by Колин Глисон
"If there are vampires causing all of this," Melly returned, "why has no one reported seeing one?"
"They are very careful… they sneak about in the dead of night," Winnie replied. "Make certain your bedroom windows are closed and bolted."
"I shall ensure that mine are locked up tightly," Petronilla replied a bit too earnestly. "They do sneak around in the dead of night, don't they? But I heard they can change into mist or fog and slip through the crack of your window… and then turn themselves back into men. Right in your bedroom! Oh, dear, and Mr. Fen worth sleeps in his own chamber across the hall! I will be quite alone and unprotected!" Her voice was pitched loud, as though to make certain any vampires lurking about might hear.
"If they sneak around in the dead of night, then that is most definitely an indication that vampires—if they do exist—weren't responsible for the attack at Bridge and Stokes." Melly leaned forward to drop a small lump of sugar in her tea.
"And what about that incident at Vauxhall Gardens the night before last?" Winnie commented. "Did Jellington tell you anything about that?"
"No."
"There was some sort of altercation there, but no one was hurt or injured."
Melly raised her eyebrows. "No one was hurt, injured, or—heaven forbid!—bitten… and you ascribe the incident—whatever it was—to nonexistent vampires? Winnie, my dear, you really are taking those gothic novels too seriously. Everything violent or unexpected that happens in this city cannot be attributed to creatures like vampires. There is enough evil perpetrated by man that we don't need to invent paranormal beings to blame it on.
"Now, let us dispense with this nonsense and talk about something much more interesting… such as how soon we might have a little marquess on our hands!"
His wife was mad. She had to be mad, for the alternative was terrifying.
For the first time he could remember, Phillip de Lacy, Marquess of Rockley, did not know what to do.
He left St. Heath's Row and drove his curricle into town. He stopped at White's, another of the clubs he frequented, and sat at a table by himself. He had several glasses of whiskey, a large hunk of beef that tasted like sawdust, and a slab of bread that could have carried weevils for all he noticed.
After White's, he felt restless and left to visit another gentleman's club, although he did not wish to be sociable at all. At Bertrand's he avoided his friends and sat in an empty room, ignoring the buzz about the unfortunates who had perished at Bridge and Stokes last night.
Perhaps that was the reason he did not wish to talk with anyone.
He did not want to know whether Victoria was right or wrong. He did not want to have to think about what it meant if she was right… or if she was wrong.
When Phillip had not returned to St. Heath's Row the next morning, Victoria could stand it no longer. She called for the carriage to come around and took herself off to Aunt Eustacia's home.
Her aunt took one look at her and understood. "He knows."
Victoria sank into a chair, angry that her hands were trembling and that tears threatened her eyes. She nodded. "He's forbidden me to continue to hunt."
Eustacia waited. She knew the power of silence. The sound of the clock ticking marked the minutes, paring away at the hope she'd placed in Victoria.
"I told him I could not stand by and let people die."
Eustacia nodded. That was good.
"He became angry and left. He hasn't been home since we quarreled yesterday morning."
"He saw you at his club?" Max had told Eustacia about the attack at Bridge and Stokes while she was tending to his wounds. It had been his attempt to keep her from lecturing him about taking better care of his injuries; she saw through it, and let him think he'd had his way. Then after he was finished, she chastised him roundly. Even Venators had to care for their wounds, she reminded him.
"Yes, he recognized me. I told him the truth; I couldn't hide it any longer, Aunt. I couldn't live the lie, keep feeding him salvi."
"Of course you couldn't, cara. It is not in your nature to be deceitful. I realized it was a possibility that you would have to tell him at some time. I did not expect it to be so soon, and in the midst of this very precarious time—"
"What do you mean?"
"You and Max have had to stop two raids in the last three nights; perhaps there was even one last night that we weren't aware of. Lilith is gathering her forces. She is ready to make her move against you in retaliation for your besting her. She wants the book back, and she's put some plan in place to get it." She rubbed the knuckles on her left hand, where the sharp sting of arthritis jolted her.
"Max is in no condition to be out, but he has been at the Silver Chalice since yesterday, trying to learn what is going on." He'd suspected that Rockley would have recognized Victoria and that they would have had a confrontation, so he'd refused to let Eustacia get Victoria involved, insisting he'd handle it alone while she tended her home fires, as he put it so cynically.
"I knew he was badly injured, but he would not let me tend to them."
"I know. He confessed it to me." Eustacia sighed. She had other suspicions about Max's motivations, but now was not the time to air them. Instead she said, "He doesn't like to be coddled."
"Aunt Eustacia, did I do the wrong thing in telling Phillip?"
"I don't know how you could have done otherwise; but I do believe there will be consequences. They may be as simple as the marquess trying to prevent you from leaving when we need you; or they may be more severe. You must impress upon him that this is not something he can be involved in, as much as he might want to protect you. He cannot. You must make it clear to him; or send him to me, and I will do it."
Victoria nodded. She would do that—if he ever came back to St. Heath's Row.
"Now, cara, you must go home and get some rest. Your husband loves you; he will return in his own time, when he has come to terms with your confession. And we need you. Max cannot do this alone."
Victoria nodded… but for the first time she truly regretted her decision to accept the Legacy. She wished she had turned it down and had her mind cleared.
She wished for ignorance. And a normal life.
Chapter Twenty-Four
In Which Three Gentlemen Meet Up
Late in the second day after Victoria had told him her fantastical story, Phillip realized what he needed to do.
Certainly, he'd already visited Bridge and Stokes, and found it closed, "due to death." And there definitely had been rumblings about the attacks that had happened there; but no one had mentioned vampires.
He'd even gone so far as to drive his curricle to Victoria's cousin Maximilian's home, planning to confront him as he had done before… but the man was not home, and the dark-skinned butler was unable to tell Phillip when his master would return within a day.
One thing he knew he could not do, yet, was to face Victoria. So he did not return to St. Heath's Row.
Instead he hired a hackney to take him to St. Giles. To the place he'd followed Victoria, to the establishment called the Silver Chalice.
There he would find the answer.
Oh, he wasn't foolish. Numb, perhaps, dull and mind-fractured with grief and pain… but not foolish. He prepared: He wore a crucifix under his coat. He stuffed full bulbs of garlic in his pockets. He even found something that could be used as a wooden stake—a broken walking stick in the cloakroom at White's.
Phillip didn't believe in vampires, and though he hadn't wasted his time reading that ridiculous novel by Polidori, he knew what lore said about protecting oneself from the undead.
But he also pocketed a gun.
When Max walked into the Silver Chalice for the third night in a row, he knew something bad was going to happen.
It was about time; he'd been waiting for it all to explode for three days. Ever since that first raid at Vauxhall, followed by the one at Bridge and Stokes, he'd known this was leading up to something.
Lilith's patience had worn thin.
What he didn't expect—couldn't have fathomed finding—was the Marquess of Rockley sitting companionably at a table with Sebastian Vioget.
Before he had a chance to wonder about it, Vioget looked up and saw him standing at the entrance. The faintest flare of a smile tipped his mouth, and he nodded to Max.
Max started toward them. No matter how cunning Lilith was, this could not be part of her plan.
"Good evening, Rockley," Max said as he approached the table.
"Pesaro. Why am I not surprised to see you here." True to his words, there was no inflection in his voice.
"Perhaps, but it is I who am at a disadvantage. I would have believed that after your last visit, you would have actually learned something. Namely that there are places where you are not welcome… and not safe."
"Vioget here has assured me that that is not the case, that I have nothing to fear while I am in his establishment. Victoria has told me everything."
"Indeed? But you did not believe her, so you came here to find out for yourself. Foolish man. If I had not arrived, you would be at the mercy of this man's whim." So she had told him. Max's eyes slitted as they scored over the marquess: his sleepy eyes, perfect hair, tailored and pressed clothing. The man had walked into this den of the undead, disbelieving, and wholly unprepared to face the results of his actions.
He was as good as dead unless Max intervened. Again.
"If you had not arrived, we would have continued our conversation most pleasantly," Vioget returned coolly. "Now, if you please, Maximilian—"
But before he could finish, a bad sound behind Max grabbed the attention of both of them. He whirled as Sebastian bolted to his feet.
Imperials. Five of them—more than Max had ever seen together at one time—standing at the bottom of the stairs, swords drawn, red-violet eyes glowing. Only one of them smiled, and his fangs gleamed.
Max heard Rockley's intake of breath. Too late, poor bastard.
The room had quieted, and the tension pulsed like a dying heartbeat.
"Good evening and welcome to the Silver Chalice." Max had to give Vioget credit; his voice was as smooth and unruffled as if he'd been greeting a lady for tea. But Max knew that five Imperials were not here for tea, or for libation of any kind. Even the fresh sort.
Lilith had sent them.
The leader of the Imperials took three steps. The undead at the tables near him shrank away. Imperials, when angered, had been known to cannibalize their own.
"Sebastian Vioget, we have been sent to escort you to the presence of our mistress."
"Please give her my apologies, but as you can see, I am otherwise engaged this evening."
Max noticed that Vioget had shifted himself back toward the brick wall behind Rockley. Under the guise of adjusting his coat, Max moved to the left of Rockley, placing him between Sebastian and himself and only a few inches from the hidden doorway. Max wasn't about to let Vioget get through there without the two of them.
Not for the first time, he wondered how he had been saddled with babysitting a marquess… yet again.
"You are amusing, Vioget. Now, you can make this simple… or you can make it difficult." The way the Imperial leader caressed his lower lip with his left fang indicated that he much preferred difficulties.
Max touched Rockley and felt the rigidity of his shoulder. "Be ready," he said softly, without moving his lips. "Behind you."
But they never had a chance.
Suddenly the room was a flurry of movement—a table went flying, swords flashed, chairs splintered; there were shouts, screams, and the thuds of flesh on flesh.
Max grabbed Rockley and threw him under the table, then followed. Forget the hidden door; they would try to slink out by edging along the walls.
Phillip, who had found himself unable to move, suddenly knew his only chance to escape was to follow Victoria's cousin on the floor under the tables. He let go of the gun in his pocket, realizing, at last, what Pesaro and Victoria had been trying to tell him. Too late.
It hadn't been enough—the hypnotic tug and pull of the eyes of the customers in the inn, the way they seemed to bore into him and soften him… no, it wasn't until those five men, with burning eyes and lethal weapons, had exploded into the place that he realized that he was going to die.
He was going to die with accusations and anger toward his wife hanging between them.
Knowing instinctively that the crucifix in his pocket would be little protection against the five creatures, Phillip scrambled across the floor after Max, pinning his only hope of survival on the man who seemed to know what to do. Shards of glass and splinters of wood cut into his fine breeches, sliced into his hands. Something dark and sticky spilled onto his head and shoulders from the tables above. Rust's stench filled his nose. There was a loud crash behind them, and he smelled the spill of lantern oil and, closely thereafter, the clogging scent of raging fire.
He and Pesaro miraculously reached the curve of wall that ended at the bottom of the stairs to this place he would forever think of as hell. Shouts and the sounds of fighting followed them as they inched along the wall under the cover of a sudden thick smoke, and Phillip wanted to shout in triumph when they touched the bottom stair.
Stumbling up the steps, Phillip saw his guide look back, pausing on the stairs. He pushed past Max, onward, recognizing that there was no hope of helping Vioget. Or anyone else in the way of those five monsters.
But when he reached the top—freedom—he found himself facing two more of the creatures. Their eyes were red, and they did not carry swords. One was a woman. But, as unfamiliar with these demons as he was, Phillip recognized that they were vampires by the way he slogged into futile motions when he was caught by her gaze.
"How lovely," she said in a throaty voice. "Just what I needed. And I thought I would miss all the fun, being stationed up here."
He couldn't fight it; her eyes trapped him. He was picked up and carried effortlessly away… away somewhere. He struggled; he couldn't break free… she held him close, and he felt her heart beating in him, through him, as if wrapped in some kind of tendril that tightened with each struggle.
She shoved him somewhere; he fell onto something upholstered and struggled to get away. He was in a carriage; he could see out the door; they had Pesaro. They were dragging him toward the carriage, but she pulled him back, away from the opening.
"Now, my lovely," she said, and he looked into her eyes. He couldn't help it. They compelled him like nothing ever had. He was vaguely aware of a heavy burden tossed in next to him, for it broke the connection for the barest of moments.
"My lovely," she said again, and her strong fingers filtered through his hair like a lover's. Like Victoria's. Then she tightened them, pulled his head back hard, and he cried out at the shock. She bent to him; her lips were warm and cool at the same time. They touched the curve of his neck, the soft part now open and bare.
He struggled, but she pulled away and looked at him, settling him with her eyes. "It won't hurt, my lovely… my lovely." She licked his face, closed her mouth over his, and thrust her tongue into it. Choking him… yet pleasing him. When she pulled away, he tasted blood… and she was licking her lips. He wanted to lick them too.
Someone was struggling next to him in the carriage. It jolted him, and the female vampire hissed, "Subdue the Venator. But control yourself. The mistress will have your heart if you feed on him."
Then she returned to Phillip, smiling, calling him with her eyes. "And what is your name, my lovely? You are too pretty to remain nameless. Perhaps I will keep you."
He wanted to answer; he didn't want to answer… He had no choice. Her red eyes, circled with black, pinpointed with black too, compelled him to respond. "Phillip…" he managed. "Rockley…"
Her eyes widened in shock; her control slipped. Sharp nails dug into his scalp and into the upper arm she held. "You are Rockley? Married to Victoria?"
Faintly, above the rushing in his ears, he heard a desperate 'No.'" but
Pesaro's groan could not stop him from responding, "Yes."
The woman vampire smiled, looking at him. Her fangs were long and pretty. He wanted them on him, in him. His cock throbbed in anticipation. He drew in a deep breath when she bent to his flesh. She teased him for a moment, her lips, her tongue, her fangs nicking, nibbling. "That changes things," she murmured, and sank her fangs into his ear.
He groaned as pleasure and pain stormed through him… like nothing he'd felt before. Warm liquid dripped on his neck; he could smell it—smell it on her breath when she came back to his mouth. He wanted to breathe it too.
"I won't have to kill you now." She drew in a long breath and exhaled, slowly, delicately… breathing warm into his flesh and blood as she sank her teeth into his shoulder.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Marquess, the Venator, and the Innkeeper Go Missing
Victoria had just returned to St. Heath's Row after a dinner party at Grantworth House when the message arrived.
She'd been hard-pressed to explain to her mother why her new husband hadn't attended with her; and it was even more difficult to extricate herself from the after-dinner socializing… but she had pleaded exhaustion. Apparently the blue-black circles under her eyes were enough to convince her mother that she was unfit for a late night. And if Lady Melly believed the reason was due to an impending happy event, well, Victoria was too heartsick to fight with her on it.
Thus, she had just begun to unpin her hair when the messenger arrived to deliver a note.
She didn't recognize the handwriting, but the seal was gold and bore the imprint of a bold V surrounded by trellises and cups. It could be from only one person… she tore it open.
I am in possession of something of apparent value to you, although your actions in my coach led me to believe otherwise. He will be safe until you arrive. You have my word.
S.
His word?