by Alicia Ryan
He looked at Cranston’s beefy hands and fought back the image of them on Roxanna’s skin—of the purple marks they had left behind. Snarling, he knelt down beside Cranston, who was now sitting back on his heels, head bowed, arms hanging limp.
He grabbed Cranston’s right hand in his own.
“No, please,” Cranston begged. “I’ll do as you’ve asked. I’ll never go anywhere near the damn girl again. She’s all yours. I swear.”
Darren squeezed, and Cranston screamed as the bones in his hands splintered.
“How...?”
Darren squeezed harder, cutting off Cranston’s question, and sending pieces of bone protruding out into Cranston’s palm.
Then he got to his feet. Cranston was trying to clutch his broken hand with his broken left arm but gave up and let them both drop back to the floor. Blood began to pool under his hand, but nothing on earth could have induced Darren to drink from this man. It would be polluting.
He turned away, seeking the grandfather clock he’d noticed upon entering. He almost winced at the crack he’d apparently put in it when he sent the marble table sliding that way. But he could still hear it ticking, so he assumed it to be accurate in informing him he’d been at his task for over three hours. Too late to catch Roxanna, unfortunately, but perhaps that was for the best. The killer in him was far too eager to hunt. It wanted to feed. He knew he’d never hurt her. He had that much control—he thought. But he didn’t want her to see him like this—like the monster he could be.
The thought of her tempered his worst urges and restored some of his control as he walked. He stopped listening for heartbeats, eyeing darkened doorways for someone who might not be missed. Quickening his pace, he strode through the night in the heart of London and tried not to think of it as a feeding ground, but rather as a home. As the place where he lived. The place where she lived. At least for now. For as long as he could keep her.
The tall, swarthy figure that unfurled itself from his front stoop as he approached could not have surprised him more had it been the living Christ.
By the time he’d gotten within speaking distance, he’d managed to stop gaping and start panicking. “Pietro,” he said by way of greeting. “What are you doing here?”
The man smiled and stepped forward to clasp him on the arm. “Is that any way to greet an old, old...” He grinned and shrugged. “– old, friend?”
“No, it’s not. And if an old friend had presented himself, I would not have been so rude.”
Pietro stepped back. “Now, now. Let’s not be hasty. It’s been quite some time. You never know—I may have reformed.”
“I do know. You haven’t.”
“But you have. For decades, I’ve sensed nothing from you but bitterness, boredom, and the daily battle to keep yourself in check. I stopped checking in on you ages ago. You’d become far too depressing. Really, my most disgraceful creation.” He flashed his reptilian grin at Darren once more. “Though still one of the most beautiful.”
“You’re right. I have reformed. My life is as uninteresting as that of any ordinary, very ordinary, human. I can’t imagine why you’ve come. And now that you’ve seen it for yourself, I can’t imagine you’ll be wanting to stay.”
The grin came out again, and it unfurled a dread inside Darren that he didn’t yet want to contemplate.
“Au, contraire! You see, just because I stopped listening, doesn’t mean the channel is closed. And I’ve been getting interesting feelings from you of late. Very interesting, indeed.” He stepped closer to Darren, raising his head a couple of inches to look him in the eye. “We can discuss what you were up to tonight when we go inside. But there’s something that’s intrigued me more.”
Darren gritted his teeth. “And what’s that?”
“Why, if I didn’t know better, my fallen angel, I’d swear it was happiness.”
Darren neither responded nor moved a muscle when Pietro clapped him on the arm again. “So I believe propriety dictates at this juncture you are to invite your old... acquaintance in for a drink, offer him lodging while he is in town, and catch him up on what’s been happening in his absence.”
“I don’t recall you ever giving a toss for propriety.”
The grin again. Darren wanted to bash it off his face.
“I like it perfectly well when it suits my purposes. Much like everything else.”
Darren hesitated, even though he knew there was no debate to be had. If Pietro was here, he had to be kept close, and hopefully leashed. If Pietro was here, he would have to be kept as far away from Roxanna as possible, as the only thing that would please him more than seeing Darren fall from his reformed perch would be to take something he prized and destroy it. Or worse.
Darren gestured up the stone steps to his front door and pulled out his key. “Please consider my home your home,” he said, ascending the steps in front of Pietro. “For as long as you’re here.”
“That’s better,” Pietro replied. “You should show some respect to your maker, you know.” He leaned over Darren’s shoulder to whisper in his ear. “That’s a bit of vampire propriety for you.”
Darren snorted but restrained his reply. “There’s a ready guest room on the third floor, top of the stairs, four doors on the left. I’ll be in my study for a bit. I’ll need to leave a note for Harris.”
Pietro nodded. “Tell him to have my things sent over from the boarding house next to the dock where the Espana is moored. I forget the name.”
“You’ve been here long?”
Pietro shook his head. “No. I found the docks to be a rather appealing part of town, so I made a temporary stop for one night before setting out to locate you.”
“How did you find me, may I ask?”
Pietro shrugged. “I knew you were in London, obviously. From some helpful late-night patrons, I was given the gist of the fashionable parts of town. From there, it was just a matter of walking around until I found you. You know I can sense your presence.”
“I didn’t realize it had a compass.”
“Neither did I. I’d planned to make further inquiries, but once I started walking, I just rather knew which way to go. It seemed to fade in and out a few times. I think it would have helped had you been at home instead of out...doing whatever it was you were doing.”
Darren pointed up the stairs. “Guestroom,” he said. “We can play question and answer tomorrow.”
Pietro’s eyes flashed. “When’s breakfast?”
Darren groaned. “Not until after ten or so, once the liquor starts flowing down at the docks. Those are the easy pickings.”
“You know those aren’t the kind I like.”
“You’re here to satisfy your curiosity, remember? Not go on a killing spree. I won’t have it, Pietro. I don’t want to be run out of London.”
Pietro’s eyes narrowed to black slits. “We both know there’s nothing you could do to stop it,” he said. And just as quickly the oily grin returned. “But that’s not my intention. I would, however, prefer to dine on society rather than on its dregs. I do hope you haven’t made yourself such a recluse that you’re not invited to the decent parties.”
Darren frowned. “There are no decent parties.”
“Perhaps you simply haven’t found the right companion. I recall we used to fare quite well at parties.”
“That was a long time ago, Pietro. Those days aren’t coming back.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, my old friend, it’s to never make predictions.” He gave a mock salute and ascended the three flights of stairs with easy grace.
In his study, Darren pulled out paper and ink, but wrote nothing, preferring just to sit with his head in his hands and contemplate how he was going to get Pietro out of his life without ever revealing Roxanna. Around Pietro, he’d have to guard even his thoughts. He certainly couldn’t go to her. He debated sending Harris with a missive but decided that, too, would be too dangerous. Pietro couldn’t go out in daylight any more than he could, b
ut if he wanted information from Harris, he had only to drink from him to get it. There was no other way—he had to stay away from Roxanna and get Pietro back to Portugal, or wherever he was keeping himself these days, as soon as possible.
The thought of days, possibly weeks, without her sapped all his strength, and his note to Harris was briefer than the man probably would have wished—the knowledge that there is a sudden, unexpected houseguest not being news the man would be eager to get. He did continue long enough to instruct that no additional meal preparations should be made.
Then he dragged himself to his room, cursed the fate that had made him what he was, that had brought him so close to...her, and now appeared poised to take her away.
Chapter Fourteen
Roxanna rubbed her eyes as she joined Phillip for practice the next morning. She hadn’t even bothered to wash her hair—just tied it back.
“Not sleeping well?” Phillip asked.
He was again awaiting her in one of the cushioned audience chairs rather than at the piano.
“Just some disturbing dreams,” she told him.
He sat forward, concern creasing his golden features. “Not about...?”
“No,” she said. “It wasn’t that.”
“Want to talk about it?”
She shook her head.
“Well,” he said, “I have some news that should cheer you.”
She raised her brows.
“I detoured by Lord Cranston’s residence this morning, and the place was in a furor. A mob of servants, most hired just this morning apparently, were loading what looked to be his entire household into carriages. His Lordship seems to have made an exceedingly abrupt decision to return, post-haste, to his country estate, with no word on when he might be returning to the city.”
Her relief wasn’t as complete as it might have been. “Any word on Cranston himself?” she asked.
Phillip’s hesitation confirmed her fears.
“They’re saying he was set upon by a gang of ruffians, but somehow made it back to his home. He was injured rather badly.”
“How badly?” She wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted the answer to that question to be.
“Uh...are you sure you want details?”
“Yes,” she decided. “All of them.”
“You know the gossip of servants is not to be relied upon,” he cautioned.
“Tell me,” she insisted.
He sighed and sat back. “One of them quoted the doctor as saying Cranston’s shoulders were in so many pieces it was as if someone had chewed them into bits.”
She considered what would have been involved in accomplishing such injuries.
“And there was mention of a badly crushed hand,” Phillip continued, “but that was all.”
She sat down in the other chair at Phillip’s table. “I can’t say that I’m sorry. I’m not. I have nothing but hate for that man. But I’m sorry for Darren.”
Phillip shook his head. “I know Darren said he was going to see him, but something else must have happened. If there’s any truth about the extent of his injuries, Darren couldn’t have done that himself. No one man could crush shoulder bones. I don’t know how several could even manage it, especially in a man Cranston’s size.”
She shook her head. “No, it was Darren. Someday you’ll have to ask him how it was done. I doubt he’ll tell you, but it was him.” She ran her hands down her face. “Poor Darren.”
“Poor Darren?”
She peeked through her fingers to see Phillip’s wide, blue eyes staring at her, begging for explanation.
“I’m sorry he had to do what he did.”
“He did it for you.”
“I know, but I don’t like the thought of what it cost him.” She looked away. “Darren isn’t like us. He’s more susceptible to being overcome by his...emotions...than most people. Especially the bad ones.” She looked back at Phillip. “The bad emotions, I mean.”
“I don’t understand,” Phillip said. “Has he mistreated you?”
“Oh, no. Please don’t think that. He just...it isn’t so easy for him to keep on the straight and narrow. Sending him out to do violence...I just wish it hadn’t come to that.”
Phillip stood up and offered her his hand. “Darren is a grown man. I’m sure your worry is misplaced. Now, shall we practice?”
She smiled at him. “But of course, maestro. Anything you like?” She stepped up on stage and looked at him over the piano. “Is there anything you like—or is it all equally reprehensible?”
He blushed. “I still like one of the first ones you did,” he said.
“Which one?”
He blushed even more. “You know the one. The one about being a sinner and a saint.”
“Oh, that one. ‘Bitch.’”
Phillip rolled his eyes. “Yes, that one.”
“Alright then, sweet cheeks, give me an intro.”
He did as she asked, with a smile and a flourish, and she sang for him.
And that was what they did for the next two hours—Phillip requested songs, and Roxanna sang for him, to him.
“I’ve got one for you,” she said, when he couldn’t immediately call another request to mind.
And she sang to him about how his life was a book, with every day a new page, completely capable of being different from the page before. How, every day, his fate was still “Unwritten”.
“So you think something will come along to change my course, do you?” he asked. “My fate as respectable husband and father to a respectable wife and a mob of respectable children?”
She laughed. “Perhaps not. But you don’t have to be respectable every minute—at least not until you’ve got the respectable wife.” She walked forward and leaned over the piano. “Wanna hear something really dirty?” She winked at him. “Fun, but dirty.”
“Is there any way to stop you?”
“No,” she said, when it was obvious he was trying not to smile. And so she launched into the Divinyls’ “I Touch Myself”, running her hands along her arms, her belly, down her hips, as she sang.
She did think Phillip’s face would have changed by the time she finished, but no, it was frozen in the same wide-eyed gape it had assumed at the start of the first chorus. She came to stand at the side of the piano.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
He turned to her, closing his mouth, eyes still round as doughnuts.
“What’s the matter? Girls aren’t supposed to talk about that sort of thing?”
Still, he said nothing.
“Oh,” she said. “I get it. They’re not supposed to do that sort of thing, much less talk about it.”
“Such actions are base and wrong,” he said, in a tone much softer than his usual reproaches.
“So women are just supposed to suffer and be good girls until they get deflowered in their hopefully good marriage bed?”
He nodded. “Such actions are akin to fornication. Temptation, of any sort, must be resisted.” He looked at her, his blue eyes shimmering with what was certainly confusion and might possibly have been the beginning of tears. “Resisted,” he repeated. “Not celebrated.”
She sat down beside him, looked at the swirl of emotion in those blue eyes and finally figured out what was between the lines. “So, you’ve...resisted?” she asked.
He dropped his eyes and nodded.
For once, Roxanna had nothing to say. A lifetime of always trying to be a little tougher than the world outside had not prepared her to deal with such innocence. She wanted to ease the burden on him, wanted him to know joy and pleasure, and yet, she didn’t want him to lose something so precious and rare.
“You think me foolish,” he surmised. “I must seem like a child to you, compared to Lord Highmore.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “No, you’re almost as much of a mystery as Darren, and, believe me, that’s a pretty high bar.”
“What’s mysterious about me?” he asked. “I’m as unexciting as they come.”
<
br /> “Two days ago, you beat a man unconscious in my defense. That’s not unexciting.”
“An aberration, I assure you.”
“You play piano like you’re a part of it. That’s not unexciting.”
“Lots of people can play the piano, Roxanna.”
“You’re a really, deep down, good and decent man. I’ve known so few of those I find that exciting.”
His brows knitted into furrows over his lovely eyes. “You do?”
She looked him over, slowly and pointedly. “You’re crazy hot. That’s exciting.”
“Crazy hot?” He was back to his confused look, and she smiled at him.
“It means you’re very attractive. An attractive man is seldom completely unexciting.”
“I’d like to be more exciting, I think.”
“What do you mean?” It was her turn to be confused.
“I hear your songs in my head incessantly, do you know that? If I go out, I notice women who look like you. I hear voices that might be yours. Yours is on an endless loop inside my head telling me the most amazing things.”
He gripped her upper arm with one hand and scooted closer. “I want to know, Roxanna,” he whispered. “Maybe other men’s imaginations are fired by your songs, but mine is just coming to life. I can barely take it in, and, yet, I can’t go any farther than you’ve led me. I’m out of one box and into another.”
“Phillip...”
“No,” he said, cutting her off. “Don’t say it. I know you have Darren. I just...I don’t know. I just needed to put that into words, I guess. So you would know. What you do to me.”
“Do you want to stop?” she asked.
He looked at her. “Stop what?”
“Playing here, for me.”
He looked both hurt and horrified. “How could you get that from what I’ve just told you? Don’t you see? I want to know more.” Both his hands were on her arms now. “I want to know what it’s like to feel what you feel and do what you do. I want to know you.”
She took in a deep breath through her mouth and let it out slowly through her nose. She’d seen on a yoga dvd that it was supposed to be calming.