She laughed again and squeezed his gloved hand with her own. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you if we encounter a pack of vampires. Or if I’m wrong and Rasputin’s amulet isn’t here after all.”
“A pack of vampires?” He lifted his brows as he turned off the motor.
“Well, what do you call them? A gaggle? A troop? A flock?” Savina was glad for the levity, for it helped alleviate some of her nervousness.
Not only were vampires no laughing matter, but she and Liam had no idea whether they were walking into a clan of undead, a meeting of the vampire-loving Tutela society… or a simple, innocent English Christmas.
The engine hadn’t even rumbled into silence when a footman was at the automobile, opening the door for Savina while another was already preparing to drag their trunks out of the back of the shiny blue Citroën B10. A third loped from the garage, still holding a rag and a wrench in his hands. Savina smiled to herself as she climbed out, knowing a good portion of their enthusiasm was for the motorcar itself—for the vehicle was the first steel-bodied model of automobile on this side of the Atlantic, and it drew the attention of car lovers everywhere Liam went. The man liked contraptions of all types, whether they were ones he conceived himself or ones he took apart that had been engineered by others.
When the footman took a moment to stroke the car’s shiny coating as he closed the door, Savina knew she was right about his interest. He even made a soft moan of delight—rather like a man seeing his lover undressed for the first time.
Grinning—sometimes it was so easy to please a man—Savina adjusted her red wool coat, gathering it up over her flimsy dress to protect herself from the chill. The lush rabbit-fur collar whispered against her chin as she took Liam’s arm, the matching cuffs making a muff-like cover as she slipped one hand inside the other sleeve. He escorted her up the front steps, which were clear of snow and ice, to the main entrance. A butler was already at the door, gesturing them inside as the servants gathered up her trunks of photography equipment and clothing.
A footman helped Savina out of the coat and took her hat as well as Liam’s while the butler, who introduced himself as Rodney, said, “Mr. and Mrs. Stoker, welcome to Knotwood Abbey. I have already notified Lady Glennington of your arrival. She will be down shortly. His lordship is with his secretary, but he sends his greetings and will see you at dinner. We dine at eight, with drinks in the drawing room at seven. Please follow me to the sitting room. We have a warm fire roaring, and Bessie will be along momentarily with tea and biscuits, as well as coffee if you like.” He gave a bow and gestured with a white gloved hand to the room in question.
Savina, who was unused to the damp, chilly English winters, was more than happy to sit next to the roaring blaze. The fireplace was large enough for her to stand up in (not today, of course), and the room’s ceiling rose twenty feet over her head. The walls were painted a cozy, dark rose, and the tall, narrow windows were swathed in patterned curtains. Swags of beribboned greenery hung over the fireplace and doorways, and though the house had been updated with electricity, there were a number of festive candle arrangements everywhere. The scents of cinnamon and pine filtered through the air.
There was even a pine tree festooned with bows, garlands, and ornamental balls. Gaily wrapped packages crowded beneath the lower branches, and smaller ones were perched on some of the upper limbs.
Yes indeed, the residents of Knotwood Abbey had gone all out for their Christmas celebration in honor of the visit by celebrated female photographer Sabrina Ellison—known to them as Mrs. Liam Stoker.
Which, Savina mulled silently as she took the cup of tea Bessie poured for her, really wasn’t quite fair. A famous woman whose photographs had appeared in the likes of TIME, National Geographic, and The Saturday Evening Post shouldn’t have to change her name just because she got married. Savina had cultivated her career as Sabrina Ellison: Adventure Photographer for the last seven years as a cover-up identity for her work with the Venators. (Mata Hari had nothing on her.)
And now just because she’d gotten married, she had to be known as Sabrina Stoker? Or, worse—Mrs. Liam Stoker. As if she no longer even had her own identity now that she was wed. Hadn’t that sort of thing gone by the wayside after women got the vote and those archaic property laws had gone away?
“Is something amiss, ma’am?” asked Bessie. She wore her flaming red hair in a no-nonsense bun and had starched petticoats that rustled when she moved.
“Oh, no, not at all,” Savina told her with a smile. “I’m just considering how to use this lovely fireplace in a photograph.”
“Oh, that’s nothing, ma’am. You should see the fireplace in the drawing room! Why, it’s magnificent, if I do say so! And all decked out with holly and pine for the holiday.” Bessie’s eyes sparkled even as she bobbed a curtsy.
“Well, then, I look forward to seeing it,” Savina replied sincerely. “And the rest of the house.”
“Mrs. Stoker! And Mr. Stoker!”
An enthusiastic voice drew their attention as Lady Glennington swooped into the parlor. She was older than Savina by two decades, but she was attractive and well preserved for a woman of fifty. Lady Glennington was tall, slender, and pale-visaged, with sharp features and elegantly tailored clothing. Her loose cream-colored frock glittered modestly from jet beading around the neckline and cuffs, and several large stones beamed from her fingers.
It was a photograph of Lady Glennington on one of the London society pages that had caught Savina’s attention and was the reason—unbeknownst to the lady herself—for Savina and Liam’s visit.
Savina had been certain a brooch Lady Glennington was wearing in the picture was the amulet that had belonged to Rasputin. Because of her connections in the world of photography and journalism, Savina had been able to examine the original photograph herself (without explaining her purpose, of course). She’d even been able to blow up a copy of the image large enough to assure herself that she wasn’t mistaken: Lady Glennington had been wearing a brooch that was identical to the Rasputin amulet. That was why she and Liam were here undercover to investigate and, hopefully, retrieve the powerful pendant.
The chances of either of them being recognized by any vampires lurking about were slim, as compared to, say, Max Denton being identified. Still, there was always the chance that an undead or a member of the Tutela—the secret society of mortals that protected and served the vampires—might recognize Savina from the few times she’d been in Max’s company in public.
Liam, who spent most of his time happily tinkering with gadgets in the workshop at the Venator headquarters in Rome, was even less likely to be noticed or recognized.
“I cannot tell you how honored we are here at Knotwood Abbey to have such a celebrated artist in our midst!” Lady Glennington collected Savina’s hands in her cool ones and smiled down at her. “We have been preparing for the photography session for weeks now—I do hope you’ve seen some of the results of our hard work. The editors of LIFE will surely be pleased with your photography story about a true English Christmas.”
Savina smiled back, keeping to herself the thoughts that there was most likely no real “we” about the work. The downstairs people—the servants—had done it all, she imagined, while Lady Glennington’s participation was likely limited to approving or changing their decorations.
“Based on what I’ve already seen, I can assure you the editors will indeed be pleased. But of course, you understand, the photographs won’t be used until next November, as the Christmas edition has already been released for this year.”
“Yes, yes, of course, but you did say there might be some photographs in one of the January volumes?” Lady Glennington’s eyes lit up hopefully. “And a small article? We are so hoping to begin attracting tourists to this area of England again. Since the war ended and things have begun to turn around, you understand.”
“Likely a small article, yes. I’m certain they’ll do so.”
“Splendid! Now, I’ve asked R
odney to direct the footmen to bring your trunks to your suite, but do you wish to keep your equipment on the main floor where you can easily access it? I’ve set aside part of the third parlor, down that corridor, for you to use as your photography headquarters if you like.”
“That’s very kind and accommodating of you, my lady. Thank you for thinking of it.” Savina glanced at Liam, who nodded at her unspoken suggestion for him to see to those arrangements. Of course, if they had to make a hasty exit, the trunks and equipment would surely be left behind.
But that was a hazard of the trade and a chance Savina was willing to take.
“Perhaps you can even set up a darkroom in there, and you can develop the pictures before you leave,” her hostess said hopefully. “That way we can ensure they are exactly what you are hoping for before you leave—and you can re-do them if they aren’t. I’ve instructed the servants to hang thick, black fabric over all the windows so as to ensure the room is as dark as possible.”
Savina’s eyes widened. “I had no expectation of such a thing, but I assure you, I will make use of the room in that way as well. Thank you again.”
Lady Glennington beamed. “Splendid!” she said again. “Now, surely you’re frozen to death, Mrs. Stoker. It’s those motorcars. They’ve made transportation so much easier and faster, but it gets frightfully cold speeding along the road at twenty miles an hour. You need a warm bath, I’m sure. Bessie will show you to your room, and she can send your maid up when she arrives.”
Savina stood and waved blithely. “Oh, I haven’t got a maid with me. I—”
“But then you will use one of mine.” Lady Glennington’s eyes had widened with shock as she rose to her feet. “I will send Missy up to you immediately. And our other houseguests—I did tell you about them, didn’t I? Lord Glennington and I thought the more, the merrier—the more festive everything would look for your photo story. We expect them any time now, but you needn’t worry about socializing with them until the pre-dinner cocktails in the drawing room. Seven o’clock.”
Houseguests? Savina kept her less-than-enthusiastic reaction to herself. The more people who were here, the more difficult it would be to keep up appearances and slip off unnoticed to find the amulet.
“Thank you very much. I would appreciate the opportunity to freshen up, and afterward, to tour the house so I can plan tomorrow’s shoot.”
“Most definitely. I will be happy to show you around after you’ve had a chance to see to that. Bessie, please take Mr. and Mrs. Stoker to their suite.”
“I’ll be along verra soon, my dear,” Liam told her. He’d risen to his feet along with the ladies, but clearly had seen no reason to join the conversation. Knowing him, he was already planning an elaborate way to rig up the camera (and Savina along with it) to get an unusual angle on a photograph.
“I’ll see you then.” Savina lifted her cheek for a kiss and then followed Bessie out of the sitting room.
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.
TWO
~ 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?
Alphas Unwrapped: 21 New Steamy Paranormal Tales of Shifters, Vampires, Werewolves, Dragons, Witches, Angels, Demons, Fey, and More Page 8