Their rooms—plural, for which Savina was silently grateful—were adjoining, attached by a bathroom and dressing room. Not that she wouldn’t have shared a bed with Liam in order to keep up appearances, but it made it difficult to sleep with a stranger in bed next to her. Especially when he was as handsome and endearing as Liam.
She hadn’t shared a bed, or even met a man she wanted to invite there, since Max left—and that included Liam. And that, too, was cause for a deep-seated anger.
Why couldn’t she get on with her life?
What the hell was she waiting for? Max to return?
It would be a cold day in hell before he did—and an even frostier one before she welcomed him back, anyway.
If he was even still alive.
Her anger evaporated, and Savina felt a sharp pang of sorrow followed by raw fear.
What if he was dead? What if the world had lost Max Denton?
Not only would it be her own, personal heartbreak…but how much more in danger would the rest of them be? How many more vampires would live to drain and rape their mortal counterparts, to feed on and destroy their victims? How much more powerful would the cadre of undead grow—especially now that Nicholas Iscariot was gathering up his followers around the world? He was already gaining strength and support across the ocean in America. She’d heard he was in Chicago.
With Max Denton gone—Max, who was the heir to the Gardella family of vampire hunters, the Summas, or leader of them all—the Venators would be left on their own. Not that there weren’t capable men who carried the stake and wore the vis bulla, but without a leader from the Gardella bloodline, who knew what would happen to the continuation of the family…and their centuries-old legacy to destroy the undead.
The best thing she could do was focus on the task at hand: find the amulet and get it back to Rome, where Wayren and the Venators could destroy it.
Chapter 2
~ Disguise ~
MAX GRUMBLED TO himself when he saw all the bows and wreaths and pinery—everywhere. It was bloody everywhere at Knotwood Abbey, reminding him over and over that it was almost Christmas.
He snarled mentally, absolutely refusing to let even a twinge of guilt or grief ruin his irritation with the overblown expression of holiday spirit.
It could be worse, he told himself.
Oh, yes. He could think of several ways it could be worse than spending an ever-so-jolly Christmas in close quarters with a number of people who may or may not be vampires and who surely were members of the Tutela.
For example, if he had to mingle with too many giggling young women whose idea of excitement was shopping for hats. With feathers on them.
Or if a second World War broke out.
Or, worst of all, if he ever had to face Savina again. At Christmas time.
Even this overly frou-frou pine-bough decor and beribboned holly-berry frippery would be preferable to facing her again.
And so he smiled and bowed to Lady Glennington when he was introduced by his friend Jelle deVos, lifting his hostess’s hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. An old-fashioned gesture to be sure, but it fit with the persona he had curated for more than a year: that of a retired physician who collected Egyptian antiquities (both legally and illegally) and lived in Amsterdam.
“It’s most kind of you to invite me to stay,” Max said as he rose from the bow and released her hand. “I did not intend to intrude, but Mr. deVos here insisted I should accompany him. He could not contain his ravings about your antiquities collection, and of course, after hearing him…I could hardly stay away.” He smiled apologetically behind the neat beard and mustache he’d liberally streaked with gray.
“Of course you had to come. Spending your Christmas alone simply cannot be done,” pronounced Jelle deVos with a thump of his cane. The man was short and stubby with flyaway blond hair, but he was a pleasant enough fellow—for being a member of the Tutela.
Max ought to know, for he’d spent far too much time in the man’s presence over a great many months. But now his hard work and planning was about to pay off, for here he was, in the bosom of the Glennington manor. If what he suspected was correct, Rasputin’s amulet was somewhere in this house. And, if the eerie chill at the back of his neck was any indication, there were a number of vampires on the property as well.
However, Lady Glennington was still very mortal. “Quite so, Dr. Melke,” she was saying. “Of course you had to come with our dear Jelle. There’s plenty of room here at Knotwood Abbey, and we have a special party planned for tomorrow, Christmas Eve, in which you simply must participate. Now, now, don’t think of demurring, Dr. Melke. Nor you, my darling Jelle.” She wagged a finger at each of them in turn, and it was magnified unpleasantly due to the blue-tinted monocle Max wore in his left eye. “Of course you both must participate. It simply won’t do for you to be hiding away while the rest of us are celebrating the holidays in a very special manner.”
“And what, pray tell, do you have planned?” Max asked with a reasonably enthusiastic tone even as his fertile mind worked quickly to settle on an excuse to decline. A sudden onset of influenza, perhaps?
“We have a celebrity among us.” Lady Glennington’s eyes sparkled.
“Indeed?” DeVos sounded as pleased as their hostess. “And who is this celebrity?”
“A famous photographer, who is doing a story about Knotwood Abbey for a Christmas spread in LIFE magazine.”
“A photographer?” Max’s heart gave a funny lurch.
“Yes, she’s quite well known, you know,” prattled his hostess. “Does a lot of adventure stories. It’s a stroke of great luck for us that she was going to be in the area and her editors were in search of a story about a traditional English Christmas. I cannot wait to show her what we have planned for Boxing Day!”
“She?” Max’s throat was unaccountably dry. His pulse pounded sharply in his temples. Don’t be absurd.
“Now, Mr. Melke, don’t tell me you’re the sort who believes women should never have a career. Why, that type of thinking went away after the War ended! Even Great-Aunt Cecilia has come to the conclusion that women can do more than run a household and raise children.”
Good God. Surely the photographer couldn’t be Savina. Ridiculous. Why in the hell would it be? Just because she was a female and had done photography stories for LIFE magazine…
“What did you say her name was? This celebrity photographer?” he managed to ask around the massive lump in his throat.
“Mrs. Stoker. Mrs. Liam Stoker. As I recall, she recently got married, and I can’t quite remember what her name was previously. Sabrina…something. Old age, you know,” giggled Lady Glennington. “Though I’ve got nothing on Aunt Cecelia. But…”
Max was no longer listening, for his insides had thudded to his feet. Mrs. Liam Stoker?
Was it possible?
How could it be possible?
How could fate, Divine Providence, God, the universe—whoever—have played such a trick on him when all he wanted to do was help people?
Savina, here. And she was married? To Liam Stoker? To bookish, eyeglasses-wearing Liam Stoker?
And it was bloody damned Christmas.
I have to leave. I have to do this alone.
But it’s Christmas, Max. Can’t it wait?
You don’t understand. I have to go.
“Are you feeling quite all right, Dr. Melke?” Lady Glennington was standing quite close to him, with a concerned expression on her face.
“Oh, yes. I just had a bit of a turn for a moment there,” he managed to say with admirable joviality. “Been a long day. Could do with a bit of a restorative—heh-heh—if you know what I mean.” Max smiled broadly and managed, he hoped, to add a twinkle to his eyes—though his thoughts were anything but twinkling.
Now he was going to have to find the amulet, steal it, slay a vampire or two, and face Savina.
Who was married.
Of them all, it was that last task which could very well be the d
eath of him.
Max was in the drawing room at precisely seven o’clock, despite his deep desire to stay away.
He had toyed with the idea of employing influenza as an excuse to remain in his room—and then to use the opportunity to search through the private suites of his host and hostess, looking for the amulet—but somehow, before he quite knew it, he found himself dressing for dinner.
He re-powdered his beard and mustache, which he wore in a Van Dyke style, and made certain to sweep up all evidence of the gray, ashy remains and dump it in the fireplace. His hair, which he had to pomade thickly to keep its curls sleek and straight, had been permanently streaked with gray hair dye.
However, he had to reapply the tiny dots of glue near all four corners of his eyes. They stretched and wrinkled the skin, which helped to gently alter the shape of his eyes. He donned fingerless, skin-tight white gloves to hide the youthfulness of his hands, placed an amber-tinted monocle in his eye, and combed his untrimmed eyebrows in the opposite direction from which they grew so as to make them appear bushy and shapeless.
He also slipped a slender lift inside one of his shoes, which gave him a slightly imbalanced walk and movement. Beneath his coat, shirt, and waistcoat, Max wore a man’s corset—but the purpose of this ridiculous contraption was to add padding to his middle instead of flattening his belly.
These subtleties added up to an appearance that Max believed would fool even Savina, who had seen him in the most intimate and unguarded of situations. He didn’t intend to get close enough for her to get a good look at him anyway. He just hoped if she did happen to recognize him, she wouldn’t give away his true identity out of shock…or anger.
That thought nearly had him turning around to remain safely cloistered in his room, but in the end, curiosity (but mostly, he told himself, indignation that the possibility of an encounter with a woman should have him hiding away) won out, and he left his chamber. Thus, by seven-oh-two, he stood at the window of the drawing room holding a generous pour of Scotch whiskey and waiting for the others to arrive.
DeVos was right on his heels, fortunately, and the two of them stood discussing the weather as the other diners filtered in.
Lady Glennington arrived next, slender and sparkling in a dark blue frock, with her great-aunt Cecilia—who was ninety if she was a day. The elderly woman moved slowly but with dignity, clearly overcome by the arthritis that curled her fingers and made her knuckles look like small bulbs beneath proper white gloves.
Despite her shuffling walk, Aunt Cecilia was in no other way a shrinking violet. She settled immediately on one of the wingback chairs near the fireplace and stabbed a finger at the butler, who was serving. “Scotch, Rodney, and don’t you bloody dare stint me. I want three full fingers in that glass. And don’t even think of adding water to it.”
Max exchanged glances with deVos, who grinned behind his broad blond mustache. “Aunt Cecelia—she insists everyone call her that—is always my favorite part of dining at Knotwood Abbey. A chap never knows what she’ll say next.” Then deVos’s attention slid to Lady Glennington. “And then there’s the lady of the house. She’s one hell of a live one herself.” His eyes narrowed and he chuckled meaningfully as the woman in question sashayed over to them. “Good luck if she gets you in her sights, old pal,” he murmured.
“Good evening, gentlemen. I expect you found your rooms comfortable and in order?” said Lady Glennington with a warm smile.
“Yes, quite comfortable,” Max replied as deVos did the same.
“Excellent. Now, I should like to draw your attention to the decor in that corner, Jelle. And you most particularly, Dr. Melke,” she said, edging closer to Max. “For one wouldn’t want you to be taken by surprise.” Though clearly in her fifth decade, Lady Glennington was an attractive woman who seemed to have no qualms about standing very close to a man who was not her husband. Max’s nostrils were thus overwhelmed by the scent of lilies and face powder. He edged his foot away from her shoe.
“That small nosegay hanging from the doorframe” —she continued in a low voice— “is mistletoe. And there are several more of them distributed throughout the house.”
“Forewarned is forearmed,” Max managed to say as he eased away from the cloud of flowery powder. “I am in your debt, madame.” He gave her a polite smile.
Lord Glennington entered the chamber at that moment, and Lady Glennington excused herself to speak with the harried butler. As soon as Glennington was fortified with his own drink, he turned to be introduced to Dr. Melke.
“We’ve met before, I believe…have we not?” Glennington tilted his head as he lifted his glass in greeting.
Max wrinkled his brows in thought, taking care so as not to dislodge the small bits of glue at his eyes. “Perhaps we have,” he replied vaguely, hoping the man didn’t recognize him beneath the beard, mustache, and aging. “Memory’s not what it used to be, if you know what I mean. Was it at the Claremont in London? Last March? DeVos, you introduced me to several people. Was Glennington there too?”
“Might have been,” replied deVos. “Ah, and who is this?” His voice dropped low as he looked across the room. “Must be the celebrity photographer.” His words turned into something like a low, breathy inhalation.
But Max had already noticed Savina, for even though he wasn’t facing the doorway, his eyes had been drawn there just before she walked in. As if he’d known she was about to make her appearance.
Perhaps he’d heard her voice in the hall as she approached and that was what had brought his attention to the entrance. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he manage not to meet her eyes directly, and that the mad thudding of his pulse and the tension in his belly should cease.
For walking in the door just behind her, with a hand positioned just above the curve of her arse, was Savina’s new husband.
Max found it safer to look at Liam Stoker than at the woman he was manhandling across the room with a broad, freckled, ungloved, and capable-looking hand. Not the hand of a Venator—unless something had changed and no one had informed Max, which was an irritating and unpleasant possibility—but Stoker’s was a powerful hand nevertheless.
A hand that, Max realized grimly, had done and would continue to do a lot more than simply rest just above the gentle swell of her bottom. A hand that had, more than likely, been the one to fasten the glittering diamond choker around Savina’s throat, and then perhaps—oh, most certainly, for that was how he would’ve done—had slid around to the front of the beaded frock she wore. Those hands surely would have covered her breasts and then eased down the curve of her hips as he pressed a hot, moist kiss on the side of her neck.
Max stopped those thoughts and shifted his eyes to somewhere else in the chamber—he had no idea what he was looking at now; something large and dark and imposing that appeared to be a sculpture tucked in a corner. He focused his attention on deliberately lifting the drink to his lips, taking a very large drink, and then lowering the rock glass as he swallowed in one large, hot, burning gulp. Max’s eyes watered and he gritted his teeth as he fought to keep the burn from turning into a cough. Damnation.
“And over there is our dear friend Mr. deVos and his colleague Dr. Melke. They’re art and antiquities collectors, and are visiting from Amsterdam,” Lady Glennington was saying as Savina and Stoker waited for their respective drinks to be poured.
Max—now that he’d decided to engage instead of avoid—took the bull by the horns. He lifted his drink in the direction of the newcomers and, from a safe distance, said, “Pleasure to meet you. Newlyweds, I hear? What was the name again?” His voice sounded slightly querulous, as was his intention, and his salutatory glass shook a trifle, which was not his intention, but probably added to his deception.
“Yes indeed,” replied the bespectacled Stoker, standing so close to Savina it appeared as if he were attempting to merge into her side. Max couldn’t blame the man, for his wife had never looked lovelier…except perhaps in the morning under rumpled
bedding, with the sun spilling over her bare, tawny skin and her thick, dark lashes underscoring her closed eyes…her full, dusky lips pouted in sleep…her hair tousled in ebony curls around her throat and face. He gritted his teeth and smiled.
“Four months now, isn’t it, luv?” Stoker looked down at Savina with a tender expression that made Max feel ragey.
“To the day,” she said and then smiled at Max. “And, to answer your question, the name is Stoker. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Melke, did you say?”
Again, Max allowed his eyes to sweep impersonally over her face without snagging her gaze, lowering himself into an abbreviated bow. “Elton Melke, madame. At your service.”
When he straightened, Savina had already turned her attention to deVos, which relieved Max to no end. Not a flash or a flicker of recognition from either of the newlyweds. Excellent.
Now he could turn his attention to the reason he was actually here. Ridiculous that he’d been more concerned with an old love affair than the life and death matter of the amulet…and where the vampires were.
For though the back of Max’s neck and shoulders had remained eerily chilled since his arrival at Knotwood Abbey, he hadn’t yet determined who or where the vampires were. This was unusual and slightly disconcerting, for he’d always been able to identify an undead since his very first slaying at the age of seventeen. That familiar, unpleasant chill crept over the nape of his neck, and as it grew stronger or weaker, he could determine how close an undead was and how many were about. And he had an innate sense as to who, for example, in a room of people, was the vampire.
But here at Knotwood, things were not quite so simple. There were undead about, of that Max was certain…but either they were not one of the obvious people—meaning, the lord or lady of the manor—or something was wrong with his abilities.
Which was ludicrous.
Or…perhaps something was wrong with his ability to sense the undead because the undead were somehow masking themselves from him. It had happened before, a hundred years ago, when Victoria Gardella was at the peak of her career. There had been a “day-time” vampire, whose presence was undetectable and who had been able to go about in the daylight.
Alphas for the Holidays Page 42