Snow White and the Vampire (The Cursed Princes)

by Myles, Marina

  Her expression darkened. “What remedy?”

  “The bracelet of Amenhotep. It sits inside a locked case at the British Museum.”

  “What is so special about this bracelet?”

  “It was blessed by Amenhotep’s fellow priests as soon as they learned of Princess Tousret’s prophecy. Although Tousret murdered the doomed priest before he could don the bracelet, it possesses the holy powers of good.”

  “The holy powers of good?” Ileana scoffed. “Nonsense. They are no match for the Dark Arts.”

  “I agree,” said a voice behind her.

  Ileana wheeled around to see Simona seated in an armchair nestled in a darkened corner.

  “How did you get in here?” Ileana asked sharply.

  “I don’t need to be invited into a place of evil.” Simona gestured to the mullion-paned window.

  The enchantress’s nostrils flared. “Never disturb me without warning again!”

  “I’m sorry. I wanted to inform you that the snake I left for Alba failed to kill her—thanks to that stupid Tuttlebaum woman.”

  “I know. And I should drive a stake through your heart for your ineptness.”

  Simona covered her chest protectively.

  “Don’t worry. Lucky for you, I still require your help with Dimitri Grigorescu.” Ileana paused.

  “I just paid him a visit.”

  “I already know,” Ileana said cynically, swiveling to face the mirror. She eyed her smooth, fair skin and shining blond hair with approval.

  “You saw me tell Dimitri that he is a mulo?” Simona asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This means that Alba will eventually destroy Dimitri,” Simona said as she slid closer. “But why not help them along by doubling their chances of dying?”

  Ileana shot her a sideways glance. “I like the hint of evil in your voice. Go on.”

  “Dimitri and I are vampires. I’ve told you as much.”

  “Yes,” Ileana said impatiently.

  “I’ve also told you that I would have destroyed Alba long ago if it didn’t mean losing Dimitri because of his anger.”

  “Yes.”

  “Considering those things,” Simona said, “I’ve come up with the perfect plan. According to Romanian legend, if a male Szgamy Gypsy becomes a vampire, he turns into a sex-starved vampire that will consume his victim with his physical lust before he drains them of their blood.”

  “I told you, I already I witnessed your explanation to Dimitri.”

  “So why not place a temporary spell on Alba? If you increase her sexual aggressiveness, she will decrease Dimitri’s willpower faster than usual.”

  Ileana threw her head back in icy, bloodcurdling laughter.

  “So you like my plan?” Simona asked proudly.

  “Brilliant!” Ileana arched a thin eyebrow.

  “How will you do it?” Simona asked.

  “I’ll find a way. Still, to prevent anything from interfering with our clever scheme, you must do me two favors.”

  “What favors?”

  “First, you must get rid of Alba’s beau, Teddy Rollingsworth. He is nothing but a hindrance.”

  “Done,” replied Simona as she reached over and stroked Otterbourne. “What is your second request?”

  Ileana’s lips curled into a sardonic smile. “I want you to steal the bracelet of Amenhotep and make it disappear.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The tang of brine and the bellow of tugboats drifted off the Embankment as Alba turned onto Fleet Street. She hastened against the crisp breeze toward the Inns of Court, a bundle of nerves. She was late for work today—and she’d been chiding herself about it ever since she’d left the dormitory.

  Touching her hand to the dark shadows beneath her eyes, she scurried up the steps that led to Gray’s Inn. The four Inns of Court were situated in the legal district of London which, as attested to by its noise and by its smells, wasn’t far from the River Thames. Whenever the sound of water lapping against the Embankment reached Alba at her desk, it sent her back to her native Romania. The Thames reminded her of the Olt River—and of the pleasant life she used to know before her mother died . . . before her father married Ileana.

  Unfortunately, daydreaming at work—and being tardy—were two things Mr. Rollingsworth frowned upon, so Alba suppressed a yawn and hurried into the great hall. She passed a set of chambers belonging to another barrister and finally entered the dark, richly paneled chambers of Mr. Rollingsworth. Settling herself at her desk, she put her head down on its surface and closed her eyes. Silence enveloped her, but only for a moment. Teddy burst through the door, bright-eyed and cleanly shaven.

  Alba snapped her head up and shot him a curdling look. Surprisingly, he wasn’t put off by her scowl. Rather, he smiled as he swung his arm forward and presented her with a stunning bouquet of white roses.

  “Happy birthday, darling.”

  “Oh, Teddy,” she gushed. The drama of the past weeks had pushed her birthday from her mind. As she gazed at the spectacular flowers, she felt like a sour stick.

  “Beauty for a beauty,” he said gallantly.

  “Thank you.” She reached for the bouquet, then cradled it against her chest.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  Teddy sat on the edge of the desk. Looking his usual, polished self in a well-cut houndstooth suit and mohair greatcoat, he removed his hat without flourish. Everything Teddy did he did without bravado. Alba supposed she should find his lack of ego admirable, but she didn’t. To her, it made him seem dull.

  Still grinning, he looked down at her. “The flowers were a must. I had to do something to regain your confidence.” He paused. “What’s more, you deserve to be fawned over—after what that monster Grigorescu put you through.”

  Dimitri didn’t do anything to me that I didn’t want him to do.

  Alba put her nose to the roses while her encounter with Dimitri came flooding back to her. She could feel his hand skating up her thigh. And she could envision his lengthy manhood pressed into her palm as they’d rolled about the bench of the hansom.

  She chased away the erotic images under a stirred heartbeat. “You know I love being fawned over,” she quipped, “but I must get some work done.”

  “Of course.” Teddy rose. “Since Tabitha Crowe confessed to killing her son, she’ll be sentenced later today.”

  The elderly woman’s guilty verdict still gripped Alba with remorse.

  Teddy straightened his tie. When he offered to put the roses in some water, Alba handed them over distractedly. “Not to worry,” he said. “I’ll be by your side.”

  She gave him a tiny smile. “Thank you. You always know how to comfort me, Teddy.”

  “And I always will, darling.”

  As Alba watched him leave the office, she wished he would stop calling her that.

  In the afternoon, she and Teddy were reunited within the quiet reverence of the Old Bailey. Alba had already donned her wig and barrister gown in preparation for the sentencing. Teddy, who was dressed in his horsehair wig and gown as well, brushed his shoulder to hers.

  “All rise for the Honorable Oliver Wentwood,” the bailiff instructed.

  Wearing the most intricate of curled wigs, Wentwood bustled in. He was a portly, sagacious man of middle age. Though he looked as if he’d eaten one too many candied sponge cakes, his reputation as a highly respected member of London’s judicial system preceded him.

  Wentwood gave a grave nod to the courtroom populace and took his seat in the middle of the eleven judges.

  “Bailiff Murdock,” he called out. “Bring in the accused.”

  Tabitha Crowe was escorted into the courtroom. Alba stiffened beside Teddy. Tabitha looked years older than she had during her daughter-in-law’s trial. Her clear blue eyes had turned bloodshot and her complexion had grown alarmingly pale.

  Alba could only imagine the conditions the woman was enduring inside Newgate Prison. Very few prisoners
had the luxury of securing a private cell—and murderers were among the most hated inmates.

  She watched Tabitha move to the sentencing dock, her arm clasped by the stern-faced Murdock. The accused woman shuffled forward, her ankles and wrists hindered by the shackles that bound them.

  Heavens! Alba thought. Are those chains really necessary? Tabitha Crowe is ninety years old. Who on earth is she going to hurt?

  Tabitha passed Alba and locked eyes with her. Alba’s heart leapt to her throat. She never thought her first conviction would feel like this. Inspired by the mistreatment she received from Ileana at Stelian Hall, she’d dreamt of practicing law—of bringing criminals to justice. Alba knew Tabitha was responsible for the murder of her only son. Why then was it so heart-wrenching to see the elderly woman live out her just deserts?

  Tabitha transferred her glance to the jury box. Today, the stacked rows were empty. Without a jury present, it was left to the panel of judges nestled behind their podiums to decide Tabitha’s fate. Fear quickened Alba’s pulse at the thought.

  “I hope she is found guilty but insane,” Teddy said in a whisper.

  Alba did too, but she doubted it. She had proved that Tabitha understood right from wrong during the crime she committed. Furthermore, the accused woman showed no signs of dementia during the trial—and the fact that she’d poisoned her son over a long period of time didn’t help either.

  Tabitha finally reached the dock. She entered it and faced the judges who sat on the other side of the room. Murmuring from the gallery began again. The elderly woman met the legion of eyes with a calm sense of dignity. When her stare shifted to the window, the sun did not stream into the courtroom as it had on the final day of the trial. Instead the autumn sky had turned as gray as a mid-December day. Tension hung in the air—tension that felt bitter and remorseful.

  Wentwood’s voice broke the silence. “Under Her Majesty’s Dominion,” he said, “this collection of High Court judges has reached a verdict.” He paused while Tabitha stood rigidly in the dock, showing no emotion save for the single tear that lined her cheek.

  “Tabitha Loretta Crowe of Chelmsford,” Wentwood continued, “for the heinous crime of first degree murder committed on August 10, 1888, against your son, Seymour Darby Crowe, we hereby sentence you to hang from the neck until dead. Your public execution will take place on Monday, the twelfth of November in this year, 1888.”

  Tabitha’s knees buckled. She slumped forward with her eyes closed.

  “Somebody help her!” Alba cried.

  Three officers of the court came to the elderly woman’s aid. They helped Tabitha to her feet while she began to sob. “I had to do it!” she hollered as she was being led away. “I feared for my safety!”

  The words stopped Alba cold. Tabitha was right. She’d been left with no choice. And that was precisely how Alba had felt under Ileana’s control. Ileana would have destroyed her if she hadn’t run away to London. In that moment, Alba knew that life wasn’t about being right or wrong, just or unjust. It was about listening to one’s heart.

  Strangely, her guilt over her faking her death and abandoning the Zpda name vanished. All she was left with was her doubt that she could continue being a barrister. After all, her sense of justice had become permanently skewed.

  Teddy grasped Alba as she sagged against him. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She fought to regain her composure, but it was difficult since the wind in her lungs had been jolted out of her.

  “If I didn’t know better,” he said, “I’d think you were a family member reacting to Tabitha’s fate.”

  A massive headache was beginning to form in the back of Alba’s neck. She said nothing as she rubbed the tense muscles.

  “Tough luck, the sentencing was,” Teddy remarked while the observers filtered out of the courtroom. “She seemed like a nice old woman.”

  “Luck has nothing to do with Tabitha Crowe’s demise,” Alba fired back. “It’s all about the choices we make in life—and what we do with those choices.”

  Teddy cocked an eyebrow at her odd tone. “I think you need to rest before this evening’s events.”

  Curse my birthday plans.

  Weeks ago, Teddy had arranged an extravagant night out, complete with a fine dinner in Grosvenor Square and highly sought-after opera tickets to celebrate Alba’s birthday. Considering her foul mood, she was inclined to cancel, but Teddy had invited his father and grandmother to join them.

  “I’ll have a carriage pick you up at eight o’clock.” Teddy’s eyes still twinkled despite the way she’d spoken to him. “And I don’t think a chaperone will be necessary, my darling. You are like family to us Rollingsworths.”

  Alba arrived back at the dormitory to find an enormous dress box sitting on her bed. Stunned, she lifted its lid. A luxurious Prussian-blue gown was folded neatly between layers of tissue paper. Alba removed the dress, placed it in front of her, and moved to the mirror. With its snug-fitting bodice, extravagantly puffed sleeves, and ornaments made from lace, the dress followed the latest trend. Even its full skirt lent the dress the right touch.

  Smiling, Alba returned to the box and opened the envelope that accompanied it.

  You’ll look stunning in blue.

  T.

  She sighed. Teddy was a romantic at heart, yet Dimitri was standing in the way of him gaining her affections. Alba wondered if Teddy realized that. She also wondered if his suspicions of Dimitri being a vampire would ever be confirmed.

  Alba secretly wished she were dining with Dimitri tonight instead of Teddy. There were so many things she wanted to say to him. Foremost, she wanted to tell Dimitri that she was sure Ileana’s presence was closing in on her—and that she needed him to protect her more than ever.

  As she slipped into the dress and stole a look at her reflection, a thrill raced through her. For once she felt beautiful. The rare burst of confidence convinced her that she should seek out Dimitri this evening. Maybe I’ll get what I really want for my birthday.

  Dabbing lip stain on her bottom lip and brushing her hair to a high shine, she wondered if the forces of ancient Egypt were pushing her toward Dimitri with breathless energy. Or was it her own curiosity?

  Chapter Eighteen

  A string quartet strummed a Vivaldi melody as Alba arrived at Chez François.

  Located in the heart of Grosvenor Square, the chic French restaurant bustled with excitement. Dimly lit and garishly decorated, the establishment boasted a slew of aristocratic types—as well as those who wished to be seen in the company of its aristocratic patrons.

  Alba inhaled against her tight corset and smiled at the tiny, mustached maître d’.

  “Bonsoir, mademoiselle.”

  “Bonsoir, monsieur.”

  “Vous êtes ravissante ce soir, mademoiselle.”

  Alba blushed. “Merci bien.”

  “De rien.” The tiny man inclined his head politely, then gestured for Alba to follow him.

  She felt a dozen eyes on her as she sashayed through the restaurant. Teddy had guessed her dress size accurately enough, except her full bustline had nowhere to go except up and over the dress’s plunging neckline. When a distinguished-looking gentleman gave a full-body turn her way, his wife swatted him on the shoulder, knocking his pince-nez loose.

  Suppressing a smile, Alba looked straight over the maître d’s head. Soon they arrived at a private room in the rear of the restaurant. Her host stopped and drew back a set of amethyst curtains edged in heavy gold fringe. Inside the small room sat Teddy; his father; Harold’s mother, Constance Rollingsworth; and Constance’s nurse, around a circular table. After Alba thanked the maître d’, Teddy helped her into her seat while his father gave her a partial rise.

  “Good evening, everyone,” she said.

  “Happy birthday, my dear,” Constance Rollingsworth greeted through pursed lips. She was a small but difficult woman who was eighty years old if she was a day. She wore her soft, silver hair spun upward into a stylish
chignon while her sharp green eyes studied Alba without the aid of spectacles. Ironically, Alba thought, the old woman’s eyesight is probably better than mine.

  “Thank you.” Alba gave Teddy’s grandmother a nod as she unfolded her napkin.

  “You look stunning.” Teddy beamed.

  “Thank you for the dress, Teddy.” She touched his hand. “It was very kind of you.”

  In formal wear cut precisely to his lean but muscular frame, he was more dashing than Alba had ever seen him. Teddy’s face brightened against his white bow tie and winged-tip collar, and his gray eyes gleamed in perusal of the gift he’d given her.

  “Yes, my dear. You look beautiful,” Constance agreed. “Gorgeous diamonds, I must say.”

  Alba put a hand to the curved necklace that encircled her neck. “This choker was my mother’s.” Besides the ambrotype that sat on her night table, the diamond necklace was the only possession Alba had to remember her mother by—and she cherished it greatly.

  “You remember Bedford, my nurse?” Constance boomed. The volume of her voice made it apparent that it was her hearing, not her eyesight, that suffered.

  “Yes.” Alba gave Mavis Bedford a glance. “It is nice to see you again.”

  The large woman dipped her double chin in Alba’s direction before she began to fuss over Constance. Mavis was built quite like a man. Her intense strength helped her lift her employer in and out of bed and the bathtub.

  “For God’s sake, Bedford!” Constance snapped. “I can place my own napkin in my lap. And if you think I need help eating, you’d better think again!”

  Alba’s cheeks flamed, as did Mavis’s. Thank heavens they had secured a private table.

  “Teddy, however did you get tickets to Othello?” Constance’s expression softened as she addressed her grandson.

  “Yes, my boy. However did you manage it?” Harold Rollingsworth took a sip of the scarlet wine.

  “I have a box at the theater,” Teddy said.

  “That’s my son. Quite the distinguished man about town.” Harold gloated. “With a lovely woman on his arm to boot.”