Dante felt the vibration of her reply against his lips. He felt her skin quiver.
"If my brother truly knew me well, he would shake in his boots," she said. "My mere thoughts would bring him to his knees in despair."
"Then it is better he gets no wind of your talents, dearest Elizabeth. That is a fact."
Had Elizabeth become deranged, Dante wondered? Had her loss of blood confused her? Why would Alan Rothchilde fear any woman, let alone his own sister?
"My fee, Dante," Elizabeth muttered.
"Fee?" His mouth hovered above hers, where the scent of blood came to him on the air she exhaled.
His hunger returned. Desire strained at his breeches.
Elizabeth looked up at him wearing an unreadable expression.
"My fee for the help I will offer is that you must come to me when I call. Always. Regardless of whom it is you envision beneath you, I will have your…"
"Yes?" Dante prompted.
"Friendship. Fealty. Will you swear to this, Dante?"
"It is something you needn't have wasted a wish on, Elizabeth."
Words seemed to bubble deep within Elizabeth's chest. A rivulet of blood, now nearly slowed to a trickle, would be inhibiting her breath, Dante knew. The loss of blood would be choking her, weakening her.
"We have a bargain, then," Elizabeth whispered, voice rattling, then trailing off into oblivion.
"We have, indeed, my fair one." At least until I know what you are about.
"Dante?" Elizabeth called, barely.
"Yes?"
"I will kill you myself before I will allow my brother to do it."
"A comforting pledge, dearest Elizabeth, to be sure. I feel much better already."
Dante ran his fingers over her neck, brought a bit of caked blood to his lips. But he did not taste what lay upon his finger. His hunger was too dire. He was too needy. And she could lose no more of her life's essence.
Elizabeth's lips parted. She strained, winced, spoke in hushed phrases. "I wonder," she said.
Dante leaned in closer to hear.
"I wonder… why no one… saved me."
As Dante stared down at her peaked face, and swept the honey-hued hair back from her dampened brow, he made a vow.
No further harm could come to Elizabeth. She was much too valuable. Much too endearing… and delectable.
No harm would come to her.
He would see to it.
Chapter Nine
« ^ »
The steward, carefully chosen for his discretion and similar nocturnal appetites, opened the door to Dante's rooms. The space was dark, its walls heavily concealed by burgundy draperies, its windows boarded by thick wooden shutters.
Dante brushed past.
"My duke," the steward said, "you have a visitor."
Dante paused, said wryly, "Dessert, perchance? How thoughtful."
The steward's face was covered by the glow of an uneasy sweat. "The lady would not hear a word of protest." A gold coin lay exposed on his open palm. "Little enough use the coin will do me when you have me hung for admitting her."
Dante sniffed the air, where a strange scent floated. Soap? Lye? Old bruised skin?
He turned.
A woman stood in the corner, barely discernable in the dark, save for an expanse of light-skinned face. An old woman, Dante saw, dressed in black. The black of a nun's habit? The black of mourning?
"I am distressed to have disturbed you, Duke Dante," the woman offered in a seraphic voice.
The skin on Dante's arms chilled. His nose wrinkled.
"I have but little time here," the woman added. "The guards will soon find me."
"Are guards after you?" Dante inquired.
"Protection is what they suppose. From what, one might wonder?"
"Thieves? Assassins? Monsters?" Dante suggested.
"You know of such dangers in this castle?"
Dante smiled.
"You find my plight amusing?" the woman queried, showing, Dante thought, some bravado, though her hands were clenched and her teeth chattered.
"I know nothing of any plight," Dante said, smiling more.
The woman's lips parted as if she would protest, though she did not. Her lips were, Dante noted, thin and dry, and no doubt an example of what else lay beneath her dress. She smelled of leather.
"Is this the way people behave at court?" she demanded at length. "Does everyone here find amusement in my girl's torment?"
"Your girl?"
"Lady Wallace."
Most interesting, Dante thought. Most interesting, indeed.
"Has Lady Wallace sent you here?" he asked. "Is it not an unusual time to come calling?"
"She has not sent me. I seek answers."
"Ah, it is not to be a rendezvous, then?" Dante countered. "How disappointing."
"Rendezvous?"
The woman spoke the word with a perfect French accent. Dante knew her tongue had wrapped around this word in her mouth. He imagined what her withered tongue would feel like wrapped in such a way around his cock. An image came to him of how her grainy flesh would hang shapelessly from her brittle old bones. Like a plucked chicken.
He grimaced.
"Does the term 'rendezvous' not mean, in actuality, mystery and false alliances?" the woman said, wary of his lightness.
"Why yes, I suppose it does," Dante agreed. "But I am tired. Get to the point, if you will."
"I have come to ask your help."
"And how might I be of help to a woman such as yourself?"
"Rumor…" The woman paused, started over. "I have been forewarned about you."
"Nothing too dire, I trust?"
"At the same time, I have also heard tell that you are a gentleman. Is this true?"
"Not particularly, I'm afraid. A title is never a guarantee, you know."
How many years had it been since he had been a gentleman? Too many to count. Too far to go back.
The woman sidled toward the door as far as she could without passing Dante. He now caught the scent of her fear. Pungent, fermented, withered.
"Your lady sent me a note," Dante said.
This seemed to startle the woman. Her head came up and tilted, as if she would look at his comment from all angles. Her cheeks were strained above her black collar. "She sent no note to you, sir. She would not dare do such a thing."
"Then it seems I was mistaken."
And who could have sent the note? Dante wondered now. If the angel had not, who had? Why hadn't he read the blasted thing?
"Perhaps Elizabeth Rothchilde sent it," the woman said.
Dante's eyes crept slowly up her wrinkled face.
"It was she who suggested I gain your confidence," the woman explained.
"Elizabeth is a thoughtful woman," Dante confirmed, fingers curling, back rigid with the mention of Elizabeth's name.
"You did see Lady Wallace tonight?" the woman asked. "It was you who came to her?"
Dante observed how her hands went to her throat, and then, catching him watching her, the woman dropped her hands to her sides. She would be the angel's servant. Perhaps even a relative less fortunate than the angel. Unless one considered where the angel was and what her fate would be.
"What is it you want here?" Dante asked impatiently, hearing in the thick walls the resonance of Elizabeth's voice imploring him to stay well clear of Alan Rothchilde's bride.
The woman across from him reeked of dread. The room stank of it. The odor was all too familiar. Ten foot-thick walls sealed them off from the rest of the castle and its occupants. No one would hear if she shouted, Dante reasoned. These rooms had been chosen with care. No one would come to her rescue.
But then, he was tired beyond belief. And the old woman held no promise. Dawn had arrived beyond the wall. He could feel it. He could sense the heat of the sun, though his room had never been exposed to it. He could taste the light.
Somewhere above, Alan Rothchilde would be settling in for a nap, as would the others of Lord
Rothchilde's dark entourage, his "Midnight Court." The beasts would sleep, as he would. The rest of the world might turn, but the night creatures would not be a part of it.
"Will you help her?" the woman dared to say, interrupting his musings, disrupting the pull of sleep that lay over him.
Dante felt his crossness coming on. His need for rest is why he would forego the pleasure of throwing this woman to the wolves, he told himself. This is why he would allow her to escape. He was fatigued, drowsy, uninterested. His mind was occupied elsewhere.
In spite of that, he could save her for his steward. He might easily best her with an arm tied behind his back. Two arms. But then the pleasure would be halved if he hadn't the ability to touch her, to inflict his tongue and his teeth upon her puckered skin. And she would no doubt whine ceaselessly.
His fingers closed. The crackle of paper seemed uncommonly loud in the quiet. He followed the noise, found the note still in his hand. If the angel had not sent it, who had?
"Does Lord Rothchilde know about you?" the strange woman asked, taking from her pocket a sprig of garlic and holding it before her as she backed into the door.
"Are these the kinds of questions they teach servants these days? More's the pity."
Dante held his ground.
"I came here to discern what kind of… man you are, and to beg your aid in my lady's escape."
"I'm afraid I have no such aid to offer."
"You are Lord Rothchilde's ally? One of his…"
"There is no love lost between your angel's betrothed and myself, I must admit. Still, and all in all, I cannot help you."
"Perhaps Lady Rothchilde was mistaken in her allusions to your honor?"
"Maybe you are too inquisitive for your own good."
The woman nodded, held the garlic higher. "I would do anything to help my lady."
"Even if it means asking the likes of me to participate?"
"Even such a thing as that."
Dante's body beat with a strange irregularity. His feigned nonchalance was wearing thin.
"Lady Rothchilde said you exhibited honor about all else, though you would feign to its opposite," the woman said. "She did not tell us you were a demon. That was not made clear. We knew not that you are a creature of the night. The stench of what you are pervades this place."
"Might you say how you come by such knowledge? How you have judged my countenance so quickly?"
"My village was small, though not isolated from the rest of the land. We were taught whom to fear, well enough."
"Yet the angel's father would sell her to such a creature as you're discussing?"
"Her father is dead. Lord Rothchilde saw to that."
"Ah."
"Lady Rothchilde does not know about you?" the woman said. "She was wrong in her estimation of your character?"
"Wrong?" Dante repeated, closing in on the garlic, fortifying himself against the discomfort such a small plant could inflict.
"Lady Rothchilde told me you were the only one to be trusted here, and that you would help us."
The old woman was close enough for Dante to have caught her. But his arms would not move. His head would not turn to follow her progress toward the door—toward freedom from what might have otherwise overtaken her. It wasn't the garlic that caused his lethargy. It was the sun.
The woman's heavy-lidded eyes were veiled by the scarf she wore over her head. She had the door open. "Perhaps Lady Rothchilde does know about you. Perhaps love is indeed blind."
Dante knew he should stop her. The saggy old defiant thing knew about him, or thought she knew. Secrets like this could be pried out of an old woman. Their bones snapped like twigs when pressure was applied.
So, why did he hold back? Was it because she watched over the angel? Because she had real concern for the angel's plight? If so, then she would merely be in the way. His way.
But then… she was such an old woman. Not a worthy adversary. She knew nothing for certain. She knew no one at Rothchilde's fortress. She would never be chosen as an appetizer by anyone in Rothchilde's party. No one here would care about her fear. Therefore, she had some time left.
"Your angel will not escape," Dante said, stifling a yawn. "Rothchilde is thorough, if nothing else."
But his words echoed in the cavernous room.
The old woman had gone.
Chapter Ten
« ^ »
"You desire me to go after her? Detain her?" Dante's steward asked.
Dante's gaze settled on him. "Was there not something odd about her?"
"Decidedly so. Now, will you drink before your rest?"
"You have someone in mind?"
"I have someone in the next room."
Dante turned his head, heard no sounds, looked back in question.
"Lord Rothchilde chose his fortress well. The walls are thick."
Dante nodded. "And Lord Rothchilde will begin to miss his servants and other minions who lose their way in the night. Though, I suppose, those absences will not be as noticeable with such a gathering as this."
Dante tossed off his shirt and crawled onto the bed. He closed his eyes, not wanting to sleep. Sleep brought visions of blurred white flesh. Faces came and went, as always. Victims. Names from the past. Yet the hunger was upon him. His shaft still throbbed with the remembrance of Elizabeth's willingness, and the moist heat between her thighs. Or was the throb leftover from his sighting of the angel in her bower?
He wanted to sleep the dreamless sleep of his kind, not bothered by visions and contemplations. Not bothered by fantasies of wings or the scent of Elizabeth's hair. Such things should be left to mortal men.
"I will dream of the angel," he muttered to himself. "A much simpler pastime."
After all, how many delightful ways might he invent to snare her?
How could an old crone protect her, really, when her fate was sealed?
"I'll have this angel, all right." Elizabeth had most assuredly seen to that. He would take up her challenge and return triumphant. He would part the angel's fur… Surely angels possessed the same attributes real women did?
Then he would slap his cock into her tight little slit until she begged for mercy, or begged for more.
Upon that pleasant thought, he drifted.
"Steward?"
Dante rose to his elbow. The room was dark. He had overslept.
"Steward?" he called again as a sound came from the vicinity of the door. A bolt sliding into place?
Senses alert, Dante's surroundings formed around him. Stone walls, draped and shuttered windows, tousled bed-sheets. The room's single candle, now spent, sputtered softly. From some distance came the sound of a thin trickle of water seeping through cracks.
He inhaled, sat up, held back a spasm of distaste. Someone had brought garlic back into the room. The odor invaded the quiet, chasing away the remnants of sleep.
"What is it you want here?" Dante said, voice ringing through the thick, moist dark. "Have you nothing more imaginative to offer than insidiousness?"
A flash of white crossed his eye, hovered in the corner, then moved forward. Slightly. Enough.
"How did you get away, angel?" Dante said, recognizing her scent beyond the garlic she would use to ensure her safety.
Muscles gathering to attention, Dante's eyes opened wider in surprised disbelief. Quite phantomlike, a woman glided toward the bed, head bowed, eyes hidden. A humming began in Dante's ears as he stared. His chest tightened.
The angel looked up. Even in the last of the light, Dante could see the curious brilliance in the gaze. But… these were not the eyes of the angel. He knew these eyes.
His wits were momentarily eclipsed by the stink of the plant. His sight dimmed considerably. His eyes stung. Bloody hell! Who first considered that a plant could inflict so much damage on a beast? Did they try other talismans before settling on this particular one? Did everyone at Rothchilde castle know of its properties? One would assume, after all, that this particular host would have seen to
clear the halls of it.
"My dearest Dante," Elizabeth said, voice low-toned and earthy.
From his position on the bed, Dante looked up to eye Elizabeth levelly. "You are well enough to move about, Elizabeth?"
"Out of necessity," Elizabeth returned, working to keep her face passive and her expression hidden, knowing she would succeed only if she adhered to her plan. Yet the smile Dante offered was devastating. The sight of him in the bed made her heart lurch.
"You have the smell of her about you," Dante said.
"You recognize her scent already, then?"
"Are you unfamiliar with the senses we beasts possess, you who have lived within your brother's inner circle?"
"Scent before sight," Elizabeth quoted. "Even in the night."
Dante's eyes went to her throat, she noticed—to the black velvet ribbon of jewels she wore tightly wound around her neck to hide the wounds he had made. He signaled her closer.
"Why does her essence linger upon you?" he asked.
"I have brought you a token."
Dante watched as Elizabeth sat on the foot of his bed. She was dressed in a dazzling display of green brocade trimmed with ermine. In spite of the richness she exhibited, her skin was alabaster-white. When she blinked, there was hesitation.
"Token?" Dante narrowed his own eyes. Elizabeth's necklace shone in the candlelight. Egg-shaped emerald stones flared with an inner darkness. But the flare and exuberance of her countenance masked a remaining translucency, he thought. Her green eyes were feverish.
"Another reward?" he asked as pangs of guilt reassembled.
"You did not kill me," Elizabeth said. "You do not profess to love me, but you let me live. Then you went to her."
"Do you have eyes in the back of your head, dearest Elizabeth?"
Dante got to his knees on the covers and crawled toward her. Elizabeth did not draw back, as he half-expected her to do. She showed no signs of retreat.
"Where is she?" Dante asked. "What has been done to her?"
"You do not know these things?" Elizabeth countered.
"Actually, I have not put my mind to it."
"Why ever not?"
"Is it not a waste of time, when you will tell me?"
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