Hearts Unleashed: A Limited Edition Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection

by C. D. Gorri

  She gasped and pulling her hand away, she placed it over her neck. “What?” she whispered. She thought of the man in black as he had her pressed to the wall. She did not see fangs, nor did he become a threat. She shook her head. “No, I believe you are mistaken.”

  Gavin tilted his head and gazed at her in disbelief. “Do you honestly believe eight bodies could appear overnight, drained of blood, without any evidence of a struggle and not suggest vampires?”

  She paused and thought of her answer. Had she planned to defend a man she did not know? Someone who possibly recognized her as someone else? Someone who fondled her against an outside wall? She lifted a brow and her chin. “It cannot be vampires. It is ridiculous to even consider such a matter.”

  The elder hunter guffawed and walked away from the two. “She has smoked some of the pipe of the drifters, she has!” He chuckled once more and left the room.

  Sophia gasped in shock and turned away from Gavin. “I will not be mocked.” She pressed against the door of the Arsenale. The sun streamed in as Gavin took her by the arm and pulled her back inside.

  “Sophia,” he said in a lowered voice. He pulled her close and hugged her to him. She pressed her palms to his chest and pushed herself away.

  “Gavin, please do not do that again.” She huffed and smoothed her dressed down. How dare he even assume to touch me in such a way!

  “Please, don’t leave. I am sorry, but I...I can’t have you in danger, Sophia. Trust me on this.”

  She stared at his chest, then raised her gaze and met his. Sorrow emanated from him and her resolve melted, but only a little. “Fine,” she told him then raised her chin once more. “Do not grab me that way again.”

  He nodded and stared at the floor. “Forgive me, but please, I cannot lose you to the vam...to this plague.”

  He could believe whatever he liked. Did she know better? No, but it could not be the man in black. If he were vampire, he could have killed her then and taken whatever he wanted, sex included.

  But he didn’t, and she raised her chin once more. “Gavin, I will be fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I must head to the tavern. Do let me know what you find out.” She stepped away from him and pressed against the door. He did not stop her this time, but instead, watched her with sad eyes. If she returned his feelings, she would run to him, kiss him, let him know she would do whatever he insisted to be safe. But she did not love him. She never had, at least not the way he longed for her to.

  The two stared at each other for a moment before Sophia let the door close, then turned down the street and headed in the direction of Campo San Marco. The tavern was up ahead on the right, over a bridge. She stared in its general direction. Instead, and against her better judgement, she turned left and headed to where she’d last seen the man in black.

  Chapter Eight

  Mila awoke exactly one breath after the sun tipped over the meridian in the sky.

  Image after image of the hunt rolled through her thoughts, a relentless tide of fear and guilt pulling her awake far earlier than she ever was.

  There had been so much light. Most towns and cities plunged into darkness at night, with people huddled around low-burning hearths and shuttered windows. Wide streets and walls kept any light from spilling into the streets. But Venice? Venice was full of light, even well past midnight. Veritable roulades of light spilled from tall glass windows onto the stones below. Palazzo after palazzo shared the wealth of their candlelight with those walking by below. Even in the poorer sections of the city, the lanes were so narrow that even the feeblest flame had some illumination to offer citizens of La Serenissima as they hurried by.

  All that light had created a set of complications Mila had never experienced before. She reflected sourly as she stretched out under the down and satin quilt that Venice was turning into quite the venue for unpleasant first experiences. Even worse, she was grudgingly thankful to Signor Fanti for showing her the tricks of hunting in a city as unique as this.

  “For every bit of light, there is a shadow twice as dark,” he said, his thumb stroking her hand as he guided her through warrens of stone and stucco. “For every straight line, there is a corner to be turned. That is all you need remember for a successful hunt in Venice.”

  It had turned out to be a bit more complex than that, but the sense that any moment, a mortal could turn the corner and discover her had added an unexpected thrill to the feeding that Mila hadn’t felt in decades. Even thinking of it now made her curl her fingers and toes in a kind of pleasurable, raw anticipation. And the taste of the blood here! Being the port for a thousand ships from a hundred lands had given the Venetians cardamom, cumin, black pepper, cinnamon, ginger, and turmeric. The air from the lagoon had seeped into their skin, adding salt to the palate of flavors she tasted when her lips touched their necks.

  Fanti had made no comment when she chose a woman for her prey, but she could tell he was surprised. Perhaps she would have hunted a man if she hadn’t met Gavin in the open sun and air. Grunting with frustration that she was still thinking of an encounter that had taken no more than a few minutes with a mortal man who was only one among millions, Mila threw off the covers and swung herself out of bed.

  The marble floor was cool against her bare feet, but that was to be expected. She had drunk deeply from the woman, almost to the very last drop of blood in her body. It was natural that, now full of living blood, her skin would now be warm, enabling her to feel sensations such as cold and heat. Speaking of heat, the maid must have been in earlier and stoked the fire, for it burned full and hot. Wrapping herself in the sage green silk dressing gown that Dorian had gifted her the year before, she moved closer to the fire and sat on a heavy velvet divan, absently pulling the brush through her hair. It was such a pale blonde that it was almost white in sunlight, just as her eyes were almost grey. Only shadows brought her colors into relief; the gold in her hair, the blue of her eyes, the way one side of her lips quirked slightly up in a permanent smirk. By moonlight, she was vibrant. By day, she was as invisible as the snow.

  Snegurochka.

  The snow maiden who fell in love with the human boy and loved him until the spring melted her away.

  Mila couldn’t remember who had told her that story or why she remembered it. The same went for how she could speak Russian, spin wool into thread, and grind coarse grain into flour for hard brown bread. She was born, she had lived, therefore, she must have had a mother and a father. There were eighteen mortal years of her existence that were obscured by the smoke and screams of the only mortal moments she could remember―her last.

  One of the doors to her chamber flew open, banging against the wall, and Lady Abberley and Madame Bellefontaine tumbled through, tripping over their shoes, wigs teeteringly askew and only half-powdered. Lady Abberley actually still wore her powdering cape to protect the sickly salmon silk gown underneath. Their giggles grated on Mila’s sensitive ears.

  “Oh, Mila!” Lady Abberley squealed. “You will never believe! Indeed, I should not believe it myself, were it not for the evidence of my own eyes when I―”

  “Dorian still sleeps!” Madame Bellefontaine blurted out.

  “I wanted to tell her!”

  “You were taking too long.”

  “You always tell the news before I do. It’s not fair!”

  “Then speak more quickly. Or think quicker. Either one should be fairly impossible for you.”

  Mila snapped to her feet, the deliberate speed and force of her movement breaking up their squabbling and reminding them exactly who was the oldest, most powerful vampire in the room.

  “Explain yourself,” Mila ordered Madame Bellefontaine. Lady Abberley pouted at them both.

  “Dorian didn’t come back until dawn. No one saw him hunting. No one knows where he went or what he did. He returned after the rest of us and went straight to his rooms. A maid went in a quarter of an hour ago to attend him, and he still slept! Fanti is in such a temper over it!”

  Dread drained in
to her belly, filling it with the black sludge of nameless fears and irrational anger. Not that she let it show. Not before these fatuous fledglings.

  “You may leave.” Her dismissal of the two women rang with a terrible finality that they didn’t dare question.

  The moment the door was closed behind them, she ripped through dressing herself like a mad fury. Chemise, stockings, garter ribbons, corset, pannier, petticoats. Vampiric dexterity made nothing of hard reaches and awkward hooks. Vampiric speed had the laces of the blue silk gown done in the blink of an eye.

  Scarcely had she slipped her feet into her shoes than she was out the door, resisting the impulse to slam it behind her. Perhaps she would leave that for Dorian’s chamber. He was not difficult to find, even though she didn’t know which way his room lay. It was easy enough to catch his scent.

  A small crowd of vampires gathered before his door, whispering and giggling. Some were from her coven. Other faces were new to her, but she assumed they were with Fanti. No one noticed her as she stormed down the hall, nor did they pay her any heed when she came to stand behind them. From sight and smell, she could tell she was the oldest among them. Rage at their stupidity and disrespect sent shivers of power and pleasure through her body.

  “I beg you...move.” Her words were conventional and polite, but the snap of the whip in her voice was anything but docile. Instantly, the group parted to allow her to pass, a few decade-old fledglings nearly cowering.

  Mila closed the door behind her as she entered Dorian’s room. Heavy drapes of dark brocade and velvet blocked out the miserable sun, allowing Dorian some peace as he sprawled on his back across the covers. He was smiling in his sleep and looked extremely comfortable.

  Well, that would simply have to change.

  Pinching her lips together, Mila marched over to the wash basin, picked up the pitcher, and dumped its contents over Dorian’s head. As he spluttered awake, she mercilessly pulled open the curtains, flooding the room with light. Even though she stumbled a little as the light hit her and turned her sinews from steel to silk, she was glad of her actions. It served him right.

  “Bloody hell, Mila!” Dorian barked. “What the devil are you about?”

  “That, sir, is the question I should be asking you,” she snapped back. “In fact, I should not even have to ask that question. Rather, you should be pouring forth a veritable cornucopia of excuses for your behavior yesterday.”

  He blinked blearily, holding his hand before his eyes to shade them. “Yesterday?”

  “Yes. The day before this one. The twenty-four hours preceding. Monday, since this is now Tuesday.”

  Dorian groaned and flopped back on the bed, only to find himself swept to the floor as Mila yanked the damask covers out from under him.

  “Damn you, woman!”

  “Explain yourself.”

  In an instant, Dorian was on his feet, not even an inch from her face, with fire in his eyes and a snarl on his lips. “Do not presume to question me, Mila. I am the leader of this coven, and you will show me the respect I am due.”

  Age and power added weight to his menace, and Mila felt the full force of his dominance as their leader. But she was no fledgling, and it was for his own good that she did this. The knowledge bolstered her courage, and she took the half-step that closed the distance so that their noses were almost touching. She half-curled her lip, allowing the tips of her fangs to show in a deliberate sign of potential aggression.

  Dorian gasped, his nostrils flaring as he undoubtedly smelled the peppery scent of her fighting instinct...directed at him.

  “I will give you the respect you are due when you have earned it back,” she said, her words calm and deliberate, even though she made sure her fangs clicked in another subtle show of force. Learning to speak clearly without tapping the fangs against the other teeth was what most fledglings spent their first decade doing. Once that skill had been mastered, clicking fangs was only ever to be used as a signal of displeasure and possible enmity.

  Dorian recovered himself from the shock of her challenge and straightened up to look down at her, a pose that demonstrated confidence and unconcern about her as a threat. “I should be forever grateful if Madame would condescend to explain to me in what way I have offended her.”

  “Not. Me.” Mila ground out. “Fanti.”

  Seeing Dorian’s start and moment of shamefaced recognition was a relief in that perhaps now he would come to his senses. Yet it did not take away the sting of his belittling sarcasm. She had heard it ten thousand times directed at others. But this was the first time he had used it on her.

  A part of her heart crumpled like paper that had been blotted and discarded.

  The doors were thrown open with a force that sent them slamming into the walls, and Fanti charged in. The flush of last night’s fresh blood made his skin look feverish. The scar of the crucifix seemed to pulse lividly as his fang-baring snarl stretched its corners.

  “Well, the boy-prince is awake finally. How nice. Perhaps we might chat, if your most serene preciousness could spare a moment?” Fanti’s sneer twisted his words into ugly, menacing shapes.

  Dorian did not draw himself up to his full height. He did not glare down at Fanti. Nor did he seize him by the cravat and throw him across the room. All of these might have been within the scope of accepted responses to his host’s insulting words, but that would have ignited a fight between the two covens. In such close quarters, it would be a slaughter.

  Instead, Dorian remained exactly as he was, easy in his posture and guarded in his expression. He offered an elegant half-bow to Fanti. “I am at your service, signor.”

  “Hmmm, are you?” Fanti clicked his fangs as he spoke. “Then perhaps you can tell me exactly what kind of service you offered last night when you did forsake your host and abandon your coven.”

  Mila blinked in place of flinching at the snap in Fanti’s words.

  “It was a grievous oversight on my part,” Dorian admitted, though he hardly sounded sorry. In fact, Mila thought he sounded nearly smug. “I was drawn off earlier by a promising opportunity, and it kept me enthralled until the morning sun forced me back to shelter.”

  “Opportunity?” The air was full of Fanti’s doubt, and his rage smelled of water and rust.

  “I came to your fair city to pursue a long-held quest of mine. Until now, every lead has been an empty promise, and every clue elusive. But yesterday, I came across that which has convinced me I am close to finally succeeding.”

  The girl? That was Mila’s first thought, but, it confused her. Why would the mortal girl be part of Dorian’s quest? Moreover, what was this quest? It was the first she had ever heard of it. Another tiny fissure snaked its way in cracks across her stony heart. Was she, who was the closest to him and the one he trusted most, to be the last to know of this quest? Could she not have helped him? Comforted him in his disappointments?

  “Ohhh, a quest,” Fanti drawled. “Of course. By all means, let it be a noble quest that led you to disregard the most basic courtesies due to your host.” His voice turned colder, sharper. “But know this, young prince. While you were chasing ghosts, your coven fed without you. They fed without me. Now, this morning, the streets are ringing with the cries of those who claim a plague has come upon the city as dead bodies are being turned up on corners and in the canals!”

  Dorian glared at Mila. She frowned. Why did he look at her like that? Did he expect her to assume his role and shepherd them along under Fanti’s wing? It was not her place, nor would the others―some of whom were older―tolerate her dominance. Did he think she was the one who drew the others on in a merry dance of chaos? Could he really believe that she was capable of such wanton excess and willful carelessness?

  “Your negligence has put us all at risk,” Fanti hissed, drawing Dorian’s attention back to him.

  “Then, I give you full leave to circumscribe their steps tonight.” Dorian’s tone implied that he was done with the matter. Indeed, his actions spoke ev
en louder, as he began to dress, righting his shirt and breeches, donning his vest and cravat, and tying back his hair.

  “Is that all I am to expect from you?”

  Mila could not feel cold as mortals did, but dread could still make her shiver.

  “Is there more that you want?” Dorian continued to dress himself, moving with a languid grace that was somewhere between foppish and insulting.

  Fanti remained silent, watchful. Watching Mila more than Dorian. He turned, the stiff shuffling of his brocade banyan flaring out behind him. Mila followed him to the door and closed it, blocking out the curious stares of the other vampires. She froze at the roar that that erupted outside in the hall, and only her vampiric hearing allowed her to catch the faint sounds of shoe soles and silk skirts as the coven members fled.

  Dorian was pulling on his coat, adjusting his shirt cuffs and cravat around it. He caught up his black cloak and black tricorn hat and started for the door. His gaze met hers, and he stopped, his lips thinning.

  “Stand aside, Mila,” he said with deceptive calm.

  “What is your quest?” It was painful to ask about something he had deliberately withheld from her.

  “It is none of your concern.”

  “Do you not trust me to help you?”

  “You cannot help. In fact, you can only hinder me. Now, step aside.”

  His words stabbed her, each one a small slice of pain. “At least pay heed to Fanti,” she begged.

  “He has no dominion over me.”

  “But you have dominion over us!” she cried. “Will you abandon us for your quest?”

  Dorian’s face contorted into a frightening mask of rage. “If I must.”

  He had shoved her aside and sped through the doorway before she had a chance to react. The front doors of the palazzo slammed in the distance, and the sound sent Mila sinking to her knees.

  Vampires could not cry. She had a vague memory of wetness on her cheeks from the time of smoke and fire. Salt. She had shed the ocean from her eyes. Then, Dorian had found her, turned her, saved her, and she had never wept again.