Prince of Hearts (Elders and Welders Chronicles)

by Margaret Foxe

  And when had he become Sasha in her thoughts?

  Christiana gave her an exasperated look. "No, you just kiss him."

  Aline sputtered. "This whole discussion is beside the point. The Professor had Charlie fired, ruining his life. Ruining my life in the process."

  "Well," Christiana said, "in my opinion you are well rid of Charlie. I've never liked him. He showed his true nature today, and it was not pleasant."

  Christiana’s dislike of Charlie was a revelation, but Aline hadn’t the time to ponder it. She shot Christiana an impatient look.

  "That's not the point," she reiterated. "The Professor thinks he can do whatever he wants to whoever he wants. But he won't get away with destroying my life. I don't care how powerful he is, he has interfered in my affairs for the last time."

  She stalked towards the entrance. Christiana trailed behind her, shaking her head in dismay. "If I were you, I'd be more angry with that fiancé of yours, Aline, and the way he just talked to you. So what if the Professor had him fired? That is no reason for him to break the engagement with you so callously."

  "I don't care," she said, stomping down the steps to the street. "I'm settling things with the Professor once and for all."

  "Don't let me stop you," Christiana said wryly. "But I wonder if by settling things you mean to kiss him again."

  She glared at her friend as they climbed into the steam carriage.

  Perhaps she was being unreasonable, but she felt unreasonable. This was truly the last straw. Charlie's behavior was despicable, but she knew that the wounds he'd given her were mostly to her pride. He was right to point out that they'd not loved each other. Still, she'd wagered a lot on their future together, house of cards though it turned out to be. To have that taken from her was a colossal blow. She couldn't help but blame Sasha, the architect of all of her recent and not-so-recent grief.

  All she'd wanted to do was to go her own way, marry a decent fellow, and start living a halfway normal life for once. All of the things she'd never thought possible to attain until Charlie came along and presented her with the opportunity had been so close! No more nights alone, no more lonely wagers at the gaming house in a desperate attempt to fill the void inside. No more emptiness, and though she didn't precisely love Charlie, she was fond of him.

  And there would have been children...

  But now everything seemed wrested from her control. Sasha had taken away all of her illusions. He had shown her a world she was not sure she wanted to know about, and she could never go back to the way it was before. But more than that, he persisted, even now, to try and control her destiny. Just how much power did Sasha and these Elders of his wield, that they could have Charlie sacked and his expedition cancelled at the drop of a hat?

  And Charlie had revealed a side of himself today Aline had not known about. It called into question her judgment. Could she have been so wrong about him? Perhaps she'd been so anxious to free herself from the invisible bonds Sasha had attached to her person that she'd not fully thought this through.

  Apparently she'd been wrong to think Charlie was any different from most of the male population, who expected a wife to serve her husband unquestioningly.

  Secretarial skills indeed!

  Well, the one thing Aline would never do was surrender so completely to another soul. Her independence was hard-won. It had taken her twenty years to get where she was today, and no one was going to tell her what to do, how to live, and especially where and with whom to invest her heart.

  Charlie wouldn't have controlled her.

  No man would, including and especially one particular Russian, who had spent the past five years doing exactly that. Sasha had demanded more of her than Charlie ever had, though in subtle ways she could not quite name. He demanded total surrender from his victims. He gave away nothing of himself, yet expected a pound of flesh in return.

  And he had taken it. How could she have been so foolish as to let her guard down with him for one second? How could she have let herself think – no, secretly hope – that those few moments of seduction had been genuine? She'd just been an unfortunate victim of his frightening, secret world.

  Even in the midst of the most terrible moments of the past few days, when that creature had accused Sasha of loving her, of all things, she had felt her heart leap in her chest. With hope. Which made her perhaps the biggest fool to have ever been born. If a vampire's words were giving her hope, it was time to stop lying to herself.

  She was infatuated with the Professor, and always had been. She was fairly certain she still was, even knowing what he was.

  And she hated him for it.

  Now he had succeeded in coming between her and Charlie, on top of everything else. He was going to pay for all he'd done.

  "Drop me at Professor Romanov's house, Mr. Matthews," she said primly, and Christiana rolled her eyes next to her. "I have something to discuss with him."

  Chapter 9

  CHAOS IN COVENT GARDEN! Publicans clashed with members of the Salvation Army in Covent Garden today, sparking a riot that forced the Metropolitan Police to intercede. The riot was eventually quelled before it could spread across London. With the Growing Civil Unrest caused by the Economic Decline, officials worry today’s Incident is but the first of many…

  … Officials are further concerned the Temperance Movement has become a haven for Radical Elements determined to undermine the Post-War government. According to one MP, Luddite Reactionaries have used the Salvation Army’s network to sow the seeds of Rebellion…

  -from The London Post-Dispatch, 1865

  SASHA sat alone in his study, head against his desktop, nursing a bottle of vodka in an attempt to obliterate the past few days. It was his tenth. He felt the effects of the alcohol, but they didn't last long enough with this blasted heart of his. He had to drink – and then drink some more – to sustain his oblivion, but even then he couldn't stop all of his bleak thoughts.

  Ilya whimpered and nuzzled him in the shoulder with his snout, desperate for the attention. Sasha stroked his pup's head, but could not look at him. It was too painful to see the broken eye Sasha had yet to have repaired, and Ilya's mournful demeanor.

  His pup had been confused and anxious ever since they'd come home without Ikaterina. Sasha could not make him understand that Ikaterina was gone forever. He didn't want it to be true. He’d loved that dog, even though he’d known all too well he shouldn't. Three hundred and forty two years on earth had taught him one thing: those he loved always, inevitably died because of him.

  He was afraid that one more disappointment would push him beyond the pale, so he knew what he had to do. He had to let Finch go once and for all, before he destroyed them both – if he hadn't done so already.

  And the only way to do that was to go far away from England and the life he'd established here, because he knew that if he stayed, he'd seek her out. He couldn't seem to help himself. He'd allowed himself to feel too much for her, and she would be the one to suffer. Who knew what dark acts he'd be driven to if he didn't cut his losses now and leave her behind?

  She was alive, and she had her future with the bone-hunter. There was no place for him in her plans. And after all he'd put her through, he couldn't blame her – or stop her – from pursuing the life she wanted. He'd never be anything but a distasteful memory to her.

  He was halfway through his next bottle when he heard a high-pitched, very familiar voice arguing in the hallway with his housekeeper. He raised his bleary head from his desk in surprise. He'd not expected to hear that voice again, and his pulse gave a little leap.

  He dropped his head back to the desk with a thud when the voice suddenly ceased. He must have imagined it.

  Seconds later, the door to his study crashed inwards, and he leapt to his feet rather unsteadily, though he wondered why he'd bothered. He didn't care who it was. Perhaps another of his bastard brothers had come to finish him off. At this point, he would welcome it.

  He blinked in surprise as Finch
stalked into the room, eyes flashing like lit embers with accusation and fury. Either he was more intoxicated than he thought, or she was really here after all. And he'd never seen Finch quite like this before, her body literally thrumming with rage. It was quite a sight. If he weren't so drunk and miserable, he'd be aroused.

  Damn it all, he was aroused. Inappropriately and pointlessly.

  He collapsed back onto his chair, the elation he felt at seeing her again tempered with his dread. She'd come to have it out with him, but he didn't think it was a good idea that she was here at all. He felt ... out of control. And drunk. Very drunk. "What have I done now?" he murmured, in Russian, which she clearly understood, for she seemed to grow even angrier.

  "What haven't you done, you ... you impossible beast!" she shouted. "Why can you not stay out of my life?"

  As it was hard to pinpoint exactly which of his sins against her she was referring to – since there were so many to choose from – he scratched his head, perplexed. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Oh!" was all she could seem to squeak out. She clenched her hands into fists, her face red with rage, looking halfway to exploding. For lack of a better outlet, she stomped her foot against the floor in a show of petulance that could have rivaled any six-year-old's temper tantrum. Her gown was suspiciously dirty, as if she'd fallen in every puddle between Llewellyn House and his residence. She was a mess. A very furious mess. He longed, in his delirium, to take that little bundle of fury in his arms and kiss away her bad mood.

  But he still had enough of his wits left to know that would be a very bad idea. And that she should leave before he did exactly that.

  "You know exactly what I'm talking about! Charlie! You had him terminated, and the expedition cancelled!"

  He was completely baffled. "What are you talking about?"

  "Stop playing games! Admit it!" she cried.

  He shook his head. He'd done many things to her over the past week, but he was fairly certain he'd not done this. "I can't admit it. I didn't do it!"

  "Liar!" she cried, and she flew at him, batting her fists against his chest. He let her, because he didn't trust himself to put his hands on her. He was enjoying her hands on him far too much, even if they were raised in anger.

  At length, in his effort not to reach for her, and his inebriation, he leaned so far back he stumbled. This only seemed to infuriate her even more.

  Something seemed to snap inside of her, and he watched in growing horror as her hand shot out and grabbed a porcelain vase lying on the sideboard next to her. She heaved it over her head.

  The blood drained from his face. That vase was a priceless gem he'd brought back from a trip to China in the 17th century. He held up his hands pleadingly.

  "No, not the vase!" he breathed.

  She ignored him and threw the vase at him with surprising momentum. He was too horrified and foxed to dodge it, so it shattered against his head. He felt shards of porcelain ripping into the flesh at his temple, his amber blood sizzling down his face. The wounds closed up as fast as they were made, but it hurt, even with all of the vodka in his blood. He cursed.

  Then he brushed the shards off his shirt and surveyed with dismay the remains of his favorite vase at his feet. He couldn't quite believe Finch had done it. She'd known full well how much he'd liked that vase. She seemed to be determined to make him as angry as she was.

  Well, it was working.

  He glared at her, his ire blooming through the vodka haze. Oh, Finch was going to pay for this. But exactly how she was going to do so was still open for debate. He considered many different scenarios in which he exacted his revenge on the divan behind her. With his tongue.

  But as his gaze dropped to her face, his wicked, ridiculous thoughts sputtered out, and his anger faded. She was staring at him with tears streaming down her bloodless face through eyes the size of saucers.

  "I keep forgetting ... how could I forget?" she murmured. "You're not human!"

  Chagrined, he turned away from her and wiped the remaining blood from his temple with the edge of his shirtsleeve. He had forgotten what a shock it must be to see his wounds miraculously disappear in the blink of an eye.

  When he turned back to her, she was still sniffling, and Ilya was pressed against her side as if to comfort her. This only seemed to make her cry harder. She raised her tear-filled eyes once more to him. "Ikaterina?"

  He shook his head once, sharply, unable to form the words. It was still too raw.

  "Oh, dear," she sobbed even harder. "And it was all my fault! How could I have been so stupid?"

  He couldn't answer her. It wasn't that he blamed her, precisely. After the way Vasily had overpowered Fyodor, Sasha didn't think Aline would have been safe even had she stayed at the townhouse. Vasily had been determined to have her, whatever the cost. But he couldn't help but feel an irrational surge of resentment towards Finch. She was, after all, the reason he felt as if he were sinking to the bottom of a very deep ocean.

  He’d killed without remorse for her, and he was afraid he'd do so again and again until his father's blood boiled like lava through his veins, and he'd drown in the darkness. Until he was no better than that ... thing Vasily had become. She’d made him lose all control.

  She’d made him love her, and he hated her for it.

  And he hated her stubbornness, her desire to leave him and marry a man he knew she didn't love, though this was what was best for her.

  Above all, he hated the tenderness she engendered in a heart he had long though pulverized by his ancient grief. It was overwhelming.

  "Why have you come here?" he bit out, all of his anger and self-loathing swiftly returning now that the shock of her unexpected arrival had worn off. He stepped over the ruins of his vase and swiped his vodka from his desk, unable to look at her. "You shouldn't be here."

  He stumbled away from her and threw himself in a chair by the hearth. She followed with Ilya, wiping the tears away, though they kept falling. He tried not to care.

  "You're drunk!" she breathed with some of her usual spark.

  "What gave it away?" he muttered.

  "You're a wreck!"

  He gave her a significant glance, from the top of her tumbledown hair, to the soles of her muddy boots. Her expression began to grow angry again as she caught his meaning.

  She wiped her eyes one more time and stalked to the divan opposite him and the chess board he and Fyodor used. She sat down and glared at him, though her puffy eyes and red nose undermined the effect. She looked terrible. She looked delectable. He had a very real urge to leap across the distance between them and lick her tears away.

  Which was why he needed her to leave.

  Or stay forever.

  A dangerous thought, which he immediately quashed. Yet he found himself waving the bottle in her direction, as if he were no longer in control of his actions.

  She looked at him as if he'd grown horns.

  He shoved the bottle into her hands. "Drink. Trust me. You'll feel better."

  He groaned inwardly at his behavior. What was he doing?

  She gave him a scathing look, but then, to his surprise, she raised the bottle to her dainty lips and took a long swig. She coughed violently and clutched at her throat.

  "It's like ... fire," she protested, but then she raised the bottle again. She took another long drink. And another.

  He snatched the bottle away from her when she threatened to take yet another.

  "Better?" he asked wryly.

  She nodded. "I shouldn't have. I'm a poor drunk. One glass of wine sends me reeling."

  She'd be on the floor, then, with the amount of liquor she'd just ingested. Wonderful.

  "I on the other hand have been drinking for days. To little effect." That was a lie, of course. He was near to full-on intoxication, and he did not feel one inch better for the effort. He tried to focus. "I know I deserved it, but what exactly compelled you to break my vase on my head?"

  Her expression fell in re
newed horror at her actions. "Oh dear, it was quite valuable, wasn't it?"

  He shrugged. "17th century Ming Dynasty. The artist was a friend."

  She paled. "Of course he was," she murmured. "A friend."

  He scowled at the bottle. "The vase was small recompense to the damage I've caused you. But I swear I've done nothing to the bone-hunter," he said, taking another giant gulp.

  She glowered at him. "Why are you lying? Still? Just tell me the truth."

  "I know you don't believe a word I say, but it's the truth."

  "But he told me..." She broke off, a look of confusion washing over her features. "He's certain you had him fired from the University. He was quite upset about it." Her face collapsed as a new wave of tears gushed from her eyes. "He told me he was leaving! And he made it clear that ... that we're finished!" She broke off with a moan and buried her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving with broken little sobs.

  At this unexpected announcement, his heart soared. He crushed his rising hope. She was not for him. She would never be for him. But when he saw how miserable she was, he felt guilty for his momentary elation – guilt and something that felt a lot like jealousy. Jealousy that he was not the one capable of stealing Finch's affection as the unworthy bone-hunter had done. And uncommon anger at the absent Charlie Neverfeel for reducing his secretary to this leaky bundle.

  "I swear to God, Finch, if you don't stop leaking, I'm going to have to reupholster," he muttered, tossing a handkerchief into her lap.

  "I'm normally not a watering pot," she retorted, dabbing at her eyes. "But the past few days have been rather difficult for me."

  "I shall overlook it this time, Finch. You really wanted to marry him, didn't you?"

  She met his eyes imploringly. "Do you not see how I might want what Charlie was offering? A chance to have a family of my own? A family I never had?"

  A feeling of understanding so raw and visceral it hurt passed into his heart. He understood exactly how she felt, for it was the same thing he felt deep down inside his ruined soul. A desire for family, for normalcy, for ... peace. But he'd never have that.