He stalked towards her, moving with a predatory grace that had nothing in common with the stiff, slightly ham-fisted archaeologist she'd known for three years. The horrible gleam in his eyes only seemed to intensify as he drew nearer. "I'm talking about your sudden maudlin attachment to your employer, my dear. It quite complicates matters. I counted on his sentimental regard for you, but I never expected you to become his whore.”
Her blood froze in her veins at the venom in Charlie's voice, the sneer on his face. His words were cruel and inexplicable.
He shrugged. "But perhaps it is all to the good. He shall be that much more motivated to give me what I want," he said, reaching into his pocket and extracting a pistol. "You, on the other hand, are giving me a headache. Why could you not simply come with me as you are supposed to?" He leveled the pistol in her direction and motioned for her to walk towards the French doors at the other end of the room.
Feeling as if her legs were made of jelly, she followed his unspoken order. Judging from the insane glint in his eyes, he was quite prepared to use the weapon in his hands. She couldn't quite believe what was happening. "Charlie, what are you doing?" she demanded. "What is going on?"
He reached up and tugged off the Iron Necklace at his throat. Her heart dropped from her throat to her knees when she saw his unmarked neck. The Necklace had been a fake. Like so many of her acquaintances of late, Charlie seemed to have had no need of the breathing implant at all. He cast the disguise aside and glared at her.
"First of all, Charlie is not my name. Secondly, what does it look like I'm doing? I'm kidnapping you. If you scream or raise any sort of alarm, I shall shoot you. I'm not that keen on keeping you alive."
"But why?" she cried, trying to remain calm, but finding it increasingly impossible.
She was afraid she'd pushed him too far, for he was at her side in the blink of an eye, grabbing her arm and shoving her through the doors and onto the terrace.
"Quiet," he hissed, glancing around the garden. "You've no idea the trouble I've gone through to catch you in a moment when the Earl and his men are absent. Hurry," he demanded, pushing her across the terrace and down into the gardens.
She tripped on the stone stairs and fell to her knees, scuffing her palms. She raised her eyes from her bloody hands and glared at Charlie. He made no move to help her, merely motioned her onwards with impatience. She stumbled to her feet, and he shoved her in the back, nearly sending her to the ground again. She quickened her pace.
She was alarmed, of course, to discover her fiancé was insane, and she was definitely afraid of the gun in his hand, but she was also vastly annoyed. This was the last thing she needed, to be kidnapped at gunpoint by an unbalanced bone-hunter – who she was beginning to suspect was not a bone-hunter at all.
"You can't want to marry me this badly," she said, rubbing her stinging hands on her skirts, trying to stop the bleeding. "Tell me you aren't a vampire, at least."
He looked disgusted. "Nothing so vulgar, my dear. Unpredictable, violent creatures. They never do what you want them to."
A horrible suspicion began to form in her mind. She skidded to a stop and rounded on him. "You knew that creature who attacked me, didn't you?"
He gave her a dark smile. "Vasily? He and I have been associates for years. Unfortunately, I had to distance myself from him when he became unmanageable. I had not counted on your particular affliction, my dear. It quite drove him mad, and nearly exposed me. He could not stick to the plan. All he could think about was drinking you dry, I'm afraid. I would have gladly obliged, if he'd but waited."
His words made her shudder with dread. Dear Lord. He motioned her towards the side of the gardens, leading into the mews. She slowed her pace as much as she dared, stalling for time, searching all around her for some sign of Matthews, or any of the other men who were usually patrolling the residence. Since they'd all thought the threat to her was passed, however, their vigil had been limited. As far as she knew, the Earl and all of his men were off on an urgent matter for this mysterious Council of his. She held out little hope of rescue.
"Don't tell me you are responsible for all of those murders," she said. Surely the man she'd known for three years was not so evil.
"Necessary collateral, my dear. Though those women in Whitechapel were all Vasily's doing. As I've said, I lost him to his thirst. Fortunately, the good Inspector and your lover took care of that little problem. Wrapped everything up quite neatly, too. How I would have loved to see the Tsarevich's face when he met his bastard brother for the first time in centuries."
Another unpleasant realization dawned, and her stomach churned anew. "Those hearts at the museum weren't from mummies at all, were they?"
He looked at her as if she were stupid. "Finally figured it out, did you? I was afraid you'd suspect me that day. You quite caught me off guard with your little visit. I had to get rid of you quick."
She was certain she would be sick. She clutched her middle. "Why would you ... keep them? What sort of disgusting monster are you?"
He just grinned at her. "They are ... trophies. Research. I have studied the human heart for centuries, preparing for a time when I finally have what is mine."
As much as she didn't want to hear his sick revelations, she'd keep him talking as long as he could to delay him. He seemed more than happy to linger while he explained himself to her.
"What is yours, Charlie? Who are you? What is your connection to Sasha?"
"I am Carlos Salerno. I was to be the thirteenth Elder, alongside my brother. But that thief stole my heart," he seethed.
"I don't understand. How could Sasha have stolen the heart?"
He gave her a frustrated look and pushed her onwards, shoving the pistol against her back. "He didn't. Leo's damned assistant Fredo stole it and disappeared. It took me half a century to find him rotting in a Russian dungeon. But I was too late. That crazy Tsar had already made Fredo put the heart inside his dying son. The fool couldn't even do it correctly either. Useless creature. I made sure he suffered for his crimes."
She wondered if Fredo hadn't done the world a favor by his theft. Perhaps the man had sensed the rot in Charlie's soul. She wished she had. "So Sasha was given the heart. Why are you still alive?"
He sneered. "Through the grace of my Elder brother. But I shall not be dependent upon his Blood Bond for much longer. He grows suspicious of me, anyway. I can no longer count on his usefulness."
The truth dawned on her. "You want Sasha's heart, don't you?"
He gave her a droll look, as if it were obvious. "It's my heart, my dear. It always has been. I thought I could retrieve it from him in Russia, with none the wiser. But I could never get close enough. Ivan Grozny's defenses were impressive, especially around his precious heir. Eventually the Council became aware of his existence. They weren't pleased, of course, and my brother and others argued my case. But the Duke of bloody Brightlingsea refused to take action to retrieve what was rightfully mine!"
Her heart stuttered to a stop. Bile rose in her throat. She was truly beginning to hate this Council. She suspected these Elders were the cause of a great deal of suffering in the world, with their arrogant belief in their right to play God.
"You mean, the Council actually considered killing Sasha to take back the heart?"
"It was never his!" he cried loud enough to echo off the garden walls, forgetting his own demand for discretion. He pounded his fist against his thigh, his temper rising. "The only way they would consider such an idea was if the Tsarevich was proved unredeemable. So I enlisted Vasily's help and set out to change the Council's mind."
"All those murders, for centuries, to implicate Sasha!"
"At first. But the damned Duke never quite believed Ivanovich's guilt. Not enough to take action. I decided to find a way around the Council altogether."
"I don't understand."
He gave her an impatient look. "Since Fredo's demise, there is only one person left in the world with the skill and knowledge to perform D
a Vinci's Vital Regeneration. He is an Elder. Only with Council approval would he agree to the operation. But I no longer need him. I believe I have found a man capable of the surgery. It has taken three centuries, but I shall finally have what is mine."
"You are insane, Charlie!" she breathed.
"Don't call me that. My, but I'll be glad to be rid of you when this is through. Three years in this tiresome role as the incredibly boring Charles Netherfield is enough to truly drive me insane. I really don't understand what the Tsarevich sees in you."
They finally reached the gate leading out into the mews. She could see an unmarked steam carriage hovering in the alleyway with a familiar figure at the helm. Professor Hendrix. His daughter, the beauteous Theodora, was watching them approach out of the carriage window. Well. She'd thought Theodora was infatuated with Charlie. She never would have guessed the woman was part of Charlie's murderous scheme.
Charlie gave her one last considering look as he threw the gate open. "Whatever the attraction, don't think me ungrateful, my dear. I've waited years for him to find something he'd be willing to die for."
"You plan to use me as ... as bait? Me in exchange for the blasted heart?" she cried, sickened, terrified for Sasha.
"Have you just now realized that? My dear Aline, you are really less clever than I gave you credit for. I admit this was not always the plan. I attempted one last time to sway the Council with the Tsarevich's latest rampage, but they have grown suspicious of me since Vasily's overzealous actions."
Theodora leaned out of the window, signaling at something behind them. She cried out something in Italian, and Charlie cursed.
Aline's stomach bottomed out with dread when she saw Lady Christiana running towards them on the garden path. Charlie seized her around the waist, pulling her against him and pointing the gun at her head.
"Whatever are you about, Dr. Netherfield?" Christiana called out. "Where are you going with Aline?" She stopped up short when she noticed the gun, her mouth falling open.
"Don't come any closer, Christiana," Aline called out. "He's the true killer. His name is Carlos Salerno, and he's absolutely crazy!"
Charlie didn't like this last bit and cuffed her hard with the butt of the gun on her temple. Her vision went black for a moment, and she collapsed against him. The pain, delayed at first, finally caught up with her, and she sucked in a breath and struggled to remain lucid. When her vision came into focus, Charlie had dragged her to the steam carriage.
Theodora swung open the door, and Aline groaned when she saw the woman's glowing amber eyes and extended incisors. Another vampire. Theodora was staring at the blood trickling down Aline's temple as if it were water in the desert.
"Contain yourself, my dear Theodora," Charlie said. "Remember the plan."
Theodora's nostrils flared, and she made a pained sound. "But she smells so good, my love."
"Better than your life?" Charlie asked sharply, shoving Aline inside.
Theodora gave Aline one last longing glance. "I suppose not."
Aline was not comforted in the least by Theodora's reluctant response. She moved as far away from the woman as she could on the bench. Charlie climbed inside after her and began to shut the door. But Christiana suddenly appeared in the doorway.
"Aline!" she called, reaching for her.
"Don't, Christiana!" she warned. "Stay back. He'll kill you."
"I won't leave you!" Christiana cried.
Charlie shoved Christiana away with his boot. Christiana took the carriage door with her as she fell away, and Aline's breath seized. The steam carriage lurched forwards into motion. Unfazed, Christiana regained her feet and trotted alongside of them, attempting to enter the carriage. Aline cried out when Charlie leveled the pistol at Christiana and pulled the trigger. The bullet clipped her in the side, sending her sprawling to the cobbles.
She did not get back up.
Aline screamed her horror, and Charlie smashed the gun into her head again, sending her into darkness.
Chapter 12
HERO OF SEVASTOPOL RESIGNS! Just days after the Duke of Brightlingsea brought the Abominable Russian Army to its knees, ending the dreadful conflict in the Crimea, His Grace returns to Albion’s shores to a hero’s welcome. After meeting with Her Majesty, His Grace revealed he has resigned as leader of the Allied Troops and plans to retire to his Welsh estate. One wonders what really happened on the Peninsula…
- from The London Post-Dispatch, August 1855
SASHA decided that his life had definitely hit a new low when Fyodor resorted to pouring a pitcher of water over his head to rouse him from his latest drunken stupor. Sasha jumped up from his seat at his desk, where he'd spent the past several nights, immediately regretting it. His head spun, and he lost his balance, crashing to the floor of his study, wet, bleary-eyed, in the same shirt he'd worn for the last three days, and spoiling for a fight.
When he saw the look on Fyodor's face, however, he remained where he was. Fyodor looked prepared to thrash him, and Sasha suspected he would succeed. He was no match to battle a fly in his present condition, Da Vinci heart or no.
He pushed his damp hair out of his face and glared at his friend. "What the devil are you about?" he demanded in Russian.
Fyodor narrowed his eyes and stalked to the desk. He sorted through the pile of unopened post tubes and empty vodka bottles for something to write with. He found pen and paper and scrawled something. He held it up to Sasha's eyes.
You love her.
Sasha stiffened and felt his stomach drop to his knees. He shook his head in denial.
Fyodor stabbed his finger at his words for emphasis.
Sasha swatted the paper away as he stumbled to his feet. "It doesn't matter, even if I do."
Fyodor wrote something else and held it in front of Sasha's face.
She loves you.
The words still had the power to floor him. Impossible though it was, she had claimed to love him. When he deserved her condemnation for reducing her life to a shambles. For taking so much from her. Especially that final, drunken night together when he'd taken her like the beast he was. Thrice.
Thrice. Even though he'd been completely off his face and therefore shouldn't have had the wherewithal for a satisfactory once, especially in a chair. But as soon as he'd touched her, he'd been gripped by a monumental, aching fever that no amount of vodka could quell.
That night may have been a drunken mistake, but as he'd lain there, holding her in his arms, he'd had the first peaceful night of sleep in decades. How could he let that go? He wanted to throttle her, to kiss her, to chain her to him forever. And it was exactly this outcome of events he'd sought to avoid by leaving this life. Too late.
He'd not wanted her love. He couldn't bear it ... though hadn't that been what he'd been craving from her all of these years? Begging it from her at every turn by his requests, his constant demands that kept her always by his side? Weaving her into the gaping, empty holes of his life without her consent? Feeding off of her wholesomeness like some giant, parasitical monster?
But what choice did he have but to give her up? She was not like Luciana or any of his other women, who could be content as a temporary mistress. And he didn't want her like that. She was not like any woman he'd ever known. He wanted all of her, for the rest of time. Yet he'd taken too much from her already, and he didn't dare ask her for more.
He wasn't even sure if she wanted more from him. She'd made that very clear to him when they parted. Even if he were to consider Bonding her, she'd never agree to it. She thought he was too damaged. And she was right.
Fyodor touched his shoulder and shoved another note onto the desktop.
Don't let her go.
Sasha gave a humorless laugh and shook his head. "I must, Fyodor. I am poison. I'd end up hurting her in the end."
Fyodor crossed his arms and glared at him, as if to say he already had.
"Even more than I have already," he amended wearily.
The bell on the post b
ox blared again as yet another message came in, and Sasha groaned in exasperation. He'd lost control over every facet of his life, so he was not about to let a post box bell lay him low. And he needed to hit something. Hard.
He stalked over the fireplace and retrieved the poker, then stalked to the post box, raising his weapon. Ilya whimpered from his bed by the empty hearth and fled the room entirely at this sign of impending violence. Fyodor's human eye went wide in alarm when he figured out what Sasha intended. He stepped between the box and Sasha.
Sasha lowered the poker. "Out of my way, Fyodor. If I have to hear that infernal bell go off one more time, I swear I will go down to the Ministry of Correspondence and level it with my bare hands."
Fyodor studied Sasha's face for a moment and decided he was in earnest. He stepped aside.
Sasha raised the poker.
"Are we interrupting something?" came Rowan's wry voice from the doorway.
Sasha spun around, nearly losing his balance, and the poker clattered to the ground. He listed to the side, and Fyodor propped him up. There seemed to be quite a few people entering his study. Uninvited.
Rowan turned to a man even taller than the giant Fyodor with a grim expression. "I told you we'd find him like this. He's in no shape for this, Your Grace."
Sasha felt Fyodor stiffen next to him, which was a considerable feat, considering his friend was nearly entirely made of metal. His vodka haze quickly faded as his heart began to pump adrenaline through his veins. Rowan, Drexler and Lieutenant Matthews were not entirely unwelcome, but the others were. He’d go so far as to call them intruders.
Franco Salerno hovered near the rear of the group, looking as if he'd rather be in Hell. Sasha wanted to scream in frustration. Whenever that man appeared, bad things tended to happen to him. Like spending weeks in a stinking Genoese jail. The other intruder was hardly an improvement, however. The last time Sasha had seen the Duke of Brightlingsea had been after the fall of Sevastopol forty years ago. It hadn't been long enough.
The Duke was the tall, broad brute of a man standing next to Rowan, dressed completely in black, with hair as black as Sasha's, and a black scowl on his face. Fitting, in Sasha's opinion, for if ever a man was surrounded by darkness, it was the Duke. Sasha had forgiven Alyosius Finch for his role in the Sevastopol genocide, but he could not forgive the Duke.
Prince of Hearts (Elders and Welders Chronicles) Page 24