Will you be all right now, Millie?”

  “She will be,” the guard said. “I’ll see her off. Don’t you worry, miss.”

  “Let us go,” Caroline said, peering around her with a shiver. “There’s something very unpleasant about this place.”

  Sybil turned back to the watchman. “The man I sent to fetch you, did he give you his name?”

  Puddle frowned. “I don’t rightly recall a gent, miss.”

  She looked at Millie. “I don’t remember any gent,” the girl said, touching her hand to her temple.

  What? She turned to Caro who shook her head. “You were alone when we arrived.”

  Caro took a deep breath. Now was not the time to talk about people no one else could see. Not if she valued her life.

  “What means this, you killed him not.” Vlad’s quiet tone held lethal anger as he spoke in their ancient language. A more formal language than the English they used around their hosts.

  Anton met the frigid gaze of his King head on, not something he did as a general rule. Vlad did not tolerate insubordination. Or anything that smacked of usurping his power. His hold on the Race was far too tenuous to show any weakness. “He is not one of those we seek. A fool of a lad, barely fledged. I judged it youthful wildness. He will not err again, your Majesty.”

  “You judged?” General Sergai, the King’s chief advisor and head of their army, thrust out a grey-bearded chin, a hard light in his eyes “Since when is it the place of the King’s Blade to make judgements contradicting the orders of our King? Never mind the requirements of our Laws.” Venom dripped from his tongue. Ever since Anton had been found guilty of killing Sergai’s son, the reason a death sentence hung over Anton’s head, Sergai had wanted the sentence carried out. He would rejoice to see Anton fall from the King’s favour. Little as it was.

  Anton bowed politely. “Lord Sergai, are there not enough malcontents among the people, that I should create more over a blood-fevered youth? He will not be given a second chance, I assure you.”

  Prince David, lanky and serious, sitting one step below the King frowned. “It is unlike you to be so generous, Anton.”

  “He is just a boy. And an only son,” Anton said.

  “Now such things trouble you?” Sergai snarled.

  No apology had made amends for the death of Sergai’s only son, and nor would it now, so Anton ignored the jibe. He had no right to object to the other man’s hatred. He glanced upwards at the ceiling where Barac looked down on the King’s court and offered a silent prayer for fortitude to bear the other man’s hatred. “I did what I thought was right, my lord.” He bowed low. “I leave it to the King to judge my actions.”

  Viscompte Dryden leaned close to him, also glancing upwards. He swayed, off balance and grabbed Anton’s arm. “No sense in asking that lot for help.” The man’s breath reeked of blood, opium and brandy. “The gods care nothing for our troubles,” he slurred.

  Anton tried not to show his disgust. Dryden was a disgrace to their race, but the King valued his experience. He was one of the few who had survived the Wars of the Races. Who had actual memories of what went before. Terrible memories according to some.

  “Perhaps they require atonement from us,” Anton said.

  Dryden snorted. “Nothing can atone for genocide.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The man adjusted the full-bottom wig he favoured over the current fashion for short hair. He blinked blearily. “Who the hell knows what I mean? Where’s that damn light-servant with the brandy?” He wandered away. The man had the attention span of a gnat. Vlad was wrong to think he still had value. He was naught but a drunken sot.

  “Anton,” the King said. “What of the message you received? Are you saying it was sent to mislead?”

  They’d received a note signed by a concerned citizen directing him to seek the vampire-killer at Vauxhall. It was not unusual for the lower orders to wish to remain out of the eye of their King. “The lad was after human blood, not vampire. He took a little more than was wise. I closed her wound and erased her memories. She will recall nothing.”

  “You were not seen?” Sergai put in brusquely.

  He could lie. But there was something in Sergai’s eyes that said he would be making a mistake if he did. It wouldn’t be beyond reason to suspect Sergai of having him followed. “A human female came upon me before I left.”

  “You were not shielded?” The King frowned deeply. To have forgotten to use the shadows would be the mistake equal to that of the boy’s taking too much human’s blood.

  He had not forgotten. He was sure of it. Yet she had seen him. And had seemed to recognize him. It was that recognition that had caused his delayed reaction to her arrival. A recognition he had been puzzling over ever since. “I was in much haste.”

  “So yet anoth
er human mind had to be cleansed,” Sergai said in disgust.

  The cleansing of human minds, blocking memories of things they should not see, was forbidden by King’s edict, except in cases of imminent danger to a member of their species. Only a few were capable of effective sanitization. Most right thinking vampires abhorred the practice and most avoided direct contact with humans when they were about vampire business, using the ancient art of shadowing to cloak their presence when moving among the race with whom they shared the world. When mingling with them, all took care not to let humans suspect they were in anyway different.

  “I had no opportunity to do so. Others arrived within seconds.”

  “Horse dung, Anton.” Vlad struck the arm of his throne a heavy blow with a powerful fist. “See it cleaned up before the stink covers us all.”

  Should he voice his suspicion that she saw through the shadowing? He recalled the way she had looked at him, puzzled, concerned, fearful, but not terrified. He could still see the her face, not pretty, but striking with those light grey eyes. His fangs itched at the memory of the pale fragile skin of her long elegant neck, the blue veins so close to the surface, the fluttering beat of her heart loud in his ears. The knowledge that the blood pulsing through her slender body would be heady and sweet had frozen him for several seconds. He still tasted the echo of her flavour on his tongue, tempting his inner beast

  The King’s eyes narrowed. “Anton?”

  He bowed. “Your will shall be done, Sire.” Erasing memories after more than a few minutes had passed created difficulties for the victim, headaches, confusion, self doubt. In this case, he didn’t have a choice. And it would be an opportunity to test her abilities. If she really could see him when he was cloaked in shadows, she would require a very different solution.

  “What of the assassinations?” the King asked returning to his most pressing worry. “Ten males dead within two weeks. People are afraid. There is talk of asking Vilhelm to take command.”