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 assume 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 vampiress. “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—”
“Where is the amulet now?” Savina asked, slowly working the stake from her pocket. Her vision was still unsteady, and she was beginning to feel lost and soupy… and realized the vampiress was attempting to enthrall her, even though the silver cross acted as a barrier between them.
She tried to blink, tried to break the connection while desperately forcing her fingers to work, to bring the stake free. Her world was murky and slow… her breathing no longer her own. What was happening?
“They sold it, the bloody fools,” Cecilia spat, her words penetrating Savina’s fog. “And the devil help you all, for Nicholas Iscariot has it now.”
SEVEN
~ Dust ~
MAX WASTED NO time, and he sure as hell didn’t wait for Liam Stoker to try to keep up. He wasn’t a Venator for nothing—which meant he was fleeter of foot and stronger than a mortal man—and though he had no idea which way Cecilia was taking Savina, he was off.
The chill at the back of his neck that would normally lead him to a vampire still wasn’t clear enough, so Max had nothing to go by other than instinct.
Up or down? Right or left? Private chamber or public room?
His mind darted through these questions as he tore down the hall, and when he came to an intersection of corridor and stairway, he paused, panting, closed his eyes… felt… listened… sniffed.
And smelled her. Savina.
This way.
The barest trace of her perfume led him down the stairs and then down another hallway toward the servants’ stairs… and then he caught another faint wisp of the flowery-spicy scent. Hardly enough to notice, but enough to lead him on.
And then he heard the noise—fighting, a disturbance, thumps and bumps—and he tore faster down the dark stairs, silver-tipped stake in hand, ready to do what he did the best—what he was born to do.
Past the butler’s pantry, the kitchen, the laundry…
The cellar.
“… Nicholas Iscariot has it now.”
The ominous words reached his ears just as Max tore around the corner and found them. Savina, crumpled on the ground, blood streaming from a red mark around her throat, her face bruised and cut, her eyes wide and lost. But damned if she didn’t have a stake in her hand and a silver cross around her neck—and she was holding off the vampire, albeit unsteadily.
Cecilia heard him, spinning with shocking speed and power. Her gray hair sprang out in soft tufts, belying the fury and greed in her slender body, red eyes, and talon-like nails. Any hesitation he might have had about violence against the fragile, elderly woman disappeared when she launched herself at him.
Max stepped forward to meet the attack and flung her to the side with one powerful arm. She crashed into the wall, clearly not expecting such an assault, and before she even rebounded, he drove the stake into the back of her heart.
She exploded in the dust of death and age and damnation, the ash leaving behind its normal disgusting smell. Max ignored the film that filtered onto his shoulders and clothing as he turned to Savina, who was dragging herself to her feet by curling her fingers into the brick wall and climbing up it.
She still held the stake in her hand. Of course she did.
“That was some… stake… flinging… “ she managed to say with a wobbly smile. Her voice was unusually raspy and low due to the strident red marks around her neck. “Thank you.”
“Thank you?” he growled, and the next thing he knew, he had her—a whole handful, armful, faceful of Savina—gathering her up against him, holding her close and burying his nose in her soft, scented hair. “That’s all you have to say?” he muttered, shocked when he realized his eyes were wet—dammit—wet with tears.
She pulled away to look up at him, but whatever she might have said—soft and sweet or sharp and accusing—was forever lost, because he drowned it when he kissed her.
And, oh, God, she kissed him back—hard and soft at the same time, rough and sweet, desperate and eager… until someone spoke.
“Och, then… I ken I’ll be leaving you both to it.”
EIGHT
~ Dawn ~
SOMEHOW, LIAM STOKER’S words penetrated Max’s brain and he all but threw himself away from Savina, spinning toward the wall. He stood there, leaning against the bricks, panting and furious—with himself, with Stoker, with Savina, with the whole damned situation.
“Christ, Liam,” he said, stumbling around for something to say that would do justice for his abominable actions. Filled with nausea and shame, he faced the music, a punch, whatever was going to come. “It was me, all me—I grabbed her and she didn’t have a chance—it was inexcusable. I was—I am—I’m sorry. It won’t happen again… “
Max’s words trailed off when he saw the expression on Stoker’s face. It wasn’t the look of a man who’d just found his new bride practically crawling inside another man’s body.
It was… amused? Confused?
“You didn’t tell him then, lass?”
“No.” Savina’s single word was raspy, but the expression on her face was one of belligerence.
“Tell me what?” But Max was beginning to feel something like the dawn rising over him. Something light. Perhaps even hope.
“We aren’t really married,” Stoker said, and Max recognized true regret in the man’s voice. “It was just part of the s
tory. Which is why I’m verra happy to let you carry on—not that I’m not disappointed. But isn’t that how it works—the hero gets the girl?”
“Woman,” Savina and Max said at the same time.
She looked at him and nodded. “Right.” But she still wore that mutinous expression.
“So you let me think—all this time—” He was still fumbling for words, still a little shocked over a number of things… including the fact that he could kiss her. Again. And no one would want to slam a fist in his face.
Well, no one would have the right to slam a fist in his face.
“Yes. I let you believe I was married for a total of what… eight hours? Maybe ten? At the most? That’s nothing compared to two years, Max Denton. Two years of wondering whether you were even alive.”
Christ. She was right. Oh, damn, she was right.
“Savina… “
She shook her head. For someone as battered and bruised and half-strangled as she was, Savina was pretty damn resilient and determined. “Not now, Max. You can grovel later.”
“Grovel? We’ll see about that,” he retorted, already thinking about the numerous ways he could grovel. Some of them would be quite pleasurable, in fact, that included far fewer articles of clothing. “For now, there are other things to attend to. Did you learn anything from Cecilia?”
“The amulet isn’t here. She said Iscariot has it.”
Max felt himself go numb once more, and the bit of warmth he’d begun to feel evaporated. Iscariot with the amulet was very bad news. “We’ll see about that as well,” he said. “I’ll have Bellitano and Paolo investigate. You’ll want to help,” he added to Stoker, who agreed readily.
Alphas Unwrapped: 21 New Steamy Paranormal Tales of Shifters, Vampires, Werewolves, Dragons, Witches, Angels, Demons, Fey, and More Page 12