“And your husband as well,” he added snarkily.
“Yes, and my husband as well,” she replied, deciding right then and there that maybe she would marry Liam Stoker—if she didn’t get put away for murdering her former lover. “Since we’re here for the same reason, I thought it best if we rendezvoused to compare notes.”
“All right. Here are my notes: leave. Leave my chamber, leave this house, leave this to me. Done.” In one great, smooth movement, Max flung the bedcovers away and erupted from the bed.
She saw a flash of bare thigh, broad foot, and sleek, ridged belly before he stalked across the room and grabbed a shirt, his back to her. Thank God he was wearing trunks. Whatever he’d been wearing for padding around his waist was clearly gone, for all she could see was smooth, tanned skin, hair, and muscle. Her mouth was so dry she could hardly swallow.
“I’m not leaving,” she said.
“Of course you aren’t,” he said wearily, turning as he buttoned up the rest of his shirt. “You might as well tell me what you have planned—and how you and Stoker got here in the first place.”
There was a definite sneer when he said “Stoker,” and Savina felt a stab of satisfaction. Maybe he did care a little. Or maybe it was just that Liam was younger and less experienced than Max—who’d spent his whole adult life doing the right thing.
“I saw a photograph of Lady Glennington—your latest mistress, I presume?” she added just to be irritating. She was rewarded when his glower darkened. “It was in the Society pages, and she was wearing a brooch that I recognized as Rasputin’s amulet. I even had the photo blown up to make certain.”
“How do you even know about the amulet—oh.” Did his cheeks grow a bit ruddy?
“Yes, you told me about it. I suppose that’s what happens when one sleeps with the Summas Gardella,” she said archly. “They call it pillow talk for a reason.”
“And so you decided to come here and steal the amulet.”
“You make it sound so simple. And you know it wasn’t that easy—but aren’t you at Knotwood Abbey for the same reason? Surely you aren’t here simply for the pleasure of Lady Glennington’s company.” She didn’t think that was the case, but after all, who knew. It had been two years.
Max snarled something under his breath but didn’t deign to respond directly to her verbal poke. Instead, he looked up at her, suddenly pinning her with his eyes. “You knew it was me. How? Was it the—mistletoe?”
Ha. He wasn’t even willing to say the word “kiss.”
And that kiss…it had been one of the most difficult things Savina’d ever done, because she’d been torn between killing the man and grabbing him and kissing his brains out…sliding up against his body, devouring him—
Good grief. Get a grip on yourself, Savina.
“I told you, Max. I knew it was you immediately—before I even saw you, I suspected. A Dutch physician from Amsterdam? Just like van Helsing. You may not have read Pride & Prejudice, but I know you’ve read Dracula, since it was written to confuse anyone who’d read The Venators. It was a nice little jest—I just hope no one else figured out that you really are a vampire hunter. Plus the name—Melke.” She spread her hands and tried very hard to keep from tearing up again. “Your favorite groom’s name from when you were growing up. The one who taught you how to jump.”
“Savina.” His voice sounded different. Lower, strained, rough. “I think you should leave now.” He wasn’t looking at her; he was busy pulling on a vest over his shirt.
“Fine. I will. But I just want to know one thing. Why? Why did you just…disappear, with no word, no contact, nothing? If it was over between us, why didn’t you just tell me? I’m a grown woman. I’ve had break-ups before—I could handle it. After all, I…” Her voice cracked and her throat burned, but she forced out the words, “I handled it when I learned the truth about my father.”
He was taking a long time to button his vest. At last he looked up, and when their eyes met, the contact was so intense she lost her breath. This. This is what I’m missing.
Max.
Her heart broke then. After two years of trying to keep it intact, her heart shattered.
“I handled it poorly,” Max said, his words hard and low. “It was only for a while, and then I meant to send word…but then I didn’t, and time went on, and it was…easier. I acted inexcusably.”
Easier. What the hell did that mean?
Easier to forget her? To put her out of his mind?
Or easier not to have to worry about her as he had done for his wife Felicia—who was destroyed by the vampires—and his daughter Macey, whom he’d ignored for more than a decade.
Easier how?
Before Savina could speak, Max froze and held up his hand, pivoting toward the door. Someone was there.
All at once, the door opened and Liam slipped inside. He paused and looked between them. “Och, now—am I interrupting something?”
Chapter 6
~ Exposure ~
“NO,” MAX SNARLED even as he fought the urge to dodge as far from Savina as possible—like a man caught in the act of something unsavory. “Your wife was just leaving. And so am I.”
Stoker looked between the two of them as if he didn’t know what to believe, and Max felt a pang of guilt curdle his belly. Nothing had happened, of course, but that was because he’d been afraid to breathe or move for fear he’d betray himself…and then something damn well would have happened.
His insides felt raw and twisted, and his head pounded. God, he’d missed her. He hadn’t realized how far down he’d packed those feelings until today.
“Don’t we need a plan?” Stoker was saying—which indicated he, too, knew Max’s real identity. And Stoker made no sign of leaving.
Bloody damned hell. Who had made his bedchamber Union Station?
“I have a plan. And it doesn’t include her,” Max said calmly. “Now that you’ve realized I’m here, why don’t you two just slip off into the night and let me handle things. No offense,” he forced himself to say sincerely, “but I’m better equipped to handle this since I can at least sense a vampire when they’re in the vicinity.”
Stoker, the damned bloke, didn’t seem to take offense—though none was meant anyway. “Brilliant, because I’ve been tinkering with this wee device,” he said as he pulled a box the size of a cigarette case from his inside coat pocket. Wires trailed from it, leading up through the sleeve of his coat. “It’s designed to be able to sense the presence of an undead—”
Even though he didn’t need that sort of assistance, Max was interested in spite of himself. “How is it supposed to do that?”
“It measures the temperature emanating from a person. Vampires have a lower body temperature than mortals, ye ken, and all we have to do is measure it.” Max opened his mouth to speak, but Stoker was already answering his question. “One way is to kiss an undead, for one lip is always cold and the other is always hot—but that’s not always practical.” He chuckled, somehow finding that much more amusing than Max, who had, in fact, kissed vampires during his line of work. “Thus I created these gloves. The fabric is verra thin on the palms and fingertips—right where it would come into contact with the skin of someone whose hand I’m shaking. There are wee sensors built into the inside of the glove, and they’re attached to these wires that run up my sleeve and to the box.”
Max was impressed in spite of himself, but that didn’t change the fact that he wanted out of the room and away from the newlyweds, especially since Liam Stoker had hardly batted an eyelash that his gorgeous new wife had been found in the bedroom of her former lover.
Or perhaps Stoker wasn’t aware of Savina’s past with Max. Maybe she’d never told her husband.
He wasn’t certain how he felt about that possibility.
“Thus far, it doesn’t seem to be working,” Stoker said, tucking the device back into his coat. “None of the people whose hands I’ve touched tripped the sensors.”
“I can only ass
ume you haven’t been flinging your stake around because you have some other reason not to,” Savina spoke up. Her voice was cold and bland, and Max actually felt as if it had sliced right down his spine. “Tell us who the vampires are so we can avoid them.”
Flinging his stake? Max hadn’t ever flung his stake. Slammed, thrust, drove, shoved, yes…but fling? That sounded like a bloody half-arsed way to use it. He ground his teeth.
“I’m guessing Lady Glennington myself,” continued Savina, her eyes very bright and focused on Max. “She seems the type. And she was wearing the amulet in the photograph I saw.”
“Whoever it is—or they are—is not obvious,” he admitted. “Either none of them are undead, or they’re somehow masking themselves from me. Maybe they found the recipe for that potion the ‘day-time’ vampire used a hundred years ago. Either way, I can’t be certain who, but I can tell you there are undead about.”
Savina’s expression turned grave. “That’s problematic, to say the least.” Max was mollified that she hadn’t somehow turned this admission into a deficiency on his part. Instead, she turned to Stoker, concern in her voice. “Are you certain you shook everyone’s hand? Or touched them somehow?”
“Aye, of course.” He paused and thought for a moment, as if running through his actions in his head. “I even touched the butler’s hand when I handed him my coat and hat, and managed to do the same with the footmen who were serving.”
“Forget about that for now,” Max said flatly. “I’m more interested in getting my hands on that amulet—and getting all of us out of here alive.”
“No one seems to be in any pressing danger,” Savina pointed out. “Perhaps we should just continue on with our plans and—”
There was a noise just outside the door, and they all stilled. It sounded as if someone or something was bumping into the wall.
“Justine? Harold? Where are you?”
“That sounds like Aunt Cecilia,” Savina said as there was another ominous thump, followed by a crash of glass.
She opened the door, flapping her hand at Max and Stoker to keep them out of sight of the door. Good thinking, for it would be difficult to explain the three of them in one bedchamber.
“Aunt Cecilia, are you all right?” Savina went out into the corridor and then popped her head back in. “She’s utterly soused. Seems to have no idea where she is. I think I should see her back to her chamber.”
“I’ll come with you,” Stoker said, to Max’s relief. He couldn’t wait to get them out of his room.
“There’s no need. I can find my way back. The two of you should—oh, dear, Aunt Cecilia!”
Max winced when he heard the distinct sound of retching coming from the hall, followed by an agonized moan from the elderly woman.
“A wee too much Scotch, then,” muttered Stoker. “I’ll call for a maid.”
Max ducked out into the hall and saw Savina helping the elderly woman off down the corridor. The harridan had become much more subdued, and was clinging to her younger escort as she stumbled along.
The stench of vomit was strong and there was a puddle of it on the floor. Stoker had ducked into his room across the hall, obviously to ring for a maid. Max kept himself from glancing into the chamber Savina shared with her new husband—damn, he was getting tired of having to remind himself of that—and turned to go back into his own room. At least he wouldn’t have crumbs in his bed.
He was just slipping a third stake into a secret pocket of his coat when the damned door opened again. He looked up, half expecting to see Lady Glennington.
But it wasn’t her. It was Liam Stoker.
“It’s Aunt Cecilia,” he said, his face tense. “And she’s got Savina.”
“Are you certain?” Max said, already at the door, his blood thrumming through his veins. At last, something to do.
“Her vomit,” Stoker said simply. “It was cold.”
Savina had no choice but to listen to Aunt Cecilia’s random ravings as she led her through the corridor. The poor thing was utterly confused and in her cups, for she leaned heavily on her and insisted Savina take her belowstairs, where the servants were.
Though she didn’t know the layout of the house, Savina certainly was aware that Aunt Cecilia’s rooms would not be below the second floor—but she had no choice, for the elderly woman, though unsteady on her feet, was surprisingly strong when it came to enforcing her will.
“It’s down here,” the auntie rambled over and over. “I know it’s here.”
Perhaps she wanted something from the kitchen, then. It wouldn’t surprise her if the old bat didn’t even remember where the kitchen was, for the upstairs people rarely ventured downstairs.
Savina tried to pause and ring for a maid, but it was well after one o’clock in the morning, and Knotwood Abbey clearly kept country hours—meaning everyone was in bed by midnight.
As she helped Aunt Cecilia down the narrow stairs lit only by a naked lightbulb, Savina realized that it was Christmas Eve. She wondered how she’d spend her holiday this year—surrounded by a group of possible vampires while pretending to take photographs of them? Sneaking around the huge house, looking for an amulet that glowed green with evil? Dodging her former lover while pretending to be happily married to a very charming, intelligent, and handsome Scot, but really pining for the dark, angry man who’d broken her heart?
At least it would be better than last year, when she sat alone by a cheery fire and cursed Max Denton.
“Aunt Cecilia,” she said when she realized the woman was not heading for the kitchen but was pulling Savina determinedly toward a brickwork entrance. “Where are you going?” The threshold appeared to lead to a wine cellar or some other storage place. Dark. Empty. Forbidding.
Savina stopped cold. Something was not right.
She released the elderly woman’s arm and took a step back as she fished the large silver cross out from beneath her frock. It thunked onto her chest just as Cecilia turned and looked back at her.
The change in the elderly woman’s face was instant and stunning. It went from slack and dull to tight and furious, and the fragile hag seemed to grow, straightening into something resembling a harpy—a real, red-eyed harpy with talons for fingers and claws for nails.
Her fangs shot out, and her eyes lit with a burning glow even as she recoiled from the sight of the silver cross with a cry. Spinning away with a furious hiss, she reached for a heavy circle of keys hanging on the wall and whipped them at Savina.
Savina didn’t react quickly enough, and the sharp, stinging metal caught her in the cheek, stunning her even as she grappled for the stake she had hidden in her dress pocket.
Before she recovered, some long and slender weapon slammed into her and sent her spinning into the wall. A fury whirled up behind Savina, and strong fingers scrabbled at the back of her neck as Cecilia held her face-first into the rough brick. The next thing she knew, Savina was choking as the cross necklace was yanked back hard against her throat. She managed to curl the fingers of one hand around the chain, pulling it away from her throat, while the other tried to leverage herself away from the wall.
Black spots danced before her eyes, and her lungs were tight and constricted. Her head still spun, and she ached everywhere. But Savina somehow managed to find the cross on the front of the chain and, in a desperate attempt, yanked it along the necklace, pinching and tearing the skin of her neck as she dragged it around and back over her shoulder.
At the sight of the cross, Cecilia hissed again and loosened her hold on her captive. Savina sank to the floor, coughing and choking, still holding onto her necklace, trying to correct her vision and somehow find her strength.
When she turned shakily around, she found Cecilia barring the way to escape. The creature was still shuddering and wincing from the presence of the silver cross. There was still a distance between them—but she had a broomstick in her hand and was clearly not about to let Savina pass.
“What are you doing here?” demanded the vamp
iress. “Why have you come here? Who are you?”
“Rasputin’s amulet,” Savina managed to say. Her voice was hardly more than a whimper, and she was carefully feeling around in her dress for the hidden stake as black spots continued to dance before her eyes.
“The green amulet?” Cecilia’s burning eyes narrowed. “How do you know about that?”
“Your daughter-in-law was wearing it in a photograph. I recognized it.”
“That foolish bitch! I knew it was a mistake to go about it that way.”
Savina felt the wooden cylinder through the beads and silk of her dress; now to carefully slip her fingers into the slit of the pocket without the vampire noticing. If she could keep her talking, keep her distracted…
“A mistake to let her wear it? I would agree. Why announce to the world that you had it in your possession, when it would have been much smarter to keep it secret. No one even knew it was missing. Everyone believed it shattered when Rasputin was killed.” Savina managed this little speech though her cheek throbbed with dull, insistent pain and her throat burned from where the chain had bitten into her skin. She even felt a warm trickle of blood oozing from one area and noticed Cecilia’s attention kept slipping to that side of her neck.
“Why indeed—and that was what I said. But they overruled me. Me! The amulet has been missing for almost a decade, they said. Iscariot or Alvisi will pay dearly for it—and so Justine wore it out, like a bloody advertisement in the personals! How crass and uncouth, I said. But they didn’t care. They just wanted the money. You see, they don’t understand the power of the amulet.”
“Why not?” Savina had found the opening of the pocket, and now her fingers were plumbing the depths, seeking the smooth wood.
“Because they’re not dead. They’re not like me.” Cecilia showed her lethal fangs in a horrific smile. She licked her lips, her attention trained on the trickle of blood at Savina’s throat. “They think they control me with their silver crosses and their holy relics, but I’ll show them—”
Alphas for the Holidays Page 45